#there's still time for the bell riots | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

taexual · 10 months ago

Text

sleepwalking ● 19 | jjk

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers

warnings: explicit language, ANGST & FLUFF (i mean it, watch out), SLOW BURN

words: 14.5k

read from the beginning ○ masterlist

chapter 19 ► so dig two graves, ‘cause when you die, i swear i’ll be leaving by your side

When the tour bus arrived in Glasgow, you realised that you had slept perhaps a quarter of an hour in total tonight. Discomfort and Regret had become unwelcome companions that kept you up.

Last night, you had planned to talk to Jungkook, but he flipped the script and did all the talking instead. And if you had to describe your choices from then on, you’d have to accept that, essentially, you had run away without saying anything.

You realised now, through tossing and turning in your bunk the whole bus journey, that this was your recurring pattern.

When you and Jungkook first broke up, you’d barricaded yourself in your apartment and only ventured outside when it was unavoidable, like to go to work. Or when your friends forced you out of bed. They tolerated your need for silence in moderation—a few days of self-imposed isolation were okay. But two consecutive weeks was a little excessive.

In Stockholm, the impulse to run away had gripped you right after your conversation on the bridge sank abruptly in the waters below. In Oslo, you had actually run away after you’d almost kissed. You could still feel the shivers on your skin from the cold night air on the rooftop terrace. And, of course, you’d also planned to avoid him when you arrived in Manchester.

It was a pattern that was doomed to end in failure every time, yet you stubbornly refused to give it up.

You wanted to escape the feelings that frightened you, but they only ran faster. They chased after you like daunting shadows. They caught up with you. They engulfed you.

This perpetual cycle wasn’t just futile, it was also unfair—to you and to Jungkook. And to Rated Riot, too.

It had gone on for too long.

You were determined to redeem that today.

While Jungkook and the boys were doing an interview on a local radio station after the soundcheck, you chose to stay at the venue to work. Initially, you only intended to answer internal company emails and update the label executives, but unsurprisingly, that morphed into more tasks that needed your immediate attention.

Seated at your laptop in the band’s dressing room, you spent a good couple of hours finalising Rated Riot’s schedule for the rest of the week, emailing back journalists and verifying their credentials before issuing backstage passes for upcoming interviews, and humming along to a tune playing in your headphones.

It was then—during the chorus of an old Bad Omens song that was loud and messy enough to keep your mind alert and focused—that Seokjin decided to tap you on the back.

You jumped up as high as it was humanly possible and pushed your laptop away as if to protect it from intruders—which was what your mind assumed Seokjin to be, apparently. He took a step back, shocked and very entertained by your violent startle.

“Shit, sorry,” he said, attempting to suppress a smile. “You’ve been—you’ve been working here by yourself for hours. I’m taking a coffee break. Want to join me?”

With one hand pressed to your chest, you slid your headphones off and checked the time on the corner of your laptop screen. “Uh, sure. Coffee sounds nice.”

The two of you found a quaint café a few blocks from Barrowland where Rated Riot would be playing later that evening. But despite the cosy setting, you chose to grab your coffee to-go. It was a warm, sunny day outside. Seokjin thought you could use some fresh air.

“So,” he said eagerly, as soon as the café bell tinkled, announcing your exit, “what’s on your mind?”

You met his question with surprise. “What do you mean?”

He maintained an air of nonchalance, sipping his Americano and observing casually, “your pupils are massive. You look like you’re planning a revolution. Or a massacre.”

You took a sip of your drink and regretted not stirring the caramel in better. You wondered what it would be by the end of tonight: revolution or massacre.

“I was—well, it’s nothing much,” you said. “I was just thinking that things might be different when we got home.”

“How so?”

The two of you crossed the street towards a small, vibrant green space—not quite a park—with a tree-lined pathway in the middle and an old blue police box nearby, reminiscent of Doctor Who.

“Well,” you said, “I hear Brazil is really nice that time of year.”

“You’re thinking of going on holiday?” Seokjin asked, surprised. He’s known you since you joined the company, even before you started to manage Rated Riot, and he was well aware of your lack of holidays. The HR department, however, remained blissfully ignorant about it.

You shrugged. “For starters.”

“And then?”

“And then we’ll see.”

The ambiguity in your response wasn’t worrying in itself, but combined with your reluctance to meet his gaze and the intense concentration on your coffee—even though you winced every time you took a sip—it was certainly alarming.

“You’re not… going to quit, are you?” he asked hesitantly. “I’ve heard about Reconnaissance.”

Of course, he’d heard. At this point, enough people knew about it for the news to have a ripple effect and circulate backstage.

“No,” you said, trying to dispel the tension with an airy laugh. “Of course not.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“I’d find a replacement first.”

Seokjin’s casual stride came to an abrupt halt. A few steps ahead, you realised he’d stopped and turned around.

“No,” he said.

His firm declaration made you stutter. “Th-that—that wasn’t a question.”

“And that’s not an option,” he argued. “You can’t quit.”

“I’m not saying I’m leaving for sure. I’m just saying that if I did leave, you wouldn’t even notice the difference,” you said. “I’m a very good teacher.”

With that, you started to walk away, leaving him little choice but to catch up.

“And I love all of you guys,” you continued while Seokjin grunted next to you. “I wouldn’t leave you with someone I didn’t personally trust to take care of you and the band.”

He shook his head, his determination unwavering. If he had known about the band members’ conviction that no one would blame you if you left Rated Riot due to the alluring offer from Reconnaissance, Seokjin might have been tempted to express his disagreement with his fists.

Of course, people would blame you—Seokjin was the people in question.

You belonged here. You were an essential part of the team.

He was convinced of this, and he was going to be annoying about it.

“Okay, I appreciate that,” he said, his tone tinged with incredulity. “Except, what the fuck are you thinking? Of course, we’d notice the difference! You’re you. We love you.”

“That means a lot—”

“But not enough?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by the intensity of his anger. “No, it’s—”

“Alright, look.” He stopped walking again, the paper cup of coffee in his hand more of an accessory than a beverage. “Is this about Jungkook?”

An unexpected heat surged through you and a cascade of excuses immediately raced through your mind. You scanned the pathway, reading the names of the bands imprinted into the pavement with colourful stripes—artists who’d performed at Barrowland before, you assumed—so you wouldn’t have to look at him.

But this was Seokjin. If there was anyone who knew everything that was going on in the band, it was him. You didn’t want to give him pretend reasons.

“In part,” you admitted.

“Well, if that’s the case, then it’s an even more definite no,” he asserted, his resolve unyielding.

You sighed and attempted to smile, but there was a hint of awkwardness in your expression. “I’m not taking votes, Jin. I’ll talk to Jungkook about this, and—”

“You can talk to anyone you like. All the gods you can find, even,” he interrupted. “But you’re not leaving.”

“Jin—”

“Look, when you accepted this job, the fact that you and Jungkook used to know each other didn’t matter,” he stated, tactfully omitting the word ‘relationship’—a nuance you appreciated. “What difference does it make now?”

As you bit your lip and lowered your eyes, Seokjin sensed that there was a difference, after all. It occurred to him that perhaps he wasn’t entirely up to speed on everything that was happening on the tour, after all.

“Okay, you don’t want to talk about it, and I’m not asking you to,” he said, his words gentle, but his tone strict. “What I’m saying is that nobody cares. You can date, you can break up, you can—I don’t know. You can pretty much do anything as long as you don’t kill each other. No one cares.”

“The label cares,” you blurted, the words unpolished and agitated. “I care.”

He waved his free hand dismissively. “The label cares about profit. We’re making a profit from you both. Maybe even more when you’re together because you’re both less annoying that way.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “How are we annoying?”

“Are you kidding? All mopey and sulky?” He stuck his tongue out and pretended to gag. “You make me sick and miserable.”

You snickered softly at the dramatic display. “Fair. Sorry. But fact is, it’s still a good opportunity.”

“Well, sure,” he conceded. “But is that really the reason you want to leave? Or is it because you think that what you’re doing with Jungkook is wrong? You think others will disapprove or think less of you. You think this is highly unprofessional, and it would make more sense to work elsewhere.”

It felt oddly incongruous to hear him articulate—so easily, without a moment’s hesitation—everything that you had been thinking.

“Well, that’s a factor, too, of course…” you said, your voice faltering.

“I think that’s the main factor.”

Taking a sip of your coffee, you mumbled, “I think you think too much.”

“I think you don’t think enough,” he countered. “You can’t leave, not even for Reconnaissance. You’re part of the team, our team. We all are.”

You looked at him, and he raised his eyebrows expectantly—waiting, clearly, for you to admit defeat.

While you didn’t technically need his consent to quit, the sheer determination in his stance made you feel as though his approval was, indeed, a prerequisite for anyone choosing to leave.

“Now you’re making me feel guilty,” you said.

“As you should!” he said—nearly bellowing in his frustration. “But you should feel guilty about mistakenly thinking that you should leave. Not about being in love with him.”

His words struck a deep chord and your heart began to rattle violently in your chest. “I’m—right. Yeah. I need to talk to him about—about everything.”

His tone softened at your reaction.

“I think you should sit down for ten minutes and gather your thoughts before you do that,” he advised. “You should sit and accept that we don’t care if you go out with Jungkook. Whatever you decide, we’re all cool with it. As long as you are, too.”

Afraid that your eyes would betray your thoughts, you shifted your gaze to the silver barks of the graceful birch trees around you. “Do you know about the bet?”

Seokjin took a slow sip of his coffee to allow more time between these overlapping conversations.

“Yeah,” he said. “Is that... uh, have you two worked it out?”

“We’ve—I think we have. I think the bet wasn’t even the main issue, actually, it just—it sort of highlighted all our problems,” you admitted. “We—we’ll have to work through the rest.”

“Right. Okay,” he said. The sun rolled out from behind the buildings, casting a golden glow on the trees and the empty path ahead of you. He squinted and took a sip of his coffee before speaking. “Well, then I can safely tell you that everyone backstage knows about it.”

The disappointment on your face was absolute. “Oh. That—that’s lovely.”

He smiled sympathetically as the two of you continued down the faintly coloured path. Despite the sunshine, the cool breeze toyed relentlessly with the edges of your jackets.

“Don’t worry about it too much, though,” he said. “It’s nothing more than a silly joke backstage. We’re not judging either of you.”

You did worry about it. “What… do you mean by ‘silly joke,’ exactly?”

The two of you arrived at a large sycamore tree with leaves that glimmered in emerald hues under the sun, and Seokjin stopped, grateful for the shade.

“One of the roadies started it,” he explained. “It was just a game. A bet, actually! Funny.” He chuckled at the irony, but stopped himself when he noticed your stoic expression. “Anyway. Someone suggested that Jungkook’s friends were trying to sabotage your relationship by making this bet with him. So, we bet on Jungkook fighting his friends for you. Which—that cost me money, actually. When he showed up at the airport in Cologne with a black eye, I lost fifty euros.”

It took you a minute to process this, and you felt so uncomfortable that your fists itched with an urge to fight someone, too.

“You—so, you bet that he wouldn’t fight his friends?” you clarified, almost hopeful.

“No. I bet that he would,” he said. “But I got too big-headed and bragged about how he wouldn’t miss a single punch. So, everyone claimed that I lost and took my money. Really, I thought he knew how to fight. And he was doing it for a noble cause.” A dramatic pause ensued, and then Seokjin smirked. “I mean you, by the way.”

“No, yeah, I got that,” you said bitterly. “But you didn’t even know the actual—everyone just assumed he had a black eye because of me?”

He pulled his lips together to stifle a chuckle as he moved his cup of coffee away.

“Can you blame us?” he asked with a leisurely shrug. “He’s in love with you, and his friends are complete idiots. And then he shows up with a black eye! The dots connected themselves. Although, personally, I thought Luna or Maggie could have socked him in the eye, too. You three are very protective of each other.”

You tilted your head, your posture a warning. “I see. So, we’re a telenovela to you. Did you bet that I would knock someone out if I found out what you were up to?”

“Not yet,” he said, clearly delighted by the prospect of this happening in the future.

“Did you get your money back at least?”

“Yeah. But then I lost it again.”

The leaves of the sycamore tree rustled impatiently as you groaned. “How?”

“Another bet,” he said. “Some people—including Jimin, by the way—thought that Jungkook’s friends would never come to another Rated Riot show. In the UK specifically. We were very specific about the details in this bet.”

“Right, of course.”

He smirked, unapologetic about the amusement he derived from this. There were all sorts of games happening backstage at any given point in the tour; nearly everything became a joke here. And Seokjin hoped to show you that yes, people did know about you and Jungkook. But unless they could find ways to make it funny, they didn’t care.

He could tell that the more he talked to you about this, the more you started to recognise the absurdity of it all, too.

“Right. Well, Jimin won that round. I actually—I thought Jungkook would change his mind and bring his friends back,” Seokjin confessed. “Serves me right. I should have trusted him more.”

You raised your cup in his direction.

“Yeah,” you said. “Serves you right for making bets about this. He blacklisted Sid.”

“He—oh!” Seokjin seemed very pleased to hear this. “Well, that was worth my money, then.”

“Hmm.”

He grinned, the mischief still lingering in his eyes.

“We have another bet going on,” he said.

“Anoth—well, of course.” Your teeth dug into the coffee lid as you tried to take a sip, but reconsidered. “So, what? Who’s getting a black eye this time?”

“It’s whether you’ll get back together.”

Your irritation wavered in surprise. A rustling stirred inside you as though you had swallowed the wind and carried it within.

“Well,” you said. “Where’d you place your bets?”

“Drink your coffee,” he said. You did. It had cooled and turned unpleasantly sweet as the caramel settled. “I haven’t bet on that yet. But if you told me if you’re considering going back to him, I could win my money back.”

You made sure to swallow before looking up.

“That’s not solely up to me, though,” you said, sensing an obvious defensive undertone in your own voice. You didn’t make much effort to conceal it; he would have read right through you anyway. “A relationship typically involves two people. I can’t force him to be in it.”

Seokjin offered a patient smile.

“Please,” he said. “Everyone knows he’d burn down half of Europe for you.”

You swallowed again.

It was just you. The only one still fighting it.

“Well, in any case—” Seokjin said, distracted, suddenly, by a particularly cheeky pigeon that kept flying up to your ankles, then to your knees. “That bird is going to steal your coffee.”

You glanced down, and the shift in your position frightened the pigeon into flying a few metres away. Seokjin nodded in approval.

“Anyway,” he said. “What I meant to say is that I don’t know how much my opinion is worth, but if the only reason you’re considering quitting is because of this, then that’s nothing. You sit down, you work through your problems, you get back together, and you’re good to go. Well, good to stay. It’s up to you. No one else cares.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Everyone’s talking. They’re making bets about us. We—we’re a joke backstage. And yet you think we should get back together?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Give us something else to bet on.”

Exasperation flashed across your face. “I’m thinking I’d like to sic that pigeon on you a little bit.”

“Oh, but what would you do without me?” He was grinning in a manner so endearing and genuine that you felt your lips stretch into a defeated smile as well. “You know we’re family. That is what we do. And you said it yourself – everyone’s already talking. And no one’s truly bothered by it. You might as well do what you want.”

You took a big gulp of your coffee to finish it.

Some of the humour faded from his eyes while he watched you. He looked around—to make sure the pigeon hadn’t returned and to gather his thoughts.

“Just think about it, okay?” he said. “You know how they say ‘measure twice, cut once’? Why don’t you measure three times? Four, even. Five. Or, I don’t know, as many times as it takes until you realise that there’s no need to cut anything. Everything’s great as it is.”

Your face felt warm. “That’s very profound.”

“It is.” He nodded, his exaggerated confidence faltering a little when he saw the gratitude in your eyes and suddenly found himself timid. “I’ve also got a few carpentry jokes if you’re in the mood for those.”

Laughing finally, you shook your head. “Maybe later. But thank you for this.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “And notice how I’m not saying ‘anytime’? Because there can’t be another time that this happens. In fact, the next time I see you, it’ll be as if we never had this conversation.”

Still smiling despite his threatening tone, you put your palm to your forehead and extended your fingers in a salute. “Sir, yes, sir.”

He nodded, content with your response.

“Now go back to that café and bring me a scone,” he ordered, his expression bright again. “I got distracted by your misery and forgot to buy one.”

You snorted and nodded—you did owe him a scone, at the very least. Seokjin stepped deeper into the shade by the tree and waited while you jogged back towards the café. He looked up to see your lighthearted expression reflected in the window across the street and felt himself exhale in relief.

He’d done his job—you knew everyone needed you here.

You returned to the venue with enough scones for the whole staff, and as you passed them out, almost everyone on the team regarded you with a mix of curiosity and anticipation. It was a nice change from their earlier concerns about your health, but you still felt uncomfortable.

There was an obvious reason you enjoyed working backstage: here, you successfully evaded the spotlight. You did your work quietly and got to spend time with your friends.

But lately, you’d been feeling everyone’s eyes on you and, naturally, your instinctive reaction was to flee. Really, this had to be inherent; you wondered if your brother shared a similar flight-or-flight-never-fight response when confronted with an uncomfortable situation.

And still, you forced yourself to wait.

Following your conversation with Seokjin, you decided on the key points that you needed to discuss with Jungkook. And they were simple: share your thoughts with him and make a decision together.

You’ve never really tried this with him before; open communication was a recent development for the two of you. But you meant what you told Seokjin: a relationship involved two people. And regardless of what -ship you and Jungkook were currently in, your decisions still influenced his, and his influenced yours.

You had hoped to speak to him after he returned from his interview, but it was almost funny how time worked against you today.

After the band returned, you went to help Jungkook with his bandages, and the company executives decided to respond to your email with a phone call. And so, you were forced to stay on the phone with the label the whole time before Rated Riot went on stage.

That was okay. You figured you would talk to Jungkook later.

But later just wouldn’t come.

After the concert, you waited for the band to finish taking pictures with their fans before you took them to another interview with several more radio hosts. And when you returned to the bus, the curtains on Jungkook’s bunk were drawn. You didn’t want to wake him in case he was asleep.

The only time you finally had direct contact with Jungkook was on the plane to London. He surprised you by approaching you from behind and casually lifting your carry-on to the overhead compartment. Then, as though he hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary, he turned around to return to his seat.

“Wait,” you called out. “Can I—can we talk? Yoongi said he’d switch seats with me.”

Jungkook stopped, his stomach sinking. He was the undefeated champion of misinterpreting situations—he hadn’t forgotten how your conversation had ended last night, but he still thought this was about Sid.

Because while you were beating yourself up about your avoidant tendencies, Jungkook was grappling with a different problem.

Since this morning, he had been bombarded with incessant text messages from an unknown number that ranged from vaguely bothersome (“UR SO DUMB LMSAO”) to genuinely threatening (“DNOT THINK THS IS OVER YOU FUCKVING CUNT”). All texts contained a certain distinctiveness: full capitalisation, typos, and a disturbing scent of wounded ego.

It was Sid, Jungkook was absolutely sure of it.

He seemed to be in a white powder induced frenzy, which wasn’t particularly unusual—Jungkook didn’t think he could remember the last time Sid had been completely sober—but the frequency of the texts was a little unsettling. Jungkook thought the bet was over now, even if Sid wasn’t satisfied. But clearly, Sid was craving something more.

Jungkook wasn’t sure how you would know about this or why you would bring it up now, but he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket again, and he thought this had to be the reason why.

“Sure,” he said, trying to mask his apprehension. He turned on airplane mode on his phone and looked up. “What’s, uh—what’s going on?”

You gestured at his seat. He sat down with bated breath—as if his life was about to change and he needed to brace for it—and waited for you to settle beside him.

“I wanted to, uh, explain myself,” you began as the plane filled. The rhythmic sound of people shuffling across the aisle was oddly soothing. Jungkook, however, appeared perplexed. “And to thank you, actually. For being there when I—well, when all of that happened. I’m sorry I caused—”

“You’ve already thanked me,” he interjected. “And you better not tell me that you’re apologising for fainting right now.”

“I’m—well, I’m just saying, you were right,” you said, disheartened by the disbelief in his eyes. You placed your water bottle on the fold-out tray and shifted in your seat. “I should have known better. Rested more. I guess what I’m saying is that I’m sorry I didn’t listen, and it all led to... that.”

He sighed. This wasn’t about Sid; this was about something worse.

“That’s who you are, though,” he said. He should have known this would be something you would blame yourself for once you recovered. “You always have to get everything done, or you—you can’t sleep. You need to, uh, work on that, but you don’t need to apologise for it.”

You looked down, tracing a shaky finger over the armrest between your seats.

“And,” he added before you could speak, “to be fair, a lot of things that happened on tour were actually out of your control. You had no choice but to put in extra time and effort, I guess. The stage constructions collapsed, the venue was flooded—”

“Right, but these—well, anyway,” you cut yourself off, reverting to your original train of thought. “I’m sorry you had to drop everything a-and worry about me. Well, not just you; the whole thing ended up being a big scene that disrupted everyone. But I—I wanted to say this to you, first of all.”

He observed you for a long moment. Between the truce you’ve decided on in your hotel room, the conversation he’d overheard about your meeting with Nick, and the disturbing messages from an unknown number, Jungkook was having a hard time comprehending what he’d done to warrant an apology from you right now.

Then, a troubling thought occurred to him: what if this was your way of saying goodbye?

He had let you go last night. What if you had decided to leave, and this was the prelude to the end of your time together?

“I’m—I didn’t have to do it,” he said. “I did it because I—well, I mean, you were passed out. Of course, I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He leaned forward in his seat. “It kind of sounds like you’re forgetting that you’re not just the manager here. You’re also my—uh, y-you’re our friend. We all would have acted the same way if it had been anyone else. It’s an ‘all for one, and one for all’ situation with us. You know that.”

He was right; your team had grown so close that none of you would have hesitated to help each other. Your unease simply stemmed from the fact that you were the one receiving help this time.

You swallowed. You thought you owed him an explanation about everything, but you haven’t even really gotten to it yet.

“Thank you,” you said. “For what you said and—and for what you did. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

He gave you a hesitant smile. “Was I really so terrible at taking care of you that it made you change your workaholic ways?”

You raised your eyebrows, surprised by the gentle teasing in his words.

“No, you di—you were great. Except for the fact that you didn’t need to do that,” you said, shooting him a look that he promptly rolled his eyes at. You added, “I say that with gratitude, of course. But, um, I felt very uncomfortable just lying there while everyone else—well, can’t let that happen again. Anyway, this isn’t—”

“I hope it won’t happen again,” he interrupted. “But it’s—well, you’ve spent your whole life taking care of... everything. Your brother, your mum, uh, e-even me. It’s second nature to you, I don’t know how else to—you can’t help but actively try to fix things. So, I-I don’t mind being the person who reminds you to take it easy sometimes. I just want you to listen.”

He’d said something very similar to you last night and you dug your teeth into your lower lip so you wouldn’t argue.

You thought you weren’t doing a very good job of fixing things—nevermind that you’ve subconsciously turned absolutely everything around you into your personal responsibility, and it was simply unrealistic to take care of it all.

“Thank you,” you chose to say. “I just, um—I don’t want you to think I’m talking to you so you’d make me feel better. You don’t need to do that. And it’s my turn to expla—”

He whipped his head to look at you so suddenly—an almost offended expression on his face—that the rest of your sentence got caught in your throat.

“Wh—why do you always think that?” he asked. “That I do something for you because I feel like I have to?”

“I don’t—I know you’re not—ah.” Leaning back in your seat, you attempted to rearrange your thoughts as if you were shuffling stubborn cards in a deck—trying to find the one you needed to win a game against yourself. “That’s not even the main thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Okay,” he said, a little worried. “What is the main thing?”

It took you a moment to find your breath.

“The conversation that we had last night—well, not just last night, actually, it’s been happening for a while. But, uh, last night specifically—it wasn’t supposed to end like that,” you said. He lowered his eyes. “That’s what I wanted to, um—to bring up. Because we’re not talking again, you know? I mean—okay. That’s not true. You are talking. But I’m not. I-I think it’s still new to me that we’re—that we’re actually talking about things. About everything. I’m sorry I haven’t said much to you in return.”

You exhaled when you finished speaking—finished stammering, really—but you didn’t feel relieved. There was a lot more you had to say.

Jungkook, on the other hand, felt his thoughts drift back to Amsterdam once again, when he had entered your hotel room to apologise, and you told him you forgave him and apologised in return. He remembered the pained, laboured beating of his heart as he listened to you—thinking, all the while, that he had no right to want you all for himself.

Now, he had some additional time to think about how to respond, because the flight attendant started the safety demonstration at the front of the plane, preparing for take-off.

He fastened his seatbelt, relieved by the silence on his phone—but the quiet pause between you as the plane lifted off the runway felt very loud in his head.

“You know,” he said after a few minutes, “you find the weirdest things to feel guilty about.”

You furrowed your brows while Jungkook idly twirled the onyx signet ring on his index finger.

“You’re never obligated to respond to what I tell you,” he said. “I didn’t say any of those things to you in Manchester in exchange for your immediate forgiveness, or for some similar stories, or for—anything, really. You don’t owe me anything. I just wanted to tell you everything, and that’s it.”

“I-I get that,” you shifted in your seat, restricted by the seatbelt, “but I’m your manager. And I-I left you in a confusing, stressful situation by yourself when I refused to talk to you right away. That was—it was unprofessional at best, and cruel at—”

“You’re more than that to me, though,” he cut in. You gripped the armrest tighter. “You know that. And you didn’t… leave me in that situation as my manager. You left me there as my ex-girlfriend. You have that right. You were confused and stressed, too.”

Your gaze slid over his black and grey flannel and the t-shirt with a Rated Riot logo underneath. The plane cruised at the designated altitude, but you still felt pushed into your seat like you had during take-off.

“I don’t—I’m not sure those two roles can be separated any longer,” you admitted.

Oh, whispered an alarmed pang of his heart. And, oh? echoed the multitude of shivers rippling underneath his skin.

“What are you saying?” he asked.

You drew in a breath. You didn’t want to start from the beginning because you had a feeling that he might not let you get to the end, so you decided to start from the explanation—the one that you’d come here to give him, but kept getting sidetracked as he responded to you in ways you weren’t anticipating.

“People on tour,” you began, “are very invested in our, uh—situation.”

Jungkook arched an eyebrow. “They’re invested?”

“Apparently, we’re a popular topic backstage.”

Quickly enough, he thought he figured out your implication: if he hadn’t played along with Sid, the staff on this tour might have been having very different conversations.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No, that’s not—well, it’s not just your fault,” you replied. “It takes two, right?”

“Right, but I was the one who made the bet.”

“You—okay. But this isn’t about the bet—” you paused. Reconsidered. “Well, alright, the bet sort of kick-started a lot of things, but it’s not—that’s not the problem from my point of view right now.”

Oh, once more. And then, ah.

You were talking, he realised, about the things you didn’t want to talk about in your hotel room in Manchester. The things you’ve affectionately labelled as “a confusing, stressful situation.” The things you were supposed to discuss later, when the time was right. Except he had succumbed to the terminal case of nothing-matters-anymore-if-you’re-leaving-the-band and got drunk instead.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s… fine with me.”

“Alright,” you said. “So, here’s our problem: I’m your manager.”

Jungkook raised his eyebrows and pulled his chin back.

“If that’s our only problem,” he said, “we are very lucky people.”

A brief smile flickered on your face.

“It’s our biggest problem,” you clarified. “But we definitely are lucky.”

Encouraged by the amusement in your eyes, he grinned. “Because we have each other?”

Your smile grew and even the plane itself seemed to shake a little when his heart rate accelerated at the sight of it.

“Because we can solve this problem,” you said.

His face fell. He thought he could guess where you were going with this.

“How do you mean?” he still asked, his voice a low murmur.

You thought you could have used some of the whiskey that Jungkook had sought out last night.

With a measured breath, you said, “I leave the band, and—”

“Wait,” he cut you off. “Is that supposed to be—”

“Hear me out first—”

“No, listen—if the problem is that you’re my manager,” he said, “then you leaving Rated Riot is not the solution.”

Jungkook sounded a little like Seokjin had earlier—a stark contrast from the way he’d spoken to you last night by the bus.

“Are you suggesting that because people are talking about us backstage?” he pressed.

You turned away. “It’s not just that. I mean, they’re already talking and that’s—well, it’s not great. But we can’t stop the wheel from turning now, or however that saying goes. What we can do, however, is stop it before it gets worse. And by that I mean, you know—we need to decide what the hell we’re doing.”

That was what he wanted, he thought. But now he was confused.

You seemed to want to make a decision about your relationship together. Yet you also seemed to believe that leaving Rated Riot was the best option. He failed to see how both of these things were possible at the same time.

“So, you’ve made up your mind, then?” he asked. “About leaving?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” you said. “I don’t want to leave the band, but—”

“Well, that’s the thing, then,” he said sharply, unfastening his seatbelt. Turning to face you, he stumbled over his own confusion, “I’m—I don’t want to hold you back. I told you. But I thought you—I thought it would be—I thought you wanted to leave. I thought—but you want to stay. So, stay.”

Stay.

It was very simple, really, very concise. But it carried a lot more weight than his words last night when he had caught you off guard. When he had let you go.

You wanted to stay. You just didn’t think you should.

Your response wasn’t particularly verbal. “Hmm.”

“Is it me?” Jungkook asked. “Am I the only reason you’re thinking of leaving?”

He didn’t sound accusatory, even though you were prepared for it. He sounded apologetic instead—almost guilty—and you were completely unprepared for that as a million tiny needles pricked at your heart.

“You’re not the only reason,” you replied. “You’re part of it. And I don’t—look, I-I don’t want to leave. But that sounds reasonable when you look at where we are right now.”

He heard nothing of what you’d said.

“That’s not reasonable in the slightest,” he insisted.

“Jungkook—”

“You have to stay. If you—”

“But if that’s the choice that would make more sense for us,” you interjected, exasperated, “then I don’t mind leaving. If—if we weren’t working together anymore, then maybe we could try to finally figure our shit out.”

Now he heard it.

He had a vague awareness that the other passengers behind you had turned off their screens and removed their headphones, choosing to listen to your conversation instead. But he was too stunned by the look in your eyes to care.

So, that was what you were trying to say: you were prepared to leave Rated Riot to fix your relationship.

He opened his mouth to speak, but it took another minute for coherent words to come to him.

“We can—we can figure our shit out while working together,” he said. “Why do you have to leave?”

“It’s—you have to understand,” you said, “that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m pretty sure neither do you, but that’s how you usually function.” Jungkook sobered up enough to offer a noncommittal shrug. You continued, “but for me—this is freaking me out. I don’t—I don’t know what’s going to happen and what we should do, and—leaving the band sounds—it seems reasonable. It seems safe. Smart. And that’s what I’m clinging to.”

He swallowed, not trusting himself to move. “But that’s—”

“Please, it’s—this is what I wanted to say to you—what I should have said to you last night.” There was a pleading tone in your voice. He nodded, quiet while you continued. “If I stay with Rated Riot, and we try to solve our problems… there are only two ways that can go, right? We both know as much. Either we get back together, or we don’t.”

Jungkook was mesmerised by how glaringly simple this was, in principle: either you used a label on your relationship, or you didn’t.

He knew he was going to love you either way, but he couldn’t breathe, suddenly, at the thought of this other choice in this dilemma—the choice where you didn’t get back together, and he spent the rest of his life deliberately going crazy, so he could return—at least in his mind—to that day seven years ago when he first met you.

“Well, uh, yeah,” he managed to say. “That’s pretty much the choices that we’ve got.”

You reclined in your seat, lifting your gaze to the light control buttons overhead.

“If we get back together…” you began, exhaling. “Then, we might have to face a lot of problems from the label. But we might be alright in the end. I don’t know.”

Jungkook tightened his jaw. He attempted to formulate a response that would be logical and appropriate in this situation. But really, his head felt too small for his thoughts and his tongue too big for his mouth.

“That’s… that’s good to know,” he eventually said.

“Mhmm,” you replied distractedly. “But see, what if we don’t get back together? Or we do, but it doesn’t work out?”

That was what worried him, too—but for different reasons.

He knew that you were looking at this from a pragmatic perspective. A logical, what-would-make-more-sense perspective.

He didn’t think he’d ever looked at it this way. For him, this was simple: he loved you and wanted to be with you. He didn’t care how inconvenient and illogical it might seem to those around him, and he refused to think about what would happen if this love didn’t work out. It would have to. How could it not?

But he recognised his privileges; he knew he didn’t have as many responsibilities as you did. And, alright, fine, he thought about it—realistically, if you broke up again, he’d probably drink until he turned into a puddle of whiskey, while you’d flee across the globe to get away from it all.

And yet—was that all there was to this? Just rationality and calculated decisions?

Jungkook cleared his throat and asked the question that he believed really mattered here.

“Do you love me?”

Someone on the plane gulped audibly and held their breath. He wondered if it was him.

The colour of your eyes deepened, then blurred. “I-I—that’s—that’s not—”

“Answer me,” he whispered.

You tried, but no words came out. This moment resembled the nightmares that haunted you lately: you opened your mouth to scream, but silence stifled every sound you tried to make.

“T-that’s—” you began and stopped yourself before you could stutter any further. You took a breath. “That’s not important right now—”

“How can it not be—”

“Because I do love you,” you said quickly—the words slurred into one desperate Idoloveyou, a hopeless Idoloveyou, a how-can-you-possibly-expect-me-not-to Idoloveyou. “But I don’t think I should. I don’t think you should, either. We’re a—we’re a fucking mess.”

Visibly frozen, Jungkook found himself thinking that if this was the sixteenth century, and the two of you just happened to have this conversation in some public square, the townsfolk would have surely accused you of witchcraft.

It was uncanny, the way you cast a spell on him with just four words—all four of which he heard with perfect clarity: I do love you. Granted, he wasn’t sure if he heard the rest. He felt like he was already burning in your place.

“Right,” he thought he said. He couldn’t feel his face. “But we’ve always—”

“I’m—I have to—I do owe you,” you said. He watched you, his expression oscillating between mild confusion and outright bewilderment. “You said I don’t, but I do. I could have told you what was going on in my head like you told me. Honestly, all this time, whenever I talked to people, they all told me to speak to you. To talk it out. And I closed up in my head instead. If I don’t talk about it, I don’t have to deal with it. You know?”

He blinked, finally. “That’s—”

“I’ll explain it, though, okay?” you said. “Please?”

You gave him too much power—as if he could ever say no to you. As if he could stop listening. As if every fibre of his being didn’t ache to stay close to you.

Warm—so unbearably warm that it felt like he was in the middle of exploring the landscapes Dante depicted in Inferno—Jungkook wiped off the sweat from his palms on his dark jeans.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”

“It won’t take long,” you assured. “Really, I don’t even have much to say. I’m fucking scared. That’s all there is to it.”

Jungkook seemed to be practising the lost art of swallowing his tongue. He wanted you to continue and you were biting your lip in a way that suggested that this was not all there was to it. You only wished it was.

You took a trembling breath, and your lungs followed—quivering, it seemed, as they tried to provide you with the oxygen necessary for all that you were about to say.

“I spent the first fifteen years of my life watching my parents break up and get back together again,” you began. “And do you know what I felt every single time they broke up? Actual rage.” You laughed wryly here like this reaction was absurd. “But when they got back together, I was fucking—I was hopeful. I refused to speak to them, of course—I was a teenager—but I was… Inside, just like my mum, I also hoped that this would work. That this time would be the one.”

You swallowed and lapsed into a silence so long and heavy that Jungkook worried you might never speak again.

Fifteen years, he thought. And all this time, he’d assumed that your dad left for the final time when you were twelve. That was already bad enough, of course, but Jungkook hadn’t realised that the back-and-forth between your parents that you’d mentioned back in Tilburg had taken place after that. He hadn’t realised that you and your brother had gone through three years of almost having a father—and your mum through almost having a partner.

“I knew they were a tragedy together,” you continued. Jungkook didn’t know how to raise his eyes to look at you. “It was obvious that it wouldn’t last. I always knew it, and I always said that to my mum. But deep down, I still fucking hoped that they’d get together and it would work.”

You shook your head with a cold, unforgiving smile.

“How fucking stupid,” you concluded. “All hope does is bring misery and disappointment.”

“You were a child,” he said, his brows drawn together—sad and a little scared for your younger self. “You just wanted your parents to be together. You wanted a family.”

“Yeah,” you said with a sigh. Then again, “yeah.”

A minute passed without either of you speaking. Flight attendants crossed the aisles, offering complimentary snacks, but missing you—either by mistake or because there was no one in your seats on the plane. The two of you were somewhere else.

“I think,” you said once the commotion around you quieted, “that I wasn’t just angry at my mum for trying again and again, even though it never worked. Or for never losing hope that maybe they could be happy together. I think I was also angry at myself. Because I never truly lost hope, either.”

Jungkook hung his head, his lips tight in silent contemplation.

“So that’s what I’m afraid of,” you said. “I’m scared that this—us—will turn out to be like that. I’m scared that we’ll let wishful thinking take over, and we’ll get back together even though we shouldn’t. Even though it’s obvious that we won’t last.”

Right away, he wanted to insist that you would defy those odds. That there was nothing obvious about the two of you whatsoever. He wanted to promise all that and more, but it wasn’t right—not after you endured fifteen years of broken promises between two of the most important people in your life.

“You, um—” he started to say and coughed suddenly, caught off guard by his dry throat, “—you told me before that you admired your mum’s courage. F-for trying again.”

You handed him the overpriced airport water bottle that you had bought earlier. Jungkook nodded in gratitude.

“I did,” you confirmed. “And I do admire that about her. But I don’t have any of her courage.” You brought a shaky finger over your forehead, not quite scratching it. “I always say that I don’t believe in second chances, but the truth is, I think I do believe in them. I’m just debilitated by my fear that these second chances might not work out.”

Jungkook lowered the bottle. He’d emptied almost half of it in a single gulp, but an anxious undercurrent inside of him had absorbed it before he could feel any relief.

“Is that, um,” he tried to ask, “is that something you feel in general or—or because it’s us?”

You thought about that for half a second and shook your head.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in a situation where a second chance held so much significance,” you said. “This isn’t a mistake that you can fix. It’s not a human error. It’s you and me. And it’s so—it’s final. There won’t be another chance for us, it’s now or never. And what if it’s never?”

You lowered your gaze, your fingers restless as they toyed with the sleeves of your black shirt. Every now and then, you’d lift your hand to your bare neck—you still hadn’t found any of your necklaces—as if seeking a distraction from the weight of the moment.

“Y-you are—you’re my—” you tried and couldn’t. Finally, you looked at him, and the words you couldn’t voice were right there, shimmering uncertainly in his dark eyes. “You’re my first thought in the morning and the last one at night. I don’t think my heart could take it if I started to have hope for us again, but we didn’t work out in the end.”

Jungkook felt his heart trip over several beats—

Stumble down his ribs—

Crash into his stomach—

Roll around the hollow cavities somewhere at the very bottom—

Rise suddenly, all the way back to his chest—

Expand—

And explode, it seemed. In a flash of light so vivid and intense that for a minute or two, his blood stopped running and he survived on nothing but the words you’d just said.

“And so that’s what I meant,” you finished, and he struggled to hear your next words over the loud pounding in his chest. “If I stay here and we don’t get back together—or we do, but not for long—then what? We see each other every day, we try to act like nothing’s wrong, we learn how to go back to being professional, and then four years later, you make another bet?”

Jungkook found the end of your sentence so utterly unexpected that he wasn’t sure if he had even heard you correctly. His response was half of a gasp and a fractured “I—” before you cut him off.

“I’m joking,” you said with a gentle smile—one that managed to feel both, very fitting and completely out of place in this situation. “That’s—well, that is why I think it’d be more reasonable for me to leave. That way, I think, we could figure it out without some dramatic, tragic consequences in case it, uh—in case something goes wrong.”

“R-right,” he said. A warm haze settled on his face in a delicate shade of pink. It appeared almost soft to the touch. “I… I understand. I-I don’t—I don’t know if there’s anything I can say that would take that away. All of your fear.”

You swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. There might not be anything to say at all.”

Jungkook hurriedly ran his tongue over his lips. He wasn’t thinking about you leaving right now. He was thinking about you staying and fighting through it.

He wanted to say something more, but he didn’t think he could mend these particular wounds in your heart. They ran deeper than his love could reach.

It wasn’t him that you should have talked to about this. It wasn’t him that could help you reach an agreement—or, at least, an understanding—with your own self.

“You should talk to your mum,” he said.

You looked up from the floor of the plane, surprised. “What?”

“Talk to her,” he repeated. “Just to hear what she thinks about everything. To hear her reasoning. To understand why she made the choices that she did. I think that would be good for you both.”

Your surprise deepened and gained an edge. You looked alarmed, as if the notion that a caregiver could ease your hurt rather than deepen it was new and foreign.

“I’ve—we’ve never—my mum and I have only talked about her relationship with my dad maybe once in our whole lives,” you said. “I have never even talked to her about my own relationship. You know I haven’t.”

He nodded solemnly. “I have, though.”

“What?” you asked. There was a ringing in your ears. “You have—you’ve talked to—to my mum? About—”

“I’m sure she’ll tell you everything.”

For a good minute, you watched him with an expression that held more questions than possible ways of asking them.

“I—I’m very confused right now,” you managed.

He nodded again, understanding, but still not offering any explanations.

He’d told you most of everything, really—he’d called those bits of the story “Haunting” and “Cursed.” But the rest of it had to be something you pieced together on your own.

For a long time, he had imagined this to be something that would hit you years later, perhaps when you would accidentally hear an old Rated Riot song. You’d think no, it can’t be, and you’d rush home. You’d pull out the albums, the track lists, and the lyrics.

And you’d know.

These conversations with your mum were his far side of the moon—invisible, but still present, still heavy.

These conversations were his thoughts and hopes and countless fears.

They were everything he brought to Rated Riot and everything he expressed in the recording booth, in Namjoon’s studio, and on stage.

They were his past and his present, and someone else’s future.

They were him without you, but still searching for you every morning when he woke up.

They were you, you, you.

Everything he’d ever talked to your mum about had been his songs. And all his songs had always been a tale about you—in every banal, every impossible narrative he could find within himself.

They were about seeing you and growing wings.

About kissing you and coming home.

About losing you and bleeding out.

About forever and five minutes that don’t mean anything once they’re over.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not capable of much else. “I needed her help with something. I didn’t really tell her anything, uh, directly, so to speak. But she—she knows. She’ll tell you everything. It’s just, um—you have to talk to her, too. You have to tell her what you told me.”

Airplanes, you realised suddenly, made it very easy to force yourself to stop running away. There was nowhere to escape—you could see the clouds reflected in his eyes and you were already falling in them anyway.

“I’ll talk to her,” you said.

Jungkook gave you a small nod and scratched his knee absentmindedly.

“I want you to stay,” he stated. “With the band. It’s—it’s selfish, but it’s the truth. I’ve always tried to encourage you to stop thinking so much a-and just do what you wanted, and this—this is what you want, despite your fear. You want to stay.”

You looked at him with a forlorn expression and he felt his hands twitch at his sides.

“But what will we do?” you asked.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promised. “I mean, we’ve gotten this far, right? So, give us a chance. We’re not completely hopeless. We can... talk our way through it all, step by step.”

You’ve talked your way through a lot and you have gotten this far, that was true. Even if the journey hadn’t been pleasant.

Seokjin had told you earlier today that as long as you stayed with the band, no one would care about what happened next. And, really, no matter how you looked at it, this was what it all boiled down to: it was just you.

Only you—afraid of what others will say, afraid of getting hurt and hurting him again, afraid of doing too much, and afraid of not doing enough.

“I’m—” you tried, “w-we don’t know what will happen. That’s why I’m—”

“I know,” he said. “And you’re right. We don’t know what will happen. That’s fucking terrifying. I’m scared, too.”

He did look a little scared, but he licked his lips and successfully collected himself.

The two of you were so close to meeting in the middle and taking that first step together—just a little more strain between your shaking, outstretched hands.

“And I-I know that the bet is another thing that—that might make it harder for you to believe that we can—that we can work it out,” he added, spinning his ring around his finger twice more. “But I want you to know that it—the bet was a fucked up thing to do. But it gave me a reason to talk to you about everything that I already wanted to talk to you about. I’m—even without the bet, I would have approached you, eventually. It just—I was fucking scared, so it might have taken me longer.”

It wasn’t just you.

Fear was in the epicentre of everything you were saying to each other. It was like the wind in every city you visited on this tour—inescapable, uncontrollable, persistent.

He was afraid, too—of trying and failing. Afraid of getting his heart broken and breaking yours. Afraid of never finding the forever that he desperately wanted with you.

“My point is,” Jungkook finished, “I think this is inevitable, because—well, let’s be honest,” he chuckled softly, trying to lessen the gravity of his confession, “all I’d ever wanted in my entire fucked-up life was you.”

Your breath trembled.

Something very deep inside of you wanted you to believe that inevitability was meant for the two of you, too.

“It’s been four years, though,” you said with a faint shake of your head. “What if it takes us another four to find a way to make this work?”

“It—well, I don’t really care how long it takes, to be honest,” he said. “I’m going to die yours.”

He said that and your heart stopped beating for a moment to listen.

To wait.

To make one thing very clear for you: you would never survive losing him again.

And you were scared—completely petrified—to find yourself in a situation where losing him was possible. Where it was likely.

Jungkook saw it on your face. He saw everything—the anguish, the pain, the doubt, the fear.

But he felt a little exhilarated to find the fight in your eyes, too. This fight was the reason you were talking to him about things that you’ve never talked about. It was the reason you were here.

“We’ll decide everything else when the idea of—of trying again doesn’t scare you so much anymore,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “When you hear your mum’s point of view, and you can make a, uh—an informed decision.”

He noted that there was something softer in your eyes when you looked at him again, but he could still discern the lingering edges of doubt.

“You think that’ll help me make an informed decision?” you asked, touched by his choice of words.

“I hope it will,” he replied. “But we can work it all out, either way. I just think you need to talk to her. It’s been so long.”

“Right. It has been.” You clasped your hands around your neck and tucked your chin between your palms. “It—it probably won’t be an easy conversation, though.”

“Nor will it be short, I imagine.”

“Hmm. Probably not.”

He sensed the growing distance between you as your eyes ran over the back of the seat in front of you. He knew you well enough to understand what you were doing: you were mapping out the rest of your story in your head.

He didn’t like that. Your stories rarely had happy endings.

“You don’t—don’t start planning it ahead, though,” he said hastily—before you reached the unhappily ever after in your mind. “It’ll be late when we land in London. You need to sleep. Talk to her after that. When you—when you’re not working. We can wait. We have time.”

Finally, you allowed your gazes to meet again—and to linger a little longer this time.

You took a moment to note that, despite knowing Jungkook for so long, every time you looked at him, you still needed a minute to will yourself to keep breathing. You remembered thinking, after your first few dates, if that would ever go away—logically, it should have.

But you watched him now, seven years since you’ve met, and the beating of your heart still felt backwards.

I’m going to die yours

I’m going to die—

“Okay,” you finally said. “I’ll call her as soon as possible.”

He nodded twice and closed his eyes for a brief respite—but hesitated, suddenly, before opening them again.

He wondered, for a suspended moment, what it would mean for you—this ‘as soon as possible.’

Then he looked at you and decided to tell you what he wanted it to mean.

“Before that happens, though—before you talk to her, I mean—I-I want to still be able to see you,” he said and did so assertively, using the phrase I want, but really meaning, I must. “I don’t want to not talk to you.”

You felt your frosty expression crumble effortlessly into a soft smile.

“We’ve agreed to a truce, right?” you said easily. Lightly.

His heart soared.

He was smiling, too, but with caution—his lips were pressed together as he bit into his lip ring to contain his smile to a level that he thought appropriate.

His shining eyes gave him away, however, and you wondered—the thought sudden and overwhelming—if there was a point in your life when you weren’t in love with him when he smiled.

“Let’s try a friendship,” he proposed.

“Oh—” Your smile abruptly turned into laughter as you remembered trying this once before. It had lasted for about two days. “You know we can’t be friends. We don’t know how.”

The gentle cadence of your laughter made him weightless.

“What are you talking about?” he teased—so high that he was certain the flight attendants were going to ask him to take it down a notch because it was dangerous to float on the ceiling in the middle of a flight. “We can be whatever the fuck we want to be.”

Your laughter grew bolder, strengthened by the relief that you’ve had this conversation, that you’ve decided on your next steps, however uncertain they were—and his smile spread.

You could see him beaming through your half-closed eyes, and there was absolutely nothing—no matter how big or small, significant or not at all—that you wouldn’t have done for him when he looked like that, and no amount of fear could have stopped you.

He'd burn down half of Europe for you, Seokjin had said.

You were worried you’d burn all of it for him.

“Honestly,” you said, “we’re such a mess that I have nothing else to say. Sure. Let’s try being friends again. Why not?”

“For the time being?” Jungkook asked. There was a tentative glint in his eyes. “Until we figure out if—until we decide what we’re going to do with us?”

It was very considerate of him to say ‘we’ here, when you knew that you were the one who needed to get it together in the end.

“For the time being,” you confirmed.

“And you’ll stay?” he asked once more. “With Rated Riot?”

Last night, he had told you he was letting you go, and you needed to hear it—not just to see how much he’s grown, but to fully understand yourself. To stop jumping from possibility to possibility. To accept that it was okay to do what you wanted sometimes.

The past few days were like flipping a coin and realising, while it was mid-air, which side you were hoping it would land on.

“I’ll stay.”

Jungkook thought that this flight was going to be the most thrilling part of his day. But a miracle happened as soon as the plane touched down in London.

His grandmother called him.

It wasn’t an accident like he had initially assumed when he saw her name on his phone. She called because she missed her favourite grandson and wanted to wish him good luck at his concert (and chastise him a little for not wearing “enough clothing” on stage).

Jungkook wasn’t sure if the tears in his eyes were because she’d remembered who he was, remembered what he did for a living, because she’d called, or because she’d confirmed his long-held suspicion that he was her favourite grandson.

Perhaps, and most likely, it was all of these things.

He was so excited that he stared at his phone even after the call had ended, ignoring the influx of more unintelligible, frantic messages from the same unknown number. He probably would have spent the rest of the night fixated on the screen if his battery hadn’t run out by the time everyone settled in the hotel.

At that point, there was nothing Jungkook wanted more than to tell you about the fifteen-minute phone call. However, he couldn’t call or text with his phone off—and waiting for ten minutes until he found the charger in his suitcase seemed like half of an eternity.

Unaware of the lateness of the hour, he lingered outside the hotel, thinking of a plan.

In the end, he decided he didn’t want to draw more attention to your friendship—he hiccupped on the word even in his thoughts—and approached the decorative garden at the front entrance. Ficus plants (artificial, as it turned out) rested in a bed of pebbles (real, for some reason) and Jungkook grabbed a handful of those before heading back to the south wing of the hotel.

He counted down the windows until he identified yours, then took half a dozen steps back from the wall and tossed a pebble at your window. It hit the glass with a gentle thud and dropped onto the grass four floors below.

Jungkook waited for a minute—or what felt like a minute—and tossed another one, making this one bounce against your windowsill before it slipped into your room through the crack of the open window.

He waited again and, finally, your curtains fluttered. A moment later, he saw your puzzled face as you opened the window and covered your squinting eyes with your hand, peering down into the darkness.

“Jungkook?” you called out. “What—what the fuck are you doing?”

“Trying to get your attention!” he shouted with an elated lilt in his voice.

You picked up the pebble from the windowsill and lifted it. He couldn’t see it very well from the ground, but he could see your confused expression.

“By throwing rocks at my window?”

“Yeah!”

“How—are you—for what—”

You stopped. There wasn’t a singular question you wanted to ask, because nothing about what he was doing made any sense whatsoever.

You leaned over the windowsill to get a better look at him, but it didn’t help much. The light from your hotel room made it difficult to discern his expression in the pitch-black night. And the garden lights adorning the exterior of the hotel only highlighted his white sneakers.

“I’m sure there were a lot of steps you could have taken before you had to resort to this,” you shouted into the night. “Most people text. Or knock on the door.”

“My phone’s dead,” he explained, lifting a black block that you assumed was the dead phone. “And I didn’t want anyone to see me going into your room. Can you come down here?”

“Wh—hold on a second.” You retreated into the room to put on a robe over the t-shirt you had worn to bed. The night wind felt a little less frigid when you leaned out of the window again. “Can you just come up here? It’s nearly six in the morning, no one will see—”

“Come on, we finally have a few days off!” he shouted, implying, clearly, that you’d have time to catch up on sleep later. After days of him forcing you to rest, this was very unusual—but, really, quite welcome.

You realised that something important must have happened for him to do this. However, his buoyant voice—and this whole situation in general—also made you wonder if he was drunk.

“I meant that it’s cold outside,” you said. “Wouldn’t it be warmer to—”

“I can—it’s not that bad,” he ended up saying after quickly surmising that his offer to warm you might lead to you throwing that same pebble right at his forehead. “Please?”

You were well aware that this could go on for a while, and it probably wouldn’t be long before your Romeo-and-Juliet-esque conversation attracted the attention of the hotel staff, who would politely ask you to find a different accommodation. The manager already didn’t seem especially pleased when he found out that a rock band would be staying at his hotel.

“Alright. I’m coming down,” you said. “Put the rocks back where you found them.”

He snickered and watched you close the window, disappearing inside of your room.

By the time he returned the remaining pebbles back to the garden, the sky was already beginning to paint itself red. The clouds obscured the rising sun, but Jungkook turned his head just in time to see you walk through the hotel door, and he felt like it was the middle of the day already.

“What’s going on?” you asked, a little concerned about the size of the grin on his face.

“My grandma called me,” he said. “She’s having a good day. She remembered me.”

“Oh, my God!” you gasped. All of your irritation about leaving your warm hotel room at this hour vanished in an instant. “That’s great news! Did you talk to her?”

“Yeah!” He nodded, nearly laughing in pure, beautiful euphoria. “The whole call, she was okay. Even scolded me for breaking the glass on her favourite picture frame when I came to say goodbye to her on the last night before the tour.”

You laughed, infected with his bright mood. “Jungkook, that’s—that’s fantastic. I’m so—”

Instinctively, he pulled you to him by wrapping his arms around your waist. For just a moment, he tightened his embrace and lifted you up slightly, laughing breathlessly when you gasped in surprise.

“I know,” he murmured into your neck as he lowered you to the ground. “I still can’t believe she really called.”

He held you close to him with one hand around your waist, and another one on the back of your neck—and you were stunned for a split-second. Then finally, muscle memory roused you, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, resting the side of your head against his.

“I’m—I’m so happy to hear that,” you whispered, feeling his breath on your shoulder and the goosebumps that rose on your skin as a result.

“I am, too.” He slowly pulled his head back to look at you, and the sight of the smile on his face was enough to pierce your heart with something that you could never remove. “You’re the first person I wanted to tell this to.”

Wordlessly, you pulled him back into a hug. You could feel the stretch of his cheeks against yours as his smile widened, and you realised you’d never want to run away from this. You’d always want to stay.

You were going to stay.

No. That wasn’t right.

You wouldn’t just stay with Rated Riot, determined to destroy every ounce of your fear for him. You’d have mopped up whole oceans for him. Captured shooting stars and stuffed them into jars. Flooded the entire world with an endless sea.

You’d have done anything to have him here like this: smiling so much that he could barely speak while his chest thud-thud-thudded against yours.

You felt so much of it—this vast love that refused to die no matter how much it was beaten—that you didn’t know what to do with it all.

A minute later, you pulled back slightly—a little dizzy from the intense whirlwinds inside your chest.

“T-thank you,” you stammered. “For telling me. I’m really—I’m so happy for you.”

His hands lingered on your waist, extending the moment to the very end.

“Thank you,” he replied, taking a reluctant step back. “She, um—she asked me to say hi to you. You know, from her.”

You were surprised that she remembered you—and brought you up!—and your smile returned, encouraged by the bashful look in his eyes when he said this.

“Give her my best the next time you talk to her,” you said.

“I will.” He nodded eagerly, then slowed down. “Although, I, uh—well—I don’t know when that’ll be.”

“That’s okay,” you replied quickly, not wanting to lose the lightness of the moment so soon. “The important thing is that she’s having a good day today. And she called you!”

You raised your voice at the end of the sentence, and it was enough to rekindle his excitement.

“She did!” he sang. “She said I was her favourite grandson, by the way. So I was right.”

“Oh—hmm.” You remembered pretending to argue with him about this in Stockholm and couldn’t help yourself. “Well, alright. I guess that makes sense. Remember that stray orange cat that she used to feed every night? Reginald?”

“Reggie,” he said, grinning. The cat was one of the first things his grandmother mentioned when she called tonight; it had stopped coming to see her, but continued to take up a large place in her heart. “What’s he got to do with this?”

“Well, I mean, she loved him so much, even though he scratched her every time she got too close,” you explained. “Clearly, she always had a soft spot for troublemakers.”

“Okay, now,”—he clicked his tongue—“my grandma did actually love that cat a lot, so I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You snickered and he laughed, too, and for a moment, he thought his chest might have exploded if he felt any happier than he did right now.

Then he noticed you clutching your robe closer to your body. Whatever you’d worn underneath wasn’t enough to keep you warm now that the initial excitement slowly began to fade.

“Do you, uh… want to go back inside?” he asked, gesturing at the exposed skin of your wrists. “You’re shivering.”

You looked down at your hands. “I’m okay. But maybe we could sit?”

You turned to look around. There was a bench right at the edge of the garden, next to a bronze-coloured flowerpot that was placed in the pebbles Jungkook had used to “get your attention”.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

You shivered all over again when he sat down next to you, and the bench turned out to be smaller than it had appeared. You could feel every bounce of his restless legs.

“So,” you said, “what did you two talk about?”

He brightened at your question, and suddenly, you didn’t think he was anywhere near close enough.

“Oh, so many things,” he said. “She told me she’d like to see us perform. Can we make that happen when we go back?”

“Absolutely,” you promised.

“Yeah?” His smile widened and his bouncing increased. “She’ll probably hate it. Mosh pits aren’t her thing.”

“We’ll put her in the balcony seats,” you suggested. This conversation felt so ordinary that it was hard to imagine you could be talking to him about anything else. “She’ll love every second of watching you on stage.”

“She said she saw pictures from the tour,” he added, giddy. “My cousins showed her Maggie’s Instagram profile.”

“Did she see your pirate cosplay?”

Jungkook displayed a remarkable resilience to the pirate jokes after that first concert—you and Jimin suspected that the response from the audience played a big part in his newfound immunity—and he chuckled at it now.

“She did,” he said. “She said I reminded her of Kurt Russell in Escape from New York.”

You pulled back a little to get a better look at him, even though he no longer needed to wear the eye patch. Most of the discolouration around his eye had already faded and you’d managed to cover up the scratches with a few smaller, skin-coloured adhesive pads.

“Well, shit,” you said. “Maybe I do kind of see the resemblance. You’ve got the hair.”

“I don’t know who that is,” he admitted.

You widened your eyes. “Jungkook. You don’t know Snake Plissken?”

“No, but my grandma said all her friends had a crush on him after the film came out,” he said. “Except for my grandma, of course. She insists she only ever had eyes for my grandpa.”

You both chuckled at this with a childlike glee—the thought of a love that spanned decades felt exhilarating and very possible as the sky awakened above you.

“My mum liked Kurt Russell, too, after the film,” you said. “And she was nine at the time. She snuck into the theatre with her brother and his friends.”

Jungkook inclined his head thoughtfully. “Maybe that guy’s not so bad, then.”

“He’s a classic,” you corrected. “But your taste in films isn’t.”

“That’s actually exactly what my grandma said,” he remembered. “She told me not to come home until I watched it.”

You could hear his grandmother saying this exact thing to him and felt yourself smile again.

“I think you’d love it if you watched it,” you said. “So, it’s not much of a threat.”

“Really?” He looked at you, but only for a fraction of a moment. “Would you—I mean, it’d be cool if we could—”

You knew what he was asking. And your response—like most of everything else tonight—came as a reflex. “I’m sure we can rent it on Amazon.”

“Okay,” he said, his shoulders slumping against yours in visible relief. “That—I’d like that.”

Unwelcome, the raw breeze of the late hour caught up with you, and you felt your body shudder involuntarily once more. Determined to ignore the chill, you opened your mouth to continue the conversation, but Jungkook suddenly leaned forwards.

“Here,” he said, slipping out of his dark flannel. “Put this on. It’s not much, but—”

“No, no—” you tried, but he drew closer to drape the flannel over your shoulders. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted, pulling back. To further reduce the significance of the gesture, he added, “it’s what friends do. And I’m warm anyway.”

You clutched the collar of the flannel tighter to prevent it from sliding off. Or just to have something to do with your hands. “Well—thanks, friend.”

A powerful waft of his cologne permeated your senses, and you closed your eyes, preserving the refreshing blend of woody and citrus notes that already took up a significant amount of space in your memory.

Every time you inhaled, his scent mixed with a different moment from your life—and it all flooded your mind in an unstoppable sequence.

Meeting Jungkook—

Kissing him for the first time on that rainy night in the park—

Hugging him hello every morning before class—

Borrowing his clothes when you stayed at his dorm—

Losing your mind when you found yourself alone and his scent returned to you, uninvited.

Jungkook appeared to be sharing your memories in real time as he inhaled sharply and tapped his fingers against his shaky thighs.

“Friends,” he said, swallowing, “probably don’t kiss each other.”

His words ignited a fire in the pit of your stomach without any matches.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah, uh—t-they probably don’t.”

“Hmm. Right.”

“As your friend,” you said, sitting up straighter and letting his flannel settle around your shoulders while you lowered your hands to the wooden bench underneath you, “I’m pointing out that you’re on a high because your grandma called. That’s why you’re thinking about—”

“I’m on a high because I’m with you,” he stated. “My friend.”

The fire inside you spread rapidly, wildly, uncontrollably.

The way you were starting to lose feeling in your fingers from gripping the bench so tightly, yet you refused to let go of it, should have probably been studied scientifically.

“Well, then,” you said, “let’s look at it this way: have you ever kissed friends before? Sid maybe?”

Jungkook snorted. “God forbid.”

“Minjun, then?”

“No,” he said. “Do you think I should?”

You snickered. “No. But if we’re friends, too, then we probably shouldn’t do that, either.”

He looked at you, his lips puckered in thought. Unconsciously, you had started to scrape at the dark paint of the bench.

You hadn’t meant a word of what you’d said. He suspected as much.

“Probably not,” he agreed. “But we’re such a mess, though, right?”

The echo of your own words on the plane brought a smile to your face again—a reaction more rooted in easing the sudden surge of anticipation rather than genuine amusement.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “We’re such a mess.”

Jungkook felt a little afraid, which was something that he always felt when the world around him blurred, and he found himself incapable of looking away from your lips.

It was dangerous, this tunnel vision. This singular focus. This impossible, magnetic pull that defied all reason, that made the whole universe tremble with a silent—

He leaned closer.

For a fleeting moment, the space between you was filled with nothing but your echoing heartbeats and silent memories.

For a fleeting moment, time itself held its breath.

You remembered Oslo and the way Jungkook had pulled away. You remembered how worried you were, how horrified—he was drunk, and he’d pulled away. He’d done the rational thing.

Funny thing, rationality.

You thought you were perfectly rational when you closed the remaining distance and your lips brushed against his—hesitant, uncertain, tender. A permission, a question, and his unequivocal death, all in one.

Jungkook inhaled—as if checking if he was alive or just pretending to be—and reached up to touch your cheek. He pulled you closer and stole the remnants of your breath with his kiss.

It was fair, he thought. You had stolen his entire soul.

The touch of your lips lasted for less than a minute—not nearly enough time for the trees around you to exhale in clandestine relief—but the softness of his mouth, the slow, intoxicating smacking of your lips against his, and the faint notes of mint on his tongue did irreparable damage to your pulse.

He stole that too, he supposed, because when he pulled away, his heart seemed to beat with enough strength to support the lives of half the population.

“Do friends discuss what it means if they kiss?” he asked, winded. His chest touched yours every time it rose in an attempt to recover.

Your laughter was breathless, too. “I’m thinking no.”

“I like what you’re thinking.”

Something very tranquil and very happy was inscribed into the contours of your features.

Soft red feathers spread across the sky above you as the city slowly stirred awake.

For the first time in a long time, everything felt like it was supposed to.

“I have a free day tomorrow,” you said. “Well, today.”

Jungkook was a bit puzzled by the shift in conversation but went along with it nonetheless. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm. The girls and I made plans, but I’m, uh—I’m going to call my mum before I go. I set an alarm for it and everything,” you said with a self-conscious chuckle. “I’m going to talk to her.”

“Oh.” He was shaking a little, he realised. He hoped you wouldn’t notice it and decide to give him his flannel back. “Well, that—that’s good. You should do that.”

You nodded, lowering your gaze to the grass and the pebbles below. “Yeah.”

“I’m going to kiss you again,” he decided. “For good luck.”

Your surprised smile overshadowed everything else he wanted to tell you.

“Oh,” you said. “Is that what friends do?”

“Yes,” he replied. “You didn’t know? It can’t be just one kiss, that’s bad luck.”

“Actually, I heard even numbers are bad luck.”

He gasped theatrically. “Oh, but that’s terrible! I’ll have to kiss you three times, then. To be safe.”

You smiled and shook your head. He died a little then, because everything was here, just like in his worst nightmares and his favourite daydreams: your scent, your eyes, your smile. All of you.

“You’re always such an idiot,” you said with so much affection that the wind crept away miserably, defeated by the warmth in Jungkook’s gaze when he looked at you. When he felt your hand on the side of his face—gentle and careful so as not to touch the healing bruises on his cheek.

“Hmm.” He wasn’t sure if he’d ever remember how to breathe again. “You said you love me, though.”

“I do,” you said, beaming, as you ran the tips of your fingers over the edges of his wolf cut. “It’s a burden I have to live with.”

He shivered from your touch and leaned in—impatient, all of a sudden. His lips met yours with a soft, rehearsed touch, and he thought he died all over again when you pulled him closer.

Your heart brought back the memories of sensations that you’ve tried to bury; it revived them and set them loose in your chest when you kissed him back and felt the smile on his lips.

Your heart threatened to quit it, to burst into flames and take you down with it when you felt his tongue slowly glide over your lower lip.

Your heart settled right against his when you parted your lips. When you felt his warm breath mingle with yours. When you held onto him with everything you were feeling, and he held onto you.

He kissed you in every way that a friend wasn’t supposed to, and groaned softly when he touched the back of your neck and felt the relentless roughness of goosebumps under his fingertips. Your body reflected everything he was feeling.

Every time your lips met—gentle and feverish—every time he pulled you closer—frantic and heated—every time you inhaled when he exhaled—sharp and eager—you were setting fire to something that once was and building something new in its place.

There seemed to be small fragments of a foreign nature inside of you both—fragments that had danced with each other long before your first kiss and would continue the lively, eternal swaying for years and years after your last.

Maybe it was dust from two neighbouring stars, drawn together by a force stronger than them, but forced to crash somewhere on earth and settle and quiver and wake up inside of you both.

Or maybe it was something less grand. Maybe it was just luck. Just coincidence.

“See,” you whispered, pulling back. “I told you we don’t know how to be friends.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, kissing the corner of your lips. The sparks inside him were fierce and relentless when you smiled in response. “I think friends can decide what sort of friends they want to be.”

“What sort of friends are we going to be, then?”

“This sort.”

You could see the northern lights and the tails of comets in his eyes before he leaned in to kiss you again. You could taste the longing for the Milky Way and the whispers of timeless meteors on his tongue.

And it all solidified this for you: the two of you were not luck and not coincidence.

You were something much more.

chapter title credits: bring me the horizon, “follow you”

prev ○ next

505 notes · View notes

vesperane · 3 months ago

Text

understanding the kennedy

✎ sadly, leon isn’t the most optimal guy to enjoy the time with cause he is the bluntest man out there, but your time spent together and your adventures in the process of survival prove just how cuddly and sweet he can be… in an elevator, preferably with his hands on your body.

cw: fingering, leon being an ass, tit play, dirty talk bc auugh i love his voice, mentions of gore? kinda, fem! reader, idk if i should add anything else bc my mind is not minding, MDNI

You’re about to throw up, no kidding. Your dubious gaze flies between Leon and Ashley, bouncing between two blonde heads. Okay, so how did you end up in this situation? Let’s recap. First things first, you’re an agent with an orderly and strict life under the rules of the government. Being good at your job is what pockets so much trouble plus fresh green dough, which you deserve to earn to the bitter end.

Let’s proceed to the second reason.

When the President’s daughter suddenly disappears and an anonymous tip comes in that she’s been sighted in a village in Spain you’ve never heard of, the President himself appeals to two names he can rely on with his very life.

You and Leon Scott Kennedy.

As crystal clear as it is that you’ve heard his name before, pretty much every ear in this business you’re in has heard of this man at least at one point in time. The funny thing is that this may be exactly where things get tricky. People only know a name, Leon, but nothing about the personality or the story behind his name.

You’re very much aligned with this category of people.

Yes, and in the middle of the mission, not to mention how crucial it is, you don’t exactly expect to playhouse with Leon Kennedy, granted. Still, it’s not entirely flattering that the man projects himself to you with nothing more than a short nod.

He certainly doesn’t like to talk, albeit occasionally overhearing him talking to himself or cracking one liner to infected villagers that makes the skin chapped and dry in winter, paints a much different picture of Leon in your mind.

He schemes on his own and rarely consults your point of view when he takes the matter elsewhere, which naturally leaves you feeling inferior. The sour grimace on your face is always preceded by a wise crack, conveying the image of a self-righteous and, conversely, insecure man.

Is this what the infamous Kennedy is like?

“Psst, amp up your game, agent.” A laconic tone, a haughty flow to his voice, as if to say, ‘I know best around here, and you don’t.’

In a riot you never expected to stumble upon, the villagers clogged with armaments composed of pitchforks, axes, and hacksaws, your life is miraculously salvaged by an anonymous clarion call of a bell.

Now you are looting a random house in the village for Leon’s ridiculous reasons, or rather, he’s the only one doing the looting because there is no way you would ever touch anything of these ailing locals.

“Hunnigan warned that the sooner the better, herring brain.”

“Herring brain?”

His back is turned to you, so you can’t quite see what sort of emoticon is hanging on his face. But the inflection is the same. Sarcastic as hell.

He jams his elbow into the glass of the vitrine, and it’s not hard to discern whether he’s pivoting to protect his prissy face or to prove to you how pinched his frown is. Definitely the former one, even though his face is too pretty to harm.

Putting a grenade in his gear as though it will be enough to slaughter the entire village because it certainly won’t be enough, he tosses another curt retort back at you—not that you weren’t born yesterday.

“Oh, nice.” He’s woven with acrimony and malcontent. Seriously, where does his assertiveness stem from?

“We need to get to the mill straight away.” You try again. Nothing that can’t be solved with a little more civility, right? It’s worth a try.

The soles of his boots crunch on the chunks of broken glass as he trudges forward in front of you. Okay, Mr. Vanity.

All humor aside, his gaze is unnerving, as if there are vines tied around your ankles holding you in place, so much so that you can do nothing but loiter in his presence, bunglingly.

It’s as though for a moment you forgot about his previous ’joke’, mainly about playing bingo (?) and his usual goofy mentality—how dare you be demeaned in front of him?

Seriously, this guy is a nonentity for his sheer size; he has a giant head full of cheesy jokes and an enormous high forehead that he tries to cover with a fringe of his... perfectly bleached and conditioned hair.

Ugh, lame alert.

But… He’s still handsome, let’s face it. Could be the work of charm that these dronemen so rarely acquire.

Still, don’t give him the time of day on this one after seeing how obnoxious he’s proven to be.

You roll your eyes, undeterred, your steps already dragging you forward, and you make your way down the stairs to exit this ramshackle excuse for a house that smells of dung and blood in equal measure.

If only you could get out of the seconds you’re in now as you got out of that specific moment. It’s not that simplistic; it transpires.

“Hey Leon, there’s some armor. Bet you could use it like a bulletproof vest.”

Well, Ashley is a cute girl, and denial can be deemed as a blind existence, or deafness, whatever. But when she starts to fill up your patience drop by drop, as it has been the case ever since you reached the Salazar Castle, she gradually grows more and more friendly with... Leon, not with you.

The president’s daughter’s words are clear and concise, one hundred percent flirtation.

It’s fine; you don’t care. But usually speaking to you as if you are not the part of this mission, or sometimes outwardly ignoring you, is an aspect you don’t understand.

“Little old-fashioned for my taste,” Leon quips in the world’s blandest tone. Damn.

It’s a wonder what happened to the girlhood chumminess. Maybe Leon and Ashley are more apt to form a closer friendship, or perhaps you’re the low-key of the group, or else Leon alone spotting Ashley in the church fostered a stronger bond of trust between the two of them when you went your separate ways and found out that Leon had gutted a lake monster or something.

Absurd as fuck.

To your credit, you weren’t a fat lot of good; a few diary fragments of your findings were the remains of a scientist who had scribbled on a piece of paper about a brand new parasite: the plagas.

Anyway, back to the shit you’re in.

It’s pretty obvious that there’s nothing too serious damage to emotions here; in fact, Leon is so thick that he turns Ashley down time and time again, not in a rude way—never in a crude way—but just with his inane and arid jokes.

“Too bad. I think you’d look pretty dashing." Ashley’s chirping, but it’s no good. She gets no reaction from the guy.

You take it’s the signal for the end of their conversation, and just follow the two of them into the moonlit room, keeping silent. I mean, why join in, since watching this awkward thing going on between the two of them is frankly like a cutscene in a sit-com.

You know Leon sucks at the whole flirting thing; you figure it out, so all that bravado, all that stoicism—it’s all a veneer. Insecure, yet cute.

The romp with Luis is a very specific narrative. It’s short and abrupt, so sudden that it’s unreasonably all tied to him. The only thing you know is that Luis has the 'medicine’ to treat the poisoning of Leon and Ashley by the parasite that is probably written on the pieces of scrap paper you found and... that’s it. It’s obvious that you’re Luis’ ticket out of here, and that he’s telling you how he no longer works for Los Illuminados as a way out of this clusterfuck while ogling your boobs is extra hassle.

He‘s a completely alternative man to the intangible and abstract man Leon is. Flirting is Luis’ breakfast, lunch, appetizer, and, of course, his dinner. Like the water, he has to drink so he can exist. Like his cigarettes, you can say.

One small maneuver could stop him; you could even tell Leon that you won’t go along with his scheme to trust this guy (he, too, somehow doesn’t like the attitude Luis gives), put a bullet in his head, and take his life on the spot.

But it’s the inner attention whore fairy in you that permits Luis to flirt like there’s no tomorrow. You like the limelight. That and he’s pretty cute; his hair looks great. You can work with that.

Basically, it’s a peculiar combo. There’s nothing stopping Luis. Even when you’re underground, literally underground, and you’re trying to get back up, there’s not a single thing stopping him from alternating between you and Leon, sometimes putting a few bullets in the infected villagers in between, and watching you and Leon do most of the work.

Two hot agents wrestling their way out of the mess—what can he say?

It’s hot.

If Leon asks him to participate and assist, he just shrugs and says, “Hey, I’m the brains. You’re the brawn, and the señorita is the vision.”

A walking paragon of bisexualism.

But what impression did this little oversight strike in Leon’s eyes?

Just one word: bleakness. The others are sourness, everything about unpleasantness.

Trusting someone, especially someone he didn’t necessarily know, to get things fixed was beginning to become a habit of Leon’s. Yes, he wants to help everyone whenever he can, and that’s where all the shit hits the fan for him. He is, notably, reluctant to put his trust in someone (formerly!) working for a corporation that has razed a young rookie full of dreams and wrecked several lives in one simple night.

Call it a survival instinct or whatnot.

Besides, it’s quite asinine for Luis to act so laid back or to think he has that luxury in the midst of so much grime and squalor.

The flirting game doesn’t cease, and Leon’s pestering you as well. Blatantly flaunting around with a flamboyant of a flirt would suggest that you’re neglecting your expertise and don’t give a damn about the mission.

That’s exactly what bothers him, never for any other reason. Yeah, right.

Uh, or... How an agent of your reserve falling for Luis’ tricks and snubbing Leon might (it is a certainty, but he’ll never admit this) be playing a small part in his aggravation.

“Really? I didn’t take you had such a low standard,” he says so casually in the elevator that’s now hauling you upstairs, in a rare moment when you can have some privacy, and you wonder if he’s never spoken or at least ever bothered to talk to you.

“What is that supposed to mean?” You quirk an eyebrow and watch as he cocks his gun, giving it a quick once-over—an idle thing he almost always does, but one that makes your skin prickle with welcoming tingles.

What the fuck is going on? Intensifying gun kink moment, perhaps.

“WhAt is thAt suPpoSed to mEan?” He emulates your intonation effortlessly.

Hey, come on, your voice isn’t that squeaky.

It would be a challenge for him not to miss the wintry glower on your face; he’s observant, and to tell the truth, watching your face makes him feel good at times.

At times, it's the key ingredient. For after all, he had made that mistake once before of falling into the maw of the sweet trap of the woman he had known overnight in Raccoon City and in whom he had tormented his heart.

Except things are; otherwise, he’s not a rookie anymore, and he even finds these traps interesting. Or rather, he likes you. And your traps.

“You need to watch your mouth, asshole.” Your voice lectures him with a sharp vibrato.

“Huh?” Quite the sport that he is.

What, was he guarding his stone-like reticence in order to torture you for hours on end? Or has he gotten over the familiarization period and is suddenly expecting you to click like best pals?

Reading men is the toughest exercise in the world; everyone knows for a fact that they don’t use their brains, but reading Leon is much more demanding. It’s a lot of strain, and it’s the kind of maltreatment that can cripple a person both physically and cognitively.

It takes a lot to tune in to the energy of the likes of Luis, a verse of assertive words for a few more ambitious words, and, well, he’s a good warm-blooded friend now.

Then Leon?

It is very very shaky to figure out what to do to stay on his good side.

“Whatever.” Your voice echoes with finality, and your follow-up answer is disrupted by the juddering of the elevator accompanied by a broken, beeping sound. Lights flicker and breaths are held in short gasps, as these things often don’t augur well. Then darkness blankets the space like the teasing gloom of a sky before the copious rain patters fall on the soil.

“Hey, I’m talking to you. Better tune your ears.”

“Wh-What?” You really do stammer.

“Come on, are you daydreaming in the middle of a mission? Man, it looks like you’re not as polished as the president thought you were.”

“Stop it,” you hiss in rebuke, to which he reciprocates with a ragged snort. There is something staggering about the fact that the man who didn’t say a word to you last night is surprisingly toying with you like a schoolboy. So much so that there can be no other conceivable answer to the vermouth tint of your cheeks.

The grin on his face provides a unique glimpse of his crooked teeth. Or his soft jawline. Up close, he’s full of his flaws, but he looks cute. You can’t lie. And you can’t just imagine being dissuaded by someone so full of little foibles. Especially on duty, in a malfunctioning elevator.

“Shy, or am I living things in my head?”

“The latter and for the first, dream on, buddy.”

“Oh, well. I shouldn’t be dreaming much then.”

None of these rejoinders are smooth; they’re frankly lame, painfully corny. Except that you have an infinite penchant for pretty-faced men and their languishing eyes, namely for Leon.

Which is why in the darkness you can’t visualize how his hand is tucked into your pants. It happens.

The sound of his fingers curling inside you is the root catalyst for the darling mantle on your cheeks, and the pilgrimage is the secondary motivator. Alongside his drenched and glove-clad hand, his other hand is under your shirt, cupping your right tit, which is sticking out of your bra with gusto.

“Tsk tsk, how long have we been on post, hm? For how many hours?”

He bombards you with queries as if you have the breath to center on his inquiry. How blunt.

Leon jeers when he sees your eyes blinking disproportionately at his. You’re a dumb blur, wet, and yes, only for him. Not for Luis, not for anyone else. It’s just a finger dipping in and out of you, and the second he sticks a second one in, you adopt a piquant pout, your lips pursed, eyes glazing over. Too pretty a spectrum for Leon.

“Let me answer that for you, sweetheart, it’s been about 7 hours and you’re getting fingered by someone you barely know.” His scratchy drawl tickles your ears like a freshly scabbed wound scratching vigorously, like he’s the only thing that will soothe the pain inside you.

“That’s what all your bitterness was for? To get me and keep me for yourself?” His questions almost never conclude, fingers pumping and scissoring the daylight out of you.

“Ashley walks out because you only want me for yourself. To be all yours?” In return, a protracted, keening whine rolls out of your mouth, your lips bruised from his previous kisses, his teeth. Ouch, so utterly ignominious.

When this is over, you will definitely remember this moment and break your sleep.

His swelling hubris, just like the twitching dick inside his pants, gives Leon a feeling of entitlement and conceit. At least he looks more appealing in that way.

“Wish I could understand your blabbering, beautiful,” he jests, his thumb darting over your puffy clit, rushed but attentive as he knows you’re inching close. The face buried in your bosom, his lashes and hair delicately brushing over your skin, shrinks the knot in your belly; warmth flutters.

Leon’s urge is stirred by the tight grip of your lovely cunt squeezing the fingers inside of you that are ebbing and flowing incessantly. A harsh and crass mark, a tiny imprint his teeth leaves on your neck, faint, purple, the kind you will carry with you tonight, on this mission and for a time being as it appears.

A seal that is almost bruising, hard enough to draw blood, and so irascible because it can’t draw blood; a brand that quickly grows purple; a sting that is the right match for the pinch it leaves on your nipple.

A brand that says you are Leon’s, for a fleeting while.

It’s absurd that it’s been so long since the last time someone fingered you that you can’t remember cumming. Guys, just suck at this shit. And you never dreamed that you would just melt and cum in the fingers of a trite man like Leon.

The sight of you paralyzed in rapture is so captivating that his craving to lick and devour you is eclipsed by the sudden illumination of the elevator lights. Pulling out his two fingers, he finally succumbs to his instinct to taste you and allots them close to your lips.

In a very non-sanitary, even grossly insensitive method, his fingers are swabbed thoroughly, as if your tongue were a gauze pad when he pushes them inside your parted lips.

He’s spectating you in a blissful trance, and if he were to claim that he didn’t put his fingers in place of his cock gliding between your lips, he’d be the world’s biggest fibbing bastard, and he’s not the world’s biggest fibbing bastard—mind you.

Only at the last second does he catch your hand sliding down his hip, grabbing it by your wrist.

“Ah, ah, not so fast.” He winces in pain, and the longing to impale himself inside you eats him up, but he has some principles, and he doesn’t want to break them. So, he wipes his fingers on your shirt once they’re out of your mouth, knowing it’ll leave a big ass stain. For real? Well, ew.

“H-hey, why the hell?” Your outburst is both about the dick he’s detraining from you and his juvenile antics.

He just shrugs his shoulders and hitches up your jeans, notwithstanding that your panties are still damp and caked in juices.

“Sorry, but I’m keeping myself back for the right time. Maybe we can finish it in a hotel after the OP, yeah? That’s if we survive.”

Oh, but really? Did he really cockblock you?

“Don’t tell me you're a virgin or something." You just can’t let him go easily; you’re grinning impishly.

“Don't tell me you are a loser cumming on a virgin’s fingers.” Message received. He's so blunt. Salty.

He reaches down under your shirt and grabs your utility belt lying pointlessly on the floor and your holster. On his knees, like a man designed to minister to you. What can you say? He knows he’s a fucking pain in the ass and he looks hot, that’s for sure.

He fastens the belt around your hips—not too tight and certainly not too loose—snaps the holster back to its original place on your thigh and adjusts the straps with a fair dollop of precision.

“There you go, agent. Ready for action and about to kick some serious cultist ass.” He pushes himself to his feet and strolls out of the elevator, as if his fingers, which minutes ago had been rearranging your pussy walls, had never been inside you.

When elevator doors open, the gray eyes that await you greet you with a look as if they know everything, as the man waves the inoculum tube in his hand.

“Finally, eh? You should have paged me, Leon.” Luis says flippantly, while Leon looks at him with a dismissive dazzle, and your insistence on biting your fingernails out of abject embarrassment is the solitary subject on your mind. Never ever again. (Lies!) It’s not like you’re here to shoot a porn video, right?

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil 4 #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x fem reader #leon kennedy smut

166 notes · View notes

trekkie-polls · 3 months ago

Text

This is about deep space nine two parter “Past tense” (season 3 episode 11 & 12).

If you haven’t seen it go watch it. It was made in 1995, but is extremely relevant still.

#if i remember right they arrived in the past on aug 30 2024 but then spent two days trying not to change history #eventually the riots started in early September #but anyway i’m ready for some rising up and now seems as good a time as any #ds9 continues to be so SO relevant #star trek #poll #star trek poll #trekkie polls #ds9 #star trek deep space nine #gabriel bell #bell riots #eat the rich

223 notes · View notes

florencemtrash · 1 year ago

Text

Hummingbird: Chapter One

Miguel O'Hara x Reader

What if the Earth-1610 (Miles’s universe) version of Miguel’s wife was actually Miles’s AP Art teacher?

Masterlist

You leaned back against the desk, ignoring the leftover smattering of paint as it seeped into your overalls, and checked the time. Miles’s face was stuck to the pages of his sketchbook, blue and red ink staining his cheek as he snored softly. One hand loosely gripped an open highlighter, the other dangled over the edge of his desk, half-eaten sandwich abandoned on the floor.

Twenty minutes. He’d been asleep for twenty minutes, and if you let him sleep any longer, he’d be late for fifth period.

You rapped your knuckles on his pencil case, the ringing tin jolting the teenager awake. Brown eyes flashed around the room, fists shooting out in an amateur boxing move as he tried to figure out why his spidey sense hadn’t warned him of any danger.

But there was no danger here. Nope, just Miss Y/l/n staring at him curiously from under raised brows.

“Wakey wakey, Miles,” You wore your usual pair of yellow Converse and paint-splattered overalls, the pockets hanging wide and loose after years of carrying around paint bottles, brushes, and books. The school board liked to complain about your “improper dress,” but at the end of the day you were one of the school’s only art teachers - and the most highly approved by students.

“Oh heyyyyy Miss Y/l/n.” He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck before dropping to the floor and snatching up his forgotten lunch. This was the fourth time you’d caught him sleeping in your classroom. Any more and you might actually have to start giving him detention. He tossed pens, snacks, and his sketchbook haphazardly into his bag, but not before you caught sight of a familiar blond-haired, blue-eyed girl smiling in front of a backdrop rioting with yellow, pinks, and blues more vibrant than a fireworks display. “GWEN!” the comic-style calligraphy called out next to her glowing face. Miles always seemed to be drawing her these days.

“You’ve still got five minutes left, calm down.” Miles straightened up to face you, clutching his lunchbox to his chest and smiling nervously. You folded your arms over your chest and stared pointedly at the gangly boy in front of you. With how much he’d grown over the last few months you wondered if one of his ancestors had been a garden weed.

“You want to talk about what’s been going on, Miles?”

“What do you-what do you mean?”

“You’ve been falling asleep in my class, this is the fourth time I’ve caught you napping here during lunch, and now I hear from Mr. Maloney that you’ve been skipping English.”

“He-he told you that?” He tugged at the collar of his shirt, hoping for a breeze to drift in through the window and save him from his nerves. He thought he’d been good about juggling the responsibilities of being a high-schooler and everyone’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. If his parents noticed anything different about him they chalked it up to teenage angst and grief over Uncle Aaron’s death. But someone had caught him slipping up.

You shrugged, “The teacher’s lounge exists, and people like to talk.”

“Oh…” he mumbled, shoulders dropping.

The dull ringing of the school bell cut through the silence, followed shortly by the rumblings of conversation as students filled the hallway, moving with the current like fish in a river.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, “Listen, Miles, you’re not in trouble, ok?” Miles sighed in relief. “If you need to eat your lunch or just take a break in my classroom that’s fine with me. I just want to make sure you’re not trying to flunk out like last year.”

He shook his head adamantly. He couldn’t - wouldn’t - drop out of Brooklyn Visions now. He had a plan for the future: go to Princeton, figure out multiversal traveling, and reunite with Gwen and Peter and the rest of the Spider-gang. Seemed simple enough… and totally doable…

“I promise that’s not the case, Miss Y/l/n.” The sincerity behind his words satisfied you.

“Alright Miles, but I’m keeping an eye on you,” You said dramatically, squinting your eyes and pointing at his chest. Miles snorted, mouth breaking open into a lopsided grin, “Now get out of here or Mrs. Cape will think I’ve convinced you to go to art school again.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I just…”

“Yes, yes, you want to go study physics at Princeton,” you waved your hand in the air, tracing some invisible pattern in the sunlight before grabbing a wet wipe from your desk and tossing it to Miles, “Quantum mechanics, the multiverse, and all that stuff.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d told you about his future plans, but the words that left his mouth had a tendency of flying over your head. The kid was too smart for his own good.

You paused and took a moment to look at Miles, to really look at him as he scrubbed away at the ink on his cheek, “Those Princeton schmucks would be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks Miss Y/l/n.” Again he gave you that crooked, boyish smile.

“Alright now out, out!” You shooed him towards the door, watching as he saluted you and flashed you one last smile before joining the crowd of students and disappearing around the corner.

You slipped back into your classroom, the smell of charcoal, dried paint, and pencil shavings settling into your lungs - sweet and comforting. There wasn’t an inch of space that wasn’t covered in some manner of artwork: sketches, paintings, collages… colorful graffiti that you should probably scrub out before parent-teacher conferences. Most of the pieces were the works of current students, but sometimes people like to leave things behind on purpose, trusting that you would find a place for them somewhere.

You wiped down the desks, rubbed the worst paint splotches from your overalls, and then collapsed into your chair, swiveling around and munching on the sandwich you’d picked up at the Prospect St. bodega. You had thirty minutes of peace and quiet before sixth period.

That’s more than enough time. You thought to yourself. Maybe I’ll get some grading done and-

A head of curly black hair popped into the room, face wet and screaming with tears. You straightened in your chair as the boy’s lips thinned, then turned down. His shoulders began to tremble.

“He…He,” Hiccup, “He broke up with me, Miss Y/l/n.”

“Oh geez,” you sighed deeply, setting your sandwich down and ushering the boy in.

There were things you missed about being a teenager… the highs and lows of a first love were not on that list.

>>>

Saturday nights were sacred - the only time you reserved entirely for yourself. No grading, no reviewing and updating lesson plans, no agonizing over student reviews. You’d used to go out with old college friends for drinks on the weekend, but most of them had moved out of the city or gotten married and were doing married people things.

Is this what getting older is like? You wondered as you snuggled further into your couch, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders to keep out the chill. It wasn’t too terrible… albeit a little lonely.

The latest in a slew of cooking shows played out on the tv, throwing flashes of light onto the book-burdened coffee table and providing the background noise necessary for you to finally get your thoughts out of your sketchbook. But the moment you went to put the pen nib down, your mind went blank, and not in a good way. Every line looked wrong, the eyes of the figure looking bloated and misshapen. Time creeped by slowly, dragging you along for a ride as smooth as sandpaper.

You knew the cause of your frustration, but knowing never made it better. It had been two months since Richard had moved out, two months and one day since you’d found out he was cheating on you with some grad student at NYU.

Pendejo.

You’d hated his interior decorating, but now the blank spaces on the wall screamed his name.

You tossed your sketchbook and pencil onto the ground and went to make a cup of tea. Maybe you were better off calling it a night and crawling into bed. Mid-year reviews had just ended and you had a long list of emails to reply to in the morning. One thing you hadn’t been expecting when you’d accepted this job was the number of parents who’d be on your ass about their kids getting a B in art - in art.

The tea kettle was just about to open its mouth and start singing when a crash sounded from the living, followed by a sheepish “Whoops.” The muffled word punctuated Paul Hollywood’s critique of someone’s lemon tart - too stodgy.

Your blood ran cold as the stranger continued to mutter.

“There goes another one. Wow there’s a lot of stuff on the floor.” Another one of your precious potted plants hit the ground with a dull crack.

You grabbed the wooden bat from where it leaned against the wall, swinging it easily behind your head. At least there was one good thing Richard had left you with.

You creeped out into the hallway, backing up towards the front door with your eyes trained on the shadowy figure making a mess of your living room. The figure fluctuated in and out of existence as he stumbled about the room, tripping over the piles of books and art supplies littering the ground. His body splintered outwards like cobwebs and twisted with flashes of bright light, haunting and inhuman.

The creak of the floorboards gave you away. All at once the figure stopped and turned around to look at you. Where its face should have been was a single, flickering white spot, pulsing with curiosity as it tilted its head to the side.

Mierda.

You bolted towards the door… but he was already there.

“Why hello Mrs. O’Hara. Nice to finally meet you.” A thousand voices said at once.

You screamed and swung.

The first swing missed, leaving a crater in the drywall. The second swing hit true, but the bat merely sunk into the black void of his body, some force ripping it out of your hands as you staggered backward. “Oh! Well that wasn’t very nice.” The creature laughed.

Spindly tendrils of dark matter grabbed hold of you and you let out one final scream before the Spot swallowed you whole.

There was a momentary blindness and the sensation of falling before you were unceremoniously spit out onto a hard granite floor. You winced at the rough cut of broken glass beneath your heels, with nothing to protect you but a thin pair of socks. You looked upward and gasped.

Where there had once been a towering glass ceiling dozens of stories high lay a gaping hole, the metal beams blown backwards into the night air like a blooming flower. It took you a moment to recognize the building, after all you’d seen it nonstop on the news for weeks last year - Alchemax.

What the hell?

Police tape criss-crossed over the debris like yellow spider webs, the scene broken up by black holes that morphed and twisted around you, pulsing with the same energy as the stranger in your apartment.

I must be dreaming. You thought. But in the back of your mind you remembered bits and pieces of what Miles told you he’d been studying over the summer - wormholes and spacetime and portals to different universes.

You picked up a piece of metal off the floor, experimentally tossing it into one of the spots. It disappeared under the surface like pottery in slip before popping back into existence above you. You only narrowly lunged out of the way before it crashed into the ground and stuck there like a sword in a battlefield.

“Beautiful, isn’t it Mrs. O’Hara?” the Spot stepped out of a hole in the fabric of spacetime beside you.

You jumped back, choking the scream in your throat. “That’s not-that’s not my name.” You managed to say. “Maybe you’ve kidnapped the wrong person?” A stupid hope.

“Oh? What is it then?” You said nothing, daring to lean down and pick up a jagged piece of roof panel. It might not do much, but it made you feel safer with its weight in your hands. “Well you don’t need to tell me. I just wanted to ask you a question.” He blipped out of existence, taking with him the darkness that pooled out of his skin.

“Who is Spider-Man?” the voices said as the Spot reappeared right beside you.

“You’ve got to stop doing that! Pendejo.”

“What?”

“Just talk to me like a normal person.” You pointed the roof panel at him, keeping him at a safe distance.

“Who. Is. Spider-Man?” He stepped closer, the tip of your makeshift weapon sinking into his skin like he wasn’t even there.

The question made you pause. That was what he wanted to know? He had kidnapped you just to ask about Spider-Man?

“Um, I mean, he’s kind of the local superhero. Stops thieves, saves kittens stuck in trees, makes questionable brand deals at times-”

“NO! I know who Spider-Man is.”

You blinked in confusion, eyes shifting to the side, “Then why did you kidnap me?”

“I want to know Spider-Man’s identity! His real identity.” The edges of his body sparked, shooting outward and striking the walls of the room. Dust and plaster fell to the ground like snow.

“I don’t-how the fuck am I supposed to know who Spider-Man is?!”

“You know him! The other version of you knew him!”

“What, other me?”

“The alternate universe version of you!” He threw his hands up into the air like a petulant child. The darkness around him grew with every passing minute, crawling around on the floor and up onto the walls like a reptile looking for its next meal. He slid his hands down his face, somehow pulling at the ether he was made of as he muttered under his breath.

“Whatever, I may have miscalculated. You’ll still be important. Don’t you worry. You may not know who Spider-Man is, but Spider-Man sure knows you.”

Next chapter ->

>>>

Author's Note: so... I may have gotten carried away and written the second chapter as well... hope you enjoy!

Taglist: @geraskier-thots @howabouticallyou @sweetheartlizzie07 @dont-mind-me27 @omg-edzia-stuff @sarcastically-defensive17 @trouble-sistar @saltyluminaryvoid @lunablue001 @sadslasher13 @yas-v @thel0v3hashira143 @trishuh8 @vague-flying-shape @tiana76 @dinuxia-bhm @mxtokko @devilsrose666 @natbratty @zettoaizawa-shusband @dorck26 @notasadgirlipromise @niyanispunk @thecraziestcrayon @athenxt @imnotyourbcbe @jannajuju @lunamoonbby @elle-19 @aces148 @sseleniaa @elaineiswithyou-blog @summerli-u @rattlethemskulls @sunseekerlove @bubbabobabubbles @loonalockley @aleombre @littlelilies @07-bilin @nerdalicios @insanely-creative-things

#miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel spiderverse #atsv miguel #miguel spiderman #gwen stacy #hobie brown #miles morales #across the spider verse #atsv x reader #atsv x you #atsv x y/n

674 notes · View notes

ricciardosheart · 1 year ago

Text

Starry Serenade on the Riviera

pairings: Charles Leclerc X female (gf! reader)

The French Riviera basked in the golden glow of the afternoon sun, casting its warm embrace over the luxurious city of Monaco. Yachts gently swayed in the harbor, their sleek forms mirroring the indulgent lifestyle that defined this opulent corner of the world. In a stylish apartment overlooking the azure waters, (Y/N) awaited the return of her boyfriend, Charles Leclerc, the acclaimed Formula 1 driver.

As the door swung open, revealing Charles with a mischievous smile, (Y/N)'s face lit up with surprise. She hadn't expected him so soon. Charles approached with a bouquet of her favorite flowers, the scent of lilies filling the air as he handed them to her.

"Surprise, mon amour," he said, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. "How about a spontaneous adventure this afternoon?"

Intrigued, (Y/N) couldn't help but smile. "An adventure? I'm in. What do you have in mind?"

Charles winked playfully. "It's a secret. Just trust me."

They ventured down to the harbor, where a sleek yacht named "La Belle Vie" awaited them. Charles had arranged a private cruise along the French Riviera—an intimate escape from the bustling world of Formula 1 and a celebration of their love.

As the yacht set sail, the gentle hum of the engine accompanied the laughter and chatter of the couple. They sat on the deck, sipping champagne and enjoying the panoramic views of the coastline. The Mediterranean breeze carried the promise of an unforgettable day.

"I thought we could have our favorite meal together," Charles revealed, unveiling a picnic basket filled with delicacies. The aroma of truffle-infused dishes mingled with the salted sea air, creating a sensory symphony.

(Y/N) couldn't hide her delight. "You think of everything, Charles."

He grinned. "Only the best for you."

Their lunch turned into a culinary journey, with each bite a testament to the pleasures of indulgence. They laughed, shared stories, and savored the flavors of their favorite dishes, creating memories against the backdrop of the azure sea.

As the yacht cruised along the coastline, Charles suggested watching a movie under the open sky. A cozy setup awaited them on the deck, complete with blankets and a projector. They nestled together, the gentle rocking of the yacht adding to the cinematic experience.

The movie played, but their attention often wandered to the stars above. Charles pointed out constellations, weaving tales of the cosmos. Time seemed to stand still as they lost themselves in the magic of the moment, wrapped in each other's company.

As the afternoon sun began its descent, casting a warm hue over the sea, Charles spread a blanket on the deck. They lay down, hand in hand, gazing at the sky as if trying to capture the essence of the French Riviera in their hearts.

"I wanted today to be about us, away from the pressures of the racing world," Charles confessed. "You're my anchor, (Y/N), and moments like these make everything worthwhile."

(Y/N) smiled, her eyes reflecting the love she felt. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, Charles. This is perfect."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in a riot of colors, Charles and (Y/N) remained on the deck, the French Riviera embracing them in its timeless allure. The yacht continued its journey, carrying the couple through the twilight of the Mediterranean.

In the quiet of the evening, with the city lights of Monaco twinkling in the distance, Charles whispered promises of more adventures and shared dreams. (Y/N) nestled closer, feeling the heartbeat of their love resonating with the gentle rhythm of the sea.

The yacht sailed on, leaving behind a trail of shimmering reflections on the water—a testament to a love that found solace in the beauty of the French Riviera. Charles and (Y/N), wrapped in the serenity of the moment, sailed into the night, knowing that some memories are destined to linger like the stars in the Mediterranean sky.

As the night deepened, Charles and (Y/N) found themselves in the heart of the Mediterranean, far from the city lights. The yacht glided through the calm waters, the only sound being the gentle lapping of the waves against its hull. Above them, a canvas of stars stretched endlessly, creating a celestial spectacle that mirrored the depth of their connection.

Wrapped in a blanket on the deck, Charles and (Y/N) traced constellations with their fingers, lost in the vastness of the night sky. The quietude of the moment allowed the whispers of their hearts to become the only conversation that mattered.

"I never imagined Monaco could be so peaceful," (Y/N) mused, her eyes fixed on the stars. "It's a different world out here."

Charles nodded, his gaze reflecting the shimmering reflections of the stars. "Monaco is known for its glamour and excitement, but there's a serene beauty to it when you escape to the sea. Just like our love—thriving in the quiet moments."

They lay in silence, the yacht gently rocking them in a cradle of tranquility. The hum of the engine became a lullaby, and, in that cocoon of peace, they felt like the only two souls in the universe.

As the night progressed, Charles guided (Y/N) to the yacht's prow, where the vast expanse of the Mediterranean stretched before them. The moon, a radiant pearl in the velvet sky, cast a silver trail across the water, inviting them into its nocturnal dance.

"Shall we dance?" Charles extended his hand, a playful glint in his eyes.

(Y/N) laughed, taking his hand. "Why not? A moonlit dance under the stars—it sounds like a dream."

The yacht became their ballroom, and the soft music playing in the background set the rhythm for their dance. In the embrace of the night, with the stars as their witnesses, Charles and (Y/N) swayed to a melody that only they could hear.

Time lost its relevance as they danced under the cosmic chandelier, wrapped in the enchantment of the moment. Charles held (Y/N) close, their hearts beating in synchrony with the gentle ebb and flow of the sea.

As the dance came to an end, Charles whispered, "You're my favorite melody, (Y/N)."

They returned to their blanket, savoring the intimacy of the night. Charles reached into a small cooler and produced a box of chocolates—each piece a miniature work of art. Together, they indulged in the sweet symphony of flavors, savoring the richness of both the chocolates and the moment they shared.

With the yacht gently sailing back towards Monaco, Charles and (Y/N) found themselves on the deck once more. The city lights came into view, transforming the horizon into a glittering panorama. The French Riviera, with its blend of glamour and serenity, became the backdrop to a love story that unfolded like a cherished novel.

As the yacht docked, Charles and (Y/N) stepped onto the harbor, hand in hand. The night had woven a tapestry of memories that would forever be etched in their hearts. The adventure, initiated by a surprise visit, had transformed into a journey of love, intimacy, and shared dreams.

They walked along the moonlit promenade, the echoes of their laughter harmonizing with the gentle lull of the Mediterranean. Monaco, with its grandeur and sophistication, embraced them as they strolled through its enchanting streets.

On a secluded terrace overlooking the city, Charles and (Y/N) found a quiet corner to sit. The night unfolded before them—a canvas painted with the hues of their emotions. They spoke of dreams, of the future, and of the enduring love that had guided them through the labyrinth of life.

The city below seemed to hush in reverence as Charles took (Y/N)'s hand and looked into her eyes. "This night was about us, about the simplicity of love and the magic that happens when two hearts are in sync. Thank you for being my partner in this beautiful dance."

(Y/N) smiled, her eyes sparkling with affection. "Thank you for a night that feels like a fairytale, Charles. I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world."

As dawn approached, casting a gentle glow over the horizon, Charles and (Y/N) lingered on the terrace, watching the first light of morning paint the sky. The French Riviera, with its timeless allure, had witnessed a love story unfold—a story that began with a surprise visit and evolved into a symphony of shared moments, laughter, and the quiet magic of the night.

Monaco, with its yachts and city lights, stood as a testament to the grandeur of their love—a love that found beauty in simplicity, thrived in moments of serenity and danced under the stars of the French Riviera. As the sun rose over the Mediterranean, Charles and (Y/N) embraced the dawn of a new day, knowing that their love story would continue to unfold in the enchanting world they had created together.

173 notes · View notes

couldsewyouastitchandsavenine · 3 months ago

Text

Salt [Frankie 'Catfish' Morales]

a/n: this is a very special thing for a very special person in my life. a person who willingly endures my rants probably every single day, with whom i agree to disagree 75% of time, who probably thinks i am the most annoying millenial she knows and still tolerates me, the person who just knows how to get my attention (thanks for the every single javi pic and gif you've sent me... yes, even that one—you know which one). love you several trips to the moon and back, i am so glad i know you and i get to have the privilege to call you my friend. SO HAPPY BIRTHDAY @pedroschka!!!! thank you for your amazingness, for being so kind to me and not blocking me at least 8282742624 times, for every potd and for being you.

pairing: frankie 'catfish' morales x reader

wordcount: 1.3K

The world is still mostly shadows as Frankie navigates the narrow trail down to the beach—the dainty necklace weighing like a piece of lead in the pocket of his hoodie. The salty air fills his lungs, cool and crisp, as he breathes deeply, trying to settle the nerves fluttering in his stomach.

He spots you near the water's edge, knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around your shins.

Waiting. Watching the horizon.

Unable to resist, Frankie stops and takes a moment to watch you. Allows his fingers to twitch at his sides. Feels the need to run them through his hair; a anxious habit he's never quite been able to shake.

Something clenches in his chest and he almost turns back, suddenly unsure if he should intrude on your solitude. It feels like a moment too private, too intimate, and the last thing he wants is to disrupt the peace you’ve found here.

But it's your birthday. And he's here now.

So Frankie inhales before he starts walking again.

Ocean spray and damp soil.

Summer.

You don't turn at his approach, though surely you hear him. So, uninvited, he settles beside you, leaving a deliberate foot of distance between you. Drapes his arms over his knees. Stares at the violet and tangerine sky. Tries to ignore how his pulse quickens at your closeness and how his skin tingles with awareness.

"Didn't think anyone else would be up." His voice is low, rough with sleep and something else, something he's not quite ready to name.

You give him a sideways glance. The wind teases strands of hair across your cheek, and his fingers itch to brush them back, to feel the silk of them against his skin.

Instead, he curls his fingers into his palms. Looks away.

"Couldn't sleep." You exhale more than speak. Shifting, the sand whispers beneath you. "Thought I'd watch the sunrise. Don't have the chance to do this back at home."

Frankie hums. Squints at the smudge of gold and purple lining the clouds, the light seeping into the sky like watercolour. His thumb rubs over his knuckles in a soothing manner. Once. Twice. A repetitive motion that does little to calm the riot of feelings in his chest, the ones he's been trying to ignore for longer than he cares to admit.

Silence stretches between you, comfortable and familiar, broken only by the rhythmic whisper of the waves and the occasional cry of a gull. His heart thuds against his ribs. He takes a breath. Holds it. Releases it slowly.

"Happy birthday." It comes out gruffer than he intends, the words catching in his throat. He clears it. Tries again. "I, uh. Got you something."

Your head turns, and he feels the weight of your gaze like a touch. Frankie can't meet it as he reaches into his pocket. Pulls the necklace.

It gleams against his calloused palm, the silver catching the light. A small paw, intricately carved, each line and curve carefully etched into the metal. He'd spotted it two towns back, in a tiny shop with a weathered awning and a tinkling bell above the door. Something about it had made him think of you. Made him remember every single time you mentioned rescuing a cat, despite knowing that your landlord won’t be happy about it.

Frankie braves a look. Finds you staring at the necklace. At him. Eyes wide. Lips parted on a silent exhale.

"It's beautiful." Barely a whisper, the words trembling slightly in the space between you. He swallows. Nods. Tries to ignore the way his heart trips at the wonder in your voice. The way it swells and expands until it feels too big for his chest.

"Thought you might like it." He shrugs. Rubs the back of his neck. Feels the heat creeping up from beneath his collar. "I know it's not much, but–-"

"I love it." Soft. Sincere. His heart stumbles, misses a beat, then kicks back into rhythm, faster than before. "Can you...?"

You turn, gathering your hair over one shoulder, baring the column of your neck. His mouth goes dry at the sight, at the vulnerability and trust in the gesture.

He hesitates. Licks his lips. Scoots closer, until his knees brush your side. Until he can feel the heat of you through the worn denim.

The clasp is small. Finicky. His fingers feel too big, too clumsy, and he curses under his breath as he fumbles with it. You laugh quietly, a soft huff of air that he feels whisper across his knuckles, and the sound settles deep in his chest, warm and sweet. He feels it down to his toes, a tingle that spreads through his limbs like honey.

Finally, the clasp closes with a tiny snick. His fingertips linger on your nape a moment longer than necessary, brushing against the baby-fine hair at her hairline. You shiver, a barely-there tremble that he feels echo through him, and he pulls away before he can do something stupid, like press his lips to the spot where his fingers just lingered.

You face him again, and the little paw rests just below the hollow of your throat, a glint of silver against your skin. It rises and falls with each breath you take, and he finds himself mesmerised by the motion, by the steady beat of your pulse just above it.

"Thank you." Your smile is soft, eyes shining with an emotion he can't quite name, but feels mirrored in his own chest.

He meets your gaze. Nods. Finds you gazing at him. A gentle curve ghosts her mouth.

And just like that, something passes between you. An understanding. Acknowledgment. Fragile and nameless, but no less powerful for it. Frankie looks down. Clears his throat. Feels the moment stretch and hold, suspended in the honey-thick air.

His chest aches. Expands. Like it can't quite contain everything he's feeling. But it is a sweet ache, one he welcomes. One he wants to hold onto and examine in the light of day.

Understanding dawns. Quiet. Inevitable.

Oh. There it is.

He's in love with you.

Has been for a while now, if he's honest with himself. Maybe years. And now he knows. Recognizes it. Can't unknown it. Wouldn't want to..

Frankie huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as the realisation sinks in.

Well damn, he thinks, isn't that something.

And when he looks at you again, you're already grinning at him, nose scrunched in that adorable way that makes his heart stutter and soar. The little silver paw glints at your throat, a symbol of his affection, and suddenly everything feels right. It's good. It's okay.

So, he lets his smile reach his eyes, crinkling the corners as he beams back at you. Laughter bubbles up inside him, unrestrained and infectious, and he can't help but let it out. Soon, you're laughing too, the sound mingling with his in the salty air.

Bumping your shoulder with his, Frankie feels you lean into him, fitting yourself against his side like you belong there.

And maybe you do. Maybe you both do belong to one another.

Yeah, he thinks as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer.

You definitely do.

#frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #frankie morales fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction

39 notes · View notes

radiodust-heart · 9 months ago

Text

Swapt au but its the characters still being themselves

Alastor in place of charlie. Creating the hazbin hotel for political warfare. What if a soul does redeem and ends up in heaven the chaos that would insue.

But angel (in the place of vaggie) knows the real reason for the hazbin hotel is to prove to Alastors mother in heaven that hes not a monster like she belived in life.

Their patron is Vaggie the fallen angel who sold her soul to sex work under val. Angel convinces Al to show up on the news to present their hotel. When things go wrong and they find put vaggie went to help sir pentious batte cherri. Tom says something off handed and rude to Al and angel loses his temper causing a riot on tv.

The whole thing is seen by charlie princess of hell.

Back at the hotel Alastors wind is taken put of his sails as angel lectures vaggie. Angel gets a call and steps out, having a fight with cherri for not coming to her aid. While inside vaggie tells Al hes probably doing this hotel thing for Angel dust and the halarity of it. She confesses a human soul would have a better chance then her.

Charlie joins the team, making Angel wary as nothing is known of the princess. She states her father had the same dream once and joining them wither they fail or succeed will really piss off her mother.

Al excepts but Angel is still wary.

Husk is the drunk bell hop ypu find passed out on the hotel bed and nifty is the over excentric bar tender that asks toany questions to fast. Vaggie flirts with her and its the only time shes not cheery. Shes straight in this au.

Vaggie also flirts with charlie. Which makes the princess flush. Not knowing how to deal with the come ons.

Cherri ends up at the hotel as anpther patron. Trying to destroy the idea with the vs so she can get her best friend back from Alastors clutches. Al and cherri fight for Angels attention and time endlessly which usually ends up with angel not wanting to speak to either of them.

Side note/backstory. Angel dust did use to be in contract with Val but he met Alastor a long time ago. After Al began to fall in love he ripped off angels leash and his contract was destroyed. Val never forgave either of them and still belives Angel is his one true love which pisses Vox off cause their on and off again. No one knows Angel use to be a porn star. Not even Vaggie who has taken his place at the studio. Most things about Angel are burried becuase Val tried to get rid of his image. Alastor still calls him Angel becuase he thinks its a big fuck you to val. Everyone assums its a pet name.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin angel dust #radiodust #swap au #but not fully swapped

90 notes · View notes

hiswitcherr · 3 months ago

Text

Too Much

Drabble where Geralt gets sensory overload on his way to meet someone...

Geralt walked through the narrow alleyways of the city market, assaulted by the riot of sensations around him. One of the worst side effects of the Trial of the Grasses he underwent so long ago - sensory overload. It came hand in hand with every Witcher’s heightened perceptive abilities. As the white wolf navigated the marketplace, he let out an irritated growl. This might become too much for him.

The first wave hit as the sun-drenched streets erupted with colour. Stalls draped in fabric of every hue—emerald greens, sapphire blues, and fiery reds—competed for attention. His breath came quicker, cat-like pupils narrowing. The bright banners fluttered in the breeze, creating a dizzying dance of colours. Geralt longed for a place to hide and close his eyes for a while, but he pressed on.

Merchants on every side of him called out their wares in a cacophony of voices, each shouting louder than the last. The grating noise of a blacksmith hammering metal and the rhythmic clang of a bell being rung by a merchant to announce a sale blended into a relentless barrage. The Witcher flinched, breathing sharply through his nose. Too much. Each sound seemed to compete for dominance, creating a disorienting symphony that left him struggling to concentrate on continuing to move.

Just a few more streets, he internally reassured himself. Fuck, I hate festivals.

The scent of spices from hot food stalls hung heavily around the next corner. A dizzying mix of salty roasted meats and sugary pastries intertwined in the air, creating a heady aroma that clung to Geralt’s clothes and filled his lungs. It was both inviting and overwhelming, making his stomach rumble and clench at the same time. He kept stumbling forward. The nausea was almost too much.

Geralt felt the crowd thickening, or alleys narrowing, as he approached the city’s main square - his destination. Soon, the ground beneath his feet felt unstable, as if it were shifting and moving. The crowd pressed in from all sides, their footsteps a relentless thud on the cobblestones. Each collision of elbows and shoulders was a jolt of discomfort.

As the alley opened to the town's central square, music blared from every direction—drums, flutes, and horns combined in an erratic cacophony. Geralt felt like he was caught in a whirlpool of sound, each burst of noise heightening his sense of disarray. The crowd surged around him as he moved impossibly forward - as if out of body. Laughter, arguments, and excited shouts blended, forming an auditory sea continuously crashing against his ears. Too much, too much.

He stilled, trying to focus on what he was looking for - why he had come to this place. Through the overwhelming sensations crashing over the overwhelmed Witcher, he smelled it.

Burnt sugar and roses, sweat, and sunshine. A scent he could pick out anywhere. He heard the familiar lute strings he had longed to find, and the sound of a heartbeat whose rhythm he knew as well as his own.

And then, he spotted the one who made the tumultuous trek through the festival worth it, even if the Witcher wasn’t very open about that fact.

Not to everyone, at least.

And when Dandelion’s forget-me-not eyes met Geralt’s golden ones across the crowd gathered between them, all the chaos of the festival simply faded away.

#the witcher #the witcher 3 #geralt #geraskier #mine #the witcher netflix #gerlion #my fic #hiswitcherr drabbles #be nice i havent written in a long time but I got inspired to do this tonight ahh ahh #dandelion #the bard dandelion

23 notes · View notes

shockinglysubmissive · 1 year ago

Text

I'm Okay

Taishiro Toyomitsu (Fatgum) x AFAB!Reader (GN Pronouns)

Warning: angst (slight), office sex, fingering, squirting, pussy eating, unprotected sex, cream pie

A single text was the last contact you had with him, and it left you flooded with fear. 'Stay far away from down town. I'll meet you at your home when I can'. You knew he was facing an intense villain attack. It was all over the news. But even after the villain was subdued, you still hadn't heard from him.

You ignore his message, needing to see him now. Your relationship was still young, so this was the first time he had faced an intense fight while you had been dating. Fighting through the crowd of reporters outside his agency, you get to the lobby. A few recognize you, and try to stop you for questions. It was a miracle that you made it to the double doors of the building without throwing an elbow at a reporter trying to grab you.

A twinkling bell rings, letting the two interns standing guard know the door had been opened. "Hey! You can't be here!" Red Riot tries to stop you, not recognizing you right away. "It's Fatgum's order." He steps closer, reaching a hand out to stop you from passing by the desk. Pure adrenaline got you to this point through the crowd, you weren't about to sit and wait like a nobody.

"No offense, Eijiro, but I don't give a fuck. Now can you please step aside and let me see my boyfriend?" Struggling to keep your voice level, you look at the red head, locking eyes with him. You look between him and Suneater, almost challenging one of them to stop you now they know it is you.

Glancing at Suneater, he finally caves. "You keep watching, I'll take them back to Fatgum." He sighs before leading you up to his office. The halls seemed longer than usual as your anxiety and stress continue to build the longer you go without seeing him. Eijiro knocks firmly on the office door, wanting to get his attention.

"This better be important Red Riot." A tired voice calls out, the faint sound of shuffling can be heard before the door is unlocked and opened. "It better not be a reporter making Suneater freak out again. I don't think I can handle that today." The taller than average doorway is filled with a large man leaning against the frame for support.

You are greeted with the muscular form of your boyfriend. His clothing is torn and tattered, covered in a mix of blood, sweat, and dirt. The filth on his face was smeared, as if he was in the process of washing it off when he opened the door.

"Sorry... They um... didn't want to wait." Stepping aside, Taishiro is finally able to see you. His shoulders relax and he moves to let you enter the office.

"I'm sorry for the way I acted, and could you tell Tamaki I'm sorry too? I shouldn't have reacted so harshly when you were just doing what you were told." You keep your voice low, now feeling embarrassed by how aggressive you were when you entered the building.

"Thank you for bringing them here. Just a bit longer and I'll come down to talk to the press." He assures him, giving him a tired smile before shutting the door again. He stands with his hand on the door looking at you for a few seconds. "We will talk about you not listening to me later. I shouldn't have to worry about the press tearing you apart to ask questions after dealing with a villain."

His tired body passes by you, slumping down in his desk chair, looking at the mess of bandaids and antiseptic gels. Grabbing a wet rag from a bowl of warm water, he rings it out. He looks into a small mirror and starts cleaning his face again. Guilt twists like a knife in your gut, and you move closer to his desk. "Can I help you? I was just so worried." Your voice feels small as you speak.

"Actually, I would love that." Sensing how bad you feel, he flashes you a quick smile, rolling his chair back to make space for you. Moving in front of him, you clear the mess of papers and sit down on top of his desk. Spreading your legs, you make space for him to slide between them to get closer to you again. He hands you the rag, still wet with hot water. Leaning forward, you let your body hover just above him.

You gently dab the cuts and scrapes littering his pale skin. His eyes fall closed, letting you clean the dirt from his face. Your free hand rests on his shoulder to stabilize yourself as you meticulously clean the bleeding areas. Switching to the gel, you carefully apply it to the deeper gashes. Once you are sure that everything has been cleaned, you press your lips to his. Not expecting the soft feeling of your mouth, his eyes open quickly.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't resist. Seeing you all beaten up scared me. I needed to know that you were still my Taishiro under these injuries." You set your hand on his cheek, your thumb brushing small strokes. You're careful not to rub against a bruise on his jaw. A large hand rests on yours.

"Hey. It's just a few bumps and bruises. Nothing changed. This happens from time to time. I shouldn't have worried you by sending that text then not reaching out when I got back to my office. I'm still getting used to having someone else worry about me." His golden eyes lock with yours, trying to give you comfort. "I just knew I wanted you far away from any danger. I didn't stop to think that you would be freaking out until you heard from me again."

"It's not your fault. I knew what I was in for when I started dating a pro hero. Now, I think I've gotten your face patched like it should be. Do you mind if I look at the rest of your body? I can see a nasty looking cut on your shoulder. Could you please take this off?" Your hands trail down the solid muscles of his chest, grabbing the rag and dipping a clean corner into the cooling water. He shrugs the tattered and torn remains of his jacket off, letting it fall to the floor to give you access to his torso. Even the undershirt he wore was barely intact enough to stay in his body. "I wish I knew it was that easy to get you out of your clothes." You say under your breath, only half aware that he can hear you.

"All you ever need to do is ask nicely. Please and thank you go a long way, my love." He flashes you his beautiful smile, attempting to hide the wince as you clean the deep cut. Reaching down, you set one of his hands on the fat of your thigh. "Huh? What are you doing?"

"Squeeze my thigh like a stress ball if it hurts too much. You don't need to pretend to be fine around me." You try to ignore the way his huge hand easily covers most of your plush thigh. Applying more pressure to his cut, you feel his fingers tentatively tighten, testing if he would hurt you. "That's it. I just need to apply a bandage, then I can clean the minor scrapes and you're all done." Pressing firmly on the wound to properly apply the bandage, he grips down tighter on your thigh. "Are you still doing ok?"

His knuckles go white from the grip he has on the fat of your thigh. "It doesn't hurt. But dammit. I wasn't expecting it to feel so good when I squeezed your body. You didn't even react." He forces his hand to relax, looking up to your face.

"I told you that you could use me as a stress ball. I've got a high pain tolerance." You keep your voice gentle to reassure him. He lifts his hand to run it through his messy hair. "Is everything ok?"

"I know we agreed to wait. But seeing you on my desk, leaning so close to me, telling me to use you as a stress ball... Well it's getting hard to resist you. All I can think about is pushing those soft thighs to your chest while I work you open on my cock." His face flushes red with embarrassment as he confesses. "I would never do that without your approval, but I don't want to keep it a secret how I feel about it or how badly I want you right now."

With the fear of his well being finally gone, you are able to take in the tent that had formed in his loose fitting hero pants. You couldn't deny you wanted him too. The thoughts had been creeping into your mind the entire time you had been cleaning him up, but you didn't want to take advantage of his shaken state of mind by throwing yourself at him. "Is this the best time? I mean you have all those people outside waiting for you. And your interns. I don't want to keep them waiting." Your voice comes out as ramblings, trying to rationalize this.

"The press will get bored soon enough. I can send a message to the boys telling them they can take the back exit and leave whenever they want. I never make them stay to talk to the press unless they want to. I don't want to overwhelm Suneater with that just yet. They won't be suspicious of anything." He explains, his face suddenly falling. "I'm not trying to pressure you into this. I just wanted to make sure you know those things won't be an issue."

Your throat feels dry as you try to speak. "Y-you want me? Right now, I mean. Even after getting injured? You must've used so much energy expelling all that fat. I would understand if you're not really in the mood." You continue rambling until two large hands grab your thighs and pull your ass to the edge of the desk.

"You're so cute when you ramble, but I'd much rather have your lips against mine." Your hands meet his broad chest as your body falls towards him. Leaning closer to you, his lips catch yours, tasting like sugar. You don't fight him, though you remain aware of where your hands are sitting so you don't irritate any of his injuries further. His hands fumble their way up your thighs, thick fingers hooking under the elastic of your lounge pants. "Lift up." He instructs against your lips, unable to bear to break the kiss any longer than the brief moment.

Tentatively, you lift your ass just enough for him to get the waistband of your pants around the curve of your ass. It takes effort to pull yourself away from the kiss, shallow pants leaving your kiss-swollen lips. Your skin starts to stick to the wooden surface of the desk as soon as it touches. It was in this moment, where you no longer had the material of your pants, when you remember you had been in such a rush to get here, you never put panties on. The slick from your cunt starts to puddle beneath you.

"You seem excited, and I haven't even taken my pants off. Though it's a good thing you're this wet. It'll make it easier for you to take me." His calloused thumbs rest on either side of your lips, spreading you open to give him a better view of your clit. The cool air sends a chill down your spine and you find it increasingly difficult to keep from fidgeting. One of his index fingers gathers your slick before easing its way to massage your deepest nerves. "That's it. Good job. Just relax for me and I'll make you feel so amazing." His voice is soft as he showers you with praises, his middle finger nudging against your entrance.

Your hands fall back to brace yourself on the desk, soft moans leaving your lips as your breathing becomes labored. His thumb circles around your clit, occasionally brushing over it directly to make your body jolt. When his ring finger breaches your slick wall, electric waves course through your body. He doesn't stop his movements, letting your pussy clench around his thick fingers. The hand that had been teasing your clit moves higher, pressing down lightly just above your pelvic bone through the fat of your stomach.

You don't have time to feel insecure as his fingers buried deep inside you curl up as if they were trying to touch his palm. The hand pushing down lightly adds even more stimulation to your g-spot, pressure building on your core. It doesn't take long before the pressure hits its peak and you feel as if you're going to bust.

"Tai~ you gotta stop. It's too much." You gasp out, trying to find the strength to push him away. A chuckle leaves his lips as his fingers quicken. His golden eyes focus on you, taking in the way you thrash around, begging for him to stop so you don't make a mess. Something unlocks within him and he can't help but imagine how pretty you would look crying from pleasure.

"Just let go. Stop holding back. I know you can do it for me, my pretty little one. You trust me, right?" He coos, only picking up the pace when you grab his wrist. Around his fingers, clear liquid gushes out, soaking his hand and the desk beneath you. He is reluctant to remove his hand, but he is too greedy and impatient. His head dives between your thighs, all previous injuries and exhaustion long gone as he laps up the taste of you. The sounds that leave your mouth are heaven to him, only encouraging him to ignore the hand tugging his hair in an attempt to separate him from your sensitive core.

It's not until your hand travels through his hair, brushing against a bandage that he pulls away. The pains from before slowly ebbing back to the front of his mind. Catching your breath, you sit up enough to look at him. Through his torn and tattered pants, you can see the obvious erection fighting to get freed. He sees where your attention has landed, and his face turns a deep shade of red.

"May I remove your pants?" You bat your lashes at him, seeing his slight hesitation. His large frame shifts nervously in his desk chair before letting his desires get the best of him. He finally nods and guides your smaller hands over his bulge. Just knowing it is you touching him is nearly enough to have his seed spilling into his clothing. You are delicate with everything you do, unzipping his pants and tugging them enough to free his leaking cock.

You were prepared for him to be large. Even in his thin form, he was over 220cm. But you were shocked by how pretty it was. His tip was a deep shade of red, matching the color on his face. Drops of precum leak out of his tip, allowing you to use it as lube as you pump the length slowly. The skin along his shaft felt so warm and soft in your hand. The tuft of blonde hair at the base was trimmed to keep it manageable, leading its way up to disappear under the remaining pieces of his shirt. Your head starts spinning and you release the breath you didn't realize you had been holding.

"Don't make me wait. I'm dying to feel myself buried inside you. I don't think I'll be able to last." He groans through gritted teeth, heels digging into the ground to keep from fucking into your small hand. "Your hands feel so good. I bet your pussy will feel addicting." The moans leaving his lips made it hard for you to stop. You just want to focus on the sounds he is making, and to feel him spill his seed in your hand. He can see it in your eyes that you don't plan on stopping, so he grips your wrist. He easily overpowers you, prying your hand off his twitching cock.

"No!" You look at him with your bottom lip jutting out. You were right there. Just a few more pumps and you would have felt the sticky cum you were desperate for. His hands grab your thighs and drags you off the desk so you fall in his lap.

"What are you whining for? I was the one with the denied orgasm." He lovingly teases you in an attempt to distract you from his large tip easing between your lips. Your eyes lock with his, and the golden eyes are hazy with need. Hooking your legs over the arms of the chair, he eases you down in him. "I'm going to push in now, ok sugar?"

It takes insane patience on his part, fighting the urge to slam into you, and fill you with his cum. You aren't sure how long it took, but eventually, your cunt is stretched wide around him. His tip kisses your cervix and you dare to look down. The sight between your legs was nearly enough to make you cum. Only half his shaft is able to squeeze inside you. Your slick drips down the rest of his length, making his lap wet.

"I... Oh fuck... I was so right about how good you feel. I don't think I'm going to last." His head falls back, bruised chest rising and falling rapidly. With his feet planted flat on the floor, he thrusts into you. You roll your hips slowly, already falling over the edge and clenching hard around him as you cum. Your orgasm triggers his, and you feel painfully full of his seed, pushing your stomach out. His shaking hands lift you off of him and place you back on the desk. Being moved away causes your stomach to drop and you reach out to him.

"Aw. Don't be like that, sugar. I'm not leaving you. But I do need to eat to regain my strength. And it just so happens that you can help with that. After all, cream pie is my favorite dessert." He winks up at you.

#mha #mha smut #bnha #bnha smut #my hero academia smut #my heroe academia #boco no hero academia smut #boco no hero academia #taishiro toyomitsu #taishiro Toyomitsu smut #fatgum #fatgum smut

305 notes · View notes

theprongspotter · 11 months ago

Text

24 Prompts til Christmas: Day 24

“Cancel Mariah Carey” (Wolfstar)

Remus’ tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth as he carefully pipes green icing onto a Christmas tree shaped sugar cookie. He looks over at Sirius, who isn’t being as intricate with his cookie decorating. Instead, he is messily piping red icing onto a stocking shaped sugar cookie. Remus grins and shakes his head. The man hasn’t changed one bit since graduating Hogwarts, and he certainly doesn’t mind that, because that is the man he fell in love with.

The Carol of the Bells ends and the intro to All I Want for Christmas Is You begins to play from the speakers. Oh no. Oh no. Not this song.

Sirius gasps and his face lights up. He sets the icing bag down and gets on top of the kitchen table, abandoning the sugar cookies that still need to be decorated.

“All I want for Christmas is you!” Sirius sings along to the music loudly as he looks into Remus’ eyes.

Remus crosses his arms as he watches the scene in front of him, annoyed and unimpressed. This is the twentieth day in a row that he has done this— broken out into “All I Want For Christmas Is You.” The twentieth day in a row. Do you know how irritating it is for your husband to sing Mariah Carey’s terrible song every single day?

“How much longer are you going to put me through this torture, Sirius? How much longer?” Remus asks.

“Just until Christmas is over,” Sirius says in between words.

“If I have to hear Mariah Carey one more time after Christmas, I will riot.” Remus groans. After a moment, he sighs and looks back over at the man, who is now dancing in a very over-the-top manner. A smile starts to form on his lips. That’s his Sirius. That’s the man he married. Sure, he hates the song, but he doesn’t mind having his husband serenade him every day.

When the song ends, Remus rolls his eyes as Sirius gives a dramatic bow and joins his husband back by the cookies.

“Alright, where were we?”

65 notes · View notes

roseredsnow · 8 months ago

Text

I've said this so often but saying it again and please reblog.

"But people headcannon straight people as lgbt+ without a problem, why is it an issue for aroaces"

Is such a bullshit argument.

Cause what character is actually confirmed straight? Genuinely name me one, not assumed because it's still the default, or because they like someone of a different gender.

But writers or an actor or said in the media and never retconned, confirmed straight.

That's the difference.

(Fuck Marvel for supporting genocide and I don't even ship it but the most common example)

Shipping Bucky and Steve doesn't erase anything because neither character is confirmed straight.

Shipping Yelena and Bucky or Kate blatantly ignores Devin Grayson (Also fuck her for how bad she screwed nightwing) confirming she's ace and clearly implying she's aro just didn't realise it needed to be specified too.

It ignores the line in Pale Little Spider #2 "I'm not a lesbian, Im not anything" and the entire trio of those comics where Yelena is baffled about the idea of sexual attraction.

(And don't you dare tell me that's out of context I've read it multiple times I know the context).

It also ignores other aroace characters that have had their identity erased for the sake of plot. Jughead Jones and Shatterstar to name two, I've even seen a fic shipping the High Republics beloved Vernestra Rwoh and while I don't believe her identity will be erased in Acolyte (cause HR fans will riot) it's still a major concern new fans will.

However shipping Vernestra is not comparable to shipping say Reath and Bell because neither character is confirmed straight.

This isn't even touching on the fact (cis) straight people don't experience discrimination for being queer (both from queer and non queer people) and have already got tons of rep to see themselves in.

#aroace #asexual #aromantic #Yelena belova is aroace #bucky x yelena #kate x yelena #queer #lgbt+

45 notes · View notes

whatdoidosatoru · 7 months ago

Text

Sweet Nothings

PART 4 of The Only Exception

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - ao3 wc: 4938 pairing: Baji x OC (reader insert bc oc is very vaguely described) tags: smut, oral sex (f and m receiving), face-sitting, fingering, thigh-fucking, dirty talk, penetrative sex, he's so nice!!!!!

tag list: @bontensbabygirl @mrsryuguji - thank you so much for expressing interest for this fic I genuinely feel like crying when I think about it!

summary: post-exam stress turns into a fun night meeting Baji's friends :)

music:

Sweet Nothings - Neck Deep

Just The Girl - The Click Five

She’s a God - Neck Deep

Last of the Real Ones - Fall Out Boy

You and I - Anarbor

Feeling This - blink-182

Closer - Nine Inch Nails

MINORS DNI!!!! 18+

Baji

The following week went by incredibly slowly. Yuna and I had classes and work so we couldn’t see each other, but we kept messaging throughout most of our days, apart from when we were working.

Every time I felt my phone vibrating I felt giddy, like a teenager in love. The feeling was explosive, overwhelming. That girl will be the death of me. Even Chifuyu couldn’t help but notice and take the piss out of me for it.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you smile this much since you stopped beating people up for shits and giggles.”

“Piss off, Chifuyu, I’m the embodiment of sunshine. I’m always smiling.”

Chifuyu laughed, “Sure, that’s why that old lady ran away when she saw you in front of our building today. Because you’re too cheerful.”

I flipped him off, still grinning at my phone and the latest selfie from Yuna while Chifuyu was setting up a show for us to watch.

Yuna🖤💙, 21:36

if my future werent on the line id just sleep in tomorrow tbh my eyes cannot stay open anymore midterms will be the death of me fuck this shit wanna move in with me in a cottage in the middle of nowhere and own some goats off the grid well get some cats as well ill take my dog back from my parents just us and animals and sometimes mai you can invite matsuno to visit tell him to bring us books when he visits

Boyfriend Material🧛🏻, 21:40

You’ve definitely got a good plan there But please go to sleep, you need rest before your exam <3 I’ll be home by the time you’ve finished and you can come over for lunch if you’d like

Yuna🖤💙, 21:42

thats kinda making me wet ngl

Boyfriend Material🧛🏻, 21:43

Lunch is making you wet? Have I told you how weird you are?

Yuna🖤💙, 21:43

you making me food and also coming to your place is, dumbass but anyway! off to sleep i go, tell matsuno im taking him up on that challenge to beat his ass in uno when i meet him good night hot stuff <3

Boyfriend Material🧛🏻, 21:44

Go to sleep, woman! And have the best dreams, preferably of me c; And good luck!!!! For tomorrow!! I know you’ll smash it!!! <33333

“Yuna’s coming over tomorrow after her exam to wipe the floor with you in uno.”

Chifuyu threw his head back and let out a villainous laugh.

“Does she know she’s talking to a master strategist and an uno master?"

“Listen, I know you’re my best friend an-”

“Brother, but continue.”

“....and all that. But if I’m not in her corner I don’t have sex. So if I have to make team Yuna t-shirts don’t be surprised.”

To that, he launched a piece of popcorn at me.

When I got back from work I jumped into the shower, counting down the minutes until Yuna came. When I finished making noodles, she rang the bell to be let upstairs. I all but sprinted to the door to let her in, standing with the apartment door open, just in my towel, waiting to see her face.

“I hope that food I smell is for me because if I don’t have something in my mouth in a minute I’ll riot.”

She was grumpy and tired, it was obvious from the way she dragged her feet on the stairs.

“I’ve got something you can put in your mouth.”

“Baji-kun I’m gonna bite it off.”

“Ooooh ‘Baji-kun’? I didn't think you were this serious. The food is ready, there will be no need for biting off my dick, you hater.”

Yuna reached up to grab my face and kissed it before making her way inside. She’d never been inside my apartment before, but the kitchen was right next to the front door, so she didn’t have to wander before lunch. I served her the food, sitting down next to her to eat and hear about her day.

“...and I knew he was going to put that ridiculous text in the exam and I almost screamed when I saw it. Unfortunately, Hana said she didn’t even get to that part with her revision so I didn’t have anyone to check the answers with.”

She practically inhaled the noodles and vegetables, doing a little dance as she ate.

“But anyway, I’m getting the results in a week, which is shit because if I failed it’s gonna ruin the whole night out! These are amazing by the way. I haven’t eaten all day until now so sorry if I was hangry.”

She was tripping her own sentences, trying to say everything at once. All I wanted to do was grab her face and smother her in affection, but I was trying to give her space to relax and reach out when she wanted to.

When I told her about my day, we moved to my bedroom. As she was taking it all in, lingering on the vinyl collection, I towel-dried my hair and started to look for some clothes to put on, but she stopped me, dragging me toward the bed and pushing me down.

“I could hardly focus on what you were saying earlier.”

“Something on your mind, sweetheart?”

“The food was amazing, but I want to taste you.”

Oh. I see. She unwrapped the towel from around my hips with a pleading look in her eyes. I pulled her hair up and used her own hair tie from my wrist to tie it back. With a soft smile, she took my cock into her mouth, not breaking eye contact.

My eyes rolled back and I struggled to keep myself sitting up to look at her. All I wanted was to lie down and process the sensation, but the intensity in her gaze was somehow holding me in place, the only thing moving was my mouth to let out a moan.

“Fuck it’s so warm,” I managed to squeeze out as she nodded, hummed in affirmation, and licked along my slit, teasing with her soft tongue. I wanted to burn this into the insides of my eyelids - Yuna on her knees between my legs, one hand on my balls, the other on my shaft, and her beautiful mouth enveloping my cock, hollowed-out cheeks as she sucked in air around it, her head bobbing up and down slightly, and most importantly, her eyes gazing into mine like she was memorising every detail of my face that was twisting into expressions of pure pleasure.

“Your mouth is so pretty-ah-when you do this. Fuck you’re so hot like this.”

My words just kept coming. She needed to know how she made me feel and it seemed to make her hollow out her cheeks even more and suck with more intensity - I felt my orgasm coming rapidly.

“I’m so close sweets, can you take it?”

In reply her hand found mine and placed it on her ponytail so I gripped it tight, leading her into the pace I needed to finally exhale and spurt cum into her throat. She carefully removed her mouth from my cock and opened it to show me milky white cum on her tongue, promptly swallowing it and showing me her empty mouth.

I groaned and pulled her into my lap for a deep kiss, her hands flew to the back of my head to grip my hair and she was straddling my lap. My hands were holding her hips tightly squeezing her skin and I could feel the heat radiating from her pussy.

She started rubbing myself on my thigh, but only slightly. I held her tighter and moved her hips back and forth, intensifying the friction between her core and my leg. She started moaning into my mouth and keeping the pace on her own, clearly getting more and more pleasure than just with her own small movements.

“Keisuke I need you,” her moans were so cute, barely pronouncing my name through whines.

I pulled her off my lap to unbutton her jeans and take them off along with her underwear.

“How do you want me?” She moaned into my mouth as I swiped my fingers through her wet folds.

“All to myself, sweetness, but I’ll make do with your pussy on my face for now.”

I could feel her arousal leaking, soon to be smeared on my face. I lay on my back, waiting for her to position herself over me, she gripped the bed frame and hovered above me.

“I’m gonna need you to get lower, can’t reach you like this.” I grabbed her thighs to try and lower her.

“I’m scared I’ll crush you!”

How cute.

“What a way to die, feasting on your sweetness, suffocated by sweet,” I lightly slapped her thigh where it met her ass, “soft thighs of a gorgeous woman. Now sit.”

With that, I pulled her all the way onto my face and, as soon as she was met with my eager tongue, she let out a scrumptious moan. I licked a long strip from her entrance all the way to her clit and started circling the soft sensitive bud and spelling out my name on it. Every time the tip of my tongue finished an S, I could feel her thighs twitch, making me dig my fingers into her.

Her moans turned to whimpers, whimpers to cries, and with a breathy cry of my name she tightened…and let go. I drank her release slowly, gently, to not overwhelm her, and let go of her thighs. She collapsed on the bed next to me, breathing heavily.

“I’ve…fuck I’ve never done that before.” With a quick roll, I was above her, pinning her to the bed and kissing her deeply, making her taste herself on my lips.

“Stick around and this won’t be the last time.” I winked at her and helped her up to put her clothes on.

I rummaged around my wardrobe looking for a minute and pulled out a dark grey band hoodie. Yuna’s eyes widened when I handed it to her.

“I told you I’d give you a hoodie you can sniff like a weirdo.”

“Kei…The Black Parade? If I had any energy left I’d cry. Thank you."

She launched herself at me with arms wide open. I embraced her tightly and kissed the top of her head. If I’d known this would make her so happy I would’ve done it right away. She got her book bag and I went to put the plates away before we went to her flat to get her things.

I couldn’t believe my absolute luck that I got to flaunt her in front of my friends and she agreed to sleep over tonight. I was practically skipping on the way to hers. We were holding hands again and I swear I could feel her smile burning into the side of my head every time I stopped looking at her.

She packed up a pyjama top, toothbrush, some skincare stuff, and makeup while I was looking through her bookshelf, picking up some books to see what she read.

“Why doesn’t it say what they’re about on the back? Who is the Guardian and why am I supposed to care that they think this book is ‘moving and engaging by turns, with an ending to blow down walls’? Just tell me the plot dammit!”

Yuna laughed softly, “Unfortunately, it’s all too common these days. That’s why I rely on the internet.”

Placing the book back, my gaze went over a nail polish basket. Out of curiosity I picked up a few bottles to look at them more closely and was met with a light chuckle from the door.

“You want me to paint your nails, Kei?”

“I wouldn’t mind that. Do you have black?”

“Do I have….Baji Keisuke look at me and ask me that again.” She couldn’t keep a serious face on, immediately grinning at me.

“Fair point, so will you do it?”

She walked over to me, all of her stuff packed into a rucksack, and placed a kiss on my fingers.

“Of course. You’ll look even hotter with black nail polish on while you’re fingering me.”

Immediate hard-on. It wasn’t fair.

On our way back to mine, we stopped by a shop to get some snacks and drinks for tonight, I could feel Yuna growing more anxious by the minute. Having arrived at the apartment, I got to dusting and cleaning up while Yuna excused herself to my bedroom to put on some makeup - something about feeling more put together to help with her nerves. Chifuyu was on his way home from work so he should be the first one out of the group to meet her.

Twisted Firestarter, 14:26 She’s really nervous rn Please be nice to her Or I’ll burn your pillows c:

ChiFOOLyu, 14:27 I’M ALWAYS NICE I get it man don’t touch my stuff if you don’t want to be strangled in your sleep :D I’m home in 20 mins

Twisted Firestarter, 14:28 Just saying, the gang might be too much to handle so it’s be nice if she had another person apart from me to talk to

ChiFOOLyu, 14:29 👌

There was a knock on the door and a faint voice coming in, “I hope both of you are dressed because I don’t need any more jump scares today!”

With that, Chifuyu unlocked the front door and walked in, tossed his keys on the shelf in the hallway, and took his boots off before walking over to us sitting on the couch. Yuna took a deep breath and grinned at him, immediately turning to banter to mask her nervousness.

“Matsuno-kun, I heard you think you could hold a candle to my absolute domination at card games?”

Chifuyu all but threw himself onto the couch next to her, acting like they’d known each other for years.

“My deepest apologies, Yuna-sensei. All I want is a chance to play against a world-renowned master such as yourself. And you can call me Chifuyu, no need to be so formal.”

“Okay Fufu, but chumminess is not going to make me go easy on you.” She said with a wink. I liked seeing her growing more and more relaxed with Chifuyu, even though she was nervous as all hell earlier.

“Fufu? Aight…are you painting your nails, Keisuke?” He clocked one of my hands spread across Yuna’s lap, the other in the air trying not to smudge the freshly applied coat of black nail polish.

“I’m pretty sure you have eyes, Chi, Yuna is painting them, not me. And what of it?” I knew he didn’t mean anything negative by it, but it wouldn’t be us if we didn’t tease each other for no reason.

“Fuck off trying to insinuate shit. Yuna, could you paint mine as well? Might make me seem more badass since I’m not fighting anym-” A silent, but intense look in my eyes made him stop talking and smile at Yuna instead.

Yuna lifted her head to look at him when she finished painting my other hand and reached for Chifuyu after instructing me to be careful not to smudge anything.

“Wow your cuticles are so neat,” she inspected his hands before taking the nail polish and started applying, “what happened to your face anyway? That scratch looks fresh.”

They started chatting about all the cats we get at work and how some are absolute bastards to take care of, sometimes we get scratched up. Just looking at the energy between the two of them was soothing.

I no longer had to worry about there being any awkwardness in Yuna meeting my friends. I was still waiting for her answer to being my girlfriend, hopefully, tonight might make her see she is wanted and I wouldn’t hide her away.

A few hours later, after we dried our nails and joked around with Yuna, my phone rang. When I picked up, I could hear two sets of voices, one clearly not talking to me, the other trying to be loud enough for me to hear, but unfortunately loud enough that I had to move the phone away from my ear.

“MIKEY FORGOT WHICH BUTTON HE NEEDS TO PRESS CAN YOU BUZZ US IN,” I could hear Mitsuya shouting over Mikey and Draken arguing in the background.

I hung up and pressed the button next to the porta phone, waiting for them to make their way to my door. They were still arguing over who knew which button to press when they walked in and I took the pizza boxes from Mitsuya’s hands.

“Yeah well, it’s Baji’s fault for not having us over anymore.”

“It’s not like we ever needed an invitation?”

“Yeah well, Mr.Big Shot over here is too busy for his best friends because he’s going to be a very important vet someday.”

“I live here, too! You can come and visit me!” Chifuyu shouted at them from the couch where he was keeping Yuna company.

Mikey’s gaze stopped on Yuna’s face as she shyly waved and smiled at them.

“Oh hey, new best friend. I’m Mikey, you’re Yuna, right?” He flashed her an angelic smile, earning a smack to the back of his head from Draken.

“Behave, Mikey.” Draken shook his head, reaching to shake Yuna’s hand, and walking back to the kitchen with me, handing me the watermelon he brought with him.

We cut it together and moved the pizzas to the coffee table while Mikey and Mitsuya were trying to be normal around Yuna. Chifuyu seemed to be fending off Mikey’s overbearing closeness pretty well so Draken and I could bring all the drinks and cups to the gathering spot.

I sat next to Yuna, sharing the couch with Chifuyu, while Draken was spread out on the other one, Mikey sitting on the floor with Mitsuya. I had plugged my phone into the big speaker under the TV and played some music as background noise to our conversations.

Yuna seemed to be enjoying the company, often being asked about her studies and hobbies. When she wasn’t talking I could hear her humming along to the music and tapping her fingers on my leg in the rhythm of whatever was on. I passed her some pizza and fruit to eat, which she accepted with a massive smile on her face.

Mikey ended up falling asleep curled up on the floor while Chifuyu was arguing with Draken about who bought pizza the last time we had a gathering like this one.

“DID YOU JUST BLUE SHELL ME YUNA I SWEAR TO EVERYTHING HOLY-” Chifuyu was getting frustrated at nearly winning at Mario Kart - again.

Yuna just playfully chuckled and continued playing, Draken taking the opportunity to speed past him and win the race, sharing a conspiratorial smirk with Yuna.

“That’ll teach you not to knock me into the mud next time.” She replied, smacking him on the arm.

I took the controller from his hands and started a new race, ready to obliterate everyone involved.

It was late by the time the guys left, but I wasn’t tired in the slightest. Yuna’s face was blushed from everyone complimenting her and being really nice and genuine with her, as they should’ve been. She helped Chifuyu clean up the plates and glasses and I accompanied her to the bathroom to brush our teeth and for her to remove her makeup.

“I’ve been thinking…” She started.

“Oh no, what about?”

“Kei I’m serious. I’ve had a really good time tonight. Everyone seemed so genuine and friendly.”

“They can be, yeah. That’s why I’ve been friends with them for the past, uhhh, I want to say around ten years, give or take.”

“I want to be your girlfriend, Kei.”

I stood there, completely shocked, with the toothbrush forgotten in my mouth, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her lips were stretched into a smile, toothbrush still in her mouth, and all I could think about was how I wanted this moment to last forever in its glorious bliss. I quickly spat the toothpaste out and rinsed my mouth, grabbed her hips and spun her around to face me

“You’re sure? I don’t want you to rush your decision just for my sake.”

“I wasn’t planning on rushing it, dumbass, it just feels right.”

I let my hands roam up and down her hips while she finished brushing her teeth and immediately pulled her in for a deep kiss. For the first time as a couple. I picked her up, causing her to break out into a fit of giggles and wrap her legs around my waist, and carried her into my bedroom, walking past Chifuyu, who was still sitting on the couch scrolling on his phone.

“Hey Yuna, maybe we-”

I cut him off before he could stop us, “Not now, pal, my girlfriend and I are a bit busy at the moment.”

“Girlfriend?! Congrats bro!” He returned to his phone, grinning, no doubt alerting the group chat.

As soon as I shut the bedroom door and dropped her on my bed I began undressing, Yuna giggled trying to take her t-shirt off,

“‘My girlfriend and I are a bit busy’ I love the sound of that, mister boyfriend Baji Keisuke.”

I put my hair up into a ponytail and hungrily began kissing up her legs to where her panties started.

“Shhh I’m busy kissing my girlfriend,” I murmured between the kisses, “my beautiful girlfriend,” I nipped at her panties and rolled them down to her ankles, “my gorgeous girlfriend that I’ve somehow managed to pull,” with one hand I held her hips down while the other went to her clit to softly rub it, “my perfect girlfriend who’s going to be so good for me right now and tell me how she wants to cum, hm?”

I looked up at her and, holy shit, her face was already scrunched up in pleasure, her mouth slightly open, her breaths coming out in sharp puffs. One of my fingers was sucked into her needy hole, curling upwards to press on her sensitive spot. She whined at the sensation, squirming under my hand.

“I asked you something, Yuna. How do you want to cum?”

She half-opened her eyes and with a strained voice slurred, “On your fingers, please, Kei.”

How could I not oblige when she asked so nicely?

I inserted another finger into her, attaching my lips to her clit and slowly swirling my tongue around it, drawing sinful moans out of her mouth. She grabbed my hair to bring me even closer to her and I could feel her soft walls tightening around my fingers.

Yuna let out a cry and her juices coated my fingers, I just couldn’t help but lick them clean, before squeezing her thighs and pressing kisses along them, biting to leave marks behind. Making my way up to her, she ran her hands all over my body, admiring me with glassy eyes and hair all over my pillow and her face.

I hoped she wouldn’t mind a little bit of roughness, seeing her spayed out on the bed like that, with her eyes closed, hair sticking to her forehead, made me feel like a wild animal. Like I could bite her flesh forever, leave little reminders of myself on her thighs and hips, which is exactly what I did. She mewled in pleasure whenever I started biting a new bruise into her soft skin.

“Kei it’s s’good,” she was already slurring.

I pulled away and pressed her legs together in the air in front of me, placing my painfully hard erection between her thighs.

“Hope you don’t mind waiting a little more before I fuck you.”

She whined in response as I started pumping my cock through her thighs. Her soft, plush skin felt heavenly on my wanting erection, it grazed her pussy with each thrust, and soon enough I was keeping a steady pace. Her face was flush in frustration, her hips lifting to get more friction on her puffy clit, little whines falling from her lips as she couldn’t get what she was after.

When I was close to finishing I dropped her legs, knees falling towards her chest, and leaned down to grip her lips into a deep kiss. She smelled like freshly squeezed oranges, refreshing my mind as I breathed in her scent. Yuna’s hands roamed across my back and settled in my hair, scratching my scalp, in turn making me shiver with the sensation.

I aligned my cock with her dripping core and dragged it along her soft, puffy folds to make her sigh in frustration one more time before I sunk into her warm, spongy walls.

The noise that came out when I fully sheathed my length into her was something I would be chasing for the rest of my life. A long, sinful moan of anticipated reward that was finally here after all the teasing.

“She’s sucking me in so well, so obsessed with me,” I couldn’t help but tease as her pussy clenched around my dick with every thrust.

Yuna looked up at me, glaring, and managed to bite out,

“Maybe she was feeling ignored while you were playing with my thighs instead!”

So cute while she was angry.

“Don’t be a hater, Yuna, or next time I’ll only fuck your thighs and make you beg for attention to your cunt.”

That shut her up and made her roll her eyes, her attitude was immediately cut short when I slammed my hips into hers and made her gasp louder than before. I chuckled and pressed a kiss onto her lips, licking her bottom lip, before pushing myself up and pressing her legs as far to her chest as she could handle, getting a better angle to thrust into her deeper than before.

She cried out in pleasure when I picked up the pace, my mouth couldn’t contain grunts as her warm walls drew me in and clenched around me - with my name on her lips she came and a ring of white formed around my base. Her orgasm only made me more feral, slamming into her drenched pussy with a ferocity I hadn’t used before, as her moans turned more and more desperate, borderline pornographic.

“Kei please slow-fuck-down ‘s ah too much!” She was half-slurring her words, eyes shut, mouth open in ecstasy. I slowed down for a few thrusts to oblige.

“Overwhelmed?” I asked her, to which she only nodded lightly.

With a grin I slammed into her harder, still not speeding up, but she didn’t say anything about roughness. I grabbed her legs and hugged them tightly, resting her calves on my shoulders. I lazily dragged my cock in and out of her, barely putting in any effort, waiting for her to beg me to speed up again.

I didn’t have to wait long, but this pace made me feel so needy, I wanted to pound into her like it was my last night on earth, I wanted to make her scream my name so loudly that there would be no doubt in anyone’s mind about who was making her see stars.

When she finally spoke again my cock twitched inside of her with excitement.

“Kei baby faster please,” She whined and I had half a mind to jump on the request, but the other part of me wanted to make her beg.

“You sure you can take it, sweetheart?”

“I want it, please.”

“How much?”

“Mmm-what?”

“How much do you want it?” I wanted to watch her squirm with want.

“I need it. I need you, Keisuke. I need your cock deep and fast,” her eyes were glistening, “please.”

With that I doubled my thrusts, her moans immediately rising in pitch. Her fucked-out face scrunching up while her mouth hung open, lewd moans slipping past her soft lips. I wanted to kiss them, but this position was just too good to stop. I grunted with my quick movements while her toes curled on each side of my neck. The next best thing to do was to kiss her ankles, making her chuckle mid-moan.

“Kei ‘m sooooo close don’t-fuck-don’t stop!” Yuna was gasping for air at this point and I was almost at my tipping point, desperate to spill inside of her.

I reached down to smack her ass and draw out another whine from her mouth, she was trying to say my name again, but all that came out was a long moan as her walls contracted around my dick once more, releasing another orgasm and making her spasm in front of me.

That was enough to milk my cock of everything I had in me, long ropes of cum spurted on her walls and I slowed down to ride it out with her. I slowly pulled out, some of our cum very lazily leaking out of her abused hole. With a kiss to her swollen clit, I gently pushed her up to the pillows and went to the bathroom to get her a warm towel while trying to ignore Chifuyu’s protesting about my walking out of my bedroom naked.

After cleaning her up (gently, trying to shush her overstimulated whines), I lay in bed next to her and drew her closer into my chest. She released a happy humming sound and almost immediately started snoring. I could definitely get used to this, I whispered into the back of her head,

“You’ll be the death of me, sweetheart, I feel like I’m falling in love.”

27 notes · View notes

lemony-ship-it · 14 days ago

Note

Trick or treat for remrom

Thank you for your unprecedented patience here! Please enjoy it as my blood, sweat, tears, and other bodily fluids went into the making of this fic. I also threw some mulch in there because we ended up with an abundance of it due to unforseen circumstances.

The Hummingbird and the Vine

Words: 6,476

Prince Roman of Escheri rang in the Harvest Ball with the toll of a great, gleaming brass bell that sat in the castle's square. Thunderous cheers erupted and jaunty music began to play, filling the early evening air with merriment and covering the sounds of rioting just outside the palace wall. Strings of paper lanterns and festive pennants lined the cobblestone streets, flickering over happy faces. Sheaves of plucked cornstalks and sunflowers were tied around every lamppost. Smartly dressed people laughed and danced and played and crafted dolls out of corn husks and carved gourds, and yet every year, Roman was forced to walk up the steps of the raised dais and sit on his throne in the royal palanquin.

"Simply perfect, my dear," his mother praised. She said that every time he did this. He gave the same speech each year, did the same movements and scripts like clockwork that the King and Queen expected of him.

"Thank you, mother," Roman replied politely, remembering to sit up straight and prim.

The queen turned to gossip with her courtiers outside and as usual, the King stayed silent and still. Sometimes Roman wondered if the man was still alive.

Nothing ever changed here. Do the speech. Ring the bell. Watch while the world lived and he rotted on his throne. Toast to the country and his lineage and the friends and neighbors who made it possible. Do the harvest ritual. Light the bonfire. Go home surrounded by a parade of party goers and guards carrying festival lanterns. Gods, it was times like this where he missed Remus the most.

Their parents had sent Remus off when the twins were 8 to be a page under one of their most esteemed knights, a vainglorious warmonger under the Weston crest. Both twins had begged and pleaded for their parents to reconsider, that they'd be on their best behavior from here on out, but they fell on deaf ears. The twins were too much trouble together. Of course, they always meant Remus was too much trouble.

"Time spent training the mind and body will make you a strong, valiant general one day, one that Escheri can count on," the King chided. "Your future, the kingdom's future, depends on you turning this misguided and destructive energy into something productive."

Though the boys were equally mischievous in nature, their parents usually pinned the blame on Remus. Roman knew it was unfair and tried to do what he could to spare his younger brother the harsh punishments, but the King and Queen were nothing if not strict. Their parents never said anything about it, but instinctually, the twins knew it was because Remus, though a near mirror image of Roman, had been born with his left leg tightly folded in on itself, which caused him to have a pronounced limp.

That night, they laid together in Roman's bed, sharing tears and clinging to each other, covering each other's cheeks and foreheads and noses with chaste kisses over and over again until their jaws ached. Under the pale light of a crescent moon, they made a pact to never let a week go by without a letter, and that once they met again, they'd never again separate.

That was far more than a decade ago now. Roman thumbed over his heart, making like he was brushing off an imperfection to his crisp, white regalia. What his parents would never, could never know about was that he always stowed the latest letter from Remus in a pocket he'd sewn into his shift. This particular letter had promised surprises, though Remus had neglected to mention what it was. He didn't even mention when, only that it would be "soon."

A sharp rap from the Queen yanked him out of his head. He sat up straighter. "My apologies," Roman said, not sorry in the least.

"Good," she praised, then got back to her gossiping.

Roman sighed quietly. He hoped whatever surprise Remus had in store was actually coming soon.

It wasn't long after that thought that Roman felt eyes boring into him. As a Prince, he was used to all eyes being on him all the time, but this felt... different. His impassive face scanned the crowd. Nothing looked amiss, but the feeling remained, crawling beneath his skin and beading sweat at his brow. A glance toward his parents showed that neither of them were paying much attention to him. One more scan across the crowd and he finally saw him.

A cloaked figure in green, one who wore a jackal's mask, stood in the stretching shadows of a nearby alley to the right, eyes trained on the Prince.

A single blink took the figure and the scrutiny away, but Roman kept focusing on where the figure had been. There was no way anyone could've simply vanished into thin air. Had he imagined the whole thing? Though the stranger had certainly unnerved him, nothing else out of the ordinary happened while Roman was tucked away in the royal palanquin. It did little to assuage him though; assassination attempts were becoming relatively commonplace in his daily life.

His father had become wildly unpopular with their people, thanks to being a rather flippant man who cared little for politics and lacked opinions of his own. Even his mother was despised by those outside their circle for being haughty and stingy. It reached a head when a blight struck many parts of the country the previous year. His parents had been reluctant to part with their more than ample reserves, no matter how Roman protested. He tried to sneak help out, but it was never enough. By the end of it, the people turned him away when they saw him coming. Nary a week went by without some barely thwarted poisoning or stabbing or bludgeoning on both his parents and himself. Maybe that's what this was about.

The thought plagued him as the feast began. He never let it show as he ate the meager meal in front of him, always served at the palanquin and never at the long, boisterous tables set up for everyone else. Too soon, it came time for him to deliver the toast after his father gave his small speech.

He descended from his throne and stood on the ground just outside it, untouched wineglass in hand. After steeling himself and plastering a pleasant smile on his face, he spoke. "My people, it is a great honor to stand before you all today. As we celebrate the bounty of the harvest, let's take time to be thankful for not only the goodwill of the Gods, but in the goodwill of our kingdom, our friends, our neighbors, and those who protect us—" He caught sight of the jackal-masked stranger leaning against a lamppost no more than 20 feet away from him, arms crossed nonchalantly. Roman's stomach dropped. From here, he could see the cocky smile on the man's face peeking from under the mask.

The Queen cleared her throat loudly. Murmurs passed between the people at the tables.

Roman forcibly turned his attention away from the cloaked figure, though the man remained planted in place. "Um. Yes, uh... I'd like to toast not only to my family and our glorious kingdom, but to all of you as well. Cheers," Roman said, faltering at the last word but still raising his glass. Everyone carried on as if he hadn't just royally blundered.

As he climbed back into the silken cage, his mother glared coldly. "When we return to the palace, you will be reciting the proper toast until the sun comes up," she bit.

Though Roman's body felt fiery, he took a breath before saying, "My apologies, my Queen. It seems I was momentarily distracted by a... most unusual attendant. I feel that there may be another assassination attempt in the works."

The Queen shook her head. "Enough excuses, Roman," she said sharply.

"We have more than enough guards to ensure our safety," the King grunted.

Roman bit his tongue, turning away from his parents. He suddenly wasn't very hungry anymore.

As the feast wound down, Roman's already tight chest filled with icy dread. He hated the ritual. His fingers brushed the scar on his palm; it always brought back the memory of his first ritual when he was 9. More heavily, he couldn't banish the smirking image of the masked man. Roman knew he was around here somewhere, but no one else seemed to notice or if they did, they didn't care. Why did no one else seem to care?

The royal sanctuary's clock tower chimed the hour. Each of the nine bells rattled through Roman's skull. His knuckles turned as white as his tunic as he grasped the thick fabric of his pants. Regardless of his wishes, the tolling bell was his signal to begin the ritual. The crowd fell silent, the music stopped, the discord outside the walls became a murky din. The king and queen rose from their thrones, cuing Roman to do the same right after them. As a group, they strode straight down the aisle made by the tables toward the unlit burning pile. Torch bearers fell into step behind them, clad in brown and orange ceremonial robes. Just one step behind them came the bearers of the offerings in brown and deep red, carrying one gourd and one calf, and at the back of the party strode the bearer of the ceremonial dagger in brown and somber plum.

All eyes locked on him as the pile neared. None of them mattered. At the back of the crowd stood the man in the jackal mask. Roman steeled his composure as best he could, but the quickening pace of his heartbeat thundered in his ears. He forced himself to look away, to just look forward and get through this horrid ritual. His parents split in front of the pile, leaving space between them for him. He turned back toward the crowd when he'd taken his place and frantically scanned the crowd with just his eyes, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

The man... he had to be a figment of Roman's imagination. There was no way anyone could move that fast. He took a deep breath and expelled all the unrest in his belly. Of course the man was nothing more than something his mind conjured! The ceremonial procession came into their first position, two out of the three torch bearers standing at either side of the pile and everyone else kneeling in front of them. In the middle knelt the bearer of the dagger and the last torch bearer.

"My people," Roman said confidently, "the time has come to pay our dues for such an excellent harvest this year and ensure our future bounty and prosperity. Through these sacrifices, we give thanks to the Gods who so graciously provided for us. We offer our praise and benediction for the fruits of the earth, so lovingly provided by the Gods and those that move them." He took the dagger and the gourd, carving a perfect hole in the top and setting the seed-laden cap aside. One torch bearer set their flame to the unlit pile, holding it steadily in place.

Roman gulped at the next part. The bearers brought forth the calf and wrangled it to where its neck was splayed right over the opened gourd. He knelt in front of it, licked his dry, dry lips, and placed the blade against the animal's throat. "We offer praise and benediction for the noble beasts that give their lives, so carefully tended by the herders, hunters, and flock keepers," he boomed with false confidence. With a remorseful look to the poor calf, he quickly slid the blade across it's throat, not watching as it's blood pumped into the open gourd. The baby bellowed out, thrashing and kicking to try to get away, but it was held too firmly. It was always held too firmly.

The calf stilled, and the second bearer set their torch to the pile and held it steady.

Roman stood taller than he felt was natural. No one noticed. He set the bloodied blade to his own palm, the sharp metal taunting him. "We give praise and benediction for the children of man, who enact the will of the Gods piously in all they do," he said.

Before he could make the cut, however, a voice cut through from behind him, "I think the Gods want more than blood."

Roman whirled, suddenly coming face to face with the jackal-masked man. Smoothly, the man seized the knife from Roman's hands and slashed his parents' throats before Roman had time to flinch. As blood came pouring from their necks, the man pushed them into the growing bonfire. Without breaking momentum, he lobbed the bloody gourd into the fire at them. Before Roman had even registered them disappearing into the growing flames, the man had already hefted Roman over his shoulder. Before Roman realized hundreds of armored, armed men had flooded the square, they were already far down the alley, hundreds of bloodcurdling screams ringing in his ears.

Roman tried to flail against his captor, to do any kind of damage at all, but everything bounced off the man like he was throwing pebbles at a wall. "Unhand me!" Roman cried. "Put me down!" The man didn't listen, jostling him roughly as he ran far too quickly for any human. It was like being on a horse and going nearly as fast.

Roman's captor brought him all the way to the carriage house of the castle using back alleys and shadowy corridors.

"Ugh, I'm gonna be feeling that one tomorrow," grumbled the man under his breath. He regained his composure to say, "Now then my little Prince, you are not to move or shout when I put you down and you'll let me explain."

Roman offered no response, but the man put him down anyway. He didn't have it in him to fight. Hand-to-hand combat never was his strong suit, and even his own people would sooner see him hanged for the sins of his father than assume the throne after their murder, no matter how hard he tried to make up for it and no matter the help he tried to send. His parents were dead and he was likely to follow in the next few minutes, without ever getting to see Remus again.What else was he to do but graciously bear his throat and go out with dignity? "I only ask that you make it quick," he said, closing his eyes.

"Uh, what are you doing?" the man asked him.

Roman's eyes shot open, staring at the man. "You mean... you're not going to kill me...?"

He chuckled. "I'm not about to kill my own brother," Remus said, peeling his mask off with a grin. "Surprise!"

Tears sprang to Roman's eyes and his hand covered his mouth. "It- It's really you," he breathlessly said.

Remus offered him a hand up. Roman gladly took it, and Remus tugged him up and into a strong, loving embrace. They smothered each other in kisses as fervently as starving men devour food. The brothers held each other for a long while, crying and laughing and kissing and rocking back and forth on their heels before Roman pulled back to drink the sight of his brother in. Their faces were still nearly identical, same strong chin and glittering brown eyes, but Remus now sported a curling mustache, a lock of silver hair on the front of his head, and several healed scars over his impecable visage.

"I can't believe it!" Roman gushed, holding Remus' face in his hands and running his fingers over the now tear-soaked scars. "I— I've missed you so terribly all these years! Ma petite feuille!"

"You're not the only one, hummingbird. I dreamed of you every night," Remus replied, gently stroking Roman's cheek and wiping his tears away.

Roman's heart leapt at the nickname, but his smile quickly faltered. "You... killed our parents."

Remus' smile widened. "Heh, yeah, I did! I don't suppose you'll be locking me in the dungeons, will you?" he purred.

Roman shook his head. "Of course not. I knew one of these days the attempts people were taking would succeed. And you know how mother and father were! They sent you away and kept us from being together all these years."

"I guess that's what one awkward kiss in the stables will do, huh?" Remus said, faltering a moment. "Well that and them hating me for coming out wrong."

"We kept trying to tell them we just wanted to know what it was like and that we wouldn't do it again, but they were never fair," Roman recalled.

"It's not like that was the truth anyway, and it's not like it matters now!" Remus said brightly with a shrug.

Once again, Roman shook his head. "They don't matter anymore, but... what about the kingdom? No one likes our family and I can't even blame them for it."

"Oh believe me, I know. Knights and commoners talk about that a lot. Buuuuuuut I also know how we can redeem you in the eyes of the people," Remus said, kissing Roman's nose, "and even better, we can finally do what we promised to when we parted!"

Roman's heart skipped a beat. "You mean..."

Remus nodded. "Yeah, I mean," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a simple golden ring. "I hope you like getting dirty, little birdy."

"I don't care what we have to do, I just want to be with you," Roman said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "No one can stop us now."

Remus laughed. "I know!" he exclaimed, not holding back his own jubilation as he slid the weighty wedding band onto Roman's ring finger. "No one will get in the way of us again."

"No one," Roman repeated. He hugged Remus tightly. His other half was back, and for the first time in over a decade, he finally felt whole again.

That night, the two got to work enacting their illusion: Roman, the Prince of Escheri, played the captive of the man who had deposed the king and queen. Iron manacles hung heavy from his wrists, and Remus had smeared some mud and blood from the knife on his face to make it seem like there had been a real struggle. Remus had even retrieved the crown from the castle. With a final tender kiss behind closed doors, the show began.

Remus led Roman to the top of the palace walls with guards trailing behind them. The sound of chaos crept closer the higher up they went, reaching a crescendo once they'd crested the wall. Upon seeing the two of them, one of the guards sounded a warhorn, and the crowd grew quiet. That was their cue. Remus stepped forward, tugging Roman forward with him until they could see the masses of people below.

"People of Escheri," Remus boomed in his most official voice, "you were promised much and given little by these paltry royals. While you starved and ailed and toiled for them, they left you hungry, sick, and weary. But their time is over. The tyrants have fallen!" He held the crown over his head in triumph and put it on his own head. Cheers erupted through the crowd, nearly deafening. "And as a final humiliation to the royal family I betrayed, I will claim the crown prince as my bride!" He raised Roman's shackled hands.

The crowd got even more boisterous at that, and Roman tried his best to look ashamed and tearful.

"Today," Remus continued, "we celebrate not only the harvest, but the dawn of a new era of prosperity for all!"

Remus led Roman away to thunderous jubilation behind them. Once they were out of sight and back on solid ground, Remus suddenly stumbled. Roman caught him as best he could, but the pair still came tumbling down with Roman landing on top of Remus.

"Ree, are you okay? What happened?" Roman asked frantically.

Remus just laid there beneath him and chuckled. "The potions wore off," he said, sighing.

"Potions? What potions?"

"The ones that help me move?" Remus replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Roman just furrowed his brow, but moved to get up. Before he made it far, Remus pulled him back down into a kiss. "Let's stay here awhile."

"On the ground...?"

Remus just kissed him again. And again. They were the world's most persuasive lips if Roman had to guess, because 30 minutes later they were still there making up for lost time as they gazed at the stars. They shared stories of their time apart, everything that wouldn't fit in their letters, like how Roman had been thrown off a horse the first time he'd ridden one on his own at 10, how he'd pulled off his final prank, and of the time Remus bested his begrudging mentor when he was 19.

"The man actually believed me when I told him there was a damsel in distress near the boar's cave!" Remus guffawed. "I didn't finish him off, but it's a funny thing about boars, they don't care as long as they smell blood. So I ripped the crest from his tunic and left him there when I heard the snuffling. Never saw him again and no one ever asked for details, but he had a damn fine horse!"

"That's impressive," Roman said, smiling. "You managed to deprive the old loon of the glory he ached for in death. Serves him right, really, a tyrant knight for tyrant masters."

Out of the corner of his eye, Roman saw Remus move. He turned his head to see that lovely mirrored image reflected back at him, confused and delighted. "Since when did you become so vengeful?" asked Remus.

Roman laughed and rolled onto his side to face his brother. "You already know the answer to that."

Remus, in turn, answered back, "Heh, yeah," and rolled with some effort onto his side. "I... might need you to carry me back to the palace. I really overdid it and I don't think my legs will do the job. Well, maybe the right one will if it's not going to be a traitorous bastard."

"Fine, but you need to take these chains off me first," he said, sitting up and reaching over to help Remus do the same. Remus pulled the key from his pocket and slid it into the locks. The cuffs fell to the ground with a light clang. "Ah, thank you." Getting up, Roman picked them up and draped them around his neck and grabbed his fiancee's hands, tugging him up with more difficulty than he would've anticipated. "Gods, Remus, you're heavy!"

Remus cackled as he came up, collapsing against Roman with a sudden, "Fuck!" as his left foot made contact with the ground. A still moment passed, then Remus continued like nothing had happened, "Yeah, that's what hard combat will do to you."

As they started making their way toward the castle, Remus hobbling while Roman supported his left side, Roman asked, "You mentioned taking potions earlier?"

"Nothing too fancy, just strength and dexterity potions. Let's me move without my leg tightening back up too much."

"That's why you were so fast!" Roman concluded.

"Of course! It's rougher to do it on my own, but I could if I needed to for a short time."

"What did wicked Weston have you doing anyway?"

Remus shrugged. "Usual page stuff. Then typical squire things, followed by basic knighting. Lots more conflict than I anticipated."

"Conflict? When did you encounter that? We aren't at war."

"Ah, you've not been out in the streets lately, have you?"

Roman sighed sadly as the chains around his neck clanked in time with his footsteps. "Not with the leash our parents kept on me. I may as well have been a prisoner. Said it was 'too dangerous' since last year. That's when the assassination attempts started in earnest," he said.

"Probably for the best for you. I don't know what I would've done if something happened to you, hummingbird." Remus paused a moment, then said, "I mean, I would tear whoever hurt you apart and make their families watch, but regardless. I took care of mercenaries, mostly. The occasional bandit. Once when I was 18, the beast sent me after the leader of a local thieves guild alone. He never told me I'd be coming face to face with 30 of them."

"That many?? What happened?"

"You tell me. Only one of us came out alive."

"Ree."

Remus snorted. "Okay fine. It took hours, but I managed to pluck them out one by one until only the leader remained. Then after a fearsome battle to the death, I alone remained. That's how I got this neat scar!" he said, pointing to a jagged line beneath his eye. "After that, I guess I kind of became something of a folk hero? Everyone got real candid with me. I heard everyone's distaste for our parents. And..." Remus looked away, "for you, too. I really tried to dissuade them from that. I'm sorry to say I couldn't with most of them. But they rallied behind me and soon enough, I had a plan to get everyone back on our side and get this country built back up."

Roman smiled. "You've really been out there doing a lot of good. It makes me so proud that you're my brother and now my betrothed. You deserve to be the one to lead the kingdom after all that," he praised.

"Without you by my side? I don't think so."

"Of course I'll be by your side but, honestly, what do I know of our actual kingdom? I've seen so little of it, experienced almost nothing of it outside the doors of the noble families, and frankly, I... I don't have any claim to be in charge of it."

Remus stopped abruptly, nearly causing them both to topple again. "You don't seriously believe that." A gentle breeze rustled dead leaves against the cobblestone street as thundering silence stretched between them. Roman couldn't meet Remus' eyes. "Roman, please tell me you don't think that."

After what seemed like ages, he solemnly replied, "I do. At least... that's how it is now. What has a life in an ivory tower taught me about running a country?"

"Did our parents really teach you nothing about— never mind. Because you know what? It doesn't matter. Roman, do you know why I did what I did? I mean, do you really know?"

"So we could be free?" Roman answered. "So we'd be able to wed like we promised?"

Remus chuckled. "That was a pretty big reason," he said. "But I had to do this because I knew that without us ruling together as a team, it would be for nothing. You forget that we get to make the rules now! And what we don't know, we can learn together or just make up."

Roman couldn't help how his heart swelled at that. "That's true," he said. "We have our whole lives to figure this out!"

Remus grinned brightly at Roman. "Exactly! Sometimes you gotta turn your mind off to see what's really there. Works for me all the time!" He knocked on his own head, then motioned them forward. "Now let's get going, I've got about, I'd say, 5 minutes until I can't move anymore."

"What??" Roman cried. "Why didn't you say that earlier??"

"Eh, some things are worth it," Remus said casually. Giving Roman a lovestruck look, he added, "And you're worth everything."

"You're worth everything to me too, but this is important! Ahhhhh we're not going to make it in time!"

Remus shrugged. "You can just drag me back- Oh!" Roman hefted his brother up over his shoulder like Remus had done with him earlier. "Oh, okay, that works too."

Roman set off at a labored, wheezing trot, clanking wildly down the wide road to the castle. By the time the pair had made it to Roman's chambers up all of those damnable stairs, Roman's legs wobbled as he fell forward onto his canopied bed with Remus still over his shoulder.

"Wow, who knew you had it in you to carry me all this way unenhanced?" Remus delighted.

Roman only weakly groaned.

"Okay, okay, come here, I'll take it from here." Remus pulled himself out from under Roman and dragged him the rest of the way on the bed. He took Roman's boots off, tossed them on the ground, then rolled Roman over onto his back.

Though Roman still felt like he was breathing in fire, he gave Remus a weak smile. "Thanks," he wheezed.

"Tomorrow, let's stay in bed all day," Remus said, smoothing Roman's hair. He took off his own boots, then peeled off his leather armor and leg brace. "Ah, that's the good shit," he moaned, stretching his left leg out as much as he could.

"Bed all day with you sounds amazing," Roman replied, starting to undress himself shakily.

"Your room is different," Remus noted.

As Roman doffed his tunic, he said, "Yes, just a little. I like red, and mother made me earn it." The room, with its Rococo flair, ornate woodwork, and luxuriously upholstered furniture, had all been Roman's own preference. He hated the stoic, sterile Gothic style of his parents, down to the dreary colorlessness of the decor.

"What do you mean 'earn it?'" Remus asked, throwing his own tangled tunic to the floor.

"Oh, well. They made me stay awake and standing for the entire renovation. It was only three days, but..." Roman trailed off. "I wish I could say that was the worst of it after you left."

"Why not tell me about it in your letters?"

"They monitored them, you know. Withheld a few of them, tried to stop so many from going out, but I stole them back. For the past few years now, I've sent them in secret. They never knew I was still writing to you."

"The true faces of evil, huh. It's a good thing they got what they deserved," Remus said.

"Yeah," Roman said. The relief of that reality washed over him warmly. He tugged his pants off and let them fall to the floor, followed by his stockings. Suddenly, Remus' finger was resting over his heart.

"What's this?"

Roman hummed, then delicately retrieved the letter from its resting place at his heart and opened it for Remus. "I keep all the letters you send me, but your most recent letters stay here so they'll always be close to me," he explained wistfully. "It really helped me feel closer to you with all this space between us, y'know?"

"I guess we had the same idea then," Remus said. Roman's gaze drifted to his brother. In his hand was Roman's last letter to him, the crisp white parchment still as pristine as the day he'd written it. "I kept the others too."

"How? I must've sent hundreds by this point! Surely they couldn't have all fit in your saddlebags," Roman said, resting his hand on Remus' thigh.

"They did at one point. The others are somewhere safe, and I intend to retrieve them soon, all 792 of them."

"Where are they? We can ride out together and get them once we've rested."

"So long as we can move tomorrow," Remus laughed, taking the crown off and putting it on the bedside table. "And don't forget, we have a wedding to plan!" He leaned back onto the goose down mattress, making grabby hands at Roman.

"I can't wait to be your proper husband," Roman breathed, settling into the plush bed in Remus' arms.

"That makes two of us," Remus mumbled. "I love you, Roman." He held Roman just a touch tighter.

Roman leaned into it, snuggling closer to his brother. "I love you too." Without anything more than another kiss between them, the pair drifted off into the most comfortable sleep either of them had had in years.

A week came and went in the fanfare of planning the twins' wedding. They'd rehearsed the ceremony by themselves over and over, making sure every line and motion was expertly calculated. Remus directed castle staff in how the event was going to go down, what decorations they wanted, where everything needed to be for the big day. Roman wrote out more than 500 invitations and took care of making what decorations he could from his room. The twins had both agreed that in the spirit of a new era, their guest list would extend far beyond the usual list of attendants. Now that the noble population had been pared down, there wasn't much point to keeping such an arbitrary standard anyway.

Another week passed and finally, the big day arrived. Guests from all over their island nation had been steadily pouring in since the invitations had gone out, and the castle was nearing its capacity. The twins spent the morning with their tailor as the reedy man fussed over the finer details of their attire. He had to admit it was impressive how the man had accounted for Remus' leg brace into the design.

"I must say, my liege," the tailor said, "it is rather... avant garde for you to be wearing this suit instead of your brother's."

Remus just shrugged. "Nothing to say I can't. I feel like the role of the nurturer fits better since it's going to take someone, how did you say, avant garde? To lead our people. A nurturer is also a protector, you know."

The tailor hummed uncomfortably, but got to work closely examining his emerald green waistcoat's red hummingbird embroidery at the cuffs and split crew collar, making sure they were perfect. Roman tried to stifle a giggle and examined his own outfit in the tall, gilded mirror.

His suit coat matched Remus' in all but color and accoutrement; green vines, flowers, and leaves adorned his flushed red coat, expertly graded into the soft, thick silk. The symbol of the provider. Ten elegant gold clasps fastened the finery together in the front. A delicate gossamer cape attached to the garment at the highest clasp, draped tacitly over his shoulders and spilled to the floor in a cascade of translucent cream. He turned and looked at how the loose, gathered pants bunched at his mid-calf and ended in an embroidered, widely-ruffled cuff. Simple cream stockings and dazzling wedding slippers that matched his suit tied the whole ensemble together.

Roman's heart caught in his chest. He looked over to Remus, who looked back at him quizzically. "This is really happening," Roman muttered.

"Of course it is!" Remus brimmed. "What do you take me for, a cheat?"

"No, never! I just mean... it's all becoming real now, you know?"

Remus pursed his lips and scrunched his brow. He clapped and said, "Malchior, this is truly exquisite work you've done, but I need to speak to my groom alone for a moment." Remus waved his hand. With a grumble about tucking a stray thread, the tailor exited the room with his supplies in hand, bumping past Roman as he left. Roman didn't miss the malicious twinkle in the man's eye as he passed.

"Now with that out of the way," Remus said, dropping his tone to a hush, "there's no need to worry. We've practiced hundreds of times together! What could go wrong?"

Roman shook his head, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. "It's not that I'm worried about messing it up, I'm not worried at all really." He turned his gaze back up, looking Remus in the eye with a watery grin. "I'm simply awestruck by all of this. We've waited decades to see this through, ma petite feuille, and now it's finally coming true," he uttered. He couldn't help the tears that welled and spilled over his cheeks, nor the smile that made his face ache from its power.

Remus came over and cupped Roman's face in his hand, wiping the tears away with a pleased grin. "Every day with you is magic, hummingbird, and I can't wait to spend every day with you as your husband." He kissed Roman then, soft and sweet and gentle and it filled him with the fire of a thousand suns. "We're going to bring this country back from the ashes our parents left them in." Remus wiped the tears from his face gently and kissed him again before going to the door.

The tailor followed him back in the room, the spiteful man sneering at Roman proudly. Roman, however, didn't care. How could he, the happiest man in the whole world, care about such a trivial thing as a tailor's opinion of him? Before long though, the reedy man busied himself tucking in a stray thread on one of the red hummingbirds in flight on Remus' collar.

Before long, they were alone again in preparation for the ceremony. They each grabbed a small container housing the ceremonial lip paints and brushes. "Shall I?" Roman asked, uncapping the tiny vessel.

"I'd be utterly wounded if you didn't! Literally, I'd have a knife in my heart, gooshing all over the place," Remus replied, miming the action overzealously.

Roman laughed, dabbing the brush into the ruby red makeup. "Well we can't have that, not on our wedding day." Remus offered his face forward and Roman, before applying the cream to his upper lip, kissed him once more for good measure. "I love you."

"I love you, too, more than you can ever know," Remus replied, bringing Roman in for a kiss once more. Roman quickly finished applying the makeup and Remus did the same with the emerald green makeup on Roman's bottom lip. "There, now you look like a true groom."

They looked at each other and themselves in the mirror. "This is always how I'd imagined it growing up," Roman said.

Remus smiled brightly at Roman, hand in hand. "Well then what are we waiting for?Let's step into our future."

Roman squeezed his hand tightly and smiled once more. "Yeah."

The two were quickly wed and Remus coronated right after in front of a huge crowd of common folk and gentry alike. As the years passed, the twins made good on every promise they'd made to their people and to each other. And though it took quite a long time, the people of Escheri warmed back up to Roman as King-Consort once they realized he really wasnt anything like his parents. Roman and Remus led their country into an unprecedented era of internal peace and prosperity out of the shadow of their parents and lived happily ever after.

#lemon answers #lemon writes #remrom #romrem #creatnativity #thank you for your patience!#you have no idea how close i was to just infodumping on marriage customs in their made up country #i might still do it if theres enough interest OuO

9 notes · View notes