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writingrock · 25 days

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the tale of two lovers [1]

pairing: barbarian! katsuki bakugou x reader (female) summary: a bard approaches a lone barbarian in search for a story to tell. Who could have known that the barbarian end up being such a romantic tale.

notes: fantasy au, fluff, strangers to lovers, slow burn, bakusquad, barbarian bakugou

word count: 7.1k

part list

part one: chapter list

a/n: I told myself this would be a oneshot and now it's accumulated to six chapters with no end in sight.

In the heart of this simple town, a rambunctious group of adventurers stumble through the night. Seeking refuge from the cold night. A towering barbarian leads— His broad shoulders clad in woolly animal fur that puffs upwards adding height to his figure. Over his red cape, a scimitar slings over his back serving as a warning to all. Irritation grows with each step, his red eyes darting around his surroundings for shelter.

“Tch.” a grumble leaving his throat as they trudged on, “How hard is it to find a damn inn?” annoyance laced the blonde’s voice. The pink skinned fighter and dragon shifter exchange glances, silently communicating through their facial expressions on how to mitigate Katsuki’s temper. After a brief and wordless discussion, Mina turns to the barbarian.

Attempting to ease the tension, she speaks gently. “Don’t blow a fuse just yet, we’ll find one soon,” Her bright pink skin stood out even in the dim setting, blush pink curls bouncing as she walked, “you’re not the only one who’s exhausted ya know.”. The barbarian rolls his eyes as he moves forward.

Their mindless bickering fills the cool air as they traverse through the town, searching for somewhere easy and simple to stay for the night. Folks that happened to pass by the group could feel their agitation seething from them. Their frustrations would be understood if one simply knew what they’ve been through. Heavy grunts and whiny complaints left their mouths as they searched for an inn. Exhausted from finishing their recent commission that brought them on a long-winded journey.

Finishing their commission feels like a heavy weight has been lifted from the group’s shoulders. They’ve returned to town to meet with their employer for their reward. Despite how antsy the group is for their pay, they’ll have to wait until it’s day. At the very least, they can get some deserved rest after such a long journey.

A warm glow stops them in their tracks. There’s a bustling inn standing with pride in the centre of the town. The windows are aglow with a golden light, casting a warm, inviting hue onto the weathered cobblestone street below. To them, this inn is a warm haven against this cold night. It appears that their earlier frustrations seem to vanish with this finding. Atop the thatched roof there are wisps of smoke curling lazily from the chimney, carrying the comforting scent of wood smoke and roasting meat. The smell alone causes their stomachs to grumble. Hunger finally hit them. Flickering lanterns hang on either side of the heavy wooden door, their flames dancing within their confines. Hanging above the entrance is a creaky sign emblazoned with the tavern’s name, “The Tipsy Hippogryph”.

The heavy wooden door creaks as it swings open, allowing the sounds and scents of the tavern to spill into the night. The tavern's walls, made of sturdy stone and timber, are adorned with flickering torches and a few faded tapestries. There is a cosy, golden glow over the room. Wooden tables and benches, scarred by years of use, are scattered across the floor, most occupied by patrons enjoying their evening. The low hum of conversation and occasional bursts of laughter create a comforting, lively ambiance. The tavern keeper, a burly man with a thick beard and a booming voice, moves deftly behind the bar, filling tankards with frothy ale and serving plates of hearty stew. His wife, a kind-eyed woman with a quick smile, greets the weary travellers.

“Evening.” She greets warmly, “Looking for rooms or just here for a bite?” It’s clear she’s experienced with her work. There’s a homely touch to her that puts one at ease. Her voice is pleasant with a maternal tone, it welcomes all that step foot into the inn.

Bakugou strides up to the counter, his imposing figure catching the attention of a few patrons. He simply ignores them and speaks to the innkeeper. “Two rooms, we’ll share.” He wastes no time getting straight to the point. Not really keen on small talk or talking in general.

The innkeeper gets to work immediately, flicking through the log book to search for the requested rooms. Her hands are fast to hand the barbarian the keys and inform him where they are located. “If yer hungry, our kitchen is still open.” she gestures to the busy meal area by her side. The place is scattered with patrons from all walks of life. Townsfolk, travellers and merchants. They sit hunched over their mugs, deep in conversation, while others sing raucously, their cheeks flushed from the ale.

At the sound of food, the adventurers do not waste any more time. They find a table by the fire. The fire roars in the large hearth, its crackling flames adding to the tavern's warmth. The air is thick with the mingling aromas of roasting meat, fresh bread, and the sharp tang of spilled ale. The scent alone sends them to the edge of their hunger. Eagerly ordering a feast with an abundance of ale to satisfy their stomach. A barmaid weaves through the tables with practised ease, balancing trays laden with food and drink. She exchanges friendly banter with the regulars as she serves them.

In the corner, a minstrel plucks at a lute, singing a cheerful ballad that competes with the din of the crowd. His nimble fingers dance across the strings, and his voice, though not perfect, adds a layer of charm to the tavern's atmosphere. A few patrons clap along, and a couple of children, likely the tavern keeper's, dance near the hearth, their laughter ringing out above the noise. Candles set in iron sconces flicker, casting long shadows that shift and sway with the movement of the patrons. The wooden floorboards creak underfoot, worn smooth by countless feet over the years. The bar is a hub of activity, with patrons jostling for the keeper's attention, coins clinking as they pay for their drinks.

It wasn’t long for the barmaid to come by with their order. As she approached, the enticing smell of the fresh food made their mouths water. Swiftly, she begins to place the platter onto the round, wooden table. In the centre, golden-brown turkey legs are piled high on a simple steel plate. The skin is crispy and glistening with savoury juices. The sight teases the group as they wait patiently for the maid to finish her job.

A basket of freshly baked bread is placed beside the turkey legs. The bread was still warm, the crust crackling slightly as it cooled. The innkeeper had sliced the loaf thickly, revealing a soft, fluffy interior that begged to be torn apart and slathered with butter. Following that is a large bowl filled with baked potatoes. Each potato was perfectly roasted, the skins crispy and slightly salted. A dollop of melted butter pooled in the centre of each potato, seeping into the fluffy interior and releasing a heavenly, buttery fragrance.

Finally, the barmaid props down a wooden pitcher of ale, frothy and cold, with a rich amber hue. The most exciting addition to the meal. She hands out the sturdy mugs. The ale foams up to the brim, a few droplets spilling over the edges and onto the table.

“Thank you pretty lady.” Denki shoots a charming smile at the barmaid, earning a laugh from her. She waves him off before going back to tend the busy bar. The impatient one, Bakugou, grabbed a turkey leg first, tearing into the tender meat with a satisfied grunt. Kirishima and Mina followed suit, each reaching for a leg of their own. In turn, Sero and Denki dove into the bread, slathering it with butter and passing around the baked potatoes.

They settle into the warmth of the inn, enjoying the hearty meal. Laughter filled the air as they recounted the day's journey, from the close calls during their journey to Denki’s less-than-graceful attempt at flirting with the local from earlier. Bakugou, as usual, mostly grunted in response, too focused on his food and drink to indulge in much conversation. As the night wore on, the group began to grow tired. They’ve satisfied their hunger and now it’s time to turn to other needs. Kirishima stretched and let out a loud yawn, his dragon scales glinting in the firelight. "Alright, I’m beat. Think I’ll hit the hay."

Mina nods, agreeing with Kirishima’s words. She pushes herself off the chair and straightens up, “Busy day tomorrow, we should all get some rest.” The other two members rise from their seats except for one. Bakugou stays in his seat, looking down at his ale. Admiring the deep amber colour. It looks rich and inviting under the flickering light of the hearth. A thick, frothy head crowned the top, with bubbles rising lazily to the surface, creating a satisfying hiss as they popped. The ale clung to the sides of the sturdy wooden mug as Bakugou tilted it slightly, leaving a thin, foamy residue in its wake.

“I’ll be here a while longer,” Bakugou doesn’t look up, “Don’t wait up for me.” He tosses the keys onto the table, keeping the spare for himself. Usually, he’d be the first to hit the sack. Always emphasising on the importance of sleep for the body. But his comrades already know the reason for the sudden change. He needs to be alone. Denki and Sero exchange a glance.

"Don’t stay up too late, Bakugou," Denki teased, slapping the barbarian on the back as he walked past. "We need you in top form tomorrow." As he skips over to Denki, Sero manages to ruffle Bakugou’s hair. Not that it changed much, it’s still a mess.

Bakugou rolled his eyes, taking another swig of ale. "Just.. get outta here." He doesn’t have the energy to be foul. The others laughed as they headed upstairs, leaving Bakugou alone at the table. He leans back in his chair, savouring the quiet and the last few bites of his meal. The inn had began to empty out, with only a few patrons lingering near the bar, their voices low as they finished their drinks.

He stays in his seat, lost in thought, with his pint of ale. Mindlessly watching people leave the tavern, lost in thought. Warmth spreads through Bakugou's chest as he takes a long sip. There was a subtle sweetness from the roasted barley, balanced by a hint of bitterness from the hops that lingered pleasantly on his tongue. The finish is smooth, with a slightly smoky aftertaste, leaving a satisfying sensation that made him reach for another sip almost immediately.

Just as Bakugou was about to take a sip, a figure approached his table. It’s a bard, a lithe man with a lute slung across his back and a curious glint in his eye. He wears a wide-brimmed hat adorned with a single feather, and his fingers were adorned with rings that glinted in the firelight. Bakugou has the intention to ignore the man, he isn’t in the mood for company. Especially from some halfwit in a dumb hat.

The bard gives Bakugou a respectful nod before speaking. “Mind if I join you for a moment, sir?”

Bakugou looks the bard up and down, his expression unreadable. “I mind, now fuck off.” he gruffly replies as he takes a sip of his ale, “Go bother someone else.”

The bard’s smile remains steady, unruffled by Bakugou's gruff tone. "Forgive me for intruding," he speaks, his eyes twinkling with genuine curiosity. "I couldn’t help but notice you and your companions earlier. You strike me as a man with stories to tell, and I’m always on the lookout for inspiration for my songs. Care to share a tale or two?" His gaze is earnest, carefully assessing Bakugou’s mood, hoping to coax a story from the reluctant barbarian.

Bakugou leans back, grumbling as he takes another swig of ale. "I don’t tell stories. It’s not my thing."

The bard chuckles softly, sliding into a chair without waiting for an invitation. "Everyone has a story, even those who claim otherwise. Perhaps a tale of a great battle, or a quest that brought you to this town? A man like you must have seen his share of adventure."

Bakugou’s eyes narrow, studying the bard. His instinct is to brush off the intrusion, but something about the bard’s easy confidence and genuine curiosity makes him pause. Maybe it was the warmth of the ale or the unusual openness of the evening, but Bakugou found himself surprisingly open to the conversation. He did have a story— one that weighed heavily on him.

"Why do you care?" Bakugou asks, surprised by his own willingness to engage. On any other night, he’d have tossed the bard out or shouted him away.

The bard shrugs, resting his elbows on the table with an air of quiet conviction. "Stories are what keep us alive. They remind us of where we’ve been, what we’ve survived, and inspire others to forge their own paths. Besides," he adds with a grin, "I have a feeling your story is one worth hearing."

Bakugou is silent for a moment, his gaze drifting to the flickering flames in the hearth. He thinks back to all the battles he had fought, the friends he had made, the enemies he had faced. He isn’t one to dwell on the past, but he couldn’t deny that his life had been anything but ordinary. Especially with the most recent chapter of his story: you.

Finally, he sets his mug down with a decisive thud and meets the bard’s gaze. Perhaps the ale has made him loose-lipped. "Alright, I’ll tell you one story. But just one. Don’t expect me to get all sentimental or anything.”

“I met a woman, her name was …”

Your name was scribbled on the back of a map. That was Bakugou’s first introduction to you. He scowled down at what was supposed to be an intricately drawn parchment, then back up at the merchant. “You’re telling me this costs eighty gold and twenty silver?” His teeth clenched, barely containing his frustration at the absurd price. This flimsy, poorly drawn map isn’t worth half that. The barbarian’s patience was wearing thin—this was the twentieth merchant he’d approached in search of this damned map, and all he had to show for it was what looked like a cheap knock-off.

They were hunting for the map of Niniel’s Veil, an ancient, mysterious elven forest known for its dense, enchanted woods. Those who dared venture into it often wandered lost for years, if they ever returned at all. Information about the Veil was scarce, and what little existed was shrouded in myth and legend. All most people knew about was how difficult it was to go in and out of the forest alive. Bakugou was furious to find that after all this effort, all he was offered was this questionable scrap of parchment.

Niniel’s Veil was more than just a forest—it was a vast, sprawling labyrinth of nature. A forest shrouded in ancient magic and mystery, its reputation known far and wide as both a place of wonder and peril. The towering trees, with trunks as wide as castle towers, reached impossibly high, their dense canopies weaving together like an impenetrable tapestry of leaves and branches. The forest floor was an entanglement of twisted roots and thick underbrush, where sunlight barely penetrated, casting the entire woodland in perpetual twilight. Swallowing anyone who dared to enter. Every step inside the Veil felt like stepping into another world, where the air was thick with the scent of moss and the whisper of ancient secrets carried on the wind.

This forest had once been the sacred domain of elven ancestors, a place of refuge and mystery. It was said that within its depths lay countless treasures and artefacts, hidden away by those ancient elves who had stolen them in times of war and turmoil. The promise of these lost relics had lured many adventurers into the forest, but few had ever returned. Those who did spoke of twisted paths that led them in circles, illusions that played tricks on their minds, and creatures that seemed to be made of the very shadows that filled the Veil.

For Bakugou, entering Niniel’s Veil was not a choice but a necessity. He needed to find a lost piece of his draconic artefact, a relic of immense power that had been passed down through his family for generations. Without it, the artefact was incomplete. The artefact was not just a tool; it was a part of him, tied to his very identity and strength. The thought of it being lost forever gnawed at him, driving him to desperation. It’s been left missing for too long and he intended to do something about it.

He stared at the map in his hands, frustration and doubt warring within him. This map was his best chance of navigating the cursed forest, but its authenticity was questionable, and the price was absurd. Eighty gold and twenty silver for a flimsy piece of parchment that might not even be accurate? It felt like a cruel joke after all he had gone through.

But the alternative was wandering the Veil blind, with nothing but his instincts to guide him. The thought of spending years lost in the forest, of never finding the artefact, made his stomach twist. The merchant watched him carefully, sensing his hesitation, but Bakugou was too focused on his internal debate to notice. As he reached for his coin pouch, a pink hand halted him from doing so.

Mina crossed her arms, tapping her foot impatiently as she watched Bakugou wrestle with the decision. The merchant’s smug grin only made her more irritated. Eighty gold and twenty silver for a flimsy map? It was a rip-off, and she wasn’t about to let her friend get swindled.

“Bakugou, we’re not paying that,” she said firmly, stepping forward. She shot a glare at the merchant. Her voice cut through the tension like a blade, drawing the attention of the entire group. “This is daylight robbery, and you know it. We’re leaving.”

Bakugou’s eyes flicked to her, a scowl forming on his face. “Mina, we need this map. I don’t have time to play around.”

Mina grumbled under her breath, thinking of the possible choices they could make. That is until she takes another good look at the map. That name scribbled on the map. It seems so awfully familiar.

All of the sudden, it clicks in her head. “Thanks for your offer but we’ll have to say no!” Mina stepped in abruptly.

What was she thinking? They needed that map to better their chances of going through the damned forest. Bakugou was about to bark at her but she cut him off.

Without waiting for further argument, she grabbed Bakugou’s arm and yanked him away from the counter. “Come on, guys. We’re out of here.”

“What the hell Mina? We needed that map!” Bakugou barked, fighting Mina as she dragged him out of the shop.

Sero was the first to react, a grin spreading across his face as he watched the scene unfold. “Guess that’s that, then,” he said with a shrug, casually following Mina’s lead. He was more amused than anything, enjoying the way Mina took charge. “Gotta admit, it was a pretty steep price for a piece of paper.”

Denki, on the other hand, looked a bit disappointed. “But what if that was the only map?” he protested, jogging to keep up as Mina pulled them out of the shop. “We might have just walked away from our best chance!”

“Or we just saved a ton of money,” Sero countered with a laugh, clapping Denki on the back. “Relax, Denks. We’ll find another way.”

Kirishima, ever the loyal friend, looked between Mina and Bakugou, his expression torn. “Mina’s right, Bakugou. That map didn’t even look legit. I know you’re desperate, but we’ve been through worse without needing to pay through the nose for something like that.”

Bakugou’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t resist as Mina practically dragged him out of the merchant’s shop. He hated to admit it, but Kirishima and Mina had a point. The map was overpriced, and there was no guarantee it was even real. Still, the thought of wasting more time searching for another lead made his blood boil. He was a man of action, and every delay felt like another step further from his goal.

Once they were outside, Mina finally let go of his arm and spun around to face the group. “Look, I have a better plan. I know how to get the actual map!” She seemed confident. It raised some eyebrows. What did Mina have up her sleeve to guarantee a rare map?

Bakugou glared at her, his frustration evident, but there was no real anger behind it. “You better be right about this, Mina,” he muttered.

As the group walked away from the merchant, Mina could feel the tension still radiating off Bakugou. She knew how important this quest was to him, but she also knew something that the others didn’t. With a sly smile, she stopped the group and turned to face them.

“I didn’t mention this before because I only just realised it, but I actually know the author behind that map.” Mina began, catching their attention. “I took a good look at that dumb, fake-ass map and recognised the name on the back.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed. “You what?”

A few months ago, the others had been busy with their own tasks— Bakugou training with Kirishima, Denki and Sero fooling around in the market— Mina had taken some time to explore the outskirts of a small town they’d passed through. She hadn’t meant to wander too far, but something had drawn her deeper into the woods until she stumbled upon a naturally formed dungeon hidden beneath a thick canopy of trees. The entrance had been nearly invisible, covered in moss and overgrown vines, but she’d caught sight of it and felt an irresistible urge to investigate.

Inside, the air had been cool and damp, the walls of the dungeon shimmering with faint traces of ancient magic. As she ventured further, she heard a weak voice calling for help. Instinctively, she followed the sound until she found a small chamber, where a person was slumped against the wall, barely conscious. Their mana and health were dangerously low, and it was clear they wouldn’t survive much longer without assistance.

Mina had acted quickly, using what little healing magic she knew and offering her own supplies to help the stranger recover. As she worked, she couldn’t help but feel a connection to this mysterious individual, and when they finally regained consciousness, she was shocked to learn their identity. The person she had saved was none other than one of the most renowned cartographers in the land, famous for their unparalleled skill in mapping even the most treacherous and unknown territories.

Grateful for her help, the cartographer had offered Mina a unique artefact as a token of thanks—a small, intricately carved crystal pendant. It glowed with a soft, blue light, and the cartographer explained that it was enchanted to allow them to communicate with Mina at any time, no matter the distance. “You’ve shown kindness when you had no obligation to,” the cartographer had said, placing the pendant in her hand. “If ever you need guidance or help, you need only call, and I will answer.”

Sero whistled, clearly impressed. “You’ve been holding out on us, Mina. That’s one heck of a connection.”

Bakugou’s frustration began to ease as he listened, his interest piqued. “And you think this cartographer can get us a real map of Niniel’s Veil?”

Mina nodded confidently. “Absolutely. If anyone can, it’s them. And since I helped them out, they’ll probably do it for a fraction of what that greedy merchant was asking. Or maybe even for free.”

Bakugou finally let out a sigh, nodding in approval. “Fine. Contact them. But this better work.”

Without wasting any more time, Mina reached into her pouch and pulled out the crystal pendant. It was a small, clear gem that glowed faintly with a soft, bluish light. Holding it in her hand, she whispered a few words, and the crystal began to hum gently, a sign that the connection had been made. The blue light pulsed gently as the magic connected, and soon a voice came through, calm and familiar.

“Your name and what you need?” the voice asked, tinged with a hint of curiosity.

Mina smiled, her fingers tracing the edges of the pendant. “Hey, this is Mina from a few months ago.”

There was a brief pause, then a soft chuckle. “Ah, yes, I do remember you. Calling for a favour?”

Mina nodded, even though the cartographer couldn’t see her. “So, I need a map for Niniel’s Veil. Could you get me that?”

The line went silent, the only sound the faint crackling of magic in the air. Mina’s heart skipped a beat as she waited, anxiety creeping in as the seconds ticked by.

Finally, the voice spoke again, steady and thoughtful. “Where are you currently?”

Mina quickly glanced around at her friends, who were watching her intently. “Oh, um—we’re at the town of Leford.”

There was a pause, then the cartographer’s voice returned, sounding pleased. “How fortunate, I’m in Khela. I’ll go over to Leford tomorrow. Let’s meet, Mina.”

Mina’s face lit up with excitement. “Really? That’s great!” She could hardly believe her luck, and her grip on the pendant tightened in gratitude.

“Don’t mention it,” the cartographer replied, their tone warm and reassuring. “See you then, Mina.”

Mina exhaled, feeling a wave of relief wash over her as the connection faded and the pendant dimmed. She tucked it back under her shirt, looking up at her friends with a triumphant smile.

“Looks like we’re meeting them tomorrow,” she said, her voice brimming with confidence.

Bakugou gave a satisfied nod, and Kirishima patted her on the back, beaming with pride. “You really pulled through, Mina. Thanks.”

Sero grinned and Denki let out a whoop of excitement, the tension from earlier completely dissipated. They had a plan, and thanks to Mina, they were one step closer to finding the path through Niniel’s Veil.

You look down at the pendant in your hand, watching the soft blue glow fade away. The magic within it settles, leaving only the cool touch of the crystal against your skin. You turn back to the view of Khela, the prosperous town sprawling before you, its beauty tinged with the golden light of the setting sun. You had just finished your business here, so Mina's call was perfectly timed.

Niniel’s Veil. The name stirs something deep within you, a mixture of pride and apprehension. Your mind drifts back to that forest, the memories of navigating its treacherous paths still vivid. That place was hell to map— an ever-shifting labyrinth of ancient trees and hidden dangers. It had taken you and your father five long years to chart every inch of it, and even then, the forest had resisted your efforts, as if it had a will of its own.

Being a cartographer wasn’t just a profession for you; it was a legacy, woven into the very fabric of your being. From the moment you turned ten, your father had taken you under his wing, guiding you through countless expeditions, teaching you the secrets of the trade. Every line on a map, every curve and symbol, held a story—a story your father had passed down to you.

Your thoughts shift to Mina’s request. Niniel’s Veil. It’s not a place one simply wanders through with just a map in hand. You know this all too well. The forest was a living entity, a place where the unwary could lose themselves for years, or forever. Sending them in with nothing more than a piece of parchment would be a death sentence. And after what Mina did for you— saving your life when you were at your weakest— there’s no way you could let that happen. Besides that, you knew your principles wouldn’t allow you to abandon them like that.

Your conscience won’t allow it. You owe her more than just a map. You owe her your guidance, your expertise. She and her companions would need more than directions; they’d need someone who knew the forest’s secrets, who could navigate its shifting trails and hidden perils. With a resolute nod, you make up your mind. You’ll be their guide through Niniel’s Veil. But first, you’ll have to convince them to accept your help.

When you arrived at the inn in Leford, you found Mina and her companions huddled around a large wooden table, deep in conversation. Their chatter halted the moment you stepped closer, their eyes flicking to the pendant hanging around your neck—the very one Mina had described to them. You could feel their wariness, especially from the blond barbarian who fixed you with a hard, scrutinising stare, as if he were already imagining how he might take you down if needed.

“So, you must be the cartographer,” Kirishima said with a friendly grin, his dragon-like features softened by his genuine warmth.

Bakugou, however, was more reserved, his sharp eyes sizing you up. “You got the map?” he asked, cutting straight to the point.

You nodded, but before you could reach for your satchel, you raised a hand to pause them. “I do have the map, but… I’m not just here to hand it over.”

That got their attention. Bakugou’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and Sero tilted his head curiously. “What do you mean?” Sero asked.

You gave them a small, knowing smile as you pulled up a chair, sitting down without waiting for an invitation. “Are you guys really planning to brave Niniel’s Veil with just a map?”

Bakugou crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at you. “What’s it to you?”

You chuckled, leaning back casually in your chair. “Everything. That forest is no joke. I know because I’m the one who mapped it. If you think you can just waltz in there with a piece of parchment and come out in one piece, you’re either fools or far too brave for your own good.”

Mina shot Bakugou a look, clearly trying to defuse the tension. “We appreciate the concern, really, but we’ve been through a lot together. We can handle it.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt your abilities,” you said, your tone still light but with an edge of seriousness. “But Niniel’s Veil isn’t like anything you’ve faced before. That forest has a mind of its own. It twists and changes to trap you, to keep you lost. I’ve seen seasoned adventurers disappear there, never to be seen again. And frankly, I’d rather not add your names to that list.”

Denki looked a little nervous at your words, glancing at his friends for reassurance. “So, what are you saying? That we’re doomed?”

“Not doomed,” you replied, waving off his concern with a smirk. “Just…in over your heads. Which is why I’m offering to be your guide.”

Kirishima leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What’s the catch? People don’t just offer to lead groups into dangerous forests for fun.”

You shrugged, pretending to think it over. “Well, I could ask for some gold, but honestly, this is more of a personal matter. I don’t like seeing good people get themselves killed when it can be avoided. Plus, Mina here did save my life, so I figure I owe her one.”

Mina blushed slightly at the mention of her good deed, while Bakugou’s scowl deepened. “We don’t need charity,” he growled.

“Who said anything about charity?” you countered, meeting his glare with a challenging look. “This is about survival. You need someone who knows that forest inside and out. Someone who’s already spent years mapping its every inch. Like I said, you can try it on your own, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

The group exchanged glances, each of them weighing your words. Finally, it was Bakugou who broke the silence, his voice gruff but grudgingly accepting. “Fine. But if you slow us down, you’re on your own.”

You chuckled again, nodding. “Fair enough. Just try to keep up, and we’ll get along just fine.” You could tell your words struck a nerve with Bakugou—no one tells him to keep up. With a smirk, you tossed the rolled-up map across the table to him, watching as he caught it and unrolled the parchment. The group crowded around the map, eager to take a look.

The moment Bakugou spread out the map, the difference was clear. The shoddy, overpriced map the merchant had tried to sell them was nothing compared to this. Your work was meticulous and precise, every detail painstakingly drawn. The map was likely the best they had ever seen, a masterpiece of cartography. Bakugou’s scowl softened as he took in the craftsmanship, a flicker of something like respect in his eyes. He was relieved they hadn’t wasted their gold on that flimsy knock-off.

“Looks like you really know your stuff,” Kirishima commented, impressed, to which you slightly nodded.

Bakugou said nothing, but his silence was telling. His crimson eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than usual, scrutinising every inch of your expression as if trying to find a crack in your resolve. But the map in his hands, its detailed lines and intricate markings, spoke louder than any words could. He might not admit it, but the quality of your work had earned his grudging respect. For someone like him, that was saying something.

With a huff, he rolled the map up with practised precision and rose from his seat, the chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. “We’re leaving at first light. Don’t be late,” he grumbled, his tone more of an order than a suggestion. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the stairs leading up to the rooms, his heavy boots thudding with each step.

As Bakugou disappeared from view, the atmosphere around the table shifted. The rest of the group visibly relaxed, the tension that Bakugou’s presence often brought fading away. Kirishima chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t mind him. That’s just how he is. He’s actually a good guy—just takes a while to warm up.”

Sero leaned back in his chair, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Yeah, once you get past the scowl and the growling, he’s practically a teddy bear. A really, really angry teddy bear.” Denki snickered, nodding in agreement. “Just don’t tell him I said that. I like my head attached to my shoulders.”

Mina, ever the peacemaker, smiled warmly at you. “He’s right to be cautious, though. We’ve been through a lot together, and he’s just looking out for us. But I’m glad you’re here. I think we’re going to need all the help we can get in Niniel’s Veil.”

You couldn’t help but appreciate their camaraderie, the easy banter and the unspoken trust that bound them together. It was clear that they had faced their fair share of challenges, and the way they talked about Bakugou revealed a depth of loyalty that went beyond mere friendship.

As the conversation flowed, they began sharing stories of their past adventures, tales of battles fought and enemies vanquished, of close calls and hard-won victories. Each story painted a picture of a group that had seen the worst the world had to offer and come out stronger for it. You listened intently, absorbing their words, getting a feel for the dynamics at play.

But amidst the laughter and reminiscing, there was also a word of caution. Kirishima, his expression serious for once, leaned in and said, “Just one thing: Bakugou’s on a mission. It’s personal for him. He won’t tolerate anything—or anyone—that gets in his way. So just…be aware of that.”

You nodded, understanding the weight of what he was saying. They had told you briefly about their journey to Niniel’s Veil. The draconic artefact, the quest they were on—it wasn’t just about survival or adventure for Bakugou. It was about something deeper, something that drove him relentlessly. They didn’t really tell you details. You respected it quietly, not wanting to pry over something private.

Despite the thrill that tingled at the edge of your senses, there was a weight in your chest as you thought about Niniel’s Veil. The forest was no ordinary place—its dangers were real, its curse tangible. Returning there as a guide was a challenge that stirred something deep within you, but it was tempered by the sobering knowledge of what awaited. You knew the risks, the treacherous paths, the way the forest itself seemed to conspire against those who dared enter.

This wasn’t just another expedition. It was a test of survival, a journey where one wrong step could mean the difference between life and death. And yet, you had accepted the responsibility to lead them through it, to navigate the shifting shadows and ancient traps that had claimed countless lives before.

Tomorrow, at first light, the real journey would begin. You steeled yourself for the challenges ahead, knowing full well that what lay beyond the veil was as deadly as it was unknown. But this was your path now, and there was no turning back.

You had long grown accustomed to the early mornings, a discipline hammered into you by your father from a young age. He believed that a cartographer had to rise with the sun, to seize every bit of daylight for the work ahead. Expeditions didn’t wait for anyone, and neither did the maps that needed to be drawn. Over the years, waking before dawn became second nature, ingrained into your very being. So there you were, seated alone at a worn wooden table in the inn’s common room, the first rays of morning light filtering through the dusty windows.

You tore off a piece of buttered bread, savoring the simplicity of the meal as you waited. The inn was quiet, save for the occasional creak of old floorboards or the distant sounds of a town beginning to stir. It was a moment of solitude you had come to appreciate—a calm before the storm that was sure to follow once the others arrived.

Bakugou was the first to appear, his heavy boots thudding down the stairs. You glanced up from your breakfast as he entered the room, surprised to see him pause when he spotted you already seated. It was clear from the flicker in his eyes that he hadn’t expected you to be awake, let alone waiting. There was a brief moment of mutual acknowledgment—him noting your early rise, you noting his surprise.

“Hmph,” he grunted, more to himself than to you as he strode over to the table. “Didn’t think you’d be up before the sun.”

You shrugged, popping a bit of bread into your mouth. “Old habits die hard. Besides, I figured I’d give you lot some extra time to get your beauty sleep.”

Bakugou snorted, dropping into the chair across from you with a scowl. “We’re not here for pleasantries, so don’t think I’ll be impressed by your early wake-up calls.”

“Good,” you replied, leaning back in your chair with a smirk. “Wouldn’t want to set any unrealistic expectations. But I’ll warn you—Niniel’s Veil won’t wait for anyone, not even you. Early starts might just save your hide.”

He narrowed his eyes, but there was a grudging respect in his gaze, as if he was weighing your words. “Just make sure you don’t slow us down. I’m not in the mood to babysit anyone.”

“Babysit?” you echoed with a laugh. “You’ve got it backward, Bakugou. I’m the one making sure you don’t wander off and get yourselves killed. That forest isn’t going to play nice just because you’re loud and stubborn.”

“Loud and stubborn gets results,” he snapped, but there was an edge of amusement in his tone. “But we’ll see if you’re as good as you say you are.”

You locked eyes with him, the challenge hanging in the air between you. “Oh, I’m good, alright. Just try to keep up.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the tension taut but strangely invigorating. Then Bakugou huffed, breaking the silence. “Don’t get cocky. We’ll see if you’re still talking like that when we’re deep in that cursed forest.”

You chuckled, the sound low and knowing. “I’ll be fine. Just worry about yourself, barbarian.”

Bakugou leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a grunt, but there was a flicker of something that might have been amusement in his gaze. “Tch. We’ll see. Sthyarli.”

The word rolled off his tongue with a sharp edge, his tone laced with disdain. It was clear he didn’t expect you to understand it, let alone respond. But you had spent years travelling the continent, picking up languages like a second skin. Draconic, while not your strongest, was one you had made sure to grasp. It was a necessity when mapping regions native to dragonborn. What began as a practical skill soon became a weapon in your arsenal. One you were now thankful for, if only to wipe that smug look off his face.

You scoffed, unimpressed by his attempt to catch you off guard. “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?”

The surprise in his eyes was brief but unmistakable as your retort slipped out in his own tongue. “Tiamash.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed, his expression darkening for a moment as the insult sank in. He hadn’t seen that coming, and for a split second, you caught the barest hint of respect mingled with the irritation in his gaze.

“Hmph,” he grunted, his voice low and dangerous. “Careful. You might just bite off more than you can chew.”

You grinned, unfazed. “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Bakugou’s lips twitched as if he was fighting back a smirk, but instead, he just shook his head, rising from his seat with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Keep running that mouth. Just don’t slow us down.”

As he turned away, you couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction. Matching wits with Bakugou might have been risky, but it was also undeniably rewarding. The tension lingered in the air as he stalked off, but it was clear that you had earned a small measure of his respect. There was a sense of mutual understanding between the two of you now—a recognition that while you might not be friends, there was respect born from the knowledge that the road ahead wouldn’t be easy for any of you. And as you sat there, finishing the last of your bread, you couldn’t help but think that perhaps this journey, dangerous as it was, might just be worth it.

next chapter

a/n: thats the first chapter, the next one will come next tuesday !! be ready for the next one @chocogoldie

sthyarli: idiot tiamash: asshole

border credits: @enchanthings & @adornedwithlight

#x reader #bnha #bakugou katsuki #mha bakugou #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki #x fem!reader #x female reader #x female y/n #barbarian bakugo x reader #barbarian bakugou #fantasy au #mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction #fantasy fanfic

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vallification · 3 months

Text

In My Heart You Pay No Rent

Pairing: cowboy!gojo x reader

TW/CW: historical inaccuracies, smut, outdoor sex, first times, mention of guns, alcohol, MDNI

Too obstinate and infatuated with a dastardly outlaw to bend to the will of your father, you head to town to find the target of your distant affections, a sharp-tongued cowboy with a long list of charges decorating his reputation.

This work is part of the "Slow It Down, Cowboy" AU, a collaborative effort with @slutshamethesquirrels. Read its sister work, "All The Sweet Tea In Carolina" here.

The wild, wild west was aptly named, given the plethora of things bound to go awry in the massive stretches of empty land between each isolated township. Terrain, storms, animals, vagrants, vagabonds, money-hungry city folk swarming in droves to strike oil, and, of course, outlaws. Some days you’d see well-groomed, mild-mannered, decent gentlemen dressed to the nines strolling to the bank to make a deposit, and others you’d see sweat-soaked, sharp-tongued, wild cowboys dressed in grimy leather storming out of that bank with those gentlemen’s cash. Of course, the township’s staggering number of law enforcement officers (three)(including the sheriff) would chase after those slimy vandals, but that always ended in either a sprained ankle, a see-through hat, or a funeral.

However, as the surrounding communities began to flourish into cities, you began to see less and less of those outlaws. Daddy would mutter something about how it’s damn time, how sick to bastard death he was of those ruffians hanging around your good, decent town, how lucky you were that one of those good-for-nothin’s never thought to heave you up over his shoulder and ride off with you, because you still weren’t married, and had no one but your old Daddy to keep you safe.

Suitors, courtship, marriage, suitors, courtship, marriage, babies, suitors, courtship, marriage, babies, lawfully wedded and married and holy matrimony and blah, blah, blah. He raised you right, you were ladylike enough, you looked just like your mother, why were you so hard to marry off? You were so damn tired of that conversation, and you had begun to make it known, remembering the first time you turned your nose up at a potential romantic proposition like it was yesterday. Your poor old Daddy called you to the porch, and you were sure he’d pop something by the way he turned so red.

“The banker’s son’s coming from town tomorrow,” He mentioned, passive and gentle as he puffed on his cigarette.

“So?” You said, hip jutted out to rest against the doorframe, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Daddy shot you a warning glare, but as his one and only little girl, you knew it’d only ever be just that: a warning.

“He wants t'marry you. He’s got a good daddy, a good mama. Some money. More money ‘n us if you can believe 'at,” Puff, “He can take care of you.”

“I’d rather wear a potato sack on m'head than marry that man.”

It only took two more times for him to throw his hands up in defeat. There wasn’t anything wrong with any of those men, they were decent enough, and they did have the means to take care of you, but it didn’t matter. No, you weren’t keen on marriage, or babies, or domesticity; what you were keen on was your every-other-monthly ride to town, snug in your nice go-to-town dress, much to Daddy’s dismay.

Technically, you weren’t doing anything wrong when you went to town. What was so wrong about waiting at the edge of town by the dirt road, under the big southern live oak, nose faux-stuck in a book, aching for a glimpse of that white head of hair hidden under the brim of a black cowboy hat? Was it a sin to watch his tall, broad, strong frame saunter down the road and into the bar? Was it a sin to imagine what his sun-tanned, dirty, sweaty skin looked like beneath his grimy, baby blue cotton button up?

Sometimes it felt like a sin, given the way you’d hide your face in your unread book to bite your lip and blush when he looked in your direction. You still lie awake at night, face flushed pink and hands over the blankets, reminiscing about the time those dangerous blue eyes flicked up and down your figure before they gave you a wink. That was the only time you felt brave enough to push Daddy’s limits to let you ride back to town early the next morning, under the guise of helping one of the elderly ladies with her cleaning, when in reality you were scoping the outskirts of town for his shiny black horse. If you saw it, well, that meant he stayed in place for at least one night. Sure enough, around the backside of the homely little inn, that black stallion stood tied.

You weren’t sure why you did it, at least not at the time, because it wasn’t like you’d ever get the chance to do anything with that information. He was a stranger, named a troublemaker in the paper, too, and you were locked away in that ranch house 5 miles down the beaten trail like a knightless, wild-west princess.

… That is, until Daddy’s got overnight business to tend to. With a bad storm rolling over the endless sea of grassy prairie, and some pretty sleazy cowhands, he forbids you to travel the 150 mile round-trip alongside him to help drive a fellow rancher’s cattle further uphill. You tut, whine, roll your eyes, and stamp your foot in protest, but oh, no, it’s just no use, sweetheart, Daddy says. It’s a miracle that little trick still works on him, or else he might’ve remembered it’s nearly time for your ride to town.

With a shotgun shoved in your hands and a kiss pressed to the top of your head, you watch Daddy ride off, standing barefoot on the porch. For the first time in forever, now grown and far braver than you were the last time, you’re by yourself; you’re freer than the summer breeze blowing through the trees, freer than a bird, freer than the water trickling in the crick at the other end of the pasture. It’s a secret, sweet victory, and in your glee you almost go running off the porch before realizing it’s probably a good idea to put the gun down first.

—

It’s close to 10 o’clock when you trot into town on your dark bay horse, Ace, dressed in the prettiest non-fanciful dress you own. Compared to your usual attire, with bustles, corsets, undercoats galore, it almost feels like a nightgown once you’re in the realm of the rest of the town folk. You figured it was better to dress down than up, though; if anyone was to spot you riding into town, your go-to-town dress would be your first identifier.

Daddy’s not the type of man to drain his money and life away in such a grimy place, and neither are his friends; well, maybe one, but he’s done so much money and life wasting in that saloon that you doubt he’ll recognize you. Or, if he does, you doubt he’ll remember. However, you find yourself hesitating to leave your horse, once he’s tied up next to the saloon.

The lively music playing from the shabby little building is so loud, loud enough for you to hear from where you stand… outside. Inside, people are yelling, laughing, singing, shouting, swearing, and you start getting the feeling that you really shouldn’t be here.

“God, ‘ve gotta piss like a fuckin’ racehorse.”

You snap your head in the direction the voice came from, but it’s too little too late. In the dim moonlight, you watch the man stumble ‘round the corner of the saloon, drunk hands popping open the button of his thick, canvas pants. “Don’t look, Blackjack, got my dick ou— oh, shit!”

“Wh— I-I, um,” Stammering, you whip around and squeeze your eyes shut (although it’s far too late for that to do anything), your legs immediately carrying you back to your horse’s side. There’s no mistaking the snow-white hair peeking out from underneath the brim of that black hat, and you’re utterly mortified.

“Woah, sweetheart. Hang fire,” The stranger drawls, the sound of fabric rustling behind you as he haphazardly tucks his shirt back into his now-buttoned pants. “Y’look awfully familiar, y’know.”

“I don’t believe I do,” You mutter, your back still turned to the outlaw as you work at the knot securing your horse to the wooden hitching rail. If you weren’t so flustered by the man’s presence, and the eyefull you got of what’s hidden in his pants, maybe the knot wouldn’t take so damn long to come loose.

“I said hold it, miss,” He emphasizes, hooking a finger into the ribbon at the back of your dress and tugging you away from the hitching rail. Without 100 feet of distance separating you, you realize just how much he towers over you, dwarfing you in comparison… However, you’re no regular, resigned, reverent little girl, and you’re not about to let a stranger—no matter how handsome—ragdoll you around. “‘S no mistakin’ you.”

“You’d better get your grimy hands off'a me, mister, or else,” you bite back, praying for his soul should his grip tear the bow off of your dress. He’s not pulling on it anymore, but he’s still got his finger crooked into the baby blue silk.

“Ooh, yer a mean ‘un, huh?” The man sneers, snorting at your pitiful attempts to wriggle away from him without ripping the shiny, delicate fabric. Bending down to meet your ear, he lowers his voice to something just above a whisper. “Or what?”

“You’ll find out, that’s what. Let go'a me.”

“Say, yer th’girl who sits under ‘at tree over there, ain’t ya? Watchin’ me?” Pointing a long, deathly still finger at the live oak tree, he turns his head to look at your scowling face. “Well, ya don’t usually look at me ‘at way, but y’sure are her. I’d recognize ‘at hair anywhere, sweetheart.”

“If you don’t turn me loose m'gonna blow that finger clean off your hand, sir.” One final warning. He lets you go, not because of your threat, but because he wants to. It’d be a shame if he spoiled his fun so soon. Plus, the only person capable of blowing a finger clean off of his hand is himself.

“Thank you,” you mumble, glaring up at him when he returns upright, reaching behind you to make sure the ribbon is still tight, neat, and secure against your back. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be leavin' now.”

“Oh, c’mon,” he says, his voice yet again a smooth drawl, grinning ear to ear as he follows each of your steps back to your horse. “Y’can watch me for months but ya can’t gimme th’time t’introduce m’self?”

“Will you stop with that?” Punctuating your question with a hand planted on your hip, you look at him incredulously, using your other hand to jab a finger into his chest. Although your cheeks are bright pink in embarrassment, the night sky acts as your ally and disguises the girlish glow. “You— If I’d’ve known you were such a— a bastard I’d’ve saved m'self the trouble!”

“A bastard? Y’got quite th’mouth on ya, huh?” He laughs, his hand coming up to pick the hat off of his head as the other smooths his sweaty white hair back, bringing his hat to his chest so it doesn’t fall to the ground. “Quit yer caterwauling ‘n let me introduce m’self, please, ma’am, or I’ll hafta show ya a real bastard.”

From what you can tell, he is a real bastard, just the most charming bastard you’ve ever had the privilege of running into. The outlaw holds out his rough, calloused hand for yours, which you hesitantly give.

“Six Eyes Satoru Gojo, ma’am, ‘s a pleasure t’meet ya,” Satoru greets, bowing to place a kiss on the soft skin of your knuckles, only serving as fuel to the flames burning on your cheeks. You quickly take your hand away from his and hold it close to yourself. “But if ya’d like t’call me bastard, at’s okay too.”

You give him a once-over, humming in some semblance of approval at the newfound half-properness in Satoru’s behavior. That won’t last long, but you’re a lady after all, a lady who has been treated nothing but properly your entire life, which is exactly why you find yourself subconsciously wishing he’d get back to his dastardly act.

“Well, Six Eyes Satoru Gojo, I’ll be leavin' now,” You say flatly, trying to offset the fact that he’s got you wrapped around his finger already. It’s no use giving into the idea of staying, things have already gone further than they should have, and if you stay any longer you’re not sure you’ll know when to say when. Gathering a handful of your dress, you slip your foot into the stirrup at Ace’s side and heave yourself up into your saddle.

“Oh, for th’love of— After I introduced m’self s’ sweetly?”

Clop, clop, clop, is all Satoru hears in response as you back your horse away from the hitching post, throwing your hair over your shoulders and out of your line of sight.

“Awww, don’t leave m’lonely already, sweetheart! C’mon, I ‘on’t bite,” he calls to you as you slowly start your way back in the direction of your house. The back way, the way you came, just for extra insurance that you won’t be seen leaving the saloon. “Not ‘nless ya want m’to, at least!”

All he gets in response is a grin over your shoulder, and the same clop, clop, clop of Ace’s shoes against the dirt. Well, shit, Satoru thinks to himself as you ride away, almost walking back over to the doors of the saloon, but he’s found himself far too interested in the way your body shifts up and down in tandem with your horse’s steps. He takes one step towards the door, then swivels over to Blackjack, then the door, then Blackjack—

“Fuck, still gotta pee.”

After relieving himself, this time without flashing anyone, Satoru makes quick work of the knot tying Blackjack to the hitching rail and slings himself up into his saddle. No mind is paid to the poor waitress still waiting for his return in the dingy saloon, who’s eyeing the double-doors for his reappearance; no, he’s dead set on following your path into the horse-high grass, pulling Blackjack into a higher gear with the reins in his hands.

If you cared, you’d chastise yourself for walking the line of inappropriate behavior as an unwedded woman with a man you just met. If you cared, you’d scold yourself for taking your sweet time, for the slow trot you’ve kept Ace at when you could have hauled ass home. But you don’t care, not when you can hear Satoru’s horse almost pick up to a gallop behind you.

With one hand keeping his hat from flying off his head and one on the reins, Satoru races to close the gap between the two of you till he’s about 100 feet from you, slowing Blackjack to a trot. He hangs behind you once he’s caught up, matching your pace, watching you ride, pulling a cigarette and a match box from his stash in shirt pocket. Once it’s lit, he pinches out the match, tosses it over his shoulder, and pulls a drag from the cigarette between his lips.

“For bein’ s’hellbent on gettin’ away from me, y’ain’t very fast,” Satoru comments, smug as ever that he’s caught you—as if you weren’t trying to be caught— blowing smoke from the side of his mouth. He’s still watching the up down up down up down of your body in the saddle. “Y’got a name?”

“Not one y'need t'know,” you reply coolly. Somehow you can feel the weight of his blue gaze on your back, a type of audacity you’ve never experienced in all your born days, and it makes you blush. You’re glad he’s watching you from behind, not just to satisfy your itch for his attention, but also so he can’t see the girlish grin you can’t seem to fight off.

“Stubborn,” he tuts around his rolled cigarette, only tearing his eyes away from your backside to shake his head. “Sweetheart’ll work, then. How’s ‘at?”

“Inappropriate, really.” Another cool reply. Both of you know your feigned unaffectedness isn’t going to shoo him away; if anything, it’s pulling him in closer, making him more interested in getting you to drop that nonchalant act with each short, clipped comment.

“Where we goin’, sweetheart?” Satoru asks, tugging the reins till Blackjack gets him right beside you. He pulls another drag from the cigarette dangling between his lips before leaning over to you, pointedly blowing the smoke in your face.

You fake cough, bringing a hand up to erratically wave that damned cloud of cigarette smoke away from your mouth and nose as he laughs. Satoru shakes his head as his laughter subsides, freeing a hand to wipe at his teary eyes.

“We are not goin' anywhere. I am goin' home, Six Eyes,” you sass, punctuating your words with a hmph. All that serves to do is wind his laughter back up and lean back in the saddle, making Blackjack stop in his tracks. Ace keeps on trotting. “What’s that even mean? Why do people call ya that?”

“Whew, ‘s fun t’wind y’up, y’know ‘at?” Satoru says once he gets Blackjack to catch up to you again, killing the smoldering end of his cigarette before flicking it away. “I’ll tell ya th’story when we get t’where we’re goin’.”

Huffing at the way he overlooks your I, not We statement yet again, you instead focus on the view of your ride. Bright, silvery light of the near-full moon shines off of the smooth live oak leaves, illuminates the wide expanse of tall grass where the trees don’t grow, and kisses every square inch of the crop fields in sight. The clear sky seems to go on forever, wrapping its dark arms across the horizon and on, highlighting each star in the sky. It’s warm, humid from the system of storms not too far off, the epitome of a perfect mid-July night.

A perfect mid-July night that you just had to take advantage of. Despite the serenity of the view, internally, you’ve spent the last three miles flip flopping between excitement and anxiety. On one hand, you’ve taken action, and that’s something to be proud of; on the other, you’ve taken action to do this, with him, who’s enough a bastard without the criminal record to make any good lady’s father bust a few vessels. God, you think about your poor father, how he loosened his reins after keeping you on a tight, protective leash, and you wonder how he’d feel if he found out. His one and only daughter alone with an outlaw, a dirty, grimy, criminal cowboy, in the face of all the kindhearted, decent suitors you turned your nose up at.

“You’re nothin' but trouble,” You say, softer than anything else you’ve said to the man beside you. Anxiety has outweighed your excitement, and it’s written all over you in big, red, capital letters. Satoru could sense it before he saw it, and he’s getting the feeling you’ve never done so much as come home late.

“Aww, ‘at’s not true,” He says, feigning hurt with a pout, his pink bottom lip pushed out. Maybe, he thinks to himself, he can tease the nerves out of you. Playing with you is far too fun to give up. It’s a shame you didn’t come up to him earlier, maybe you wouldn’t be so nervous if you had. “Want me t’show ya how good I can be, sweetheart? Y’got a lil’ sneak peek earlier.”

“You’re gonna get me in trouble! This 's hardly appropriate, and I hardly know ya outside of your charges listed in th'paper, and if my daddy finds out he–he’ll have me arrested, or somethin' like that. He’ll put a hole right through your head!”

Now, that just makes him laugh, which he knows will do nothing to soothe you. “I’d love t’see ‘em try,” Satoru snorts. However, knowing a sliver of your temperament from experience, he doesn’t want to push you too far yet. He’s got a secret weapon in his saddle bag, and it isn’t another gun to aid the two on his hips. “Y’know what, I got somethin’ ‘at’ll help calm those boil over nerves’a yours. Ev’r been down south’a the border, sweetheart?”

–

Cold iron warms in the heat of your drunken hands, the shiny metal revolver gleaming in the moonlight heavy in your inexperienced grip.

“Atta girl– now, look right down the top’a the barrel ‘n line ‘at iron sight up,” Satoru instructs at your side, knees bent so he can see what you see. The scent of gunpowder, cigarettes, tequila, and sweat floods your senses with him so close, the amalgamation sure to stick to your dress, but you can’t bring yourself to find it anything but good. From the corner of your eyes, you take a lingering look at his face, and notice a dimple on his cheek you hadn’t before. The gun. Right.

“The metal things? I’m nervous,” You mutter, fingers adjusting and readjusting their position before realizing it’ll take a while to feel comfortable wielding such a weapon.

“The metal things, yep. Ain’t nothin’ t’be scared of, sweetheart. Y’got it?” Moving behind you, Satoru now has his strong chest pressed to your back, muscular arms wrapped around you, his hands covering yours just as he warned you he would to make up for the recoil of the shot.

“Mmmm.. mhm. Now fire?” Focused eyes line up the metal fin at the end of the barrel with the ‘O’ on the ‘No Trespassing’ sign posted in the grassy field at edge of your father’s property, all the while you’re mentally preparing yourself for the explosive force and deafening noise of your upcoming shot. The physical contact, so foreign to your previously untouchable body, doesn’t help your preparation in the least, proving infinitely more distracting than the tequila.

“Go ‘head, sweetheart. I gotcha.”

Deep breaths. All you have to do is put your finger on the trigger. Before you can move your index finger, Satoru gasps dramatically and grabs your sides, making you flinch and squeal in fear. You’re cowed down, hunched over with a hand slapped over your eyes and another still aiming the gun at the sign in fear when you not only hear, but also feel him start laughing. That bastard.

Ramming an elbow back and hitting him square in the ribs is all you can do in this position other than throwing him a scolding glare. “Don’t scare me when I’ve got a gun in my hands!”

“Sorry, sorry– Had t’do it.” Glare. “I ain’t gonna do it again, I promise!” Squint. “I swear I won’t.”

Resuming the position, chest pressed closely to your back, hands clasped tightly over yours, chin comfortably rested on your shoulder, Satoru hushes his laughter in favor of letting you gather your bearings. He watches the way you squint one eye as you realign the iron sight, and the way you stick the tip of your tongue out of the side of your mouth to focus, and the way you visibly go through a mental checklist before you put your finger back on the trigger, and he’d be eternally damned if he said it wasn’t the cutest thing he’s ever seen. Something so common to him was so foreign to you, and that sentiment could be held for more than guns.

When the gun fires, you squeeze both of your eyes shut, lean back into the solid body behind you, and the world goes silent. Your eyes only open when your ears start ringing, Satoru’s impressed whistle filtering through the muffled sound snapping you to attention.

“Well, I’ll be damned. ‘At was a damn good shot, sweetheart, almost ‘s good ‘s me,” he praises proudly, standing tall as he examines the bullet hole in the sign, almost emptying out the ‘O’ entirely. “Y’got five more bullets. Wanna try yer hand at five more shots?”

The next five shots take over an hour to fire, and the last two leave no trace other than a knick in the side of the otherwise swiss-cheese sign. Each shot was sandwiched between mouthfuls of tequila from the bottle and drunken fits of laughter, both overshadowing your target practice in the end, leaving the decorative glass and revolver empty.

Raising your wobbly frame up onto your tiptoes, you snatch the black cowboy hat off of Satoru’s oddly compliant head and place it gently atop yours. It’s a little big, and it’s hot, and it smells like campfire smoke, but you wear it all the same. With the hat settled on your head, you clumsily spin his pearl-grip six shooter around your finger and strike a pose. “Who’s Six Eyes Satoru Gojo now, hm?”

For the first time tonight, Satoru says nothing. Instead, he’s just looking at you, strong arms crossed over his strong chest, expression unreadable if not for the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Well, how do I look?”

“Real pretty, sweetheart… real, real pretty. Y’wanna know what they say ‘bout takin’ a cowboy’s hat? Puttin’ it on like y’got mine on ‘at pretty little head’a yours?” Satoru drawls, his low voice dripping a sweet, dangerous kind of venom that sounds like the gospel to your drunk ears. Slow, sauntering steps kill the distance between you, till he’s so close you can feel the body heat radiating off of him. Eyes growing wide as you tip your head back to look up at him, your hand holding the cowboy hat on your head so it doesn’t fall off, you finally decipher why he looked like he caught you earlier. When he answers his own question, he drops his voice to a smug, deadly whisper. “Y’wear the hat, y’ride the cowboy.”

Sober, it would be hard enough to gather yourself to say anything at all, much less something so on par with Satoru’s energy, but drunk? That liquid courage, drank by the messy mouthful, is aptly named, coursing through your veins stronger than the deep-rooted conventions of the world around you. With scanning, studying eyes, you further analyze the look etched into Satoru’s suntanned face, and you figure that this is why you haven’t left the thought of him alone since you first saw him. You don’t cower away from his blue haze, not this time. This time, your eyes meet his, locked on them in a manner akin to a standoff.

“Ride the cowboy, huh? Do they say that?” You whisper back, slipping the six shooter in the black leather belt hanging off of Satoru’s hips, letting your hand drag against the holster one second too long. It makes him shift, his baby blue shirt barely concealing the hints of moving muscle beneath.

“Mmmmmhm. Don’t tell me ‘s yer first rodeo, sweetheart,” he teases, his euphemism enough to make you blush if not for your already flush-drunk cheeks.

“I bet ya wish it was, Satoru. It ain't my first rodeo.” Oh, but it is. And if he were talking about kissing you, it’d still be your first rodeo, save for the sweet cheek-kisses you’d given a boy when you were six years old. However, you’re no longer in the realm of backing down, and you won’t give him the benefit of knowing he’s deflowering you.

“Oh?” Satoru doesn’t believe that for a single second— not when you were tripping over yourself about all the trouble you’d be in if anyone found out about you doing so much as riding alongside him. That devilish set of dimples dip so deep as he grins down at you that you’re sure it’s hurting him. “Y’not ev’n a little scared t’get bucked off?”

“I ain't scared at all,” You muse, initiating your first touch of the night by placing a flat palm against his clothed stomach. Satoru’s heavyweight cotton shirt offers little padding between your hand and his skin; he might as well be shirtless, because you can feel every contour of his impressive abdominal muscles.

Something shifts in the air when you touch him, as if that single action changed the charted course of your world in an instant. The change is palpable, it’s audible, it’s visible, it’s so refreshingly different from all you’ve known and you’re going to chase it, even if it kills you, and it very well might should your father find out. Screaming cicadas and chirping crickets, trickling water and whistling breeze, all of which buzz around you in the night air seem to drown in the noise of Six Eyes Satoru Gojo.

“Yeah? Call my bluff, then. Prove it.”

It’s a dare, an invitation to dance with the blue eyed devil himself, and you’re taking it without a second thought. In the blink of an eye you take hold of his shirt collar, yanking him down to crash your inexperienced lips into his, and the world around you as you know it comes down crashing and burning with him. Satoru uncrosses his arms and plants two firm, rope-worn, calloused hands on your waist, pulling your eager frame flush against his.

The kiss is rushed, open mouthed and sloppy, and if not for your plush lips it might hurt. Each passing second against your lips is chock full of proof that you have no clue where to start or where to stop, proof that you’re running on nothing but instinct to both satiate yourself and call Satoru’s bluff. Headstrong and obstinate as ever, you urge him backwards, back, back, back in sloppy, tripping steps till there’s enough of a rise in the terrain to stop him from moving without taking a step up.

Satoru takes the reins from your imperious hold to ease the two of you to the ground, bending and hinging one joint at a time till you’re both close enough to fall to your knees in the dry grass. He’s still got one hand on your waist, traveling until it finds purchase on your hip, while the other flings the bulletless gun from the right holster away with reckless abandon. The other revolver lays aside within arm’s reach, just in case, but Satoru’s more focused on getting as far as you’ll let him go. Without the possibility of being poked, prodded, or shot, he shifts from his knees to sit flat, hauling you into his lap with a single arm wrapped around your waist.

By the time you’re in his lap, you’ve pried his shirt off, but there’s not much of the night left to waste for you to sit and admire him as you’d like to, the two of you instead working overtime at getting you undressed. You’re breathless, he’s panting between each kiss of your lips, so soft, so sweet against his that he has to fight the urge to rip off the remaining clothes you’ve got on, consisting of nothing more than your linen chemise and cotton underwear. It’s only now, almost exposed under the silver moonlight in this cowboy’s lap, that your nerves start to get the better of you; it’s not that you want to stop, because you’d rather die than stop him from just touching you, but it’s all so fast that your head is spinning and you’re shaking like a leaf.

Beneath you, where your hips sit atop his, you can feel how hard he is through the thick, rough canvas of his pants. It’s not smart to take them off— not outside, anyway— but there’s a part of you that craves to have your bare skin against his. Maybe that’s naive, but tequila doesn’t care about naivety.

After all the teasing and taunting he’s put you through tonight, Satoru won’t make you say it. He won’t make you admit that this is your first time, nor will he ignore the fact. Instead, Satoru’s strong hands slide up the sides of your thighs, under that thin, white underdress, settling on your hips with a soft squeeze before pulling you down to grind against him. The friction, the drag against that wet, sensitive, aching place between your legs makes your breath hitch in your throat and cling to him, arms thrown around his neck.

His black cowboy hat is back on his head where it belongs, tipped back enough to let you see his face, and those blue eyes you’ve come to know seem to glow up at you. They’re lidded, heavy in a way you’ve never seen before from anyone else, and now that he’s looking at you like this you’re not sure you’d want anyone else to. Another roll of his narrow hips and you’re whimpering, nothing more than putty in his hands for him to mold and shape however he’d like.

“Y’okay, sweetheart?” Satoru whispers, placing a searing kiss at the junction of your neck and shoulder, scattering goosebumps across your sensitive skin. You can feel his cock twitch from its confinement beneath you, and although your ability to gauge his size is obscured, he’s big. He’s a big man, with big hands and big shoulders, but you didn’t expect all of him to be so big. “Feels like yer shakin’ ‘n I ain’t ev’n done anythin’ yet.”

The right words seem impossible to find, much less to say, all of them so vulgar and explicit that they make your face burn with such a vibrant shade of red it’s visible even in the low light of the moonbeams. He grins against your skin at your inability to speak, knowing such phrases have never left your pretty plush lips, relishing in the fact that your headstrong nature has been reduced to nothing by his touch. In a bashful whisper, you manage to whimper out your incomplete request. “I… um, I want you to…”

More tempting words than those have never graced his ears in all his born days.

“Yeah? Y’want me t’do somethin’, baby?” Satoru murmurs, continuing to chip away at your resolve with his open mouthed kisses to your neck, his low voice rumbling against your skin, each action setting you aflame with every precious, passing second. You moan when he calls you baby, and again when his lips reach that place just under your jaw, and you want so badly to claw at his back but your hands feel so weak.

“Do y’want me t’touch you? Right…” As he trails off, so does his bruised, nicked, calloused hand from your hip, stopping when his palm is pressed smooth against your lower stomach. Barely, feather-light, his thumb grazes your clothed clit. “… Here?”

“Yes— yes, please,” You plead, your hips pushing into his touch, your eyes squeezing shut to splay your lashes over your cheeks, your body tensing at the touch; it’s so foreign, so forbidden, but you’d trade your spot in heaven for more of it.

Satoru doesn’t make you beg, no, but he stops touching you to hang his fingertips on the waistband of your offensive underwear and slide them down your legs. Only after they’re discarded in the dry grass does he offer his merciful touch again, spreading your soaked folds to gather your slick on the pad of his thumb before slowly circling your clit. Each circled swipe over that shiveringly sensitive bud pulls a shaky, breathy moan from your throat, a sound so rewarding that all he wants to do is flip the two of you over and take you right there.

“Relax, sweetheart. Feels good?” He asks, hungry eyes dropping to watch the way your teeth sink into your lower lip, then lower to watch the way you chase his touch with your hips, and then lower to watch you toy with the buttons of his pants, your hands just brushing against his solid cock. It’s not on purpose, but it feels like teasing nonetheless, making his cock jump against the thick canvas restraining it. It’s starting to ache.

The strength to speak is so hard to gather, even more so when one slick, thick finger dips past your entrance, slowly sinking into you one sweet centimeter at a time. Your pride, your ego, your purity, all the aspects of your mind that have been built up like walls to protect you come crumbling down instantaneously, rendering you defenseless against Satoru’s masterful touch as he curls that finger inside of you. Pure electric bliss radiates through your shaking body from the gentle pressure against that newfound spongy spot, and again when you feel him slip second finger into you, the new addition offering a slight stretching sensation to the pleasure. Something in the pit of your stomach feels like it’s coiling up, warm, tense, tight, and you’re unsure whether you should run to it or from it.

Each curl of his fingers pulls winds that coil up further, pulls you closer to that feeling, and overtakes your control, leaving you feeling close to tears and on the brink of something unknown. All of your pride has been stripped away, finding yourself no longer above begging and taking.

“Satoru, please,” You gasp, in an attempt to fill your pleading lungs with air as he just keeps on pulling you apart. Desperate, shaking fingers start grasping at the buttons keeping you from what you want, clumsily popping them open till you can dip your hand past them and free his cock in one swift motion. It’s thick, so hot to the touch, tip red and weeping from watching you fall to pieces in his hands. “I-I want more, please, I really want it ‘n I feel so… s-so good, please.”

With no clue what to do, you just do what feels right, swiping at the mess of precum gathered at the tip of his cock with the pad of your thumb before letting your grip drag slowly down his length. Satoru swears under his breath, words so vulgar you’d only heard them once or twice before, but from his mouth they sound like the damn gospel. His head drops back in awe of the relief your soft, soft touch offers, only snapping back up to watch your hands slow strokes up and down his aching cock. The glorious sight is enough to violently rip the thought of enjoying this from his head and kick him into a higher gear.

“I’ll give y’whatever ya want, sweetheart, y’don’t hafta beg me,” Satoru says, his voice low, breathy, laden with lust and hymnal in your ears. Slowly, he slips his digits from your cunt, his palm and fingers coated with your slick and shining in the silver light. There’s no time to waste, not when you just begged him for more, not when nights don’t last forever, but he wants to taste you so bad that he brings his soaked fingers to his lips and licks them clean, savoring the sweet, sweet flavor of you. Watching him lick his fingers clean of you is enough to make you whimper.

In no time he’s pushing up your chemise to rest on your hips, reaching around to find purchase of a handful of your ass to steady you as he pulls you higher on your knees. You’re hovering over his hips now, the tip of his cock nestling against your slick-coated folds, your shaking hands resting on his broad shoulders, and you are so completely overcome with anticipation that it hurts.

“Promise‘ll be gentle, sweetheart. Y’ain’t gots t’worry over ‘at, I swear,” He whispers against your lips, pulling your body flush against his own. Mumbling pleads for him to hurry, you want him, you want this, you beg him to make his move, and Satoru can’t deny such a pretty girl asking him so nicely. Mercifully, he lines himself up with your weeping entrance, and allows you to take control.

With shaking legs, you lower yourself down just until the tip of his cock is snug inside of you, suddenly halting. It hurts… but it feels so, so, so good. You lift yourself up to try again entirely, staring down to where the two of you meet, and lower yourself again. This time, you don’t stop for that burn, that intrusion, that stretch, wincing while sinking down so slowly that you can feel every single inch of Satoru’s hot, fat cock drag against your walls until you’re so full you can’t go down any further. Once you’re still, you’re panting, whimpering, and clawing at the lifestyle-built muscles of Satoru’s expansive shoulders.

Below you, Satoru’s in awe, his grip on the flesh of your ass so tight that his knuckles are white, his breath tortured, ragged, desperate. If he could manage to focus on something other than maintaining his self-control he’d let every nasty, vulgar, explicit thought of his at the sight of you pour from his lips, but he can’t. Inside of you, you can feel him twitch, a non-verbal, involuntary request to move from your position flush against his hips, but now that you’re so full of him you’re not sure you can. Whimpering, you open your hazy, pleasure-stricken eyes and meet his, finding them busy drinking every inch of you in his lap.

That’s all he needs to take the reins, he knows what you’re saying with nothing more than the way you look down at him: you want him to move, you want him to help you. On the brink of losing all composure, he pays no mind at all to the snarky little comments he could be making about so much for the rules being “you ride the cowboy.” Satoru wraps an arm all the way around your waist, one hand holding your side and the other still holding a handful of your ass, and he pulls you to rest against his chest so he can take care of you. It’s a small change in position, but it makes you gasp nonetheless, eyes batting shut once again and jaw falling slack around a pretty little whimper. With you tucked so sweetly against him, head between his jaw and shoulder, Satoru slowly draws himself out of you and so shallowly pushes back in.

“‘S ‘at alright, sweetheart?” The outlaw murmurs, your whine of a response swiftly hushing his concern and care and making him go that much more crazy. Another gentle drag of his cock out, another slow thrust of it in, the bliss of the disappearing burn making way for the delicious stretch seeping into your muscles. Then, as Satoru finds a nice, shallow, beginner-friendly pace, the tip of his cock catches on that wonderful spongy spot decorating your walls and you moan, loud and involuntary, his name leaving your lips like some sort of praise. You can’t help the sound spilling from your mouth when he finds it again, and you want to beg, plead, cry, anything to chase that feeling, anything to get Satoru to fuck you like he means it; you’re so stripped of your defenses and your self-control that you don’t realize that you are begging, pleading, crying for him to go deeper, harder, more more more.

Such filthy words leaving lips as precious as yours should be a punishable offense, he thinks, especially when they sound so good that the sweet nothings he’s whispering into your hair are cracking off at the end into broken, wanton whines. Satoru’s grip on you grows impossibly tighter, entranced by your words, your warmth, the otherworldly grip your cunt’s got around him, and if he focuses, the soft squelch of how sopping wet you are each time he pushes up into you. He keeps his pace despite your pleas, he doesn’t want to hurt you, he doesn’t want to push you too far, because although he’s a grimy, sorry sleazebag of a cowboy, and you’re a hotheaded, ornery brat, you feel like a china doll in his arms. Breakable.

“Please, for th'love of God, Satoru, just— just fuck me, already!” You cry out, desperation kicking your respectability out the door, almost reduced to tears as you cling to him like you’re going to fall off the face of the earth if you don’t. Where was the bastard who grabbed you by the bow? The outlaw with a pistol on each hip, a cigarette in his mouth, blood splatter on his shirt? Six Eyes Satoru Gojo? That’s who you wanted now, that’s who you needed, and you appreciate the sweetness, the care, but by God it wasn’t sweet anymore. It was torture.

“Y’want me to fuck you, huh? ‘At’s what y’want, sweetheart?” God, there he was. Compared to those sweet nothings he was whispering, it sounds like a threat, his low growl of a voice rumbling through his chest while you babble yesyesyesyespleaseyesyes. Satoru almost pulls out of you entirely, leaving only the tip to nudge into your messy cunt before snapping his hips up, burying his cock inside of you in one fell swoop, slamming into you so deep that it feels like he’s trying to bruise your insides. It hurts, it elevates the drool worthy stretch of your cunt around his cock, it makes you sob his name in a way that Satoru’s sure will burn into his brain and haunt him forever. “All ‘at talk earlier, now look at ya. Beggin’ me t’fuck you,” He tuts, but his near-scolding words are draped in adoration. “‘M gon’ fuck you s’good ya won’t want ‘nyone else to.”

Not the second time, or the third, but on the fourth vicious ram of his cock into you, you find yourself trying to match his pace, rocking yourself up when he drags himself out, sinking yourself down when he slams himself in, all with shaking legs and pitifully weak knees. The sound of skin hitting skin, the gushing sound of how wet your pussy was for him, the pleasured, guttural swears moaned from the man beneath you, all of it in tandem with the way his impossibly thick cock abused each and every tender spot inside you was addictive. Everything he offered, you took, and you took more, and he watched as your manners, your upbringing, and your conditioning flew out of the window with reckless abandon, entranced by the way he’s unraveled you to reveal a woman of pure need.

Both of Satoru’s hands are settled on your ass, now, his white-knuckle grip sure to leave it’s mark when this is all over, but you don’t care. You’re too busy pushing yourself off of him, planting both hands on his strong chest, riding his cock like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do in this world. It’s sinful, he thinks, the way your hips meet his in the middle, the way you cry out his name, the way your jaw has fallen slack around each of your filthy babbles of how good you feel.

“Atta fuckin’ girl, sweetheart! Look at ya,” He praises, something primal, something venomous, something paradoxically needy coating his gruff voice. Inside you, that coil from before is wound so tight that you’ve got tears in your eyes, but you want it, you want whatever feeling comes after so bad that you’re begging for it. Satoru’s praises only serve to urge you on, his ragged, tortured moans only pulling you closer, and closer, and his fat cock slams into you one more time and you’re done. “Let go, sweetheart, y’can do it, jus’ let go, alright? Atta girl.”

Your orgasm tears through you like bullets; hot, forceful, sudden, and searing, those tears falling down your cheeks as you cry out, desperately grinding your hips down into him so you can chase the pleasure radiating from that sweet spot inside of you. Satoru tips you forward to crash his lips into yours, swallowing your beautiful cries of bliss, still fucking into you so brutally through your orgasm in pursuit of his own fast-approaching climax. The gush of your cunt around him, the way you clench down so tight, so rhythmically, god, it’s too much, and he’s swearing as he pulls out of you swiftly at the very last minute, his hand flying to his freed cock to catch the cum spilling from the tip before it can stain your linen underdress.

As the two of you still, panting against each other’s lips, a pile of sweaty, strengthless bodies, the sounds of the night around you fill the world again. Your sense has yet to return, because you should be gathering yourself and your clothes, but instead you rest atop the outlaw’s heaving chest.

Satoru takes care of getting you back home, despite a nagging voice in the back of his head reminding him he doesn’t do this, it’s not smart, it’s something a sap would do, not a travelin’ man. But you’re tired, and he’s tired, and all he wants is a nice, warm bed to lay his head down for the night. By the time the two of you lay down between your linen sheets, your dress and all its fixings are laid over the chair in the corner of your room, his grimy ones are thrown on the floor in another, and his boots are hidden beneath your bed. One strong arm is trapped beneath your head, and your sleepy, mumbled half-protests are met with one thing before your lights are out:

“Cain’t leave ya out here by’n yer lonesome, I’ll stay till yer Daddy gets back.”

And he does.

The next day starts wrapped up in each other in the golden, pink-painted morning light, a sobering repeat of the love made a few hours before out in the grassy field. Any thoughts of your daddy, what he’d say, or what he’d think are nowhere to be seen when you’re in the presence of Satoru, the bastard cowboy who’s taken your affections hostage. You wash his filthy clothes and yours, hang them out to dry, and stow Blackjack in the luxury of the barn next to Ace till Satoru needs him. You sweep away the dirty footprints his boots left on the porch. You rinse his smoke-soaked cowboy hat till it smells new again.

Satoru feeds the horses, the chickens, and the cows, all of which were your chores to do while your daddy was gone to drive cattle. He helps heave you up onto Blackjack’s back, the black stallion far taller than your own horse, and he lets you sit in front of him to take the reins. None without the fair amount of teasing, which didn’t seem like a fair amount to you; at several points in the day, you’d hop off Blackjack’s back and try to storm back to the house, but somehow the outlaw always reeled you back to ease you up into the saddle again.

When the sun starts to hang heavy in the west side of the sky, you draw him a bath, to which he doesn’t protest. Nice baths are hard to come by when you don’t stay in one place for very long, and when you spend most of your time on the run, in places so wild, so untouched as the West, they’re a godsend. Warm water and soap washes him clean, soothes his sore muscles, and makes him new again, but he doesn’t want to leave the bliss of the tub so soon. As he soaks in the suds, you enter the bathroom in your dressing robe to sit on the lip of the tub, simultaneously admiring him and admonishing him as the two of you bicker back and forth.

“I think your clothes’re dry, bastard,” You tease, head resting on your shoulder as you balance yourself to sit on the edge of the tub. It’s a little urge for him to get out, because you feel you’re just as filthy as he was and you need to bathe. Satoru keeps your eyes with his, sinking lower in the tub till his shoulders are submerged and knees are poking out over the suds, reaching a wet hand to the string keeping your dressing robe shut. He draws it slowly, eyes still locked on yours, till the knot comes loose and each side falls open to expose your bare body beneath. It makes you fluster, wanting to slouch and hide yourself, but he grabs your hand as if to say don’t. You huff. “Come on, you’re hoggin’ it. I’m filthy.”

“Get in,” Is all he says at first. Before you can protest, he speaks again. “C’mon. Get in.”

You hesitate, but stand nonetheless, slowly letting the robe slip off of your shoulders and into a heap on the floor. Not once does he stop staring at you, not even when you can’t meet his eyes, not even when you’re stepping into the tub. All he does is grab your arm and yank you to rest against his chest, back to front, not caring about the water splashing over the sides as a result of his forceful repositioning. If not for the way he settles his strong arms around you, you’d scold him for wetting your hair, but you can’t bring yourself to get onto him.

“When’s yer daddy meant t’be back, sweetheart?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Alright.”

The two of you sit in that water so long that it’s ice cold by the time you step out.

You find yourself wishing the sun would stay still in the sky, but it doesn’t; it just keeps on moving westward, like the unusually quiet outlaw dressed in a pair of your daddy’s nightclothes at the end of your bed. As the last few hours of daylight passed over the plains, Satoru became gentler, quieter, more tender than his usual dastardly manner. It struck you normally, if not pleasantly, knowing that such a wild, sharp-tongued man spoke to you so softly, so sweetly. It wasn’t lost on you that this would be your last night in his arms for a while, but you let yourself daydream that he’d be back in another month, and maybe he’d even knock on your window in the dead of night to make love to you again.

At the end of the bed, dressed in your oblivious daddy’s nightclothes, Satoru finds himself unpleasantly surprised at how bad he feels. Feeling bad wasn’t something he felt often, having seen so much death, violence, crime, and corruption, not to mention having committed those acts with his own hands. It was a rotten feeling, knowing that he’d been your first, that he’d taken you in a field, in your bed, in your kitchen, and in your bathroom, and it was a rotten feeling, knowing that he was about to shatter any semblance of faith you placed in him. Your obstinacy, your petulance, your temperament, none of these things about you changed the fact that you were too naive to realize the fact of the matter, which was that you were just another girl to him, and he would be gone before you knew it.

The guilt was unsettling. It was eating at him. It was blooming under the soft touch of your warm hand on his arm, urging him to come up to lay beside you in your stark white nightdress. Satoru looks back at you with a halfhearted grin, traversing the soft expanse of your bed until his head meets the pillows and he can slip under your covers, tangled up in you again. Your soft laugh, your hair on the pillows, your keen eyes; all of you will be different soon, so he drinks it in while he can. Maybe it’s a fucked up thing to think, but you have been one of his favorites.

“Will y'wake me up in the mornin’? Before you go?” You whisper, sleepy and warm from where you lay your head on his chest. The outlaw has you gathered in his arms, pulled halfway over his body, holding you so comfortably while you fight the tiredness that threatens to lull you into sleep. If he wasn’t preparing himself to go, he’d notice how you fit against his side like two pieces of a puzzle, a perfect fit. His voice rumbles through his chest when he replies.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Satoru whispers back.

“You’d better, you bastard. ‘M gonna be cross ‘f you don’t…”

As sleep takes over, you trail off, the blow of your threat softened by your rhythmic breaths. Through your window shines the silvery light of the moon, creating a soft glow around your peaceful, sleeping form, and Satoru looks away.

It’s four awake, dragging, guilty hours before he moves you off of his chest. He’d stay all night if he didn’t get a move on now, when you’re sleeping so deeply that you don’t react to the loss of warmth or his weight shifting the bed as he stands up. Satoru shimmies out of your father’s nightclothes and folds them as best he can, laying them on the surface of the mahogany nightstand beside your bed before dressing himself in his washed, pressed, clean clothes. Grabbing his spurred boots from beneath your bed, his leather belt holster, and his pitch black cowboy hat, he quietly makes his way out of your bedroom, but he stops in the middle of the doorway.

One last look. That’s all he lets himself have.

One last look at your sleeping face that he kissed countless times in the past two days, that he blew smoke at, that he admired when you didn’t look and even when you did. Your sleeping body that he viewed, touched, held. Your hair, your hands, your breathing… Soon enough, it’ll hopefully all melt into the sea of women he can’t remember the names or faces of. It’ll be a while before he sees you again, and he plans to forget you before he does. You still hadn’t told him your name. Maybe that will help.

Satoru slips out of the front door silently, slipping on his hat, boots, and belt, but before he makes it to the stables he realizes he’s only got one gun holstered on his hip. He’s not one to misplace his guns of all things, not when they’re the driving force of his survival given the path he’s chosen, so he books it to the stables and tries to retrace his steps.

“Bar… No, definitely had’m then… not th’ride out here’n either. Had’m both in th’pasture…” Ding ding ding. Satoru purses his lips, and Blackjack huffs beneath him. Of course, now he remembers throwing the revolver into the grass, far too busy with you all pretty and pliant in his lap to take care of his own belongings. Sighing, he gives his horse a gentle spur to get him on the move.

Once he’s far enough from your house to know you won’t hear him, even though you’re curled up dead asleep, he picks up to a gallop till he reaches that fated field of grass. The spot where Satoru had taken you was flat, but other than that there was little differentiating where he would have thrown the damn thing. Moonbeams would shine off of the smooth metal surface if the grass was shorter, but it’s no dice trying to find it that way. He finds it his next best course of action to hop down off of Blackjack’s back and search for it that way, but all he finds in the hour he takes is the empty bottle of tequila and that pretty, baby blue ribbon you had been so protective of. They don’t call him Six Eyes for nothing, so the fact that he can’t find the goddamned-piece-a-shit-good-fer-nothin’ revolver, mounted on top of the disgusting feeling of guilt eating at his insides, has his temper a building to a height he can’t control.

Satoru shoves the ribbon in his saddle bag and launches the bottle at the “No Trespassing” sign you used as target practice. Milky white and blue glass shatters against the wooden sign, falling in a heap of shards beneath it, the broken, jagged pieces shining like diamonds in the light of the big, white moon. The clatter of the impact makes him curse, it’s too loud, it cuts through the peaceful sounds of the night, and it’s not as cathartic as he thought it’d be. Not at all.

Nights don’t last forever, though, and the way a soft blue decorates the eastern horizon lets him know it’s time to go whether he’s got two guns, one, or none. Defeated, pissed, and swimming in guilt, Satoru hops back into the saddle and gives three gentle pats to Blackjack’s neck before spurring him on again. It’s shorter to cut through the endless acres of your father’s property, but he wants to take one last look at your house. One last look at the house you’re sleeping so peacefully in. One last look.

One last look until he rides off and doesn’t come back, not until you’re nothing more than a fuzzy memory.

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whatsnewalycat · 29 days

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No Strings Attached

Dieter Bravo x OFC Louella - Psychomanteum AU

[ psychomanteum masterlist ][ ao3 ]

WC: 2.7k+

Tags/Warnings: lua 2nd person pov, ghosts, psychomanteum au where they were together in spring, set after chapter 2, bickering, alcohol, drugs, addiction, ethan, anonymous sex mention, a boat load of sweeet sweet yearning folks

Notes: This is a doc I just found in my Psychomanteum folder. I think this is what I was originally writing for Chapter 3, but changed direction. Some of these conversations and prose proooobably got recycled into different chapters, but I can't remember. ANYWAY it's cute so I'm posting it as a Psychomanteum AU Snackie Poo (i'msosorryforsayingthatohmygod)

-----

Since Katie’s party, the two of you have hung out a handful of times, mostly with Parker, going out to a bar and having a few drinks. Between whatever actor things actors do while they’re in the city, he’ll sometimes text you to see what you’re doing, and what you’re usually doing is baking.

It surprises you a little every time he comes over. Why would an exciting guy like this want to hang out in your apartment while you work? Not that you mind. The company is nice. Most of the time he’ll chat with you while he sketches and happily disposes of any defective product. Sometimes it goes quiet while the two of you concentrate on your respective tasks, but it doesn’t feel awkward.

This is the modus operandi when Dieter slides his pencil it into the spine of his sketchbook and studies you, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Out of breath from rolling out puff pastry dough, you look at him and pant, “What?”

“Ghosts,” he leans against the counter, pressing his thumbnails to his lips as he waits for your answer.

You huff, setting your rolling pin down, and remember the picture frame on the spare bedroom floor. The face you imagined you saw in the mirror. Sometimes you hear noises in that room, but can’t bring yourself to investigate. The only time you enter the room is to get supplies, and even then, you speed run and don’t dare look up at the mirrors.

“No,” you avert your gaze from his and turn around to wash your hands in the sink.

“Wow, you’re a terrible liar.”

You turn around and gape at him as you dry your hands, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So you do believe in ghosts, got it,” he gives you a cheeky grin. You roll your eyes but don’t deny it. He leans forward onto his elbows again, “If I tell you something, will you think I’m crazy?”

“Dee, I texted you yesterday and asked if you think that Avril Lavigne is really herself or a body double. I don’t think I’m qualified to make any judgments on the sanity of other humans,” you toss the kitchen towel over your shoulder, then start folding the dough into layers.

He tilts his head and frowns, then points at you, “I think you might be onto something there,” then shakes his head, “Ok, well…”

His Adam’s apple bobs and his eyes flick to the spare bedroom door. You stop folding the pastry dough and stand up straight. A shiver runs down your spine. He gnashes his jaw back and forth, then takes a deep breath, “I see him sometimes.”

You shake your head and search his eyes. Not out of confusion. You just don’t want him to say it.

He slides his sketchbook across the counter, flipping it around so you can see what he drew. There, sketched in graphite on the creamy paper, is your husband. He’s standing in the open doorway of the spare room. The illustration is unruly, yet intricate. Your mouth falls open as you press your fingertips to his face, and you feel his sorrow. So much so, you flinch back and shake your head again, “Sorry, um, I–”

Dieter watches your eyes start to well with tears and his shoulders slump, “Fuck, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Is he still there now?” you whisper, meeting his big, sad, brown eyes.

They flick to the door and back to you, and he gives you a nod. Your stomach drops to the floor and the hair on the back of your neck stands up.

“I need to leave,” you announce, throwing the kitchen towel off your shoulder onto the counter, then take off your apron and drop it on the towel, “Right now. I have to leave.”

He stands up off the stool, pushing it out behind him, pointing to the puff pastry, “Should–I, uh, should I wrap that up?”

“Um, y-yeah, put it in the fridge, thanks,” you walk around the counter and past him to grab your purse, shove your feet into your boots, then walk out the door and wait for him in the hall.

He emerges while putting on his jacket, then you lock the door and start toward the elevator. The hall is silent except for the rustling of their clothes and footfalls. You slap the down button on the elevator and cross your arms.

“He was trying to talk to you,” Dieter explains.

You shake your head, “I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?” he challenges.

“Mhmm,” you nod, hitting the button again, harder this time.

“Terrible liar,” he mutters to himself, then stares forward at the elevator doors. And he probably thinks he’s being funny. But it’s not funny. You don’t react.

Once the elevator dings, you’re inside, pressing the doors closed button before they even open all the way. He steps onboard. They accordion shut.

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out,” he tells you earnestly. In the foggy reflection of the stainless steel doors, you can tell that he’s looking at you.

“Well, you fucking did,” you snap, and wish you could take the words and shove them back into your mouth. He faces forward and his gaze drops to his feet.

The doors open and Dieter pushes out in front of you, storming out of the building. By the time you make it outside, he’s gone. A pang of guilt stabs through your chest. The cool, dewy air sticks to your skin and makes you shiver. You regret not grabbing a jacket, but start off towards your favorite hole-in-the-wall bar anyway.

O’Malley’s is a dingy dugout bar about a block away from your apartment. It’s so dimly lit in contrast to the bright afternoon sun, you have to squint and go off of muscle memory when you walk in the door. On a Tuesday, during daylight hours, when the temperature outside is finally warm enough to melt the gritty snowpiles that have been accumulating for months, the establishment is essentially empty. One sad sap sits at the bar, jacket hanging off the back of his stool, staring down at the lowball glass clutched in his fist. He’s leaning onto the bar with a ringed hand propping his head up.

You approach and pull out the barstool next to him, droning, “Hey there.”

Dieter casts a glance to you with a raised brow, then scoffs when he recognizes you. He lifts the glass to his lips and empties it into his mouth, then pushes his sweater sleeves up to his elbows.

Nick, the portly bartender you see here frequently during the week, approaches, “The usual?”

“Yeah,” you nod towards Dieter, “I’ll get his, too.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he sits back and pulls a wallet from his pocket, then throws some bills on the bar top, “I was just leaving.”

Fucking hell.

“Dee–” you reach out and touch his arm, and he turns towards you and stares expectantly. You chew on your bottom lip, dropping your gaze to the floor before sighing, “Please stay. I’m-“

Nick returns with a whiskey neat and vodka cranberry, sliding them in front of you and Dieter before asking you, “Tab?”

“Yes please,” you answer with a polite smile, then turn back to Dieter, whose scowl has softened, “C’mon.”

He sighs and his shoulders release, then he relaxes back into the barstool. Neither of you say anything as you take a sip of the drink, then you turn to him, “I know. Like, um. I know that he’s there sometimes. But I don’t—“ you shake your head, “I don’t want to know.”

He sits up and leans his elbows against the bar, turning to watch you. You chew on your bottom lip and watch the ice cubes clink together as you stir your drink.

“What was he trying to tell me?” you ask finally.

“I don’t know,” Dieter frowns, “I couldn’t tell.”

You saw Ethan cross into the threshold. Through some kind of an otherworldly osmosis, he was absorbed by the membrane that met the two of you at the end of the silent, iridescent wormhole.

“Why would he come back?” you whisper, mostly to yourself.

“Why do any spirits come back?” Dieter shrugs and takes a big sip of whiskey, “Unfinished business.”

All you can think is that it better be a fucking apology. He owes you that much. Ethan was so fucked up that night. Did he even know what he was doing? Or had he been planning it?

The man that woke you up in the middle of the night on Christmas and made you get into his car with the intention of totaling it… that wasn’t the man you married. You wonder how much coke he had really been doing in the weeks, maybe even months, leading up to the accident. Towards the end, it became commonplace for him to be out all night without explanation.

He would stumble in at 7am, talking a million miles a minute, a sharp sniff interrupting his monologue every 10 seconds, hands trembling like your grandma’s when she started showing symptoms of Parkinson’s disease. When he finally crashed, he’d go to bed and sleep until the sun went down, where he would isolate himself for a day or two. Then he would go out to run orders to your clients and not come back until 7am. Rinse, wash, repeat.

One night, when big, fat snowflakes were fluttering to the ground outside in big, he was standing in front of all the order boxes ready to go, making sure he had everything. You came up behind him and wrapped your arms around to his chest, laying your cheek against the back of his winter coat, “Can you come home tonight? I miss you.”

“Baby, I’m with you all the time,” he chuckled, placing a hand over yours, rubbing his thumb against you affectionately.

“That’s not what I mean,” you told him quietly. His thumb stopped undulating and his body tensed. Your heart was pounding in your chest when you finally admitted out loud, “I’m worried about you, Ethan. I think it’s becoming a problem again.”

You let go as he stirred beneath your embrace, turning around to face you. His body only became more rigid, shoulders tensed up to his ears, jaw gnashing, as he assured you, “It’s not a problem. I promise. I’ll come home after dropping these off, ok?”

He pressed his lips your forehead, sealing his promise with a kiss, and you mumbled, “Ok.”

He didn’t come home until the next morning. You weren’t surprised.

“You ok?” Dieter nudges you.

A lie waits, ready to roll off the tip of your tongue. Instead, what comes out is the truth.

“No. I don’t think so,” you take a sip and look down at your drink, “But, what can ya do?”

“Mmm, I think I have something that could help,” Dieter mutters in a suggestive tone. Your heart skips, then you look at him and realize he’s pressing a joint up between his lips, “Wanna go for a walk?”

This brings a smile to your face, but you protest, “I didn’t bring a coat, it’s still chilly outside.”

The joint bobs as he frowns and grabs his jacket, “Use mine. I’m fucking sweating, anyway.”

—

The passersby barely pay the two of you any attention as you stroll at a leisurely pace through the park, passing the joint back and forth. His sepia fleece jacket hangs down to your knees and keeps you almost too insulated.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, tasting the vapors of melting snow clinging close to the earth. The sunshine seems to melt away the foul mood you were in earlier. In your euphoria, you trip on a crack in the pavement, stumbling a bit. You steady yourself and giggle in embarrassment.

“So glad you don’t have anyone following you with a camera right now,” you comment.

Dieter plucks the roach from his lips, holds the intoxicating smoke captive in his lungs, and offers it up to you, “How do you know we don’t?”

You scrunch your face up and make a full 360, scanning for any potential paparazzi, and shoo the roach away. He exhales and shrugs, then tosses it into a disintegrating snow pile, “I’m just kidding, I think I’m off their radar for the time being.”

“Yeah? Have you been a good boy, Dee?” you giggle. The way his whole body seems to perk up at the question is not lost on you.

“Not so much that as I’m not the biggest shitheel in the media at the moment,” he smirks, looking you up and down through his sunglasses.

You hum and nod, although you have no idea what he’s referring to, “Ah, yes. That one guy did that one thing.”

He laughs, “There’s always another guy doing another thing. It never fails.”

“Ol’ reliable,” you respond, then tilt your head in curiosity, “How is your divorce going, then?”

“Boring, next,” he groans.

“No no no, sir, you told me my dead husband is haunting my home today. Even the scales.”

“Are you sure you’re not the press?” he raises an eyebrow at you.

And, of course, it’s a joke. But that side glance gnaws at your gut the same way that Ethan’s narrowed eyes did. Looking at you like you’re an informant.

‘I didn’t tell anyone about the ink, Lou.’

“What?” your shoulders slump. You come to a standstill, and stammer, “I wouldn’t–no, what?”

He stops, too, and turns to you, “I’m just kidding, Lua.”

“Oh,” you breathe a sigh of relief, “Ok. I’m not, um, trying to be snoopy.”

“You are way prettier than a cartoon beagle,” he smiles, then starts walking again. You catch up to him and try not to let the way your stomach flutters show on your face. It does. He smiles wider, then it fades to a frown as he shrugs and scratches his neck, “The divorce is going. Annie is staying at the house until it’s finalized, so I’ve been living out of hotels, which gets old,” a sly smile creeps across his face, “It is a little easier on the dating front, though. Living in hotels, that is.”

“Why’s that?”

“Sex is just better in a bed. A little more room to work with than the bathroom of a club or the backseat of a car, you know? Plus, then they don’t feel like they have to leave right away.”

“That’s probably why I prefer those places. Don’t have to stick around afterwards.”

He grins at you, “Is that right?”

Something sparks at the middle of you when you look over at him and shrug, then he licks his lips and nods, looking ahead.

“So you’re dating people?”

“I don’t think dating is the right term,” you frown, “More just, um… casual sex, I guess.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, “Since when?”

“Does it matter?” you tuck your hair behind your ear and look down.

“No, not at all,” he nudges you, so you look at him and see the good will on his face. “I just… Well, I’ll really kick myself if I could have been begging you to sleep with me this whole time.”

Your mouth is all of a sudden very dry. You blush and chuckle, then shake your head, “I’m looking for no-strings-attached situations.”

“I am all about no-strings-attached,” he touches his fingertips to his chest and grins, peaking his bloodshot eyes over the rim of his sunglasses.

“Mmm, no, see, we have strings,” you sigh, then count each of the following points on your hands, “I don’t fuck clients. Or friends. Or celebrities going through very public divorces.”

Or people I have a big, giant, throbbing crush on.

“My heart,” he clutches the front of his shirt theatrically.

You giggle at his reaction. The conversation dies momentarily, and the sounds of the city fill the cool air between you. You feel compelled to elaborate, “I’m not ready. With the dead husband and all that. I don’t want a pity fuck, or a goddamn significant other. I just want to get off, then I want it to be over. No strings.”

He nods, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his pants, “No judgment here, m’dear.”

#psychomanteum #psychomanteum au #dieter bravo #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo x you #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfic

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gyutopia · 3 months

Text

worls of sinners ii | sim jaeyun

⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: your parents are the head of one of the nation’s most lucrative syndicates and your older brother is heir to the throne which leaves you free to leave this world of evil behind. you’ve been waiting for this day for twenty years of your life, you can practically taste the freedom. what will you do, however, when your parents arrange a marriage for you to bind together their empire with the Lee’s to stop a full on gang war?

❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: sim jaeyun x f!reader ft brother!sungchan

❥ 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: mafia!au, arranged marriage!au

❥ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 8.0k

⟶ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: dark themes, mentions of drugs, mentions of violence, vulgar language, mentions of death, forced marriage, corruption, consumption of alcohol, possessiveness, mentions of blood.

| masterlist | previous | next |

The reception was just as beautiful as the wedding. The soft procession of violins and cellos filled the hall as your guest roamed about the spacious room talking amongst themselves. You secluded yourself to the high table and refused to leave your position to meet any new faces.

You could clearly see the distaste written across your new father-in-laws face as you made it your goal to avoid his business associates but you could’t find it in you to care. While the mobsters scattered around the room drank away their inhibitions and partied like no tomorrow, you sat alone nursing a flute of sparkling cider mourning the loss of your freedom.

Jake tried his best to play the role of a doting husband but gave up an hour later when you did nothing but give him the cold shoulder, you said nothing as he slinked off to go congregate with his close friends, you watched them talk amongst themselves, feeling biter at how easy it was for Jake to let loose and enjoy himself. You bring the flute glass up to your lips and finish it off before placing the glass back onto the table only to be met face to face with Heeseung who stands on the other side. You raise your eyebrows curiously, “May I help you?”

He smirks and scans your face, “I'm sure you can doll.” Your face remains passive, even at the pet name he bestows upon you, you watch him with a blank face as he rounds the table to sit beside you. “Why do you look as if you’ve been shot? Shouldn’t you be happy, it’s your wedding day afterall?”

You scoff, “I’m sure you know why.”

A puff of air escapes Heeseung’s parted lips as he leans back in his seat and takes a sip of his whiskey. “Jake won’t hurt you if that’s what you’re thinking, that boy couldn’t even harm a fly. I have no clue why our father chose to hand over the clan to him. Besides, you have far more pressing matters to worry about”

An eyebrow shoots up at that, “such as..?”

He smirks over the rim of his glass, “producing an heir.” You cringe at the reminder of what is expected of you. You can’t stand even being in Jake’s presence for more than an hour let alone letting him bed you. “I don’t know how things are run over at Jung Empire but the Lee clan is quite old fashioned, the women are expected to look after the children and make sure there is peace between the mafiosos while the men control the bigger things such as the business aspect. Think of it as a game of chess, you may be the queen and Jake is the king but you hold the power on the board, he is nothing without you.”

You frown at his analogy, “I'm not sure I understand.”

Heeseung’s face is void of any emotion as he looks away to stare intently at the back of his younger brother's head, seemingly calculating “I’m sure you will soon.” He turns back to you and offers you one last vibrant smile before standing and walking away.

You watch him walk away, lost in your own mind that’s working in overdrive. You sigh and stand to walk towards the bar to get yourself a glass of whiskey.

As you pass Jake, the song draws to a close and your mother-in-law starts tapping her butter knife against the rim of her cocktail glass, the chatter around the room abruptly dies down. Your eyes locate her by the end of the hall, near the live band with her burgundy nails wrapped around a flute of a dark red wine.

“May I have your attention for a moment please,” she asks, her voice delicate yet firm. Jake makes his way over to you after excusing himself from his friends, he places a warm hand on your shoulder and leans over to place a kiss on your cheek.

You can’t decide what you hate more; the way Lee Yerin stares at you with her hawk-like eyes, scrutinizing your every move or the way Jake slides his arms down to grab you by the waist to assert his claim on you in the presence of his men.

It bothers you how comfortable he seems to be getting with you already but you know better than to brush him off. In your world, possession is everything. It wouldn’t be wise to send a message of strife so early in your marriage.

You’re barely listening as Yerin goes on about how proud she is to finally see her youngest son become a man. You wonder if she means her words, with Jake being the living breathing proof of her husband's infidelity you can’t help but wonder if she harbors any hate for the male. She finishes by thanking the guests for their attendance, before turning back to the two of you with a red-lipped smile that reaches her eyes.

As her speech draws to a close, the room erupts into polite applause, but the tension in the air remains palpable. Jake's grip tightens around your waist, his touch possessive, as if daring anyone to challenge his claim over you. It's a stark reminder of the role you've been thrust into – a pawn in a game of power and ambition.

You glance over at Yerin, her smile still plastered on her lips, but there's a glint in her eyes that sends a shiver down your spine. She may be putting on a show for the guests, but you know better than to underestimate her.

As the crowd begins to disperse, you feel a sense of relief wash over you. But before you can slip away unnoticed, Yerin's voice cuts through the air once more.

"____," she calls out, her tone sweet yet commanding. "A moment, please."

You exchange a wary glance with Jake before reluctantly stepping forward to face his step-mother. Her gaze is piercing, her scrutiny leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable.

"I hope you're settling into your new role comfortably," she says, her voice laced with thinly veiled authority.

You force a polite smile, nodding in response. "Of course, Mrs. Lee. I'm doing my best to adapt."

Yerin's smile widens, but there's a hint of something sinister lurking beneath the surface. "Good," she says, her tone dripping with insincerity. "Because there's much expected of you as Jaeyunie's wife."

You swallow hard, the weight of her words sinking in. You're well aware that your position comes with its own set of expectations and obligations.

Before you can respond, Jake steps in, his voice firm but gentle. "Mother, perhaps this can wait for another time. ____ must be tired from the festivities."

Yerin's gaze flickers between the two of you, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Of course, my dear," she says, her tone saccharine sweet. "We wouldn't want to keep you from your rest."

With a final nod, you and Jake make your escape, the weight of Yerin's words lingering in the air like a dark cloud. As you slip away into the mass of people, you can't help but wonder what other secrets and challenges await you in this new chapter of your life.

As you and Jake make your way through the crowd, the weight of Yerin's expectations hangs heavy in the air. Despite the celebration, a sense of unease settles over you, casting a shadow over the lavish celebration.

Jake's grip on your waist remains firm, his touch a silent reassurance amidst the chaos. You steal a glance at him, finding a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, a stark contrast to the confident facade he wears for the world.

"Are you okay?" you ask softly, your voice barely audible over the din of the party.

He offers you a tight-lipped smile, his expression guarded. "I'm fine," he replies, his tone lacking conviction. "Just... adjusting, I suppose."

You nod in understanding, knowing all too well the weight of expectation. It's a burden you both share, a burden that threatens to consume you if you're not careful.

As you reach the outskirts of the crowd, Jake’s grip loosens slightly, allowing you both a moment of respite from the suffocating atmosphere of the reception hall.

"Thank you," you say softly, meeting his gaze with a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty. "For stepping in back there."

Jake offers you a small, genuine smile, his eyes softening with warmth. "Of course," he says, his voice gentle. "We're in this together, ____. No matter what."

As you and Jake navigate through the dispersing crowd, a sudden hush falls over the room, drawing your attention back to the center of the hall. Your heart skips a beat as you see Heeseung striding confidently towards you, his presence commanding the attention of everyone present.

With a flourish, he raises a glass high, the tinkling sound cutting through the silence like a sharp blade. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announces, his voice ringing clear above the murmurs of the crowd. "I believe it's time for our esteemed mafia leader to take his beautiful wife home."

A ripple of laughter and applause erupts from the guests, their cheers mingling with the strains of the fading music. You feel a flush of heat rising to your cheeks, a sense of discomfort settling in the pit of your stomach as all eyes turn to you and Jake.

Jake's grip tightens around your waist once again, his jaw clenched in irritation at the spectacle unfolding before him. You can sense the tension radiating off him, a silent warning to Heeseung to tread carefully.

But Heeseung pays no heed to Jake's silent threat, his gaze fixed on you with a predatory gleam. "Come now, my dear brother," he continues, his voice dripping with faux sincerity. "Let's not keep your wife waiting any longer."

You feel a surge of resentment bubbling within you, disgusted with the way Heeseung chooses to carry himself and address you as if you’re nothing more than a prize Jake has won to bed.

"I'm sure your wife is eager to get home and enjoy your company in a more... private setting," Heeseung drawls suggestively. This is met with a drunken roar of approval from the men in the room, a few of whom lift their glasses in Jake's direction and laugh salaciously. Yerin observes you carefully over the rim of her cocktail before stepping in. “The car outside is ready to go when you are, my darlings." she adds in, arching a perfectly-shaped eyebrow before raising her glass to you with a smirk. "Welcome to the family, ____."

A lick of ice runs through your veins.

In the next moment, you find yourself flanked from all sides by your bridesmaids, giggling as they pull you from Jake's clutches and shove you towards the exit. Jake groans as his friends do the same to him, trying and failing to get them to stop.

The cool night air hits you like a slap to the face when the double doors are flung open. A black SUV awaits you outside, the suited driver standing to attention on the curb, and the bridesmaids shove you into the back seat.

Next thing you know, Jake is being wrangled into the seat beside you. He sends his best man one last glare before the car door slams shut behind him. The car engine hums to life, and a heavy silence falls upon you as the driver pulls away.

You gaze out of the window for the entirety of the ride to your new residence.

When you finally turn in through the large automated gates of the Lee/Sim residence, you don't even wait for the driver to come around and open the door on your behalf, all but throwing it open in a bid to drag some fresh oxygen into your lungs.

You hear Jake's murmured thanks as he exits the car behind you; however your eyes remain fixated on the modern-style mansion that looms ominously before your eyes like a great, architectural monster.

Wordlessly, he moves past you with keys in hand. He knows you'll follow. After all, what other choice do you have?

The journey upstairs to the bedroom is a quiet one. Several of Jake's maids bow at ninety-degree angles as you pass, their hushed greetings of “Welcome, Mrs. Sim" directed at the expensive carpet beneath your feet, but given no indication that you should acknowledge them, you carry on in silence.

The master bedroom is pristine. So much so that it looks unlived in. As you step inside, you inhale the faint scent of fresh linen, a stark contrast to the lingering perfume of the evening's festivities.

Jake's voice breaks the silence, his tone surprisingly gentle amidst the chaos of the night. "This is your space," he says, gesturing around the room. "I'll be across the hall if you need anything."

You meet his gaze, gratitude mingling with the exhaustion etched into his features. “Okay, thank you.”

He stiffly nods before promptly exiting your room. Once he’s out of sight you huff out a sigh of relief before throwing yourself onto the large mattress. You know you should begin to get ready for bed but you feel drained in every sense of the word.

Just as you’re about to stand to remove your reception gown you feel your phone buzz on your bed. You look up from your seated position to find an incoming facetime call from Haru. You perk a bit, noting you hadn’t seen her or Anton on your way out of the reception.

You quickly answer and prop your phone up against a nearby pillow, adjusting it so you can see the screen while you start getting ready for bed.

“Hello.”

Haru smiles brightly and then turns the camera a bit to show Antons face before they both brightly answer you, “Hi!”

You smile at your two friends. “I miss you guys so much,” you say, letting out a tired sigh. “It feels like ages since I saw you.”

“We miss you too,” Haru replies, her voice filled with genuine concern. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

Anton nods in agreement, his expression serious. “If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call. We’re always here for you.”

You start to unbutton your gown, feeling a bit more relaxed. “Thanks, guys. I really appreciate it. Things have been... intense.”

As you step out of your gown, Anton's voice comes through, a bit hesitant. “How are things with Jake?”

You shrug, momentarily forgetting they can’t see you. “We haven’t really spoken. We’re sleeping in separate bedrooms.”

“At least he isn’t a creep who expected you to sleep with him on the first night,” Haru says, trying to lighten the mood.

You let out a small laugh, nodding. “True. That’s one thing to be thankful for.”

You slip into your pajamas and pop back into the frame, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “But something is off. I don’t know what it is yet, but I can feel it.”

Anton leans closer to the camera, his brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

You take a deep breath, deciding to tell them everything. “I was cornered by an FBI agent at the engagement party. He hinted that they know about the dealings of Jake and his family and they have a solid case. I’m going to find out what’s going on and use it as leverage to get out of this marriage.”

Haru and Anton are silent for a moment, processing your words. Finally, Haru speaks up. “Are you sure about this?”

“I have to do something,” you say firmly. “I’m not going to be a pawn in this game. I need to get out of here and join you guys in Paris. My father would have never agreed to this marriage if he knew that the FEDS have a solid case against Jake. I’ll snoop around his office tomorrow and see what I can find.”

Anton’s face is filled with worry. “Please be careful. If he catches you...”

“I know,” you say, nodding. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

There’s a moment of silence as your friends exchange worried looks. Then, Haru smiles softly. “Just remember, we’re always here for you.”

You feel a surge of gratitude for your friends. “Thanks, guys. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

After a few more words of encouragement and promises to stay in touch, you finally say your goodbyes and hang up. You place your phone down, feeling a bit more at ease after speaking with your friends.

You lie back on your bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, you’ll start your investigation. You’ll get yourself out of this, it’s you against everyone else. Nothing new.

The next morning, you wake up feeling surprisingly well rested. You dress quickly and make your way downstairs, the quiet of the house almost unnerving. As you enter the kitchen, you find your new husband sitting at the kitchen island. He’s engrossed in his iPad, looking over company spreadsheets while sipping on his coffee.

A maid appears, her presence soft but attentive. “Good morning, ma’am. What would you like for breakfast?”

You offer a polite smile. “I can make myself a bowl of cereal, thank you.”

Jake glances up from his iPad, his expression firm. “No. I’m paying them to take care of you, so you should have a proper breakfast.” He turns to the maid. “Make her some waffles, please.”

You don’t put up much of a fight, knowing it’s not worth the effort. As you try to leave the kitchen to head to the massive dining room, Jake stops you. “Why don’t you take a seat beside me?”

Reluctantly, you sit down next to him. He looks at you, his eyes softer now. “I had all your art supplies moved into the studio down the hall. Thought you might want to get back to painting.”

You’re taken aback by the gesture. “Thank you, Jake.”

He nods, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I have to go to the company for a meeting with the shareholders, so I’ll be gone most of the day. But once I’m back, we can discuss the creative department I plan on opening for you.”

Surprised, you thank him again. This side of Jake is unexpected, you didn’t think he was being serious when he offered to open up a creative department for you when he proposed. You thought it would be yet another empty promise, his kindness leaves you momentarily off balance. He gets up to leave, grabbing his briefcase from the counter. “See you later.”

As he exits, the maid places a plate of waffles in front of you. “Anything else you need, ma’am?”

You look up at her, suddenly curious. “What’s your name?”

“Rose, ma’am,” she replies, her tone respectful.

“Thank you, Rose,” you say warmly. “Would you like to join me for breakfast?”

Rose shakes her head, a faint smile on her face. “It’s not proper, ma’am, but thank you for the offer.” She then moves off to clean the kitchen, leaving you to your meal.

You eat the waffles slowly, trying to gather your thoughts. The house is quiet, and the sense of isolation is almost tangible. Once you’re done, you make your way to the studio Jake mentioned. It’s a spacious room with large windows that let in plenty of natural light. Your art supplies are neatly arranged, and a blank canvas stands on an easel, waiting.

You sit down, picking up a paintbrush, but no inspiration comes. The paintbrush feels foreign in your hand, and you find yourself staring at the canvas, lost in thought. The events of the past few days swirl in your mind, making it hard to focus. You remember the FBI agent’s warning, Jake’s unexpected kindness, and the looming uncertainty of your future.

Minutes turn into hours as you sit there, the paintbrush hovering over the canvas but never touching it. Your mind is too cluttered to create, and the weight of your situation presses down on you. You think about Haru and Anton, wondering if they’re almost done with their preparations to leave Korea, wishing they were beside you now.

Eventually, you set the paintbrush down, realizing that you won’t be able to paint today. Instead, you decide to use the time to start your investigation. You remember Jake mentioning that he would be gone for most of the day, which gives you a window of opportunity.

You leave the studio and make your way to Jake’s office. The door is slightly ajar, and you peek inside to ensure no one is around. Taking a deep breath, you step into the room and begin your search. You open drawers, sift through papers, and check the computer for any clues. But the office is meticulously organized, and you find nothing out of the ordinary.

Just as you’re about to give up, you notice a locked drawer in Jake’s desk. Your heart races as you consider your options. You could try to find the key, but that would take time. Instead, you decide to try picking the lock, a skill you picked up in your younger, more rebellious days.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually, you hear a soft click. The drawer opens, revealing a stack of documents. You quickly skim through them, and your blood runs cold as you realize just how cruel your husband can be. You thought your father was bad, but Jake seems to be the devil himself.

As you read through the documents, you uncover records of people Jake has killed, debts he plans on collecting, and bribes that go all the way up to the president. Each piece of paper details horrifying acts—the ruthlessness with which he eliminates anyone who stands in his way, the meticulous planning of each murder, and the extensive network of corruption he maintains. Your hands tremble as you come across a supposed hit list with names of people from Parliament.

Just then, you hear a voice outside the door. Heart pounding, you quickly put the documents back in place and lock the drawer just as Heeseung walks into the room. He looks surprised to find you standing behind Jake’s desk, a smirk curling on his lips.

“What are you doing in here?” he asks, his tone casual but laced with suspicion.

You straighten up, refusing to let him see your fear. “I was looking for a ballpoint pen to sketch with,” you lie smoothly.

Heeseung’s eyes narrow as he studies you. “Is that so?”

You nod, “And what are you doing in my home?” you ask, deflecting the attention away from yourself.

He scoffs at your use of the word “my” and steps closer, his smirk widening. “Your home? Has Jake fucked you well enough for you to be content with being his trophy wife?”

Your eyes narrow in anger as you slap away his hand that was reaching for a stack of papers on the desk. “If you came here to insult me, you can see yourself out. Otherwise, you’ll have to answer to Jake.”

Heeseung lifts his hands in mock surrender, his eyes sweeping around the room as if looking for something. “Jake doesn’t scare me,” he says, his voice low and menacing. “And neither do you. I’m not like Jake. I play rough, so you should watch where you put your hands.”

You glare at him, trying to keep your composure. “I’m not afraid of you, Heeseung. Now, if you don’t have any business here, I suggest you leave.”

Heeseung takes a step closer, invading your personal space. “Or what? You’ll run to Jake? You’re just his pretty little plaything, and you don’t know the first thing about the business we’re in.”

Your pulse quickens, but you refuse to back down. “I’m not just a plaything, and I won’t be intimidated or undermined by you. If you have any respect for Jake and me, you’ll leave now.”

Heeseung smirks, reaching out as if to touch your face, but you swat his hand away. “Don’t touch me,” you snap, your voice steady.

Heeseung chuckles, clearly enjoying the power play. “Feisty. I like that. But remember, Jake isn’t always going to be around to protect you.”

You take a step back, putting distance between you and Heeseung. “I don’t need Jake to protect me. Now get out before I make you.”

Heeseung’s smirk fades slightly, and he seems to reconsider his approach. “Fine,” he says, lifting his hands again. “But this isn’t over. I’ll be back to talk to Jake.”

“Goodbye, Heeseung,” you say firmly, watching as he finally leaves the room. The door closes behind him, and you let out a shaky breath. The encounter has left you rattled, but you can’t afford to lose your nerve now.

You sit back down at the desk, trying to calm your racing heart. Jake and his family truly do rule the underworld, it’s no wonder your father was so quick to wed you off. They’re involved in crimes that go far beyond anything you could have imagined. But this information is also your ticket out of this nightmare. If you can find a way to use it, you might be able to escape and start a new life.

For now, you need to act normal and keep up appearances. You leave the office and head back to the studio, your mind racing with plans and contingencies. Once inside, you pick up a paintbrush and stare at the blank canvas, hoping to appear absorbed in your work should anyone come looking for you. But your thoughts keep drifting back to the documents and Jake. He seems nothing like what those papers claim. He’s been nothing but sweet to you, to think he’s touched you with the same hands that have taken the lives of others makes you want to get up and shower.

Minutes turn into hours as you sit there, pretending to paint. Eventually, the sound of the front door opening and closing signals Jake’s return. You take a deep breath and put on your best calm demeanor, ready to face him.

Jake finds you in the studio, and his face lights up with a smile. “There you are. How was your day?”

“Good,” you reply, forcing a smile. “I spent some time in here, trying to get inspired.”

He nods, walking over to you and placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’m glad to hear that. Let’s have dinner, and then we can discuss the creative department.”

You nod, feeling a mix of relief and anxiety. Dinner with Jake means more time to play your role and gather information. As you follow him out of the studio, you can’t help but glance back at the canvas, the blank space mirroring the uncertainty of your future.

At dinner, you sit across from Jake in the dimly lit dining room. The table is set with fine china and a sumptuous meal prepared by the household staff. Jake starts the conversation, his tone light and conversational.

"How did you spend your day?" he asks, cutting into his steak.

You take a sip of your wine, trying to maintain your composure. "I spent the day in the studio."

Jake nods, chewing thoughtfully. "I'm glad to hear that. I've been thinking a lot about how to integrate your talents into the company."

You raise an eyebrow, interest peaked. "Oh? What do you have in mind?"

He leans back in his chair, a smile playing on his lips. "We could start by setting up a small team to work on special projects. Maybe some unique advertising campaigns or custom artwork for our high-profile clients."

You nod, your mind racing with possibilities. "That sounds wonderful, Jake. Thank you for considering my passion."

He smiles, seemingly satisfied with your response. "I think it will be a great addition to our company. Plus, it will give you something to focus on and keep you busy."

You force a smile, trying to hide the unease that bubbles beneath the surface. "I appreciate that. I've always wanted to use my art in a meaningful way."

Jake takes a sip of his wine, his eyes studying you. "I want you to know that I won't hurt you," he says softly, his voice sincere. "We were both forced into this marriage, and I understand how difficult that can be. I won’t take any anger out on you. I want you to be comfortable here, to feel safe as my wife."

You’re conflicted, Jake’s words sound comforting but the papers hidden in the depths of his office scream otherwise. “Okay.”

Jake sets his wine glass down and looks at you with a seriousness that makes you lean back in your seat slightly. “I want to make something clear, though. I didn’t choose this life because I wanted to. My father chose me to take over even though it was Heeseung’s birthright.”

You frown, genuinely curious. “Why would your father choose you over Heeseung? And why would you even accept? You seem so different from him. Why would you want to be involved in such horrid crimes?”

Jake hesitates, clearly not used to talking about his family dynamics. After a moment, he relents. “Heeseung wasn’t ready to take over. He abused the fact that he was the heir. He partied, made reckless decisions, and endangered our entire operation. I thought stepping up would show our father that I was capable and might even fix my broken relationship with Heeseung.”

He pauses, his eyes distant. “I’ve always been undermined because I’m the bastard son. People are finally starting to take me seriously now that my father has given me full reign.”

He lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “You must find me pathetic, doing all of this because of daddy issues.”

You shake your head, empathizing with him. “Not at all. I understand more than you might think. Growing up, I was always in my older brother’s shadow. No one took me seriously because I was the youngest and a girl. I did everything I could to get our father to see me, to recognize my worth. But eventually, I gave up. It wasn’t worth all the pain I inflicted on myself and others.”

Jake looks at you with a newfound understanding, a bond forming between you. “I guess we’re not so different after all.”

You both sit in silence for a moment, processing the vulnerability you’ve just shared. Then, you remember the FBI agent from the engagement party. “Jake, what do you plan on doing about the case the FBI has opened?”

Jake shrugs, his demeanor calm. “I’ll deal with it.”

“How?” you ask.

Jake pauses, then looks at you intently. “Do you want me to be honest?”

“Yes,” you say, taking his hand. “That’s all I’ll ever want from you—honesty.”

He nods. “I’ll have the lead investigator, the one who threatened you, killed. We’ll make it look like a suicide. Then I’ll pay off the president to close the case.”

You nod slowly, having expected such a response. “I figured as much. Thank you for being honest with me.”

Jake squeezes your hand. “I promise, I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe.”

You return the squeeze, feeling a complex mix of emotions—relief, fear, and a strange sense of solidarity. “Thank you, Jake.”

With the heavy conversation behind you, you both return to eating your dinner. The atmosphere between you has shifted; there’s a newfound understanding and mutual respect. As you finish your meal, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, you and Jake might find a way to navigate this treacherous life together.

After dinner, Jake stands up and reaches for your hand. “Let’s go to the living room. We can talk more about the creative department there.”

You nod and follow him, feeling a bit lighter. Once you’re both settled on the couch, Jake starts outlining his vision for integrating your art into the company. You listen intently, offering suggestions and ideas, and for the first time in your life, you feel a glimmer of hope that you might be able to carve out a small piece of this world for yourself.

As the evening wears on, the conversation shifts back to more personal topics. You find It isn’t hard to relate to Jake the more you talk to him, surprisingly finding yourself enjoying your time with him. You’re more similar than you expected, and it dawns a new sort of appreciation for him. It was like this entire marriage would seem easier than you thought, especially with an understanding partner like Jake.

Jake shares stories from his childhood, and you find yourself laughing at some of his more outrageous ones. In turn, you share some of your own, and by the end of your last story, there’s a comfortable silence between you.

Jake looks at you, a small smile playing on his lips. “Are you tired?”

You shake your head and sip on your wine before answering. “Not really. Why?”

He grins, looking almost boyish. “How about a movie night? It’s been a long day, and I think we both deserve a break.”

You nod, feeling a sense of relief at the normalcy of his suggestion. “Sure, that sounds nice.”

You begin to get comfortable on the large, plush couch while Jake turns on the tv and scrolls through his streaming service before deciding on ‘10 Things I Hate About You’

You raise an eyebrow, amused by his choice. “Seriously?”

He defends himself, his grin widening. “It’s the best movie ever made. Don’t knock it until you’ve watched it with me.”

You laugh, shaking your head. ��Alright, you’ve convinced me.”

Jake hits play and sits down beside you, draping a cozy blanket over both of you. As the movie starts, you find yourself relaxing more than you have in days. The lightheartedness of the film and Jake’s occasional commentary makes you forget, even if just for a while, the dark reality of your lives.

About halfway through the movie, you start to feel your eyelids grow heavy. You fight to stay awake, not wanting to miss any part of the film or the rare moment of peace. But before long, you find yourself leaning against Jake’s shoulder, the warmth and comfort lulling you to sleep.

Jake glances down at you, a soft smile on his face. He gently shifts his arm to support you better, careful not to wake you. “Pretty,” he mumbles under his breath, almost to himself. He reaches up and softly caresses your cheek, his touch tender and protective.

As the movie continues to play, Jake finds himself more focused on you than the screen. He watches you sleep, marveling at the trust you’ve shown by falling asleep on him. The weight of the day’s revelations and the growing bond between you settles over him, and he feels a strange sense of contentment.

Eventually, the rhythm of your breathing and the comfort of the moment lull Jake into sleep as well. The two of you sit there, wrapped in the blanket, a small bubble of warmth and peace in the midst of a tumultuous world.

In that quiet, shared slumber, a tentative connection begins to form. It’s fragile and new, but in the darkness of your lives, it shines like a small, precious light.

You wake up the next morning wrapped in Jake's arms, his steady breathing a comfort against your shoulder. As you gently shift, his eyes flutter open, and for a moment, you both just stare at each other, unsure of what to say. This closeness is new to both of you.

Jake clears his throat and slowly separates himself from you. "Good morning."

"Good morning," you reply, sitting up. "I’m sorry for falling asleep on you last night."

Jake waves off your apology with a soft smile. "Don't be. What else are my arms for if not to support my wife’s head?"

You laugh softly, appreciating his attempt at humor. "What are your plans for today?"

He stretches and then looks at you, his expression turning serious. "I have another meeting today. It’s for our... other business."

You catch on immediately, realizing he means the mafia. Nodding, you decide to take a bold step. "Can I tag along?"

Jake looks hesitant. "I don’t know if that’s a good idea."

"Think about it," you reason. "It would be a good look if we showed up together. It might help if no one thinks there’s any strife in our marriage."

He considers your words and finally relents. "Alright, but stay close to me. It’s not the safest place."

As you both stand from the couch, Rose enters the living room with a polite smile. "Good morning, Mr and Mrs. Sim. I'll take care of the living area while you get ready."

You nod and head to your room to shower. The warm water helps clear your mind, but your thoughts keep drifting back to Jake and the strange new dynamic between you two. After your shower, you find a dress laid out on the bed—a tasteful yet elegant piece that you can tell Jake picked out to match his own attire.

You dress quickly, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement. When you walk out, Jake is waiting, he gives you an approving nod. "You look perfect."

"Thank you," you reply, feeling a bit flustered under his gaze.

Jake leads you to the car, opening the door for you.

The car ride goes by smoothly and in no time you arrive at the outskirts of Seoul. The warehouse you pull up to is surrounded by extravagant cars, a testament to the wealth and power of those inside.

Jake places a protective arm around your waist and guides you into the building, and you’re met with familiar faces—associates of Jake’s clan and big-time mafiosos. He takes a seat at the head of the table and pulls you onto his lap, a clear display of possession and protection.

Sunghoon, Jake’s right-hand man, stands to give his report. “The situation with the baggie boys is getting worse. They’re stealing cuts of our product, and now men from the Lee and Jung borders are going missing.”

You tense at the mention of your family name but stay quiet, tuning into the conversation with more interest.

Jake’s frustration is evident, but he lets Sunghoon continue. “Also, the FBI knows about the illegal acts, not just the corruption within the government. This investigation might be harder to navigate.”

Jake hums in thought. “Have we spoken to the president?”

Sunghoon nods. “The president is keeping a close eye on the case, but it will take time before he can act.”

One of the mafiosos, Byun Baekhyun, speaks up, his tone accusatory. “Is there a rat amongst us?”

Jake’s eyes flash with offense. “You dare question my men?”

Baekhyun doesn’t back down. “It’s a fair question, Jake. How else would the FBI know so much? Someone must be leaking information.”

Jake’s grip tightens on your waist, his anger barely contained. “My men are loyal. Perhaps you should look at your own house before making such accusations.”

Baekhyun leans back, smirking. “I’m just saying, it’s a possibility we can’t ignore.”

The comment lingers in your mind, you make a mental note to discuss it with Jake later.

The meeting continues, filled with more bad news. Sunghoon informs the group that the police are cracking down on the remaining baggie boys, and they’ll likely need to pay another visit to the police lieutenant.

By the end of the meeting, you can tell Jake is out of it. Instead of heading straight home, you suggest, “Would you like to grab lunch with me?”

Jake agrees, and the drive to the restaurant is filled with conversation. “That meeting was intense,” you start.

He nods, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. “Yeah, things are getting complicated.”

“What about the possibility of a mole?” you ask carefully.

Jake sighs. “It’s something I’ll have to keep an eye on. Baekhyun’s comment wasn’t completely off-base.”

You nod, sensing his frustration. “How’s your dad handling all this?”

“He’s not thrilled,” Jake admits. “He’s been cracking down on me, questioning my decisions. This new info Sunghoon mentioned is definitely going to make him question my leadership abilities even more.”

“I’m sure he knows you’re doing your best,” you offer, trying to comfort him.

Jake glances at you, a smirk playing on his lips. “Thanks but my dad doesn’t care about effort.”You frown, trying to think of something to say. “What about the rest of the team? Do they support you?”

“For the most part,” Jake replies, his expression thoughtful. “But there’s always someone ready to step up and point out your mistakes. It’s a competitive environment.”

You nod. “Yeah, I get that.” sielcne settles between the two of you for a moment before you add, “how’s Sunghoon holding up with everything?” trying to shift the focus slightly.

“He’s stressed, but he’s handling it well. He’s been a great support, especially with all the new information coming in.”

“That’s good to hear,” you say. “It’s important to have someone like that on your side.”

Jake’s expression softens. “Yeah, it is. I’m lucky to have him and the rest of the team.”

The car ride continues with a mix of silence and small talk until you reach the restaurant. As you step out of the car, you look at Jake and say, “Let’s try to forget about the meeting for a while and just enjoy lunch, okay?”

He nods, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “Sounds like a plan.”

As the two of you get out after he parks, Jake surprises you by taking your hand as you walk down the street. The gesture feels almost normal, like you’re a real couple. You blush but indulge in the rare moment of intimacy.

Seated outside with Jake beside you rather than across, you tell Jake to surprise you with the order. While he speaks to the waiter, you glance around your surroundings, trying to absorb the peaceful atmosphere. Across the street, a familiar figure catches your eye—your brother Sungchan. He’s sitting at an outdoor bar with another man, engaged in a heated discussion. You recognize the man as the chief of police.

Sungchan slides an envelope across the table before standing and leaving. You shrug it off, assuming it’s just work, and turn back to Jake.

He’s placed the order and looks at you, curious. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a smile. “Just saw someone I know. It’s nothing.”

Jake nods, accepting your explanation. The conversation shifts to lighter topics, and by the time your drinks arrives, you feel more at ease.

The waiter, a young man with a charming smile, returns with your meals. He seems overly attentive to you, his eyes lingering longer than necessary. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” he asks, leaning closer to you than Jake finds appropriate.

Jake’s jaw tightens. “We’re fine, thank you.” He subtly points to your wedding ring, hoping the waiter will catch on. “My wife and I are just enjoying our lunch.”

The waiter doesn’t seem to catch the hint and continues to hover, making small talk with you. Jake lets it go, expecting you to shut him down. But when the waiter comes back with the bill and you still haven’t said anything, Jake’s patience snaps.

He grabs your chin and kisses you sloppily in front of the waiter. The kiss is possessive, a clear statement of ownership. You’re embarrassed yet turned on, feeling a mix of emotions.

The waiter clears his throat awkwardly and leaves. You pull back, looking at Jake with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “What was that about?”

Jake’s expression is calm, but his eyes are intense. “He was hitting on my wife. I don’t like sharing.”

You nod, understanding his possessiveness but also feeling a strange sense of comfort in his protectiveness. After lunch, you head back to the car, and the drive home is filled with a comfortable silence. As you approach the house, Jake breaks the silence. “Thank you for today. It was nice to have you there, despite the circumstances.”

You smile, “I’m glad I could be there for you. Besides, think of it as a thank you for yesterday.”

Jake parks the car and turns to you, his expression serious but warm. “We’re in this together now. I want us to be a team.”

You nod, feeling a newfound sense of partnership. “Me too, Jake. Two’s better than one, no?”

Jake gives you a small smile, the warmth in his eyes unmistakable. "Who knows, maybe one day we can be more."

Taking a deep breath, you offer him one last smile before saying, "I'm going to head to the studio and try to paint for a bit. It helps me clear my head."

Jake nods. "That sounds like a good idea. Do you need anything before you go?"

"No, I'm good. Thanks." You give him a reassuring smile before heading towards your studio.

As you walk down the hall, your mind buzzes with the events of the day. The meeting, lunch, Jake's protectiveness-all of it swirls together, pushing you towards your creative sanctuary. When you step into the studio, the familiar scent of paint and canvas immediately calms your nerves.

You set up your easel and prepare your paints, letting your mind drift. The blank canvas in front of you feels like a challenge, urging you to pour out everything you've been holding back. You start with broad strokes, not fully aware of what you're creating until the image starts to take shape.

Hours pass as you lose yourself in the process. You paint with a fervor you haven't felt in a long time, each brushstroke a cathartic release. The image that emerges is raw and intense-a naked girl on a bed, covered in blood and semen, her eyes shut in pleasure. A male hand tightly grabs her right breast, the possessiveness and violence palpable.

As you step back to examine your work, your breath catches in your throat. The hand you've painted is unmistakably Jake's. The realization sends a shiver down your spine, a mix of embarrassment and arousal flooding your senses. You can't believe how deeply he's affected you, invading not just your thoughts but your art as well.

Feeling flustered, you clean your brushes and put away your supplies. You need to clear your mind, to stop thinking about Jake in such a sexual manner. Deciding it's best to get some rest, you leave the studio and head towards your bedroom.

Once in bed, you can't help but replay the day's events. Jake's protectiveness, his vulnerability during your conversation, the way he held your hand so confidently—it all stirs something deep within you. As you lie there, staring at the ceiling, you wonder what the future holds for you and Jake. You turn off the light, allowing yourself to drift into a restless sleep filled with dreams of paint and passion.

taglist: @dreamiestay @sumzysworld

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ciitroner · 9 months

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Cabin In The Woods: and the consequences of your actions

Kidnapper!Ghost x Reader x Kidnapper!Soap

PART 3 OF THE KIDNAP!AU BACKSTORY SERIES, part 1, part 2.

ROUGH DAY (main story)

Summary: Never did you once believe that the seemingly abandoned cabin you stumbled across after an accident on your hike would belong to two men you once met at a bar. You wish you'd listened to your gut feeling about them...

Warnings: 18+ (MDNI), afab!reader, kidnapping, oral sex, NON-CON, blowjob, DARK FIC, creepy/pervy behaviour, toxic behaviour, somnophilia? (not really, but you were about to drift to sleep), dacryphilia, humiliation, mention of stalking, slight violence, manipulation, hair pulling, fingering, you get hurt in the process of the hike

Notes: This took way too long, I deleted a few drafts before I said fuck it and settled with this one. Ok mwah enjoy Wc: 4.9k

The evening sun, accompanied by the small occasional breeze carefully, yet harshly, caresses your tired body. Your frame hangs low as if you had not slept in years, your eyebags complimenting the appearance. One after the other, with a shaking huff and a puff, you lift your legs to strive forward. To where - you had yet to discover. You had lost your hiking trail and were now only hoping for a helping sign, although to no avail. Your friend, whose house you were staying at, at the moment, had suggested that you enjoy the forest and nature instead of… well, sulking at home over not getting a job. It was a good idea at the time, and you had promised her to take a lot of beautiful photos that both of you could sigh happily about later on. The only problem is, that you’ve never gone on a hiking trip before, and suddenly being thrown into the worst situation you could currently think of- fuelled your hate for nature. No signal, and an almost dead phone did you no good.

With every rise of angriness and anxiousness over the setting sun, you find the strength to go deeper into the forest - maybe not the greatest idea, but you are so very sure that the hiking trail was around that area… probably… hopefully. You feel a droplet hit your nose, pulling you out of your thought process. How lovely! The bad situation became even worse. It’s slowly but surely getting colder, and what was once only a few drops of rain had turned into a heavy downpour. You could barely see your surroundings, but at least you don’t have to worry about water, you laugh miserably to yourself while you resume walking - as standing in the middle of nowhere would get you… nowhere. The forest ground is wet and slippery, forcing a few gasps and yelps out of you when you lose your balance from time to time. You’re cold, wet, muddy and grumpy after a few stumbles when the first flash of lightning lights up the dark sky, and not very much later - you hear the sharp sound.

“Ah… shit.” You’d have to find shelter as soon as possible, as being surrounded by trees wasn’t ideal in a full-blown thunderstorm.

The slow, hunched walking evolves into jogging in fear when the next bolt of lightning hits somewhere close. Something, most likely a root, knocks you down on your knees as you trip over it. Barely hearing your groan over the loud pitter-patter of the rain, you get up again - and you’d guess your knees were scraped bloody through your pants due to every fall - though, this one was significantly harsh. Your soggy clothing and annoying backpack weigh down on you, not much unlike the anxiousness of getting lost and eaten by wolves - and holding back tears is the only thing you feel like you have control over at the moment. Gasping for breath, you push through a dense thicket, the rain soaking every inch of your being and thorns grabbing onto the poor excuse of clothes you’re wearing. The forest seems to close in around you, and bile rises in your throat - which you have to force down with a gulp. The eerie creaking of branches, the rustling of unseen animals… creatures, the horrible sound of lightning and the relentless downpour create a symphony of discomfort - nonetheless, you push through the labyrinth of nightmares.

Each step forward is a struggle, and being unable to see what’s in front of you awakens a cruel twist of fate as it sends you tumbling down a steep part of the mountain. The world becomes a blur of mud, rocks and undeniable hurt as you desperately claw at anything within reach - attempting to halt your rapid descent. Time seems to slow down, and the echoes of your terrified screams mix with the howling wind until everything goes dark.

With a shocked and pained gasp, you awaken. God knows how long you’ve been out cold - but it mustn’t have been too long, as the world around you is still dark, and the storm continues its wrath, indifferent to your plight. Pain radiates through your body as you lay there, dazed and battered. You must’ve hit your head, making you pass out, you conclude after a horrible headache crashes down on you. Your hands hurt and so does a part of your lip, you could only guess that it had been injured in the accident. Grimacing, you manage to push yourself upright - letting out pained ah’s and oh’s when you have to balance your body on your hands to get up. Your backpack is still in its place - you realise, and you’re thankful as it could have dampened the fall. You stay standing still for a while, just… appreciating life, thankful you’re still alive. You put your hands in your pockets to preserve the warmth when you realise that your phone is gone, and you realise it's worthless to try and look around if you don’t want to fall somewhere again - as horrible as it was, your life was a bit more important.

As you’re turning around to take a new path, hopefully bringing you some place higher up where you could scream for help during the day, something catches your eye. With a squint of your tired eyes, you notice a cabin in the far distance. You realise it’s not a trick of your exhausted mind and that there indeed is a cabin nearby, nestled within the shadows of the towering trees - and like the most cliché horror character, you’re not taking a chance, limping forward towards the entrance. The cabin emerges from the darkness, its outline becoming clearer as you draw near. It looks old and slightly ugly, you notice - the chair and table on the front porch most likely have been broken and fallen over due to the relentless storm and many more.

With a deep breath, you approach the creaking door. You decide that it’s better to be potentially breaking into the cabin than to be left standing outside in dangerous weather conditions. You pull down the handle, and you’re relieved when it opens. The interior of the cabin gives a special charm of itself - as if time had paused within its walls - and you’re thankful that the shelter you had found for yourself had a good roof, not letting any drops of water slip by. The air is thick with the scent of aged wood and dust. Pretty - but basic, furniture is arranged sporadically as if the owner only had put them there to… put them there. You notice a lamp over a kitchen table with two seats and realise that there might be a chance that the electricity still works, you could only hope. Quickly closing the door behind you, you take on the job of grazing the walls with your sore fingertips, for a sign of the light switch. You mutter an apology to the absent owner when you spread mud and water over the floor in your search, and promise yourself to clean it afterwards, “Aha!”

It takes around ten seconds before the light starts flickering before staying lit. You’re careful to avoid the rugs - some normal, and other animal pelts - when you search for other light switches, as you didn’t want to stay in the dark for any longer. When you’d get home… if you got home, you’d give your friend two slaps on each cheek before giving her a long hug and cry into her shoulder. Then you’d research every how-to on hiking there is, even though you’d never go again - it’s good to know. The occasional gust of wind through a window, incapable of being fully closed, makes the dust dance in the air and you cough.

There’s a fireplace in front of the sofa, surrounded by a bit larger stones, with a flat-screen TV resting on the mantel above the fireplace. You’re cold, and the only thing on your mind is a shower and a hot drink - but you shake your head and explore further, setting down your large backpack close to the entrance. You’d have to take out your things to examine what’s wet and what’s not later - even though you took a waterproof bag (thank god for your friend’s boyfriend), you don’t know if your things were safe from the horrid weather and fall. It’s a two-floor, cosy cabin - the upstairs area consists of a balcony and a bedroom. The windows, though framed by large heavy curtains, allow glimpses of the storm outside, and the flickering bedside lamp you’ve turned on allows you to see the dust gathered on the wooden frames of the bed, and a few flies that had died. The downstairs area consists of the living room, kitchen, and surprisingly clean bathroom - aside from the dust, there is no sign of mould nor any horror film yellowish-bathroom colour anywhere in the sink. You sigh in happiness and pray to whatever entity that had let you live the fall down the mountain that the hot water still works.

The owner might not have visited for a while, and you can only hope that they don’t feel like coming during the few hours- or days, you might be here. The wooden floor creaks under your every step when you walk over to pick up your backpack and settle it down on the kitchen table - obviously after dusting it down with a feather duster you had found in a corner. You needed a change of clothes as soon as possible if you didn't want to get sick - and thus, you unzip it and uncover a carefully wrapped bundle of spare clothes. The previous overthinking, while you had packed your bag, pays off as you take out another pair of underwear, shampoo and some warmer sweats. Luckily, as it was packed at the bottom - it hadn’t become wet, unlike your equipment at the top. You walk to the bathroom and put your clothes down on the counter connected to the basin.

You turn on the water in the bathtub, and let it run while the gentle hum of the electricity powers a small heater. You undress and look at yourself in the mirror, horrifying - you conclude. Steam begins to rise, and you slide the curtain to the side and walk in, sighing as the too-warm water almost boils your skin off - as it should. You made a mental note to remember the fireplace afterwards before you begin washing yourself, scrubbing the dirt and grime off of your body. The scent of your shampoo fills your lungs, and you smile to yourself.

After a long time, you emerge from the shower, wrapped in a dry towel, and feel a renewed sense of vitality. You slip into the fresh, clean clothes - a stark contrast to the dampness and discomfort that defined your… adventure thus far.

You towel dry your hair before leaving the towel to dry on the bathtub curtain rack along with your previous clothes - abandoning your shoes for a pair of warm fuzzy socks you had brought with you, wearing them with a pair of slippers you’d found. Although a few sizes too big, you cringed at the thought of walking on the dust and dead-flies-filled floor. The cabin was creepy, and the occasional flickering of light paired with the storm outside made you take no chances - so in case a monster of some sort came up behind you, at least you could hit it with a slipper. You shrug.

You bring out a vacuum cleaner and plug it into an outlet in the kitchen before cleaning the cabin, making it a more comfortable place - you were especially careful not to leave any dust particles around the fireplace, as it's highly flammable. You decide to clean upstairs as well, fixing the bed in slight sympathy for the owner, before arranging the logs in the fireplace - creating a carefully crafted pyramid you’re frankly proud of. A small box of matches rests on the mantel, and thankfully there are a few left. You strike a match, the flame dancing briefly before settling into a steady glow, and carefully touch the match to the kindling. The flames grow, licking at the wood and bringing the living room area to life.

You’d brought a few - now soggy, although still edible - snacks with you. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep your stomach satisfied for at least a day or two. A breeze from the broken window made you shiver and stay closer to the fire, it was still dark outside, but the rain had calmed down by now and would probably come to a full stop in a few hours. You eat a few protein bars, before falling asleep on the sofa - not being able to turn the television on, as you had no energy to search for the remote control. Dangerous, yes, but it seems like your bad luck had run out as you awaken in the morning (or afternoon, you had no idea - as the only clock in the house had stopped working) with a fully intact cabin and now only a small sad fire in the fireplace. It’s sunny outside, thankfully - and you quickly wash your dirty clothes in the bathtub before hanging them outside on a clothesline. You grimace at the sight of your shoes, it would take at least a few sunny days to dry them fully - even though you almost turn them fully inside out. You walk back inside again, to get yourself some food.

“Hey!”

You let out a shrill scream at the unsuspected voice behind you, and you quickly turn around - cursing as you stumble because of the big slippers on your feet. He’s big, the man. Owner, you presume, inspecting him with wide eyes. He has a large balaclava with a skull print on it, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve seen it before. His gaze is cold, and there’s a certain standoffishness to his demeanour.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologizes, half-heartedly you assume by the hint of amusement and lack of warmth in his tone. His gaze assesses you, not unkindly, but with a detached scrutiny that makes you uneasy. He kicks his boots off by the front door, leaving it ajar, before setting down four full bags on the table you’d kept your backpack - before moving it to the sofa while you snacked yesterday. Your accelerated breathing and heart rate calm a bit when you realise that he doesn’t have any will to hurt you for breaking into his cabin at the moment, you feel the need to excuse your actions.

“It’s okay, it’s been q-quite a night,” you gulp, throat dry, “found your cabin while I was lost due to the storm.”

His response is a nonchalant nod. “Make yourself at home,” he responds, voice authoritative - making the suggestion almost sound like a command. It holds a distance that almost seems intentional. He takes in his surroundings and notices how clean it is, unusual to what it would normally be like after not visiting for almost months at a time. “I… I cleaned,” you announce with a cough, getting up from the floor feeling like an idiot. He seems indifferent, as if your actions hold little significance to him, “I can see that.”

He opens cabinets and slowly but steadily empties the bags, most of it is food, and other things include batteries, you notice. You feel awkward standing while he does the work, “d-do you-”

“Name’s Ghost,” he states abruptly, cutting you off mid-sentence, and not bothering to extend a handshake or any other friendly gesture - continuing to store the items in their places. The introduction hangs in the air, the conversation feeling more obligatory than welcoming. You take off his slippers - and he seems to track your movements through the corner of his eye - before offering your own name. He lets out a short hum, and there’s that. It doesn’t lead anywhere, and you’re both left in silence before the front door opens once more. The sudden footsteps behind you startle you, and you turn around to find another man there.

“Did ye hang those rags outside- oh,” the man notices you and raises his dark eyebrows, “didn’t expect tae see anyone here,” he greets with an accent, although somewhat confused, his tone is friendly and warm - rivalling against Ghost’s composed and cold behaviour. Ghost offers the man a subtle nod in his direction, acknowledging his presence without uttering a single word.

“I was on a hike, got lost and sought shelter from the storm here…” you quickly explain yourself, fiddling with your fingers behind your back in anxiousness of being stared down by two large men. The man continues your conversation while Ghost neatly folds the plastic bags before putting them in a box somewhere in the corner.

“Nae bother,” he drops your name and your ears perk up, eyebrows furrowing in shock. He speaks with a grin as if nothing weird had happened at all. He takes off his boots before joining Ghost in the kitchen - muttering something about teabags. “Thanks for gien’ the place a tidy up.” You ignore his thankfulness.

“How do you know my name?” you ask, a tinge of uncertainty layering your words. The man’s grin widens, “we met at the bar, ‘bout a month ago. We had a good time, tad bit too much on the bevvy, though.”

“Ah… Soap?”

“Aye.” He almost vividly describes the details of your… not so much conversation, reminding you of a night when you were perhaps a bit too inebriated to recall much. You have to shush him after a moment, and he cackles at your embarrassed face.

You find it odd that Soap remembers everything so clearly - especially since it’s been a month, while your memories from that night are only flickering fragments. The realization that he has been holding onto these details gets you uncomfortable.

“Ye like yer tea wi’ a wee smidgen of sugar, aye lassie?”

It’s as if he has been meticulously collecting pieces of your life. Despite the peculiar circumstances, Soap continues to engage in casual - slightly one-sided - conversation, seemingly oblivious to the unease settling within you. The sun shines bright through the window close to the table, where Soap is now ushering you towards. You shake your head.

“I… I think I should go home,” you utter tentatively, voicing the sudden urge that has gripped you. Ghost’s gaze, still concealed behind the balaclava, remains unreadable - though the air surrounding him seems to thicken. Soap, his charm momentarily faltering, raises an eyebrow in confusion. “Leaving… so soon?” he questions, friendly demeanour momentarily slipping into an expression of perplexity - leaving you with goosebumps. He leans casually against a wall, as if waiting for your explanation.

“It’s just… I don’t know. These past hours have been a bit,” you wave your hands around, wanting to find the right words, “too much,” you stammer, struggling to articulate your urgency to leave. Soap’s grin returns, but there’s a subtle shift in his gaze, “we’ve got everything ye need right here. Naw need tae go,” he voices with a friendly tone that contradicts the unease in your gut. He places a warm cup of tea in front of you, setting you down on a seat, before sitting on the chair in front of you with a cup of his own. Ghost, still a silent observer - now also with a cup - stands beside Soap, not much unlike a bodyguard.

“Ye’ve been through so much… take a day or two’s rest here before you leave.” It’s voiced almost like a demand. “I guess,” you sip on the tea - silently cursing Soap because he made it just the way you like it. Soap relaxes against the wooden chair and Ghost moves slightly away from your eyesight - before lighting his balaclava to drink.

That was your third and last mistake.

“Love the hustle and bustle o’ the city, but sometimes, a quiet place like this feels like a different world, aye?” Soap shares, a lopsided grin on his face. “I guess,” you repeat. It had been a nightmare, really. You’d never go out again after this.

“Especially since we’ve now got an Angel sent from heaven, now.”

“I- I guess,” you would be a bit more creeped out if he wasn’t exactly your type. You’re both attracted to each other, it seems like. Awful situation.

You continue chatting, Ghost quipping in with small jokes occasionally - and you laugh. The tension in the air slowly disappears, and soon enough - when the tea cups are empty, Ghost drags his mask over his jaw again, hiding anything but his eyes. He gets a stool and settles down next to Soap. You’re thankful they’re being nice hosts.

“Soap-”

“Johnny,” he cuts you off, “he’s Simon. No need for call signs.”

“Ah… Johnny,” you begin, and swear that you see him shudder slightly, “where do you keep your plasters? My knees-” he cuts you off, “hurt in the storm, yeah? Lt will show ye.”

Simon, without uttering a word, motions for you to follow him. Johnny stays in the kitchen, mumbling something about dinner, had it been that long? He leads you to the bedroom to your surprise, you’d guess they’d kept them in the bathroom… but alright. The silence in the air is thick, only broken by the occasional creak of wood under your feet as you climb the stairs. The flickering poor bulb on the ceiling sparks to life when he turns it on, and he gestures towards the bed.

“Take your clothes off.”

“W-what?”

Simon doesn’t repeat himself, doesn’t even glance at you as he walks to the bedside table and rummages around, before getting up and leaving the room. You decide to strip, not wanting him to stare at you while you do it, at least. You take off both your shirt and pants, leaving you in your underwear when Simon returns to you with a damp cloth and a few plasters. “We need to clean the wound before applying the plasters.” He deadpans as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. You hesitantly nod, feeling way too naked.

“Have you done this before?” you ask dumbly, “i-is it a part of… your job, or something?”

“Sometimes.” He kneels between your legs, and you hiss when he starts to almost expertly wipe at your knees. He doesn’t stop for your cries, focus unwavering and trying to get it over as quickly as possible. You recall Johnny calling Simon “lieutenant”, and you guess their line of work was military. He carefully places plasters on the scraped areas once he finishes cleaning the wounds. He throws you out of your thought process when he sits beside you, towering over your vulnerable body, “elbow” is the only thing he says before lifting your arm. You two sit in silence as he works, his touch is surprisingly gentle, despite the lack of expression on his face - and the whole process feels clinical, as if he’s merely completing a necessary task.

“You’re lucky it’s not more serious,” he finally speaks, placing a warm hand on the back of your neck, squeezing slightly and breaking the quiet tension looming over you both. His words are cold, his voice deep, and you find yourself longing for the warmth and friendliness that Johnny had exhibited earlier. The hand stays for a bit too long before he gets up. As you put your clothes back on, Simon exits the room without a word, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You can hear the distant sounds of Johnny’s clinks and clanks in the kitchen. Descending the stairs, the delicious smell of food fills your lungs, and you’re so hungry - you realise.

“Feelin’ better, bonnie?” Johnny asks as he places three plates of food on the table. You nod, sitting down in your previous seat. It’s a simple microwavable dinner, but you almost drool. Simon sets down a wine glass in front of you all and Johnny brings a bottle, “to relax, aye?” he winks. You could use a glass of wine, to be honest, and so you let him fill your glass.

The three of you sit down to eat, and the conversation flows more naturally this time. Johnny, though still eccentric, appears to have softened his demeanour, engaging you in discussions about various topics. You find yourself laughing at some things you normally wouldn’t, you blame it on the wine and stress. As the night progresses, they suggest you take the bed - to which you reply that you can’t- won’t

“Can’t let you sleep on the sofa!” you exclaim.

“Who said anything about a sofa?” Simon shrugs. You brushed it off and assumed they had a guest room somewhere you could borrow, you were naive, you realise, now. Because that’s how you end up between them in their bed. To preserve heat in this cold climate, Johnny had said, plays with your sense of logic like a puppeteer.

At some point, he’d started touching you a bit inappropriately, and when you’d turned around to cuss him out - he’d latched his mouth to yours. Simon lies on his side, facing you two - yet not moving a muscle to help you at all. Between filthy and sloppy kisses, you manage out a “What the FUCK do you think you’re doing, Johnny!” to which he only responds with a shaky moan and rubs his growing hard-on into your thigh, “fuckin’ loooove when ye sae m’ name. Gets me so hard, lovie.”

He stops shoving his tongue down your throat to instead lick a stripe down to your neck, where he starts sucking hot open-mouth kisses into your skin. You let out a quivery breath, closing your eyes to not see the drooling man hunched over your body - the imprint of his dick tight against his jeans. You remember cumming on your vibrator to the thought of it a month back, but now you’d do anything to run away from it. A slap on your cheek brings you back to reality, the skin almost burns and tears prickle in your eyes. Simon is staring you down, while Johnny raises his body just enough to almost rip his t-shirt off of himself.

“Keep your eyes open.” It’s a demand, a scary one at that. Military men are, in theory, hot, but in practice… still hot but also terrifying. He brings his calloused fingertips to gently stroke the cheek, before gripping both of your cheeks until your lips pout and your face aches. Johnny grins crookedly, bends down and gives you an almost cute kiss before yelling “ass up!” Your body almost flies down the bed with the force he drags your pants and panties off of you, and you let out a squeal which both of the men laugh at, “P-please, I can… I can give you money” you beg through your pouty lips and make them laugh harder, “sure,” Johnny comments, “got naw money to pay rent, how are ye supposed to pay us?”

“How,” your mouth hurts, “how do you-”

Simon releases his grip on your face and moves to pet your hair.

“So talkative. Take her mouth, Johnny.”

The man almost flies up to sit next to your head, pubic hair rubbing against your cheek when he drags his leaking cock over your lips. He’s big, awfully so, and he knows it because he pulls at your chin until you open it reluctantly, “nice ‘n wide now, sae ahhh,” then sinks in. The moan he lets out almost makes you rub your thighs together, it’s filthy and pornographic, and only intensifies when you swallow around him in an attempt to not puke up the dinner you’d shared with them. Simon smacks your thigh, which makes you avert your wet eyes from Johnny to him. He continues petting your hair while his other hand simultaneously moves downwards to your pussy, body easily moving in between your legs to make it difficult for you to close them. His middle and ring fingers spread your flaps apart and tease at your hole before dragging them upwards and collecting your juices. You fight but fail the loud moan that escapes your mouth, “Y-yeah just like that- fuck…” Johnny rambles on.

It’s embarrassing, and you have to hold back from crying when you see how wet you are. Simon gladly spreads his fingers to show off, before wiping them off on Johnny’s balls, making his breath hitch, and his next thrust a bit harsher. With the hand on your head, which has since long stopped stroking, he wraps his fingers in your hair suddenly and pulls you slightly upwards. Tears trickle down your cheeks, and your sobs only rile the man in your mouth up even more. Simon gets closer to your face, almost rips your hair off of your skull and moves his still-wet fingers down to your clit, rubs painfully - almost past the point of pleasure.

“You, are never leaving.”

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tieronecrush · 1 year

Text

102

frankie morales x f!reader

based on the song 102 by the 1975

rating: M

word count: 3k

summary: every week, you and frankie meet up at the same spot at the same time to catch-up and share a coffee. you’ve been his best friend for years. through thick and thin, always there. thing is, frankie’s been in love with you for nearly as long as he’s known you and hasn’t worked up the courage to tell you.

warnings: no use of Y/N, post-film timeline, au where frankie doesn’t have a kid, use of pet names (solecita, mi mejor), high school level spanish (mostly swear words), unrequited love, self deprecation, alcohol use/drunkenness, smoking

Bright, tepid morning light bounces yellow-white light off of the water in front of Frankie, the pond’s smooth glass-like surface reflecting the partly cloudy sky. The sunlight covers him like a heated blanket, the black sweatshirt on his torso soaking up the warmth. The chilled breeze ruffles the curls peeking out from under his hat, brushing them against his forehead. His knees are bent, elbow resting while he holds the paper to-go cup in both hands between his thighs, the coffee inside swishing with his subtle movements to settle on the large boulder next to the small man-made lake.

The trail that winds around the water and throughout the park is quiet, only a few passersby giving him a polite wave or a tight smile as they jog or walk past during their workout. He watches each one approach, looking for the familiar face of you that he’s been waiting for at this spot, for this time and day of the week every week since he’s come home from his last deployment with Special Forces. It was your idea, forcing him to check in at least weekly in person to make sure he was doing alright adjusting back home. You both knew that he couldn’t say no to you. You thought it was because you were best friends since the start of high school, your long history creating an unbreakable bond. The real reason, that only he and the boys knew after they coerced the confession out of him on a mission, was because he was in love with you. Has been for years.

This week feels different though. Part of him isn’t sure that you’ll show up after what happened the night before last. Anxiety swirls in his gut and his fingers twitch for some nicotine, his hands patting his pockets to pull out the crumpled packet of cigarettes and Bic lighter. The colored end rests between his lips while he clicks the lighter until the flame appears, holding it to the small roll of tobacco and inhaling around it to catch the dried leaves alight. He puffs out a few drags, billowy, thin smoke surrounding him as his muscles relax and his mind calls back to the night he last saw you.

He told the cab driver your address.

Of course, he didn’t realize he’d rambled it off until the guy kicked him out at the curb, turning around to get his bearings, and seeing the small three-bed townhome you shared with your roommates. The screen of his phone showed him the time, a slurred curse slipping from his lips when it registers how late it was.

1:02 AM

You would definitely be asleep by now. You had been texting him all night recapping stupid things your roommates’ friends said during a girls’ movie night at your place, making him smile at his phone often while out with the boys at the bar. Your messages slowed down and then stopped altogether around 11:30 pm, cluing him in that you’d fallen asleep. Their incessant teasing and the ache of his unrequited love drove him to drink a little too much, and he must have been so drunk that his subconscious took him to you.

He should go home. Back to his empty house, where he’d pass out alone and cold.

He always felt warm around you.

And his phone is about to die, which meant there was no chance he could call a cab or order an Uber.

Guilt crawled in between his ribs with each step he took down your front path, sighing softly to himself and lifting his hat to run a hand through his hair before he knocked on your door.

There’s no answer, so he succumbs to finding your contact through his messages, pressing the call button and holding the phone up to his ear. It rings three time before he hears a rustle on the other end, your sleepy voice coming over the line.

“Hello?”

“Hey, solecita.”

“Frankie? What’s up? Is something wrong?”

“Uh, not really? Well, kinda. ‘M a lil’ tipsy, actually more than tipsy, and accidentally told the cab driver your address instead of mine so I’m outside your house right now. And my phone’s abouta die.”

You take a slow inhale before exhaling a short chuckle.

“Hold on.”

You don’t hang up the phone and he listens to the sounds of you climbing out of bed and your footsteps echoing in the wood-floored hallway. The front door swings open in front of him, your drowsy grin calming his anxiety immediately. Butterflies kick around in his stomach and a grin pulls the corners of his mouth up when he sees you in your matching pajama set, white cotton with dainty pink flowers. You hang up the phone in front of him, and he drops his own hand to his side again while giving you a cringed expression.

“‘M so sorry, solecita. Woulda called another Uber if I could.”

“‘S fine, Francisco. C’mon, just stay here for the night.”

You wave him in, quietly shutting the door and locking it again, turning back to him and nodding up the stairs. He follows your silent order, climbing the stairs ahead of you and stumbling only a few times from his slightly impaired depth perception. Your soft hands find his shoulders at the top of the stairs, guiding him to your room. The door closes behind you and he turns to face you, a small hiccup escaping his mouth.

“I can sleep on the couch, mi mejor. Don’t wanna take up your bed.”

“Frankie, you’re like six feet tall. You’re not gonna be comfortable on that tiny ass couch. Just get in the bed, I’ll be right back.”

From across the small room, he watches you slip out of the doorway, shutting it behind you. He takes the chance to slip out of his jeans, discarding his Standard Oil hat on your dresser. He knows what side to lay on from the countless times he’s stayed the night after getting wine drunk with you or when you’d stayed at his after it’d gotten too late to drive home, insisting you use the same side you do at home. He plugs his phone into the extra charger you have, laying back against the headboard as he covers his face with his hands and drags them down.

“God, fucking idiot, Frankie,” he mumbles to himself, knowing you’ll probably sweetly retell this story at the next dinner with the guys and dreading the shit he is going to get from them. They all rag on him like brothers around you, and you laugh along when Frankie does, encouraging him to let it roll off his back when he gets annoyed. All he hopes is that you don’t think he’s as bad as what you’ve been told in the last few years. The pain of his heartache around you would only be compounded if you thought any less of him ‘cause of the stupid shit he’d done. Including showing up at your house drunk at one o’clock in the morning.

The door clicking close again pulls his hands from his face, an exhausted sigh expanding and compressing his chest. You cross over to the bed with your “backup emotional support water bottle” (your words, not his) in your hand, passing it over to him.

“Drink half now. Other half in the morning. And here’s ibuprofen for the morning, too.”

You drop the few pills in his hand and he twists to set them on the nightstand, unscrewing the lid of the bottle to chug half the contents. He closes it again, setting it down to the side next to the pills. The mattress sinks when you climb in on your side, returning your own phone to it’s charger and laying down on your side facing him. He mirrors your actions, laying down to look at you tenderly.

“Thank you.”

“Always, Frankie.”

You’ve never not been there for him. You’ve left work earlier to find him at home in the middle of a panic attack when Pope’s called you, picked him up from bars and random house parties. Even been his friend when he’d been using.

You’ve never not been there, and that is exactly why he can’t bring himself to tell you that he’s in love with you. He can’t imagine his life without you.

“Can we cuddle?” He sounds like a little kid, feeling his face fall into an involuntary pout.

A faint laugh hits his ears in the dark room, no direct answer comes from you. Instead, you scoot closer to him on the mattress, hands grabbing either side of his shoulders and shifting him to face the wall with your windows. An arm slides under his neck, the other pushing between his bicep and his ribcage to wrap him up as the little spoon. He relaxes against you, breathing in your scent from your arm under his head.

No other words are exchanged, your breathing evening out against his back when you’ve fallen back asleep and then he finally closes his eyes to rest.

He dreams of you. Not sure what exactly, but the warm fuzzy feeling he’s got told him you were around.

The next morning, early sunlight filters through the sheer curtains covering the windows. Frankie’s eyes slowly open from the brightness, a pounding headache immediately throbbing in his skull and radiating pain all over his body. The two of you have moved throughout the night, your head on his chest and his arm under you. The sight of you peaceful, relaxed, angelic tears at his heart, the pain doubling at the thought of facing you this morning.

He slips out of your bed, cowardly slinking out of the house and avoiding any possible situation that he would have to tell you how he feels about you. Outside of your house, he waits at the curb after he calls Santi to come to get him, shooting a message to you that he left to head home and sleep off the hangover for the rest of the day, but he would see you tomorrow morning for coffee like always.

When he’s about to give up and head back to his car with his tail between his legs, he spots you speed-walking up the path and waving wildly to him. He smiles to himself, taking one last puff of his cigarette before putting it out on the rock next to him.

He stands, stepping to the edge to offer you a hand to help you up, steadying you as you catch your balance. Wordlessly, the two of you sit next to each other, the small bag of duck food that you always bring set down between your sides.

“Morning, Francisco. How’re ya feeling today? Better than yesterday?”

Teasing is evident in your voice, a sly smirk on your lips. He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, hitting his shoulder against yours.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am, solecita. So no need for the smugness. Took care of you way more drunk and hungover than I was so you got no room to talk.”

“Hey! I was asking out of the kindness of my heart. Someone’s sassy this morning. What’s got your undies in a twist?”

He laughs softly, looking out at the water in front of him and shaking his head as he shrugs.

“Nothin’ much, I guess. Reason I got drunk on Friday was ‘cause I had another shitty day at work. I really don’t wanna work at the airport anymore.”

Your head nods in understanding, swallowing your sip of coffee.

“Well, what would you wanna do instead?”

He peels at the seam of the cardboard sleeve on his cup, eyes not daring to look over at you as he quietly admits what has been toying over in his mind for the last few months, not spoken out loud to anyone.

“I wanna do private charters again. Be up in the air, flying,” a tired sigh escapes his lips, head dropping in shame as he turns it to look at you, “But can’t do that with a suspended license.”

“Yeah, that’s true. But the key word there is ‘suspended’, Frankie. Didn’t they send you instructions to schedule a hearing to start the reinstatement process? Have you done anything for that?”

All he can do is shake his head, turning back to the trail and the pond to people watch.

“We can take a look at it all together if you want. Maybe my brother can offer some legal advice,” his skin burns from your hand resting on his back, even through his sweatshirt and t-shirt over it, “We’ll get it figured out. You’ll be up in the air in no time.”

His heart sings at your use of “we”, his mind clearing his anxious haze and giving him the nerve to spill his guts to you at that moment.

When he turns to face you, he’s met with your wide, optimistic grin and it only swells his heart against his ribs even more, feeling as if the vital organ is going to explode out of his chest unless he says something.

Frankie opens his mouth, inhaling a sharp breath as he formulates the words to start with; as he’s about to speak, your smile grows brighter, eyes lighting up.

“Oh! I didn’t get to tell you last night cause we fell asleep so quick, but, um, I started seeing this new guy. We’ve been on a few dates, but it’s gone really well so far and I really like him…”

Frankie half listens as you continue to recount each date, a dull buzzing noise covering the sound of your voice in his ears as his stare unfocuses in front of him. The courage dies in his throat, feeling as if the lump there is blocking his airway and slowly suffocating him. He’s quiet for the rest of the catch-up, and if you noticed, you never said anything. The two of you part ways at your cars, you heading home to get ready for another date with this guy and him heading home to have a date with the twelve-pack of beers sitting in his fridge.

The next week, Frankie only leaves his house to show up for his shifts at work. When he skips out on guys’ night on Friday, Santi stops at his on his way home from the bar, pounding on the door until Frankie answers.

“You look like shit.”

Pope barges in and gives Frankie a once-over, shaking his head and flopping down on his couch, picking up one of the cans of beer on the coffee table and popping the tab. Frankie sighs, closing the front door and sitting at the opposite end.

“What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t show up tonight, haven’t returned any texts or calls all week. Needed to make sure you were alive, cretino.”

“Well, I’m alive. Now you can leave me alone.”

Santi shakes his head, clearing his throat and giving Frankie a sympathetic look.

“Did something happen on Sunday morning? Did you do something stupid and she’s not talking to you?”

Frankie stews silently, glaring at Pope before breaking in the silence.

“She’s got a guy she’s seeing. Been on a few dates with him.”

“Ahh. Makes sense why you’re been moping then.”

“She couldn’t stop gushing over this new pendejo. And the worst part is she told me right as I was about to tell her how I felt.”

“Why can’t you still tell her?”

Frankie looks at Santiago like he’s got two heads, scoffing at the ridiculous thought.

“Cause she’s happy?”

“You said they’ve only been on a few dates. Not like she’s married, or even engaged,” Santi says with a casual shrug, “You’ve been in love with her for years, estúpido. I think that trumps a few dates. She deserves to know. And you deserve to know if she feels any ounce of the same way.”

The two men sit with each other, watching the movie Frankie had on while he mulls over Pope’s words. After Santiago leaves, Frankie shuffles into his room and finds the shirt he wore last week at your house, picking it up and switching it out with the one he was wearing. As he pulls it over his head, all he can smell is you. He holds the collar up to his face a takes a deep breath, battling with his thoughts into the early hours of the morning before he finally decides to call you and confess everything.

1:02 AM

You pick up on the second ring, the same sleepy voice you had last Saturday morning muffling over the phone.

“Frankie? Are you outside my house again?”

He laughs softly, biting his lip before he responds.

“No, no. ‘M sorry to wake you, solecita. Just wanted to talk to you. Been thinkin’ a lot tonight.”

“About what?”

“I dunno. Life, I guess.”

“Tell me about it.”

He stalls, chatting with you and rambling about the proceeding forms he’d dug out from his desk for how to move forward reinstating his license. You listen intently, offering supportive comments, asking questions, and giving him advice. The conversation falls into a lull, and like last week, as Frankie works up the courage to say what he really called about, you speak first.

“Can I tell you what happened on my date tonight? It was really nice.”

The pain in his chest brings his hand up to press against it, a burning lump growing in his throat.

Frankie clears his throat and responds with a quiet ‘yeah’. You tell him everything, and all he can think about is how this has to be some sign from the universe or God or whatever’s out there that it’s not meant to be between the two of you.

You start to yawn repeatedly, and he lets you off the hook with a tender goodnight, thumb smashing the red ‘end’ button and burying his head in his hands while he sits at the edge of his bed.

After a few moments of silent tears, he picks up his phone, sending one last message before he goes to sleep.

TO: Cabrón

It’s never gonna happen.

tagging some mooties: @beskarandblasters @swiftispunk @joelsversion @lunapascal @addictedtotlou @death-wife @johnwatsn @pedgeitopascal @pedrospartner @atinylittlepain @soaringcloud @wannab-urs @javiscigarette @yazsos @northernwindd @pr0ximamidnight @theelishad @scrambledslut @thetriumphantpanda @dinsdjrn @midnightswithdearkatytspb @ladamedusoif

#writing #frankie #frankie morales fanfic #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fanfiction #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfic

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wheeboo · 11 months

Text

a night to remember | joshua hong

SYNOPSIS. in which a handsome stranger at the bar catches your attention. PAIRING. joshua hong x gn!reader (ft. twice's jihyo since she was the first person to pop up in my head) GENRE. fluff, suggestive, 1920s-ish au, one-night stand au, strangers to ?? WARNINGS. implied sexual content (no actual smut), mentions of cigarettes (reader+jihyo smokes cuz it was socially acceptable at the time) and alcohol, drinking, kissing WORD COUNT. 2.9k

notes: this is obviously based off this masterpiece of a song "a night to remember" by beabadoobee and laufey which i could never do justice but i hope you enjoy! i also impulsively wrote this whole thing btwn the hours of 12-3am so its pretty rushed oops 😭

The dim glow of the flickering marquee lights of the bar spill onto the rain-soaked streets outside, beckoning every passerby to enter into the hazy world of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses. Each swinging of the door releases a burst of warm, smoky air into the cool, drenched night. The air buzzes with the lively chatter of other people, mingling in with the sultry notes of the saxophone and the sweet melodies of the piano drifting through the heavy atmosphere of the bar.

Sat on a worn-out barstool, you bring a cigarette up to your lips and inhale deeply as your eyes flutter to a close, the smoke from the tip suspending in the air and mixing with the potent scent of whiskey also filling your lungs.

"Must you always sit like a boring bystander? Come on, we're here to have fun!" Jihyo stumbles her way right next to you, her sequined dress glistening under the lights like a kaleidoscope.

You only respond to her with a playful roll of your eyes. And with a wry smile, Jihyo plucks the cigarette from your fingers, taking a theatrical, languid drag of her own before flicking the ashes into an already well-worn tray.

You scoff lightly, taking out a fresh cigar. "Well, you already took me here without much of a choice."

Jihyo raises an eyebrow, her grin unwavering. "Afraid of a little fun?"

"Not afraid," You reply with a smirk, swiftly igniting the cigar and leaning back against the bar behind you. "Just comfortable observing the fun itself."

"If you're just going to sit there and look pretty, you might as well have someone to look pretty for, honey," Jihyo teases, her eyes momentarily scanning across the room.

A puff of smoke escapes your lips as you retort, "Easy for you to say."

"Life's too short to be a wallflower, Y/N!" Jihyo exclaims dramatically.

"The excitement will come when it wants to, not when I force it, honey," You reply cryptically.

Jihyo drinks the rest of the bourbon from your glass before taking one last, begging glance in your direction. When you don't seem to want to budge, she shoots you a faint, pert grin before turning away towards the dance floor, each step she takes accentuating the dramatic shake of her hips. You can't help but let out a low chuckle.

The bar was not usually a place where you found yourself willingly. Usually, you'd take the comfortable bubble of your place over the haughty energy of this any day. But tonight, for some reason, the familiar discomfort feels strangely comforting; and plus𑁋much to Jihyo's preference of unwinding𑁋you didn't have much of a choice either way.

From the side, you have the opportunity to simply watch. For example, there's a couple lost in each other's gaze sitting a few tables away from you. Maybe today is their first date, maybe they're rekindling a flame that has flickered in the past, or maybe they've been together for years, and this is their escape from the routines of life.

Then, down at the centre of the bar and close to the small stage at the front where a beautiful young woman stood with a microphone in front of her, there's a group of young friends sharing laughter of their own that gets lost in the music. It reaches your ears almost perfectly the more you focus on them, and it makes you smile to yourself𑁋you like seeing other people happy.

You turn yourself around on the barstool, facing the array of alcohol bottles that are all perfectly lined up together on the shelves. You cup your empty glass in your hands, swaying it lightly as the sounds of the ice clinking against the sides echo softly. The bartender who was perhaps metres away seems to notice your empty glass and gives you a nod, silently asking if you'd like a refill.

You raise your glass in acknowledgment. The bartender approaches up to you and reaches for a bottle with practiced ease, the amber liquid flowing smoothly into your glass once more.

But just as you were about to bring the cup to your lips, the sound of the door creaking open catches your attention. A new figure steps into the bar, their silhouette momentarily framed by the rain-soaked glow from outside, and you notice it's a man. A black fedora sits on his head, hiding away any view you could possibly have of his face, and he wore an elegant black suit with a bow tie that seems to glisten with a subtle sheen against the lighting of the bar.

It wasn't until he takes off his fedora that you realise you just can't seem to stop staring at him, even with all the people brushing past him like he doesn't exist and the hectic activity of the bar. His blonde hair is perfectly styled and coiffed, his features gentle yet carrying an air of both mystery and familiarity. It's almost as if you've seen him before, but nothing particular in your mind rings a bell. Perhaps while walking down the street, across the quiet room of the city's library, or something as ridiculous as your past life, his face might have crossed your path at some point.

You watch the way he scans the room, appearing a bit lost but also intrigued, as if he's searching for something or someone.

And when he eventually lets his eyes sweep across the room and to the bar, his eyes lock onto yours like a snap, and it's enough to send a subtle shiver down your spine. The air seems to thicken for a moment, and you couldn't tell if it was the hint of alcohol in your system that's playing with your vision or something else. His lips play into a slight smile as his eyes hold yours, and he puts his fedora back on, before you lose track of him in the crowd in a sudden blink.

You find yourself briefly dazed, spinning around to face the bar once more. You're quick to grab onto your glass once more, seeing the way your reflection sways in the amber liquid as you take a moment to collect yourself. All it took was one look to have your head spinning and your heart racing with a man you probably would never see again.

"What can I get for you?" the voice of the bartender catches your attention.

You glance up to answer. "Oh, I don't need𑁋"

"Just two waters, please."

At the corner of your eye, a black fedora sets itself down on the counter next to you. You turn, and there he is𑁋the man from earlier, standing with a confident yet intriguing demeanour. The bartender nods and gets to work, pouring two glasses of water.

The man turns to you, eyes dark like the night itself. "Mind if I join you?" he asks, a subtle tilt to his lips. His voice is smooth like a well-played jazz tune.

You're taken aback for a moment. The bartender places two glasses of water on the bar in front of you, and you nod, almost hesitantly. The man sidles into the seat beside you, his fingers subtly brushing the tips of yours as he secures himself comfortably on the barstool, and it sends a jolt through your body, a sensation that lingers longer than it should. You catch a whiff of his cologne, both intoxicating and familiar, as it intertwines with the lingering scents of tobacco and whiskey.

"Thank you," he says, eyes never leaving yours as he lifts the glass of water to his lips. "The water is for you, by the way."

You chuckle shyly as you tap your fingers against the cold glass of water, feeling a flush rise to your cheeks. "Water? In a place like this?"

He smirks at this, a sight both amusing and enticing. "Well, we don't want to do anything regrettable, right?"

His words seem to crawl under your skin, and it's enough to convince you. You take a sip of the water, the cool liquid a stark comparison to the warmth spreading through all the corners of your body, and you suddenly feel more awake than ever. He also takes another sip of his own water, his eyes following your every move as you nearly down the entire glass. The way he looks at you𑁋with that dark, piercing stare that heavily clashes with the soft features of his handsome face𑁋makes your heart pound in your chest.

Around you, the bar has seemingly grown quiet, the only sound the soft music playing in the background. You can feel the heat of his gaze on your skin, and it's taking everything in you not to choke.

He breaks the silence with a charming smile, eyes now softened. "I'm assuming you don't come here often, do you?"

You meet his gaze with a coy smile, the corners of your mouth lifting. "You're quite the detective, aren't you?" There's a satisfied look to his face, and you clasp your hands together. "but to answer your question𑁋no, not exactly. How about you?"

"Ah, I had just moved here recently, actually," he reveals, which still doesn't seem to help the fact that you swear you've seen him before. It still draws you in, of course, and you can't help but wonder more about the mystery surrounding him𑁋both the one in his eyes and the one lingering in the air. The dim light of the bar casts a subtle glow on his features, and you find yourself captivated by the play of shadows and highlights dancing on his face.

"Welcome to the city then," You say it like a grand gesture. "It could be quite daunting at times, but you'll get used to it."

His gaze doesn't waver, and there's a quiet intensity in the way he studies you. "Perhaps I could get used to it faster if I had the right company."

Your heart skips a beat at his words, and you're suddenly acutely aware of the proximity between you two. The bar, the jazz music, the muted conversations around you𑁋all fade into the background as if the world has momentarily narrowed down to the space between your barstools.

"Smooth," You reply, a half-smile playing on your lips. "Is that your usual approach?"

He chuckles. "Only in certain situations."

A sly grin forms on your face. "And is this one of those situations?"

He tilts his head slightly as if in thought. "If you want it to be, of course."

All you could do is let out a soft laugh𑁋a laugh that blends with the faint jazz music playing in the background, a laughter that indeed signals the beginning of an unpredictable night.

"To new beginnings?" You raise your nearly-empty glass of water up to him.

He raises his glass in response, and the crystal-clear water catches the ambient lighting above, creating a small, sparkling spectacle on the surface of the bar counter.

"To new beginnings," he echoes.

The next minutes fly by in a breeze. Usually, letting people into your little bubble only causes for you to raise your guard up a bit more. You certainly didn't expect an utter stranger to intrigue you this much, just like a moth to a flame, especially in a place you never frequented to attend. You don't even mind the way his hand somehow found its rightful place on top of yours as you simply talked, or the way a glass of water can make you feel more alive than the strongest drink in the entire bar. And instinctively, your eyes would focus on the way his lips move he as he spoke, just barely catching all the words leaving his mouth.

When the music shifts to a more intimate tone, he looks into your eyes, a subtle invitation lingering in the air.

"Care to share a dance?" he asks, and the simple invitation is enough to course that warmth of anticipation through you once more.

The decision lingers in the air and his hand is extended towards you, a heartbeat away from being made.

And without a word, you slide off the barstool, your hand finding its place in his. He locks his grip on yours, and drags you in the direction of the small dance floor, the pungent smells of cigarette smoke and aged whiskey lingering as you weave through the crowd together.

When he suddenly pulls you closer to him, the scent of his cologne envelops you. His hand rests securely on the small of your back, guiding you with a subtle yet confident touch, the warmth of his fingers seeping through the fabric of your outfit. It sends a thrill through your body that heightens every single one of your senses.

As the music reaches its spirited crescendo, he spins you gently, the movement endearingly awkward, but you both don't care. When he brings you back into his arms, you're suddenly close to him way more than before, enough for his lips to be so close to yours that you can feel his warm breath against your skin.

The song slowly approaches its end, but he doesn't let you go. Yet just as the distance between your lips disappears, he stops. A teasing grin plays on his face, and he pulls away slightly, though your gaze doesn't intend to move away from his mouth.

"You're one of those," You remark airily.

He spins you around again, letting his fingers dance on the skin of your back. "Guilty as charged."

As the song draws to a close, he dips you in a move that feels straight out of a film. Your heart races, and when he pulls you back up, his lips are dangerously close to yours again. But this time, he doesn't hold back, and the kiss is a slow burn, gentle yet intensely passionate. One of his hands come to delicately cup your face, and the other brings you flush against him.

When the kiss breaks, he smiles, a genuine and warm expression that makes your heart flutter.

"Tell me your name," he whispers, breath caressing your cheek.

You meet his gaze, a playful glint in your eyes. "Maybe we’re more similar than you believe."

This only makes him lean in once again.

"Let's keep it that way, then," he suggests, grinning against your ear as if sharing a secret meant for only you. "Care to get out of here?"

It doesn't anything more than that for you to agree with a smile. Without uttering a word, you nod, your hand still entwined with his as you allow him to guide you through the dissipating crowd towards the exit of the bar. He ushers you outside, and the cool droplets that linger on the city's surfaces glisten under the streetlights.

The lively jazz bars highlight at the heart of the city within the late hours of the night, and his place isn't much farther than you anticipated thankfully.

It all happens so fleetingly𑁋one moment you're outside the door to his place, and another you're within the comfort of his bedroom, kissing him so feverishly with your fumbling hands on the buttons of his suit until you both fall on the bed, that the world outside seems to vanish. And when his hand makes contact with your skin for the first time, you could only gasp.

This is a night you will remember, and you'll make sure of it.

You dress yourself back in your clothes in the hushed morning. A comfortable silence lingers in the room, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the waking city. The rain outside has completed ceased away, bathing the bedroom in a soft glow of dawn.

The events of the night replay in your mind like a reel of a film𑁋the moment your eyes first met, the touches of his hands against yours, the kiss you shared on the dance floor, and the whispers of sweet nothings to your ear right underneath the sheets you sat atop.

"Leaving so soon?" he asks from behind, the huskiness of his voice making you pause.

You can sense the unspoken words hanging in the air𑁋the silent acknowledgment that this is a chapter that closes as the sun rises.

"Unfortunately, I must," You reply with a wistful smile, reaching for your shoes. "Real life calls."

He sits up on his bed, the sheets pooling around his waist, and you can't help but admire the way the morning light dances on the bareness of his body, his disheveled hair, and the remnants of the night before etched into his beautiful skin. There's a subtle tension that crackles in the air, and he clears his throat.

"Will I… see you again?"

You turn to face him, the playfulness in your eyes replaced by a hint of contemplation. The smile still doesn’t fade away from your lips.

"Who knows? Life is full of surprises, after all."

He watches you for some time as you fully dress yourself, a gaze struggling between the line of intimacy and distance, letting his eyes soak in your figure.

"Do you regret it at all?"

A pause, like a second and an eternity rolled into one. The room holds a quiet acknowledgment, a shared understanding that some moments are meant to be lived fully, without dwelling on what comes after, while others are meant to come and go like a shooting star. You aren’t entirely sure which this falls under.

"No," You answer simply, before setting your feet on the floor and standing up. "Not at all."

Another round of silence follows as you gather the rest of your belongings, trying to ignore the bittersweet ache in your chest threatening to cut you open. You feel his gaze lingering on you as you move about the room, still feeling those embers of the night before dancing upon your skin, as if they're fighting their way to linger a little longer, to save every last trace of the moments you shared.

"Joshua," he states as if in response to the unspoken question hanging in the air. "Joshua Hong."

His name escapes his lips like a secret, and you savour the sound of it, committing it to memory, committing him to memory. You ponder the thought of what it would be like to have your name said at the tip of his tongue in some other distant, intimate moment.

"Y/N," You whisper your name in return, the final piece of the exchange. "Y/N L/N."

taglist (open) ʚɞ @enhazen @haowrld @icyminghao @slytherinshua @jeonride @lockburn-castle @vrnism @weird-bookworm @mhlsymlysn @ryuwonieebae @yeonjuns-redhair @wonwooz1 @woohaeyo @mark-geolli

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ddejavvu · 1 year

Note

Could you write something about like camp counsellor remus and camp counsellor reader like flirting a lot or something during like summer camp? If that is ok with u

Hope you have been having a good new year lovely!!

today is multiverse monday! send me any au you can think of :) (Y/C/N -> Your camp name, i always had camp names at my summer camps so just pick whatever you'd like <3)

"Moony, Moony!" Remus hears little feet pounding against the dusty dirt trail behind him, and he turns while leaning up against the pop tent they've set up a stove beneath. He turns to see the camper, and finds you chasing after him, calling frantically out for the boy.

"What's happening, Ranger?" He stops the boy, reading the sloppily written R-A-N-G-E-R in puff paint on his handmade nametag.

"Y/C/N had this in her bag," Ranger holds out a woven bracelet, green thread spelling out Moony against a brown background, "Is this yours? It has your name on it."

"Uh," Remus reaches for the accessory and you finally catch up, your bag hanging over your shoulder. He flounders, holding the bracelet opposite you.

"Ranger," You pant, "Go back to-" You groan at the pain in your chest from chasing the boy who knows how long, "Go back to the crafts table, please. Find Padfoot."

"Okay," The little boy runs happily back to where he's supposed to be, satisfied with having been a messenger.

"Um, it's-" You start, stammering slightly as you avoid Remus's eyes, "It's for you, yeah. I just thought- well I had lots of time on my hands, and all the kids were making them, so-"

"It's fantastic," Remus marvels, looking at the intricately woven bracelet, "I- how did you do this? I guarantee we weren't teaching the seven year olds this."

"Well-" You look sheepish, "No. But they are making bracelets! It- It was meant to be gifted to you on the last day," You smile bashfully, "Ranger just... took it."

"He's a troublemaker," Remus wastes no time in slipping the bracelet onto his wrist, cinching it tight in case, god forbid, it falls off, "He stole my banana yesterday at lunch."

You let out a laugh that dies out in the small clearing of trees you're in, a secret sound for only him to hear. He's monitoring the oven beside him, but that's not where the warmth in his chest is coming from, not as he smiles fondly at your reaction.

"Well," You stick your hands in your pockets, "Hopefully you like it. And- uh, sorry about the commotion."

"I love it," He assures you, smiling wide with slightly rosy cheeks, "Thank you, Y/N."

You smile and nod, turning to set off back to your post at the crafts tent. As soon as you're out of view, and Remus can turn away without worrying about missing a backwards glance from you, he yanks his phone out of his pocket, desperately clinging to the one bar of service he's got.

Bracelet weaving letters, he types, then, when the page stalls, Writing letters into bracelets, then, Weaving thread into letters. Each search times out, reception in the woods spotty.

"Fuck," He hisses, squinting at the intricate design you'd made for him like he deserved it, "I'll figure it out, Y/N, for you."

415 notes · View notes

hypnoneghoul · 6 months

Text

Sundown: Chapter 1

WC: 2,6k

Relationship: Pre-relationship SwissAlps

Tags: Transfeminine Mountain, AU; Cowboy!Swiss x Barmaid!Mountain, First Meeting, Fluff, Protectiveness, Discussion About Being Transgender, Transphobia (warning for that if someone's sensitive to it), not from swiss tho he's supportive!!!

Swiss has been travelling for a while. He finally gets to a place he can rest in and meets an unique individual. He's immediately enamored.

Notes: comm for @jazz-bazz, first part of our au! ty bex <3

Read chapter 1 under the cut or on AO3.

He’s been sweating his ass off for three days before something resembling civilization has finally come along. He’s half dead, his chick is half dead, and all he wants is to get a pint of cold beer and a damn bed.

The town—barely big enough to be called such—is obviously sparsely populated. Swiss doubts it’s even inhabited at first, but the closer he gets the more signs of life he’s noticing and the hope in him grows. He leans down to pat his chick’s neck and sighs at the puff of dust coming off of her.

“Soon, girlie. I’m gonna give ya a good brush, you deserve it.” The mare nickers and the pair continue their slow walk toward the town. It doesn’t take that long for them to make their way into the shadow casted by the town’s buildings. It smells like cow’s shit, but the people obviously have more water and food than they really need, which means there is a chance Swiss and his horse will get some. If not given freely, he’ll take it, but he is tired and he hopes their visit in that place will go smoothly.

Swiss doesn’t see any heads peeking out of doors or windows to look at him, neither threateningly nor curiously, as he looks around searching for any sign that would indicate where he can find a bar. He really needs a beer.

His knees crack when he jumps down from his mare. The ground is dry and a cloud of dust arises as his boots touch it. He finds something that could be a spot for travelers’ horses and as he leaves his chick there he hopes nobody will shoot her off if he was mistaken. It’s a solid roof over a spot covered in a thick layer of straw, with buckets full of fresh looking water hanging off of wooden beams and cubes of hay under them. Inviting enough.

Swiss pulled the reins over the mare’s neck and pulled the bit out of her mouth before tying her to one of the beams by the water. He hopes she won't be too picky. “Drink, girlie, I’ll be back soon.”

He pats her on the ass on his way and walks away, heading into the adjoining building. The batwing doors’ hinges squeal loudly as Swiss walks into what indeed is a saloon. It’s nearly empty, only two men are sitting in a corner and talking quietly over drinks. Swiss scans the space and even though it’s empty, it seems nice. The men from the corner don’t acknowledge his presence, but he doesn’t crave attention this time, so it is fine by him. It’s a bit colder there than outside and he already feels some relief.

Swiss goes straight to the bar and just as he’s sitting down on one of the squeaky stools the barmaid walks out from behind a dark brown curtain hanging between the shelves. A gorgeous, tall wo…man? They are a very pretty man, if that's the case. He shrugs, though, it’s none of his business.

They are wearing a long, light green dress—a little old fashioned in style, but it’s a good piece. Little dirty-white apron covers the dress from their waist down to where their knees are under the skirt. The dress doesn’t have sleeves, only straps digging into their shoulders and going down to create a laced neckline that makes their tits look very compelling. Their hair is long and wavy, a beautiful shade of dark amber flowing down their back and over their shoulders.

Their eyes, though…oh, their eyes are what makes Swiss’ belly swoop and his mouth go even drier than it already was. Big—adorned by thick and long lashes—and in the color of the healthiest, most fresh, summer grass ever. Swiss haven’t seen grass as green in years.

“Anything to drink for you?” They ask, picking up a rag to wipe the bar. More to busy themself than because it’s dirty. If anything it’s dusted over from unuse.

“Well, ain’t ya a pretty thing?” Swiss winks, his head tilted to the side. He knows he most definitely looks like a creep, but he can’t stop staring.

“Oh, me? Uhm–thank you?” they stutter as blush creeps up their cheeks, coloring them a light rosy pink. Gorgeous. “What…what about that drink?”

“Get me a pint of some good ole beer, sweetheart. Pretty please.”

“Mhm,” they nod, obviously flustered, and turn to disappear behind the curtain again. Swiss sighs—he really is exhausted—as he rests his chin on his fist, his other hand scratching at his stubble. Well, more like a beard, he didn’t have much time or opportunities to take care of it, so it’s a bit unkept now.

Soon enough the bar…person returns with Swiss’ beer and hands it to him with a light smile. “There you go.”

“Thank you kindly,” he mutters, nodding, before pressing his lips against the chilly mug and tipping it back. He moans at the refreshing feeling washing over him the moment beer pours into his mouth.

“Is it that good?” the person chuckles, leaning against the wall with their hands crossed over their chest. Their beautiful, full chest and it’s–Swiss shakes his head. He ain’t seen no tits in ages but he isn’t an animal, damnit.

“Nah,” he snorts before taking another gulp. “It’s piss, but I’ve been dry as a desert, sweetheart.”

The person curls their lips into a little amused smile and turns, grabbing the rag and starting to wipe the bar again. Swiss tries to not be obvious in his staring—looking from under the rim of his hat. The stranger is so captivating, he can’t tear his eyes away.

“Listen, I don’t mean any disrespect, sweetheart, but I’ve gotta ask–” Swiss starts after clearing his throat, but gets cut off. The other probably expected it to go that way.

“You’re the nicest person I’ve encountered in a long time,” they say with a smirk and Swiss bows his head, grinning. “Phrase your question as nicely and there’s a chance I won’t take out the revolver from under the bar and shoot your hat off.”

“Damn, sweetheart.” He recoils dramatically, raising his arms defensively. “You’re too pretty for me to offend, don’t ya worry.”

“So?”

“Are you a boy or a girl?” The question lands, but no offense shows on the person’s face. Swiss continues. “Cause if you’re a boy, then you’re the prettiest one I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen a lot—and if you’re a girl, then…well, then you’re the prettiest one of those.”

“I’m a woman, kind sir,” she laughs, fully this time, and the melodic sound of it goest through Swiss’ ears right to his heart, “you haven’t proven yourself worthy of permission to call me a girl. Yet.”

“Understood. I'd love to try and prove my worth.” He winks and lifts the mug nodding, as if in a toast. “You’re a gorgeous woman, ma’am.”

“Thank you. I do understand the confusion, though, even my own body didn’t get the memo.” She sighs, fidgeting with her hands and worrying her lip between her teeth. Swiss gets a sudden urge to gently pull it free, lest she breaks the skin and paints her mouth with blood, but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t, they’ve just met. Swiss doesn’t know what possessed him.

“Huh, that’s so…” He mumbles, staring holes into the already rugged wood of the countertop. With the corner of his eye he sees the barmaid pull up a chair on the other side of the bar and sit on it, right before him.

“Unnatural?” she finishes for him, but her guess of his thoughts couldn’t be falser.

“No, I wanted to say it makes you unique. It’s amazing,” Swiss says—confident—looking up at her again. She is so much closer now and so many more details of her beauty are visible to the man, and if she’d let him he’d count all the golden freckles adorning her face a hundred times over.

“Oh…” she whispers. Swiss doesn’t count her freckles, but he does follow the path of a blush crawling up her cheeks. “Well, uhm, I don’t know. It doesn’t feel amazing most of the time.”

“That must be tough,” he replies, wondering. “Is it like…like you don’t feel right in your body? Like it’s not yours?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” she has no idea why she’s suddenly spilling her innermost thoughts to a stranger she has met not even half an hour prior. There is something about him, though, that makes her feel safe and maybe carries a chance of finally being understood. Even if just a bit. “And sometimes I just feel…wrong all around.”

Swiss hums in acknowledgement and leans down to his mug, swallowing down a few gulps. Once his mouth is unoccupied again, he asks, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“It’s Mountain,” the barmaid says, “but I prefer just Mounty.”

Swiss snorts at that, but immediately regrets it upon seeing Mounty’s brows furrow in confusion and her eyes fill with a tiny bit of hurt. “Sorry, sweetheart, I ain’t laughing at you! My horse’s name is Monty, that’s why!”

“Oh. Oh, okay,” she relaxes and chuckles, too, a bit embarrassed by her immediate defensiveness. “Yeah, that is funny.”

“Nice to meet you, Mounty.”

“Won’t you give me your name?” the barmaid’s eyelashes flutter and Swiss wouldn’t be able to refuse or lie to her even if he wanted to.

“Swiss, sweetheart,” he says, lifting up the mug again. “My name’s Swiss.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Swiss,” Mounty replies, her face lighting up with a soft smile, and if Swiss was standing it would make his knees buckle. Still, his insides warm up and twist and he’s never felt like that; so stupid and…vulnerable.

Swiss feels himself blush and he quickly hides behind his mug.

“Would you–” Mounty is about to ask him something, but a squeak of the doors and heavy steps interrupt her.

“Afternoon!” a stranger calls out, walking into the saloon as if it was his own ground. Swiss looks up at the barmaid and sees her tense up—her lips turn into a thin line and her brows furrow. She knows the man and she isn't fond of him in the slightest.

Swiss doesn’t like that look on her.

“Afternoon, sir,” Mounty mutters, standing up. The man doesn’t reply, just walks over and sits down by the bar next to Swiss. He is alert after Mounty’s reaction, one of his hands close to his gun.

“Get me some whiskey, girl,” the stranger grumbles, spitting the last word out like it burns his tongue, like an insult. Swiss realizes it is supposed to be one and the knot inside him tightens, this time with something resembling anger. How can someone treat such a gorgeous, brilliant and kind creature without utmost respect?

“Hey, she ain’t your girl,” Swiss hisses as Mounty disappears to get the man’s drink. He won’t sit there and pretend he is okay with what is happening right next to him. “Bark orders at your wife like that. If you even have one, it don’t seem like you’ve got a lot to offer.”

“Why do you care?” the stranger scoffs, “he’s a freak.”

One second Swiss is sitting relaxed, sipping on his beer, and then in the next he’s up with his back straight, looming over the other man and staring down at him with fire in his eyes.

“I suggest you either apologize to her when she gets back,” he growls, reaching behind himself, to his revolver, “or get out now so neither of us have to see your ugly face any more. Or else…”

“Or else what!? Ya one of them, too, hm?” the man—clearly an idiot—snarls, craning his neck to look up at Swiss, pretending to be brave. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you had no balls on you.”

“Oh, I’ve got enough balls, asshole,” Swiss laughs and that seems to hit. He pulls his revolver out from behind his belt, twists it on his finger and watches the other man hesitate about his next words. “You wanna lose yours?”

The man scoffs as if there wasn’t fear in his eyes. He’s a coward and he storms out accordingly, because it’s unlikely he knows better than to actually challenge Swiss. He doubts he knows who he was.

Just as the man disappears outside, Mounty returns with a glass of whiskey intended for him. There’s no smile on her face and her rather neutral expression turns to confusion as she sees only Swiss by the bar. “Where did he go?”

“Oh, he realized he left something at home.” Swiss shrugs, returning to his stool.

“And what would that be?”

“Respect for women,” he says with a smirk and Mounty returns it, knowing and thankful. She sits again and looks at the glass in her hand before pressing it against her lips and cringing as she tips it back to drink. “Not a fan?”

“Not at all,” she coughs and Swiss chuckles. She is adorable. “All I drink is tea.”

“Tea is good,” he says and looks into his mug—there was still some beer left. He lifts it again and silence falls for a moment.

“You really are nice to talk to,” Mounty speaks after a while. “I get called a freak and other names all the time, usually the moment I come into someone’s view. It’s nice to be treated normally, have my feelings acknowledged…and be protected. You know?”

“I can only imagine.” Swiss smiles at her fondly. It must be hard living like that. Trying to live right by yourself and offending others by simply existing, just because they are too thick-skulled. If he could, he'd sit on that creaky chair every damn day and chase off every single man who'd as much as look at Mounty wrong.

It’s quiet again, Swiss finishing up his beer and Mounty drinking her whiskey—frowning at every single sip. They have just met, but the silence is comfortable. It feels like not only did they know each other for ages, but that they have a…special connection, of a kind.

Swiss snorts at his own thoughts. He’s stupid for them, for thinking this is anything more than…than what, exactly?

“A’ight, sweetheart,” he sighs after a moment, breaking the dead silence. “I should get going, find somewhere to sleep.”

“We’ve got beds,” Mounty perks up, immediately shying away as she realizes she might’ve been a bit too enthusiastic, “if you want…”

“I’d love a bed, but I don’t have much money,” the man shrugs. He’d rip anyone off without any remorse, but not her. He’s never gotten a soft spot for someone as fast as he did for her. “And I’d rather get a place for my horse than myself.”

“And if it’d all be on the house?”

“What, like me so much already you don’t want me to leave?” Swiss laughs, winking.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Mounty scoffs, but her own wink says something else. “You’re clearly exhausted, who would I be if I let you go back on the road without a proper rest?”

“Will you at least accept my help in here and in the stables as a payment?”

“I can consider it,” she mumbles, smiling softly as she stares at Swiss through her lashes.

“Alright, then. I’ll stay, sweetheart.”

#hypnone writes #the band ghost #nameless ghouls #swiss ghoul #mountain ghoul #swissalps #hypnone's commissions #swissalps' sundown

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writefightandflightclub · 6 months

Text

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Nine (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running?

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+. Minors or ageless blogs interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list).

Author’s note: Shorter chapter this week (be warned, next week's will be the heftiest yet), but I hope you like this next instalment! It's really gearing us up for the FINAL TWO! As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. If you've read this far, THANK YOU! ILY :-*

Word count: 3.8k for this part.

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

Today is a new day. It’s a new day and you’re done crying. You’re done holding on to anger and resentments.

Besides, you feel as though you gave Santiago everything you had last night, and - at least for now - there is nothing else left to give.

So, instead of wallowing, you plod downstairs to where Frankie is stationed in the kitchen, offering up your favourite pastries, coffee, and even pulpy, freshly squeezed orange juice. You pull up to the breakfast bar, hopping up on a stool to survey your extravagant pity platter.

It’s true then. “He’s gone.”

Frankie nods solemnly, leaning into the other side of the island like he’s a sympathetic bartender in some old Western flick. He claps his palm to your shoulder in a supportive gesture. “I’m sorry, chiquita.”

You shrug.

His face twists. That’s not all there is. “Don’t shoot the messenger, but…”

“What, Frankie?”

“He had to bounce but he didn’t want to wake you. Said you looked far too peaceful sleeping for him to come along and fuck that up.”

Your brow notches, absorbing all of that with a contrived neutrality. “How did he… seem?”

Frankie’s eyebrows raise lightly as he ponders, thinking back over prior events. “Calm, actually. Happy, even.”

“Hmm.” You smile softly to yourself. Makes a change from lately to hear that. You get it though. After last night, you can’t feel anything else either. Even if he technically didn’t say goodbye in words, you get it. You aren’t mad. Chances are one or both of you would have fucked it up this morning. This way at least, it leaves the night you spent together untarnished. Makes it feel like holding on to a good dream, before the realities of the day can set in and make things fraught.

Frankie’s face crumples with concern as you gaze wistfully into the middle-distance. “You gonna be alright?”

You pump your eyebrows. Search yourself for feelings. “You know what? Yeah. I am. I’m okay.”

Frankie’s eyes glint playfully then. “Oh. So you won’t need alllll o’ these yummy pastries?”

You laugh as he eyes the pain au chocolat pointedly. “Get stuck in, Morales,” you invite fondly, and he obliges, scraping up a stool and wiggling on his ass until he’s comfy.

“Hey. So,” he says through mouthfuls. “Did you two figure anything out?”

You groan at the sheer complexity of Frankie’s simple question. Did you? Or are you still going around in circles? “We know we love each other. The rest? Uh. I still don’t know.”

“He’ll get there.”

You puff air out from between your teeth.

“You don’t think so?” Frankie interprets.

You wrap your arms around your middle. “It’s not that. It’s… I don’t think it was all on him.” You don’t have any blame or accusations left. No grudges to hold on to - your hands are open. You’ve both made mistakes. Manufactured this distance, in your own ways - sometimes literally, sometimes not. You were both just trying to figure all this out as best as you could.

Frankie’s brows notch and rise with a silent question. How so? What do you mean?

The thoughts form as you speak them. Clumsy yet intrepid. “I guess... It just feels like we were… Both waiting for the other person to get somewhere, you know? But this whole time, we should’ve been heading there together. Otherwise, how the fuck were we supposed to know where to end up?” You slide a palm over your face. “Christ. Does that make any fucking sense?”

Frankie ponders. “I think so. Like trying to meet on the highway without a time or a place or directions?”

You reach out and clasp his hand. “You get me, buddy.”

Frankie blinks, tangling himself up further in your metaphor, but valiantly trying to muddle through. “And so… do you…?” He scratches his chaotic mop of hair. “Do you have a map now? A meeting point? I mean… What happens next? On the highway?” Your mouth lilts into a gentle smile at Frankie’s earnest question. He notes and feeds your amusement, going off the deep-end with this metaphor now. “Are you driving in shifts, chiquita? Grabbing cheez-its for the road?”

You laugh, the musical sound mingling with Frankie’s throaty chuckle. “What happens next?” You repeat the question out loud, carefully, posing it to yourself. Hasn’t that always been the question? However, the very sentiment which used to scare you now feels a lot more like potential. Like possibility.

Still, you feel -for the moment- like leaving that question hanging. You leave a pregnant pause. You let it breathe.

For now; you let it go. You let him go.

“Where are the other guys at, anyway?”

Frankie rides your tangent with ease. “Packing shit up.”

“We should help them.”

“Yeah, we should,” Frankie grins mischievously, and yet neither of you make any effort whatsoever to mobilise.

Instead, Frankie pours you a cup of coffee from the pot.

“You wanna call off the hike today?” he asks hopefully, Frankie increasingly a creature of comfort.

“No. Hell no. I need to move.” You lock your fingers and stretch your arms above your head, a satisfying stretch extending down your spine.

Frankie’s eyes sparkle across at you. “Just not in aid of helping the Millers pack their trunk, huh?”

“Exactly! What did I tell you, bud. You get me.”

You do though. You need to move. You need to move forward. No more standing in place. No more moving in circles, always repeating.

Still, when you think about it. When you think to what is ahead, to what is next, your stomach drops. You feel overcome by a sudden anxiety which you can’t place at first. Like having misplaced something dear to you. Like having done something wrong but not being able to recall exactly what. Then, all of a sudden, you understand it entirely.

“Listen. Tell me about this job, Frankie.”

He immediately tenses up. “What job?”

You take a bite of your pastry. “The one with Lorea’s cash house.”

Frankie simply groans. He always knows more than he lets on, this one. About everything. Everyone.

“Is it true? That you and the boys are in?”

You can plainly see his reticence to respond. But you know for a fact that he’s about to cave.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

“They need a pilot,” Frankie states, looking up at you with guilty, puppy dog eyes.

“Fuck me. He dragged you back in too, huh? You know… Sometimes I wonder if any of us are good for each other.” Your tone grows mildly irate, your heart quickening, but you recognise it for what it is. It’s simply anger veiling worry. You love these boys.

“Come on, don’t say that,” Frankie bargains. “We’ve dragged each other out of hell.”

“And back again.”

Frankie takes a deep breath. His tongue pokes around the meat of his cheek. “He says it’s simple recon. In and out. No mess.”

You jut your chin up. Stare at him levelly, unblinking. You know that Frankie will give it to you straight. Know that he can’t help himself. “And you buy that?”

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

“Not for a fucking second.”

You scoff, shaking your head. Not when it comes from Santiago, no. After all, you’ve fallen for Santiago’s bullshit plenty of times yourself. It’s the fact that Frankie would wander in with his eyes wide open to it that really gets you. It’s something else.

Still, before you can chastise him for being so stupid, Frankie glumly offers up some explanation. “Look. I need the job. I… I got my license revoked.”

Your heart drops - and your face with it. Your hands clamp over your mouth. “Frankie,” you say softly, with empathy. “Fuck.”

He hunches in on himself despondently, his hands disappearing up his sleeves, his fists clenching and his gaze cast downward. “I fucked up, man. Cassie has a baby on the way and I fucked up.” His eyes swim with a deep shame.

“Coke?” you venture, tentatively.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

Slowly, he nods.

“Frankie.” Your hand swipes over your face, and your eyes fill with concern for him. His palm waves in the air, however, quickly dismissing any sympathies you may care to bestow.

“I’m back on track. Getting there. I am.” His eyes are nothing but determined. Sincere. “But I need this gig. No matter how fucking hare-brained a scheme that pendejo is cooking.”

“Think of the baby, dude.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Frankie says forcefully, in a harsh tone he rarely uses, and you know in no uncertain terms that the conversation is done. That he’s made his mind up, and that he won’t hear you out any further on the matter.

You swallow. Regroup. You chew on some platitudes, but none of them feel quite right.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Frankie says after a stretched, tense moment. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s okay,” you jostle his shoulder, and it shakes a little of the tension from him and the room. “I get it. And shit. I’m sorry for putting all of my bullshit on you this weekend. I wish you’d said something, Cat.”

He shrugs. Speaks with finality. “There’s not much to say. It’s done. I just need to make it right. And I will.”

“I believe it. But you do know that I’m… If you need… Anything, Frankie.”

He looks up at you then, the warmth back in his eyes as your voice cracks, searching for the words. But, he already knows everything you could ever say. You’ve said it before, a hundred times. He knows you love him. Knows you’re proud of him. Knows you’d do anything for him. Knows you want the best for him. He knows it already.

In turn, you are sure that he already knows everything you could possibly call him out on. That he’s already thought about it. Weighed it up. Thought about the risks. About the possibility that he’s acting out of desperation. The possibility that he’d probably be better off staying the hell away from Pope’s schemes.

He scrapes his stool back and comes to you, bundling you into a tight, warm, big brother hug. You tug in a deep breath, and you let it go. You’re done trying to control everything around you. It never really got you anywhere.

Still, there’s an undeniably uncomfortable knot in your chest as you think about them all gearing up. Strapping on their tac vests. Shoving clotting pads into their med packs. It makes you feel physically ill. And so, you can’t help yourself. “Do me a favour, Frankie? Don’t take Tom?” You muffle the words into his shirt, half hoping they will get lost there. That maybe he didn’t even hear you. But, you know when he braces his hands on your shoulders to get a good look at you, that your game is up.

“Why not?”

You see it then, in his eyes. That Tom is not a risk Frankie has considered. His presence not something he has weighed up.

You deliver your words as plainly and transparently as possible. “He’s too hungry, Cat.”

Frankie simply locks eyes with you, as though trying to weed out your motives. Shrewdly trying to assess your conclusions. Is this just your petty vendetta talking? Is this intelligence? Is this coming from your gut?

“Please. Just trust me.”

“I do,” he nods eventually, but you should know better than to feel any relief. And next, there it is. “I do but it’s not my call.”

Well. You’ve said your piece. You guess that’s all you’ve got. Absent-mindedly, you tug on Frankie’s lapels. “You’d better come back to me, Cat,” you plead plaintively. “And by God, you’d better bring those other fuckers back with you to boot.”

With a wistful affection, Frankie tugs you to him again and you stand there in silence for a few more moments, the sounds of the other guys evident in the background. In time, you and Frankie release each other and gravitate towards them, tucking yourselves under the porch to survey their efforts packing up the trucks.

“We should probably help,” you repeat again, and, to your side, your hear Frankie’s murmur of agreement. However, when you glance to him you see his long, lean frame stretched out up against the wooden porch post. He looks like a man with nowhere else to be in a hurry.

“Fuck,” he curses at nothing in particular, surveying the animated bodies of his buddies before him with both awe and trepidation. “How did we get here? Years of service and none of us have anything to show for it.”

That’s a Santiago sales pitch, through and through, you reckon. You recognise his propaganda. Funny, since he used to swallow the flag for breakfast. Is that how he got to him then? Convinced Frankie he could finally make bank? Take what he deserved? Ah. Or give his family what they deserved? Frankie is all about family.

A sad smile twitches your mouth. “Well. That’s not entirely true, is it? Not nothing.” You think of what you’ve gained from all of this. “I got a gaggle of weird ass brothers. A suitcase full of trauma. A fucked back. And! An array of unhealthy coping mechanisms.”

Despite the darkness of your statement, Frankie’s eyes crinkle. What else is left to do but laugh, anyway? “Maybe Will should put that in his speech.”

You belly chuckle at that, moving to lean up against the opposite post. “Yeah. Scare those poor recruits off before they can end up like us, huh?”

Frankie looks wistful again. “It hasn’t been all bad.”

No. It hasn’t. He’s not wrong about that.

You ponder on it. If you could go back and change your path - would you? But, despite everything, your squad would be far too much to lose. “Sure. The weird thing is, as shitty as it’s been at times? I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

There is a beat, and Frankie reaches out across the space between you and wordlessly clasps your hand.

“Listen. You gonna be okay, Frankie?” He looks down at his worn sneakers, contemplatively, as though he really doesn’t know the answer yet. You give his hand a squeeze, trying to let him know that’s okay. “We’ll talk more, okay?”

He nods - a subtle, concessionary thing, like maybe he could really do with that.

“I get why you didn’t tell me. But I’m sorry. That I didn’t do a better job of asking.”

“It’s not on you,” he says generously. A little too generously, in your estimation. You’ve been rather wrapped up in your own shit. A little too self-involved. “I know I can talk to you. I just… I, uh. Didn’t want to ruin the weekend.” The irony of that statement causes a throaty chuckle to bounce in Frankie’s neck, and your palm slides over your face in regret even as you laugh in reciprocity.

“Christ. I did a great job of that all by myself.”

“Well,” Frankie says good-naturedly, shifting to bump your hip with his. Wrapping his crooked arm over your shoulder. “You had some help.”

It is your turn now to look wistful, as you contemplate the storm that is Santiago, and all the rubble he left behind. “He’s really gone again.” Frankie simply squeezes you a little tighter. “Hey. Anything else I should know, by the way?” you needle. “You’re not holding out on me?”

Frankie sucks air through his teeth. “Tom and Molly. She finally served him papers.”

You fold forward, hinging to collapse your upper half onto the porch rail. “Fuck. Shit. I really need to start being nicer to that shithead.” Still, from behind, Frankie’s familiar chuckle buoys you, even as you inwardly berate yourself for getting wrapped up in your own business. “We’re all messes, huh, Frankie? Do you think we can fix it?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I do.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

You toss him a soft, grateful smile, which extends as Will makes his way over to your position, greeting you “Hey, slackers!”. You and Frankie share a conspiratorial glance.

“All set for the hike, Captain?”

“No thanks to you.”

“I had an alternate mission. Ranks of pastries to deplete.”

Will feigns tiredness, but his baby blues sparkle even as he rolls them.

“Anyway. Didn’t need you. All set to head out as soon as you slackers get your act together. You wantin’ to do the usual route, hon?”

You brace your arms against the porch rail. Dig your fingers into the wood. “No,” you say, the words a little tight in your chest, but they feel good. “Not today. There’s somewhere else. Somewhere I always wanted to go.”

Somewhere new.

“Fine by me,” Frankie offers. “Just let me grab more pastries.”

***

You relish the hike, when it comes. You relish walking a path that is -to you- entirely untrodden. That he can’t touch. You walked the old, familiar trails for too long, and the only place it ever got you was right back where you started.

The bullshit ends here. You’ve decided.

And so, you turn your attention away from your sun, and to the wider constellation of stars around you. To yourself.

You even do your best to make peace with Tom. To put old grudges to bed.

You relish the hike. Enjoy the undulating landscape. You don’t know for sure what’s next, or where you’re going, but the difference is that for once, that feels okay. Full of potential.

You walk until your legs burn, and when you get to the summit you take a moment to drink in the crisp, clifftop air. To look out across the ocean. To see it from a distance and to know that this time, it cannot break you over and over and over.

Still, when you’re at the top, as if by providence, Santiago texts you.

“Hey. Sorry I had to take off early. I wanna say… Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For the best night of my life.”

“Ah. Fuck it,” you whisper to yourself, and you press the button to call him. You immediately call him. He immediately picks up. “Hi.”

”Hi. What’s up? They just announced my gate.”

”That’s okay, I’ll be quick. I, uh. I just needed to tell you too. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For a proper goodbye.”

“Look, I’m sorry that I-”

“-I’m not mad, Santi. I think… I think we said everything we have to say, right? I think it was…”

”…Perfect?”

”Yeah. Yeah, pretty perfect.”

“Listen. It’s selfish, but. With everything coming up. The Lorea job and… I needed it, you know? Needed that image of you sleeping.”

There’s an ache in your chest and it’s bittersweet.

He cares for you in every way he knows how, doesn’t he? In every way he can. He’s not perfect, but hey, neither are you. You’re both a little bit broken, but that doesn’t mean you can’t heal. And most of all, it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve love while you’re doing it.

One day, he’ll turn up at your door, and he’ll be welcome. Whenever that is. Whenever it happens. But until then, you can’t just wait for him.

Until then, you’ll love him; from a distance.

No longer can you leave him in anger. No longer can he break you.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Maybe one day, that will even be enough.

“Would you promise me something?”

“Sure.”

“Come back and visit soon, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I promise.”

You conclude the call, and you stretch your arms above your head. A pleasant tingle snakes down your back as it cracks. You haven’t felt so relaxed in a long time. You don’t think you’ve ever felt such peace.

The path that you are walking is yours, and you implicitly trust where it’s taking you.

***

You are grateful to slip into the passenger side of Frankie’s car, beginning the drive back to the city and signalling the end of your stay at the beach house. Still, there is something bittersweet there too as you leave behind the site of so many memories from over the years - and now, the site of your most perfect night with Santiago.

It reminds you of all you’ve been through. The ups and the downs and plenty of things which went sideways. You are starting to realise though, that perhaps the landscape of love is undulating. That sometimes the terrain is tough. It shouldn’t have been quite so tough though - so steep and unforgiving; and so, you hope for gentler, easier paths ahead.

It is bittersweet then, as you leave this place behind.

As you look forward, having said goodbye. As you wrestle with your past, future, and present.

Frankie swings the car out and onto the highway, the Millers up ahead and Tom behind, your vehicles forming a convoy through the dark, the glow of headlights illuminating the route ahead.

You sit in silence, eyes and thoughts unfocussed, in abstraction, as you watch vague shapes and colours slipping by the window, your own face occasionally reflected right back at you. You look older than you used to. More tired. But you don’t dislike that.

After a while, Frankie’s robust voice slices through the dark, his eyes on the road and hands threading the wheel. “I don’t know if this will make things better or worse but… Do you want to hear it?”

You swivel your head towards him, fractured, liquid panels of light slipping over the planes of his face as your surroundings pass by in a haze. “Hear what?”

“Pope’s heartbreak playlist?”

Your hands dig into your thighs where they rest. “Do I?”

“Well?” Frankie asks, his finger poised over the button, and evidently not willing to make that decision for you.

“Yeah. Fuck it.”

You brace a little, in all honesty. A tightness takes hold of your chest as you wonder if the first track to befall your ears might be angry. Resentful. Full of blame or sadness that you can’t hope to wrestle with and come out on top. But, as the first notes of the track sound out, you are surprised to find a full, unfettered laugh rises from out of your throat. The tears swell in your eyes next, for it is nothing if not bittersweet.

“That dickhead. I can’t believe…”

You can’t believe it. The fact he has chosen a song which reflects your life together? Which reveals a happy memory?

He loves you, doesn’t he? He has for a long time. And you can’t help but hope that maybe one day, that will even be enough. For tonight though, it will definitely do. You’ll take it. You’ll treasure it.

“Whiskey in the Jar,” Frankie scoffs as he catches on to the song, even if his fingers are drumming against the lip of the wheel involuntarily. “I mean. What the shit’s that all about? He’s a weird kid, I swear.”

“Frankie,” you laugh brightly, turning once again to look wistfully out of the window, as the view of the beach house and the ocean recedes into the distance. You catch another glimpse of yourself in the pane, and this time you look younger, you think. More alive. “Did I ever tell you about that night in Philadelphia?”

#santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #oscar isaac #ride or die series

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

Text

Carpe Noctem 4

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, gaslighting, manipulatin, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (short!reader)

Note: Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

Sundays feel like you have a second job as you tend to everything that’s been neglected during the week. Switching to alpha shift is always hardest as he resets his clock to be at the station by five in the morning. You pity him, your shifts are early but steady; the weeks don’t differ even if your job presents new experiences daily.

Once the apartment is clean you start on dinner, packing some leftovers for his lunch and prepping breakfast for the morning. When that’s done and you’ve eaten, it’s almost time to go to bed. Johnny’s in the shower and you’ll have one of your own after. As you wait, you scroll on your phone.

A puff of steam precedes him as the click of the door draws your attention. He enters with only a towel on, a trickle of water on his abs. You smile at him over the top of your phone.

“Oh, who’s got you so bubbly?” He challenges as he goes to his dresser and pulls out a pair of boxers.

“You,” you say as you put your phone down and stand. “It’ll be nice being on the same shift again.”

“Yeah,” she shrugs and drops his towel, pulling on his boxers before stepping over the damp heap. “I’m gonna stretch out and watch some TV.”

“Alright, I’ll get washed up.”

“Good idea,” he snorts and snaps his knuckles across your ass as he passes.

You squeal and he chuckles. You scoop up his wet towel and take it with you. You hang it over the bar as you enter the bathroom and you gather up the dirty clothes he left on the tile. You take those to the hamper and return to start up the shower with a fresh pair of your pajamas.

The water is lukewarm. The building really only offers a good ten minutes of hot water at a time and he was in there for a while. You wash up and get out to go about your moisturizing ritual, tweezing your brows and a few stray hairs on your chin. You’re not overly zealous about your looks but your self-care is your time.

You enter the bedroom in your cotton pajamas, a pair of shorts and a button up tee. As you go to drop your old clothes in the hamper, you notice Johnny is chewing his thumb at his phone. No, not his, yours.

“What’s going on?” You go to the bed as he keeps his thumb scrolling.

“Your phone kept going off,” he tosses it onto your side of the bed, “I was just tryna shut the damn ringer off.”

“Oh,” you grab it and put it back on the night stand as you crawl in next to him.

“Mmm, you smell like yourself again,” he gives a deep whiff. “You smell like my girl.”

“Johnny, I told you–”

“I know what you said but I don’t know if I believe you.”

You withhold a sigh. You don’t say anything. Arguing will only make him more adamant.

“You know I love you,” you lean over to kiss him. He shifts so you peck his cheek.

“I thought you did,” he slumps back against his pillow and glares at the television.

“You know I do,” you touch his arm gently.

He sniffs and tilts his head, “I don’t want you going out anymore.”

“I’m sorry, but the twins–”

“You gotta decide who’s more important; me or the twins,” he huffs. “I can’t marry a party girl.”

You’re quiet. You swallow and stare at him, almost breathless. “Marry?”

“One day, yeah. When you’re ready,” he says pointedly.

🎀

You come out of the daycare centre, tired to the bone as you drag your feet across the parking lot. Monday’s are usually a bit unpredictable but that day was entirely wild. The kids were like animals, restless and rambunctious. You’re happy to be done, even if you still have to drive home and make dinner.

You come to the far corner where you like to park. It’s in the shade and out of the way of the parents coming and going. As you get to your spot, you slow as you see a figure leaning nonchalantly on your hood. You stop short and your mouth falls open before snapping shut.

“You seem like the kid type,” Lloyd says as he tilts his head, arms crossed over his chest, “you got that motherly touch and all.”

You blink at him, dumbfounded. You say nothing and clutch your keys. You don’t know what to say. You have no idea how he found you or why he would bother. The purple blotch on his cheek might suggest a reason.

You go around the car as you ignore him and unlock only the driver’s side. He steps away from the hood and follows you. You turn and point your key at him sharply.

“Don’t come any closer,” you warn.

“Hey, I’m not doing anything,” he puts his hands up, “I'll keep my hands to myself if you do the same. I'm just here to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you insist as you press your other hand to the handle on the car door.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know you.”

“We can change that, sweet cheeks,” he winks.

“How did you– you know what, doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Go away.”

You open the car door and swing into the seat. As you try to close it, he catches it from the other side, holding it in place as he leans over to see you.

“Your friends are… talkative when they’re drinking,” he smirks, “told me all about you. And Johnny. Sounds like a real prize.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know everything I need to know,” he taunts, “enough to know that you need, nay, you deserve more than that two pump chump.”

You roll your eyes and pull on the door. He’s strong as it doesn’t budge an inch from his grasp. He chortles and lets go as you try again and the door slams. He bends down and looks at you through the window.

“Go take care of the man child,” he sneers, “you can hit me up when you’re ready to be taken care of.”

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #drabble #series #au #carpe noctem #the club #the gray man #johnny storm #fantastic four

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casuallyimagining · 5 months

Text

Doubt || kth.

Kim Taehyung x female!reader

Summary: Taehyung is an eccentric young musician working on a song that he believes will save him. Can it also save the woman he loves?

Genre: Greek Mythology AU, Orpheus AU, Fluff, Angst Word Count: 8,678 Rating: T Warnings: hunger and poverty; manipulation; major character death

Notes: Based on the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. Thanks to @daechwitatamic for beta-ing. Banner by @itaeewon.

It’s so cold out that you can see your breath, a puff of pale steam that quickly disappears into the dull landscape around you. The clouds are starting to lighten, they’re less grey, less dense, and you can tell the sun’s still somewhere up there, at least. But gods, it’s almost mid-May and you can’t remember the last time you’d seen blue sky. Hell, you can’t remember the last time you’d seen the sun.

Growing up, you’d heard stories of the seasons changing on time. Tales of spring coming in late March, bringing rain and flowers and much-needed warmth; that fall would reliably start at the end of September, the land turning to shades of orange and red and yellow. Between that, days got warmer and longer, and then colder and shorter. It was a cycle, and it was predictable, and it was nice, and it was mundane.

That didn’t really happen anymore.

You tug your jacket closer around your body. It’s starting to wear thin and the zipper is broken. You’ll need to find a way to fix it when you get into the next town. There’s no way you’ll be able to afford a new one, but maybe you can trade for some lining and a new zipper. Though that means you’ll have to find something to trade…

Good-paying jobs are hard to find, especially with the world’s economy in flux the way that it is. Most everyone is more focused on finding food and shelter, and people are much more willing to migrate to find work during the good season if they can. You’d been doing odd-jobs up and down the eastern seaboard for years now, as long as you could take care of yourself. Some cleaning here, accompanying someone to a different town there. You’d even done some childcare near the gulf when you’d been down south.

Now, you’re following the railroad tracks north.

Eventually, you stumble upon a sleepy town somewhere south of the city you’re trying to get to. There aren’t that many buildings that you can really see, and most of them are still covered in snow. Snow’s piled up along the streets and under the windows–it’s almost touching the sills in some places. None of the buildings look to be taller than three stories. The town is small, but the square in the middle of town is surrounded by lit buildings. You’re freezing. First stop: find a bar or a hotel or an inn.

The bar isn’t hard to find, but it’s dark when you finally push through the door in a swirl of bitter wind and snow flurries. Every head in the bar turns to look as you enter. You slide into a table by the door, a little embarrassed but ultimately just happy to be out of the cold.

“You’re not from around here.” The man who approaches your table is tall and confident, and when he offers you a soft smile, you instantly feel more at ease. He pulls a small pad of paper out of his back pocket and slides into the booth across from you. “I’m Yoongi.”

You tell him your name, and he tells you what’s good on the menu before taking your order. Yoongi leaves you alone with a promise to check on you later to make sure you have a place to stay the night. You allow yourself to relax into the vinyl cushions of the booth, enjoying the atmosphere–significantly less tense now that Yoongi has welcomed you into the establishment–and the warmth of the fireplace across the room.

There’s a house band that sits in the corner playing some jazzy number that reminds you of one of the gulf cities you’d stayed in back when you were passing through the bayous of the south. The pianist is slight, a little too skinny, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he plays. He’s talented, remarkably so, and paired with the saxophone and the upright bass, the music they play is some of the best you’d heard in a very long time.

A plate clattering onto the table in front of you draws your attention from the band. A young man stands in front of you, honeyed eyes wide. He looks to be around your age, his dark hair pushed out of his eyes with a thick cloth headband. He has a kind energy, despite his sharp features, if not a little odd.

“Yoongi said you’re new in town,” he says finally, his voice a little deeper than you were expecting. “Do you have somewhere to stay? Are you going to be here long? You should stay with Yoongi and I.”

You sigh. The man is forward, that’s for sure. You’d been hoping to grab a hot meal here, rest a little, and move on. You’re close to the city–maybe a couple days of walking, less if you can hitch a ride with someone or sneak on the train. But you can tell that this place, and these people, is somewhere you could easily stay in.

You can’t let that happen.

Yoongi appears then, a glass of water in his hands. He places it on the table in front of you, nudging the man out of the way. “Don’t be a pest, Taehyung. Remember what I said about scaring away my customers?”

“Oh, so he’s like this with everyone?” You ask it playfully, but there’s a bit of real questioning in it. You get the sense that maybe this guy–this Taehyung–is a bit of an oddball. Not in a bad way, but you’d like to know what you’re dealing with.

The way Yoongi rolls his eyes tells you that yes, Taehyung is like this with everyone. “He tell you about his song yet?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Oh, he’s a singer.”

Taehyung blushes, a light dusting of pink blossoming across his cheeks. “There’s this contest, and I… The prize is a year’s supply of soup.”

You hum. Any more, money isn’t really a great prize. Bartering is more or less how the economy runs. But soup? Any kind of food in that amount would make someone richer than even the wealthiest city dwellers.

Taehyung is certainly an intriguing fellow.

You can’t say at what point in the night Yoongi slipped away, or when Taehyung slipped into the booth across from you. But you can’t deny that--despite his way too forward introduction--his presence is comfortable.

“What brings you into town?” he asks as you take a bite of your sandwich, watching you expectantly as you chew.

“Job hunting,” you say simply, glancing in the direction of the band as they start to play again.

“What did you do before? Where are you from?”

You shrug. “Bit of everything.”

Taehyung hums and rests his chin in his hand. If he notices that you ignore his second question, he doesn’t mention it. “Hey, maybe Yoongi could give you a job? He’s always saying about needing someone else to wait tables. Apparently I’m ‘unreliable’ and ‘flighty’.” He makes a face, eyes widening almost comically as he wiggles his head.

Then, he sighs dramatically and watches the band for a moment before bursting into a fit of giggles. It’s a little dopey, but it’s endearing how his face scrunches up and he covers his mouth with his hand.

When he calms down, he leans on his hand. “Yoongi really isn’t that bad to work for. He’s just busy is all. He runs the bar, but he’s also station master over at the train station, and he delivers mail sometimes when the post office is short-staffed.”

“That’s… a lot of jobs.”

Taehyung shrugs. “He likes to stay busy.”

Things quiet down, then, and you listen to the band play as you finish your meal. Sometimes, Taehyung speaks, telling you a bit about his life and about the bar, but for the most part, he sits with you in silence. He nods along with the band, and every once in a while, he pulls out a small notebook to jot something down. Even though he isn’t talking as much, he seems happy. You get the sense that he’s just excited you aren’t ignoring him or shooing him away.

When it’s time for the bar to close, Yoongi comes to collect Taehyung so they can get to work cleaning and closing the establishment.

“Wait for me?” Taehyung whispers to you as you stand from the booth. He tugs the scarf from around his neck and drapes it over yours. The striped fabric is a little thin, but you can feel his body heat radiating off it slightly. “I’ll meet you when we’re done. There’s a park down that way three blocks.” He points east. “It’s just across the street from my apartment. You can wait there if you want.”

He’s gone before you even confirm that you’d wait for him.

“He’s a good kid,” Yoongi’s voice from behind you makes you jump. “He’s a little naive, but he’s got a big heart.” He holds the door open for you as you leave the bar. He nods at you. “I’ll see you later.”

The night is cold, but nowhere near as bitter as it had been a few nights before. The seasons are starting to change. This year, if you’re lucky, maybe it'll last the correct amount of time.

You find the park easily, wandering around it for a few minutes before selecting a bench near the center fountain. It’s turned off to prevent the icy spray from getting whipped around in the wind, and you’re grateful. The last thing you need is to be cold and wet.

It’s a surprisingly nice night. The clouds have parted, if only slightly, and you can see stars in the breaks in the gloom. You tug your jacket around your body and wrap Taehyung’s scarf around your neck, closing your eyes and leaning back against the bench. It’s been so long since you’ve gotten to just relax.

You’d started out almost a month ago when the blizzard ended. The town you had been staying in had started to get too small, the people had started to get too friendly. It had all started to chafe at your brain. So you’d left and started walking, catching a ride where you could, always following the train tracks.

You don’t hear the footsteps behind you until a body sliding onto the bench beside you makes you jump.

“Sorry,” Taehyung apologizes, a soft, boxy smile on his lips. “We uh… we finished up early, and you looked so pretty just sitting here. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

It’s not a problem, and you tell him as much, placing a hand on his forearm as he leans sideways against the back of the bench. The flush springs to his cheeks almost immediately, his eyes flashing to where you’re touching him.

“So you’re a singer,” you ask, changing the subject. Taehyung nods sheepishly. “Sing something for me?”

“Oh! I uh… wouldn’t know what to sing.” Taehyung dismisses you with a wave of his hand.

You hum. “Oh come on. You can’t just say you’re working on this song and then not sing.”

He sighs. “I don’t know...”

“At least hum something for me?”

For a moment, he stays silent, and you think he’s going to tell you no again. Which would be fine. You would drop it. You’re curious, and you’re a little stubborn, but you know when to drop something. But when he opens his mouth, he sings.

The tune is beautiful and haunting, despite it being incredibly simple. It’s only a few notes that for the most part move up and down along the scale. You’re mesmerized, and you close your eyes, feeling a warmth spreading through your body. He stops suddenly, and the park grows eerily quiet.

“Taehyung, you’re amazing.”

His smile is brilliant, and he looks beautiful in what little moonlight there is. You don’t know why your stomach is doing flips.

“Oh hey you two,” Yoongi greets, suddenly in front of you. “Ready to go home?”

As it turns out, Taehyung and Yoongi live together. You walk across the street with the two men, pausing in front of a door between the two ground-floor businesses–a bookstore and an empty storefront.

Yoongi slumps into the sofa, seemingly exhausted, while Taehyung disappears deeper into the apartment. He returns a few minutes later, changed into more comfortable clothes, carrying some blankets and a change of clothes for you, too.

“You can use these,” he says, handing the bundle to you. Then, he turns to Yoongi. “It would be nice to be able to offer a job, you know…”

“It’s late. We’ll talk more later. It’s past my bedtime, and you kids have to be up early tomorrow. It’s a big day.”

“Wh-” Yoongi waves goodnight, and he’s gone before Taehyung can even finish his sentence.

A few moments pass in silence before Taehyung yawns, stretching his arms above his head. He encourages you to get comfortable and bids you goodnight then, apologizing for not having a proper bed for you to sleep in. His is small, he says, or he’d offer to share. But honestly, the couch doesn’t seem so bad. It looks soft, and it’s better than sleeping on a bench outside. He looks like he wants to leave, but he’s frozen in place.

“Thanks,” you tell him softly. “For everything. You’ve been nothing but kind to me. I appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“Do you want your scarf back?” You unwind it from around your neck, holding it out slightly for him to take.

“Keep it.” He offers you a shy smile before leaning in and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Goodnight!” He hurries away, turning off the light as he goes, leaving you standing in the middle of their living room alone and in the dark.

You hadn’t missed the bright blush on his cheeks, or the way your pulse had quickened at his touch.

-----

It’s a beautiful day. You were worried because the past few days, it had been sweltering hot. The kind of oppressive summer heat that saps your energy and makes you want to do nothing but lay in front of a fan all day. But it’s cooled off some, and there’s a nice breeze going.

You sit on the bank of the river, just close enough to the water where you can feel it lapping at your bare feet, but not close enough to actually get wet. It’s serene sitting there, listening to the birds chirp in the trees and the ducks splashing around in the water. Very different from the seemingly constant chaos that is Yoongi’s bar. Even when it isn’t busy, it’s loud. And while you enjoy the atmosphere, you’re not used to constantly being around that many people. It takes a lot out of you.

Which is why you took the opportunity to come to the river just on the other side of the train tracks to take a break on your day off. Taehyung had followed you, because of course he had. But you don’t mind. You don’t feel the need to entertain him, to constantly be talking with him. You barely have to focus on him. It seems to be enough for him to just exist in each other’s company. It’s nice.

He has his head in your lap, laying perpendicular to you. One of his knees is bent and he has the other one raised and resting against his bent knee, creating a little table for himself as he scribbles in his notebook.

“What are you thinking?” you ask him, reaching down and brushing his hair out of his eyes. It’s grown longer. You wish he would let you give him a haircut.

“Music,” Tae responds simply, his attention flicking to you for the briefest of moments. You can see the playfulness in his eyes, even as he turns his focus back to his notebook. He’s determined to finish that song. “And how I want to marry you.”

He’s been playfully asking you since the second day. At this point, he says it so nonchalantly that you aren’t even phased anymore. You roll your eyes and poke him right in the middle of his forehead.

You brought a book--one of Yoongi’s, he doesn’t mind that you borrow it--and you read while he works, stealing glances at him subtly every once in a while. His concentration face is truly a sight to behold, all focused eyes and set jaw and furrowed brow. Sometimes, he catches you looking and flashes you a confused, boxy grin, which you return. You’re pretty sure he has no idea what he does to you.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks softly. When you look down at him, his full attention is on you, his notebook resting face-down against his chest. He fiddles with his pen.

You hum and lean back against the hill, letting the book fall to the ground gently beside you. “Sing me something?”

So he does. He sits up only to fall to the ground again to lay beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours. He sings of longing, of love lost, and of love yet to be. It’s beautiful and haunting and sad, but there’s a kind of hope in the song, too. When he’s done, he reaches out, hand grasping your own, and the two of you sit in silence for a long while.

Eventually, he shifts beside you and grabs his notebook from where it fell to the ground when he sat up. Smiling, you reach out and brush his hair off his forehead. He glances up at you, eyes sparkling with the reflection of the smile on his lips. His smile is unlike anything you’d ever seen. It’s innocent, and warm, and so unabashedly joyous that it makes you feel like nothing bad can ever happen if he was there.

You’ve never felt like that before.

You’ve been alone for so long--it’s been just you since your parents had passed in your early teens--you barely even recognize how much it sucks. You’ve gotten so used to being alone, you no longer even recognize that you’re lonely. For so long, you’ve forced yourself not to get close to anyone, have focused on taking care of yourself for so long, that you hadn’t even recognized your heart had grown cold. All you’d ever known was how to take care of yourself and get to the next day. And the next one. And the one after that.

You like the warmth he brings you. You like how he makes you feel: as if maybe you don’t have to go it alone. You like that he makes you feel happy.

And you have no idea what to do with that information.

It terrifies you a little. You’ve only known him for a few months, but it feels like you’ve known him for your entire life.

“What are you thinking about?” Tae’s voice cuts through your thoughts. He reaches over and squeezes your hand, fingers slotting between yours. “You look like you're thinking hard about something.”

You hum. There’s no way you can tell him your exact thoughts, you can barely articulate them to yourself. It’s a lot, and you don’t want to scare him away. You want this--whatever this is--to last. So you sigh, and instead of telling him what you want to, you simply say, “Just thinking.”

“Ah.” He nods sagely. “Big thoughts. I get that.” For a moment, he’s quiet, toying with your fingers in the silence. “Can I tell you something?” All of a sudden, he seems nervous. You can feel the anxious energy practically radiating off him. He can’t seem to look you in the eye. His other hand clutches at his notebook.

“Yeah, of course.”

“I just…” Taehyung swallows hard before taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “I know I can be a lot. I know I daydream a lot, and I get too into my songs, and I have trouble paying attention sometimes when you tell me things. I know I’m weird. So, I guess, just… thank you for wanting to spend time with me.”

You smile gently, feeling your heart soften even more at his vulnerability. “I like spending time with you, Tae,” you say earnestly. And you do. You’ve never enjoyed someone’s company as much as you enjoy his.

“I really do want to marry you,” he confesses softly, his eyes darting out to the river. “I know that’s dumb, but it’s true.”

Two months ago, you would have dismissed him--you had dismissed him--as just being a man looking for one thing. But now that you know Taehyung, well… things are different. “Let’s get through this winter, then we’ll talk.”

“Really?”

“You would have to promise me things, Tae. We both know how rough the world can be. I need to know you’re willing to weather whatever storms come this way.”

He nods eagerly. “I will. You know I will.”

You wrap your arms around him then and pull him to you, his arms immediately slotting around your waist. He’s warm, and despite the fact that it’s sweltering hot out, you’re certain you could stay wrapped up in his arms until you both turn to dust and scatter to the wind.

“Tell me you’ll hold me forever. Tell me that things won’t change when the storms get bad. Promise we’ll stay with each other and it will always be like this.”

You feel him nod against you, feel him hold you tighter. “I will. All of it. More. I promise. It’ll always be like this. You and me.”

When you pull away, his dark eyes are warm and inviting, the small smile on his lips inviting, drawing you in until you’re connected. His kiss is soft, tender, and for a moment, he’s frozen, as if his brain short-circuited and he’s trying to reboot. But then he’s kissing you back, slow and measured. You want to memorize what he feels like in this moment, his hair tickling your face in the light breeze, his hands pressed into your lower back.

His nose brushes against yours as you part. There’s a dusting of pink across his cheeks, and he has the goofiest, most awestruck smile. It makes your stomach do a flip seeing him like that. And in that moment, you know that this adorable man will be the death of you.

-----

You cringe as the door to the apartment slams shut behind you. The wind had kicked up over the past half-hour, and while the door needed some extra force to shut it, you had overestimated just how much extra. Thus, the slam. Normally, Yoongi would have yelled at you, but he’s working double duty at the station because of the storm, making sure that travelers are getting where they want to go in a safe and relatively timely manner.

If Taehyung heard the door slam, he doesn’t seem to care. Though, you doubt that he had heard it at all. Tae had entered a self-imposed sabbatical almost two weeks ago, attempting to finish his song. He seems to have placed an arbitrary deadline on it, and he’s determined to meet that goal.

“How’s it going?” you ask softly, hanging up your coat and scarf on the hook by the door. They were gifts from Yoongi at the start of the winter. Something to help you to survive if you’re going to keep working for him at the bar.

Taehyung doesn’t even look up from his notebook at the sound of your voice. He sits at the small piano in the corner of the living room, brows furrowed, staring at the pages of scribbles he had been working on for the past few days. He’d been in the same place when you’d left for the bar.

You nod, walking into the kitchen and pulling a glass down from the cabinet over the sink. “It’s starting to get bad out there,” you say absently, watching out the window as you fill the glass with water. And it is. You can see the wind blowing snow flurries perpendicular to the ground. Snowing sideways, your mom had called it.

You glance at the cupboards as you walk back into the living room, briefly opening up the refrigerator to check out the situation. “We need food,” you tell Taehyung as you sit the glass of water down beside his piano. “And we’re starting to run low on firewood.” Luckily, Yoongi had stocked the apartment with wood for the fireplace before the storm had gotten too bad, but those supplies are starting to dwindle now that he hardly has time to come home.

“It’s right there,” he mumbles, and though you suspect he’s talking more to himself than to you, you can’t help but respond.

“What?”

“The melody. It’s right there. It’s like it’s just been… forgotten.” He scribbles something more down into his notebook. “That’s why the seasons are all messed up. But it’s right there, just out of reach. It won’t get better until we remember.”

“Then you’d better finish it quick.” You push his hair back and lean in, placing a delicate kiss to his forehead. He hums briefly and squeezes your hand. “I’m going to run out and get some firewood and maybe swing by the pantry to see if I can get some supplies to hold us over until Yoongi comes back.”

But he’s gone again, his attention back to his notebook and the 88 keys in front of him. You sigh and nod, returning to the hook by the door to grab your coat and scarf. You want to have faith in him. You want to believe he’s right, and that the song he’s working on can fix things.

“Okay, you finish it,” you tell him, knowing full well he isn’t paying attention. “I’ll be back soon.”

And so you step back out into the biting wind and freezing cold. You pull your coat tighter, flipping your collar up to attempt to shield your neck from the snow. The public pantry is further away, so you turn in that direction, going mostly on instinct because it’s nearly impossible to see with all the snow that’s falling.

You walk for about 20 minutes before stopping. You should have reached the pantry already. But there’s a large open lot beside it. Yoongi said it was an old field for playing sports--an old football field, he had said, and a baseball field beside it. You know the field is to the left of the pantry, so you turn to the right and begin to walk again, the snow getting tougher to trudge through, and the visibility continues to worsen as you go.

You’re confused. There’s no way you had gotten this far off-track. The town isn’t that difficult to navigate, and you should have come across some building by now, even if it isn’t the communal pantry. Instead, you’re still in the middle of a snow-covered field, the blizzard raging on around you. You turn around in an attempt to follow your steps back in the direction you came.

Unfortunately, your footprints are gone, already covered by the snow.

“You’re resourceful,” a voice behind you says, the howling of the wind calming as if commanded.

You spin around, coming face to face with a young man. He looks to be Taehyung’s age, maybe slightly older, his dark hair neatly styled and combed back off his forehead. He wears a white collared shirt under a smartly tailored suit jacket and a woollen double-breasted coat, a pair of lined leather gloves on his hands.

“Are you lost, little songbird?” His voice is deep and warm, and you find yourself drawn to him, taking a few steps forward. At your silence, he smirks, and you can see the stars dancing in his eyes as dimples press into his cheeks. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

“I was trying to get to the pantry,” you manage, taking another step forward. And then another. Until you’re standing directly in front of him.

“You’re going to freeze to death out here.” He pouts, reaching out to rub your arms, creating some friction and heat. His touch isn’t even direct, but you can feel the warmth in him, like he’s made of fire. “You’re going to the pantry? Why?”

“We’re running low on food.”

He hums and nods sagely. “That’s no good. Pretty little songbirds like you don’t deserve to suffer.”

You feel your cheeks heat at his words and pray that if he notices you’re flushed, he assumes it’s from the cold. You have no idea why he’s affecting you like this. Normally, you would walk away by now. But something about this man’s aura draws you in.

“I’ve seen you around,” he says, adjusting the hat on your head. It’s Taehyung’s beanie. You borrowed it to keep your ears warm. “You have a good head on your shoulders. Smart. Resourceful. You’d do well as a manager. Have you ever thought of working in a factory or a warehouse?”

“No, I… I’ve never really been one to put down roots.” You have no idea why you’re telling him that.

“Shame. I think you’d be good at it. And it’s a good job, you know? Steady income. Guaranteed housing. Meal vouchers provided by the company.”

“Which company?”

“Mine.” He flashes you a wide smile, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. The sight of it warms you from the inside. “Think about it, okay? When you have nothing to lose, you’ll be welcome.” He digs into his pockets and pulls out a slip of paper. “Take the train to the end of the line. I’ll be waiting.”

With that, the snow and wind pick up so harshly you have to shield your face. When it calms down seconds later, you’re standing in front of the public pantry, and the man is gone.

-----

Two days pass, and you can’t get the beautiful man with the captivating aura out of your head. He hadn’t said much, but he was charismatic, and you couldn’t help but hang on his words. He had said you were smart and resourceful. No one had ever complimented you like that before. It threw you off, but you can’t help but admit that it had made your heart soar a little.

It was nice to feel wanted.

Taehyung is still working on his song when you walk into the living room in the morning. It seems like he never moved. He’s always sitting at the piano, staring at his notebook. Sometimes, he’ll move to the couch, but he never leaves the living room, never looks up from his notebook.

You know his song is important, know he has to finish it to send it off, and truly, you know that when he does, it could save you all, even Yoongi. But at the same time, you have concerns. Things were so different in the summertime. It was supposed to be the two of you: birds of a feather. You were supposed to weather the storms together.

And yet…

You sigh, looking into the cupboards to try to find something small. You’re starving. The pantry wasn’t able to help nearly as much as you hoped, and it’s hard trying to feed both you and Taehyung on the meagre leftovers in Yoongi’s cabinets. You hoped he would’ve been home by now to help--he always seemed to be able to help find food--but the storm hadn’t let up and he’s still out there making sure mail gets delivered and travelers arrive at their destinations safely.

“We’re going to need food again soon.” You say it loud enough that you know he can hear you, but whether it registers or not, you have no idea.

You watch him work, watch as he taps one of the piano keys repeatedly as he thinks, the sharp ‘tink tink tink’ of the note permeating the otherwise silent living room. After a moment, it becomes clear that he didn’t, in fact, heard you, and you feel the annoyance and hurt flare inside you.

You’re angry at yourself most of all. You could have left. You could have gone somewhere else, found a job--a good paying job where the owner wouldn’t forget to pay you because he’s out playing postmaster and barkeep and stationmaster all at the same time--found shelter and food and safety for the winter. But instead, you had followed your heart for once.

And look where that got you.

Your mind drifts once again to the mysterious stranger and his promises. You have no idea if he would keep them, but anything is better than starving to death. You want to stay--it almost physically hurts you to think of leaving--but you can’t ignore the ache in your stomach or the chill in your bones.

“Tae?” you try softly, walking into the living room and stopping in front of the piano. “Taehyung?” Your tone is sharp in an attempt to get his attention. But he doesn’t look up. He simply hums in a brief acknowledgement. “I’m going out.” The words leave your mouth before you even really know what you’re saying. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. Or if.”

He plays another note on the piano.

You turn away, not wanting him to see your heart breaking. As you grab your coat off the hook on the wall, the paper the mysterious stranger had given you flutters to the ground from your pocket. You pick it up and examine it one last time.

It’s gold, but it doesn’t glitter. The writing on it is neat, if a little smudged, as though placed there by an old-fashioned stamper and inkpad.

No charge.

One-way.

VIP.

Your fingers tremble as you stuff the ticket back into your pocket. With one last glance at Taehyung scribbling in his notebook, hair falling into his eyes despite his headband, eyes and jaw set in concentration, you’re gone.

-----

The factory floor is quiet. The only sounds come from the machines. You sit at your workstation, your eyes strained from watching the repetitiveness of the assembly line. You tried to talk to some of your coworkers the other day. Or was it yesterday? Last week? You can’t remember.

It doesn’t matter. None of them answered you, anyway.

Outside, the shift whistle blows, and you stretch your arms above your head, hearing your joints pop and crack from sitting still for the past however many hours. Your shifts always seem to fly, you can hardly remember what you do during them.

However, despite your fast shifts, you aren’t really sure what it is you make. The factory is huge, encompassing at least five huge buildings the lengths of city blocks. The parts you’re responsible for are small, unidentifiable, made out of metal and a bit of plastic. You don’t even know what they are, let alone what they’re used for. But thousands of them pass by you daily as you make sure they sit upright on the conveyor.

You find yourself wandering through the park just outside of your apartment complex. You aren’t quite sure why, but the park always seemed to draw you in. You love the view from the bench in front of the fountain. The way you can see the buildings peeking out over the tops of the trees makes you feel sentimental in the weirdest way, though you can’t quite put your finger on it.

Along the path through the park blooms flowers in the most brilliant shade of red you’ve ever seen. Sometimes, if you look at them too long, you’re overwhelmed by a sense of melancholy, but you have no idea why. You’ve never seen flowers like that in your life.

There are times where, if you close your eyes, you can almost see yourself somewhere warm and bright. Someone is always at your side. You can never quite make out their face, only how your heart speeds up when they look at you. You’d been in the city for months–you can’t remember how many exactly–and these daydreams don’t look like they happen in the city. Maybe they’re premonitions, or some sort of deja vu.

You hope so. Daydream you always seems so happy.

You’re sitting on your bench in the park after your shift one day when you hear someone speak far off behind you. It makes you jump slightly. You haven’t heard someone speak in… the factory foreman had said something recently, but you hadn’t really paid attention to what he said. So when the voice behind you speaks again and comes closer, you turn to investigate.

The man that approaches you is handsome, if not a little eccentric. His shirt is half-tucked into his pants, and the sweater he’s wearing is too big and very thin. His dark hair bounces as he lightly jogs in your direction. As he gets closer, his smile widens, his dark eyes sparkling with joy.

He speaks again, baritone voice soft and full of emotion. It’s a name he’s calling. Is that… your name? How does he know your name?

“I can’t believe I found you!” he says excitedly, his hands capturing your own as soon as he’s close enough. “Yoongi said it could take forever, but I’ve only been down here a few days. I… I can’t believe it’s you!”

He pulls you to him then, arms wrapping around your waist tightly. You’re confused, but you find yourself hugging him back. He feels skinny--too skinny--and his face is a little sunken-in and dirty, like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. There’s something about him that’s familiar, but…

“I’m sorry,” you say softly when he pulls away. His eyes dart around your face as he holds you at arm’s length. It’s almost like he’s inspecting you. “I… Do I know you?”

For a moment, his eyes light up and he laughs, a gentle guffaw that pulls at your heartstrings in a way that sets your mind–and pulse–racing. But then, it seems, he realizes you aren’t joking. You watch, unable to do anything as his heart breaks right in front of your eyes.

The way he whispers your name, halfway between a prayer and a plea, convinces you. Even if you don’t know him, he certainly knows you. No one sounds that broken over a complete stranger.

“Who…” you try tentatively. There’s no way this won’t be awkward. But you want to know more about him. You’re oddly drawn to him, like you’d known him in some other life. “Who are you?”

“Taehyung.” His voice is barely audible. His fingers twitch, and you get the sense that he wants to pull you in for a hug again and it’s taking a tremendous effort to not.

Why does his name sound so familiar? You’re certain you’ve never seen him before.

“I can’t leave without you.” He sounds determined, confident, like he’d walked halfway through hell to find you. And, well… perhaps he sort of had.

But that’s crazy. You don’t know him.

“Come home with me,” the man–Taehyung–pleads, reaching for your hand. You let him take it.

“I can’t.” For some reason, it makes you sad. You know it in your gut. Even if you do know him, there’s no way you can leave the city.

“You can, though. I know the way. We just have to go back the way I came down. Yoongi told me about it. I don’t know how he knew, but-”

“You’re not from around here, are you, boy?” You have no idea when the man in front of you appeared. The air smells of ash and sulfur, and all of a sudden, it’s hot.

Immediately, you freeze, and you find yourself squeezing Taehyung’s hand. You haven’t seen the man since you’d signed the contract, but down here, he had a reputation for being no-nonsense. When he’s in a good mood, Namjoon looks harmless. But when he’s angry, he’s downright terrifying. And judging by his set jaw and hard eyes, he’s pretty angry. Beside you, Taehyung stiffens, standing up straighter.

“I don’t know who the hell you are, but the little songbird is a law-abiding citizen. You should go back to where you belong.”

“Taehyung, you should go,” you whisper, dropping his hand and taking a step away.

He turns to you, dark eyes sad when they meet yours. “I’m not leaving without you.”

Namjoon laughs, loud and boisterous and dark. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” he asks, taking a step forward. “Don’t you think she would have left already if she could? She signed on the dotted line. She’s here forever now.”

“What?” Taehyung’s attention darts back and forth between you and Namjoon. “That’s not true. Is it?”

You sigh, avoiding his eyes. “I did what I had to.”

Namjoon’s jaw clenches, and he motions for you to head back into the factory. “Heed my advice, boy. It would be in your best interest to leave. I won’t ask twice.”

A swirl of shadow. The smell of sulfur and ash. And Namjoon is gone.

It takes a few moments, but eventually, the tension leaves your body. Beside you, Taehyung visibly relaxes before he lowers himself to the ground in a defeated huff. For a second, you watch him, unsure of what to do. You still don’t remember him, but he’d come a long way, and for that, you feel bad.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, voice soft.

“No, it’s… it’s not your fault.” For the briefest moments, he stares down at his hands, but then he looks at you, dark eyes big and sad. “What happened?”

You shrug, kick at a rock on the ground and watch it skitter across the pavement before you crouch next to him. “I don’t remember,” you admit sadly. “But there’s this contract. I signed it. I… He made such pretty promises.”

You don’t remember what they were, exactly, but you remember the way Namjoon’s eyes glistened as he spoke, the way his dimple pressed into his cheek as he promised you whatever it took to get you here.

Taehyung hums, his head hanging low. “This is my fault.”

Your heart breaks at the sadness in his voice, at how disappointed in himself he sounds. Part of you wants to comfort him, to tell him that no, it’s not his fault. He did his best. This is just a shitty situation and a powerful man chose you to manipulate and deceive. But you don’t. Because you don’t know how true any of that is.

Something inside of you says that it’s not as true as you’d like.

He grows quiet. All you hear is the factories around you. The next shift has started. You should be in there with them. You wonder if anyone has even noticed that you’re missing. Absently, Taehyung picks at the grass, and something stirs in the back of your mind. A memory, though it feels almost like it belongs to someone else. Taehyung and you laying in the grass on the bank of a river, the sound of a train in the distance.

“Can I show you something?” he asks, and silently, you nod.

He clears his throat and begins to quietly sing. His voice is beautiful, a delicate baritone that nimbly, delicately touches on each note. He’s in full control, eyes closed, hands folded in his lap, a master at work showing you the melody that lives in his mind.

You can’t deny that the song is beautiful, a haunting acapella that moves you the way a psalm might move a priest. You feel it in your heart more than you hear it, his voice so soft that you really aren’t even sure that you’re hearing it properly at all. It wraps you up, gentle cocoon around your broken heart, and you feel it trying to heal what it finds there. You find something swelling within you. Something akin to pride.

You have no idea why you react this way. But you want to. You want to remember.

“That’s beautiful,” you tell Taehyung when he’s finished. And for a second, he looks at you, a hardness in his eyes that you can only describe as determination.

He leans in, lips gently brushing your forehead, before he stands. “Come with me,” he says cryptically, offering you his hand.

You take it without question.

-----

You’re uneasy. The path is dark--you can barely see Taehyung walking in front of you. He’s just far enough that you can’t reach out and touch him, but close enough that you can easily follow behind. But the soft dirt below your feet muffles your steps as you go, so it’s too quiet. Thus, your unease.

The path is barely wide enough for a person to pass through, and it slopes upward fairly steeply. You have no idea how long you’ve been walking, only that the longer you walk, the lighter you feel. You hadn’t noticed it in the Underworld, but the fog that seems to surround your thoughts and memories parts more and more the closer to the surface you get. By now, you remember almost everything--Yoongi, the bar, your past, everything.

But most of all, you remember Taehyung. And you remember fully why you left.

You want to call him, to tell him that you forgive him, to tell him that you’re so proud of him for finally finishing his song. But you don’t dare. You refuse to do anything to jeopardize your future. Namjoon has given you one chance. You doubt he’d give you a second.

The stones on either side of the path are damp and oddly shaped, and they’re difficult to use as hand-holds when the path gets too steep. But you hang on anyway because the other option is to stumble and fall flat on your face.

In front of you, Taehyung trudges on. You can tell he isn’t happy about the situation just from the visible tension in his back, but there isn’t anything he can do about it. He walks quickly, but not too quick so as not to lose you. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, his broad shoulders set against the chill of the underground path.

“Go. Before I change my mind,” Namjoon says, turning his back on you.

You have no idea what Taehyung said to change the man’s mind. Maybe it was his persistence. Maybe you caught Namjoon at a good time. Maybe he just liked Tae’s song. A combination of all of the above and more. None of it at all. But you can’t believe what you’re hearing.

“How?” Taehyung asks, his grip on your hand tightening.

Namjoon sighs. “You’ll walk. You know the way well enough to lead, don’t you?” He sounds exhausted. “You lead. She’ll follow. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your eyes on the road ahead. If you don’t, well… maybe it really was her time to go.”

“It’s a trick.” Taehyung sounds angry.

“It’s a trial. One you’ll do well to pass if you want to make it out of here alive.” Namjoon rubs his eyes. “You test my patience. Leave. Or regret it.”

You stumble as the path slopes upwards more steeply, your hand reaching out for the rock. You must have made some sort of noise, because Taehyung pauses. You can see him fighting himself, refusing to turn around.

“Are you okay?” he calls back. When you don’t answer, he grunts but continues walking. “I hope you’re still back there,” he mumbles.

That’s the hardest part about this trek. You can hear him talking to himself. Sometimes, he hums his song, and you can hear the soft echoes off the stones in the passage. But mostly, the long stretches of silence are interrupted by Taehyung’s whispers to himself.

“Only a little further.”

“I hope you’re still back there.”

“Gods, I’m so stupid.”

“Please still be back there.”

Suddenly up ahead, you can see a speck of something bright. It’s only a pin-prick in size, but it grows steadily the more you climb. You find yourself pushing yourself to walk faster, attempting to match Taehyung’s speed as he practically runs up the slope.

And then he stops, and you stop, almost walking straight into his back. The mouth of the cave is just a large hole in the ground, like some gaping maw prepared to swallow someone whole. You recognize the area vaguely as being along the railroad tracks just past the station.

You breathe deeply. The air is still a little frigid, but it has that smell to it, like it could turn warm at any moment. You try to remember what month it was. March? Maybe April? You had gotten on the train in early September. Has it really been six months?

Before you know it, Taehyung’s arms are around you, catching you mid-step and forcing you to take a step backward. You hold him, allowing yourself to get lost in him for a moment. He’s warm, and he smells like dirt and wood and lavender.

“I missed you,” he says, pulling you impossibly closer.

Pulling away slightly, your hands find his face, cupping his jaw tenderly. “I’m sorry,” you say earnestly.

Tae hums, offering you a wide, boxy smile. “You’re safe now.” His hands grip your shirt at your waist. “Plus, I’m the one that should be apologizing. I let you down. I got too focused on my song, I forgot why I was in a hurry to finish it in the first place.”

A tug on your ankle draws your attention, and you try to glance down subtly to see what’s happening. But Taehyung’s grip on you is tight, and he notices you shifting. His eyes fall to your feet, one of which is firmly planted on the frozen ground of the mortal world. Your other foot is still in the soft dirt of the path from the Underworld.

Shadows are already starting to creep up your ankle.

“No,” Taehyung says firmly, trying to tug you forward. “No we made it. That’s not fair.”

You shake your head, your foot not budging. “Apparently not.” The shadows slowly grow, engulfing more of your leg.

Taehyung pulls you to him, then, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist. “I’ll come find you again. I’ll sing my song for Namjoon. He’ll have to let you go.”

You sigh, your hands balling in the fabric of his jacket. “I love you,” you whisper. And you do. You realized it while climbing out of the Underworld. He’s the one who had been in your daydreams down below, he had been the happiness you had been missing.

He kisses you, then, tenderly but desperately. You let yourself melt into it, one hand finding purchase in his hair. You want to remember him, to commit this moment to your memory so that even when you do inevitably forget him, you’ll remember how he made you feel. The happiness, the joy, the love. Even the frustration. Because of course, that was part of it. You love him so much that you did get frustrated with him.

Your neck is cold, and you know it’s the shadows, swirling and trying to pull you back down. Taehyung’s eyes are wide when he pulls away, and they glisten in the midday sun. He blinks quickly, and you can tell he’s trying not to cry.

“Wait for me?” he asks softly, brushing your hair back and kissing you lightly on the forehead.

“I always will.”

Taehyung offers you a sad smile just before the shadows overtake you. In a second, he’s standing alone, the smell of ash and sulfur in the air.

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bokutosmochi · 2 years

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MAKE HIM JEALOUS! ♡ GETO SUGURU featuring wingman!gojo satoru

geto suguru x fem!reader

ingredients? gojo's sick and tired of hearing you fawn about geto and geto fawn about you so he decides to take matters into his own hands, and that's bad news for both you and geto.

what's it? crack, kind of

allergen warning/s? jujutsu high teacher!geto au, wingman!gojo is a warning in and of itself tbh, gojo calls himself "daddy" twice, reader wears short dresses, mentions of going to bars, nonconsensual filming (just making out), gets a little heated at the end

if you don't like gojo, this may not be for you because his wingmaning ways is questionable lol.

sugar level? 5.4k

regulars? @tokyometronetwork @tahonet

parlor's note? this is tied with clingy mammon in the poll that i made, but in celebration of the new trailer and visuals, i decided to post this one first <33 enjoy!!

bon appetit!

from beside you, gojo poked at the puff of your cheek with the end of the plastic fork in his hand as he shamelessly devoured the strawberry cake that was supposed to be for two -- you opted out of it last minute when lost your appetite upon seeing something that made your stomach churn uncomfortably.

"c'mon, sweetcheeks. it's not like suguru's a manwhore." his mouth is full of the spongy delicacy and you had no idea how you understood him, but you did.

he was right though. girls and boys may be fawning over geto left and right, but he never reciprocated their affections nor take advantage of their attraction to him. most of the time, he'd just smile at them politely then bow as he thanked them. and most of the time, gojo would clasp a hand on his back as if proud of how people fawned over his best friend.

unfortunately, one of the people who fawned over his best friend was you. now, having geto suguru as the person you had a crush on wasn't the worst thing that could have happened. it's certainly a better option than catching a crush on the annoyingly immature white-haired sorcerer, but the amount of attention he got didn't help with your confidence, especially since a lot of pretty girls who looked like they won the genetics lottery frequented his instagram dms as well. it made you second guess yourself at times you swore to finally tell him your feelings which was an embarrassingly large number of times because you've been friends with geto since you were children, and now, with the addition of a certain gojo satoru, you were teachers at jujutsu tech.

the moment right now was just one of those times. if you've kept track - which gojo did, because he's gojo - this would have been number three hundred and sixteen. the three hundred and sixteenth failed confession attempt.

you went to the bakery nanami recommended, he said that it's where he got his daily sandwich back when he worked as a salaryman, and bought their strawberry cake. the kind girl who worked behind the register told you that it was limited edition, only available during the season where the strawberries in the area were especially juicy and sweet. it was paid for with the intention of successful love confessions and being eaten together by you and geto, but when you saw him getting friendly with a girl outside campus, you quickly threw it to gojo who was waiting patiently for the opportunity, though he did defend themself saying but sweetcheeks, i swear to the gods i did not want it to happen this way with an icing-laced grin that did not help his case at all.

"yeah but still," you retorted to his previous statement about geto not being a manwhore. "asking a guy who gets asked out on a daily basis to go on a date with you is nerve wracking." you picked on the skin around your fingernails.

gojo hummed thoughtfully from his place on your left as he bit into one of the fruits. "yeah, i guess you should be scared to ask out suguru. after all, it's not like he knows you inside and out and realizes how much of a catch you are." he grins at you, a dollop of whipped cream on the corner of his mouth; his tongue peeped out to slide through it.

"tell ya what," he roughly wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you to him. "let's go shopping tomorrow, okay? my treat. let's buy you a pretty little dress to get your pretty little head off of the boy problems, 'kay?" he stands up and wanders away just as geto sits down on your other side. "what was that about?"

you couldn't help but shrug at him. after all, with gojo, who knew? "god knows."

gojo texted you all the information you needed that night when you were done with your missions and out of school premises.

{from [blue gatorade-eyed menace]: tomorrow. we'll pick you up at your apartment at about ten in the morning. we're going shopping for dresses, so wear something easy to put on and off. peace ✌🏼}

you tried to text him back, asking him about the we in we're picking you up in his text, but didn't get a response back though you're sure he's still awake.

so now it's tomorrow and you're dressed in a casual little black dress with mary jane shoes and white knee high socks. you've already showered, eaten breakfast, brushed your teeth, and packed everything you needed in a neat bag, yet gojo still had no response to the question you asked him yesterday night. you had a festering feeling you wouldn't get one and you'd just have to find out who else he meant by we, although if you were being honest with yourself, you already had a pretty good idea of who it's going to be. one, it was just another person who completed your circle - ieiri shoko did like joining in every now and then when she needs some more chaos in her life - and two, geto, the whole reason that gojo's setting this situation up in the first place.

it's ten fifteen - of course the strongest sorcerer is fashionably late, the way he always is - and you're sat down on your loveseat, bouncing your leg, anxious for what it is gojo has planned out for not just you, but your shared best friend too. you didn't exactly trust the man to not embarass you in front of the black-haired sorcerer for more reasons than what you could count.

you retrieve your phone out of your bag, pressing the power button in order to see if the man send a message, saying anything about cancelled plans - that would only happen if luck happened to be on your side - since they were taking so long. there was none, and when you put the device back where it belongs, you hear a car honk in front of your house, a door slam shut, then a shout. "hey sweetcheeks! get your fine ass out of the house!" you rolled your eyes and left then.

gojo was leaned against the black, sleek, phantom rolls royce he brought for the occasion, a mischievous smirk on his face, and his arms crossed against his chest. when he spotted you, his grin grew even larger as he approached you and threw an arm over your shoulder as you locked your house. "don't take everything i say to heart and flatter yourself, kay? everything's part of the plan."

you didn't need to whisper the way you did since the other man was inside the car which had all windows rolled all the way up, but you did it regardless. gojo already had his back to you, strolling down the pebbled path in front of your house, whistling to himself "the what? what do you mean the plan?" you wanted to catch up to him, to grab him by the shoulder - even though you know it's technically not possible unless he lets you - and ask him what he means by that, why the plan includes him being flirty(?) with you, but the bastard warped quickly got inside the car when he sensed your presence getting close to him.

he looked so smooth doing it too. leaving geto is none the wiser. well, if only you didn't glare at the white-haired menace from where you stood in front of the driver's car door where he sat, before deciding that it was pointless - gojo's as stubborn as a mule - and hopping into the backseat. "what was that about?" one of geto's eyebrows were raised in amusement, looking at you through the mirror. "nothing" was all you grumbled out before looking out through the window and effectively ending the small conversation.

"alright, let's go gang!" gojo cheered, pumping his fists into the air from the front seat as he pressed down on the gas pedal and with that, the three of you were off.

he was a fast driver, so the car ride flew by. you did not even get the opportunity to do some sight seeing as everything was a blur. you stopped looking at the outside world after a while as it would most likely just give you a headache. gojo was behaving strangely throughout the whole time though, pretty over there in the backseat said she needed a new party dress and don't go dozing off on me, sweetheart he smirked at you.

when you got to where he was driving you, you realized that you were no longer in a part of tokyo you were familiar with. the mall standing in front of you as well as the surrounding were unfamiliar.

"never been here before, baby?" gojo's head was tilted to the side, catching your chin between his thumb and index finger, forcing you to look up at him and stare right into his eyes. "just hold onto my arm the whole time, yeah? and cross your fingers you won't get lost."

"you lovebirds done?" a deep voice came from behind you. you momentarily forgot about geto because of how much gojo was distracting you with his "plan" you still didn't know the details about so you whipped around backwards in surprise. "yep!" the white haired sorcerer said, popping the p in the word as he threw an arm around your shoulders and pulled you closer to him.

little did you know, he looked over your head and winked at geto who was narrowing his eyes at his friend. "sorry, suguru. it's either you make a move on her or i will" he mouthed out mockingly before walking towards the entrance.

"okay! how about we get some lunch first. i'm starving." gojo turned towards geto who was avoiding looking at your figure. instead, he kept on focusing on satoru's face or elsewhere in the building. "yeah, sounds good." was his short answer.

much to gojo's relief, it seemed like you were playing along to the song he has been strumming. getting geto to finally muster up the courage to ask you out might be easier than he initially thought.

"where'd ya wanna go for lunch, pretty?" he turned to you, lowering his head so he'd be at eye level with you. on top of that, he also smoothly slid his glasses down the bridge of his nose to expose his eyes, what many people considered to be his greatest asset, physical attraction wise. if gojo wasn't your friend and if you didn't have such a strong feeling of affection and longing towards his best friend, you might have fainted right then and there. many people would kill to be in your position right now, that's something you're sure of -- along with that, you're also sure that those aforementioned people do not know how utterly annoying gojo satoru is.

"i'm craving ramen." you blinked at him, not pulling away from him or getting flustered by the intense eye contact. "d'you know if there's a good ramen place here?"

"i know just the place." he grinned, booping your nose and throwing an innocent look towards geto. "you up for some ramen, suguru?"

the long-haired man hoped that you weren't looking at him right now, him who is gritting his teeth at his second best friend -- he's seriously thinking about giving the title to ieiri instead. "sure. ramen sounds good." his broad shoulders were stiff and there was a forced smile on his face.

he continued to walk behind you and gojo on the way to the ramen place, letting the two of you to lead the way. his arms were crossed and the look on his face was positively dangerous. the playful glint in his eyes that was usually there when the three of you spent time together wasn't there and he was glaring at everything he saw. he looked more intimidating than he does most of the time, and more intimidating than he does whenever he gets send out on missions.

because with those missions, he's confident in his abilities to get them done and exorcise - or sometimes ingest - the curse he needed to get rid off, but in this situation, he didn't know if you returned his feelings for you or if you had a thing for gojo. after all, the bastard told him that he has a thing for you -- the first step of his magnificent plan.

on the car ride to your house, gojo adopted a serious demeanor and asked geto about his feelings for you, telling them that he likes you as well. look man, i know you like her, but if you're not gonna ask her out, i will. i'm not gonna waste any of our times. the seriousness in gojo's voice when he said those words frightened him a bit because he can count the times his friend has been serious on one hand and this just happened to be one of those times.

gojo satoru, you are a royal pain in the ass.

between that and the teasing looks the man has been sending him the moment you got here, he didn't know whether gojo meant it or not.

goddamnit satoru, why must you be like this?

he knew the reason - because he wouldn't stop telling gojo about how much he wanted to ask you out instead of actually asking you to go on a date with him - but it's not like he's going to admit to that anyway.

there wasn't much improvement in either man's behavior when they got to the restaurant. gojo continued to flirt with you, you subtly flirted back -- you didn't reject his advances and shyly looked down, silently thanking him whenever he gave you a compliment. your arms brushed against each other's often, and geto did not find you moving away from gojo, you let gojo feed you one of the deep fried gyozas he ordered, and let gojo tend to the stray strands of hair that was falling onto your face as you blew on the noodles, brushing it to tuck it behind your ear. and finally, geto still sported that annoyed, tight smile on his face. by the way he gripped his chopsticks tightly, skin stretching over the carpals under it and veins going up all the way up to his forearm bulged, the white-haired man sat beside you could tell that your mutual friend was getting pissed off. it would only take just a few more shoves before he broke.

personally, you do not know if this was the best route to take; making your best friend and crush jealous, but then again, you assumed that suguru talked to satoru about his girl problems more than he did with you -- and you weren't wrong thinking that considering the fact that suguru's girl problems orbited around being unable to muster up the courage to ask you out. satoru probably knew what he was doing, right?

"we should go and buy my baby's dress now before he forget about it or spend all our money, hm?" gojo suggested making you nod. he had a hand on your lower back as you led them to your favorite store to finally begin shopping. "and dontcha worry about the price tag baby, daddy's got ya covered." he winked at you, whispering the words into your ear. thankfully, he didn't say it loud enough for the whole store to hear the way he usually does things, he just said it loud enough for suguru, who's walking on the other side of you to pick up. "have some fucking decorum, satoru." he grimaced, wrinkling his nose.

"don't got any!" the man chided playfully, folding both hands behind his head as he strolled around.

you definitely chose a good store to browse through. if gojo wasn't on an in-a-way mission right now, he most likely would have wandered off by himself to look through the different dress shirts and suit jackets they have. the colors they came in were appealing, pleasing to the eye, yet not well-known, and the textures were just as rare. he can go and buy things for himself the next day he doesn't have much on his plate. right now, the most important thing was how the dresses on the racks were exactly geto's type. even if you chose the most hideous one available, he's sure his friend will not be able to take his eyes off of you regardless, but then again, perhaps that has nothing to do with the look of the dress; it's simply because it's you and you're absolutely irresistible to one geto suguru.

geto who tries his best to avoid looking at you or at the assortment of dresses on gojo's arm because he knows the effect that you have on him. geto who separates from the two of you so he could browse through some clothing articles for himself. geto whose only reason for doing that is a pitiful attempt at trying to distract himself from looking in your direction, when in reality, your very presence, the scent of your cursed energy in the air suffocates him and distracts him from thoroughly looking through each article of clothing his hand grazes.

but then, when he hears a whistle in the air that's directed to him, he realizes that there really is no escaping this. "hey suguru, sweetcheeks over here wants to try on some dresses in the dressing room. you should come with." he could have said no. he should have said no, but it was like his feet had a mind of its own. he was already walking towards your direction before he processed gojo's words.

the dressing rooms were big. comparable to the areas in that say yes to the dress show that gojo promises he doesn't like even though he binge watches it every single time he finds himself stressed out.

he cleared his throat as you had your back turned to him, hanging the dresses you had picked out up on the hooks. "i've gotten a few things. you mind if i try em on now too?" his deep voice rumbled making you smile and wave your hand in front of your face.

"of course not, suguru. why're you acting so weird today." and at your words, the other man in the room bursted out in uncontrollable fits of laughter.

"yeah suguru! why the hell are you acting so weird today, huh?" he egged his friend on. gojo had no idea if you meant it that way, but he's entertained and glad you said it regardless.

geto only glared at him, taking all three of the long-sleeved button down shirts he got and getting into the main fitting room; the area you and gojo were in now was still private, just for the three of you, but there was one long couch, a circular platform in the middle of the room, and a large mirror in front of it so you'd be able to observe the clothing you debated on buying from several different angles. the area radiated sophistication and luxury, a spotless bright white color from the floor all the way up.

the first one he tried on was his least favorite. actually, he was still just debating on whether he should get it or not when gojo called his attention to go into the fitting rooms. he grabbed it on a whim, not wanting to be awkward and keep you waiting as he stared at the item of clothing. it was an off white color with gold buttons; the same thread color was used, a shimmering gold lining it. it was made out of a shiny silk, one that had geto's nose scrunching up.

it definitely looked better on the rack and would have preferred it if you didn't see him in the thing, but as soon as he unbuttoned the first button, he heard your voice ring out. "suguruuu what's taking so long?" and of course, gojo being, well, gojo, couldn't help but to follow it up with a "yeah! we wanna see what ya got already!" truthfully, the man scoffed at one of the things on geto's arms when they entered the dressing room and it just so happened to be what the black-haired sorcerer was wearing right now.

with a huff and a short prayer addressed to the gods, hoping that you didn't think he looked ridiculous as he actually did, he puffed his chest out, squared his shoulders, and feigned as much confidence as he can when he walked out of the smaller space within the fitting room.

your eyes widened and gojo didn't even bother covering up his amusement.

thankfully for geto, the next two items of clothing were much better. the three of you thought so and he even ended up with the decision to buy them.

with that ironed out, it was your turn to try things on.

the first one was a lilac-toned dress. it didn't reach mid-thigh, but didn't ride up too much if you were to sit down or bend over. the fabric was glittery, but not to the point of being obnoxious. it had a x-shaped neckline, and showed off the space between your tits. it wasn't the tightest, but still managed to flatter your figure.

"okay, what do we think?"

if you were paying enough attention, you'd see how geto's mouth hung open upon seeing you, and if gojo saw you in the same light as his friend did, he probably would have done the same. "looks good!" he said with a wink and two thumbs up.

"c-could be a little tighter, especially around the waist, but it looks good." geto didn't want you to catch on to him being more-than-flustered, and fortunately for him, he was quick to recover and give you his detailed opinion the way he always does.

"everything looks good on her though." gojo questioned him with a quirk of an eyebrow and it made the man sputter, waving his hands in front of him at both you and gojo.

"i never said it didn't look good! you look good-you always look good-i mean! it just-" you cut him off with a laugh which in his humble opinion resembles that of an angel's. "it's okay, suguru. i know what you meant."

"i might buy this one." you said, smoothing the skirt of the dress out. "it depends on the next ones. if i like this more than one of those, i'll probably buy it." and with that, you were back to the dressing room.

back where your two best friends were sat, there was a whispered one-sided arguement. "don't think i don't know what you're up to, satoru." geto glared making the other man laugh and tilt his head at him.

"oh really now? what am i trying to do then?" he snickered.

geto's fist clenched the same way his jaw did. "you're trying to make me mess up and look like a fool in front of her." was said through gritted teeth, and if anyone else was talking to him, they would probably be on their knees, begging for forgiveness because of how mad and intimidating geto looked, but gojo satoru is not just anyone else. he never was, and he never will be.

he cracks his knuckles and sinks further down into the black leather seat. "it's not my fault you get all fuzzy inside whenever you see her, isn't it suguru?" he grins at him and decides to fess up. "actually, i was trying to get you to confess to her, and guess what? she's on it too. so, are ya actually gonna do it?"

geto's eyes nearly bulged out of his eyes at what left his friend's mouth. does that mean you're aware of his infatuation with you?

who told you about it?

was it satoru? were you able to piece it together yourself? was it painfully obvious that he's painfully in love with you for the past ten years?

how long have you known?

why didn't you do anything about it?

do you find satoru provoking him by flirting with you somewhat entertaining?

do you even want him the same way he wanted you?

so many thoughts were running through his head at an overwhelming speed, but before be could reply to gojo, you were strutting out of the fitting room in a revealing light green number. it was similar to a slip dress, just a few inches shorter than the last one you modeled. it was a spaghetti strap dress and had a rectangular neckline and dipped at the front exposing your neck and collarbones; the color definitely complimented your complexion, geto thought, licking his bottom lip when he thought you weren't looking, when he thought you were too busy gawking at your own reflection because why wouldn't you? his reaction gave you confidence to be bolder, to actually flirt with him. to make it even worse for him now that he's trying to hide his feelings for you - though he recently found out that it's all for naught - was that it was backless. covering nothing of your body posteriorly other than your lower back until the dress reached the hem.

"this one's cute." you commented. the dress much more flowy than the last one, but remained to be sexy and appropriate for bar hopping whenever you - or any of your closest friends - felt the itch to do so. you held the skirt as you spun around in it, stood in the circular platform before staring at your two friends. "what do you guys think? satoru?"

"can't really put what i think into words." he clicked his tongue. "i bet suguru has something to say about that pretty little dress though."

if he was standing up, he's sure his knees would have buckled from the way you quickly turned to him expectantly with the cutest doe eyes and a shadow of a pout on your lips. if you knew about his feelings for you like satoru said, he's sure you're really out to get him, he thought. "i like the other one better." he coughed out. the pout on your lips grew as you looked at yourself in the mirror again. "this one's on sale.. but you're right!"

once again, you heard gojo tsk. "i already told ya princess. 'm your sugar daddy for the day." he smirked, eyes shifting to geto to see his reaction, see the way his eyes dim and the way he irritatingly chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to not let his annoyance show.

you seem to perk up, though, so geto couldn't let himself get angry at gojo for too long. "okay! time for the last one!" you walked into the dressing room, but before you closed the door behind you, you peeked through the gap and winked - was geto going crazy or did you specifically wink at him? - "this last one's my favorite."

surprisingly enough, for the last article of clothing you were going to model for them, neither gojo nor geto knew why you were taking so long. they didn't know if you were trying to get geto on the end of his seat, building up anticipation, or if it was just hard to put on.

from under his breath, gojo uttered out a "you better ask her out after this one." at his friend. "i'm sick and tired of the both of you talking to me about each other. it's getting annoying."

geto gaped internally at that, if the gojo satoru, the person who not only held the title of the strongest sorcerer, but also the title of the most annoying sorcerer found them annoying, then it must be worse than what he initially thought. yet even with this kind of thought, geto simply maintained his calm composure, pairing his inquisitive look directed at gojo with a raise of one of his eyebrows. "i don't think you're in any position to judge someone on them being annoying, satoru."

before the man could reply, you re-entered the room, now clad in the dress that you claimed as your favorite and shit, it's so pretty and it makes you look even prettier, and shit,

it might be geto's favorite too.

you strutted inside the room with an oh-so casual ta-da~ if what you were wearing wasn't enough to put the special grade sorcerer geto suguru to his knees.

the dress was black with cream white colored accents. it was one of those dresses that were very strappy in the back, geto can almost feel the way the skin of your back would warm his hand up whenever he's walking with you at night, guiding you through bars with a palm on the small of your back. the top part of it that's shaped like a butterfly had sequins sewn into it, while the bottom part was made out of a soft velvet-like material. the dress was just long enough to be able to cover your bottom whenever you sat down or bent over to grab something.

it was truly one of a kind, and you in that number was truly a sight to behold.

you didn't need anyone to tell you that though. one, you could see how well the dress complimented your figure, how good you look in it. and two, from the mirror you were facing, you could see the way geto's mouth was slightly hanging open and the way his eyes regarded your form the same way you regard his whenever he rolls up the sleeves of the black button down shirt he wears.

what surprises you though, was the words he spoke while he still found himself unable to strip his eyes away from you. "shit, anybody ever told you how gorgeous you are?" he feels like his mouth is dry, but for some reason, drool can peak out of the corner at any time.

you laughed lightly at him, looking at him from behind a shoulder. "every now and then, why?"

"because," he stands up, still look at you through the reflectively glass in front of you. "you're fucking gorgeous." he's in front of you now with two large warm hands placed firmly on the curve of your waist. after he put his hands on your body, he asked a small you okay with this? which you nodded to. it was all you could do, completely mesmerized and put under the spell of the mint that attacked your senses. the smell of his breath and his perfume as well as his natural scent hit you so hard it almost gave you whiplash.

he wrapped both hands around you now, his hands met at your front. "can i take you out on a date?"

you turn your head to the side and reach up to tangle your fingers into his hair; it messes up the bun he was wearing, and while usually, that would get on the man's nerves, he didn't find it in himself to be the least bit upset when it's you that's doing it. and especially since it's you that's pulling him closer, parting your lips before kissing him.

your lips move in tandem, tongues slipping into each other's mouths as you shift so your body would be facing his. one of your hand remains to be buried in his hair, while the other is wrapped around his shoulders, strong and sturdy after years of workouts and exercise. all the while his hands wander through your frame as if gojo satoru isn't in the same room as you; eventually, his left is on your back, firmly pulling you into him, while the other finds purchase on your ass, groping and grabbing shamelessly.

from in front of you, gojo scoffs. "and he tells me to have decorum." it was only when you pull away that you realize gojo has been broadcasting your whole interaction with suguru on your group chat with your shared friends via video call. your eyes widen in realization while his grin widens at a message he received. "oh, and shoko says finally."

i get: reblog

you get: gojo as your wingman

#order of the day!#order up for geto!#one matcha mochi #with a side of coconut italian ice #geto fluff #geto x reader #geto one shot #geto x you #geto fic #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #jjk one shot #jjk x you #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen one shot #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fic

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girlfailure-smut-hour · 1 year

Text

Study Date with Enki

Nsfw content MDNI

SERIOUS TRIGGERS IN THIS ONE PLEASE READ THE CW

Characters: Virgin!Enki X GN!Reader, Modern!AU

CW: Mentions of self-harm and pretty extreme implied physical abuse, Implied possible eating disorder, Hurt/Comfort, Oral (Giving) Penetration (Recieving), Romantic and a little angsty .

A/N: I'm posting this one outside of my usual schedule cause I don't want anyone to feel ripped off lol. I usually do more... normal stuff for more normal fandoms. This one's for all the weirdos. I wrote it months ago and have been holding onto it, but it's as good a time as ever. So I'm finally putting my weird nonsense into the world (Sorry.) I love the stinky bugs-and-opium-wizard. You invite Enki for a study date to seduce him. I might write a sequel with a transfem Enki. ~2700 Words.

Please check out my fic masterlist <3

It took some doing, but you’d convinced Enki Ankarian to come over for a study date. It all started when you saw him in the library, at a table covered in stacks of books, his naturally Grey hair spilling over his face. He was so serious, scribbling notes with an almost frantic expression.

He was standoff-ish at first, but you broke through his facade with a little earnest care. You took interest in his strange fascination with the occult, withstood his seemingly random insults, and shared with him some of your own interests. It took weeks, but finally he let his defenses down and finally accepted your invitation.

You hear a knock at your apartment door exactly one minute early, and peering through the peephole you see him. He stands there in an ill-fitting sweater vest with a comical number of books nestled under his arm. In fact you’re not really sure how he’s carrying them all with his frail little arms.

You open the door and say “Enki! You made it!”

He smiles, subtly, and walks past you to set his books down. Among them you can spot books on things like demonology and fringe religious texts. A heavily worn and annotated copy of The Lesser Key of Solomon sits on top.

You walk over to the bar with him and sit down across from him. His glasses keep sliding down his bony nose as he stacks his books, but it’s cute. He looks like a librarian or something.

“Would you like anything to drink?” You ask.

“What do you have?” He replies.

“Soda, and water.”

“Anything harder?”

“Afraid not,” You reply.

“I’m okay,” he grumbles.

“Suit yourself,” You say, grabbing a drink.

He’s already immersed himself in a book by the time you sit down. “Is that for one of your classes?” You ask.

“Just a hobby,” He replies, writing notes.

What is it about this gnarled, rude, strange boy that attracts you so much? There's a certain something to him that's hard to place, but you can't help but be drawn in by him. Maybe it’s his sad stare, or maybe the passion you can sense in his feverish studies.

Maybe it was a mistake inviting him for a study date. You knew how fastidious he was in his studies and now he’s hardly talking to you. You sigh and buckle down on your own studies, but after an hour or so, he suddenly stands up. “Going out for a smoke,” He says.

You follow him out onto the patio and snatch his lighter from the railing. As he puts the cigarette between his lips, you flick the lighter and hold it up for him. He leans forward, pulling his hair away. The gentle ember gives his pale face a rich orange tone as he draws the first puff

"Why are you so nice to me?" He grumbles.

Because I want to fuck you, you think. "Everyone deserves a chance,” You say. “You're a sweet guy, Enki. And passionate. I don't know. Do I need a reason?"

He grumbles something to himself.

“So what got you into the occult?” You ask.

“It’s something I get from my family,” He replies, wincing.

“How’s that?” You ask.

"I shouldn’t have said anything,” He says. “I don't really want to get into my family situation. It's… ugly. Like me." His face contorts into a snarl.

“You should be nicer to yourself,” You say, gently touching his shoulder. He reflexively pulls away. Maybe in disgust, or maybe it’s some kind of trauma.

“Perhaps I should," he replies, Staring out into the sunset. His eyes glaze over, like a corpse almost. You decide to watch the sunset as well. There’s something to a quiet introspective moment like this.

He shakes his head as he takes his last puff, flicking the butt out into the parking lot.

“You ready to head in?” You ask. He nods his head, and you open the door for the two of you.

Walking behind him you spot a knot in his hair. Even though he’s grown it well past his back, it appears he doesn't take care of it at all.

“Could I brush your hair?” You ask as he sits down.

“I’m sorry?” He asks, jolting and turning around to you.

“Your hair,” You say. “I’d like to brush it.” He’s squinting at you, and you can’t tell what is going on behind those eyes. “It’s just so beautiful,” You add.

“If you must,” He says after a moment.

After retrieving your gentlest hairbrush, you pull a stool up behind him and sit down.

“Please be careful,” he says.

“Awww does the baby have a tender scalp?” You tease.

“I don’t have to let you brush my hair,” He snaps.

“I’m only teasing,” you giggle, before taking a strand of his knotted hair and holding it so it wouldn’t tug on his scalp when you pulled the brush through. He winced, but didn’t pull himself away from his studies. His hair is a wreck, but not unsalvageable. It would be worthwhile for him to consider at least a trim though.

“I wish I had detangling spray,” You remark. “This would be so much easier.”

He just grumbles something under his breath as you continue to brush. It feels like his hair is all knots. You could be here all night as far as you know. You tenderly run your fingers through his hair and he sighs, but not his typical sigh. A sort of relief, or maybe pleasure. You gently scratch his scalp and something akin to a quiet moan escapes his lips.

It takes nearly an hour, but you finally work out his knots. You didn’t notice at the time, but at some point, he stopped his studying to lean his head back, closing his eyes.

“Alright,” You say “I’m all done!”

He jumps as if startled and sits up to continue his studying. “Thank you,” He replies.

“When you condition your hair, make sure to get the ends,” You tell him. “That will help with the tangles.”

“Sure,” He says.

You brush your fingers through his hair again and say, “You really do have beautiful hair.”

“Thank you,” He replies.

“You should let me wash it some time.”

He nearly keeps his composure, but you notice a slight jump, or maybe a shiver. “I don’t think that will be happening,” he says.

“Who knows you might enjoy yourself,” you tempt him.

You begin to scratch his back and he shivers. You can feel his spine, even through several layers of clothing. He feels emaciated. You could probably sling him over your shoulder, he seems so skinny.

“Why are you so affectionate toward me?” He asks. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“Enki,” You say, “I like you.”

He turns around and starts to get up. “I don’t know what kind of cruel joke this is, but I don’t appreciate it.”

You stand up too and brush his hair behind his ear, looking into his eyes. Without warning, you plant a kiss on his sunken cheek. His knees nearly buckle.

“You’re serious…” He says. You nod. “This is a date?” You nod again. “Not, like, a date, but a capital D date?”

“Yes Enki,” You laugh.

“Oh my god,” He says. “I feel so stupid now. I-I’ve been so mean to you, and you-you…”

He stammers and stutters until you just kiss him. On the lips this time. He puts his arms around you to hold himself up. It’s a tender kiss, not too much, but you do slip a little tongue in. You put your hand on his chest and feel his heart pounding.

As you pull away, He’s blushing, bringing just a little color to his pale skin. You try not to notice, but his pants have gotten a little tighter now as well.

“I want you, Enki” you say.

“So quickly?” He asks, his face lighting up in nervous excitement.

“Why not?” You ask. “But it’s okay if you’re not ready.”

“I think I am,” He replies, glancing down and blushing even harder.

"Come to the room with me," you say, offering your hand. He gives you a nervous smile as he takes it.

He gulps as you enter the room. “There’s something… I don’t know how to say this.”

“Don’t worry Enki,” You reply. “You’re not going to scare me off.”

“It’s just…” he starts, “I have some scars.”

You smile at him as you take his hand and unbutton his sleeves. “Don’t worry about it.” You roll them up to reveal hesitation marks. Quite a few of them. You hold his wrists to your lips and kiss them. “Sweet boy. I’m so sorry.”

You do the same for his other wrist, then grab his sweater from the bottom, and lift it over his head. You start to unbutton his shirt, but he stops you by placing his hand in front of the buttons. “I’m sorry,” he says. “This was a mistake.” He looks like he might cry.

“Enki,” You reply, cupping a hand to his cheek. “I won’t judge you.”

He drops his hand and allows you to start unbuttoning his shirt. There’s little muscle or fat between the skin and bones. You notice more scars as more of his chest is revealed. Some long, some short. You push his shirt off of him and it falls to the floor. You brush your hand over his chest and all of his scars. He flinches. “There’s nothing to worry about,” You say. “I won’t hurt you.”

You run your hands over his back, feeling his prevalent spine with your fingers. You also notice even more scars to your surprise. Long, deep ones. Scars in places he wouldn’t be able to reach. Oh Enki, what happened to you? You think.

Now you move your hands down to his pants. He’s hard as a rock, and it’s impossible not to notice. You undo the button, and pull down the zipper. A light crop of light gray pubic hair peeks out. You can’t help but grin at the fact that he doesn’t wear underwear, but you’re not sure what you expected.

His pants fall from his bony hips, revealing more scars on his legs. You admire him for a second, careful not to let him catch you. His hip bones and ribs jut out so severely from his sunken stomach that you can’t help but worry, though it’s none of your business. His skin, though pale, is quite beautiful, and surprisingly soft.

He kicks his shoes off and removes his socks as he steps out of his pant legs. “I hope this is okay,” He says, rubbing his arm nervously.

“You’re perfect,” You say with a smile. taking his hand and leading him to the bed, you begin to undress. Enki sits up against the headboard watching, though he looks away when you notice.

"You can look," you laugh. "You'll be doing more than that soon enough."

He blushes, turning his gaze back to you. His erection is absolutely throbbing now. "You should know," he says, "it's my first time."

"That’s okay," you smile. As you finish undressing, you crawl on the bed toward him.

You start on his shins, kissing each of his scars. "Is this okay?" You ask.

He nods. "Though you might be there for a while. I have a lot of them."

"I don't mind," you reply between kisses.

You're making your way up his thighs and he's starting to squirm. You playfully brush his cock with your face, and he grips the sheets with white knuckles. You're almost worried he's going to cum then and there. He doesn't, though he leaks a bit of precum.

You pay special attention to his hip bones that jut so far out as you move up to his torso. As you reach his chest, you give his nipples a lick and he moans sweetly.

Now you've made it up to his face. He turns away, but you bring his face back to you and give him a deep, passionate kiss. His rigid body slowly melts into yours, and eventually, he starts to kiss back. You can feel his excitement in the way he pushes back into you and writes under your touch.

You pull away and start to move down his body, again planting little kisses on his body as you move down.

As you reach his legs, he can barely contain himself anymore. Writhing, and squirming, and gripping the sheets, he looks like he's going to explode before you even touch him. His erection is so hard now that the skin is thin and shiny and that little bead of precum has grown slightly.

You look up at him as you lick his shaft starting from the bottom and moving up, licking up his precum. He tilts his head back, moaning. You could tease him like this all day, laying little kisses up and down his shaft as his throbbing cock twitches involuntarily; watching as he squirms and moans at each little brush of your lips.

Eventually, when you can't wait any longer, you wrap your lips around the head and he tenses up letting out a high-pitched whimper. You look up at him as you press downward and his breath catches. You start to move up and down, feeling his length fill your mouth.

You bring your head back up to focus on the head again. You twirl your tongue around the tip as he twitches and throbs. He’s making cute little whimpers and squeaks as he shudders beneath you. You shove your head back down and he moans loudly again.

He can hardly contain himself, thrusting his hips involuntarily and writhing as you drool down his shaft. Each time he twitches, it pushes his cock to the back of your throat which causes him to moan and squirm even more. By this point he's throbbing in your mouth. You're almost worried he's going to cum now, but he keeps it together.

If you keep going like this he won't last long though, so you pull away after a moment and crawl up to meet his face with yours. You cup a hand to his cheek and plant a kiss on his lips. His eyes are brighter than you’ve ever seen them. You squirt some lube into your hand and gently rub it on his erection. He shuts his eyes and trembles at your touch.

“Are you ready?” You ask.

He nods and you slowly ease down onto his cock. As he pushes into you, he moans softly. Nearly a whimper. You push down a little more until he fills you completely. For a moment you just sit there, arms wrapped around his neck, looking into each other’s eyes. Slowly, you start to move up and down, bouncing on his cock as he shuts his eyes and leans his head back.

He feels amazing inside you and he can tell from the noises you’re making. Though you’re not as loud as him, the two of you are so lost in pleasure that you’re practically screaming. If you were more aware you might wonder what the neighbors would think.

As you go, he starts to thrust his hips more and more, like some animalistic urge has overtaken him. He pushes into you harder with each thrust causing each of you to moan louder and higher. As if you can’t take it anymore, you grab his face in both hands and pull him into a deep, passionate kiss. He practically growls into your mouth as your tongues swirl around one another.

He pulls away and says “I’m going to come.”

"Come for me," you say, clasping his face. He thrusts a few more times, hard and slow, before you can feel his throbbing cock pulse inside of you, filling you with his hot cum. The sensation pushes you over the edge and you cum as he does; the both of you a trembling wreck, holding onto each other as you convulse.

You caress his cheek and look into his eyes. "That was nice," you say.

"Yeah," He says, sleep setting rapidly in.

You climb off of him as he slumps down until he's laying flat. You lay down next to him and put your arm over him. "Get some rest," you say, planting a little kiss on his cheek. He sighs contentedly and the two of you drift off.

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