#these border crack fic. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

platinumshawnn · 5 months ago

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to strangers | benjicot blackwood x fem!bracken reader

a/n: yes i am fully aware i should be writing him as davos out of respect for the accuracy of the show and character but i'm still mourning what could have been. also leave it to me to write a little prequel tying this to my own fic a little bit by writing what this guy was really up to on his "hunting trip" lol. have some poorly written smut anyways, if anyone sees that I accidentally called the bracken’s estate “hedge stone” instead of “stone hedge” no you didn’t shut up it’s been fixed

synopsis: benjicot likes to rile up the women he likes i guess

Content warnings: MDNI — 18+, adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism, smut (fem p in v sex, unprotected sex, degradation) [not proofread]

Word count: 5.5k words

you had never been one for conflict — especially not that of drunken councilmen who became red in the face, knocking over cups and irate over matters of politics as they shouted. despite your father’s efforts to maintain diplomacy and restraint during meetings, it almost always ended in a screaming match at the table these days — even your uncle could not bear to sit through them, and often doubled up on the amount he drank just to sit through them, barely able to walk as he stumbled out.

you were almost always met with apologies from your father as he found you outside the doors of the hall, given a squeeze of hand, and ushered to bed. you did not care for politics, but there was no escaping the recent events — it affected everyone, reaching beyond stone hedge’s walls, but your father the most. he appeared to have aged significantly over the past days, eyes exhausted and on edge whenever she greeted him.

but this particular night had been…a lot more than usual. your cousin, aeron, had come back, shaking as he’d returned from a survey of the lands with your brother; having got into another squabble over the boundaries with some blackwood boys who had dared to come too close to their land, in aeron’s words. the whole thing dripped of theatrics — “that filthy…cunt, benjicot”

your head popped up from the handkerchief you were working to embroider, your mother on your right as the pair of you sat in one of the several cabinet rooms that your father had designated for your lessons as a child; having since used it as an escape from the noise. even your mother had been alerted by the commotion as the boys clamored into the hallway, looking out through the door that had been cracked open to provide some airflow in the room. there, your cousin stood, his nose bloody and still dripping as your father summoned the maester while ranting to your uncle, attempting to shush the boy-knight who was on the border of shouting. your interest was only peaked by the name, sitting up and turning your body towards the three men, ceasing what you had been doing and placing the handkerchief in your lap to listen.

your father had made eye contact with you as aeron continued, grabbing him by the shoulder and reaching to close the door before you could hear as he dragged your cousin away. your mother had encouraged you to continue, the look she gave reminding you of proprietary and of your place — with a curt nod, you had returned to your task.

that had been at midday, and since then, there had not yet been a break. you could hear the shouts from your room, and you could picture your father amidst it all, trying to bring order and peace — a task he was successful in every so often, silence falling over the room and quieting to hushed whispers that would only last a short time before the yelling continued.

sometime before midnight, the silence had ended finally, stood at the top of the stairs as the councilmen dispersed; other members of your house trickled out. you had stayed up, waiting to approach your father, in hopes to get some sort of information on the outcome. but the exhaustion was clear on his face, being met by a soft, “on the morrow, not tonight, my dear.”

he had pressed a kiss to your head and brushed past you, receding to his chambers for the night, leaving you at the base of the stairs. as you went to retreat to bed yourself, you heard the cursing mutters of aeron who had finally exited the great hall doors behind you, still seething after several hours — you were relieved at least to find that his nose had since stopped bleeding.

“aeron,” you called out, turning to descend down the four stairs you had climbed just as he stopped in the hallway towards his own chambers. his eyes found you. you approached him, hand reaching out to grab his face between your fingers, turning to assess his face for any additional injuries you may not have noticed earlier in the day. however, much to your relief, he was otherwise unharmed, “you really ought to stop antagonizing those men— you’re going to get yourself killed.” you scolded, sighing and dropping your hand.

aeron winced slightly, more from the reprimand than any lingering pain. “I can’t just let them insult our family, you know that.”

you shook her head, a mix of frustration and concern in your eyes. “I know, aeron, but there’s a difference between defending our honor and looking for trouble. what good will it do if you’re dead?”

He avoided your gaze, jaw clenching. “I just can’t stand the way they look at us, like we’re nothing and like they can do whatever it is they please. Like they own the riverlands. someone has to stand up to them if your father won’t.”

“standing up to them doesn’t mean getting into brawls. use your head, aeron. we need you alive, not battered and bruised,” you said, your tone softening.

aeron had sighed and muttered something unintelligible, only able to make out a ‘yeah’ before he withdrew to his own rooms.

you had tried to sleep — you did. but at some point, the heat, humid and sticky, had made it impossible to; instead, turning and tossing in your bed, growing increasingly frustrated before you stormed from the bed with a huff. the conversation between you and aeron had been stuck in your head, the sight of him bloodied haunting you — how did benjicot look then? was he unscathed and unharmed?

you knew he had always been stronger, a fiercer opponent but you couldn’t help the worry that plagued you.

you had quickly changed as best you could in the dark, without falling over in a way that would alert the guards; pulling your dress on and watching underneath the door as you smoothed out the fabric, doing your best to be silent in opening the door. peaking your head out and checking that both ways were clear, you slipped out and closed the door behind you, walking on your toes as you snuck through the house and out a backdoor that led into the fields.

you did your best to stay low and out of sight as you bolted through the fields towards the boundary stones, trying to remember who would be on surveillance — you couldn’t for the life of you remember, despite your best efforts to eavesdrop on your cousin's conversation earlier.

hell, you weren’t even sure you would see him.

sometimes you did, other times you didn’t — weeks would pass sometimes before you saw him again. sometimes it was hours before you saw him, sat, pulling at grass as you waited, knees to your chest.

today felt like one of those days, as you approached the river, out of sight from any prying eyes and sat by the edge, your eyes straining to see through the dark. the moon did little to penetrate the dense patch of trees. as the hours passed, your head had begun to drop against your knees, dozing off. there would be no way of keeping yourself awake all night, after a long day, opting as a last ditch attempt to awaken your senses by dipping your toes into the stream as you kicked off your shoes.

the water was a nice welcome in the heat, a content sigh leaving your mouth as you kicked your feet; splashing the water upwards. the wait seemed to drag on forever, growing impatient and trying to decide on whether to return home or not.

you’d give him another hour at most. If he didn’t come, then you would go home.

your gaze scanned the river, serene and peaceful as the rushing body of water sloshed around your feet; cool and refreshing. you’d have time.

you stood back from the water and fumbled to strip down to your chemise, discarding the dress to the grass by your shoes before easing down and into the water, letting out a hiss. slowly, wadding into its shallow depths, you moved forward until the water touched your thighs, lapping at your body as you cupped some of the water between your hands and tossed it up in front of you.

“you’re far from home, lady bracken.”

your head whipped toward the sound of a voice from the treeline, water sloshing around your legs as you faced the boy who the voice belonged to. the ends of your skirt had been released in the turn into the water, feet tangling in the soft sand of the river’s floor, just catching yourself from falling into its rapid rush by the luck of the Gods; the ends of the fabric now soaked by the flowing water that swirled around you. there he stood, barely peeking out from the cover of the trees as if that would somehow conceal his identity, hugging close to the trunk of one while he watched you from his shaded spot. there was hardly any way of seeing him in the night, the moon’s light not quite reaching him but his voice -- you would know that voice anywhere.

you stepped forward, halfway across the shallow depths of the river that flowed between the two lands of bracken territory and blackwoods, the cold water just reaching mid-thigh as you looked up at him, “as are you.” you quipped, heart rate rapid as your heart thrummed against your ribs.

despite the limited visibility, you could see his mouth quirk up in a half-smile, his amusement clear as his head tipped to the side while his eyes continued to watch you closely like some sort of prey. the limited sense of vision allowed you the ability to hear as he inhaled through his nose, breathing outwardly before he finally stepped forward to the edge of the water, his hand at the hilt of his dagger on his hip as his eyebrows rose, “and do you always take moonlit strolls through my land?”

you stilled, hands resting at your sides as your fingers dipped into the cool water below you, the cold nipping at your fingertips, “only when called for— the night was too beautiful to resist.” you replied, chin lifted to look up towards where he towered over you, “and what’s your excuse?”

he snorted, boots shifting against the dirt with as he moved to widen his stance, “the same perhaps,” he said, eyes glancing up to the sky above the riverlands that was littered with stars, “or maybe I was hoping to find a curious lady wandering too close to my territory.” he said, his voice a low rumble.

there was nothing threatening about his tone, however, his body language said otherwise — his eyes scanning their surroundings before looking back to your face, his body suggesting that he was on edge. as though he expected bracken men to burst through the trees behind you any minute. you took another languid step forward, closer to enemy territory, the thrill of it never failing to excite you.

“are you suggesting I’m trespassing?” you asked, your words steady as you bordered taunting the man who eyed you.

you could see as he squinted, narrowing his eyes at your words, “just…observing that you’re quite far from where you’re supposed to be at this hour, my lady.”

you hummed, eyebrows raised as the water continued to lap at the fabric of the cream coloured chemise that had been worn underneath the dress of typical bracken colours of yellow and brown having been discarded at the edge of the grass. you could see the moment his eyes lowered to scan down the length of the fabric, disappearing into the water and drifting higher up your thighs, bordering translucent against your skin, slow in dragging his eyes along the length of your body, “but i suppose the river doesn’t care for borders, does it?” he suddenly asked, his eyes returning to meet yours.

your mouth curved upwards, a wry smile on your face as his gaze emboldened you, “no it doesn’t, but neither do I, it seems. I don’t believe the assize said anything about the river.”

benjicot tutted condescendingly at her, smug as his hands shifted over his dagger, “careful, you're starting to sound like your cousin, bracken.” he warned, tone sharp, “do you not ever worry about what might be lurking in the shadows? his words came lighter now, the tension gone from his voice.

you let out a dry laugh, beginning to feel the effects of the frosty water that reached your hips the further you wadded, a cool breeze causing your skin to prickle with goosebumps. you shivered, sucking in a deep breath through clenched teeth, “only when they carry a dagger and a half-smile, I suppose.” you said.

his hands twitched, the grasp at his blade loosening as he seemed to contemplate reaching forward to drag you from the water at the sight of your shivering frame. however, he stopped himself and instead lifted his chin, mouth pressing into a tight smile, “then its a good thing I’m in a benevolent mood tonight.”

your head lowered to look down at the water, using your fingers to skim its surface, “I will take my chances.” you confidently said, lifting your gaze after a moment of pause.

he let out a ‘hmph’ sound, watching as you slowly closed the gap between the two lands to stand directly in front of him, the water shallow once again and only meeting mid-thigh. the now soaked gown did nothing to provide any ounce of modesty, sheer and clinging to your lower half as you stared up at him. your eyes followed his movements as he crouched, bringing him eye-to-eye as an elbow planted against one of his knees, “well, I suggest you be careful, my lady. the night is full of dangers.” he said, his voice low and quiet.

“and so is the day, but I’ve never been one to shy away from either.” you said, voice matching his volume before you stepped forward until you stood against the ledge, your other hand planting in the grass just between his boots as you lifted your right hand toward him, “are you going to help me or shall I call for my men?” you taunted, a grin on your face.

he rolled his eyes, smile broadening as he stood upright and bent to grab your hand, using his strength to pull you up and over the ledge, out of the waters with ease. you were brought to your feet, stood face-to-face with him, his face leaning close to yours as he spoke, “you wouldn’t dare.” he muttered, “how do you plan then, to explain your presence so close to blackwood land at this hour? alone, in a nightgown, with the heir?”

your chest brushed his as you leaned in towards him, “I’ll figure something out— you underestimate me.”

he hummed with a nod, his nose bumping yours in the close proximity. though his mouth did not yet make contact with yours, his breath fanned over lips, his eyes scanning your face, “oh, I’m sure you will. but do you think they will believe you?” he asked, the lazy smirk on his face laced with arrogance, “do you think there won’t be whispers? said whispers, questioning your maidenhead?”

“they’d be foolish to make such accusations against the daughter of amos bracken.” you countered, shoulders squaring with pride.

the man in front of you let out a sardonic chortle, releasing the hilt of his dagger and finding your hip, gripping the fabric of your chemise in his fist, stepping back and forcing you with him, “oh please.” he mocked, his hand dropping from your hip to reach down to your thigh and begin to hoist the soaked fabric upwards towards your waist, leaving you bear to the elements, “if only they could see their lord’s daughter, out parading herself like some whore on blackwood land. What do you think they would say then, hm?”

“‘Tis not their business what I do, nor my father’s.” you muttered.

“oh but i think they might say otherwise. you’re a noblewoman,” he jeered, his knuckles brushing against the bare skin of your belly as his hand dipped below your naval, “a highborn womb.”

you knew benjicot did not share their views -- in the very few occasions he had opened up during your late night escapades, red in the face with anger, rambling on about the audacity of his councilmen as he dressed. he had ranted about what the very outlook had done to his mother, that women were more than for breeding. but he enjoyed knocking you down a peg sometimes, humbling you back down to earth during these moments. he liked to mock the sanctity of your womanhood, even if for a moment, but then he would go back on himself and praise you once all was said and done — praise the very thing he mocked. However, on this particular night, something about his words lit the flames of pure, feminine rage, staring eye to eye with the man you had visited countless times over the past months.

“I am more than that.” you muttered, trying to keep your voice steady.

he let out a melancholic hum, “you think so?”

he spoke to you like you were a child, who lived under the guise of a delusion — like a childish dream that you were expected to grow out of. the tone of his voice, paired by the sudden feeling of his hand between your thighs bred a slew of confusing emotions to spread within your chest; shamed and desperate, humiliated and seething as his fingers found the sensitive bud between folds that were slick with arousal that had you hot with embarrassment, fingers gliding up along your folds as you gritted your teeth, “how dare you—!”

the nature of his words stung when you knew how much he despised when other men looked down on women the way you had grown accustomed to; somehow after he had entrusted you enough to open up to you, he still had the nerve to throw it in your face—

he caught your hand that came up towards his throat, eyebrows raising as if to warn you, a grin on his mouth as his hand between your thighs stilled, “no need to be so hostile, sweet girl.” he said, guiding your hand down to your side as he moved to drive your back towards a tree, that hand coming to hold your chin in the space between his thumb and fingers, “I know you are a brave, resilient woman…” he quietly muttered, face coming close to yours and trapping you between his body and the tree, a knee coming between your thighs.

despite the rage that still burned within you, scorching like a wildfire, the warm contrast of his fingers on cold skin was welcomed; jolting up as his fingers pressed against you, fingers circling the bud and earning a soft sigh of a moan as you reached out to grab him, pulling him closer as though you were trying to crawl underneath his skin and become one. His mouth finally made contact, attaching itself to your throat and placing open-mouthed kisses to the skin, nipping the delicate skin with his teeth as his fingers worked against you.

“my clever, beautiful girl.” he praised, mouth reaching your collarbones.

you belly clenched, another moan elicited by his words as your hands fisted the cloak around his shoulders, his hand moving briefly to tug the fabric of your gown back up and out of his way as it dropped from its place around your hips. benjicot had a way of leaving you breathless and desperate, a flustered mess under his touch, the only man that could draw out the carnal sounds of pleasure; broken sighs and crying out as his middle and ring finger pushed themselves into you.

by the roots of his hair, you brought a hand to the back of his head and tugged him towards your mouth, his lips encapsulating yours in a feverish kiss; all teeth and tongue. you cried out, muffled by his mouth, as his thumb continued the prior pace, rubbing blind shapes into your clit as your mouth dropped open, too distracted by experienced fingers that slipped in and out of you with ease to reciprocate the kiss, “oh—, fuck.”

“yes, just like that,” he encouraged, voice soft. “just relax, my love.”

the weeks of pent up hunger and anticipation for this moment curled within you, settling into your lower belly, thighs attempting to clench around his hand. though you were stopped by the firm, strong thigh that had been planted there to prevent such from happening, his hips pressing into yours.

“ben, please…” you cried out, beginning to become overwhelmed between his mouth that returned to your throat and his hand, his pace increasing.

rather instead, he knelt suddenly, head buried beneath the thin chemise that draped over his head as he leaned into you. his shoulders brushed your thighs as his mouth replaced his thumb’s task, latching to the bundle of nerves and leaving you gasping, gripping his hair as your chest heaved. a low groan vibrated through your core from the man below you, reaching every end and nerve of your body as you struggled to keep up on your feet as your peak washed over you. his arm wrapped up underneath your right thigh, holding you against him and pressing against your hip as if that would somehow ground you as you nearly collapsed against him, your entire body alight as your walls squeezed around his fingers, clenching so tight it could restrict movement.

he was barely any gentler as he reemerged from your skirts, your head slumped back against the tree as he stood to tower over you once more, using the fabric of your gown to hold you up and practically manhandle you up against the tree that scraped your skin with each move. loose strands of hair had freed themselves from the half done up style, hanging in your face as you panted, mouth agape as you looked up at him; lips glistening with the reminisce of you — your cheeks heated with embarrassment, reaching out to touch his cheek.

he was beautiful, especially with you on his lips.

you dropped your hand and pulled him towards you by his hips, using the belt to your advantage to jerk him forward, his own lazy smirk mirrored by your tired smile as your hands fumbled to undo the laces of his pants. he aided in the task, skillful fingers pulling them with ease and shoving his pants down just enough that they sat high on his thighs, freeing his hardened cock from their confinement, your hand instinctively coming down to wrap around the length and stroke him. his lips parted above you, hands coming to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as his nose nudged yours.

you could have stayed there forever, in that moment — with the sight before you, a flush in his face as he appeared fucked out already, hair in a disarray from your fingers.

he reached across his chest to undo the clasp of his cloak, dropping it from his shoulders; getting rid of the only shield that hid you from any potential prying eyes — if anyone burst through the bushes then, there would be no hiding the act and it would be without any doubt what was happening.

‘parading herself like a whore on Blackwood land’

benjicot would be correct. if your cousins had dared to wander close to the borderlands again, you would be done for. there would be no protecting any ounce of your dignity and modesty at that point — you would be shamed by your entire family, and even worse, your father…he would be beyond furious and nothing less than gutted.

the thought and feeling of sheer shame it brought had you clinging close to the man in front of you, his body easily capable of concealing yours as one hand went above your shoulder to the tree, too blissed out to put an end to this and go home right then as his mouth pressed to yours in a sweet, affectionate kiss. you moaned against his mouth, his hand replacing yours around his cock to glide it up along your slit; gathering the slick as a means to lubricate the head of his cock, that already leaked pre-cum that mingled with your own arousal, the tip red and angry.

you braced against the tree, trying to regain footing, nearly slipping into him. he steadied you with the arm above your shoulder, wrapped around your ribs and forcing your chest against his as he slid into you, earning a gasp, breaths mingling as your own arm wrapped around his shoulders; clutching to him like your life depended on it — and in some ways, it did.

he held you up against the tree, having to shove the fabric of his tunic and doublet high up on his hips out of the way as he thrusted up into yours. each movement of his hips, shallow due to the position, his pelvis brushed against your clit, providing enough stimulation to leave you struggling for air as you fisted his clothing in your hands.

“fuck…” he rasped, lips brushing your own as they parted, each breath from his mouth sucked into your lungs as you relied on him for the strength to stay upright, slumping into him.

you were a jumbled, incoherent series of sounds as any paranoid thought of fearing your cousin's appearance went out the window, all consumed by him. your leg lifted by his hand guiding it by the back of your knee, thigh hooking around his hip and pulling him further, deeper into you and releasing a sob. you felt so full, it physically ached, walls clenching down around him and eliciting a hiss of air from him.

the sound of a branch cracking somewhere in the distance of the bushes caused you to jolt against him, eyes peering over his shoulder, wide and panicked as the thought crossed your mind again just how open you were to being exposed. you had done this time and time again, but never with his own men just several feet from the bush you were hidden among, and never during a war that had everyone on edge. the looming war had your father in particular paranoid, leading to an increase in fleets that surveyed the boundaries of bracken’s land and the thought instilled again, that fear that you could be caught.

as if he sensed your worry, his mouth caught yours in another kiss, forehead pressing to yours, “my love…” he muttered, bringing your attention back to him.

and he was successful, your gaze doing one last scan and straining into the dark before you were faced with his tired, lust-filled face, his cheeks flushed and striking even in the dark. the sweet name swelled your chest with adoration, your breath quick as you let out a moan, spiraling into bliss against him as his hand came between you to once again rub against your clit.

“ben, i can’t— please—“ the sound was weak and feeble, choked out and gasping for air as your body burned.

it was met by deaf ears as he gently shushed you, his mouth grazing yours, cock relentlessly rutting up into you with desperation — seeking for release as your walls fluttered around him. the groan he released was animalistic, deep from within his chest and carnal as you clutched onto him, struggling to keep yourself up against him and pulling him into you; seeking some kind of anchor to keep you grounded as his hand on your clit worked in unfaltering shapes that had you weak.

a final sob of pleasure left you as you clamped down around him, body tense and slumping against his as you released yourself around him. the final plea of his name and your walls were followed by a few sharp, final thrusts as he released his seed into you; fucking it deeper into you with a deep sigh of your name, a hand coming to your throat as he glanced down, his forehead resting against your chin.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

you stepped up onto the riverbank of your family’s side; thighs still aching while benjicot’s hand supported you from behind before he too crawled up behind you, not seeming to care that he was now soaked from his thighs down. He stood back, allowing you a silent moment to wring out your dress of any water as best you could, hands twisting the fabric and letting out a grunt of exertion before letting it drop back down to your feet. You bent to collect your dress, benjicot finally stepped forward to help in your task of redressing, hands smoothing the fabric over your hips and straightening your shoulders with a gaze down, not daring to make eye contact.

you both knew this could have been the last time you saw each other, the dawning realization casting an awkward, tense silence over the two of you as you eyed the fabric of his doublet; making a mental note of its ridges, the pattern of the woven article of clothing. he tensed as you lifted a hand to touch the fabric with your fingers, too intimate a gesture as fingers ran across his chest and up towards his shoulder before stilling there, your palm coming to place over his heart.

“when are you to marry the…” he began to ask, his face screwing up in disgust at the idea as he spat out the name, “Lefford boy.”

you gaze only briefly lifted towards his face when he spoke, a small snort leaving you at his reaction and smiling softly at his antics. The smile dropped after a moment, though, inhaling and sighting out a breath as you straightened out his own clothing with gentle tugs, brushing over the fabrics, “two nights from today.” you quietly replied.

he made a sound of disapproval, his gaze on your face as you finally looked him in the eye again, his hand rising to capture your wrist in his hold. You had heard the whispers as well throughout the halls of stone hedge, trying to picture it as you looked at him, “I hear rumors you’re to be married, too.” you pointed out, his face twitching.

he released your wrist, stepping back and looking towards his feet as he fixed his sleeves, “My father plans to betroth me against my will.” He admitted, his words a grumble as he shook out his arms and looked up at you again.

you nodded, “who? has he said anything of his intentions?”

“some girl.” he admitted, shaking his head with a shrug of his shoulders, cheeks expanding with a sigh, “the lord paramount’s granddaughter, I suppose.”

you smiled, tilting your head as you looked at him, “serra tully, right? that’s her name, yes?”

“unfortunately.” he grumbled in complaint.

“she’s quite beautiful, I hear.”

he shrugged again, letting out another grunt.

“well, you should probably be on your way,” you said, hands folding behind you as he looked across the river, the sun already beginning to come up. “your men will be looking for you soon.”

benjicot nodded, stepping forward and reluctantly reaching out to your waist, fingers gently pressing into your sides as he leaned forward to press a sweet kiss to your mouth, “I will see you soon.” He said as he withdrew from your mouth, face still hovering close.

you raised a hand and pressed it to his cheek, smiling as you looked up at him, “yes. maybe.”

his eyes rolled as you lifted a hand as if to gesture ‘just as I suspected’, looking over you as a sharp whistle sounded from somewhere beyond the trees from his camp, hands dropping from your sides and straightening the belt at his hips; you watched as his fingers went to the dagger at his right hip, removing it from its sheath, much to your confusion. He withdrew it and used his free hand to pull one of yours forward, pressing the blade into your palm and looking at you, “a wedding gift.” He quietly said.

you looked down at the blade, frowning and blinking rapidly a couple of times before looking up at him, mouth opened in a stutter, “benjicot, I- I can’t accept this. you might need-”

“I have plenty back home,” he assured, wrapping your fingers around the handle of it and licking his lips that were then pressed into a line that resembled an amused smile, “have it…in case that Lefford boy ever pisses you off.”

you let out a laugh, a smile coming to his face as your hand dropped from his, the dagger clutched by your side, “very charming of you.”

He chuckled and pressed another quick kiss to your forehead before he brushed past you, hurrying into the river with a splash and sloshing back in the direction he had come from. you watched as he climbed out of the water, entering back out onto blackwood territory and giving one last glance as he retreated back into the trees.

#davos blackwood #benjicot blackwood #davos blackwood x reader #benjicot blackwood fic #benjicot blackwood x reader #kieran burton #house blackwood #benjicot blackwood imagine #ben blackwood #reed writes !

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beefboyandbabygirl · 2 years ago

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I ❤️ DILFS / GOOD GIRL (18+)

pairing: student!brother's bff!seokmin x student!good girl!reader

genre: college au, brother's best friend au, smut (MDNI), bit of crack, a small bit of angst but not nearly as much as most of my fics

description: when you head out for college, you incidentally end up at the one your bother's best friend has disappeared to 2 years prior. now, seokmin has promised your brother, vernon, to teach you and take care of you while you're away from home. unfortunately, it seems vernon should have been a bit more specific about what exactly seokmin was supposed to be teaching you.

warnings: vernon is ur overprotective brother, seokmin is not a dilf unfortunately, dirty talk, masturbation (male and female), fingering, slight restraint?, praise (f. receiving), pet names (good girl is so overused), teaching, innocence kink, corruption kink, oral (m. receiving), tiddie play, alcohol consumption, a bit of pining, shame on the readers part, she feels a bit like a slut for a moment, kinda brief mention of miscarriage? for like a metaphor lol, jeonghan is hot in this, giselle is ur bff and i almost gave up my mission and made this whole fic ab her shes so hot, ok i think thats it

quotes my creative director (@joshibambi): "just admit u wanna bang son", "o is for orgasm", "the urge to be the younger sibling for once"

wordcount: 15.9k

a/n: the way this fic took me years to write. i hav been busy :( thank u 2 every1 who liked girl code uve made my whole year :D hope u like this one 2!!

You preferred to remember Seokmin for how he was.

How he was small and young, how he had a swanky bowlcut and how he looked in his school uniform. How he and your big brother, Vernon, had bonded and watched movies together in your living room, and the countless dinners he’d stayed over for, always so respectful to your parents and you. He wasn’t your best friend, he was Vernon’s, and yet he made it so easy to feel comfortable, so easy to feel like you were the one he came over for.

You crushed on him back then, wrote countless diary entries about him and his stupid, beautiful smile. But it had been so forbidden, you remembered feeling that, because of how Vernon had groaned at you to leave every time you peaked your head through the living room door, masking your insistent eyes on Seokmin with simply wanting to “watch a grown up movie”. Sighing, you’d turn back to your princess pink room, and the boundary - the Vernon shaped boundary - that stood between you and Seokmin grew farther.

It had almost been a relief when Seokmin left for college. That was the most terrible thing, the relief you felt while your brother was grieving the sudden separation with his best friend. But your heart simply couldn’t help but let out a long sigh - years of yearning for him when he was so close by. You felt that cool wash of repose when that border between you and him had disappeared from your view. Years of watching it, wondering whether to pad closer or turn away from it, became a distant memory. For two years you were almost a normal girl and a good baby sister.

Then it was your turn to head off for college. The nearest, big college to you accepted your application and you still distinctly remember dinner with your parents and your brother, how’d they’d cheered and clinked glasses and looked at you adoringly, because you were growing up right before their eyes. Then under the faint light of the restaurant chandelier, your mom had said something that immediately sent you hurdling back to that old, distant boundary: “Maybe you’ll see Seokmin there!”

How had you forgotten? You supposed in that time you’d let yourself be more taken with the relief. It was the thought that he would be gone that had distracted you from exactly where to. And there you were with all your moving plans and your packed backs, and your glass raised and frozen in the air and your eyes wide.

Then came the reasoning: surely, you could avoid him? It was a big college, there were plenty of people. There was no logical reason you’d really have to see him. Except for Vernon, of course. Ever so oblivious, your brother had called up Seokmin to tell him the good news, and to tell him to take care of you and protect you. And Seokmin was so sweet, of course, he’d take care of his best friend’s baby sister.

And there you were at college. All grown up.

In your defense, you had avoided him skillfully. You’d turned down his request to help you with unpacking, turned down his tour of the school (that you’d actually desperately needed - why is room 240 not with all the other 40’s?!), and most of all, you’d turned down every single message inviting you to a party.

I guess to him that was a perk; partying with the older kids. He knew you after all. He knew that you were a quiet girl and you stayed within your neatly laid brick walls, and he knew you were shy, and he knew you needed help letting loose. He knew you were a good girl.

Which is why it wasn’t surprising at all that you turned down his offers - wanting to stay focused on school. At least, that’s what you told him. Truth was even being in his vicinity had put you much closer to that boundary you’d never dared cross. You were afraid even just seeing him would send you hurdling back, like a leaf in the wind. So you didn’t go.

For a while, at least.

“This is, like, a once in a lifetime opportunity!” Giselle whined and you shook your head adamantly. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, maybe not for you, but for me!” she argued. “I can’t believe you’re consistently being invited to parties with hot, sexy men, and you’re turning it down because of one guy!”

You were currently sitting in the library with your roommate, Giselle, and you’d made the unfortunate mistake of telling her about your predicament after receiving yet another invitation to a party tomorrow. Giselle was throwing a temper tantrum because she had never ever had anything as ridiculous.

You liked Giselle a lot. She was very different from you - she was hot. You weren’t - you were cute. Giselle held boys on leashes and made them do homework for her. She liked partying and sexy, black dresses. You were a fucking nerd, and cute was the highest compliment you had ever received for your looks. Even though you were different, Giselle had immediately taken a liking to you. You had initially feared she would think you were lame, but she was so nice - except for right now.

“Come on, Y/n, there are, like, no cute guys in our year!” she said pleadingly, clasping her hands together and pouting, but you shook your head.

“You don’t understand, Giselle,” you murmured solemnly, trying to regain your focus on the science textbook in front of you.

“I understand perfectly well,” she said and you eyed her suspiciously. “I understand that you’re a bitch!”

“Alright, that’s unnecessary,” you said, closing your book. You pinched the bridge of your nose, when she went on. “No, honestly, Y/n. You’re a virgin, right?”

You snapped your head towards her in shock. Your eyes darted around frantically, before you leaned over the table to whisper to her: “How do you know that?”

“Don’t embarrass yourself, honey,” she grinned, holding back laughter and you rolled your eyes, sighing. “And what about it, Giselle?”

“How are you ever gonna get yourself out there if you’re constantly caught up on this guy and trying to keep away your feelings for him? You’ll stay a virgin forever, girl. You need to look him in the eyes and realize you’re above that childish crush!”

You stayed quiet, slumped in on yourself with your book in your lap. Why was she making sense?

You’d never thought about it that way. That your infatuation with your brother’s best friend was somehow holding you back from exploring and evolving as a woman. That maybe having him in the back of your mind every time you’d shyly made out with guys in high school, had been the thing that stopped you in your tracks.

“I can see it on your face, you know I’m right,” Giselle smiled smugly from behind the screen of her laptop. “Unless you’re asexual. In that case, fierce, but if you’re not, like, get out there, queen. Sometimes you need to realize that you have to leave one dick for another dick because the other dick is so good.”

You furrowed your brows. “Is.. Is this still about me?”

“No,” Giselle shook her head.

“Okay, yeah, ‘cause- ‘cause that didn’t..”

“Yeah, I know. I was more so, uh, angling-”

“Right-”

“Angling the story to- to my current situation.”

“I get it, yep.”

There was a moment of silence. You pursed your lips and looked at the message on your phone. Then you started typing.

“Are you telling him you’re coming with your super sexy, hot friend?”

“Yes.”

“Y/N, I LOVE YOU.” _____________________________

Regret was a nasty, old demon on your back and it had twisted and tugged at your guts, while you let Giselle get you party-ready. You’d sat on her bed, in her dress, and having her put her makeup on you, you’d sulked and tried to shrug off your back.

“You look so hot when you actually try,” she’d giggled, using a fluffy brush to spread the bake underneath your eyes.

“Thanks,” you’d mumbled, and she’d paused her movements, frowning.

“What’s wrong?” she’d asked, sitting back on her knees. You had sighed, reaching a hand up to run it through your hair, but pausing midway when you realized you would ruin the styling Giselle had worked so hard on. You lowered your hand again.

“I’m not sure about this,” you’d murmured and she frowned genuinely. “Y/n, I meant what I said. I know I talk a lot about boys and stuff, but you really shouldn’t let yourself be held back by him!”

Before you could speak again, Giselle had tugged you off the floor to stand in front of her mirror.

“Look at you,” she’d cooed, clapping your shoulders. “You look so pretty!”

You’d smiled a little shyly, looking at your form in the mirror abashedly. You were pretty. Not cute, not nerdy; pretty. Curves hugged tight by a sleek, black dress from Giselle’s closet, this was a version of you that could actually see having sex - seducing men, gaining from her looks.

“I guess you’re right,” you’d said sheepishly, and Giselle had smiled sincerely and you’d let her take you to the party down the streets in a nearby frat house, and you’d almost not wavered when you stood right in front of it, music blasting out of every crevice.

But then you were inside and he was right there. For the first time in two years, he was there, and he was so hot. He was wearing a white tee and a fucking silver chain, and, God, when did he start working out, because his arms were so big and so toned. And his hair was fluffy and dark brown, and his face was slim, and the tops of his cheekbones were shining under the kitchen lamp, where he was talking to some other guy, arm flexed, as he leaned against it on the counter.

If there was one thing about Seokmin that had stayed the same it was that smile. He wore it now, laughing, as he talked to some blonde guy about something, and you wanted to scream because, there it was. The boundary, the ledge, the line, whatever, it was right before you again, right there with him. And all the feelings that came with it, your heart, wet and red in your throat, a brew of anxiety in your stomach.

Without sparing even a second, you’d clasped onto Giselle’s wrist, tugging her into a herd of anonymous people, and just walking. Walking, walking, pulling her along (she countered only with a “hey!”) only for you to hit a wall or something, just as long as you were far, far away from him.

“What the hell?” she said, when you finally stopped walking because you’d entered the living room, which was apparently more exclusive, as only a few people populated it, including a couple that was making out on the far end of the couch.

“He was there,” you gasped dramatically, as if you’d seen a ghost. “I-I can’t do this, Giselle.”

“Relax, babe, it’ll be fine. You’re away from him now, aren’t you?” Although she was trying to be supportive, you could tell she was growing a little tired of your theatrics. You couldn’t care less though, you were panting, and peering over her shoulder to see if he was somehow coming towards; and, God forbid, smile at you with that angel grin.

Giselle followed your gaze and sighed, brows furrowing. “How about I get us some drinks? Then you can let loose a little.”

You nodded absently, following her lead when she pulled you to sit down on the couch. You clambered to the couch rest, when she walked away, swaying her hips to the music.

You might’ve looked different, but you were still you. The entire scene had you uncomfortable, and you were still the shy, unconfident and nerdy girl. You cursed yourself for letting Giselle’s reassurances fool you - you would never be this type of person, and you would surely never get over Seokmin. She’d been wrong about everything.

“You okay, darling?”

You jumped at the voice, eyes darting up to see who it was.

You didn’t know him. He was handsome, though, but you’re not even sure you’d call it that. He was pretty, and he had long, black hair and big eyes and he was giving you this teasing smile, that was doing nothing to ease your nerves.

“I’m good,” you squeaked, gaze moving to a nearby pair of shoes in the corner of the room. You heard him chuckle, before he dropped into a squat before you. One lean hand came up to your knee, giving it a squeeze. “You just look so nervous, pretty,” he sat down an anonymous cup of liquor. “I don’t think I know you. Can you tell me your name?”

The hand on your knee burned into you, thumb brushing back and forth over the skin and he was looking at you so intently, it had you sputtering. “Uhm, uh, Y/n.”

His thumb froze. You looked over at him curiously to find this dumbfounded expression on his face, devious grin spreading on his pretty features. He chuckled and cleared his throat, face dropping down before he moved it back to look at you again.

“You’re the girl Seokmin’s always inviting over here?”

You nodded shyly and he smiled at you. “I’m Jeonghan.”

“Hi.”

A pause. Jeonghan squeezed your thigh, watching in delight at the way you screwed your eyes shut.

“You know, I just didn’t expect you to look like this,” he said finally and, sensing your confusion, he teasingly added: “The girl who’s always turning down parties to study.”

You blush deepened, cheeks furiously rosy, as you fiddled with your fingers in your lap. “I borrowed my friend's clothes,” you breathed, pursing your lips. “Ah!” Jeonghan gently patted the top of your thigh, nodding along exaggeratedly, “You borrowed your friend’s clothes! I see!”

He studied you while you giggled at his antics, still refusing to look him in the eye, really. He was almost suffocating, his hand on your thigh and his eyes boring into your face, and his cologne in a constant stream in and out of your nostrils. But suffocation, you decided, was almost better than being around Seokmin and having him parade his kind heart and his thick arms and his sweet smile, and just how off-limits he was.

Ripping you from your thoughts, Jeonghan stood up, placing both hands on the tops of your thighs and bending down to your face, so his nose was buried in your cheek.

“Look at me, darling,” he whispered, then pulled his face away from yours, just enough so you could gaze into his brown eyes. His hands were much higher now, squeezing hard at the plush of your thighs, dangerously close to your center and only separated by the thin fabric of Giselle’s dress.

“There she is,” Jeonghan smiled, voice a whisper. His lashes came over his eyes, when they flitted down to your lips. “Don’t you wanna come with me upstairs, and I can make you feel really, really goo-”

“JEONGHAN! GET OFF OF HER, THAT IS MY BEST FRIEND’S BABY SISTER!”

There’s a voice you know.

From across the room, Seokmin had burst through the mass of people, now power-posing with an extended finger in the direction of where Jeonghan was tilting over you, rubbing your thighs, as you sat innocently before him.

Jeonghan stood up, taking all of his heat and his suffocation and cologne with him, groaning and throwing his head back. “Seokmin!” he whined and he was suddenly no longer so suave and seductive.

“No, I won’t hear it, Jeonghan,” Seokmin said and, as much as you knew Seokmin to be sweet and tender and lovely, there was this crystal-clear anger in his voice. He walked over, one large hand pushing at Jeonghan. “Go get any other girl and sleep with her, just not her. Get your sorry ass out of here.”

Apparently Jeonghan sensed the same thing you did - a rare anger in Seokmin - because he didn’t put up much of a fight at all, only smiled at you apologetically (and then, when he was behind Seokmin, gave you a small, devious wink - he just couldn’t help himself).

You couldn’t focus much on Jeonghan at all though. Because Seokmin was standing in front of you, all muscle and huge fucking thighs by your head, and when you dared to tilt your gaze up to him, you saw how all that anger simply melted away.

“Hey,” he breathed, smiling softly.

“Hey.”

Then his eyes darkened, if only for a moment, as they traveled over your figure, gift-wrapped in that tight, black dress. His jaw clenched and he looked around for a moment. When he looked at you once more, he was giving you that smile - the one you’d fallen in love with - and the chocolate in his eyes was melting.

“Come on,” he ushered gently, one hand carefully guiding you off the couch. “Let’s go to my room where there aren’t any scary, evil, mean men.”

Despite being so on edge, so jittery, as you followed him up some distant staircase, you couldn’t help but laugh at those words. He was talking exactly like he had when you were kids. That was how you preferred to remember him; all small and young and with a swanky bowl cut, and he’s the exact same way with you, hand warm in yours, as he guides you through the house.

“Why’re you laughing?” he smiled, and you suppressed your own, trying not to dwell too much on how fast your heart was beating. “It’s just like before,” you quipped and Seokmin’s hand squeezed yours in understanding.

He lumbered down the hallway and at its very end, preceded by rows of white oak doors, he opened his own with a twist and a turn of the brass-blend knob. When he closed it, the party became muffled around you, as if his room was filled with water, and now the rest of the world was a garbled mess, and you were drowning.

His room was clean. You supposed Seokmin had never been the messy type - not even when infected by the influence of Vernon. He had a half-open closet, where you spotted folded clothes, and a circle rug and purple and green lava-lamp plugged in on his nightstand.

Seokmin apparently did not think it was clean enough, because he swooped down gallantly to grab a tossed sweater, smiling at you sheepishly when he held in between his fingers. You stared at him.

You felt like a kid again. Felt like just a young girl, creeping through the crack in the living room door, and looking at his silhouette, outlined by some grotesque horror movie playing on the TV. His sharp nose, when he turned to Vernon and laughed, his hair, all poofed and tousled and scruffy, and his smile.

And you’d let yourself fall into this trap, maybe to some extent you’d even wanted it. Because now he was right in front of you, and so was that damned barrier, right by your outstretched fingertips, and you could almost envision yourself climbing over it - climbing into his lap and-

“I didn’t think you’d ever come,” Seokmin said gently, a permanent, small smile frozen on his lips. You coughed, unready. “Uh, yeah, my friend- my friend thought I should try and.. You know, get myself out there.”

Seokmin studied you, bemused and fond, fiddling with the baby blue sweater in his hands. You were looking back cautiously, as if assessing a threat, but the threat was the sweetest, kindest boy in the whole wide world.

“Yeah, well,” he cleared his throat suddenly, ripping his gaze from you to fold the sweater onto his desk chair. “I’m sorry about Jeonghan, he’s.. You shouldn’t, uh..” Now neatly folded, you saw him rubbing the sweater between his fingers. “You should stay away from him.”

“Why?” you asked, and it was genuine enough that Seokmin let out a sigh.

“You’re too much of a good girl to be with him. He’s no good.”

A whimper clawed its way up your throat, bubbled from the depths of your belly, but you tamed it and settled on a light hum. You felt your underwear becoming a little sticky, and you wanted to die, because God, this was your brother’s best friend. They still facetimed every Tuesday and still played Fortnite together over Discord every Saturday.

“College going good?” Seokmin asked, retreating from the sweater to sit down on his bed. He looked up at you brightly and patted the spot next to him. It felt like another trap, where the folds in the blanket curved down under his weight, and would eventually lead you into him. You sat down hesitantly.

“It’s okay,” you breathed, folding your hands and in your lap and tensing your shoulders. Seokmin, fully relaxed and slumped, noted your posture and slid his hand over the exposed skin of your back. “Hey,” he whispered, so intimate it hurt your heart, “hey, hey, relax, Y/n. It’s just me.”

His eyes were soft and full of concern when he spoke quietly again, his voice almost a backdrop to the muffled sounds of dancing college students: “You know, Vernon was really concerned about how you would do away from home.”

“I’m not doing bad!” you said quickly, dismissing it immediately. Seokmin stared at you. “I just- this isn’t really my scene.”

His hand felt searing hot on your back, where it slid up and down, almost coaxing you further into him. He hummed. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

Then: “I’m sorry if I made you feel like you had to come. Just figured you might want that street cred of being friends with the upperclassmen.”

You snorted and, cheeks rosy as ever, started giggling, eyes still cemented to the floor. Your hair was falling gently over your face, wisps of baby hair tickling your forehead.

“It’s okay,” you sighed away the laughter, “You were just trying to get me out of my shell. I appreciate it.”

Seokmin smiled at that. His hand dropped from your back and you both stared into the expanse of his room. A small window to let in the rain, the moonlight separated by the grid, and the curtain blowing in a solemn breeze. You and Seokmin sat, both very small suddenly, like kids, on the edge of the bed and became speckled in starlight, in diamond-dust.

Then Seokmin was doing it. He was letting you be comfortable, letting you slip into a dazed joy, intoxicated from his presence. He was asking about your teachers, exams, friends, experiences, and you were both laughing together, and once again you were forgetting that Seokmin was your brother’s best friend, and he was not with you for you, but he was simply talking to you out of courtesy to your brother. He let you forget.

“You going home for the break?” he asked then, room quieted down from all the laughter. The fall break, starting tomorrow, you remembered. You’d thought about going home, but had opted to text your parents that you were staying, wanting honestly to stay in your dorm room and work on assignments and organization and just lull in bed, instead of being taken up, down and everywhere in your hometown. You shook your head.

“Really? Me neither,” he said, brows raised. “Won’t you get lonely?”

You giggled shyly. “Maybe a little.”

“We could hang out,” he breathed, and at that you tasted the boundary between you, felt it firm under your fingertips, because you couldn’t discern whether he was protecting his friend’s baby sister or if he actually liked talking to you, and your heart beat and yearned and hoped for the latter.

“Yeah, okay,” you nodded, melting when you saw his smile reach his eyes.

“Didn’t you always like, uh, Mario Kart? You always wanted to play with me and Vern,” Seokmin said, but he was looking distantly into the window. You almost wanted to cry because he remembered you, remembered things that you liked. “I got it on my Playstation, we can play tomorrow.”

“I’d like that,” you said.

Then Seokmin was loaning you his hoodie, and, bathed in his warm, tender smell, he followed you home under the moon, glaring at Jeonghan on his way out.

“Keep the hoodie,” he’d said, smiling sheepishly when you stood in front of your dorm door. “It’s cute.”

He patted your head and left, thankfully before he could see how red your face was, and how you were absolutely about to blow up from unfiltered joy. You shuffled into your dorm room and tried to soothe the basking butterflies in your stomach and your burning heart.

Was he standing right across from you on that line, waiting to cross? _____________________________

Giselle woke up just early enough to catch you switching between different button-up dresses, throwing one on, looking in the mirror, and deciding to try another. She was groggy and tired and somewhat hungover, and needed to catch a train, so she could get back home.

“What are you doing?” she cried, rubbing her eyes. You scurried back and forth trying on another dress, considering white tights, then white socks, then adjusting the tone and volume of your blush.

“I’m-” you gasped in between your hard labor, “I’m seeing a boy!”

This caught Giselle’s attention. She shot straight up in her bed and looked at you with huge eyes. “No way!”

“Yeah way!” you giggled deviously. You turned around to face her. “What do you think of this outfit?”

“You look cute!” Giselle praised, nodding to your red strawberry dress and your knee-highs. You slumped. There it was again - cute. Not hot, not pretty, but cute. That was what you were; like a child, like the kid Seokmin knew years ago, like his best friend’s baby sister. Nothing more.

“Who is this mystery guy?” Apparently Giselle was too busy rubbing sleep out of her eyes to see how her compliment had deflated you.

“It’s Seokmin. My-”

“Your brother’s best friend?!” She gasped. It was one shock after another from you that morning. “I wanna say I’m disappointed in you, but.. If you pull this off you’re way freakier than me.”

“We’re not gonna have sex!” you groaned, pouting as you hastily shoved on your shoes. “We’re gonna play Mario Kart.”

“Right, this cute guy just invited you over for Mario Kart and nothing else, I get it,” Giselle said sarcastically.

“You don’t know him,” you mumbled defensively, shoes on and now staring at yourself in the mirror once more. “Cute,” the mirror spat at you.

“All men are the same,” Giselle rolled her eyes and threw herself back on the bed. You snorted and began to walk out the door.

“Y/n, wait!”

“Hm?”

Halfway out the door, a tote bag slung over your shoulder and ready to step into the sunlight, you peered back into the room. Giselle, in her sweats and hair fussed, stumbled blindly towards the door. She reached into her pocket and produced a-

“A condom?!” you shrieked, outraged. And not just any condom: a condom in white packaging with the lettering “I ❤️ DILFS”. You truly did not understand how Giselle managed to be a caricature of herself time after time.

“You need to wear protection, he’s in a frat, right?” she shrugged. You glared at her. “I’m not bringing a condom.”

“Alright, I guess,-” Giselle pretended to think, “I guess, you’ll just have to get chlamydia.”

You stared at her for a moment, bristling. Then you snatched it out of her outstretched hand.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re a prude.”

“Goodbye, Giselle!”

The condom slipped into your tote with ease to lay snug with all your other items and then you were out the door and heading towards Seokmin’s frat house. The sun was dulled by a few clouds, but it was still shining. Leaves were turning brown and red and yellow and were falling from trees to crunch underfoot - everything was lovely.

But the expanse, in your head, was much different. In your head you were traveling the soft dunes of a desert, spotting in the brown and red and yellow horizon a cleft in the sand. When you reached it, wide and long, seemingly endless to each side of you, you were standing right in front of Seokmin’s house.

You weren’t sure how long you stood there, knuckles white where you grasped your tote, and eyes big and heart pounding. What if Giselle was right? Did you want her to be right? Would you even be able to please him if she was? Half-heartedly you tried to push away the images of Seokmin pushing into you, arms flexing on either side of your head, that spawned alongside the thought. Maybe you straddling him, his hands on your ass, his head buried in your chest, or-

“Y/N!”

You jumped, clutching your bag tight, when you snapped your head up to the voice. It was Seokmin and he was waving at you from his upstairs-window, smiling so brightly you swore the sun reflected off of his teeth.

“What are you standing there for, come inside! Door’s unlocked!” he yelled, body disappearing in the window. You stared at the window for a moment, his presence now absent, before you nodded to yourself in reassurance. You could do this, right? Just Mario Kart and small talk.

Truth was, you couldn’t do this. Not even in the slightest. You and Seokmin sat cross-legged on his bed, TV on the wall before it, drinking soda and crunching on chips. Seokmin was drenched in a green, fuzzy sweater, collarbones peeking over the rounded neck, and fingers peeking through the sleeves, where he held his controller, and God forbid, his hair was all soft and fluffy, and he was wearing fucking puppy socks.

And he was competitive, too. He was leaned forward, eyes narrowed as he sped through the course. You huffed when he blue-shelled you, and you tried to refocus.

“I thought you said you were good?” he teased, eyes leaving the screen for only a second to look at you - you, dress bunched up to your thighs and tongue peeking through your pretty, subtly red lips. A second was all that was necessary.

Suddenly, his character (baby Daisy) swerved off-course, falling into the pit below and he screeched, seemingly genuinely sad, as your character (Toadette) overtook him, the little gold badge popping up in the corner to tell you that you were number one.

“What were you saying?” you giggled cockily when you finished the last round, Seokmin unable to quite catch up to you in the last stretch. He threw himself back on the bed in defeat, groaning into his hand.

“I can’t believe I let you win,” he cried.

“Let me?” you repeated in disbelief. You scoffed and put down the controller, pretending that Seokmin lying all angelic on his bed sheets wasn’t making your stomach pinch with static. “Pretty sure that was just pure skill on my part. Don’t blame me because you’re bad at Mario Kart.”

A blow to his talents in Mario Kart was a blow to him. He snapped his head up to look at you, playfully angry. “Oh, oh wow, really? I’m bad at Mario Kart now?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, smiling cheekily at him. Seokmin studied you for a moment, before he shuffled into a sitting position. His gaze almost made you shy. Did he want to kiss you as much as you wanted to kiss him?

Seokmin shuffled closer to you and you almost stopped breathing: “Don’t I remember you being ticklish?”

You were almost so caught up in your fantasy to realize what he said. Your eyes widened in realization and you most immediately tried to twist your body away: a punishment was upon you.

“No- NO!-” You cried out but it was too late. Seokmin wrestled his body into yours, fingers dancing and prodding into your sides. Drowning in laughter, your face twisted into tortured pleasure, as you tried to bat his hands away. Your attempts were futile - each time you shuffled away, he followed right with you, fingers unrelenting as your torso twisted and turned.

"Hehehehehehe- NO, PLEASE!- hehehehehehe!”

Your knees pushed with all their might and you were almost able to drag yourself to the edge of the bed. There, you could gain distance and talk him down from beyond his desk. But Seokmin was smart. He sensed your escape plan when you squirmed away, and without much thought, he pulled his body on top of yours, weight pinning you down.

You were still giggling and squirming, when his fingers finally let up. You were both panting from the excitement, Seokmin smiling down at you adoringly. Then, both of your smiles dropped.

It was like it took a few moments to realize; he was straddling you. Hips pushed into yours, all his weight rested on your crotch - your crotch, which was now pulsating. To make matters worse, the skirt of your dress had ridden up and most of your plush thighs were now visible to him, and your chest was halfway out of your dress, and your cheeks were flushed and your hair was spread out on the sheets beneath you. Seokmin seemed unsure of where to put his hands, while you both stared at each other, breathing in the thick, heavy silence.

“I’m sorry-”

“It’s okay, I-”

“I really- I don’t know what-”

“Don’t worry-”

You were pulling down your dress again, cheeks literally flaming red and bottom lip caught between your teeth. Silence swallowed you both whole.

You wanted him back on your hips so bad. It hurt. You were aching in quick pulses, but you couldn’t even look at him. Surely, you thought, surely, he’d seen that look on your face, how your eyes clouded over with lust. Maybe he felt disgusted.

“I better-” you hiccupped, voice small, “I better go.”

Seokmin, eyes peeking at you through his lashes, feared he made you uncomfortable.

“Yeah, of course,” he mumbled.

You gathered your things and ran out of there, wetness gushing out of you. You tried to run, tried to create distance, but this time, in your mind’s eye, you ran in place, staying completely still by the cleft separating you and Seokmin. You fiddled with the edge, sand cascading into the empty, endless dark.

There was no way you could make that jump.

That night you wished Giselle was by your side. You wrote an assignment, trying to ward off the embarrassment that stormed in your brain, when you got a message, that plunged you into rock bottom:

Lee Seokmin: hey you forgot smth at my house lol

Lee Seokmin: *Image Attached*

This was it. You were going to jump off a bridge (or a cleft in a dry, sandy wasteland).

As if your life couldn’t get anymore embarrassing: it was the condom. The white condom with “I ❤️ DILFS” on it. You damned that woman for ever making you bring it. What must he have thought of you? His best friend’s little sister trying to get in his pants? Your cheeks were burning and you threw your head into your pillow and screeched. Your life was over. It had simply ended now. There was no coming back from this. You huffed and removed yourself from its plushness.

Maybe you could salvage it? Thinking on your feet, you replied:

You: OMG i’m so sorry!!!! i think that’s my roommate’s, she must’ve put it in my bag… :/

You: I’ll come pick it up ASAP :((((

You stared at your phone at the blatant. It was not a far stretch from the truth, but being caught with your hand in the cookie jar - or maybe more so the I ❤️ DILFS condom in your tote bag - it seemed like an irrationally shitty cover up.

You gnawed at your lip when the three dots popped up next to his picture, and bit it to pieces waiting for his reply. You almost jumped when your phone buzzed:

Lee Seokmin: hahahahaha

Lee Seokmin: you can come pick it up tomorrow if u want? theres no rush

You glared at the message. Laughter? Surely he hadn’t bought it. He was just trying to be nice, just trying to avoid you any embarrassment. The thought made you wanna throw up, how he felt this obligation to be nice to you when you had permanently scarred him (were you being dramatic?).

You: ok. im rlly sorry again!! i’ll pick it up tomorrow _____________________________

Tomorrow came much faster than you had hoped. No amount of tossing and turning could slow down the passage of time, and by the time you received Seokmin’s promised “I’m awake”-message, the embarrassment hadn’t faded one bit.

Every discouraged moment of getting ready was haunted by your current situation, and you stopped to cringe every five seconds, causing an honest and diligent self-hatred to bubble within you. When you knocked on Seokmin’s door, you’d honestly never felt less confident in your life.

“Y/n!” he said enthusiastically.

“Seokmin,” you said, less enthusiastic.

He smiled at you sweetly, almost as sympathetically, before stepping aside. You furrowed your brow, not really understanding why he couldn’t just hand it to you at the door, but stepping inside nonetheless. “It’s in my room,” he offered, but could he not just have brought it with him? Did he have to prolong the shame even further? You followed him to his room.

In that moment you hated Seokmin for being who he was; for being sweet, gentle, caring, and gentlemanly. You would feel less pathetic if he yelled at you, if he was genuinely disgusted and wanted nothing to do with you. But there he was all smiling and supportive, and he wasn’t touching you at all, but he still felt like pillars on your back, soothing you and holding you up.

“It was your roommate’s?” he asked absently as you traversed the halls. “Uh, yeah,” you answered sheepishly.

“I can tell,” he threw his head back to you, and there was a huge grin on his face. A little bit of hope blossomed in your chest. “Yeah, I saw her at that party, you know? I think she slept with, uh, my friend, Minghao.”

“That’ll be her,” you were smiling now too, and a huge wave of relief washed over you, as he at least let you believe that he thought it wasn’t your perversion bringing along that condom.

Finally stumbling into his room, he did indeed pick it up from his desk, handing it back to you. You looked at it in his outstretched hand and blushed sheepishly. “Thanks,” you squeaked.

Seokmin nodded in response. For a moment the two of you stood, uncertain of what to do and caught in the web of a terribly awkward silence. Seokmin’s eyes darted to the window and yours to the floor.

“Hey, uh,” he giggled a little, scratching the back of his head. “I feel really bad for losing that Mario Kart game-”

You scoffed in response, but the facade of being peeved was falling apart, as you beamed up at him.

“Maybe we could do, like, a quick rematch?”

You shrugged, trying to be nonchalant with an ever-heavy flush in your cheeks: “I don’t back away from a challenge.”

Seokmin won the rematch. This only spurred on another rematch, and suddenly there was no end to the madness. This time there was no awkwardness, no lingering silences. You were just giggling and strategizing, and throwing heat in the direction of your opponents.

That uncomfortable, clamoring feeling left you, slowly. It became easy to forget it. That feeling that he was only there with you because of Vernon, that there was always some sort of demand, a twisting hand, forcing him upon you, and that you became a sort of burden on him. That was the thing about Seokmin, though, his ability to make you feel like his best friend; his ability to make him feel like he was there for you, even when he wasn’t.

It was only after an hour and a half or so, when Seokmin paused the game.

“What the hell, Lee? I was just about to beat you!” you whined, crossing your arms. He nodded along, pushing himself off the bed. “Yes, I agree, which is why I’ve assessed that I need a refreshment.”

“Oh, you’ve assessed?”

“Yeah, I’ve assessed that I need a fresh, cooling drink in my gullet.”

You both laughed a little and slumped back, dropping the controller. Seokmin smiled at you, eyes twinkling. “You want one?”

“What are you getting?”

“A beer,” Seokmin said. Rationally, you knew you shouldn’t accept. You were bad with alcohol, and everytime you drank just a little, a little easily became a lot. That was why you took yourself by surprise when your voice left your mouth, chipper and grand: “Sure!”

One beer turned into another, and Mario Kart turned into talking on his bed, slumped into his fortress of pillows and giggling at his stories. You were a little tipsy, halfway into your second beer and your face was flushed and Seokmin was lying on his side, hand propped up under his head, as he made you laugh again.

“Your kind of partying sounds… Extreme,” you murmured, rim of the bottle pushed against your lips where your words slightly slurred. Mario Kart and alcohol had gotten you a little out of your shell, and now you and Seomin were talking like friends - as if your brother didn’t even exist. You basked in the alcoholic buzz and in this reality, this hideout, where your lovely brother didn’t exist and the faint ache in your legs at Seokmin’s godly face in the bedside lamp wasn’t so utterly misplaced.

“I think anything’s more extreme than your partying,” Seokmin mused teasingly. You huffed, putting down your beer and smoothing over your skirt. Everything was so lovely and artificially yellow and his body beside yours radiated pleasant heat. He was beautiful, you thought, looking at how the sweaters pooled on his torso and how his brown hair looked so soft and messy. You almost felt the absence of ground beneath you, when you imagined yourself at the cleft again.

“You don’t know about my kind of partying,” you joked and he chuckled softly. “You’re right, I shouldn’t make assumptions.”

You looked at him and he was suddenly serious. The smiley, gooey Seokmin was gone and his eyes, although not threatening at all, were prodding at you. Your smile fell. The alcohol at this time felt misplaced and wrong, the lightness felt wrong.

“Were you gonna, you know, go with Jeonghan at the party?” he whispered. The world was suddenly very quiet, as if it were following Seokmin’s tact. You grimaced a little. “No. No, not really.”

He studied you. You couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, opting to look at your hands in your lap. “Why not?”

A pause.

You began to pick at your own fingertips, nails digging into the cuticles. Seokmin’s eyes dragged from your face to your hands, and he scooted closer to you, only to cover your hand with his, stopping your movements immediately. Suddenly so close, his voice was whispered right in your ear, so soft and so gentle, it felt like a kiss: “Don’t do that.”

You sucked in a breath, hands ripping to your sides to lay stiff. “I’m, uh, I’m not that experienced, so I..”

Your eyes flicked up to gauge his reaction. In your worst nightmares, you imagined a laugh breaking onto his face, maybe disgust, but you felt yourself melting. He looked at you so softly, like you were the most precious, fragile thing and his hand had stilled in the air after you pushed it off, as if, like the most enchanting artwork at a museum, he fought desperately not to reach out and touch you.

It was unbearable - how still the air had become, how heavy you felt, how your chest struggled to expand. You talked again, if only to fill the air with your babbling: “I’ve not had.. I mean, I can hardly get myself off… So. I probably. Couldn’t. Get him off.”

You realized about halfway through your sentence that you should not have said that. That last half of your sentence was a breathy mess, as your voice became shaky with humiliation. His gaze, a delicate constant, was not helping either. You felt tears welling up in your eyes suddenly and maybe that was the worst part.

“You have trouble getting yourself off?” he repeated, as if to make sure. “Like masturba-”

“Yeah, that,” you squeezed your eyes shut. You couldn’t tell if you wanted him to shut up forever, so you’d never have to know his reaction, or if you wanted him to talk and be able to sense how this information changed his perception of you. His voice came, in spite of whatever you had hoped.

“I figured you were a virgin,” he mumbled, voice half muted by the palm of his hand, “but I thought you at least masturbated-”

“I do!” you defended yourself, voice much louder than his and brows furrowing and tears threatening to spill over your eyes. “I’m just- I’m not that good at it.”

“Hey,” he said softly, hand landing on your arm. You immediately shut up, lip trembling when you struggled to meet his eyes. “Relax, Y/n. It’s okay. I’m not judging you.”

You nodded half-heartedly, still incredibly uneasy.

“If you want…” Seokmin’s voice trailed off. His eyes ventured over your form briefly, licking his lips. “You know, if you want, I could teach you.”

You looked at him silently. He seemed to snap out of whatever loopy trance he had been sucked into, because he was suddenly very jittery and scrambling through the bedsheets. “Uh, I mean- you don’t- God, I’m sorry- it was only if-”

“Yes,” you said. His scrambling stilled immediately. His eyes were teacups.

“You sure?”

You nodded, not trusting your own voice.

Seokmin squeezed his eyes shut, gulping as he sat back against the bed. His legs spread apart. “Come here,” he patted his thighs.

You felt terribly sober. All that buzz and butterflies and blaze and blossom was gone and you felt like a doll, moving each limb individually, as you climbed into his lap, back to him. You were unable to think, unable to truly process what was happening, what it meant, as you felt his form engulf yours.

His hands found purchase on your hips and his breath was warm on your neck, as you felt every ridge of his abdomen on your back. His thumbs rubbed against your hip bone.

“Okay, now show me how you usually do it,” his voice was a warm hum, a twinge of nervousness laced in it. Your face was lit ablaze and you squirmed in his hold, when one hand left your hip to gently push your legs apart. You sat, all open and held against him, dress keeping you covered.

“It’s embarrassing,” you huffed, being very serious, but Seokmin smiled and nosed your hair gently.

“We can stop whenever you want, seriously, if you get uncomfortable, we stop” he reassured.

“It’s just me.”

It was. It was just Seokmin, your brothers best friend, the sweetest boy in the world, who used to have a swanky bowl cut and dorky school uniform and who was always Vernon’s most respectful friend, but he was hot and whispering into your ear and one hand was massaging the outside of your thigh.

“Should I take my dress off?” you breathed, face turned halfway back to him. His hands squeezed at you in response and you could faintly make out his tongue sliding over his lips.

“Only if you want, angel,” he whispered back, rubbing your sides tenderly. “We’re not doing anything you don’t want. Whatever makes you feel good. ‘M just here to help.”

You nodded, and although the answer was maybe made to make you keep your dress on - a reassurance that there was no need to discard it - you removed yourself from his grasp, hands coming to tug your dress off. You felt a small boost of confidence when you heard Seokmin breathe out: “Shit.”

Only in your bra and panties (terribly mismatched, your bra was black and your panties were pink), you leaned back into his hold, and you noted how Seokmin’s warm hands were much more careful now, splaying out on your bare skin.

“Are you comfortable now?” he asked quietly. You nodded. He propped his head up on your shoulder, eyes cast down your almost-nude body, chest rising and falling. Your legs were closed again, he noticed, and his veiny hand reached down to open them again. “Show me how you do it, baby, so I can help you improve.”

You gummed your lip, breathing in one last time, before your nervous fingers began dancing their way to your panties. They disappeared under the fabric for only a moment, before Seokmin spoke again.

“Sweetheart,” he tutted, hand wrapping around your wrist to stop its track. “Don’t just dive right in, you need to get yourself all hot first.”

Your brows furrowed and some of the embarrassment you felt from being this exposed and pressed into Seokmin evaporated into genuine confusion.

“What? What do you mean?” you said, somewhat outraged, and Seokmin couldn’t help the laughter blooming in his chest at that. He vibrated against your back, hands smoothing down your arm. You pouted: “Don’t laugh at me, Minnie.”

He stopped, still smiling as he nosed your temple. “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your head, that had your heart beating out of your chest. “You’re just so cute.”

Cute. You remembered your disdain for that word, but somehow, when it came from his lips, it made you beam. Everywhere he touched left behind a hot, burning ghost on your skin.

“You just have to touch your body, sweetheart,” he said sweetly. You thrashed in defiance, crying out quietly with red cheeks. Wiggling your body angrily, you felt his dick half-hard in his pants against your lower back.

“Can’t you do it?” you whined, wanting nothing more than for him to take over and make you feel good. He sucked in a harsh breath behind you, fingers wrapping around your hands to soothe you still. He seemed to debate your proposal, but eventually he kissed your shoulder and spoke: “Okay, baby, but you have to show me you understand, alright?” you nodded feverishly. “We’re trying to get you to learn.”

The whole thing had you dizzy, warm and gooey in his hands, and grounding yourself on his solid torso. You had tunnel vision, unable to focus on anything but his warm hands and sweet voice, and how fucking hard he was. You leaned your head up to look at him pleadingly. Even upside-down he was pretty. He giggled at your starstruck expression.

“Look at my hands, pretty,” he tapped your nose and you scrunched it, turning down to your own body, where he sat his hands on your waist. “You do it like this.”

His hands started dragging over your skin, creating constellations of ghosts on your skin. One dragged across your stomach and down your leg, squeezing it along the way, and the other brushed over your bra-covered chest, landing on your shoulder and collarbones. Then they moved oppositely, then diverged from their chosen paths, and you started breathing heavily. Pressure built up in your stomach and your panties, and you felt how slick started leaking out of you.

“Feel good?” Seokmin grinned against your neck, listening to the melody of your panted gasps. You nodded earnestly, moaning softly. Seokmin furrowed his brows at that noise, pressing kisses to your neck appreciatively. “Good girl. Such pretty sounds.”

Both of Seokmin’s hands dragged up to your ribs. There, they paused. “Can I touch your chest, baby?”

“Please,” you whimpered, and earned another sloppy kiss to the cheek. His hands immediately grabbed ahold of your chest, softly rubbing it over your bra.

“Does that feel good?” he whispered. You hesitated for a moment. “Um, I don’t feel much, honestly.”

You’d expect him to be a little angry or defensive, but Seokmin only hummed and nustled himself into your hair. “Good girl. Good girl, being so honest with me. So pretty.”

You whined at his praise and Seokmin smiled smugly, taking notice of how heated you got from his words.

“The- the fabric is in the way..” you whimpered meekly, and Seokmin nodded in understanding, stroking your sides soothingly.

“You want to take off your bra?” he hummed, truly as if it would not expose you to him, as if it weren’t a lewd and depraved scenario, but something as simple as the weather. You nodded, removing yourself from the harbor of his arms once more to remove it. You unclipped it and threw it God knows where, before settling back into him. Seokmin peeked over your shoulder at your now bare breasts, groaning a little and covering it up with a cough. This was about you.

Seokmin placed his hands on your tits again, massaging and rubbing the soft skin, before he brushed his thumbs over your hardened nipples.

You moaned - for the first time it was a clear moan, seething from your throat and puffing into the air. “Sound so pretty,” he muttered in your ear. “You really like that, hm?”

He pinched your nipples between his fingers, your back arching into his warm hands. Then, as soon as the pleasure had begun, it stopped, when his hands came to rest on the bed. You whined, twisting your head towards his, only to be stopped by fingers on your chin, turning you back forward. “Show me you can do it now, baby. You’re learning,” he reminded you.

“But, Minnie, I want your hands,” you whined and he tutted softly in your ear. “I know, baby, but I need to know that you’re understanding this in that pretty little head of yours. Need to know you’re focusing. Come on, show me now.”

Huffing, you placed your own hands (they somehow felt more foreign than his now) on your stomach and began to mimic his movements. You smoothed them up and down on your body, squeezing, then placed them on your chest, rubbing and pinching your nipples.

“There you go,” he praised, and his hands had traveled to your shoulders, massaging them gently. You whimpered and turned your head to him again.

“Can you teach me how to touch my…” you trailed off.

“Your pussy?” he offered, as if it was nothing, as if it wasn’t vulgar or lewd. You nodded vigorously. Feeling him gulp a little, his hands became a little unsteady as they came to hold your waist again. “Can I hear you say it? Baby?” he asked and suddenly his voice was a little shaky, a little breathless.

“Can you touch my pussy now, Minnie?” you asked, and any shame had been clouded over with lust. You’d never been this burningly bothered in your life, you needed him to touch you. He groaned, and this time he was unable to cover it up. You felt how his hard cock strained against his sweatpants, how it pressed into your back, and you wanted to touch it so bad.

“Alright, baby, want your panties off?” His sharp nose was pressed into your hair. You shook your head. “Want them on.”

He nodded. “Alright, jus’ tell me if you wanna stop, okay? I’m gonna touch you now.”

His hand slipped under the waistband of your panties, disappearing under the pink fabric. As if they were always meant to be there, his fingers slipped through your folds, coming down to circle your slit in impossibly light figurations.

“Shit,” he panted, grip on your waist suddenly bruising, as he tried to steady himself. “You’re so wet, baby, you like Seokminnie that much?”

“Yeah, I do,” you nodded blindly, your own hands coming to grip onto his thighs. His middle finger danced upwards and pressed against your clit, and you immediately squeaked and shut your legs around his hand.

“No, no, baby, don’t do that,” he frowned, hand that wasn’t buried in your pussy spreading your legs again. You felt how his legs, pressed against you, came to hook onto yours, forcing your legs apart with his own strength. He hummed in content.

His finger pressed onto your clit again, and he felt how your legs tensed, straining against his to close. Your back arched and you moaned, eyes squeezed shut. He began rubbing it, and it was so intimate, how close you were to him, how his hand navigated your sopping wet pussy, fingers just rubbing you gently, and how bare you were, his eyes training over your bouncing tits when you thrashed.

His fingers moved downwards again, gathering the wetness that was gushing out of you. Then, one long middle finger pushed into you. Canting into his hand, you moaned loudly and turned your head into his neck. Nosing the tan skin and inhaling his faint cologne, you began mindlessly kitten-licking the skin. His Adam's apple bopped under your tongue.

“You’re so tight,” he rasped, beginning to slowly push his finger in and out of you. His other hand had come to wrap around your waist in an attempt to calm the sudden bucking of your hips against his hand.

His hand moved faster, obscene, wet sounds coming from your ruined underwear, where he worked diligently into your pussy. He slipped another finger in, and you cried from the stretch. It was becoming hard to contain you, thrashing and writhing against his hold, stuck between wanting to move closer and to move away entirely. His fingers tied a knot in your stomach.

“That’s right, pretty, tell me how good Minnie’s fingers feel,” he whispered hoarsely above your ear. You could almost only whine and moan, nipping at his neck a little. “Tell me or I’ll stop,” he warned.

“Feels so good!” you whined immediately, because if he stopped now, you figured you might start crying. “Feel so, so, so good, fuck, Seokmin, I’m-”

“I know, baby, I know, but I’m teaching you, right?”

Though your mind was fuzzy, you sensed what these words meant and panicked, hand coming down to grip his wrist in an attempt to hold him in place. “Please, please, please, Seokmin, don’t stop, please, don’t stop!”

“Don’t talk back to me, sweetheart. I won’t stop, just talk to me. Tell me what you feel me doing,” pushing your head up again, Seokmin pressed his face against your cheek, so hard, you felt his humid pants against it.

Your mind was so hazy, so transfixed on the feeling in your stomach and his finger in your pussy, you could hardly respond.

“Tell me or I’ll stop, baby,” he reminded you again, and you scrambled frantically to focus.

“Nngh! You’re- pushing in and out-” your voice broke, hips stuttering against his hand, that was continuing its remorseless pace.

“Yeah, and?”

You furrowed your brows, lips trembling. “You’re- you’re curling them- A-ah!”

“That’s right. Such a good girl. So smart and clever for me,” Seokmin whispered happily, his other hand slipping down your stomach to circle your clit. Both his hands working pleasure into your pussy, you cried out loudly, head pushed back into his chest.

“Just let go, baby, I can feel you clenching on me so hard. Wan’ me to stay in your pussy forever, hm? Just let go, cum whenever you want, wanna see your pretty face so bad,” somehow Seokmin was just as intoxicated off of lust as you, despite staying, hard and untouched, in his pants. But he babbled mindless praise to you, and you came to his sweet voice whispering in your ear.

Your orgasm sent you hurdling over the edge - the edge, the one you’d been standing at hopelessly for years. You flew across it and landed on Seokmin’s territory; in his arms.

“Seokmin, a-ah!” you cried, releasing all over his fingers, coating them in your cum. Your entire body arched upwards, as you moaned into the night. Seokmin rode you through your high, pressing sweet kisses into your hair.

You fell limp against his body, worn out, when he finally retracted his fingers from your pussy. You snuggled into his sweater with a content hum.

Seokmin smiled down at you, eyes brimming with fondness, as his cum-slicked hands wrapped around your torso in a hug, holding you into him. “You did so well,” he whispered genuinely.

You looked up at him with a tired smile. “Thank you, Seokmin.”

He held himself back from saying he would do that a thousand times over, in fact, he wouldn’t mind never pulling out - he could live with only one hand. Instead, he pressed a kiss to your forehead and whispered: “Of course, darling.”

Your brows furrowed and you pulled yourself away from him a little, eyeing the tent in his pants worriedly. “Do you want me to-”

“No,” he shook his head decidedly. “No, I’ll take care of it.”

You looked at him with big, innocent eyes, that only furthered the throbbing of his cock. Partially, he wanted to give in so badly. The thought of your hand around his cock, all pouty and innocent and confused, and how heavy it would be in your small hand, had made him cum more times than he’d like to admit. But, he reminded himself, this was about you. This was a favor. “Are you sure?” you asked softly.

“Yes, baby, go to bed. I’m gonna go get you some fresh clothes.”

You snuggled into bed while Seokmin scurried away to fetch a shirt and some boxers, and when he came back you cooperated limply in taking off your panties, and putting on what he’d given you. You fell asleep in his bed, cuddling his duvet, and surrounded by his scent.

Seokmin watched you in adoration. How peaceful you looked, chest rising and falling, and a little pout on your lips.

He wandered through the house, trying simultaneously to get as far from you as possible, and also trying to decide which of his housemates he currently hated the most. He landed on Jeonghan, slipping into his empty room and settling himself on the bed.

There, he fisted his solid fucking cock and bucked into his own hand, eyes squeezed shut to remember how you looked under his hands, how you begged for him, how well you listened, what a good girl you were for him. His moans were trembling and muffled by his own hand, and when he came, he felt momentarily smug, looking at how it dripped over Jeonghan’s sheets (served him right). Then, post-nut clarity sank in, as he reentered his own room and cuddled into you on the bed.

He felt almost despicable. He felt gross and evil and perverted and lewd, not because of you, but because, as if it were his first time realizing it, he remembered that you were Vernon’s sister. He remembered that he had promised to protect you from manipulative guys and always watch over you, and help you if you needed help, and report to Vernon if you were acting weird. Yet here he was, letting you cum on his hand and groping your tits, as if he was still that teenage boy with that swanky bowl cut.

After an hour of chewing on his lips and frowning, Seokmin let your sweet perfume lull him to sleep. He dreamt of you. _____________________________

There’s a blissful instant that morning when you wake up, curled into Seokmin’s arms, head nuzzled in his chest. There’s a blissful instant when you tilt your head, staring at his sleeping face, and he’s so beautiful, features all soft and breathing rhythmically. There’s a blissful instant where you see him, and your heart weeps in your chest because he’s so gorgeous.

Then it’s gone.

A panic button is pressed in your head, and your nerve-endings, each one resting on him, begin burning. What had you done? Yesterday feels like a faraway dream, but he’s still wearing that sweater and it grounds you in the reality of what had happened.

You’re lost. What did this mean for the two of you? Was Seokmin just lusting after you? But that couldn’t be right, you thought, because he’d insisted on only helping you, refused your offers to help him, which now was making you rot in his arms with guilt. Was this genuinely an attempt to help you? To be diligently by your side at the request of your brother? But surely this had been outside of the realm of what was acceptable to help your best friend’s baby sister with? Did that mean he liked you?

Seokmin awakened from your sudden squirming, as if, with enough shaking and turning, that feelings and thoughts would just fall out of you. They didn’t, they stayed right where they were, and all you were given in return was Seokmin’s eyes fluttering open.

You watched him go through that same process; the bliss came first and then the panic. Seokmin’s eyes went from adoring to wide and grave and suddenly he was shuffling away from you on the bed, creating a cool distance between you on the landscape of his mattress. You didn’t miss the pink dusting his cheeks.

“Uh- good morning,” he mumbled, and he could only look at his hands. Your throat was unbelievably dry. “Morning.”

You’re not sure how you both managed, but you went through that morning without mentioning the previous night even once. The air was thick with tension, fleeting glances, and shaky hands, while Seokmin made you both bowls of oatmeal. You stood on the other side of the counter in his shirt and his boxers.

You ate in his bed. It was silent and heavy and each clink of spoons against the bowl-rims had you both wincing. He put on a TV-show and you sat across from one another, chewing wordlessly to some drama in the background. Your belly was pooling with tension and light cascaded onto you, revealing your pores and flaws. Were you a bad person?

Finally, finally, Seokmin put down his spoon with yet another clink, fingers catching the bridge of his nose and eyes squeezing shut. He huffed into the palm of his hand, swallowing the oatmeal hard.

“Uh-” he began and his voice cracked, “Y/n. About last night-”

But you cut him off, and he couldn’t ever, even in his wildest dreams, have imagined that these words would come out of your mouth:

“I want to return the favor.”

The words were almost spat and discarded, as if they’d been sitting on the tip of your tongue all morning with a foul taste, and you’d only now been able to rid yourself of it. Seokmin snapped his head towards you, a genuine surprise on his face, but he soon wished he hadn’t looked at all.

You were so pretty, sitting cross legged in his shirt and a blush creeping up your neck and cheeks all shiny in the morning sun. And there was this innocence to your eyes, big lashes shadowing it only a little; this earnestness that told him you really, really wanted to do this for him.

“I-” he chuckled a little, heart clenching at your sweetness, “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Well, it’s good that I’m asking you then,” you said, and though the comment was witty, when Seokmin looked at you again, he saw how careful you looked, and how unsure you were of yourself.

“Listen, N/n,” he reached out to grab your hand, and it was burning into yours, each area of adjoined skin screaming at you with reminders of last night. “You don’t have to do that. I just wanted to make you feel good, I was happy to just be of service to you-”

“But I want to make you feel good,” you pouted, almost brattily. Seokmin’s gentle expression and tone faded into something darker, as his eyes flitted down to your exposed legs and your heaving chest. He swallowed, putting away his bowl of oatmeal and collecting himself.

“Are you sure? You need to be absolutely 100% sure-”

“I’m sure, Minnie. I want to-” you broke off your own words with a squeak, face becoming bright red. You leaned in self-consciously, as if to tell him a secret: “I want to suck your dick.”

Your whispered admittance had him groaning, groaning at how sweet and innocent your voice was, how you couldn’t even say it loudly, you had to whisper the dirty word to him. He wanted you so badly, wanted to be the one to take away your innocence, to make you all dirty and beg for him, to make you thrash and whine and to teach you how to really feel good. He wanted you.

It’s like a switch had flipped, when Seokmin put his hand on the back of your head, and suddenly you were kissing again. The tension from before was replaced with something wholly different, something hot, something laced in the eye contact he gave you, before he leaned it again.

And Seokmin was kissing you with a fervor that you recognized from yourself - you both wanted to forget. Wanted to forget Vernon, who, although a great brother and friend, had become a heavy strain on your relationship with Seokmin. So you kissed him and let his tongue in your mouth when it swiped over your bottom lip, and you sucked on it, and you let him and yourself get lost in each other.

The sound of smacking lips and saliva was so lewd too, especially when Seokmin’s hand pulled you from your spot on the bed and into his lap, hands roaming your body, while you tangled into his hair. He was half-moaning into your mouth by the time he pulled away, face flushed and eyes darker and lower and lips swollen red.

“You gonna let me use that pretty mouth, baby?” he whispered against your lips, one hand palming over his cock through his boxers. You nodded, almost desperately, one hand reaching out to his in his lap. “Can I touch it?”

Seokmin smiled fondly, looking down at where your small hand was outstretched towards his cock. “Yeah, baby, go ahead.”

You were a bit clumsy at first, but soon enough you found its outline in his black boxers and you squeezed it a little. Seokmin crooked over, groaning into your shoulder. You felt him get harder and harder against your palm, a small smile at the desperate noises he was making.

Seokmin had laid his cheek on your shoulder, neck twisting to stare up at you, while you focused solely on touching him, and he hated himself for getting even harder because it was you - you, who he had wanted for so long, who he was hugged into and lying on, while you touched his warm cock.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, breathing heavily, and then smiling brightly when you became all sheepish, smiling and looking away, so that you had to pause your actions. He nosed into your neck, regaining some semblance of control over the situation, now that you weren’t touching him, and his breath was warm and humid on your skin. He pressed small kisses up to your jawline, nose flattening against you.

“So, so pretty. Fuck, imagining you with my cock in your mouth, all drooling and shit. Fuck, baby, you gonna let me fuck your mouth?” he rambled, hands finding home on your tits again. You whined and nodded, trying to pry him off of you. Immediately (forever struggling with a little concern that you might’ve changed your mind) he pulls away, looking up at you worriedly.

“Don’t- don’t touch me, I don’t wanna get.. All hot,” you whispered those words that he had said last night, biting your lip in worry. “I want to do it now.”

Seokmin melted completely, and in a complete inability to contain his adoration, brushed hair out of your face and pressed a million kisses to your cheeks and your nose. “Okay,” he said in between kisses, and you felt his smile on your skin, “okay, baby. But if it gets too much, tap my thigh three times, okay? If you need anything, if you feel uncomfortable.”

“Yes, yes,” you huffed, pushing yourself away from him and hopping onto the floor, sinking to your knees before the bed.

It felt completely unreal - to both of you. How you were suddenly on your knees and how he settled in front of you, bare, thick thighs on either side of your head. Everything was all light and all the places he’d kissed and touched had become holy and glowing on your body. He shimmed his boxers off and you gaped at the sudden exposure of his dick.

He was hard. Apparently the kissing and groping had been enough, because it slapped against his sweater, leaking silky white liquid from the tip. And he was big - you didn’t exactly have a good point of reference, but you vaguely sensed from Giselle’s words that this was quite a feat.

And actually seeing it brought a wave of uncertainty on you, not as to whether or not you wanted to do it, but how. So, you blinked up at him with a small frown, voice small when you spoke: “Seokmin.. How- how do I do it?”

Seokmin practically glowed with adoration, when he petted your head and rubbed your cheek, seemingly so comfortable despite being totally bare. “You just put your lips around it and suck, baby, it’s easy,” he said softly, then added, a little panicked: “And be mindful of your teeth.”

“But it’s so big,” you marveled, eyes trained on it, and he almost groaned at it, because you sounded so genuinely amazed, so disbelieving.

“Just put your hands around the parts you can’t reach. I’ll be gentle, baby, don’t worry,” he said. You nodded hesitantly, leaning forward towards it, but his hand in your hair suddenly clenched and pulled you back. You looked up at him and saw his eyes brimming with worry. “You do want this, right?”

“Yes, please, stop being so- so gentle with me and let me suck your dick!” You whined, fed up with being treated like glass, and tugged his hand out of your hair. Seokmin visibly relaxed at your insistence, nodding.

Finally, fingers grabbing the base of it, you wrapped your mouth around the tip. You were met immediately with the taste of his pre-cum, licking over where it leaked curiously. Seokmin’s hand found your hair again, gripping it tight to steady himself, as he groaned loudly. You slowly sank down, basking in the whimpers you ripped from his mouth.

“Fuck- you’re- you’re doing so good, baby,” he cried, face twisted in pleasure and head thrown back. You looked up at him and he was so pretty and glowing, panting into the air.

You sank down as far as you could, feeling the tip sit snug against the back of your mouth, and your hands wrapped around the base of his dick. You looked up at him, experimentally squeezing, and pursing your lips around his dick to suck it carefully.

“A-ah! Fuck!” Seokmin cried, hand that wasn’t in your hair squeezing the edge of his mattress. His thighs were flexing on either side of your head. “You’re- you’re so good at this, sweetheart. Good girl, fuck, such a pretty girl for me, letting me use you like this.”

You whined at his words, squeezing your thighs together. Seokmin’s hips bucked upwards at the vibrations, hitting the back of your throat. The sudden intrusion was unexpected and you let out a garbled moan around his cock. He panted regretfully: “S-Sorry, baby, d-didn’t mean to do that, you just feel so good. Can- can you bob your head up and down it for me?”

You did, started moving your head up and down his shaft, and breathing hard through your nose, while your hands squeezed the base of his cock. Looking up at Seokmin, you felt confidence that you were doing something right. He was in heaven, face all scrunched up and breathing as if he’d just ran a marathon.

And when he peeked his down to you, he could’ve cum immediately. Your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, head bopping with tears in your eyes from the pressure in your throat, and how curious and sparkling they were, gauging his reaction. The groan that clawed its way up from his heart, through his throat and out into his room quickly turned to a whimper.

“I’m- I’m gonna cum, sweet pea, can I-” he swallowed hard, because even the thought had him close to release. “Can I cum down your throat, pretty?”

You nodded, a little too preoccupied to answer, but Seokmin got it, and with just a couple more bobs, and the feeling of your wet tongue pressing against the underside of his cock, he spurted into your mouth in long ropes of white, whining at the top of his lungs, and pulling hair from the roots.

It was, admittedly, a little gross and sticky in your mouth, but it was also hot and you felt proud you’d made him feel good. He was panting, trying to recover, when you pulled off his dick, a satisfied smile on your face. His hand wandered to your face, caressing your cheekbone, before moving down to your puffy lips.

“Can I-” he was almost embarrassed, “Can I see baby? Can you open your mouth for me?”

A little confused, you did as told and opened your mouth, sticking out your tongue that was still covered in his sticky release.

“Fuck,” he groaned at the sight, squeezing his eyes shut and willing himself not to get hard again. “C-Can you swallow it for me, beautiful?”

Still confused, you nodded and gulped it down, trying not to look like it felt as gross as it did. If Seokmin noticed, he didn’t remark it, because he only groaned again, and pulled you by your face into a sloppy, heated kiss.

“So, so, so good for me,” he whispered, not letting you out of the kiss, even when saliva dripped down your chin. “Such a good girl, letting me use her mouth, such an obedient, good girl.”

You whined into his mouth at those words, bothered by the aching in your core that his moans and his blissed out face had caused, and now those words repeated over and over: Good girl.

He grinned into your mouth. “Yeah? You like being my good girl, right? Like doing your best for Seokminnie?”

“Yes,” you murmured breathlessly, too lost in the feeling of his mouth and his hands rubbing your waist to come up with anything better.

Seokmin pulled away with a warm smile, both hands coming up to cup your cheeks. “You did well,” was all he said, and you could genuinely cry, because that was it - you just wanted to know you did well.

“I’m gonna go clean up, okay?” he said, waiting for you to nod in response before he pushed himself off the bed, snatching a new pair of boxers from a drawer on his way out of the door.

You threw yourself on the bed, closing your eyes contentedly.

He liked you. You were sure of it now, when you thought back to how his eyes had balked at you so wonderfully, how careful and attentive he’d been. You were certain, and your heart smiled and you smiled and your hair was sprawled out on his sheets and for the first time, that desert wasteland in your head welcomed you and took you in, and you were right where you were supposed to be.

Until your phone started buzzing.

It was dancing across the sheets violently at someone's call and you peeked open one eye tiredly to pick it up. And when you did, the desert turned on you. Caught in a sandstorm, you held your phone between your fingers and felt your heart drop, lowered into the acid bath of your stomach.

It was Vernon.

Vernon, who was Seokmin’s best friend. Vernon, who was your brother. Vernon, who had always yelled at you to leave his room whenever he had Seokmin over. Vernon, who didn’t like when you talked to any guys at all, who had recruited his best friend to watch over you and take care of you. Vernon, whose best friend had just had his dick in your mouth.

You heard the shower running distantly when you clicked accept, hoping to God that you didn’t look too disheveled.

“Hi, N/n!” Vernon cheered immediately on the other end. His face popped up on your screen, a bright smile on his face. You smiled too - you missed your brother - but it was half faded, and Vernon noticed immediately.

“Hi, Vern,” you said softly. His brows furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Of course, he could read you like a book. Of course, he knew that you were distant and nervous. You sighed heavily, trying desperately to collect yourself, to remember how you usually behaved, but for some reason, that you was far gone, and you had to be splayed on his screen, like a person replaced by something peregrine.

“I’m a little stressed out,” you mumbled. “Got a lot of papers and stuff, that’s why I’m not home.”

“Come home next break, okay? We miss you and you need to get out of that place every once in a while.”

You nodded.

Vernon’s eyes narrowed suddenly, and you saw him lean closer to the screen (which would have been funny, were you not suddenly wondering if there was leftover cum on your face). “Hey, where are you right now?”

“My friend,” you said quickly - too quickly. “Her name’s Yunjin, we’re working together in chem.”

Vernon hummed, seemingly content with your answer. “Your friend has the same bed sheets as Seokmin.”

Shit, yeah, they facetimed every week, you remembered, cringing at yourself for not thinking of it earlier. You tried to play it cool, shrugging: “Weird.”

“Yeah, anyway-”

Vernon rambled on and on about something or other, but you were unable to focus, watching the door to Seokmin’s room with a worried frown.

Moreover, you felt like a whore. Realistically, you hadn’t even lost your virginity. But sleeping with your brother’s best friend suddenly felt way more real now that you were talking to said brother, now that you were lying to his face, and you felt dirty and gross and you wished you could stand before Vernon, as the same baby sister that you had been before. But you weren’t. You were disgusting.

“Vernon, I gotta go,” you cut him off, and you hadn’t heard a word. Vernon’s excited expression dropped and he furrowed his brows.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and you thanked the pixels for concealing at least a bit of the worry on his face.

“Yeah, I just- I really need to get going,” you said. “Bye, Vernon!”

“By-”

You disconnected the call and gathered your things, put your own clothes back on. Throwing Seokmin’s clothes onto his floor felt like shedding a second skin - a skin that had made you ugly and greedy and lustful. You only kept his boxers on, lumping the dress over your shoulders to drape over you in an unsightly and unorganized way.

You spared a glance at the wrapped condom on his bedside table, long lost and forgotten by now. You could leave it. You could leave it and have a reason to come back, a reason to slip across that ledge again and fall into his arms and his mouth and his warmth. You almost did. Almost left it right there, where it begged to belong. But you snatched it off the counter, ignoring the way your heart clenched when you did, and slipped it into your tote bag. And you left, jumping across the border that separated you and back into your own wasteland. And it was so cold and so empty. You were alone again.

Seokmin came out of the shower, expecting to see you cuddled up in his bed, all soft and beautiful. But you weren’t there. Seokmin understood immediately. The condom was gone and so were you, only the perfume in his sheets remained, willing him to remember. And he cried. He sobbed into his own hands, because what had he done?

You did not see each other the rest of that day. Or the next day. _____________________________

Seokmin wanted to let you disappear. He wanted you to slip away and he wanted to forget it had even happened - like a burning star dies out and leaves only a faint warmth behind, lasting years. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let you go, couldn’t bear knowing he’d never hold you in his arms again, never see you laugh again, never see you cum again. And he couldn’t bear knowing that maybe he’d read it wrong; maybe he’d made you uncomfortable, maybe you’d felt obligated.

So he texted you. For two days his texts came in sporadically and unsuccessfully. Questioning and pleading, he wanted to know it wasn’t true.

Lee Seokmin: why’d you leave?

Lee Seokmin: can we talk??

Lee Seokmin: i miss u

Lee Seokmin: i need to know i didnt hurt you

Lee Seokmin: can you please answer?

Each text came more painful than the last. Each text came more pleading. You sat alone in your room, in the dark, having only his one sided chats to light up your tear-streaked face.

Eventually they stopped coming. You thought they would. You thought, you knew, eventually he’d give up. But what hurt the most was knowing he wanted you too; knowing he liked you as much as you liked him. You’d seen it in his eyes, when his hand slipped between your legs, and you’d seen it when he came staring down at you.

But you preferred to remember Seokmin for how he was.

How he was small and young, how he had a swanky bowlcut and how he looked in his school uniform. How he and your big brother, Vernon, had bonded and watched movies together in your living room, and the countless dinners he’d stayed over for, always so respectful to your parents and you. You preferred to remember when he didn’t love you back.

The pain that had been tethered to your youth and to him, back when he was unreachable, just a figure you could marvel at, was so much duller compared to this pain, the one pulsed in your heart now: the pain of him loving you back, but still being off-limits. Something that could be, but was destined to die out. And it did, when he stopped texting you, you felt that unborn child’s soul leave your own. Alone again.

And then suddenly, you weren’t.

A stern knock on your door. You flinched at the sound, fearing the worst. You were in your bed, in your sweatpants and your sweater and that condom was on the bedside table, watching the door with you.

Another knock.

“Y/n, I know you’re in there!”

Seokmin. Of course, it was Seokmin. No one else would come for you. But it was all too painful. You feared the worst - feared that seeing him, you would collapse into him again, and that this time you wouldn’t be able to find your way back.

“Open the door, Y/n,” his voice was serious.

“Go away, Seokmin!” you yelled, voice breaking halfway.

A pause. When Seokmin spoke again, he was not angry anymore; he was vulnerable.

“Y/n. I-I know you don’t want to talk to me, but-” he paused, wincing at himself and you knew there was tears in his eyes. “But I need to know that I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

You thought that you could handle the self-blame Seokmin omitted - maybe that’s just because it was words on a screen. But hearing him crying outside your door, and how real he was when his hand knocked vigorously, it tore down each and every one of your last defenses.

“I need- I need to hear that you’re okay and that I-”

“I’m opening the door,” you interrupted him, and sure enough you padded to the door and swiftly unlocked it.

And then you were standing before one another. It was like time stopped, how the air stilled around you, and how the world quieted down. He was all crumpled paper hearts, all deflated and broken, and his hair was messy and his eyes were dark, but they sparkled again, just at the sight of you, and yours at him.

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered, breaking the enchantment cast upon you. The real world came crashing down, the people in the streets and birds in the trees and wind coursing through the leaves. The light that you’d shut out with a firm tug to the curtains was dancing on your linoleum floor. “It’s my fault. It’s- I talked to Vernon and I- I feel like shit, Seokmin. I feel like a slut.”

“You’re a virgin!” Seokmin scoffed, but it did nothing to calm you.

“It felt wrong! Because I- because you’re Vernon’s friend. Because Vernon never likes when I date guys, and because now I’ve been fooling around with his best friend,” you defended yourself, biting your lip when tears stung your eyes. Seokmin softened. “I just felt guilty. And gross.”

“You’re not gross, you’re in love,” he said softly, and your eyes locked. Everything about him was pleading - he was just short of literally falling to his knees, begging for you to hear him out. “And- and with me, of all people!”

“Seokmin-”

“And I’m in love with you too,” his voice was an urgent whisper, not daring to let you speak again, to let you try and steer him away.

“Of all people,” you mumbled, a small smile finding your lips. Seokmin smiled too.

“So.. I’m tired of hearing you talk about yourself like this. I’m tired of Vernon being the one keeping us apart. I want- I want you to know that Vernon would understand.”

You shook your head dismissively. He wouldn’t.

“I know him too! You know? Maybe better than you,” he pouted a little, and it made you laugh, and everything was becoming lighter, and for better or worse you really did want to jump into his arms again. “He shouldn’t be the thing stopping you from dating me- or- or anyone, really. But especially me.”

You giggled again, and Seokmin’s heart palpitated in his chest at that sound - and at being the source of it. Then the laughter trailed off and your smile tightened and your heart tightened: “I just don’t want to sneak around-”

“Okay! Say no more!” Seokmin interrupted, hand held out as if to calm a mighty beast. He casually pulled out his phone, tongue in his cheek, as he called your brother. Vernon.

It rang for a few seconds, put on speaker. You couldn’t help the nervousness. Couldn’t help the pinch in your nerves, building up from your stomach and into your heart. Then he answered.

“Hey, dude, what’s up?” Vernon’s voice glitched on the other end of the line, utterly oblivious (as always). Seokmin spoke, hand on his hip: “Hey, just curious, how would you feel if me and your sister started dating?”

There was a moment of silence. On Vernon’s end, you imagined it was simply puzzled, but on your end, you stood with your heart all big and floaty, like a balloon in your hand, waiting for him to say that he’d hate it, that he’d kill him, and pop your heart with a simple word to prick. That wasn’t what he said though. Vernon said:

“I mean, yeah, man, I’d prefer you over any of those other college douchebags. I at least know you’d take care of her for real, man, not like that Jeonghan guy you were going on about.”

Your heart balloon took off, and the boundary between you and Seokmin filled itself with sand. Had it been imaginary? This whole time? You couldn’t help the wheeze you left you, overwhelmed with relief and joy.

“I know, man, Jeonghan’s the worst,” Seokmin said casually, but he was grinning from ear to ear at your reaction. You’d buckled over in silent laughter, unable to contain the glee. It seemed to dramatic now

“The worst,” Vernon repeated. Then he pursed his lips and spoke again: “So you’re dating my sister?”

“Uh, you know, I think we’re making it official in a second, yeah,” Seokmin said and even Vernon could hear the smile in his voice.

“Cool, man, yeah, I kind of figured, she facetimed me with your ugly ass bed sheets in the background, and I thought, no way, a girl would buy those bed sheets.”

“Lay off my sheets, man.”

Both of the men laughed and you did too, crying laughing and covering your mouth to contain. Your chest was fluttering with butterflies and light and love.

“Hey, man, for real, if you hurt her, I know where you live, bro,” Vernon was suddenly serious.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, man,” Seokmin responded, equally as serious now. He eyed you, then spoke into the phone again: “Hey, I gotta go make sweet love to your sister.”

“Ew, dude, don’t say tha-”

And the phone was hung up and Seokmin was laughing with you, eyes crescent and smile wide and toothy, and cheeks all red and shiny, he doubled over and took your hands in his. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“Shut up, Lee,” you said, pulling him by the hand and letting him kiss you. Letting yourself kiss him. Letting yourself back into his arms, and this time Seokmin had crossed the border, and had fallen into you, and you stood there together and you were in love.

So, so in love, your lips entangled and danced together, and your hands dragged up the back of his neck and his up your waist.

And you realized, his tongue in your mouth, this was how you preferred to remember Seokmin; completely and utterly in love with you, and dancing with you in your room, and smiling into the kiss, and hands running up your body. You preferred to remember him as yours, and yourself as his.

Seokmin guided you to your bed, pulling your body into his lap. Then he pulled away, completely out of breath, and smiling at you like a twinkling star.

“Think we can finally break open that condom now?”

“Fuck yes,” you said.

And then you did.

#dk x reader #svt dk x reader #lee dokyeom x reader #lee seokmin x reader #seokmin x reader #dk smut #seokmin smut #dokyeom smut #lee seokmin smut #lee dokyeom smut #svt smut #svt x reader #seventeen smut #seventeen x reader #svt angst #seventeen angst

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ylangelegy · 22 days ago

Text

unadulterated loathing! 🪄 mingyu x reader.

madame moribble's sorcery seminar has space for only two students this semester. you're forced to make a case for yourself with the one person you despise the most: kim mingyu.

★ shiz university students!mingyu x reader. ★ smau with some fic work. word count for the fic: 2,800~ ★ genre/warnings: alternate universe: modern shiz university, inspired by wicked, academic rivals, forced proximity, use of pet names, feelings realization/denial. cussing/name-calling in the spirit of bickering. this only draws from the setting of the wicked, so the given plot (i.e. wicked witch) doesn't exist here; prior knowledge of wicked is not necessary to understand the story. title is from what is this feeling. ★ footnotes: wrote this in one deranged sitting, but this is an early christmas gift for my favorite gyuldaengie, @maplegyu! 🎁 not quite the fiyero!mingyu agenda we have, but still in the same verse. ilysb. ♡

Mingyu has spent the better half of his years in Shiz going toe to toe with you.

It's to be expected, really. The two of you are the brightest of your age, tearing through your academics with ruthless precision. He always raises his hand in class. You can recite book passages word for word.

Both of you are hard to ignore, and neither of you are about to back down.

This application for the coveted Sorcery Seminar is yet another curveball that you two must navigate. You would think that after the disastrous Life Science group work in freshman year— or the Runes incident in sophomore year— that the higher-ups would know better than to force you and Mingyu into any sort of proximity.

But Madame Morrible seems intent on getting the last laugh, and Mingyu will go down swinging, if he must.

That doesn't mean he can't have a little fun, though. He shows up at the Quad at exactly five in the afternoon, making his leisurely way towards you. Everything about him is seemingly perfect. His pressed, navy blazer. His coifed dark hair.

Even the way he carries himself— practically swaggering to where you're waiting, less-than-amused— has people making way for him.

"Why the long face?" Mingyu asks sweetly in lieu of a greeting.

Your answer is curt, bordering cold. "Nothing."

Youch. "Ice queen," Mingyu mumbles under his breath as he settles onto the bench next to you.

You shoot him a glare. He flashes you a winning smile.

This was the nature of your 'relationship', or admitted lack thereof. It was a push-and-pull of Mingyu getting on your nerves every so often, of him testing how far he can draw it out before you crack.

You had your moments, though, where you could also drive him up the metaphorical wall. Like this afternoon, for instance.

You talk over him more than once. You shoot down every single idea he proposes. And you keep shifting restlessly— prompting your knee to bump into his, your elbow to hit his ribs.

When you accidentally step on the tips of his shoes in your animated, passionate denial of his nth concept, Mingyu has had just about enough.

His hand darts out until his fingers are wrapped around your wrist. Not to bruise or control, just to draw your attention to all your exaggerated movements.

"Could you stop that?" he hisses, his eyes flashing with annoyance. "I swear to the Wizard, I'm going to come out of this meeting battered and bruised."

You coo at him in retaliation, your voice sickly sweet. "Aw, what is it? Gyu-Gyu of Gillkins can't handle a little roughhousing?"

Oh, it's like that? Mingyu lets out a derisive huff before dropping your hand. You give him the small concession of scooting a bit further down the bench, putting some much-needed distance between the two of you.

Mingyu's not about to let your little jab slide, though. "You talk big game for someone who goes running in the other direction whenever there's a spider around," he says wryly.

Your response is defensive, sending the two of you shuttling down your typical back-and-forth. "That was one time! Might I remind you that you once thought river fairies were mayflies?"

"Bringing up stuff from freshman year, huh? I vaguely recall you mixing up Bunbury and Bunnybury for years—"

"You still can't cast a half-decent Alarte Ascendare charm—"

"And your voice cracks whenever you try to hit the high note in Dear Old Shiz—"

"Okay, enough!"

Mingyu presses his lips tight in a poor attempt to hide his smirk. Your expression is positively murderous, contorted in one of sheer annoyance.

No, annoyance is too light of a word, too generous of a feeling. Your flushed face and Mingyu's jackhammer pulse are not mere products of some petty vexation, some harmless flirtation.

It's unadulterated loathing. True, deep loathing; total detestation.

You loathe Mingyu, and Mingyu loathes you.

As you pull the plug on your short-lived brainstorming session, marching off towards your dormitory with a dramatic flourish, Mingyu can't help but revel in the feeling. He feels like he just ran a damn marathon, all from spending twenty minutes of bickering with you.

Odd as it may seem, Mingyu has never felt so alive.

Even though you don't say it, Mingyu knows you think his idea is good.

He can see it in your acquiescence, in the way you let him run his mouth just a little more. He wants to preen over getting this little upper-hand, no matter how insignificant it may be. The two of you are working on something he suggested.

You can call him all the nasty names in the book, but your begrudging acceptance is like a trophy to him.

It's why he's so cheery as the two of you reconvene to flesh out the project. You're benevolent enough to let Mingyu wax poetics about cursed objects being integral to Oz's landscape, though you keep him from rambling when he tries to position himself as the more brilliant one between the two of you.

"Don't get cocky," you warn as you lay out the material you'll be working on for the day.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Mingyu shoots back, though he does give in and shut up for once. He's not about to push his luck. It's only half-time, after all, and he has a whole lot more of winning to do.

The two of you had agreed on flowers. For a moment, neither of you do anything about the assortment of blooms laid out on the desk in front of you. It takes Mingyu a beat too long to realize that you're looking up at him.

"What?" His free hand— the one not holding his practice wand— reaches up to his cheek. "Is there something on my face?"

The unamused glare you give him almost makes him chuckle.

"It was your idea," you point out. "So you start us off."

Ah. Mingyu knows you'll tear him a new one if he tells you the truth, which is that he didn't really think he'd get this far.

He was fully prepared for the two of you to disagree until the deadline, or to perhaps start groveling at Madame Morrible's feet for a new partner.

With this half-baked idea, though, the two of you are more likely to have to see this affair to completion.

"Right." Mingyu squares his shoulders, eyeing the flowers atop the table. "I suppose we could, er, start with some basic curses."

There's a Cheshire cat-like grin on your face that Mingyu doesn't like one bit. He steels himself for the blow, which inevitably lands in you saying, "You have no idea what we're supposed to do."

He scrunches up his nose in an expression of mock displeasure. "We're going to show off practical knowledge of enchantments," he rattles off. "Provide insight into the ethical implications of magical creations. Equip sorcerers with problem-solving skills necessitated by—"

You cut into Mingyu's tirade with a dismissive wave of your own wand.

"Blah, blah, blah," you drawl. "Ethics, insight, got it. But application? What about that, Kim?"

Mingyu has to bite back a curse from slipping past his lips. You're so infuriating. He wants to wipe that smug look off of your face, though he isn't exactly sure how he might go about that just yet.

"Maybe you want to contribute something," he grumbles, his lower lip jutting out in an almost-pout. "I already came up with the idea of the project, sweets."

Anyone else who might've been on the receiving end of Mingyu's pet names might have swooned. You always bristled, acting like he had uttered something vile.

Today, you remain perfectly unperturbed, content to have Mingyu squirm as you roll up the sleeves of your school blouse.

"Watch and weep," you say, your wand poised over the flowers.

There's nothing Mingyu hates more, really, than the reminder of just how good you are. The two of you were academic monsters to begin with, though you had your respective strengths and weaknesses. Mingyu excelled in theories; you dominated practice.

In some alternate universe, the two of you might have been an unstoppable duo. As it is, though, Mingyu can only hope that your fragile truce will hold long enough to secure you both that class slot.

He tries his darndest to keep his awe at bay as you mumble incantations. The curses you leave on the flowers seem to be mostly minor.

The daisy's leaves begin to flutter like propellers. The carnation starts to rapidly change colors. The rose goes through a constant process of wilting and rebirth, the dried petals pooling on the table with each cycle.

When Mingyu steals a glance at you, he notices the sweat beading your temples. Magic took a lot out of a person, and to cast three spells in a row was no joke.

"First, we should do a magical construction analysis." Your voice is a little tighter, a little more strained. Probably from the exhaustion. "And then a de-cursing process. Strategies and techniques for reversing or neutralizing the curse."

You go on to talk about how your demonstration for Madame Morrible should go— something about a live reversal or containment of a curse, and a detailed explanation of their findings— but Mingyu is only half-listening.

His eyes keep flitting to your quivering fingertips. His own hands twitch in his lap.

It's a sudden feeling. It's a new feeling.

Mingyu never thought he'd care for you, and yet here he is with his aborted attempt to reach out, to soothe, to comfort.

In between piles of schoolwork and preparations for the demonstration, Mingyu hardly has any time to notice the shifts in your relationship. You don't seem any the wiser, either, which is saying something. You tended to have a better emotional quotient than his overdramatic self, anyhow.

But there are shifts. Small changes in the day to day that are imperceptible to the less-discerning eye.

The two of you remain cutthroat in the classroom, drawing your peers' ire with your relentless rivalry. Behind closed doors, though, there's something more akin to… civility?

Mingyu wouldn't dare call it friendship. He's not that naive. He just knows there's an ounce of kindness, now. Some self-imposed restraint, some begrudging respect.

As the two of you move on to executing more complicated curses, the changing dynamic bears down in the most glaring ways.

"Enough."

The word comes out as a wheeze, but Mingyu injects it with just enough authority to have you pause. You don't look any better than he does. You're folded in half, your hands resting on your knees as you try to catch your breath.

The spell that neither of you could conjure just yet involved a hand mirror and an ancient curse. So far, all the two of you have managed is to make the mirror sing.

"Let's— take a break," Mingyu offers.

Your response is to be expected. "I don't need a break. I need to get this stupid curse right."

A muscle in Mingyu's jaw jumps. He stares down at you with a look of sheer incredulity, and you only return his glare with a defiant one of your own. Someplace else— with someone else— the electricity crackling between the two of you might have been sexual tension.

Alas, Mingyu knows it's nothing more than your shared animosity.

… Right?

He breaks the silence with a mumble of, "I need a break. Give me five minutes."

Honestly, Mingyu could keep going. He thinks he has it in him to try and cast the spell a couple more times, but he's willing to look weak if it means getting you to pause.

You don't even have a snappy retort or a smartass insult to his declaration. All you give is a jerky nod of your head before you lumber off towards the nearest chair in the otherwise-empty classroom. A peculiar expression flashes across Mingyu's face as he watches you walk, almost like every step that you take is an effort. You miss the look in favor of practically collapsing on to one of the desks.

"Wizard Almighty," Mingyu cusses lowly. He reaches your side in a couple of strides, though he pauses with his hand hovering over your shoulder.

At the last moment, he clenches his hand into a fist and draws back.

"Is this seminar class really worth dying for?" he muses, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

"I'm not— dying," you choke out. "I just need— a—"

There's an edge of exasperation in Mingyu's tone. "You need a break. It's just me. You can admit that."

Before you can shoot back, Mingyu wanders off to his backpack. He digs through it for a moment before he can procure his water bottle, which he wordlessly places onto the desk you're on.

You give a quiet sound of appreciation before uncorking the bottle and taking a long swig. The rehydration seems to invigorate you in the slightest, enough for you to straighten to your full height. Mingyu holds back on teasing you over the way you've emptied his drink.

The first words you say after you've caught your breath are "It's because it's you."

Mingyu's eyebrows knit together in confusion. He tilts his head to one side, looking every bit like the confused puppy he's often likened to. "Pardon?"

"You said— I can admit that I need a break, because it's just you." You place Mingyu's water bottle down, your hands bracing the edge of the desk as you speak. You're looking up at Mingyu, but you're not quite looking at him. It's like your gaze is fixed on something just beyond his line of sight, and it hits him that you're avoiding his gaze.

You clarify, "I didn't want to admit that I needed a break to you."

His immediate reaction is to protest. To laugh and call you stupid, to question your faulty logic. But when Mingyu's lips part, the insult at the very tip of his tongue—

He finds that his words are just out of reach.

Because, for better or for worse, he understands where you're coming from. The two of you have exploited each other's weaknesses, have poked and prodded holes into each other's defenses. Why should this be any different?

There's an inexplicable twinge in Mingyu's chest. A tangible, physical tightening, over the spot where his heart is.

He had wanted it to be different. He doesn't know why, but he thought that this might make things different.

Instead, he manages to push out a heatless, "Right. That adds up."

Neither of you say anything for a while. The five-minute break stretches into seven, then ten. Right before the fifteen-minute mark, you say, "I think we should call it a day."

Mingyu— who has spent the past quarter of an hour trying to untangle his thoughts— jumps at the suggestion.

"Definitely," he says a little too enthusiastically. "Yeah, yeah. Let's… tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow. Same time?"

"Got it."

You gather your things and begin to make your way out of the classroom. Mingyu moves a little slower, not wanting to have to prolong any conversation if the two of you were to leave together.

He thinks he'll never have an answer to the question clanging in his mind until you pause halfway out of the door.

"Kim Mingyu."

He freezes in the middle of adjusting his bag strap over his shoulder. "Hm?" he hums, trying his best to act noncommittal even though his entire posture is already defensive in nature.

The sight of it seems to amuse you, because the ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. It's not a smile that you've ever given him. He's seen it in the corner of his eye, witnessed you dole it out to underclassmen and friends. And maybe he's always been a bit envious, a bit desperate to be on the receiving end of it.

Now that he is, he feels like he just got punched in the gut.

"Thank you," you say.

Plain, simple, unadorned. No explanation. It could be grace for the water. Grace for the break. Grace for the partnership. Mingyu doesn't know, doesn't care. He'll take what you have to give.

His mind tries to conjure the perfect response, one that might have you feeling the same way that he is. No problem or you're welcome or it's just me, sunshine.

What he eventually settles on is an exhale of "Always."

He wants to kick himself for it. Who the hell says 'always' to 'thank you'? a chiding voice screams in the back of his head. What does that even mean?!

He winces outwardly. Your smile widens slightly, just enough to throw him off balance once again.

And then you're gone, your footsteps echoing down Shiz' hall, leaving Mingyu with the answer.

Mingyu loathed you in theory, but in practice? Well.

He's so caught up in trying to unpack his realization that he nearly misses the quiet ping of his phone in his pocket.

#mingyu x reader #mingyu imagines #mingyu smau #mingyu drabble #kim mingyu x reader #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #svt smau #seventeen smau #୨ৎ penned by ylangelegy #୨ৎ muse .ᐟ svt #[ me whenever i consume new media: How can i make this about me!!!!! ]#[ fiyero!mingyu when i catch you fiyero!mingyu. this will have to do for now ]

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beckyninja · 2 months ago

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At First Sight

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warnings: some suggestive content

Thought I'd try my hand at a longer, more story-based fic. You can consider this a prequel of sorts to Comfort. Guilliman meets the woman who will become his wife.

You gazed up at the towering figure before you: Roboute Guilliman, Lord of Ultramar, Lord Regent of the Imperium of Man. His armor gleamed, reflecting the light around you until he seemed to glow from within. You felt the weight of the fabled Aura. The rest of the delegation, your bodyguard and attendants, had long since fallen to their knees.

Doubts flooded your mind. Your family, so ancient and proud, was a mere spark compared to the nobility before you. Your entire homeworld was but dust in the cosmic winds. How dare you think you could treat with such a being?

No.

You knew the fate of your people rested on the success of these negotiations, even if they did not. You could not, would not, crumble.

So, you stood. Your eyes traveled up the magnificent form: breastplate, pauldrons, gorget. You had to lean your head back when they reached his face, your heart battering against your ribcage.

Could he hear it? Your research suggested he could.

Oh Light! Oh Stars and Void and all that lies between, give me strength!

Your eyes reached his face. And your mind went blank, all your carefully prepared speeches and arguments draining like blood from a severed artery.

His face seemed sculpted of the golden marble mined in the mountains of your homeworld. Every line clean and hard. The strong chin and aquiline nose spoke to his fabled resolve. The golden hair above his temples reflected light from the thousands of candles filling the massive audience chamber. He looked every inch the indomitable demi-god.

And yet…

The hollows of his cheeks and eyes gave an appearance of gauntness you hadn’t expected. The skin under those eyes was the color of a fresh bruise. You could see cracks in the marble of his face, deep lines etched across his forehead.

Your eyes met his.

You hoped your gasp wasn’t audible (a vain hope, if he could hear your heartbeat). You’d read of his eyes, how they were cerulean pools of liquid fire. How the superhuman intelligence within scalded the minds of lesser beings. Bright and calm and calculating.

The eyes you stared into reflected all of that, but very differently from the ancient records’ descriptions. What might once have been bright pools now seemed deep wells, sunken and surrounded by impenetrable shadow.

You saw the weight of worlds in those eyes. You saw weariness. You saw grimness bordering on despair. You saw loneliness.

The terror and awe that filled you mere moments before faded. Weariness and despair, your heart too had felt their frigid touch. And loneliness…

Ah, loneliness was a dear friend of yours.

Perhaps it was foolish to hope you could ever empathize with such a being. One whose burdens were infinitely greater than your own. But, as compassion welled within your soul, as the urge to comfort rose irresistible, you wanted to try.

Before you stood more than a being of awesome power. Before you stood a man.

***

Guilliman scrutinized the woman seated at his side. Try as he might, he could not discern the source of your… for once he could not find the correct word. Your strangeness, perhaps. Uniqueness. Unusual strength of will.

After all, few could stand so resolutely in his presence. Fewer still could meet and hold his gaze. And the way you’d looked at him, as if all the shields he’d spent centuries erecting around his mind and heart were nothing but sodden parchment to be brushed aside!

Who are you, truly?

A blush bloomed across your neck. He knew you felt his stare and, with concentrated effort, looked away. Mechanically, he raised a goblet of wine to his lips. It tasted of nothing.

The past day replayed like a vid in his mind. The arrival of the delegation from a previously unknown human colony on The Macragge’s Honor. The appearance of their little ambassador. Your surprising level of erudition and intelligence. The hours of negotiations. All culminating in this diplomatic dinner.

Like a magnet, he found his eyes once again drawn to you. You’d adapted to his, and his sons’, presence with astonishing speed. Now you sat, listening to a high-ranking Imperial official prattle on with a practiced smile on your face. The man’s hand reached out to brush yours.

Guilliman’s hand tightened on his goblet.

“Ambassador.” He spoke without thinking.

The official glanced his way and paled, before mumbling some excuse and turning away from you. You looked over at him, once again meeting his eyes. The blush spread from your neck down your decolletage.

For an instant, Guilliman’s eyes followed it.

An internal voice that sounded distressingly like his mother’s chided him, and he jerked his eyes back up to your face.

Throne damn it, what is wrong with me tonight?

“Excuse me, I ah,” he fumbled, “I would know more of your homeworld, my Lady.”

You began to speak once again of the resources and long-thought-lost technology your people could provide the Imperium. Your voice settled into the placid cadence of a diplomat. For some reason this irritated him to no end.

“We have already discussed this.” You flinched, and he softened his tone. “I would know more of its people, of your people. How have you managed to stay hidden all these millenia? Why come forth now?”

You paused for a moment. “We are a proud people, my Lord. The ancient records tell of our struggle to survive after contact with the Mother World, what you call Holy Terra, ceased. These stories passed into the mythology of my people: self-reliance and independence are seen as the greatest of virtues.”

He could respect that. He nodded for you to continue.

“For many millennia we built and thrived, half-believing we were the last bastion of humanity amongst the stars. When word of your Emperor’s Great Crusade finally reached us, there was excitement and relief… but also suspicion. Though some argued we should make ourselves known then, the greater majority advised caution. We would watch, and we would wait.”

***

You hesitated, remembering your Grandmother’s words before your departure.

“Since you are bound and determined to go through with this mad escapade, remember this: Reveal nothing. Admit to nothing. Lie, if you must. And, by the Light girl, remember that they are barbarians who will slit your throat at the slightest provocation.”

Now, pinned under the gaze of the Primarch, you realized the folly of such advice. You met his eyes and told the truth.

“Our archives tell of the time you call the Heresy. We watched the infant Imperium tear itself apart and congratulated ourselves on our caution. Then the isolationists amongst us rose in force and demanded the utilization of technology that would hide us from the rest of the galaxy.”

You paused again, considering your next words.

To your surprise, the Primarch snorted. “I admit, I can find little fault in their reasoning. Those were… dark days.”

Encouraged, you continued. You told of your near-complete isolation from the rest of the galaxy. Indeed, for millennia, your people had nearly forgotten there was a “rest of the galaxy”. They built, grew, bickered, and warred, all amongst themselves, secure behind their impenetrable barriers.

Only the arrival of the Tyranids caused them to lift their heads from the proverbial sand.

You leaned forward, lost in your enthusiasm. “For the first time, we must understand the existential danger humanity faces. We must rejoin our brothers and sisters as a united force in order to survive, no matter our differences! We can no longer hide and-”

You realized you were shouting. All eyes in the near vicinity turned to you. You even swore you felt the gazes of the towering superhuman soldiers standing guard. Blood rushed to your face.

“I, I apologize, my Lord. I forgot myself.”

To your utter shock, you saw Lord Guilliman smile.

“No need for apologies, my Dear.” He gave a quick glance around the room, and all eyes turned away. “I so often find myself surrounded by apathy and ignorance, your passion is refreshing.”

You blinked. For a moment, that smile had transformed the Primarch’s face, like a ray of sunlight piercing dark clouds. You felt your stomach quiver.

None of the archives had mentioned how handsome he was.

***

Days passed. Then a week. Then a month. And still negotiations continued.

Guilliman began getting odd looks from his sons, especially Sicarius. Usually such matters were settled in a matter of days. Receive the supplicants. Listen to their demands. Reject or accept. Absorb or conquer. Move on.

Throne knew he had a thousand other matters to attend to. Yet, he delayed.

Part of him enjoyed the simple logistics of it all: how to transport the resources this new world offered, which officials to put in charge, the opening of new trade routes and lines of communication, etc.

There were also more troubling problems. You had insisted your own scientists were more than capable of overseeing and installing the technology your people offered. This would not please the Mechanicum. And, while you assured him of your religious leaders willingness to synchronize their beliefs with the Imperial Cult, curbing the fanaticism of the Ecclesiarchy could prove difficult.

Throne, I have not even begun to consider how the Inquisition will react.

He groaned softly and rubbed his temples. It was late in the simulated night cycle. Still, sleep eluded him. Not so surprising, perhaps. But the reason for his insomnia most certainly was.

You.

It had begun with the simple pleasure of conversation. Once again, the speed with which you’d conquered the trans-human dread astounded him. Diplomatic formalities frayed, revealing the bright, thoughtful woman beneath, your opinions untainted by the blind fanaticism of the Imperium.

An outsider's point of view.

Then there was the way you spoke to him, without abasement or religious mania. You spoke to him as a man.

In your presence, he felt human. The feeling intoxicated him. He began to look forward to your visits and arrange them with increasing frequency.

One incident in particular stood out to him. You’d just entered his office, your smile already brightening a day filled with monotony. The serf carrying a tall stack of new parchment hadn’t seen you. Sheafs of paper filled the air as he collided with your back, sending you both to the floor.

The poor young man had been nearly catatonic with terror. You had only laughed, kneeling and helping him re-stack the papers. His stammered apologies were waved off with a smile and a self-deprecating comment.

That was the first night he lay awake, re-playing your kind words over and over again in his mind.

Far too late he realized the nature of his obsession. Desire. His imagination ran wild with thoughts of you: your smile, your laugh, the soothing rhythm of your voice.

How your skin would feel under his hands. How you’d taste if he…if he….

“Throne!” He snarled, “Enough of this!”

Sicarius snapped to attention when he burst out of his quarters. “My Lord? What-”

“Be silent and follow.”

Perhaps Chaos had sent you as a curse. Or perhaps some benevolent force in the universe had finally taken pity on him in the form of a gift. Either way, his torment ended tonight.

***

You lay in the quarters provided you, atop your bed, staring at the ceiling. Your mind whirled. In some ways, the negotiations were more successful than you’d ever dreamed. Lord Guilliman had indeed lived up to his reputation as a reasonable leader. He’d considered each of your requests, sometimes praising your insight, sometimes pointing out flaws.

In the end, he’d agreed to almost every one. Your world would be admitted into the Imperium, while still being allowed a modicum of independence. You should be ecstatic. You should be reveling in the thought that you’d succeeded when everyone back home thought you mad.

So much for the bastard granddaughter you pretended didn’t exist, Grandmother. My actions have ensured our people’s survival!

And yet.

You should be on your way home by now. The details could be worked out later. Formal diplomatic relations established. The few attendants you’d been permitted already chafed to be gone. You should feel the same.

So much about the Imperium repulsed you. From the butchered servitors, to the monomaniacal clerics, to the glares of the Ultramarines who considered your presence a source of irritation.

No, not all of the Ultramarines. You corrected yourself.

Many had been polite. Some had been downright cordial. But the ones who hadn’t….

You sighed at the thought of Commander Sicarius’s unrelenting disdain. Oh, well. Disdain you could handle. Light knew you got enough of it back home.

Your mind wandered to him.

He was the reason you lingered. The reason sleep eluded you. Like a simpering maiden you quivered in excitement at his summons. You felt more at ease in his presence than you’d ever felt amongst your own family.

You could laugh. Especially when he made one of his terrible jokes.

A smile flitted to your face at the memory of the first time he’d revealed his sense of humor. You’d been playing a game he called Regicide. Rather, you played, and he indulged you.

He’d been discussing reforms he planned to put in effect when his hand closed a little too tightly around one of the game pieces. The King’s head had gone flying across the room and smacked into the wall.

You both had stared at it for a minute before he sighed. “It seems I have taken the name of this game a bit too seriously.”

The way his eyes lit up when you giggled. The memory still warmed your heart. And made your stomach tremble. He was so damned handsome when he smiled. You couldn’t help but stare at his lips and wonder what they would feel like pressed to-

You pulled a pillow over your face and screamed. What right had you to think things like that?

Just because he smiled at you without pretense. Just because he listened when you spoke. Just because he looked at you like you had value. You’d gone and lost your head and heart to a man as far above you as the stars above the dirt.

Enough was enough. Tomorrow you’d request leave to go. It would hurt. But it was for the best.

A booming knock at your door made you jump.

***

Guilliman stood before the Ambassador’s door. He’d already shooed away the bleary-eyed attendants. Sicarius stood just behind him, emanating confusion.

The door slid open, and there you stood. A robe covered your form, your hair hung loose, and your feet remained bare. He knew you came directly from your bed, though your eyes were unclouded.

“I see sleep eludes you as well.”

“It, uh, it does, my Lord.”

“May I come in?”

You gave no response, but stepped aside to allow him passage. He felt Sicarius crowding in behind and turned to him.

“Stay here. See that we are not disturbed.”

He didn’t bother to dwell on the Commander’s stunned expression before ducking his way into your room. A few candles did little to alleviate the night-cycle gloom. But what he could see assured him his insistence on your comfort had been obeyed. Cushions and dyed fabrics covered most surfaces. Soft and bright.

Like you.

“My Lord? To what do I owe this honor?”

He forced a stiff smile. “I thought we had moved past such formalities?”

You huffed. “As you wish. Roboute Guilliman, what in the name of the Light are you doing here at this time?”

“I love it when you say my name.”

Your eyes widened and you looked about to speak, but he pushed on. “No one says my name anymore. Not my subjects, not my sons. Only you.”

“I…I…”

“This last month has been the happiest I can remember since my re-awakening. I have enjoyed, no, relished every moment of our time together. Your companionship, your kindness, your hope for the future. All these things have fulfilled a need I did not know I had.” He searched your eyes, desperate for you to understand.

“You do not know what it is like, to not be seen as a person. To be always held at arm's length, so close and yet so far from everyone around you.”

“But I do.” You whispered.

He fell silent.

Your voice grew in strength. “I know what it is to be forever on the outside. To be alone.” You gave a sad smile. “Though my loneliness stems more from unwantedness than reverence.”

Guilliman saw a chance and poured every ounce of his desire into his next words. “I want you.”

***

Your head spun. This couldn’t be happening. This demi-god of a man, this commander of millions, couldn’t be pouring his heart out in your quarters, in the middle of the night, looking like he was a moment away from falling to his knees before you. You tried to summon some sort of intelligent response.

“What?”

He moved closer, his presence overwhelming your senses. You flinched back in sheer, animal reflex and your legs bumped into something hard. With a soft cry, you collapsed on your bed.

In a movement too fast for your eyes to register, he leaned over you. His massive hands framed your head. His face lowered to yours, eyes two burning wells of blue light in the dimness.

“I want you.” His voice lowered into registers no mortal man could reach.

You trembled. A thousand perfectly reasonable objections to your situation screamed through your head. You ignored them all, reaching up to cup the face above you. His eyes closed and his head turned to press a kiss into your palm.

“Roboute….”

His lips pressed against yours. It was tentative, at first. You could feel his inexperience. Truth be told, you had little experience yourself. But you tried to make up for it with enthusiasm. Your hands roamed his body, stroking the hard muscles beneath his tunic. You grasped the cloth and tried in vain to pull him closer. A rumbling laugh sounded from deep in his chest.

He scooped you up as if you weighed no more than a scrap of parchment, holding you to him as his mouth took yours with ever growing intensity. You were lightheaded when he finally moved his lips from your face down to your neck.

“Roboute…Roboute…”

He groaned your name and pulled back for a moment. You felt the ache of new bruises upon your throat.

The intensity of his gaze stole your breath. “Your people will be given every privilege within my power. Governors of worlds will bow in your presence. My sons will guard you day and night. You will be Lady of Ultramar, Consort of the Lord Regent, the closest thing to a Queen I can make you. Anything you desire I will-”

You placed a hand over his mouth.

“Roboute,” you whispered, “ask me.”

He smiled. “Will you marry me, my love?”

Everything would change, and you had no illusions that it would be painless. But you looked into the eyes of this Primarch, this demi-god, this man who loved you, and realized you’d somehow known this would happen.

At first sight, you’d known.

“Roboute Guilliman, I will.”

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@bispecsual @lemon-russ @kit-williams @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus

@justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen

@passionofthesith

(Please comment if you'd like to be tagged in any future work.)

#warhammer 40k #roboute gulliman #roboute gulliman x reader #primarch x reader #this man is going to be HAPPY damn it!#primarch

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fanaticsnail · 4 months ago

Text

Five Days

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 5,900+

Synopsis: Temperatures flaring between a marine and their prisoner brought the two of you to this moment. In charge of the former-admiral's prison transfer, the sweltering heat propels you to do something against protocol. You give in to your temptation, and allow him to give you what he threatened he would.

Themes: Aokiji Kuzan x f!reader, gendered terms used, mdni, 18+, smut, nsfw, inappropriate use of devil fruit, inappropriate use of seastone, coercion, swearing, unprotected sex, oral sex, marine x pirate, enemies to enemies that fuck, kisses, subtle Dom!kuzan x Sub!reader, pet names used, summer temperatures, tipsy writing, temperature play, pirate!kuzan x marine!reader.

Notes: This fic is dedicated to a dear friend, @skullfacedlady who needed a reward for all her hard work in studying. I hope you enjoy your man like this, love. Come get him. This is a part of my October event, but I wanted to give Skullfacedlady a gift because I'm so proud of her.

The sweltering heat swelling the brig of the vessel stung and cracked your skin. The perspiration dripping beneath your marine hat did little to cool your face and body, especially due to the weight of your heavy uniform jacket. The remainder of the crew had made port, leaving you and another officer behind on the topdeck to keep guard of the ship in case there was an incident involving you and the detainee in their cell behind you.

As a lieutenant, prison duty was not your usual forte, yet it was your given task for the past five days. Drawing the short straw in the meeting with the other members of the crew had you seething: likely what had the temperature searing your veins with the slight simmer of rage. Standing with your back to the brig, you attempted to ignore the presence who continued to attempt to goad you into a verbal spat for the umpteenth time.

“Go on, little one,” the smooth voice calls from behind you, causing your lip to upturn in a twitched curl, “Take off your jacket. It’s hot out, and you don’t deserve to be more uncomfortable than you already are.”

Aokiji Kuzan, the admiral who served his severance to the marines in favor of joining Blackbeard’s crew, was a thorn in your bootheel the moment he stepped aboard. A fly buzzing in your ear would make for better company than the sweet-talking man in the cell. You were a marine, and he was a defector turned to piracy. These past five days, he had been pressing you with comments and flattery with a smoothness to his tone that you hadn’t experienced prior. Always balancing on the knife’s edge of being overly seductive, while a complete gentleman the next. It repulsed you, enticed you, agitated you, and aroused you. You hated it as much as you loved it, and that, in itself, drove you wild.

“The prisoner will refrain from speaking in the presence of a marine,” you offered monotonously to him in a practiced response, ignoring the trickle of sweat pasting your hair against the nape of your neck. The heat was bordering on unbearable now, the thick air stinging at your nostrils with the burn of the embers.

“Come on, honey,” he whispered softly, his tone almost harboring empathy, “It’s just you and me. I'm not gonna tell anybody, I promise-.”

“-You promise?” You cut him off, tilting your head towards him. Thankful for the shroud of your marine uniform cap, you were able to glare at him from beneath the shroud as you scorned him, “A promise from a pirate whispered through iron bars means very little to me. Especially from a deserter.”

“Ah, so that's it, then,” Kuzan nodded. His dark, tight curls now loosely framing his face with a wave-like bob to his motions. “You’re offended I renounced my orders and took to living for myself.” He chuckled, leaning back against the wooden hull of his cell with a cocky air to his tone.

Kuzan had long-since shrouded his heavy jacket, likely before the seastone shackles were placed on his wrists, halting his abilities. You were made vaguely aware of his powers, one of which was the ability to grow a prosthetic for his missing left leg from an element. He was exceptionally tall, far taller than you at full height. From his place sitting hunched against the cell wall, he could easily meet your breasts at his eye height.

Although his skin glistened with sweat from the heat, his demeanor was always cool and collected. The former admiral seemed to radiate a calm, and this agitated you to no end. The purse of his lips, the curl of that edge of his smile, the ease his eyes seemed to put you - all of those weighed heavily on you as the burning air entered your lungs and expanded your chest.

“Tell me what about it you're so offended by,” he quipped with that curious edge in his tone, “Let's put it to rest so you and I can really talk, officer.” Aokiji Kuzan took a moment to gaze at you. His eyes lazily drank you in with an almost entertained twinkle in his eye.

Turning your head back to face the wall in front of you, you took a deep breath to calm your nerves. His tone haunted you. That cool edge in the blistering heat did more damage to your already alight temper.

“I have nothing to say to you, oathbreaker,” you snarl viciously, your head upturning to add further emphasis to your attitude. “You will remember your place, and hold your tongue.” Expecting silence to be met with your order, you recoiled completely as he goaded you further.

“Why don't you come in here and hold it for me, marine.”

The way he spoke with such an air of confidence prompted you to completely meet your eyes against his. If you could strike him dead with your haki without causing a strike to your record, you would have done so in a heartbeat.

Before you had an opportunity to utter a word in rebuttal, he revealed his palms in surrender and fell his eyes to your feet in submission.

“Accept my apologies,” he uttered quickly, pausing only to take a heavy gulp of air through his lips. “It's hot, tempers flare, and I'm pissed off about the seastone. My devil fruit power would be useful right about now, and we'd both reap the benefits. Please,” he turned his eyes up, meeting them against yours with that honesty behind them that held you transfixed, “I didn't mean to offend you. I just-... I've been in here for a while, and it just seems to be getting hotter and hotter.”

You took a moment to search his eyes, your own forming an analysis regarding his demeanor. Kuzan meant every word, and you truly believed he meant no harm. In honesty, he had been a model prisoner through his entire ordeal. Well mannered, polite, and cooperative: Kuzan did not engage with any of the other guards in this manner.

In a sigh of good faith and understanding, you sigh through your nose before removing your heavy uniform jacket and cap, placing them on a mop handle reclining against the wall. Each button popped slowly, his eyes wandering over each one with interest.

“Apology accepted,” you crack a small smile, raking over your hair to remove it from your eyes and shake the sweat from it. “And it's not ‘officer’, it's ‘lieutenant’ to you. For those of us who still respect titles, you will uphold mine.”

Kuzan clicked his tongue in understanding before smiling at you. He drank you in as he would a cool glass of water, glistening with condensation from the ice melting within.

“Lieutenant,” he smirked at you, waving his hand against his forehead in a mock salute. You decided to match his energy, raising your own and uttering, “Severencer.”

Turning back around to face the wall, your jacket and hat removal now making you feel a little more at ease in the humidity in the brig. You continued staring vacantly in that silence, ignoring the pair of eyes that never leave your body for a moment.

Externally, Kuzan was doing just as you were: fighting off the heat as best as he could within the depths of the ship. But, likely unlike you, fighting off the heat of another kind.

He had never seen a woman as physically beautiful as you were before, and he is a connoisseur of women. Kuzan prides himself on loving women, appreciating them from afar, and hoping they would be as interested in him as he was in them. With you: the enemy on a vessel binding him for capture, wearing the very uniform he discarded to chase his own destiny; he was unbelievably angry.

You were so physically close, but unattainable by him. If he remained as a marine, and had you met under different circumstances, he may have had a chance of a different life with you. Kuzan calculated the statistical likelihood of having you in his arms after work, wailing for him in the thralls of ecstasy while he pleasured you, and the thought had heat pooling in his belly that rivaled the atmosphere surrounding the two of you.

Rivals bound to be enemies with one another: his end being met at the end of a rope with his legs helplessly dangling beneath him, likely a trial to hold him accountable first and made an example of. Would you be present? Would you even care? Those thoughts momentarily shrouded his mind before his eyes focussed on the curvature of your ass now more revealed without your uniform jacket.

If he was a man bound for death, he craved to have you near him, just once, in any capacity. Now he’d managed to convince you to remove one layer, how much more could he get away with before you stopped.

“Lieutenant?” he gently called to you, his voice holding an edge to it that felt like a purr, “May I trouble you for some water?”

Inhaling deeply, you clicked your neck in a rotation before turning around to face him once again. Your scowl had resettled on your face as you looked to the canister in the corner of the room.

“What’s wrong with the one over there?” you asked, curiosity momentarily piquing in your tone. His smile upturned dangerously, his full-lips goading you with the sinister smirk threatening to spill over.

“Evaporation,” he explained, gesturing to the vessel with his bound hands, “Tends to occur when it’s hot like this. Have you any to spare for a lowly defector?” Growling in response under your tone, you made to the other side of the cell and filled the jug left behind for those working security for the day.

Dunking the vessel into the barrel, you felt how physically warm the liquid was and scowled at it.

Noticing the expression on your face, Kuzan groaned below his breath. He could change it to make it cooler. He could change the entire room to make it cooler. He could think of a variety of things he could do with you to make the stay more bearable, but he held his tongue. Watching as you traveled over to his cell, he took a note of where the keys to his cuffs were on the ring you unhooked beside his cell door.

“Stay where you are, hands where I can see them at all times,” you stated in a low warning, “Make a move, and I will drink the entire container while you have no choice but to watch, you hear?”

“Yes ma’am,” he pursed his lips, revealing his palms beside his head with his knuckles scraping against the wood behind him, “I’ll be a good boy for you.”

Electing to ignore the connotations laced behind that comment, you took to the side of the cell and peered into the empty container to ensure it wasn't a trap before replenishing his supply with the fresh one from your jug. You both trailed one another with your eyes, the tension returning between you while the menial task was completed. Taking a moment to study him, you noticed how truly attractive he was. From his tall stature, to his dark curls, down his lengthy body, down to his remaining foot extended on the floor: Kuzan was incredibly handsome, and you hated how hot his gaze made you feel as it lingered on your body.

“Stop gawking at me like that,” you snarl at him, watching in the corner of your eye how high the jug raises the volume of the water. He continues to rake his eyes over your body: truly enjoying the display of flesh you’ve elected to reveal to him.

“Like what, lieutenant?” He slowly bats his eyelashes at you, tilting his head to the other side and pursing his lips innocently. Your glare hardens, your face falling stern and serious as you bore your eyes into him.

“Like I’m some meal to you.”

He chuckles at your choice of words, feasting on your body with each passing moment while shamelessly undressing you further with his eyes. Kuzan truly no longer cared whether you filled his water canister or not, opting to drink you in in lieu of water any day.

“Oh, lieutenant, you are a meal to me,” he uttered seductively in response, “And I haven't eaten this well in quite some time.”

Five days.

Five days of the heat swelling the room. Five days of being in close proximity of Aokiji Kuzan. Five days of tension between you rising. Five days of ensuring he remained alive and healthy for transport. Five days of thinking about him every night while you remained in your joined barracks with your fellow marines. Five days of being unable to release the tension pooling between your thighs to not be caught by your comrades.

Five days of tolerating his comments, his words, and the way he made you feel both validated and violated with his flirtatious comments aimed towards you.

“If I had my powers right now, I could cool you off,” he whispered huskily, his bottom jaw dropping as he gawked further, “Anything you wanted, baby. I would give you the world if you’d let me-.”

“-Stop it, prisoner,” you warned him, your temper teetering on the edge of your resolve, “Final warning.”

Chains rattling broke you from your simmering rage, his bound wrists rattling as he drew them down over his thighs. His lip curled high, both snarling and smiling at you with desire being the swelling embers behind his darkened eyes.

“Warning for what? I am offering you a reprieve from the heat,” he tilted his chin up, looking down through his eyelashes at you, “Remove my seastone, sweetness. Let me show you how good I can cool you off.”

Snapping, you discard the jug and allow it to roll to the floor, water tipping onto the wooden panels surrounding you. With all the strength you could muster, you gave in to your rage and approached him. Using your foot, you press it against his chest and shove him firmly back with your boot heel. Holding him firmly pinned against the wall behind him, you lean more pressure onto your leg and stoop lower.

Having the upper hand on a former admiral lasted for less than a heartbeat before he took his shackled wrists and nudged your foot easily away from his chest to fall beside his thigh. Given the position prior with your entire weight placed onto your foot, you fell unceremoniously onto his lap. Each leg easily took their place framing his thighs beneath yours, eyes now level.

There was no opportunity to scream, snarl, or growl a reprimand at him before his lips collided messily with your own. Groans and whimpers fell easily from his lips as he attempted to hold you flush against him with his bound hands. His kiss was lustful, passionate, and aggressive: his former cool-headedness all but fleeing him the longer his lips lingered on your flesh.

“Desserter-,” you snarl angrily into his lips, attempting to pull away from his hard kiss to no avail.

“-Kuzan,” he moaned into your mouth, tilting his chin and circling your face, “My name is Kuzan. Use it.” The short hair on his chin and upper lip grazed the skin of your face with his passionate exchange.

In lack of your better judgment, you had no choice but to whine into his lips as he ordered you. His admiralty tone still found purchase in your head and reverberated in your obedient marine soul. Temperatures finally flaring enough, you roughly grip his dark curls and yank them back. He released a gasped groan in response, his lips still attached firmly to yours as he didn’t fight the feeling of your hands laced in his hair.

“Take off my cuffs,” he barked at you, his chains rattling as he attempted to grip your thighs in heavy fistfuls, “Now.”

The way his words held your judgment in an anchor made you feel as if he was using some kind of haki to dominate you. You knew that wasn’t the case. The slick pool of arousal dampening your panties spoke in prologues to your neediness of him. Your fingers moved against their will, your mind screaming at you to think with anything other than your pussy as you drew your shaken hands to unclick his shackles: all the while his kiss pressed into your lips with vigor.

As soon as his seastone fell easily to the floor, you both pulled apart and took a moment to gauge the way the other was feeling.

You just unshackled a bound prisoner, simply because he had baited you with a few suggestive words. That suggestion led you to disobey a direct order and follow the way your emotions ran rather than to heed to your call as a marine and chastise him for poor behavior.

Kuzan knew he could run. He should use this time to escape now. Convincing a needy and repressed marine to unshackle him took a long time, but his charisma lucked out with you. He could push you aside, trap you within the cell, escape to claim his freedom with the nomadic lifestyle that came with piracy. But he couldn’t.

Not with the way your clothed pussy felt against his lap, and certainly not with the intensity the heat made the both of you feel.

That realization only met you both for the bat of a butterfly’s wing before he was on you again. Hungry lips swelling yours with the intensity of his bruising kiss, Kuzan pushed you onto your back on the warm floor. Your undershirt stuck to your skin with the sheen of sweat glistening in your skin, desire fueling your passions in the midst of the moment.

When his lips pried away from yours, kissing a hot trail down your neck, your skin began to tingle beneath his cool breath. The seastone now released from your prisoner’s wrists returned his devil fruit ability to him with full fruition. The tenth titanic captain of the Blackbeard pirates was cooling your skin beneath the intensity of his heated kisses. Each time he mouthed at a pinpoint of your body, the coolness shrouded your skin and shot relief to your soul.

“Kuzan,” you gasped his name as he mouthed at your pulse with the heavy neediness, “N-No marks, please-.”

“-I know, baby,” he whispered against you, moving down to mouth at your pale undershirt, “Nowhere visible above your uniform. I'm aware.” His possessive growl was ripped from his throat when his trail was halted by the material, “Remove this and give me something I can mark up. I want you.”

The air began to thin with his ability cooling the atmosphere around you both, but the thickness of passion between you continued to build in intensity. As you reached down and gently placed your shirt to the side, he hastily drew his hands to your belt and expertly unbuckled the fastenings with a few quick swipes. You gasped out a squeak in protest, but it was quickly stifled by his lips colliding with yours once more.

He used his body weight to stamp you to the floor as you shared breaths. As the heat of your needy exhales expelled from your lips, the cool vapors of his own replaced the ones you lost.

“Thankful we lost the cuffs?” he smiled against your lips before tearing them away and searing his eyes into your body. You curled your lip and bucked your hips up, trapping the back of his knee beneath your heel and switching positions. Pinning the prisoner beneath you, you glared down at him while circling your hands around his wrists.

“I'm regretting not chaining you down to this floor and riding your face until I'm satisfied,” you quip back at him. Left in your bra and panties, you felt his hands draw up and sneak his fingers beneath the hem and play with the flesh of your ass.

“I don't need chains for you to do that, baby,” he purred up at you darkly, “Take a seat, and I'll have you screaming for me.” He annuncified the statement by slapping your ass before molding the flesh beneath his hands.

You were unsure whether you should be offended at his words, or aroused further by them. He was your prisoner, you his guard, him an ex-marine admiral, you a lieutenant rising in the ranks. Weighing up the options, you quipped your head to the side and allowed passion to once again guide you.

Crawling up his long chest, you tugged your panties to the side and revealed your glistening pussy to him as to test how serious he was. Accepting your challenge, he gripped your thighs and immediately pressed you down onto his face and licked a fat stripe from your slit to your clit in one lengthy motion. You sucked in a silent scream when he continued to slowly and passionately collect your essence into his tongue without protest, romancing your core with each intentional glide of his skilled muscle.

“Kuzan,” you whined in a breathy gasp, causing him to chuckle up into you. His eyes never left your face as he used his hard grip on your much smaller body to rock your core against his face.

“That's it, pretty girl," he praised you, his hands disappearing beneath the material of your panties to press your body further against his lips. Muffling his words up at you, he continued, “Get off on your prisoner's face. Let me feel you.”

Given how pent up you had been watching over Kuzan for the past five days, the coil in your abdomen bound tight quickly. Stomach knit in heavy knots, your pussy fluttered against his lips and tongue and he mouthed at you. Alternating between latching onto your clit and swirling his tongue against it, before drawing his face down to fuck your needy cunt with his tongue while nosing at your clit, Kuzan’s eyes never left you.

You were gorgeous. Everything about you was gorgeous. From the curvature of your breasts, to the shape of your ass, to the partition of your lips, to the hue of your hair: he loved it all. And he hated that he did.

“More,” he growled up into you, “Give me more, lieutenant. Cum for me. Cum on my tongue.”

Focussing on your clit, he mouthed at the small bud while concentrating a small coolness onto you. The combination of the coolness of his devil fruit with the warmth of his tongue tipped you over that edge.

Dancing on the edge of ecstasy, one more rotation of his tongue around your clit and you were cumming hard on his face. Muscles of your stomach tensed and flexed as you rode through your high. His steady hands splayed on your ass cheeks as he guided you expertly through your release.

Just as you came down from your high, you were met with a crude shock to your large joy.

Ice bound your wrists and flung you to the wall behind you. Knees drawn up to your chest, black flush with the wall, he bound your body to the wood with his devil fruit. Your eyes rounded in shock, body still sensitive from riding through your bliss to process what was happening.

The prisoner bested you. He was going to escape, you were going to be punished for your insubordination, and your career was to be ruined. As he rose to his full stature, you had no choice but to watch as he dusted off his pants and produced a shard of ice to extend from his absent knee down to the floor.

You had released your prisoner, and after cumming so hard on his lips, he was going to leave you in your bra and panties against the wall for your superior to find.

Tearing your eyes away from his face and clenching them tightly shut, you felt shame wash over you like a cool bucket of water. Your body was still twitching in soft aftershocks as you heard the rustling of materials. Assuming he was donning his shirts and personal effects, you were shocked to feel his lips on your neck and bare chest flush with your own.

Your eyes reopened, quickly finding purchase on his thick curls as he hummed against your skin.

“Thought I'd leave you like this, didn't you?” he sighed against your skin, “No way, sweetness. Not when I haven't felt the way your pretty pussy wants so badly to take my cock. Nuh uh.”

“You-...?” Your breath was stolen from you as he dragged his cockhead against your sensitive entrance. His height at full stature was over nine feet tall, and the circumference of his cock was enough to have you whine as he rocked it against your panties.

“I know.” He nodded his head against your clit, “I'm big. But you can take me, can't you?” Tugging down your bra, he groaned in bliss as your breasts were freed from the shroud of the material.

The ice spread your legs, moving beneath the will of its master to hold them apart for him. He rocked his hips, against your clothes cunt, groaning as he did so. Ice cracked and swelled, dragging across your stomach and binding you to the wall. His lips traced down to your nipples: swirling, tugging, and releasing them with a taut pop.

“You want this, don't you?” Kuzan purred against your skin, “Tell me you want this. Big pirate making a little marine feel so helpless. Say it. Say ‘I want this, Kuzan’.” He drew his lips up to your neck once more, trailing a flurry of kisses towards your jaw while his ice toyed with the border of your nipples.

“Say it.”

“I want this, Kuzan.”

The words spilled from your lips before you could tell them not to. You were bewitched by him, possessed by a lust that you had never known. His smile was felt against your jaw as he drew his eyes up to meet yours. Tugging aside your panties once more, he lined up his cock with your entrance: soft beads of pearlescent precum beading in need at the slit.

“That's my girl.”

Those three words were all the warning he gave you before his lips bit and ravished yours. At the moment his rough kisses met with your lips, gasping and growling against your mouth: his cock softly rocked into your core. You whined desperately into his mouth as he pushed more of his cock inside to the ridge of his rim.

No matter how rough his kisses became, he was so careful with his cock pressing inside you. Kuzan knew how small you were in comparison to his stature, and he would never dream of injuring you in the thralls of passion. Although he was a pirate and you were a marine, he treated your body with the respect you deserved.

Five days of being close to you. Five days more for longing. Five days longer still for yearning. And five days longest for how many nights he fucked his fist to the thought of claiming you as his in the quiet of the night.

Finally passing that first ridge, your body took him like it was made for it. It was Kuzan’s turn to whimper into your neck, shuddering as he buried his face into your neck and cock into your pussy. Sinking down to half his length with little resistance, he became lost in the way your pussy sucked him in. Rocking against you, he gasped into your ear.

Eyes wide, you had never felt so full in your life. While he was your enemy, you had never felt a touch as gentle as his. He was so careful with his cock that you could take him, while he toyed with you with his devil fruit.

“Look down,” he whispered, “Look how deep you're taking me. How well you're taking a pirate's cock.” Doing as he ordered, you looked down and watched as his hips rocked in slow, languid thrusts. Cock disappearing within your cunt, you gasped out as you took him within you.

“Like being fucked by a filthy pirate?” He quipped, his cock sinking deeper, “Pretty marine getting her pussy destroyed by her prisoner. Come on, tell me you w-want m-more.”

His stutter gave out his hardened experior, his bliss truly being lost to him with each marriage of degradation and praise. He tried not to show how much he was enjoying this moment stolen with you.

As soon as he got you off once, he had no doubt he was going to flee from his cell and claim his freedom. But he was in love with the way you cried out for him. He was obsessed, consumed with longing for your release joining with his.

Sensing this dynamic shift while being bound to the wall, you decided to goad him into more.

“Does the filthy pirate want to show the marine who's boss?” you whispered against his ear, biting at the lobe and attempting to rock against him to the best of your restrained ability. “Does the filthy pirate want to fill his marine with his cum? Pathetic.”

“Pathetic?” he parrotted back, his hips snapping with more purpose, “Does this feel pathetic to you?” His pace increased, his desperation more tangible with each in-thrust.

Ice eclipsed both your nipples, only giving way when he dipped his lips down to roll your pebbled bud within his hot mouth to contradict the cold with the warmth. You mewled beneath his lips, your pussy fluttering beneath his harsh momentum.

Coil building further in your abdomen, you felt another orgasm approach you with a low build. Kuzan was nearing his peak, his cock already beginning to expel sticky waves of precum within your stomach. Kuzan was becoming sloppy with his movements, his balls sucking up into his stomach the closer he became to his release.

“Gonna cum, Kuzan?” Your question fled from your lips like a needy whine informing him you were reaching your end, “Gonna fill me up with your cum? Go on, pirate. Tarnish me. Ruin me.”

“Nnnnghh- fuck,” Kuzan growled into your neck, biting just below to collar to anchor himself to you, “Gonna cum. Gonna- fuck, I'm cumming. Ah-, shit.”

Ropes of viscous cum met with your cervix with his verbal confession, his hips rutting against your core and giving in to the feeling of your cunt fluttering around his shaft. As he met his peak, you met yours. Walls contracting around his shaft, you cried out for him while he filled you.

“Hhah- cumming,” you warned him, your pussy sucking him in with every wave of your secondary ecstasy. Milking him of his cum, your cunt squeezed his thick cock as you both met the waves of your highs in the arms of one another.

The dancing lights split your vision white, just as it did his own. You had never felt the way you did in the arms of this former admiral, nor did he buried deep within the pussy of a marine lieutenant. As you both finished, he slunk his head forward and collected you into his arms. Ice cracked like glass, the shards dropping to the ground and simmering like embers against the floorboards.

He ushered you onto the ground, sitting back on his calves and holding his cock deep within your pussy. Both panting and catching your breath, you sat within the shared breath with the man who ushered you into twin highs in close succession. Dwelling in the silence, your hearts beat as one as the heat dampened down between you both.

“You have a fifteen minute head start, former admiral,” you sighed, stroking his cheek with your palm. He blinked slowly at you, taking in your words while coming down from his high.

“What do you mean-?” He began, halting beneath your interruption.

“-It takes the average marine seven minutes to shake off haki,” you nodded, pressing your forehead against his and brushing your noses together, “You conquered me. I was helpless. Do you understand, pirate?”

Kuzan was taken aback, shaking his head and searching your eyes. You nodded against him, your smile slowly splitting up your cheeks.

“I conquered you?” he asked softly.

“Knocked me out completely,” you laughed in response. Gently pressing your lips to his forehead, you unsheathed his cock from your pussy and began to collect your things. “You have fifteen minutes to redress. Get to it before I catch you.”

“Catch me?”

You smiled as you gathered your uniform into your arms. Kuzan, the former admiral he was, was truly clueless when he was spent of his release. Balls and head both empty, he reached for you in craving of your touch.

“Kuzan,” you warned him, “You escaped your shackles after you found the strength to conquer me. You collected the keys, unbound yourself, and fled. You left me alive as witness to your escape.” Kuzan understood, nodding along as he came to terms with what you were expressing to him.

You were enemies. An ex-marine turned to piracy, and a marine in charge of his capture. Both of you knew how wrong this was, but your bodies couldn't help but to sing how right it could be. He could never give up his freedom for you, and you would never turn to piracy for him. No matter how your bodies felt together, and how easy the intimacy came to you both: you could never be together like this.

“Fifteen minutes?” He asked you, halting to cup your ass in his firm hands, “Is that all I'm worth to you?”

Rolling your eyes in response, you playfully slapped his arm while you scampered to find your uniform.

“You're lucky I gave you more than nine, pirate,” you snarl at him, “I gave you that extra six for making me cum twice.” Kuzan laughed, finding his effects and beginning to don them while you fixed your uniform up.

“I will see you again, lieutenant,” Kuzan whispered while fixing his belt at the waist, “And when I do, I am going to make you cum so hard you'll renounce your vows and join me in piracy.”

“And when I find you again,” you warn in return, “You're going to cry for me while I show you that quips and taunts are not all I can do with my tongue.”

Kuzan gulped, truly wanting to experience that thought while he shrugged on his heavy overcoat. You began affixing your coat once more to your persons, making sure each button was marine-issue ready. He watched on with a shudder to his jaw and a feral urgency in his eye that craved that meeting between now and then to become smaller.

“Until the next time, then,” Kuzan offered with an extended hand. Placing your hand within, he drew your knuckles up to his lips and pressed a soft kiss against it.

“Until I see you again,” you responded in kind, nodding to him as he released your hands with his kiss. The temperature began to fluctuate between you. The weather mixing with Kuzan’s abilities made for a more pleasant atmosphere between you currently, but the heat between you would continue to grow with every passing moment.

Both of you couldn't wait until the next time you saw one another again: both hoping you could truly best the other.

Only time would tell.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory

#one piece #x reader #October event 2024 #aokiji x reader #aokiji kuzan #kuzan x reader #one piece x reader #x f!reader #aokiji kuzan x reader #one piece fanfiction #skullfaced snail #love you honey

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themeraldee · 3 months ago

Note

So the gif set of Homelander trying to surprise Stormfront got me thinking: in the same vein, what if you & Homie were in a secret relationship and while working at the tower he finds you and tells you he has a surprise for you…but unlike SF you get all giddy and go along with him, excited and touched that he wanted to surprise you with something sweet. Imagine his dumb little happy face when he sees how happy he made you. The sweet moment between you would then turn into something spicy as you thanked him for being romantic 🥵😈 that is all 😁

I love this!! you know even if she did come with him at first Stormfront would totally not appreciate the gesture as much as all of us would... just saying. But I love how much of a sap he is!!!! If he found someone who would genuinely love him and someone he would respect he'd be such a giddy, romantic cutie.

I totally wanted to write this because I need to see his gestures appreciated!!! However it turned out a little stiff - hopefully you still enjoy my humble attempt at recreating this beautiful image you painted!! (Also I focused on the romance of it so much the smut suddenly felt out of nowhere so have a smut-free fic from me for once, something I didn't think I was capable of 😂)

[Masterlist]

| 1.4k | Homelander x female!Reader | Established Relationship. Fluff.

This meeting couldn’t get any longer. You spend the entire hour taking notes, actually paying attention to what the Marketing team presents so you can implement any changes they request. That part is easy.

What’s not easy is the way you can constantly feel Homelander’s gaze on you, as if he’s undressing you with his eyes. And knowing him, that’s exactly what he’s been doing the entire meeting. Suddenly you’re glad for the matching set you chose to wear under your professional get-up.

Each day that you keep your relationship a secret he pushes the boundary, seeing how much you can take until you crack and just go public with him. Though it’s not as if he’s not been thoroughly enjoying this little secret affair you two have going on.

Normally it’s a graze of his gloved hand down your side, or he places it on your lower back as he moves past you. Plus he always gives your waist a squeeze anytime he ‘innocently’ manages to get his hands on you. He’s waiting for someone to notice. Not that anyone would dare call him out on anything. So instead he keeps on toeing the line of what’s appropriate for coworkers to see and what would border on sexual harassment, with them not knowing your relationship history.

You throw him back a few glances as if to say cut it out, but he just sends you a sly smirk. God, he’s insufferable. Strangely, a quality of his you vehemently love.

The meeting finally concludes and the rest of the attendees slip out of the room. Now that you two are the last ones in he stands behind you, hands gliding up and down your sides.

“Stop, you’re untucking my blouse.” It’s a weak complaint, your tone coloured with glee at just having his hands on you.

He leans his head forward nuzzling into the juncture of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. Tailored perfectly to his senses as it’s the same perfume he’s gifted you two weeks ago.

“Come with me, I’ve got a surprise for you.” He murmurs into your skin, the heat of his breath and the subtle vibration of his words makes your stomach flip. A surprise?

“Really? I love surprises!” You can’t stop the wide smile that spreads across your lips, pure delight filling you at the thought of him going out of his way to prepare a surprise for you.

“Good. You’re gonna love this one. Come.” He pulls away, instead wrapping his hand around your wrist so he can tug you behind him. As if you wouldn’t follow him anyway. Again, it’s just another one of his little ways to show everyone else a hint of his true claim on you.

Your office is on the same floor as the meeting room so your journey there is quick. He gently urges you in while having you face him and with a click he locks the door behind you both.

Before you even get a chance to say anything he pulls you in for a kiss. Both of his hands on your jaw, cradling you as close as he can. He kisses you like he’s been starving for it. With the way he whimpers into the kiss the one hour may as well have been a year. You’re no less enthusiastic but it always makes your knees weak at how eager he is to kiss you.

Just as you’re pulling away with a giggle, he captures your lips with a few more kisses, peppering them all over.

“You’re crazy.”

“Mhm, crazy in love maybe.” Unable to resist the redness he kissed into your lips he leans in again. This kiss is less hungry, more focused on showcasing his love for you with a tender touch.

“If this is the surprise, I am definitely not complaining.”

“Charming. But not quite.” He gives your body a little spin, facing you towards the desk in your office.

You gasp at the sight of a bursting bouquet of rich red roses already propped up and arranged in a vase. “Oh my god!” Comes out of you in surprise and with a few steps you’re right in front of them eagerly inhaling the fresh scent. Your eyes immediately flicker back up to him. “Thank you, these are so gorgeous!” You’re so excited and overtaken by the sight of the gorgeous blooms you totally miss the little card embedded towards the back of the bouquet.

You pluck it out. Your finger smooths over the nice feel of the paper as you read the note.

The pre-printed text says With Love. But right underneath there’s an added note in a very recognizable handwriting.

Happy one month anniversary.

Homelander, xo

If you told anyone how much of a romantic sap Homelander could be, you’re sure they wouldn’t believe you. Yet nothing fills your heart with more fondness than the ways he shows his love for you. Your eyes turn a little glassy as you softly touch where he wrote his name.

Looking up at him you notice just how unlike himself he’s turned. He’s all boyish and bashful while you take in his gift. Clearly pleased it’s having such an effect on you.

You all but run back to him throwing your arms around his neck. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

“Anything for my girl.” He’s smiling just as brightly as you did before, preening at how good of a job he’s done at making you happy.

“However, that’s not all.” He says with a mischievous raise of his eyebrows as he steps closer to your desk, retrieving a long sleek box from the first drawer. Clearly planted there by him for this exact moment.

“What? Oh no, you shouldn’t have!” You coo at the sweet gesture. He’s every bit the perfect Valentine’s ad and you’re eating it right up. You don’t care for the opulence he brings into your life, albeit it’s a very nice benefit, but you understand it’s the one way he knows how to show his love. So instead of protesting the costs you let him shower you in extravagant gifts. You’re sure at this point that the monetary value of said gifts easily exceeds your life savings.

He passes you the luxurious box for you to open up and in the meanwhile already he’s pinching the fingertips of his gloves, pulling them off.

You crack the box open, your jaw dropping at the reveal of the bracelet he got for you. It’s not just ridiculously expensive, it’s also personalized. In a cursive font, the back of the gold plate is engraved. With love, Homelander. Just like the card. Part of you wonders which one came first.

Your jaw is still dropped as you sputter in surprise and awe, eyes flickering in between the gift and him. “I have no words. Wow. I mean—for one it’s beautiful!” You’re mesmerized by how the embedded diamonds on the front of the bracelet reflect the artificial light of your office.

“I’m glad you like it. May I?” He asks but without waiting for an answer he plucks the bracelet from its cushion, discarding the box on your desk.

Nodding you put your arm out, pulling a little at your sleeve to expose your wrist better. With his bare hands he puts the two ends of the bracelet around your wrist. Clasping the dainty chain that holds the slim engraved plate together.

You stare at it in reverence but it’s not the glittering diamonds that have your attention. No. It’s the cold metal pressing against your wrist. His engraved name sits against your skin like a brand. Now you can carry him with you wherever you want. A physical reminder that you’re his. Right against your wrist. You don’t even realize what face you’re pulling. But from the way he’s looking back at you it’s gotta be a good one. The look on his face just tells you that he’d buy the entire store if it meant you’d crack a smile half as bright as the one you’re gracing him with now.

You let out a stuttered little breath. “I love it. I love you.” You say with such honesty and rawness it catches him off guard. You’re the first person who’s ever been so genuine with their feelings towards him. There’s never been any hidden agenda. You’re not trying to butter him up just to get a favor out of him. You’re as genuine as it gets. A quality of yours he finds invaluable.

He brings your hand to his lips, pressing them against your soft skin. He places a second kiss right next to where the bracelet sits.

No matter what he knows that for him you wear your heart on your sleeve and now his name on your wrist.

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged anytime I publish a new Homelander fic): @infinetlyforgotten @rafecamsgirlll @nervoussystemss @hom3landr @mrsdesade @nommingonfood

#been struggling to get into the writing mindset recently so this ain't great but I'm trying to get those writing muscles working again!!!#so this was good practice #I need to write more fluff #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander #homelander fanfiction #my writing #the boys fanfiction #asks!#fic request

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ohnococo · 9 months ago

Text

How To Fight | MMA Fighter!Toji x Physical Therapist!Reader

You love your job as a Physical Therapist, and would rather avoid any complications. Unfortunately MMA Fighter Toji Fushiguro has taken a liking to you. Despite your better judgement, you've taken a liking to him too.

✧ wc: 6.3k

✧ notes: A song fic taking place in the MMA AU. The song lyrics referenced are from How To Fight by Eartheater

✧ warnings: eventual angst, mma!au, no curse au, widowed Toji, divorced Toji, single dad Toji, fem bodied reader, pronouns used (she/her), pet names (sweetheart), flirting, unwanted advances, pussy referred to as 'she', physical therapist reader, recurring injury, injury recovery, vaginal sex, cumshot

i've tasted metals of my own blood, and learned to like it

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

It was against everything you stood for to be happy to see a client again, given your line of work, but Toji was different. Against your better judgement, he had somehow managed to work his way into your mind, burrowing past that steely wall of professionalism you kept up at all times with those in your care. You were determined to never let him know that, though.

“Well, Toji, I would prefer it if you didn’t keep getting yourself injured.”

He breezes right past that. “Just let me take you out, it’ll be a lot nicer than pushing me around and cracking my joints.”

It was a simplification bordering on misunderstanding your work, as if you were some chiropractor, but you know he’s only saying it to get you shoving him around with that tinge of annoyance he feeds right into your veins. You try not to give in, because you’re always trying not to give in to Toji, really. Then he’s resisting, just enough to make you really have to work to guide him in the stretch you want him to do, and he’s managed to get you right where he wants you yet again. You tug at his hips, guiding him into movements he should be familiar with by now.

“Just let me do my job.”

You had no intention of accepting his advances, whether they were in the form of invitations to dinner, sparkling bedroom eyes, or flirtatious comments that would have had you kicking anyone else right out of your office. Not Toji, though. With him, you just find yourself slowly allowing him to speak to you more and more familiarly.

The corner of his mouth lifts smugly just as he’s turning away, taking his gaze off of you directly to watch you in the mirror along the wall next to the mat you were standing on. He allows you to move him for a moment, only offering light resistance now, as if you could truly make him do anything he didn’t want to, then continues the twisting motion on his own. You watch his body carefully, avoiding eye contact because you already know those green eyes are fixed on your face, trying to coax you into giving him the smallest inch to turn into a mile.

“If you want your hands on me you don’t gotta use your job as an excuse.”

You ignore him outright, drowning out any potentially untoward thoughts with a strengthened focus on your work. As always, it works, and you note on your assessment forms that his hip mobility was normal. You knew it would be, that Toji knew how to throw his punches properly, but you’re always thorough with your checklist whether it was for the reasons Toji accused you of or not.

“Stand against the wall.”

He lets out a whistle, hands up as he does, “Gonna frisk me?”

“I’m gonna refer you to Yaga so you can get wrung out like a wet rag if you don’t do what I tell you.”

“Ooh, that doesn’t sound too bad, actually.”

“Toji.”

He chuckles as he settles into the position he already knows you want him in, doing lunges with the wall as a marker for how deep to press forward as you watch his ankle and knee movements.

“All good there.” You tap his back, nodding as you make your notes while he stands in wait.

“Okay, upper body.”

You know this is where he’ll need the work, as usual, and you’re quick to go through your checks with the right shoulder, moving onto his problem area. You already knew from his post-fight medical, but are happy to find, as you watch his movements as he lifts and rotates his arm, that it’s no more serious than the last time.

“Left shoulder…” you say aloud as you note it.

He looks annoyed, at himself rather than at you, “Always is.”

It makes you feel bad for him, in a way. He wasn’t really reckless in the ring. He knew his body too well and was too calculated with how he approached his fights. Unfortunately, it was simply a recurring injury, as shoulder issues often were. Something that was always going to pop back up sooner or later, but with the way Toji took so many fights even as he neared his forties it seemed to be “sooner” more and more often.

As you rotate his arm, feeling where he tenses and softening your movements, you share a little of your optimism with him - couched in realism, of course.

“Don’t look so sad. It’s similar to the last one, so it shouldn’t be too long before we have you out there in the ring living your best life.”

He laughs at that, sounding a little dryer than his usual flirty chuckle, “I’m not living my best life in there.”

You glance up at him while you continue your assessment, brows raising in muted interest before he continues.

“Put it this way, I like it because I like the money. I don’t love fighting.” He thinks on it a little more before adding, “I do love finishing fights, though.”

To you, there was little difference between those two things, but then you weren’t the one doing the fighting so you accept his feelings on the matter. “That’s fair. I think it’s kind of rare to really love your job.”

As you firmly grasp his bicep, lifting his arm outwards, he flexes for just a moment, grin returning to its usual wolfish state, “Bet you love your job though. Groping men all day.”

You release his arm, letting it fall for only a moment, but catching it as soon as he winces, “I’d love it a lot more if you let me do it without those kinds of comments.”

“Ehh,” he tilts his head, brows raising in disbelief at your continued assertions that you didn’t get any sort of satisfaction out of this (and you didn’t… until him). “I think you get something out of them.”

You ignore him again, returning to your desk to note your recommendations. “Four to six weeks of sessions, as usual.” You look up at him then, indirectly threatening him to behave, “Four will probably do though.”

It shouldn’t have been a threat, getting him back up to snuff as efficiently as possible, but it had become one by now with Toji. It was a joke, of course. Toji would feign being hurt by the thought of it, but was always happy to be able to accept his next fight as soon as possible.

But sometimes it didn’t feel like a joke. Sometimes you did want a little more time basking in his flirtations. Toji Fushiguro had unfortunately grown on you and it often left you feeling ashamed. His reputation precedes him. He’d even been married when he first came into your office, and here you were worrying about missing those butterflies in your stomach at his little reminders that he is completely fixated on you.

When you find yourself smiling a little too widely at him, or even thinking about him outside of your sessions, you have to remind yourself that there was nothing actually there. It was just what he was like with anyone that caught his eye, even if it was only ever you he was assigned to once you’d started working there.

The why of it all wasn’t a mystery in the beginning. He was a relentless flirt that, based on how cagey some of your coworkers were about hearing he would be in your care, had apparently enjoyed his time with many of them before you. You didn’t mess around about your job, though. You loved your work, and you loved the convenience of this position, so you’d decided that you absolutely would not be added to his list of conquests.

At first keeping that professional level of disinterest was easy. It had seemed so obvious that he’d move on and request another PT work with him after the first of his recurring injuries led to several sessions worth of you rejecting his advances. That wasn’t the case, though. Maybe that was exactly why he kept coming to you and only you. The challenge.

And it was a challenge, for the both of you. You were intent on giving him nothing, and he was intent at making that as hard as possible for you without even really trying. By the third time he’s booked in for several sessions with you for post-fight recovery, you find yourself actually letting your guard down around him, if only a little. You might have even missed him.

i've gone under the knife of love, dissected every vein and vessel

Another week, another therapy session, another attempt to keep your composure, even with how relentless Toji is.

“How long are you gonna keep making me ask before you let me take you to dinner?”

You shoot him a look. The answer should be never, followed by asserting quite bluntly that you don’t sleep with clients, since he wasn’t exactly being subtle. That’s what the answer used to be, at least. It’s not quite that direct now, though. “How long are you going to keep getting yourself injured and winding up here?”

He puts his hand to his heart, feigning pain, “Listen, if I didn’t have a bum shoulder I wouldn’t get to come and be your favourite client.”

“I wouldn’t say favourite.”

He lifts his head from your massage table, flashing you a winning smile and the closest to puppy dog eyes a man like Toji could muster. “Cutest?”

“I wouldn’t say that either.”

He closes his eyes, relaxing onto your table as you move and massage his shoulder firmly, “Whatever you say, sweetheart…”

Toji really did enjoy testing you. Especially with his favourite little pet name for you. Sweetheart. ’Even though you’re not too sweet to me’ he’d said with a little pout, entirely undercut by his hungry eyes. You used to shoot him looks that could have killed a man on the spot in some other universe. Now you don’t look at him at all when he says it, it feels too risky. It feels like something in your eyes will give you away.

You throw out another of the many threats Toji knows are baseless by now, said as many times and with as little conviction as most of your defences against him. “You’re lucky I don’t kick you out.”

He peeks at you through barely opened eyes, as you stretch his arm outward, “That's what I’m saying, you’ve got a soft spot for me.”

That’s your final signal to put your proverbial work hat on a little more snugly as you push down, and he taps his fingers against you, indicating his limit for this particular stretch. He understands you’re truly done with the conversation as you pat his side and step back.

“Alright, time for strengthening exercises.”

This was the part he always got bored with. You weren’t touching him now, not after the first time to demonstrate what you wanted from him. You weren’t naive enough to believe him when he kept feigning a need for more hands-on guidance as he goes through the recommended motions. A man doesn’t get to the point of looking like Toji without knowing how to lift weights - especially not the small ones you had him on just to slowly get his strength back in his shoulder.

Even then, lying on the floor, raising a little 5 pound weight with his healing arm while you stand above him watching closely, he’s still ready to run his mouth.

“I like this.”

“It feels alright?”

“The weight is fine, but I like having you standing over me like that.”

You give him nothing, pursing your lips as you put the tip of your shoes between his arm and the ground, “Keep your arm up, don’t bring it down too far.”

Ignoring his comments is the best you can do sometimes. Even if it gets harder with every session as you start to actually look forward to it deep down. Even if it becomes your only defence until you’re spending a good chunk of these sessions in a near haze, trying to force as much emotional distance as possible once his flirting starts up.

His comments were uncalled for, and so was the way it made you feel. You were far from the type to be desperate for the attention of a man like him, and the way your body responded to him only pissed you off the more it excited you. All you can do, or all you’re willing to do, is shut it down, and remember that you have a job to do.

—

After three more sessions of this you’ve convinced yourself that you’re more than ready to discharge him and hopefully enjoy a peaceful several months without the risk of seeing his face again. The fact that it never used to take convincing to enjoy having the walking talking complication out of your life is something you aren’t willing to address.

“You’re gonna miss me, aren’t you?”

“Don’t start, Toji.”

You know you can’t really tell him what to do, unfortunately.

“You don’t have to if you-“

“That’s right, I don’t have to miss you, and I won’t. Hopefully you don’t go getting yourself injured again so you can come and bother me more.”

Your tone has him sucking in air through his teeth and grimacing a little.

“I don’t exactly like getting injured.” He looks away as he speaks and it’s strange not having his eyes on you like you were some sort of prey to be carefully observed. “I couldn’t even help my son move into his dorm. Cage fighter dad that can’t even lift a fucking box. It pisses me off.”

He shrugs, eyes back on you, lit up anew, “But at least I get to see your pretty face, huh?”

As much as you don’t enjoy Toji’s comments, you like these little glimpses of something else even less. Because he does talk to you. About his day, about little things that pop in his head when he’s bored of flirting for seconds at a time. And it makes it much harder not to get a little too attached when he isn’t just being a simple womaniser.

It sometimes makes you feel like Toji thinks you’re some sort of therapist - when he’s not relentlessly trying to get you into his bed. And you know that’s what all of his flirting is, of course.

Because his reputation precedes him. Yes, he’ll take someone out. Yes, they’ll have a good time. Yes, they’ll fuck. Except in your case you aren’t a part time receptionist or ring girl that might be able to avoid awkward situations with him during the nothing that comes after all of that. And you aren’t willing to mess up the good thing you have with your job, even though some of your coworkers seemed to be.

What wasn't mentioned to you as part of his reputation, was the little breadcrumbs of who he was beneath the charm and muscle. It’s known he was a prodigy in his sport. It’s known he retired young to be a family man. And it’s known he came back, 5 years later, newly widowed.

He doesn’t talk about his first wife much, because why would he? Any brief mentions of her are with an undying warmth and love that undercuts his reputation as a heartbreaker. She’s special. The mother of his child, his first love. The former is stated, the latter is obvious. Nothing short of that would melt that hardened mask of indifference.

His second wife, he doesn’t speak about at all. You only know of her because he mentions a step-daughter, and because when he’d flirted with you from the very first time he’d entered your care your eyes had locked onto the ring on his finger with contempt for how little it apparently meant. By the time you see him next, nearly half a year and another injury later, he isn’t wearing the ring anymore.

Something in you feels flattered when you ask Toji about how his son was finding college in front of a coworker who had been here much longer than you, and they’re shocked as they say they didn’t know he had kids. Then, you’re left even more annoyed at him for giving you more complications to maintaining a necessary level of professional distance in your job.

Small talk shouldn’t feel so heavy.

Helping people recover shouldn’t make you have to deal with these thoughts.

i know how to fight, how to fuck, how to die, how to resurrect my pride

When you give in, it’s in the worst way. He doesn’t even take you to dinner, you don’t give him a chance to. It’s his fourth time in your care, this time for an ankle injury. Something basic, something much more simple to deal with than his recurring problem. Something that will get him out of your hair in no time.

He isn’t simple to deal with though, telling you about the dogs his son adopted, how he never really got how people got so attached to animals growing up, but now he gets it. He’s got you comfortable, not even thinking about how your guard is down, nor about how you even smile at him as he shows you a picture of his son, buried under two masses of fluff and begrudgingly smiling at the camera.

“God, Toji, you really just have a little twin there, don’t you?”

He laughs, looking at the picture of his son, before setting his phone aside on the mat. “Nah, there’s a lot of his mom in there.”

You smile, patting his shoulder in a rare touch outside of professional reasons, “That’s nice.”

He lies back on the mat, out of your reach, “You’re nice, for once.”

You get back to work, wrapping your hands around his ankle and bending his foot slowly. “I’m nice to people who aren’t constantly trying to get into my pants.”

“Hey, who said I was trying to do that? I’m just trying to take you out.” He sits up and leans onto his elbows, “but if that’s the kind of thing you’re interested in…”

“I’m interested in doing my job. I don’t mind talking to you when you relax with the inappropriate comments.”

“I’ve gotta prove myself to you before you’ll let me take you out, got it.”

“Is that what I said, Toji?”

Toji shrugs, fully relaxing back onto his elbows, and you pull on his foot gently. “That’s what I heard.”

You shoot him a look that you hope can put fear into the heart of even him. Instead, it only seems to inspire other emotions as he forms his scarred lips into a pout that misses the mark of garnering pity for his plight as a man rejected yet again, though you’re certain Toji knows exactly what he’s doing when he makes faces like that. Even with his lips puckered and sticking out slightly, even with his brows fashioned into a worried frown, his eyes telegraph exactly what he’s thinking about.

It crumbles your resolve, leaving you looking away first as you let out a sigh you hope comes across as frustration instead of weakness. You readjust your position squatting down next to him on the mat, trying to get a feel for the flexibility of his ankle before you start guiding him through putting some of his weight onto it as he straightens the other leg and lifts his hips off the mat before settling back down.

He’s quiet then, for much longer than you were used to, and you take the silence as an opportunity to work in peace as you rotate his foot again. When you look back up at him it has your heart beating a little faster than it should be. His teeth press lightly at his lower lip, his eyelids are only half open, and his brow quirks as if just your look had the same effect as having said something dirty.

“What is it now?”

You expect him to make some comment about your hands on his body, how they were lingering even now. He makes you wait for it though, tilting his head from one side to the other as he looks you up and down, smiling like he has a secret he’s debating keeping.

Another sigh falls from your lips, filled with actual frustration this time, and when he sits up it feels like he’s towering over you in a way you simply could not overcome, despite being able to easily stand and remove yourself from the pull of his gaze. The way he peers at you, even more intense than usual, has the back of your neck tingling and you’re forced to swallow hard even with the fear that something as simple as that would give you away.

His gaze softens, dipping back into something cooler, as if he’s backing away from an animal signalling that an approach would not be treated kindly. He takes a deep breath, and you don’t even notice you’re following suit until you both exhale at the same time.

It’s as if he’s settling whatever that moment was with just a look, deciding not to make the final jump to cross that imaginary line, and it puts you at ease enough that his words are like a punch to the gut.

“You’re pretending you don’t like it, but your neck is doing that thing.”

“What? What are you talking about?” You’re blowing it, far too defensive even though you truly aren’t actually sure what he means.

“Here.” He brings a hand to your neck, tracing a finger down the length of it, stopping just above your collarbones. “You always tense riiiiight there.”

He pulls his hand back, settling it on his thigh, and you let out the breath you’d been holding from the moment his hands were coming towards you. It makes you realise you’d been so focused on controlling everything you did or said that you’d been clenching yourself like a fist every time his words, or actions, left you melting inside. It also makes you realise that was the first time he’d put his hands on you in a way entirely unrelated to your work since he shook your hand the day you’d met.

You’re horrified at having been found out. You’re even more horrified as you realise you hadn’t really been hiding anything anyway. It’s left you with no clue how to respond, and you suddenly feel so aware of your every movement, unable to decipher how to behave when your little act had been so, so obvious to him from the start.

“Look, if you really want me to stop, I’ll st-“ he pauses, looking up as he thinks, scrunching his nose and tilting his head as if he’s weighing options. “Well, I’ll try to stop. I can’t make any promises…”

He’s pausing again, thinking again, looking you up and down as he licks his lips, before he crosses his legs, pulling his ankle out of your grasp and resting his elbows on his thighs as he leans forward. It forces you to react, as if on instinct, and lean back off of your feet to seat yourself with knees raised and acting as a final barrier between the two of you. He lets you keep that distance you’d gained, but brings a hand to hover over your knee so closely that you’re not sure if he’s touched you yet or if it’s just the heat radiating off of him setting your nerves on fire.

You can’t even bring your eyes away from his to check, and realise that you wouldn’t exactly want to move further away whether his touch was real or imagined. His gaze has you locked in place just as much as your own head as you find yourself thoroughly buried in your own pit of uncertainty as everything moves too fast for your mind to catch up.

“You don’t want me to stop though, do you sweetheart?”

His eyes, the heat of him, his low words digging through that pit in your stomach to reach for your core, it all has you feeling too lightheaded to be able to think at all. You can barely even feel yourself shaking your head, body much more honest than you had been willing to be all this time.

“Thought so.”

He leans in, brushing his nose back and forth against yours, smiling with the cute gesture, then that grin spreads wider as you tilt your head, your eyes fluttering closed as you wait for him to just kiss you. He doesn’t, waiting long enough that you’re forced to open your eyes and confront the sight of that hungry face yet again, and this time his gaze has you outright clenching.

“Big girls don’t get what they want by acting all shy, do they?”

It’s too much, you feel humiliated, you feel sick, you feel like you’ll pass out if he keeps working you up without even putting his hands on you properly.

“Kiss me. If you wanna.”

You don’t know who you are, needing to be told what to do like this. You question who you are again, as you follow orders in a way you never would have before you’d been called out like this and press your lips to his, letting out a breath that’s shaky enough to have you revealing just how desperate you were. When you start to wonder who you are for the third time, for kissing a client, at work no less, you drown out that thought by parting your lips against his.

He responds with softly parted lips of his own, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you into him as he slots his mouth against yours. You wait for his tongue, flitting the tip of yours against his lower lip, and when it does not come you’re clinging to his shirt, bunching it at his shoulders. You’re forced to hold onto those broad shoulders properly when he lies back and his hands on your waist bring you with him to settle you on top of him - wordlessly reiterating that you would need to pull yourself together and set the pace here.

It’s your final push, as you straddle him with hands braced against his chest and slide your tongue into his mouth. Feeling the body you’d had your hands on far too many times, this time beneath you and with your ability to lie to yourself about the effect it has on you stripped away, has you salivating. You set all shame aside for this moment as you grind down against him, indulging in the feel of his stiffening cock beneath layers of thin fabric.

That tense feeling threatens to return, prickling at the back of your neck as he laughs into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours and guiding your movements against him with strong hands on your hips. It’s gone again as he lifts his hips gently, using your weight against you as you only press harder onto him. You squeeze at his pecs, groaning into his mouth as you finally goad him into kissing you back with the same intensity you were now pouring into him, and it’s as delightfully invasive as you’d tried your hardest not to imagine it would be time and time again. It sends a tremble through your thighs, the wetness pooling in your panties all too obvious to you as all of your hidden desperation pulses through you straight from your pussy.

You forget yourself while kissing him like this, unaware of how long you’ve been on top of him, unaware of how you were moaning outright with just the friction between you, unaware of anything but feeling and tasting and touching as much of Toji as you could.

He’s aware though, aware of everything just as he always has been. How your thighs squeeze at his hips, the way your moans start sounding more like breathy little whines, how your tongue stops moving for seconds at a time against his. And it’s all he needs to keep this momentum going so quickly that everything but the two of you is an unintelligible blur.

“You gonna cum just like this?”

You don’t really want to answer it, and the look you give him as you try to keep him kissing you rather than talking has him chuckling, light and breathy against your skin.

“Sweetheart… if you’d just let me take you out from the beginning you wouldn’t be so pent up and begging for it…”

It takes more concentration than you have available to you right now to steady your voice. “I’m not begging.”

He takes in your face, biting at his lower lip as he slides two fingers into your mouth. He wiggles them around, sliding over your tongue, practically fucking your mouth with those thick fingers, knuckles catching at your tightened lips. “You aren’t…”

His fingers leave your mouth just as you were starting to actually enjoy the intrusion, and he slips his hands into your leggings, past your panties, stopping you from pressing down against his clothed cock like you had been as he circles your entrance slowly, “but she is.”

Then, his hand is gone, resecured on your hips, steadying your movements. “But you’re the boss here, not her. So if you don’t want it…”

“Come on, Toji.” You’re chastising him, even if you’re in no position to do so with your thighs tensing and your hips begging to keep moving against him.

He clicks his tongue against his teeth, “Like I said, you’re the boss. So I don’t move without orders.”

And he doesn’t. He doesn’t keep kissing you, even when you press your lips against his again, sighing out your frustration against his soft smile. He doesn’t release your hips to let you keep stoking your fire on his body. He doesn’t do anything but look up at you with a hungry glint in his eye, enjoying every moment it takes you to push your pride aside to ask him for exactly what you’ve wanted longer than you can admit to yourself.

“I want to cum.”

“Just you? Not a very good boss, huh…”

You groan, frustration with him reaching a fever pitch, “I want you to fuck me.”

He closes his eyes, smiling wide and letting your words wash over him. It’s music to his ears, and when he looks back up at you his pupils are blown and you know he’s done holding back. “All you had to do was ask, sweetheart.”

His arm is around your waist then, keeping you steady as rolls you over, settling himself between your thighs and you’re now looking up at him. You feel the tensing of his body, and come back to yourself enough to give him a concerned look.

He catches it, pressing a hand to your cheek and rubbing his thumb over your lips in an attempt to soothe those worries.

“Shh, don’t worry, I’ll be careful.” He shifts so he’s not putting weight onto his ankle, pulling at your shoes until they’re sliding off and hitting the ground. You lift your hips as you work your own leggings and underwear down, straightening your legs for him to remove them for you before he’s spreading you wide with hands on your inner thighs. He slides a hand towards your pussy, rubbing his thumb through your wetness and sucking air through his teeth at the way it slips around with ease.

“You really were gonna cum like that, weren’t you?”

You run your hands over your face, unwilling to endure any more teasing, “Just fuck me, Toji.”

He whistles, releasing your thighs and tugging the waistband of his shorts down just enough to release his cock, and you look up to his face, refusing to give him a reaction until he’s sliding inside you just as you’ve asked. He braces himself on one of his elbows, leaning over you and letting his cock hang heavily against your stomach. His hair tickles at your face as he kisses you again before requesting a final affirmation before following the orders you’d given.

“Want me to go slow?”

He really does wear your patience thin, enough that you answer without thinking, “No.”

“Okay…” he sounds doubtful, but continues on as he grips himself at the base and rubs the head of his cock through your wetness.

You squeeze at his sides, prompting him to look at you instead of at his own cock below. “Do not cum inside me.”

It’s stern enough to make Toji laugh, your voice sounding much more like your usual self for just a moment. “Don’t worry, I don’t want any more responsibilities.”

You don’t know if you trust Toji, but right now you don’t exactly trust yourself either. Especially not when having this man you’d spent ages closing yourself off to split you open on his cock in one merciless push has you wincing and taking it like it was exactly what you deserved for being so weak to him.

Toji pauses, balls deep, eyes clouded as he looks down at you. “I asked if you wanted me to go slow.”

It’s said with a hint of pity and a look that says ’you did this to yourself’, though he does stay still, kissing you again and removing your need to try and collect your thoughts enough to reassert that you knew your body, not him.

He doesn’t hold back for long though, and once you’re sighing into his mouth again, your tongue’s movements sloppy and unfocused, he starts moving his hips slowly. He starts with shallow thrusts, hips barely leaving yours. Then, as your body relaxes and your pussy accommodates him with a telltale squelch, he pulls out further, fucking you harder. Once your thighs are gripping at his hips he sits up, gathering more momentum in his thrusts at the slight change of angle.

He presses his hand to your abdomen, thumb making out a steady pace on your clit as his hips make angled thrusts that have his cock working at you with purpose. The moan it draws from you is punctuated with your eyes rolling, trying desperately to refocus on the face of the man above you. He bites at his lip, nodding and groaning at the feel of you tightening as he finds the movements that have your hands trying to grip at something below, but only meeting the dull squeak of your fingertips sliding against the mat. He leans back, reaching up to grab at the back of the collar of his shirt and tug it over his head, tossing it aside. He grasps both of your wrists firmly, pulling your hands up to rest against his stomach as he looks down at you with a challenge in his eyes.

“C’mon, touch me.” He smiles, wide and wicked, “Like you’ve always wanted to.”

You do just that, running your hands over his abs, grazing your thumb over his belly button, tracing your fingers along the prominent vein on his abdomen that leads down below to where the two of you are connected. Then, your hands travel back upwards, gripping at his pecs. His hand returns to press at you, thumb back to playing with your swollen clit, and having that touch back so suddenly has you squeezing Toji’s pecs hard, drawing a moan from him.

“There you go.” It adds even more enthusiasm to his thrusts, speed picking up as he leans over you, propping himself up on one hand as he digs deep to have you squeezing him again.

This time your touch is intentional as you squeeze at the flesh, a slight give present before you reach hardened muscle, and when you graze your nails over his nipples he’s shivering above you, bucking into you harder. The way he rubs at your clit is almost mechanical in its precise speed and pacing, a steady climb punctuated by those thrusts that stroke your insides in a way that makes your body tingle and your toes curl.

“That easy, huh?”

The audacity helps you lock eyes on him, if only for a moment, and while his smug smile builds a small fury at the back of your mind, your receive vindication in the flutter of his lashes and slight twitch of his upper lip as he tries to ignore the call of his tightening balls. It gives you what you need to dig deep, rocking your hips up into his thrusts, unearthing the orgasm just below the surface for the both of you.

You find yours first, putting your trust in Toji as you let go and bounce into him as it rips through you white hot and powerful enough to have you curling in on yourself, head buried against Toji’s chest and legs clamping him until his hips are pressed to yours. He pushes past even the strength of your legs and pulsing pussy, thrusting until you release him, lying back, and your head has barely hit the mat below before he’s pulling out.

“Fuck…” it’s hissed out as he sits up and jerks at his cock roughly, head falling back while his hips buck up and into his fist. His cum spatters down, first landing on your shirt until you tug it up, hopeless as the task was with your clothes already ruined, and take the rest of it onto your bare stomach.

He’s left panting, you’re left panting. He looks like he’s won at something, you feel like you’ve lost.

#reminder minors and ageless blogs get blocked #my writing #mma!au #mma!toji #mma fighter!toji #toji x reader #toji x y/n #toji x you #toji fushiguro x y/n #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro x reader #x reader #self insert

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queenofapeacefuldawn · 10 months ago

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SxF Crack Theory: The Identity Of [REDACTED]'s Father

Hear me out here.... but, maybe, Twilight's father could be Yuri's boss, aka, the SSS Lieutenant.

Now, this might be a crack/joke theory, but here is the evidence I have to back up my claim (yes, I'm presenting it because I'm just Like That):

(Warning: Manga spoilers ahead)

Exhibit A: Physical Characteristics

Here is a picture of Agent Twilight:

Here is a picture of Yuri's boss (who, from now in, will be referred to as YB, for my own convenience):

We can see that Twilight and YB have very similar facial characteristics: bluish-grey eyes, blond hair, and a similar face shape (nose, jaw).

We never see Twilight's father's full face: only the lower half, because he has presumably forgotten his face, along with his mother's (King of Emotional Repression™️), but we can see that his jawline and shape of his mouth are very similar to Adult Twilight.

Oh, and look at that- rather pronounced cheekbones, if I do say so myself. Where else did I see those? Hmmm

Exhibit B: Ambiguous Fate

During the War Arc, we're never told about [REDACTED]'s father's fate. We just know he never returns to his family: and the reason why he left for the very last time, was that, "Things have been heating up at the border. I need to take a little business trip." The fact that his, a (presumably) rather important man's, body was never recovered: nor were [REDACTED] or his mother informed of his death. Of course, his body could have been lost in the bombings, or the part of [REDACTED] finding out about his father's dead could have been omitted, but for most of the part, we're left to assume about his father's dead. And... this sounds familiar to another instance...

Like the instance of [REDACTED]'s friends. He (and we) assumed they'd died in the warehouse as children, but later we see that they're alive and in the army (only to die a second time, RIP), but this time, for their deaths to be confirmed: for [REDACTED] to only receive their dog tags after the failed campaign.

This may have been a setup: for Endo to reintroduce [REDACTED]'s father, later in the story, as YB.

Anyway, one thing I've learned after reading and watching so many books, comics, and TV shows: never assume a person's dead, not unless their body/proof of their death has been explicitly shown. This belief was only reinforced after [REDACTED]'s friends.

And, [REDACTED]'s father's last known place was around the Westalian-Ostanian border. He could have escaped in the crossfire, theoretically...

Exhibit C: Fatherly Nature (?)

We all love a good found-family dynamic in the workplace. It's there with WISE, it's there with Garden, and it's kinda there with the SSS.

My main argument about this stems from the chapter which focuses on Yuri's work.

We see YB continuously worry about Yuri's physical health, in panels like:

Obviously, this doesn't happen only in this chapter. Whenever Yuri's there, YB is also there, yelling at him to a) go to sleep, or b) STOP GETTING HIT BY BUSSES OH MY FUCKING GOD IT CAN'T HAPPEN SO MANY TIMES TO ONE PERSON-

And, of course, there's the Yuri Sick Fic chapter:

Not gonna lie, this point is extremely weak, if I brought this up in court I'd be laughed out of there-

Anyway, I just wanted to put this in.

If it does turn out that YB is [REDACTED]'s father then. Bestie. Buddy. How are you managing to be a better father-figure to some insolent kid who gets hit by busses than you were to your actual son, like 20 years ago. Maybe he learned along the way.

Exhibit D: Symbolism (???)

Oh, look, another point I'm pulling out of my ass! But whatever, you're reading it <3

During the War Arc, we see Twilight sustain two major injuries:

One, as a child, when his home is bombed:

And two, as an adult, in the army:

and these injuries are both to his left eye.

Of course, this has given rise to theories of him not being able to see his left eye, it being his blind spot, and Yor guarding his blind spot on missions, etc., etc., which I love bc ✨Twiyor✨

Getting back on point, if we look at YB, we see that he has injuries too... or rather, remnants of them, what with the scars he has...

which, are also on his left eye. Huh! Interesting... this might just be me, but could this be parallels to how similar he and his father were? Are? His father also wanted peace between Ostania and Westalis: but he taught his child that in a very harsh manner (by slapping him), but Twilight wants to teach Anya that in a kind manner. Whenever we see him teaching her, he never loses his cool with her (of course, he loses a lot of hope, but this man's a pessimist, what can we do).

Also shows how much kinder Twilight is, compared to his father.

---

Of course, these points are very weak, and it might just be that Endo reused some character designs for efficiency, but let me be, ok!! This is a crack theory!!! Let me be a clown!!!! AKDFJSJF

If I'm being honest, this post was inspired by a convo I'd had with my friend, around the time Chapter 86 was released. She was theorizing that [REDACTED]'s dad is the Shopkeeper, and I was theorizing it was this dude. Of course, our theorizing was sidetracked by Chapter 86, and a certain panel within it, but... WHATEVER.

So, what are your thoughts? Obviously, my own theory is very weak (for example, why would the SSS accept a Westalian citizen into their ranks? Why would he even join the SSS? Could he have defected? Abandoned his wife and kid?), but this was fun to think about, lol. What are your theories? I think the Shopkeeper-is-the-dad theory and the YB-is-his-dad theory are both cool, so, what do you think?

(Also, yeah, I know, his dad could very well be dead. I just refuse to believe it, bc I'm just Like That <3)

#spy x family #sxf #spy x family manga #spy x family headcanon #spy x family theory #spy x family manga spoilers #spy x family anime #agent twilight #loid forger #yuri briar #sss lieutenant

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nausicaaandhermouth · 2 months ago

Text

Quandary & Retribution in F#

masterlist

professor!viktor x violinist!reader [6k] [AO3]

mdni

cw: nsfw, blow-job, piano witnessing oral sex i'm so sorry

summary: being neighbours mean being mindful of the noise you make - though, you'd been set on being a nuisance through violin solos, bringing Viktor to your doorstep to plead for silence. You decide to apologise.

tags: modern au, physics professor viktor, gn!reader, neighbours, nsfw, sexual tension, suggestive physics & music talk, blow job, fat set up beforehand, not betad

a/n never written comedy nor smut but at some point a girl's gotta try (why are both almost equally difficult) - but here ya go (plops down this mess). also, i'm more familiar w music than physics, i 3rd page googled the latter so there's def smth not quite right. if u know physics, no u dont.

and ty to an anon ask for pointing out a mistake in the pronouns. i intend one shots to be gn but i write back and forth from an f!oc fic, resulting in she/her ending up in one shots and they/them on the other :')) entirely on me for not catching those before posting though - but thank you for notifying me, i appreciate you!!

btw requests & taglist are open!

Viktor had repeated it ad nauseam—keep the overtures to a minimum.

His days are a gruelling marathon of lectures and lab work, stretching from the crack of dawn at 6 AM to the academy's closing bell at 10 PM. This self-imposed siege isn't mandated by the university—no, they frown upon such academic masochism.

Rather, it’s Viktor's desperate attempt to squeeze productivity from the fleeting moments of silence. The irony? The moment he shuffles home, key turning in the lock, his apartment transforms into an impromptu concert hall.

Attempting to grade papers? Constructing intricate lesson plans on quantum mechanics? Preparing for the department's annual "Explain Your Research to a Five-Year-Old" challenge? Hah. Another pipe dream of this beleaguered professor.

No, instead, he’s treated to a violin solo that would make Paganini nod approvingly in his grave, some overture to madness waiting to ambush Viktor the instant he dares to sit down and tackle his workload. And the cherry on top? The virtuoso had chosen the room directly behind his study as their personal rehearsal space.

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

One more pluck of that violin string, and he might just snap (hopefully with more panache than his freshman physics students' failed bridge-building projects).

He's hunched over his laptop, a harsh '02:24' glowing on his wall—a neon reminder of how little he's accomplished in far too many hours. And there it is again, that infernal violin leaping across frets, notes ping-ponging between octaves with reckless abandon.

This time, it feels personal. A taunt aimed squarely at his last shred of sanity.

Viktor's fingers rake through his dishevelled hair, tugging in sheer frustration. His other hand thunders against the wall—once, twice, thrice. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For a blissful moment, the last note wavers, then fades.

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

But his reprieve is short-lived. The melody resumes with a vengeance—louder, closer, more petulant and frenetic. It's as if the laws of acoustics themselves have conspired against him.

God, if you’re there…

Viktor can feel his grip on rationality slipping. Perhaps it's time to conduct an experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation on a physicist's patience. For science.

Your paths had crossed in the hallways, a silent slide of avoidance. You’d exchanged fleeting glances, loaded with unspoken frustration, before hurrying on your separate ways.

Viktor had made the pilgrimage to your door three times, his voice dripping with forced politeness as he implored (bordering begging, not his finest moment) you to relocate your impromptu concerts or, at the very least, reschedule your sonic assaults to more reasonable hours.

You’d exchanged names, plastered on smiles that never reached their eyes—and yet, your solos persist.

In moments of weakness, Viktor's traitorous mind can't help but wonder what camaraderie you might have shared in an alternate universe where you weren’t the bane of his existence.

He finds himself muttering a desperate prayer to the gods of acoustics: "Grant me the strength not to bash my head against this wall." He pauses, another side of his brain kicking in. "Although, the resulting concussion might make for an interesting case study."

A groan escapes him as his forehead meets the desk with a dull thump. (Might you want percussions, he could supply his head banging against his desk)

His mind, addled by sleep deprivation and the constant assault, contemplates the unthinkable—actually standing up for himself. God forbid.

He envisions marching to your door, pride in tatters, ready to beg, plead, perhaps even grovel for a moment's peace.

The image of his students receiving paper feedback that reads like the ravings of a madman flashes before his eyes. No. Nope. This cannot stand. Something must be done.

Then another image invades his mind: your door opens and there you are face to face once again.

He grudgingly admits you’re… aesthetically agreeable. He supposes. Mathematically pleasing. Something about proportion, bone structure, genes, something, something, and—no, there is an undeniable artistry in your relentless dedication. Which he respects.

Even through the wall, he can discern the masterful control of your bow, a testament to hours of practice that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him.

If he could be granted such hours to achieve his own goals, he'd surely rule the world (or at least figure out how to soundproof his apartment).

There'd been one night—one treacherous, sleep-deprived night—when his exhausted mind careened off the rails of rationality into dangerously uncharted territory.

He envisioned himself barging into your apartment, a perfect storm of righteous fury and academic gravity. In this fever dream, he demanded silence with an authority cobbled together from an unlikely triumvirate: his stern Professor alter-ego (complete with imaginary tweed jacket), the ego-inflating gravitas of his hard-earned Ph.D., and the bizarrely suave confidence that only exists in the realm of 3 AM delusions.

But in this warped fantasy, instead of blessed quiet, he encountered something far, far worse—a scenario that defied even the uncertainty principle in its improbability.

Sharp gasps cut through the air. Delicate moans rolling against the nape of his neck that it sent shivers down his spine. And then—oh, sweet laws of thermodynamics—his name. His name in repetition, wearing the throes of... No. Stop. Abort mission.

Viktor's eyes snap open. Heavy breaths. His heart rate approaches escape velocity, threatening to launch his ribcage into orbit.

He shakes his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the inappropriate thoughts from his brain.

"Fuck off," he mutters to the empty room, to his unfaithful imagination, to the persistent violin notes that seem to mock his predicament. Fuck it all. And fuck you. Well… No—(he means yes (no)).

A few times since your initial encounter, Viktor had been subjected to a different kind of midnight sound through the walls. These weren't the familiar strains of a violin, but rather... a more primal composition. Something more akin to pleasure than anything Stradivarius could have conceived.

The truth was, these… vocalisations had rearranged his synapses, had opened up an entirely new neural pathway in his brain, one he had staunchly refused to acknowledge before. It was a new theorem of attra—intrigue he wasn't quite ready to solve.

Each breath, groan muffled, was a data point on his imaginary graph. To study the patterns, the crescendos, the duration. The other man in him... well, that was a variable he dared not allow to factor into the equation.

He found himself both dreading and anticipating these unintentional (at least he surmised so) performances. He'd catch himself straining to hear, then immediately feel a rush of guilt and self-loathing.

He reaches for his coffee mug, grimacing as he swallows the cold, bitter dregs. Clearly, this is what happens when a brilliant mind is deprived of its required REM cycles. Yes, that's it. Just the cruel tricks of an overworked, under-rested brain. Exactly.

His mind kicks into overdrive, frantically scribbling a mental grant proposal: "The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Auditory Hallucinations and Improbable Fantasies: A Case Study." Purely for academic purposes, of course. (his mind lingers on improbable)

It's not like he's terrified these forbidden thoughts might return, more vivid and enticing than a perfectly aligned experiment. And it's certainly not because he's afraid he might enjoy—no, no, no. He minds. He minds with the intensity of a supernova. 100%. No, make that 100.1%, just to be safe. Exactly. Precisely. Quantum-mechanically determined.

Now, if only he could convince his subconscious of that irrefutable fact…

His eyes dart to the wall—that infuriating barrier of plaster and wood—separating him from the object of his des... deliberation. No, that's not right. The source of his frustration. Yes, frustration. A frustration so profound it could light up a small city.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

The things sleep deprivation does to a man. It's enough to make even a rational physicist question the very fabric of reality.

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

Viktor straightens up, a manic glint in his eye. Perhaps it's time for a little experiment in human behaviour. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Let's see how you’d like a taste of your own medicine—played back at 3 AM through a wall of subwoofers tuned to the resonant frequency of your floorboards.

No, no—Viktor, don't stoop. Just knock on their door.

A grin spreads across your face when a comically polite knock interrupts your crescendo. Ah, the sweet sound of success—or is it the dulcet tones of a professor’s patience snapping?

Oh, he's ever so gentle, even when he's one decibel away from a meltdown. You can practically hear his teeth grinding in perfect harmony with your last note.

You settle your violin and bow on the couch like a general laying down arms after a victorious battle. One palm reaches to massage your jaw, soothing the tender spot where your instrument has been resting. Who knew revenge could leave such visible marks?

Note to self: next time, consider a less physically demanding form of payback. Maybe take up the theremin? Start haunting him.

Though you're getting the creeping suspicion he doesn't know what he did—and it's entirely plausible that you just look like a nocturnal nuisance with perfect pitch and an impressive bruise. But hey, what's a little psychological warfare between neighbours?

Besides, it's fun crossing him in the halls, eyes following each other like two notes slowly coming in accordance, like a particularly flirtatious harmony. You're both knowing, sharing a secret thing. Well, as secret as a loud violin solo at 2 AM.

You reach the front door and turn the lock, swinging it open with a dramatic flair.

Leaning on the frame, you plaster on a grin that could outshine the brightest spotlight—and is sure to make the dear professor's blood pressure skyrocket. "Viktor," you greet, your voice a perfect pizzicato of feigned innocence.

As expected, he's the very picture of academic despair: dark under-eyes that could rival a raccoon's, hair ruffled in a way that screams ‘Sleep? What sleep?' (who knew sleep deprivation could be so becoming?), and a brow so furrowed it could host its own mountain range.

Huh. Interesting. Seems like the composed professor facade has taken an unexpected intermission.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Viktor's face, resisting the urge to conduct a full-body visual scan. Tonight, you're oppositions. Stubborn ostinato. O-ppo-si-tions.

Oppositions don't ogle each other's physiques or linger on sartorial choices. That would be absurd, a complete discord in your carefully orchestrated revenge. Which is why you don’t see that he’s wearing a thin tank top, and why your eyes don’t hopscotch across the vague outlines of his chest.

Viktor grumbles your name with a frown, his accent turning the syllables into something between a growl and a plea. It's music to your ears, really—a different kind of melody, but no less satisfying than your midnight sonatas.

You wonder what else he could do with that voice. No—you don’t wonder. O-ppo-si-tions don’t wonder.

Rather, you flatten your lips, desperately trying to hold back a laugh that threatens to escape.

"Please," he breathes, the word carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You cock a brow. "Please?"

He glares, his eyes boring into you with the intensity of a conductor silencing a wayward orchestra. Not finding me funny, you note mentally.

Well, tough crowd. But then again, you didn't take up the violin for the standing ovations, did you?

"How can I help you, Professor?" You smile sweetly, crossing your legs. "You're looking positively... nocturnal," Your eyes dance over his dishevelled appearance, drinking in every delicious detail.

You know that he knows that you know what you're doing. It's a duet of mutual awareness—simple, really—and satisfying.

He squeezes his amber eyes shut, his mouth a taut line of frustration. You half expect his hair to stand on end. Orchestra on their heels after a baton’s click-click-click.

That little mole above his mouth twitches, and you imagine it as a staccato note. There's a twin on his right cheek. You wonder, idly, if they'd dance a jig if you played just the right jaunty tune.

"Why," he begins, his voice a crescendo of exhaustion, "Are you doing this? I can't keep my head in tune with you behind that wall, turning my brain into jelly with your... your..." he gestures wildly at your apartment, as if trying to conduct your imaginary orchestra into silence.

"Oh? And what's wrong with exploring some alternative fingerings now and then?"

His eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. He blinks, frozen—a maestro who's just realised he's forgotten his baton.

Ah. Are there actual discordant thoughts lurking in that brilliant mind of his?

What's a little push? You lean forward. "Care to demonstrate these unconventional techniques of yours?"

A gulp rides down Viktor's throat. A nervous glissando. A viola quivering. His eyes suddenly find your front door fascinating. "Look, I just want to be able to do my work, finish what needs to be finished, and get some actual sleep. Aren't you tired of this too?"

Your mouth pitches downwards in mock contemplation. "Mm... I get plenty of sleep in the day. Unemployment generally gives you a lot of time. Besides, payback is payback. This is simply the retribu—"

"Payback?" His face contorts into a mask of confusion that would make Picasso proud. Ah. So the maestro doesn't know his own composition. Tsk.

You straighten yourself, arms still crossed sternly. "You—" you sigh, brows pulling together.

"What," he huffs, clearly lost. His mouth slightly gapes open, eyes glancing to the side as if somehow the answer will appear.

lLast month. Seven PM. You're home with what I assume were your students," you gesture at his door. "Don't know what you were doing, none of my business. However, it does become my business when they stay over until four," you hold up four fingers at his face like a metronome gone mad, and he backs away. “In. The. Morning. You try sleeping with rowdy, hormonal young-adults screeching about the universe and quantum-this, quantum-that,"

He brings his hand up and rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but you.

"And I, not having slept in god knows how long at that point, had an audition for an orchestra later that morning," at this point his expression is completely soured, realising where this is leading. "And guess who bombed that and missed a potential orchestral debut?" you point at yourself with both thumbs, "First chair of the Insomniacs Anonymous Symphony,"

He brings his thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, worrying at his bottom lip.

You can recall a few times you’d burrowed your teeth in such a manner. Recitals. A particularly tricky passage in a Paganini caprice. On your couch with hand at the crux of your thighs rubbing gently to some fantasy. Nothing specific.

You stare for a moment, mentally composing a scream for the cosmos. How dare he look like a dishevelled maestro when you're trying to channel your inner fury? Not the time, brain. Not. The. Time. File that image away for later...

“I..." he begins, but the words seem to have gone on strike, leaving his mouth hanging open. Forgotten fermata.

A furrow grows on your brow, deep enough to nest a whole string section. His guilt-ridden silence gives you ample time to become distracted. Truly not the fucking time. But your eyes—oh, what rebellious instruments.

But fret not (hah), as you don’t discern much of his arms—not lean, nor precise. Not those fingers either, no. They’re not that long. You didn’t even notice. And not the slow rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic as a metronome in a world where time has suddenly become very, very interesting.

He says your name—it’s a baton raising in the air—and it wrangles your attention. “I truly... I apologise. I do admit... that night was foolish. I'd lost control of my class. I'd invited a few over since they wanted a discussion on quantum entanglement,"

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

Your brain performs an emergency shutdown and reboot. “Uh-huh," you manage, trying to sound like you absolutely know what that means and aren't at all imagining him demonstrating the finer points of entanglement. Because you aren’t. O-ppo-si-tions.

You shake your head, imagining your thoughts like shaking a tambourine. Focus. Revenge. Missed opportunity. Right. But why does righteous indignation have to be so hard when he's standing there looking like Einstein's hotter, sleep-deprived cousin?

“And the discussion just… I wasn’t careful with the time,” he leans forward, mouth downwards in apology. His fingers tap on his cane, mouth sucking on one side of his bottom lip.

He looks miserable. And worse, genuine. Two things that never sit right with you when they happen at the same time. A string just slightly off tune that it settles as unease in your stomach. It gives you the itch to fine-tune it, put it back how it should be.

You give Viktor a resolute nod, blinking away. “I accept your apology,” you say shortly, gaze lounging on the hallway and making sure they don’t linger on his misery.

But he searches for you eyes first, and by obligation you look back. “And have you, has there been any opportunities after then?” he asks, leaning forward, brows tilted in genuine, apologetic curiosity (your heart decides it’s now a great time to perform an accelerando. 95 bpm, if you’re counting). “Auditions and… orchestral… things? Sorry, I’m not too knowledgeable on these,”

What’s good: he’s genuinely apologetic, which may herald the end of your musical tyranny.

You lean your head backwards, aware of the distance (What’s not good: he seems unaware of the distance he’d taken up). “Uh, no. Well,” you shrug, shoulders bobbing in reminder. “Not since then. But there’s one next week. Piltover Grande Hall,”

His brows raise, seemingly in recognition. “Oh? Highly-esteemed,”

“I know. I’ll probably need a good sleep before then,” you grin, watching his face go from confusion, to apologetic, to relief in mere seconds.

“I also… I assigned some heavy research work last week to my class, which’ll be submitted tomorrow, so I’ll be grading those next week,” he added, now fully leaning on your door frame as if his upper body were trying to slink inside slowly. “We’ll both need much rest before then,”

Your eyes meet his. Face fully facing face. “Mhm,”

Prelude: “An observation of observation of observation”. String section, sweet, curious, and swelling with playful remarks. Interrupted by staccato heartbeats, conflicted by seductive cello whines.

You don’t move. Not an increment. You stay as still as your body allows, suspended in time. So does he. His eyes flicker between your left and right, expressing nothing but obvious observation of you. Your stomach breeds a butterfly when you catch his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

Interesting.

100 bpm.

No. I, “Where The Gaze Lands Will Determine The Night’s Fate”. A languid 4/4. A lone marimba begins—blithe. The chirp of a güiro.

“And what do you propose?” you tilt your head up. Are you challenging him? Depends, you suppose. Depends if he tilts his face down.

But he stays in position. Instead, brings a hand out, palm open. “A truce,” his breath brushes against your chin. Hot. Temperaturally. Temperamentally.

Does he know what he’s doing to you? There are desperate sax whines in your head. Supposedly they sound similar to the human voice.

You take his hand and shake firmly. But you don’t let go. “What are the terms?”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes him, eyes slightly narrowing. “But you’ve already agreed,” his fingers tighten slightly around your hand. Warm. Long.

“Confident in the final piece,” you assert, letting your eyes drape with leisure between his eyes and to the bone of his cheek, the mole, the mouth. And you hope he notices.

The sax is breathy. It’s now a smoky jazz riff, painting dimly lit rooms, whisperings of sweet-nothings, a daring foot hiking up another’s thigh.

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

No. II: “Where Silence Is Relative”. Strutting 2/4, beginning with a sultry glide of an accordion. A conversation between the cellos and violins.

“Does that mean you’ll rest your little concertos?” his head tilts. “Giving me peace, finally?”

You play up a pout. “Shame, I thought you were a fan,”

“As I am of quantum tunnelling through a brick wall,” he responds, the brief questioning curve of his brow indicating this was not a good thing.

“Surely my playing isn’t that bad?” a smirk.

“Not the quality, no,” he gives a small shake. His thumb softly brushes your hand. “It’s the quantity. And the timing,”

You soften your fingers, letting the tips of them brush at his wrist. “I was trying to be helpful. Heard scientists appreciated background music while working,”

A glint of something playful in his eyes. “We do. Just not at 3AM when we’re trying to grade important papers,”

“Grading?” you quirk your brow and smile. At this point, it’s far from grating to him—he’s even looking at it. “I thought silence was overrated in the pursuit of knowledge,”

“Silence is relative when you’re next door,” he gives back. His hand is now shameless, inching your closer and closer to your wrist.

You wet your lips and hum. “Relative, right. Like, whose is that—like Einstein’s?”

“Like the relative pitch of a jackhammer compared to your violin,” his expression flattens sardonically, still maintaining that disarming smile.

“I’m touched,” you lean your head on the door frame. “You think I’m as powerful?”

“Enough to redefine my understanding of ‘noise cancellation’,” he retorts, eyes rolling. What a pretty expression that is. You wonder how else you can evoke that same reaction in other contexts.

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

He laughs. “I think I’ll stick to my textbooks. Much quieter,”

You feign a mask of disappointment, gaze sharpening and hooking his eyes in for your next few words. “Pity. I was hoping to show you how good I am with my fingers,”

His mouth parts. Surprise? Temptation? But he’s hooked in and it’s all you care for. “I… uh,” he blinks, hand still around your wrist. “That’s…”

His face fills with a slight impassive contemplation, thoughts seeming to run amuck in his head as he looks down at your growing, teasing smile.

“You’ve been hearing me practise, no?” you smirk. And you can tell he knows that you know that he knows what you mean. “The violin’s not an easy instrument. Unless you’re thinking of something e—”

He diminishes the space between you with his lips on yours.

No. III, “A Swing in A#”. 113 bpm. A confident, gritty trumpet reels you in.

The door shuts and is immediately faced by Viktor’s back. His neck bends to accommodate the difference in height, his free hand at the back of your neck to press you closer to himself. Your hands find purchase around his shirt, curling around the fabric, pulling and pulling—but as he’s leaning, only his hips jut forward. Good enough.

Your mouths move in tandem. He’s occupied with your bottom lip in a sort of desperation that speaks of practise—or at least imagined practise.

You nudge upwards, hip bone meeting his in soft collision, which coaxes a filthy, back-of-the-throat grunt from him. You smile. And as you feel his other hand snake around your waist, you hear the metallic thnk of his cane against the floor.

You jerk away to look down at it. Briefly, you assess its importance and his dependence on it. “Your leg,” you breathe, breath barely allowing your real voice to pierce through.

He’s nuzzling at the side of your face, gaping mouth at your cheek as he catches some air. “I’ll manage,”

When you turn to him, your heart jumps at the sight of him. Dishevelment caused by your hands, a slight flush from arousal, eyes rounded and trained on your mouth. You don’t look but can’t help noticing the hardness pressed against your lower belly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head and finally draws his eyes back to yours. “A… discomfort. But not pain,” he dips in for a kiss, hand sliding up to tilt your jaw towards him.

A smirk becomes of you. “Mm… about the, uh… retribution. I do admit, I took it too far,”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you? All those unproductive nights, I truly didn’t notice,”

You roll your eyes at his quip. “But I was thinking of how to properly apologise,”

He quirks a brow, thumb tracing at the border of your lip and chin. “And how will you show your remorse?”

“Ah, well, I’m just like you,” a soft laugh escapes you, and you lean towards him to hide the slight embarrassment rushing to blush your cheeks. “Thinking all about… entanglements,”

“Do, please, demonstrate your version,” his accent noticeably makes ‘demonstrate’ even sharper and more pronounced.

“Only if you talk about yours,”

With a swift kiss, you silence him, lips capturing his words. Your hands grip his body, gently guiding him away from the door. Viktor's eyes, intense and unwavering, remain locked on you as you lead him a few feet to the side to the upright piano.

In one smooth motion, your foot hooks around the piano bench, sliding it out. Your hands, warm and certain, travel up to Viktor's shoulders, guiding him down onto the seat with a gentle and firm pressure. His gaze never falters.

For a breathless moment, you tower over him, drinking in the sight of him. He's even more deliciously undone—hair tousled, shirt askew, lips slightly parted.

The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You're minutely aware of every shallow breath, every subtle shift of his body, each time the muscles in his neck form a 'v'.

Something all-consuming takes root in your core, to hear his voice wearing your name—not just spoken, but gasped, moaned, worshipped.

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

No. IV, “Viktor’s Recitative”. An accented voice searching for focus. Punctuated by gasps.

“It’s, ehm, quantum entanglement. Imagine two dancers, perfectly in sync no matter how far apart they are. When particles become entangled, they share a quantum state. If you measu—”

With your leg you push his knees apart.

“Uh, if you measure one, you instantly know about the other. As if… as if connected by an invisible thread of… mm, cosmic intimacy,”

You kneel slowly, gaze locked onto his as he searches for his next words. “Rather romantic,” you add.

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

“I think so, too. Two particles, forever intertwined,” his eyes fall to your hand as you palmed one knee, your head resting on his other leg. “Fates… linked across the, the vast…ness of space and t—time,” he jerks forward as your hand pressed a little too near his centre.

The sound makes your breath hitch. More. Your cheek’s brushing against the cotton of his pants, your other hand cradling around his calf. The hand on his knee roams further upwards, thumb applying more pressure on the ins of his thigh.

“Regardless of distance, still they influence each other in ways we can’t f—” he breaks off with a whine as your palm grazes the growing swell beneath his pants. It takes every ounce of self-control not to grasp him fully, to feel the entirety of him at once. “Fully…” his eyes follow where you press harder, your mouth curving into a smile. “Comprehend,” the word falls with more breath.

He leans back against the piano, elbows weighing down keys and sending a jarring, discordant chord alongside his sighs.

You straighten, bringing your other hand to the knot of his waistband. Your finger hooks onto it, thumb caressing the single button. Your gaze travels upward, admiring the sight of him leaning back, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalising glimpse of hair trailing downward.

His breathing slows, becoming deep and measured as your finger grazes the skin of his stomach, the fine hairs tickling knuckles. For a moment, you imagine yourself above him, watching him squirm as his eyes fixate on the point where your bodies would join. Another day.

With a deft movement, you pop the button free. Leaning in, you catch your lower lip between your teeth as your hands gently guide him from the confines of his boxers.

His form arches slightly to one side, living sculpture of desire. Delicate ridges trace his length, and at the apex, his glans gleams like a ripe cherry. Tempting fruit begging to be tasted.

Deep, methodical breaths, you remind yourself. Deep and methodical. And oh so deep. You wrench your thoughts from this enticing path, lifting gaze to meet his. Your eyes seek permission, finding his half-lidded stare heavy with want.

Your palm, warm and inviting, glides along his length with exquisite slowness. The motion elicits a shudder that ripples through his hips, a breath catching in his throat like a trapped butterfly. His head falls back, unveiling the elegant lines of his neck.

Emboldened, you repeat the caress, this time allowing your grip to ascend until it reaches the pinnacle. There, with deliberate tenderness, you gather the pre-cum with a slight swipe. The touch brings a cluster of stuttered gasps and half-formed words. His body, as if magnetised, curls towards you, hands grasping the edges of the bench, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.

Your name escapes his lips in a plaintive groan, lust renewing his voice with a gravelly quality.

Responding to his unspoken plea, you stretch upward, capturing his mouth with yours. A reward. A prelude. Your lips, soft yet insistent, trail a path down to his chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. He tilts his head back, an offering, granting you unimpeded access to the column of his neck. You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing a kiss to his bobbing Adam's apple, and leaving a trail of lilac.

Your hand torments him with a slow ride down, grip tightening incrementally with each kiss. But there's a yearning for more, craving something more substantial. Not that this isn't intoxicating—the pulsing in your core is evidence enough.

The moment a more desperate whine unfurls from his lips, a ribbon of pure need, drawing you in. It's the tipping point. As if thanking him for the sinful sound, your lips abandon the canvas of his neck, attention now wholly focused on his full, flushed hardness.

You level with the sight of his arousal, standing eager, tip glistening. Your breath ghosts over his sensitive skin, eliciting a shudder that courses through his entire body. You hear the complaint of squeezed leather beneath his grip.

“Show me how you like it,” you breathe, letting the little puffs of air tickle at his reddened shaft.

Seemingly overwhelmed, he remains answerless, eyes resting on your blushed mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if reciting an undeniable truth, akin to the blue of the sky or the firmness of his length. His thumb traces the contours of your mouth with gossamer lightness. “Indulge as you please,”

At that, you smile, gently guiding his hand away and pressing a kiss tender on his knuckles. And with a final, heated glance up at his face—flushed with want, eyes dark with need—you lower your head, lips parting.

With a delicate grace, you envelop him, your lips forming a perfect crescent around his crown. Slowly, deliberately, you welcome him into the warmth of your mouth, one hand gliding to his base with tender precision. The other, seeking purchase, finds his chest, gently urging him backward to grant you greater freedom of movement.

He yields without resistance, acquiescence punctuated by a cascade of desperate, breathy whimpers as he reclines against the piano. The instrument protests beneath his bones, dissonant notes plunking out objections at the sin unfolding before it.

You savour him—heady salt and warmth. His velvet glides across your palette, your lips tightening in counterpoint. Your tongue laps and flattens against him in a rhythm that plucks a brief grunt from him. Curiosity compelling you, you lift your gaze to meet his. In that fleeting moment, his eyebrows arch—whether at the feeling or the sight, you prefer the idea of the latter—a wordless expression of awe at the vision before him.

This silent exchange ignites a fervour in you. You increase your tempo, sound of saliva blending seamlessly with his escalating pants. His voice, once controlled, now tumbles in a torrent of incoherent, keening pleas. His fingers now tangle gently in your hair, curling and uncurling in unconscious rhythm. When you dare to take him deeper, his grip tightens ever so slightly.

A deep groan reverberates from the depths of your throat, setting off a cascade of reactions that ripple through both your bodies. The raw sound triggers an involuntary response in him; his hips stutter and twitch forward with barely restrained urgency, cock brushing dangerously far back in your throat.

This sudden intrusion causes your body to react instinctively. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, pliant tongue pressing fully against him, cheeks hollowing with increased suction.

The sensation brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Yet, you hold them back, your focus entirely consumed by the incoherent, mangled words tumbling from Viktor's lips. His loss of composure only serves to fuel you, ushering more strangled moans from you.

With a deliberate leisure, you pull him out of your mouth, slight, wet ‘pop' punctuating the action. A grin plays across your lips as you lick them slowly, savouring his taste and the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue.

Leaning back in with renewed purpose, you flatten your tongue against the sensitive underside of his length. You drag it upwards, feeling every ridge and vein. As you reach the tip, you linger at the frenulum, that exquisitely sensitive spot just beneath the head. Your tongue dances there, teasing and tantalising, while your hand presses firmly against his abdomen, pushing him back slightly, maintaining control.

This calculated move elicits a pleased hum from him, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours. Encouraged by his response, you repeat the movement, each pass of your tongue a perfect mirror of the last, building a rhythm that teeters on the edge between pleasure and sweet torment.

You revel—the choked desperation emanating from the back of his throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest—tempestuous sea. His jaw, slack, burns into your imagination, conjuring tantalising visions of how it might feel nestled between your trembling thighs. Pure masterpiece before you.

A thought dances through your mind: how differently might he approach his little entanglements if it were you sprawled across his desk instead of the mundane paperwork? The notion trails a delicious shiver down you.

The tip of your tongue traces feather-light around his sensitive crown. Slowly, teasingly, you envelop his tip between your lips. Tongue, emboldened, finds its way back to the frenulum and lingers there. Your hands continue to glide in smooth, quickened motions, descending and rising fluidly. His breaths grow increasingly laboured as you continue, his hips jutting and twitching. You apply gentle pressure, guiding him downward.

With a filthy cry that escapes him, you feel the hot release at the roof of your mouth. Encouraging him further, you draw him deeper, welcoming the spill into your throat with a rough hum. His voice breaks as he calls out your name between ragged gasps. It sounds almost like prayer.

Further sinful whines fall out of him as you continue to swallow and lap him from inside.

As you feel his tension finally easing, you slowly withdraw, your tongue tracing the pearlescent spill. His sharp, staccato breaths punctuate the silence, and he brings his hand to your chin, lifting your attention to him.

You smile, swallowing, though proving futile, his release unrelentingly coating the back of your throat.

“Will I get to demonstrate?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He smirks. The fucker.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. Tonight’s my repentance,”

#arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor #arcane viktor fanfic #viktor fanfic #physics professor viktor #viktor x gn!reader #violinist reader #neighbours trope #viktor smut #viktor arcane x reader #viktor x you #arcane smut #arcane viktor smut #nausicaas fics

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stevie-petey · 2 days ago

Text

growing pains

But you’re tired of pretending. “Why am I here, Steve?” “I thought we already established it’s because you walked in the snow.” He’s dodging. Avoiding the question and the truths that will come with it. “Steve.” Hissing his name is familiar, it feels more natural. This is how it should be between you. Anger, disdain, raw. “And there it is,” He winces. “The fighting begins. We lasted, what? Ten minutes? Merry Christmas to us.”

Summary: steve buys you shitty coffee five years after your breakup.

Rating: general, swearing

Warnings: fem! reader, use of y/n, exes!au, slight unhealthy relationship if u squint, ambiguous ending (kinda)

Words: 8k

Before you swing in: hi my dears ! heres a very sad/bittersweet coffee shop conversation with far too many flashbacks and miscommunication. yummy ! unintentionally made this a christmas fic, so the bleachers song merry christmas please dont call is very fitting lmao. enjoy !

A flurry of snow coats Hawkins. Christmas lights reflect off the pristine white as the quiet stills everything in the town. There are no cars that drive past you. Hardly anyone littering the sidewalk as your footsteps trace a path in the freshly fallen snow. In the small, rundown cafe there is only one other patron brave enough to face the winter cold.

The bell above the door signals your arrival.

Steve looks up at you.

The flush of cold air stains your cheeks a ruddy red, though his gaze tinges the hue pink. The blush gives away the fondness you hoped you had buried below your sternum; but the fondness is still there. It will always be there.

Steve gestures silently, offering you the seat in front of him. He’s chosen a small table in the back of the room. Secluded. Private. But he doesn’t stand to greet you.

You sit. The cold makes your body slow. Steve’s presence makes your posture stiff. Your hands remain folded in your lap. You don’t place them on the table, too reminiscent of the times he would reach across and interlace your fingers together.

The deliberate act is small, your only defiance, but still, after all these years, Steve sees it for what it really is. You’re still exactly as he remembers. The corner of his lip twitches, hiding a smile that you still know the weight of. How it felt against your own lips.

“The whole town is buzzing about a white Christmas. We haven’t gotten snow like this in years.”

Inconsequential. Steve’s first words to you in five years are inconsequential.

There are still flecks of snow on your clothes. A snowflake melts slowly on your scarf. You watch its demise. There is nothing you want to say to him.

Steve shifts slightly. Clears his throat. You still make him nervous. “I wasn’t sure you’d still come.”

“I walked.” Your first words to Steve are inconsequential, too.

“In all this snow?” His surprise is soft, bordering on amusement. He takes his coat off, and underneath is a cheesy holiday sweater that makes your throat clench. “Aren’t you freezing?”

You shake your head. “I like the cold.”

And then Steve smiles. Genuine, it stretches across his entire face. “Yeah,” a breathy laugh that echoes in your ears. “I remember.”

–

“I can’t feel my legs.” Steve whines, lagging behind you as the two of you trek through the snow. You’re at the bottom of the hill, still a long way from the top. “How are you still alive?”

You’re flushed in excitement and youth. The apples of your cheeks match the pink hat that keeps sliding into your eyes. Planting your feet firmly into the snow, you continue to climb. “It’s not that cold.”

“It’s freezing–shit!” Steve slips on a patch of ice. His voice cracks as he yelps, and you giggle at his embarrassment. He glares at you. “Please don’t laugh at me. I’m miserable here, Y/N.”

“You’re the one who wanted to come. I was perfectly happy going sledding alone.” You’re halfway up the hill now. The flimsy plastic tube you’re using to sled hangs loosely from your hand. “Don’t be such a baby.”

Steve scoffs. “God forbid I try to be romantic and go sledding with my girlfriend.”

Your cheeks flush an even deeper shade of pink. It still feels weird, hearing him call you his girlfriend. The word is new, foreign, but the warmth that accompanies it is one that you hope you never get used to.

“Besides, who even goes sledding alone?” Steve continues, still pathetically behind you. “What if you got hurt? No good boyfriend should allow that to happen.”

You snort. “What, are you my knight in shining armor now?” Shifting low, you start scooping up some snow. “Is that what you want me to say?”

“All I’m saying is that I’m totally a saint.”

You laugh, now packing the snow into your hands as you form a snowball. “Oh, I’m sure you are.” Steve hasn’t noticed what you’re doing yet. He doesn’t know that in a matter of seconds you’ll cover his face in snow. Sneaking a glance at him, your breath catches.

There are snowflakes in Steve’s hair. A few kiss his cheeks, dancing along his freckles. The brown of his eyes glow warm ember in the white snow. His skin is pink, alive and pure. He’s beautiful. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that makes you ache.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Steve asks you, face wrinkling in confusion.

You cough, embarrassed to have been caught. The snow in your hands starts to sting. The pain grounds you, clears your mind, and you try to pretend that the molasses in your bloodstream isn’t love.

Throwing the snowball, it explodes in Steve’s face. He shrieks, sputtering at the cold shock. “Y/N!”

You laugh, loud and happily. Your ribs ache and your breaths escape your lungs in a burn that soothes you. Steve lunges toward you, hands finding your waist as he pulls you close. He grips you tightly, he can feel your laughter in his chest.

“You’ll pay for that!” he buries his nose in your neck and you squeal, laughing even harder. Steve pulls you impossibly closer. He relishes in your warmth. He relishes in the way you squeal when he starts to tickle you.

Warm. Everything about you is warm.

You are sunshine against Steve’s skin.

–

Someone else walks into the cafe, the sound of the bell echoes in the chasm between you and Steve. There are no more snowflakes on your scarf. The warmth of the cafe is stifling, although there is a comforting familiarity to it.

“How are you?”

Another inconsequential question, although you can’t fault Steve for it. He’s trying. More than you are, anyways. But what are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to do, seeing your first love after five years of silence and absence?

“Fine.” The response falls flat, mundane. Disinterested. Wincing, you really do try to sound as if you want to be here. “Good. I-I’ve been good.”

“Yeah?” Steve raises his eyebrow, leaning in. “I mean, I’m not surprised.”

Your shoulders tense. “What do you mean?”

Seeing your unease, Steve quickly explains himself. “Shit. That sounded ominous. I’m sorry,” he runs his fingers through his hair. The same way he used to do when he was seventeen. “What I meant is that Robin told me. About what you’ve been up to these last few years.”

Your shoulders drop. Of course Robin still talks to him about you. You suppose it’s only fair, seeing as how she tells you about him, too. She remained friends with you both after the breakup. She hadn’t wanted to take anyone’s side, and she’s kept true to that.

“What has she told you?”

It’s a real question. You know Robin would never tell Steve anything embarrassing or incriminating. But curiously gnaws at you.

“Nothing bad, unfortunately.” Steve gently teases, but his prodding is only met with your uninterested gaze. He sighs, clears his throat. “She told me you moved to New York. Nearly screamed my ear off when your publishing deal got accepted. It’s pretty incredible.”

Your fingers pick at the skin underneath your nails. “It’s only for one book.”

“Five years, and you still can’t accept a compliment.”

“You’d be surprised by what can change in five years,” your eyes avoid his. “Is the coffee any good here?”

“It’s terrible,” Steve slides his mug over to you. Steam rises from the black liquid inside. “Milk and sugar. Hope it’s still how you like it.”

You take a sip, cringing at the taste. You’ve come to prefer your coffee black, bitter but rich. The coffee Steve has bought you is too sweet, but you drink more anyways. It gives you something to do.

“I’ve been good, too. Thanks for asking.” Steve leans against his seat, placing his hands behind his head. He’s as coy as ever. The years haven’t made him humble. “I’m sure you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t wondering.” You set the mug down. “I heard you made history being the youngest English teacher at Hawkins High.”

Steve’s mouth parts in shock. In another life, you pinch his lips together and kiss the tip of his nose. In another life, five years ago, you did.

But not this life. “Robin talks about you, too.”

“Of course she does,” Steve echoes your earlier thoughts. He leans back again, eyes never leaving your face. “Were you surprised? Steve Harrington. English teacher.”

The answer comes easily. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” you twist the mug around. Steve stares at you and you wish he would stop. He’ll see through you, he’ll see the fondness and he’ll know everything you’ve tried to erase. “You were always interested in what I was reading. You didn’t hide it very well.”

Steve smiles to himself, his own fondness leaking over. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t.”

He could never hide anything from you.

–

You’re in the classics section of Hawkins’ library. You wanted to check out a few books they recently collected. The librarian has your personal landline. You’ve spent more and more time in the building, reading all of the greatest authors.

Steve always comes with you.

“Look, Y/N. I adore you, but if there aren’t any ass-kicking spies or alien babes, then I’m not reading it.” He shoves the book you hold in front of him away. “What the hell is a Brontie, anyways?”

“It’s Bronte,” you poke Steve’s cheek. “And I really need you to stop pretending that you don’t know these authors. It’s gotta be exhausting.”

He grabs the hand poking his face and twists it, forcing you to spin and land against his chest. “I’m not pretending, sweetheart. I don’t know any of these names.”

Steve claims he comes to the library with you because he gets lonely without you, but you’ve caught him rifting through Albert Camus and Erich Fromm. He could spend hours paging through their works.

But you’ll allow him to keep this one secret from you.

“C’mon,” you laugh, tugging Steve’s arm towards a new section. “Help me find Fyodor Dostoevsky. I want to study the way he writes his characters’ inner monologues.”

“No way that’s a real name.”

You laugh again. “Just shut up and help me, please.”

Eventually you find Dostoevsky and you become engrossed in his words. They’re intricate and complex, yet there’s a simplicity and plainness that strikes you. You write down a flurry of notes, not wanting to forget a thing; one day you want to command words the way all the authors you’ve studied seemed to do.

You’re so lost in the world Dostoevsky has built, that you don’t notice Steve’s absence until he returns again.

“Hey, check this out.” He’s holding a book, his finger saving the line he wants to show you. “This Pablo Neruda dude was like, a total romantic. Wanna hear?”

You lean against the bookshelf, curious. “Are you going to read to me?”

The only response is Steve’s charming smile. He steps closer to you, your breath mixes with his. “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving.’”

He closes the book, but he doesn’t move away. Your foreheads touch.

“Love”. A word neither one of you has said until now. Until Steve read you a poem and uttered the word three separate times.

He loves you, and you love him.

Standing on your tiptoes, you kiss him. Steve kisses you back.

–

“Do you enjoy it?”

Steve drums his fingers on the table. “Enjoy what?”

“Being someone that kids look up to.”

He breathes out slowly. “I forgot how much you love asking heavy questions.”

You finally look at him. “You’re the one that asked to meet for coffee.”

“Fair point,” Steve scratches the back of his head. “Thank you, by the way. For agreeing.”

“I was in town.” You look away again. “The holidays. And the wedding, I guess. Nancy asked me to come.”

“I still can’t believe she got Byers to agree to a winter wedding.” Steve shakes his head, smiles to himself. “Anyways, to answer your shockingly emotional question: I do enjoy it. I love teaching. I love being someone that kids can come to. Is it terrifying? Absolutely. But selfishly, I like to think I’m good at it.”

Even though you don’t want to, you smile at him. “You’ve always been good with kids.”

Steve doesn’t expect your sincerity. The praise is small, a throwaway comment more than anything else, but it’s the nicest thing you’ve said to him in years. He’s suddenly shy, ducking his head. “I don’t know. Those little bastards were really difficult to handle.”

The little bastards being Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Will, Max, and El. The kids you grew up with, a consequence of being neighbors with the Wheelers. One day there was a kid on your doorstep demanding you let him use your old scooter.

Mike had been only nine then, but he had been fierce and persuasive. After giving the scooter over, Mike forced you into his life. Then the rest of the party’s lives.

Nancy came later, then Jonathan, and then, eventually, Steve.

“They admired you.” You tell Steve, honest. “They still do.”

He blushes again. “You really think so?”

“I remember more than you think,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I remember everything, too.”

–

The morning of the kids’ graduation, it’s a blur of packed cars and nervous excitement. Steve offered to drive everyone, giving the parents time to get situated and find seats at the high school.

“Your car reeks.” Mike kicks Steve’s seat.

He glares at the kid. “Why didn’t you ride in Nancy’s car, then?”

“Her and Jonathan are gross.”

Lucas fixes his graduation cap. “They whisper to themselves a lot. It’s creepy.”

Max elbows him. “It’s because they’re in love, doofus.”

“Steve and Y/N are in love, and you don’t see them whispering to themselves.” Dustin points out, which you laugh at.

“I’ll be sure to never whisper to Steve with you guys around.”

Will pokes the back of your head. “Can you tell your boyfriend to drive faster? If we’re late, I think Hopper might actually kill him.”

“My dad would not kill Steve.” El corrects. “He would only hurt him. A lot.”

Steve pales slightly, stepping on the gas. “Alright. Guess we’re getting a speeding ticket, then.”

You end up arriving at the high school with a few minutes to spare. All the kids run out the car, throwing a quick thanks as they scatter. They’re gone in a heartbeat, a mass of green caps and gowns.

“We’ll see you guys on stage!” You shout through the window, waving as they leave.

“Remember how nervous we were when we graduated?” Steve asks you.

You shake your head fondly at the memory. “You wouldn’t stop sneezing. I had no idea you were a nervous sneezer until then. Robin thought it was the most embarrassing thing ever. I contemplated breaking up with you.”

“It’s a debilitating condition, Y/N.”

The graduation is long, but with six separate kids to listen for and cheer on, it passes quickly. When their names get called, you and Steve are the loudest ones who cheer. Robin calls you guys dramatic, but she screams her heart out when Dustin walks the stage.

Nancy cries when Mike walks, and Jonathan, who had only just stopped crying after seeing Will walk, has to hold back his tears yet again as he consoles her.

The five of you are a mess, and when the kids find you after graduation, you aren’t sure who starts running first. They swarm you, arms encase you and you hold onto them tightly. Will is crying, El can’t stop jumping, the kids are all a mix of emotions, yet they all remain fixated on Steve.

“Did you see the way I walked?”

“I waved at you! Did you see me?”

“You’re really loud when you scream, ya know that?”

“A poster would’ve nice. Just saying.”

All their eyes are on him. Their questions directed at him, eager to be answered. They seek Steve’s praise, like sunflowers following the sun’s rays.

As you stand back, watching the way Steve is so loved by the kids, you fall in love with him all over again.

–

Steve picks at the frayed edges of his old jacket. It’s the same one he bought with you, back when winter in Hawkins was warm and yellow and light. Now everything is dull. Grey and bleak.

“I never thought that you’d forget.” He acknowledges your hurtful words. He doesn’t like their implications. “I’d never think that.”

Steve’s clipped words make you defensive. Heat rises to your face. It makes your heartbeat spike. “There are a lot of things I thought you’d never do.”

He sucks in a breath.

The cafe is quiet again. Your coffee remains untouched, cold.

Steve finally tears his eyes from you, and the loss of his gaze feels colder than you expected it to. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To see his disdain for you on his pretty face, for him to hurt how you had. Isn’t that why you agreed to this?

The way Steve’s entire demeanor changes, how quickly his smile slips from his face, makes you question why you’re even here. Suddenly you want to take it all back. To mold his face into a happier one, get him to look at you again and trick yourself into believing that the tenderness in his eyes is real.

“I’m sorry.” The apology comes out fast, the words mesh together, but it’s the best you can manage. “That… that was mean.”

“I think mean is fair.” Steve looks at you, his lighthearted smile is back, but it doesn’t shine like before. “Honestly, I’m relieved you’re being mean.”

You’re confused. Everything he does confuses you. “Is that why you asked me to coffee? Because you wanted me to be mean to you?”

“Partially.” He sips your discarded coffee and quickly spits it out. He wipes his mouth, gagging. “Jesus, that’s fucking rancid. I don’t even know why I did that. I hate coffee, and it’s even worse when it’s cold.”

He’s making a whole show of this. The way Steve talks to you, the questions he’s asking and the way he responds to whatever you tell him. He’s trying to recreate something that isn’t there anymore. Treating your time in the coffee shop together as if you’re two friends catching up.

But you’re tired of pretending. “Why am I here, Steve?”

“I thought we already established it’s because you walked in the snow.”

He’s dodging. Avoiding the question and the truths that will come with it.

“Steve.” Hissing his name is familiar, it feels more natural. This is how it should be between you. Anger, disdain, raw.

“And there it is,” He winces. “The fighting begins. We lasted, what? Ten minutes? Merry Christmas to us.”

Fed up, you slam your chair back and stand. If Steve wants to evade every question and act as if this is all some giant joke, then he can go fuck himself.

The sudden motion makes Steve jump, but he quickly stands up with you when he realizes that you’re leaving. “Shit, wait–”

Steve’s hand grazes yours and you flinch away, reeling back. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Y/N…” He stands still, the venom in your voice cementing him to the ground. In all the time he’s known you, you’ve never rejected his touch. Bitterly, he thinks that you were right about what you said when you first arrived at the cafe.

A lot can change in five years.

You press the back of your hand to your forehead, trying to calm yourself down. Even though there’s no one else in the shop, you still don’t want to cause a scene. Not here. Not like this.

“This was a mistake.” You swallow down bile. Steve still manages to get such a vulgar rise out of you, and you hate it. “At Nancy and Jonathan’s wedding, we won’t speak to one another. We won’t ruin their day, and you can sit with Robin. I don’t care. We can just pretend that we don’t–”

Your words die in your throat. You can’t bring yourself to finish them.

“That we don’t what, Y/N?” Steve knows exactly what you mean to say. He narrows his eyes at you, pushes you to lay the final blow.

Your breath stutters. Your body is cold. You may still make Steve nervous, but he still makes you nervous as well. He can still cut through you viciously in a way only someone who has truly loved you can.

He stands before you, begging. “Say it.”

You’ve always been weak for him. “That we don’t hate each other.”

But your words are meaningless. As if you could ever hate each other.

Steve lets out a bitter laugh. “The one thing I can’t do when it comes to you is hate you.”

“Steve–” You want to take it all back. You shouldn’t have said it. You don’t know why you even said it, but you did.

“I can go five years without hearing your voice. I can wake up without you next to me. I can spend the rest of my life regretting that I lost you.” Steve doesn’t move, he doesn’t come near you. He’s hurt and he’s in pain and you don’t know how to be the one to help him anymore. “But what I can’t do, the only thing I can’t do, is hate you.”

–

The bay window caught your eye first. Then it was the rich brown wood floors, and then the garden that overlooks Lover’s Lake. Inside the apartment there are vintage tiles that you adore and the baby-blue walls make you feel faint.

The home Steve finds for the two of you is, unsurprisingly, perfect.

“Do we really get to live here?” You ask, breathless as you wander through the empty hallways and bedroom. Never before have you had such endless space to yourself. It feels very adult, very final, and you wouldn’t have chosen anyone else to experience this first with than Steve.

“We better get to live here.” Steve huffs, setting down another box. You tried offering to help, but he scoffed at the idea and told you to admire the apartment instead. “The deposit was fucking expensive.”

Your fingers brush over the cream white curtains. They’re soft beneath your touch. “At least your dad was kind enough to pay it.”

“And if by ‘kind enough’, you mean ‘wanted his son to move out already’, you’d be right.”

“Same difference.”

Steve laughs and the sound echoes through the empty room that you know you’ll have years together to fill. You already have a million things you want to purchase for the apartment. Steve’s only request had been that you make the apartment feel like a home.

As if anywhere with Steve doesn’t already feel like a home.

Later in the night you order pizza, starving and exhausted from moving. There’s no table for you and Steve to sit at. No chairs to rest on. You eat your first meal in your new home on the floor, surrounded by boxes and laughter.

It’s perfect.

“While I’m grateful for Mrs. Wheeler for giving us her spare bedding and all,” Steve wraps the blanket tighter around the two of you. The bed beneath you is lumpy and old, the only furniture that came with the apartment, but a bed is a bed. “I feel weird sleeping in her sheets.”

You press your nose against Steve’s neck, feeling your bones sag with relief. “She’s hot. I’d sleep in her sheets any day.”

Steve chokes on his spit, falling into a coughing fit while you giggle hysterically. He hits his chest, tries to suck air back in, and you’re laughing so hard there’s tears in your eyes.

“You can’t just say that!” He sputters, still coughing.

“I know you were thinking it!” You giggle again, your smile presses against Steve’s cheek. His body is warm and soft and he smells like home; it's addicting. He’s still coughing when you kiss his cheek and brush his hair back. “Can you stop dying already? I’m trying to kiss you here.”

Steve wraps his arms around you and throws his body on top, smushing you beneath him. You squeal, giggling even harder now as he litters your skin with feathery kisses. “You’re trying to kiss me, huh?”

His nose runs down your cheek. Down across your forehead, to the tips of your ears. He kisses every inch of skin he can reach. “I don’t think you’re doing much kissing here, Y/N.” Steve kisses your eyebrow. His lips skim your chin, they linger in your laugh lines as endless laughter pours from you.

“It-it tickles!” More laughter, you try to shove Steve away, but he places all his weight against you and kisses the apples of your cheeks. His fingers curl around your waist, nails digging in softly. He has you right where he wants you.

“Kiss me,” he breathes into you. Over and over he repeats himself, kissing you with every enunciation. “Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.”

Steve begs you and you ache. He never has to ask you. You would do anything for him.

You tilt your head, find his lips, and you get lost in each other. He kisses you slowly, intentionally. With a softness that makes you shiver. He whispers how beautiful you are, how much he loves you, and the syrup in your lungs simmers.

“I love you,” you murmur, lips kissing his chest. “I think you’re my favorite person in the world.”

A childish praise, but it’s everything to Steve.

–

Steve orders you another coffee. Black this time, no sugar. The barista brings the cup over when it’s ready, the steam the only source of warmth between you and him.

Snow falls outside and Steve hasn’t been able to look at you since you sat back down.

You’re not entirely sure why you’re still here. Neither one of you talk. There is no more disingenuous small talk between you. No more forced smiles. Polite questions about how the other has been.

All there that remains between you and Steve is the absence of what was.

“Robin said we’d only last five minutes.”

You remember the surprise on her face when you told her you’d accept Steve’s offer for coffee. She didn’t think you’d say yes, and the surprise quickly morphed into skepticism. She placed her book down, patted your hand, and told you good luck.

Steve laughs, short and staccato. “She has such shit faith in us. We’re nearing twelve minutes now.”

“We’re stubborn.” The coffee is disgusting even without the excess sweetness. Steve is right. The coffee here is truly horrible.

“If I remember correctly, you’ve always been the more stubborn one.” He isn’t mean when he says this. More observant, stating a fact.

You set the coffee down. “And if I remember correctly, you hit your head a lot when we were kids.”

A small smile. “Which would mean?”

“That it’s possible you don’t remember anything correctly.” You tug at your scarf. “Maybe I wasn’t as stubborn as you’re remembering.”

Steve laughs this time, a real laugh that melts the ice that froze over moments ago. “Whenever we argued, you never let me get a word in. I’ll never forget that. I would’ve found it impressive, if it weren’t directed at me.”

Snippets of memories flash through your mind. You and Steve hardly argued throughout your entire relationship, but when you did, the fallout was always scattered pieces.

“Doesn’t mean I’m stubborn.” You say weakly, still not quite ready to admit otherwise.

“I’d argue with you, but I was hoping we’d make it to fifteen minutes.” Steve takes your coffee, sips it again and cringes like he did before. Only he doesn’t say anything this time.

“Is there a prize if we make it to fifteen?”

He smiles into the coffee. “Possibly.”

Silence again.

Steve keeps the mug in his hands, using its warmth to soothe his cold fingers. Years ago, he would use the heat of your hands to warm him. But your hands remain folded in your lap and you no longer want his touch.

The silence eats at you. You bite your lip, twist your fingers together. You don’t know why you stayed, but you don’t know why Steve stayed, either.

“I was pretty stubborn, wasn’t I?”

Steve looks at you. His eyes shine for a brief moment. “Maybe a little.”

–

Shortly after moving into your apartment, you started writing. After years of reading other people’s stories, you felt that it was time to write your own. But finding the story was difficult. Every night you stared at your blank pages, willing them to fill with the words you were unable to write.

As for Steve, he started picking up spare shifts at the local diner. He hated being a waiter. He thought it was degrading, but as a twenty-two year old with no college degree or work experience, it was all he could do.

Money was tight, you were both starting to feel the weight of truly being on your own. You weren’t just two kids anymore. There were real responsibilities now. Grappling with your futures rather than imagining them.

And then one day you got a phone call that changed everything.

“I can’t miss this interview!”

“And I can’t just leave work in the middle of the day to drive you, Y/N.” Steve sighs deeply over the phone. You can practically envision the way he pinches the bridge of his nose and tugs at his hair. It’s grown long. Longer than it’s ever been before. You like it this way.

You glance at your watch and curse, frustrated tears burning your eyes. “Steve, please. This could make or break my entire future.”

“Sweetheart, I understand that, but if I leave work early, I’m getting fired.”

“You don’t know that!” You need him to say yes. You need him to drop everything for you and drive you to Bedford so that you can meet with a literary agent and discuss your work.

It all happened so fast. One moment you were sending yet another draft of short story ideas to random agents. The next, you’re getting a phone call offering an interview in a town an hour away from Hawkins.

None of it felt real. That is, until the catch fell against you: the agent can only meet today and you don’t have a car.

“David explicitly told me that if I leave work early one more time, my ass is grass.” Steve rubs his face, exhausted. He wants to help you, he wants you to finally get your big break. You’re far too talented for Hawkins, you deserve to be somewhere better; but the reality is that you can’t afford it right now. “Can’t someone else drive you?”

“I already called everyone else.” Your face is hot from anxiety. “Robin. Nancy. Jonathan. Hell, even Mike and the kids! But no one can take me and I have to be there in two hours.”

“Y/N…”

Your head falls against the wall. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Steve’s heart clenches. He sucks in a breath. “I know that, okay? I-I do. But I can’t afford to lose this job. We’re already behind on rent, we still owe my dad for the deposit–”

“But you can always get another job!” You exclaim, losing whatever grasp you have left of your sanity. “I mean, Jesus, Steve. You’re just a waiter.”

The line is silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry?”

His tone is quiet, it laces guilt into your veins.

“I-I just meant that there’s a shitload of restaurants in Hawkins,” you’re rambling now, regretting everything. You shouldn’t have called. You shouldn’t have said what you did. But now it’s too late and you’re in too deep. Letting out a breath, your lips tremble. “But there’s only one literary agent who wants to meet with me.”

There’s yelling in the background. Steve mumbles something to someone, you think you hear David yelling at him to get back to work. Muffled rustling, followed by a string of curses.

“I gotta get back to work.” Steve says curtly, not even giving you a chance to respond before he’s already hanging up the phone.

The dial tone rings in your ear.

You never make it to your interview.

Steve gets home late that night. He walks past you, he doesn’t acknowledge you besides the slam of the bedroom door.

–

“I never apologized to you.”

Steve sets the mug down. He doesn’t ask you what you mean. “No, you didn’t.”

You swallow. “I… I’m really sorry, Steve.”

He shrugs. It was a long time ago. He’s forgotten the sting of your words. The marks they left have long since faded. “It was your dream.”

“But you were more than just a waiter. Hell, you were the only reason we didn’t lose the apartment.” You rub the back of your neck, relieving the tension that knots it. “God, I was so fucking naive. I’m sorry for not realizing sooner, for not appreciating everything you did for us.”

Steve shrugs again. “We were just kids.”

The coffee you drank suddenly sinks in your stomach.

We were just kids.

Sometimes you forget that your relationship with Steve had been your childhood. The two of you met when you were fifteen, fell in love when you were seventeen, and fell apart when you were twenty-three.

You’d been so young together. The mistakes you made, the hurt you caused, were childish gashes with bullet-sized exit wounds.

“We were just kids, weren’t we?” The nostalgia in your voice surprises even you.

A fond smile ghosts Steve’s face. It’s barely there, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. “Young and in love. Now we’re just old.”

“At least we aged well.”

Steve raises his eyebrow at you. “Was that a compliment, Y/N?”

You smile, coy. “Who said anything about you? I was referring to myself.”

Steve scoffs, light hearted. You expect him to retaliate, to tease you how you’re teasing him. Instead, his gaze softens. He leans forward, drawn into you as he always is, and lowers his voice. “You’re as beautiful as ever.”

Years separate you and Steve. It’s been nearly a decade since love first tied you to each other. There used to be a knot, tied into something intricate, small, yet lovely, that connected you to Steve.

And yet, with one sentence, the strings come together again.

“I still haven’t forgotten,” you fall back in your seat, away from Steve. “How you hurt me.”

He mirrors your body language, moving away as well. “And what about how you hurt me?”

You cross your arms. Steve crosses his. Staring at one another, a stalemate is reached. The memories that tie you together are both your vice and your virtue. The love is still remembered, it’s still warm to the touch, but so is the hurt.

Robin would call you both childish if she were here right now. You can practically hear her now, annoyance in her voice as she rolls her eyes at the staring contest unfolding. She’s always resented how stubborn you both are.

“Why did you call me?”

Steve inhales sharply. He knows he has to answer the question. It’s only fair that he gives you an explanation for why he decided to call you at three in the morning the Friday before your plane was due to arrive in Hawkins’ small airport for Christmas and a wedding you both were invited to.

But he can’t. Not yet, at least.

“If it makes me look any better, I called Robin first.” Steve forces a laugh out. “Granted, she told that if I called you that I’d probably die. But still. Blame her.”

Everything unravels after that.

“You never showed up.”

“Y/N.”

A crack to the surface, followed by a fist of anger that shatters everything. “You promised me you’d be there.”

“I was dick, I know–”

“Do you know how humiliated I was?” Steve winces, and his shame only enrages you more. “How utterly shitty it was when all our friends, our families, asked me where you were, and I couldn’t answer them?”

“Y/N, please just let me explain–”

“No.” The mug spills over as you hit the table, standing up furiously. You’re crying. You don’t remember the tears building. “You don’t get to call me in the middle of the night, buy me dogshit coffee, and then spoon feed me shitty excuses! You were my boyfriend, I wanted to marry you, and you abandoned me.”

“Is the coffee really that bad?”

Your jaw clenches. Steve rubs his neck, looking everywhere but at you. He’s trying to be funny. His first words to you in five years were inconsequential, and now he’s trying to use humor to ease the sting of guilt that he feels seeing you.

The decision is an easy one.

“Goodbye, Steve.”

His hand grips yours before you can even turn away. Startled by his sudden touch, you don’t pull back. Not this time, at least. You’re frozen, staring at Steve as he stares at you. He’s pale. His chest heaves and there’s terror in his eyes.

“Don’t.” It’s all he can say to you.

“Let me go.” But still you don’t pull away.

Let us go. Please.

“I…” He blinks, almost winces to himself. Steve doesn’t know how to tell you the truth. Not anymore. Not like how he used to. But you’re pulling away again and he’s just gotten you back and he can’t lose you. Not again. “I resented you.”

Your back straightens. “Excuse me?”

“I-I know how bad it sounds, but if you just–” Steve gestures behind him, tries to sit you back down. But you don’t move. His eyes plead with you. “Y/N, please.”

He looks so akin to the boy you once knew. The resemblance twists the tendons in your chest, forces the air out of your lungs. You don’t move, but you don’t leave, either.

Steve accepts all that you’ll give him.

–

The home you built with Steve loses its warmth. Lazy Sunday mornings cease to exist. He doesn’t hold you at night. Dates go unplanned, dinners eaten alone. Laughter dies and you stop waiting for Steve to come home. Everything stills. Lost in a time capsule that was once your dream.

Winter comes and the snow that blankets Hawkins softens the dull ache of the distance that’s built between you and Steve. He starts taking night classes at a local community college and you spend your nights writing.

The first story you write is about a lonely barn owl who hops through dwindling branches trying to find its mate. The creature calls out for someone, its wails echoing through the deserted forest that once was alive with creation.

A snowflake that gets lost in a storm that it created becomes your second story. Its frail, lithe body too transparent to be anything other than alone.

Then you write about a dandelion that mourns for its seeds that have been cruelly torn from its body.

Over and over you write about loss. How cold it leaves a person, the emptiness that can never quite be filled.

In the end, it’s this sense of loss that gives you everything you’ve ever wanted, yet leaves you with nothing to show for it.

“I sent my writing to a short story show. I got in.”

Steve unbuttons his work shirt. He worked a double shift at the restaurant, but spares you a tired smile. “That’s great.”

The praise is small, but the rarity of it makes it feel like gold upon your skin. Cheeks flushed, you smile back at him shyly. “Thank you.”

Steve goes back to changing out of his clothes and you’re left to deal with the silence that always seems to follow you these days. Your feet carry you to the bed, sitting down gently as you watch him. He doesn’t shy away from your gaze, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, either.

“The show is in two weeks. Christmas Eve.”

“Oh,” Steve pauses in the closet’s doorway. His hand rests on an old sweater you got him when you first started dating. He pulls out a different one instead. “Well. I already took the day off, so I’ll come.”

You try not to focus on the fact that he makes attending sound like an obligation. A dull chore he has to complete.

“Robin already promised she’d be front row. Jonathan and Nancy, too.” You get up, stand behind Steve, rest your head on the back of his neck and encircle your arms around him. He stiffens at the touch, so do you. But you can’t let him go. “I think even some of the kids will come. And my parents, obviously.”

“Sounds like you’ll have an entire crowd devoted to you.”

“Yeah, but I only really want you there.” You whisper, vulnerable.

Steve sucks in a breath, releases it. He doesn’t say anything else.

The next two weeks you read your collection of short stories aloud for hours on end. You rehearse how to present them, the right cadence and intonations. How to make the loneliness heavier, the serenity sweeter. You don’t let Steve listen, claiming you want to surprise him alongside everyone else the day of the show.

Later, you’ll come to understand that you had been afraid of how he’d react. If he’d even react at all.

The show is a haze of people and praise. Robin brings you flowers, Jonathan takes pictures of you with all the kids. Dustin surprises you with an old leather journal he found for you to write all your ideas in and El hands you a ribbon to bind it.

Your mother cries and your father hugs you warmly. Mrs. Wheeler and Nancy bring Christmas cookies and organize the large audience you’ve built for yourself in the seats provided by the show. It takes two entire rows to seat everyone you love.

Robin saves a seat for Steve. He’s late.

The night is spent listening to brilliant writers reading their stories to a small, but kind, audience. There are a total of eight featured writers. You’re scheduled to read your writing last.

After the second writer finishes, you look anxiously over at the audience and bite your lip when you still don’t see Steve. The fifth writer goes on and your nails are bloody from picking at them. Mike murmurs something to Robin, who shakes her head and nervously shifts in her seat, eyes never leaving the empty seat next to her.

The seventh writer shares a story about newfound love and its warmth.

Nancy finds your gaze and the pitying look in her eyes makes your nausea even worse.

You stand in front of a mass of people who lean into every word you read aloud. The seat next to Robin remains empty.

Steve never comes.

And it’s the last time you ever wait for him.

–

“I really was proud of you, you know.” Steve says softly, regretfully. “Robin told me you won an award later that night.”

“I did.” The award had been your ticket out of Hawkins. It got you money, connections with publishing agents. You moved to New York not even a week later.

Steve looks down. “I should’ve been there.”

You don’t bother to agree with him. You don’t want to coddle him, lessen the guilt he feels for how cruelly he hurt you. You’ll never forget the pit that formed in your stomach when you realized he wasn’t coming.

“I regret what I did. Every single day I wish I had gone.”

“You resented me instead, apparently.” Your laugh is cruel, cold.

Steve sits back down numbly, his body falls and the seat beneath him catches it. He places his hands on the table, slowly, defeated. He looks up at you, allows himself to finally confess everything. “I resented how easy everything seemed for you. I mean, you were making a name for yourself while I waited shitty tables and slept through grueling night courses.”

You clench your fists, still refusing to sit down. “And that gave you a right to diminish my own accomplishments?”

“Nothing makes sense when you’re twenty-three.”

Not an omission of truth, but rather acknowledgement of how differently you see the world when you’re young. Though you want more from Steve, you accept this. In a way, you suppose he’s right.

“I didn’t go to the show because I was scared of how much I was falling behind.” Steve doesn’t look away from you. He’s laying all his cards on the table, open and waiting for you to read them. “We were in over our heads, but somehow only I was the one drowning.”

Rent, bills owed, grappling with adulthood while still shedding your adolescence. Loneliness while being together. Careers that hurt and dreams that struggled for breath. You and Steve had been drowning together. Until one day you weren’t.

Steve drinks the coffee, he doesn’t pressure you to sit down again. Instead, he sighs. “I let your words get into my head. In your mind I was just a waiter, and I felt that nothing I was doing with my life was worthwhile. The only thing I had done right by the time I was twenty was having you love me.”

The anger that was quick to rise is also quick to dim. There isn’t any left for you to fight.

Finally, you sit. You take the coffee from Steve and the now cold liquid is a reminder of how much time has passed. “The age old question: do actions speak louder than words?”

Did what I say justify what you did? Or did they cause each other, creating a cycle that we can never escape?

You won’t forgive him, but you understand him. Steve was hurting just as much as you were, only his hurt came from your own insecure and unsure words. You told him he was just a waiter because you were scared all you’d ever be was an unknown writer. The weight of your future made you scared, the uncertainty of it all overwhelmed you and made you cruel.

Steve had fallen victim to the same fate.

“Robin told me it was growing pains.” Steve says. “What happened between us. It was all just growing pains.”

Begrudgingly you smile. Your cards are on the table as well. “You called me to discuss growing pains?”

The crinkle of Steve’s smile warms the cold cafe. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

“Tell me, then. Are we done growing?” You lean forward, allow your body to be near Steve’s again and the buzz of the proximity sets your skin on fire. He breathes in sharply. He hasn’t been this close to you in what’s felt like a lifetime.

Steve leans forward too. You can smell his cologne, his eyes still shine how you remember them. His face is the same, though weathered with age and experiences you no longer know about. You count the moles that scatter his face, heart thumping wildly when you realize you still remember how many there are.

He’s still so beautiful.

You’re weak for Steve. Your bones still remember the weight of his love.

“I don’t think we’ll ever be done.” Steve sinks even closer, nose almost bumping your cheek. You hold your breath, body humming.

Breathless, you ask him, “then where does that leave us?”

Steve pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. He studies your face, the familiar angles and peaks of your nose. Your eyes, how they’re still his favorite color. Your hair is the same, maybe a little shorter now, and your perfume still the warm vanilla that reminds him of home.

You’re still the girl Steve fell in love with when he was a kid. He’s still the boy you fell in love with when you were a child. There is still hurt, memories you both want to forget, but there is love within it. Young love can be formed anew, if someone lets it.

“Together.” Steve finally says. “It leaves us together.”

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#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x fem #stranger things #steve harrington angst #m's writing #ambiguous ending but not really #writing this felt like a warm but final hug

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