#they run into him in the deep roads at the end of act 1? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

foreveia · 5 months ago

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the leaders’ pact ⤨ sakusa kiyoomi

⨭ genre; college!au, friends-with-benefits to lovers

⨭ pairing; sakusa kiyoomi x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 12.7k

⨭ description; as it turns out, you and sakusa are the only people who truly understand just how much stress it is to run a student government, and well… you two find a way to blow off steam.

⨭ warnings; a lot of suggestive content, no graphic stuff tho sorry to disappoint this is Not smut, explicit language

⨭ a/n; i've decided sakusa is officially the most difficult person i've ever written abt which means y'all r gonna have to suffer through some horrible fics before i finally figure out the secret to kiyoomi. in the meantime, until i get to the level of being able to write him to my satisfaction, enjoy this part 2 of the asu trilogy :)

song i listened to writing this: 'don't wake me up' by mercer henderson

one.

Furudate University is, in one word, loud.

It’s one of its biggest charms, really—there’s something oddly comforting about being one in a crowd of thousands, about the constant hum of a campus that never fully sleeps. The lively debates over coffee-stained notes, the skateboarders who tempt fate on the cobblestone paths lining the central road, the professors who could be world-class researchers but still have to remind students to submit assignments in PDF format and not screenshots—it’s chaotic, it’s exhausting, and despite everything, you love it here.

That being said, at 1:47 AM, when you’re still in the ASU office drowning in a sea of unread emails and budget spreadsheets, you think maybe—just maybe—you should have picked a smaller school. One with fewer students. Fewer problems. Fewer reasons for you to be awake at this ungodly hour, questioning every life choice that led you here.

Because you’re the ASU president, and behind the lofty title is an overworked, drained, pitiful student who is really at her wits end, shoulder-deep in stupid complaints about the dining halls and unreasonable requests from faculty and alumni. And at this current moment in time, you’re stressed out about an event more than a month away, but already causing you significant problems in your life: the annual Spring Festival.

It’s a week-long ordeal, ending with a massive fundraiser gala that’s all dazzling lights and delicate floral arrangements; you spend half the budget on catering and the other half praying the student performers don’t ruin the atmosphere with an impromptu drum solo. It’s supposed to be the ASU’s shining achievement—proof that this student government is more than a glorified complaint department.

But right now? Right now, it’s a logistical nightmare.

And sitting across from you, flipping through a thick folder with all the enthusiasm of someone reading Terms & Conditions, is the only other person suffering through this hell with you.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, ASU’s executive vice president.

Sakusa, who has been in this office with you for hours, sifting through the same mountain of paperwork, answering the same stupid emails, keeping everything in order with his obsessive attention to detail.

Sakusa, who somehow manages to look completely fine while doing all of this.

You have personally descended into full goblin mode. You’re hunched over your desk, hair slipping out of your bun, posture absolutely horrendous. There is a growing stack of empty coffee cups by your desktop and a pad of post-its covered with scribbled reminders and notes; your workspace is as much of a mess as you are right now. Sakusa, meanwhile, is sitting up straight, scrolling through his tablet with an air of absolute indifference, looking like he could walk out of here and into a corporate meeting without breaking a sweat.

You hate him a little bit for that.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter, rubbing your temples.

“It is,” Sakusa agrees. “But that’s not new information.”

You glare at him. “Okay, but if one more person asks if we can move the gala to a rooftop venue, I might actually lose my mind.”

“They want a rooftop?” he asks, flipping to another page. “In April? In a city where it rained last year?”

“Apparently, ‘the ambiance would be breathtaking.’”

Sakusa stares at you. “The litigation would be breathtaking.”

“Right?” You throw up your hands. “I give it an hour before someone drinks too much and falls off the side.”

“Or before you push them.”

“...I’m not saying I would, but I’m not saying I wouldn’t.”

He hums, unimpressed, before pushing a document across the desk toward you. “Facility contracts,” he says. “Pick a venue so I can start drafting agreements.”

You groan, dropping your head dramatically against the table. “I can’t make any more decisions tonight.”

“Tough.”

“I physically cannot. I am a husk of a person.”

“Then drink some water.”

You lift your head just enough to frown at him. “Did you just tell me to hydrate? That’s your solution?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Fuck that. I need wine or something,” you huff, annoyed.

Sakusa doesn’t even blink. “Then go get some.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “...That sounded suspiciously close to permission.”

“I’m not your parent.” He finally looks up from his tablet, arching a brow. “You’re an adult. If you want to drink yourself into oblivion because of a student event, that’s on you.”

That’s all the encouragement you need.

Five minutes later, you’re sitting cross-legged on the office couch, the wine bottle freshly uncorked between you. Sakusa had taken exactly one look at the cup you found in the ASU storage cabinet (which had definitely been used for some underclassmen’s illicit party at some point) before deciding to drink straight from the bottle instead.

Fine by you.

You take a long sip before passing it back, watching as Sakusa tilts the bottle back with far less hesitation than you expected. You almost comment on it, but then again—if anyone needs to drink, it’s him.

The office is dimly lit, the overhead lights flicked off in favor of the warm glow of a single desk lamp. The exhaustion weighs heavy in the air, mingling with the soft clink of glass and the low rustle of Sakusa flipping a page in his binder.

For a while, there’s just silence.

Comfortable, in a way.

And maybe that’s why, when you finally tilt your head back against the couch, wine warm in your veins and pink in the cheeks, you finally break it. “This job is killing me,” you mutter.

Sakusa exhales, rubbing his temple. “Join the club.”

“You’re the only other person who gets it,” you murmur, staring at the ceiling. “Everyone else just sees the power trip. They don’t see the fucking bureaucracy, the politics, the alumni breathing down our necks. I swear to God, if one more administrator calls me ‘sweetie’—”

“They don’t respect us,” Sakusa says simply. “They never will.”

The words sit heavy between you. It’s the truth, the unspoken reality of student government. You have influence, sure. Responsibility, absolutely. But at the end of the day, you’re just placeholders—students playing pretend at running an institution that will outlive you by centuries.

And it’s exhausting.

Your eyes flicker to Sakusa. The furrow of his brows, the tight set of his jaw. He’s exhausted too.

You shift slightly, your knee brushing against his. He doesn’t move away.

The warmth of the wine lingers, but it’s not enough to explain the heat creeping up your neck. You tell yourself it’s just the exhaustion—just the absurdity of being awake at nearly 2 AM, drowning in bureaucratic bullshit with the only person who understands. But when you glance at him again, catching the way his fingers press absently into the label of the bottle, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze lingers on the floor for a second longer than necessary before meeting yours…

Something flips in your stomach.

A mistake, your brain whispers. A complication waiting to happen. You have to work with him. See him every day. Endure another semester of late nights in this very office, drowning in deadlines and bad coffee and biting remarks that somehow still feel like companionship. You don’t even want to think about what happens if this goes wrong.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Your breath catches. You can hear it, the quiet sound in the stillness of the office. Your heart is an unsteady drumbeat in your chest, something traitorous stirring beneath your ribs. His gaze flickers—down, then up—his throat bobbing in a quiet swallow.

Then he moves.

His lips meet yours, firm and deliberate. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing—just the sharp edge of tension snapping between you, unraveling all at once.

You don’t think. You just react, your fingers threading into his dark hair as he pulls you closer. The empty wine bottle slips from your grasp, landing with a muffled thud against the couch cushions, but you barely notice.

He’s warm. Solid. His hands don’t just grip your waist—they press, anchor, claim. A slow, deliberate pull, like he wants you here, exactly here. There’s something controlled about the way he moves, like he’s holding back, like he’s measuring every touch, every breath.

It makes your skin burn.

You shift, legs draping over his lap, the fabric of his shirt soft under your fingertips as you tug him closer. When your hips roll against his experimentally, his breath stutters—a sharp inhale, his fingers flexing against your sides. The sound sends something electric through you, a shiver that starts at the base of your spine and spreads outward, curling hot in your chest.

Your breath is ragged when he finally pulls away, lips swollen, eyes dark and unreadable. He stares at you for a moment, something flickering across his expression—something unspoken, something dangerous.

“We shouldn’t—” he starts, voice hoarse.

You cut him off with another kiss, hands sliding under his shirt, nails skimming lightly over the firm plane of his stomach. He exhales sharply against your mouth, grip tightening—not just on your waist now, but your hips, your thighs, the fabric of your sweater bunched between his fingers like he’s trying to ground himself.

Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe this is reckless, a mistake in the making.

But right now, it doesn’t feel like one.

Right now, you just need this.

And judging by the way Sakusa exhales, tilts his head back slightly as your lips trail along his jaw, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your sweater, so does he.

two.

You wake up to warmth.

The blankets are too heavy, too soft; the pillow beneath your head isn’t yours, and the mattress is firmer than what you’re used to. The air smells faintly of laundry detergent, crisp and clean, and for a few blissful seconds, none of this sets off any alarm bells.

Then you shift.

And your leg brushes against something—someone.

Your entire body goes rigid.

Slowly, carefully, you open your eyes.

Sakusa is lying beside you, still half-asleep.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Your brain kicks into overdrive, panic slamming into you at full force.

You don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t blink—like maybe if you stay perfectly still, reality will reset itself and you’ll wake up in your own bed, like none of this ever happened.

You rub your eyes. Nope. No, you’re still here. In Sakusa’s bed.

Last night comes rushing back in fragments.

The office, the spreadsheets, the overwhelming weight of responsibility pressing down on you both. The frustration, the exhaustion, the bottle of wine. The way his voice had dipped lower, the sharp inhale when your fingers slipped beneath his shirt. The way he kissed you—deliberate, controlled, like he was trying to hold himself back but couldn't quite bring himself to stop.

And, apparently, didn’t.

Your face burns.

You can’t do this. You need to get out of here. Right now.

Very, very carefully, you begin to inch toward the edge of the bed. If you can just get up without waking him, you can grab your clothes, sneak out, and pretend this never happened—

“You’re awake,” Sakusa mutters, voice rough with sleep.

You freeze.

His eyes are barely open, but there’s enough clarity in them to tell you that he’s fully aware of the situation. He blinks slowly, processing, before exhaling and rubbing a hand over his face.

For a moment, there’s silence.

You should say something. Address the elephant in the room. Acknowledge that, somehow, you and Sakusa Kiyoomi—the only other person in ASU who understands your suffering, who you bicker with more than you talk, who is supposed to be your goddamn vice president and right-hand man—woke up in the same bed.

Instead, the first thing out of your mouth is:

“This is bad.”

Sakusa lets out a quiet, barely-there groan and turns his head slightly toward you. “I was hoping it was a dream.”

You scoff. “Wow. Rude.”

Another silence. Neither of you move.

Your heart is still hammering in your chest, but now that the initial panic is fading, your brain starts working through the situation. Rationalizing.

You and Sakusa don’t even like each other. Okay, that’s not entirely true, but your dynamic has always been built on mutual endurance, on suffering together in the trenches of student government. Exchanging exhausted sighs over idiotic administrative emails and bitter remarks over ridiculous student requests.

This wasn’t… feelings.

It was stress. Overwork. Too much responsibility and not enough outlets to relieve it.

You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket around yourself. “Look, let’s just… not freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“You look like you’re contemplating the meaning of life.”

“I always look like that.”

Okay, fair point. Still, you don’t miss the way his fingers are curled slightly into the sheets, tension lingering in his posture.

You take a deep breath. “Last night was a mistake.”

Sakusa’s gaze flickers to you. “Obviously.”

Something about the way he says it irritates you. You roll your eyes. “Wow, again with the rudeness.”

“I just mean it was inevitable,” he exhales sharply, rubbing his temple.

You blink. “Wait, you think this was inevitable too?”

He gives you a flat look. “We spend too many hours locked in an office together. We argue constantly. We both hate our jobs but are too stubborn to quit. We drink after meetings. Statistically speaking, this was bound to happen.”

You stare at him. “That is the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m not trying to be romantic.”

You pause. Something about that statement makes something in your chest loosen just slightly.

He’s right. This isn’t romantic. It’s not complicated. It’s not some star-crossed bullshit.

It’s just stress.

And you can work with that.

A thought occurs to you, a ridiculous, stupid, reckless thought, and before you can second-guess yourself, you say it out loud.

“We could do it again.”

Sakusa’s entire body stills. His dark eyes snap to yours.

“Not right now. I just mean…” You keep your expression neutral, forcing yourself to stay composed as you shrug. “I mean, think about it. We’re both overworked. We don’t have time for relationships. This was just a way to let off some steam, right? It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

Sakusa watches you carefully, expression unreadable. “You’re saying—”

“No feelings. No complications. Just stress relief.”

His brows furrow slightly.

You lift your hands, palms up. “I’m just being practical. We both clearly need an outlet, and this was… effective.” You tilt your head, smirking slightly. “Unless you regret it?”

Sakusa exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before glancing away. “No.”

There’s something in his voice—something almost reluctant, like the admission costs him something. You decide not to dwell on it.

Instead, you grin, ignoring the way your heart picks up slightly at his answer. “So? Agreed?”

Sakusa’s jaw tenses. He looks at you for a long moment, eyes dark and considering.

Then, finally, he exhales. “…Agreed.”

You clap your hands together. “Great. Now, where the hell are my clothes?”

As you slip out of bed and start gathering your things, Sakusa watches you from the corner of his eye. His expression is neutral, unreadable. Outwardly, he looks composed, unaffected.

But inside, something is twisting in his chest.

This is good. Logical. You’re too busy for anything more. He doesn’t do attachments. This is supposed to be simple.

So why does he already feel like he’s in trouble?

three.

For the first week, you and Sakusa keep it lowkey.

It’s surprisingly easy. Between the endless meetings, the flood of emails, and the general chaos of festival planning, no one seems to notice that anything has changed. You and Sakusa don’t act any differently—at least, not in ways that anyone would immediately pick up on. You still bicker, still throw exasperated looks across the office, still exchange sarcastic remarks whenever an administrator sends a particularly idiotic request.

But there are differences. Subtle ones.

The way his hand lingers on your back a second too long when he brushes past you. The way you glance at him when no one else is looking, catching the momentary flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. The way your fingers graze when he hands you a folder during a meeting, a barely-there touch that still sends a jolt up your spine.

Still, you’re both careful. No one knows. And it stays that way—until a week later.

It’s late.

Too late for anyone to still be in the ASU office, but here you are, wrapping up an executive board meeting that somehow stretched two hours past its scheduled end. The festival is fast approaching, and the stress is at an all-time high. The VP of Finance, Futakuchi, keeps sighing loudly; Ushijima, the sustainability representative, looks entirely unbothered, and Kiyoko, the VP of campus affairs, has the expression of someone who desperately needs sleep but knows she won’t get any. Even the internal VP, Aone, who’s usually silent and stoic, rubs a hand over his face in a rare display of frustration.

The exhaustion in the room is palpable.

But eventually, mercifully, the meeting ends.

“Finally,” Futakuchi groans, stretching out his arms. “I swear, if I get one more email about the catering, I’m deleting my inbox.”

“You can’t do that,” Kiyoko mutters, but she sounds just as tired.

“I can and I will.”

Ushijima nods thoughtfully. “That is not an efficient way to handle the problem.”

“Whatever, man.” Futakuchi waves him off. “I’m going home before I start throwing chairs.”

The rest of the exec board follows suit, shuffling out one by one. Within minutes, the office is empty—except for you and Sakusa.

He doesn’t say anything as he shuts his laptop, methodically gathering his things. But you know him well enough by now to catch the slight tension in his posture, the way his fingers flex against the strap of his bag. He’s tired, too.

And yet, he lingers.

Your heart is already hammering in your chest before you even fully process what you’re about to do.

You wait until the last footsteps fade down the hallway before stepping closer.

“Sakusa,” you murmur.

He looks up, expression unreadable, but you catch the flicker of something in his dark eyes before he schools his face into neutrality. “What?”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you grab the front of his hoodie, pull him toward you, and kiss him.

He exhales sharply against your lips, but he doesn’t hesitate—not for a second. One of his hands finds your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch, and then he’s pushing you back, guiding you without breaking the kiss.

You barely register the click of the storage closet door as it shuts behind you.

After that, it becomes a thing.

Not every night. Not every meeting. But often enough.

Enough that you start slipping into supply rooms and empty hallways whenever you get the chance. Enough that you stop pretending it’s just a fluke, stop pretending it’s just a one-time mistake. Enough that you start looking for excuses to stay behind after meetings, just to see if he’ll do the same.

The stress of festival planning only gets worse as the days tick down, but somehow, you feel... lighter. And unfortunately, you’re not the only one who notices.

“Okay,” Futakuchi says one afternoon, arms crossed as he leans against the table. “What’s up with you?”

You blink at him over your laptop. “What?”

“You.” He gestures vaguely at you. “You’re… less miserable.”

“Wow, thank you.”

“I’m serious.” He narrows his eyes, studying you. “A week ago, you were two stress-induced breakdowns away from setting the office on fire. Now you’re—” He squints. “Weirdly calm.”

You scoff, looking back at your screen. “Maybe I just got better at coping.”

Futakuchi snorts. “Sure. And Aone’s secretly a stand-up comedian.”

Across the room, Aone looks up from his notes, blinks, then goes back to writing.

Meanwhile, Ushijima watches you with mild curiosity. “It is true that you seem less fatigued.”

“Maybe she’s just sleeping more,” Kiyoko suggests.

Futakuchi smirks. “Or maybe she’s not sleeping.”

You choke on your coffee, the burn in your nose causing you to cough. Kiyoko swiftly hands you a tissue from her desk and sighs. “Kenji, please.”

“I’m just saying,” Futakuchi says innocently, shrugging. “She’s been spending a lot of extra time here after meetings. And so has Sakusa.”

You feel your pulse spike, but you force yourself to roll your eyes. “We’re working.”

“Sure you are.” Futakuchi hums. “Just seems interesting, is all.”

Ushijima nods, ever serious. “You and Sakusa have been in close proximity more frequently.”

You school your expression into neutrality, ignoring the way your face warms. “Noted.”

Futakuchi snickers. “That wasn’t a no.”

You pretend not to hear him.

Across the office, Sakusa is focused on his laptop, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. But when you glance at him, just for a second, you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

A silent acknowledgement.

A secret you both share, that’s meant for you two alone.

four.

At first, nothing really changes.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The routine remains the same. Meetings, long nights in the ASU office, the occasional stolen moment in a storage room when stress becomes too much. You and Sakusa still pretend like this is nothing more than convenience—like it’s just stress relief, like it doesn’t bleed into the rest of your lives.

Except it does.

It starts small. You realize one day, midway through a meeting, that Sakusa’s been sitting closer to you lately. Close enough that his knee brushes against yours under the table, close enough that you can pick up the faint scent of his detergent. Close enough that when you pass him a folder, his fingers linger just a second too long against yours.

You tell yourself you’re imagining it.

But then, the conversations change.

It happens one night in the office.

You’re both buried under paperwork, exhausted but determined to finalize the last of the festival logistics. It’s late—past midnight, the campus outside empty and still. The only light in the room comes from your desk lamps, throwing soft, golden pools across the stacks of documents between you. The air smells like old paper and Sakusa’s coffee, a little burnt because he never times it right.

The quiet is comfortable, broken only by the rhythmic clicking of his laptop keys and the occasional shuffle of papers.

Then, out of nowhere, he asks, “Do you ever wonder what you’d be doing if you weren’t here?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“If you weren’t ASU president,” he clarifies. “If you had never run for office.”

You pause, pen hovering over the paper. The thought has never really occurred to you. Student government has consumed your life for so long that the idea of not being in this position feels foreign.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe I’d have more time to actually enjoy college.”

Sakusa hums, his gaze flickering to you. “So you don’t enjoy it now?”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. It’s just… exhausting. I feel like I’m constantly putting out fires. Like I’m carrying this huge weight, and if I mess up, everything will fall apart.”

For a moment, Sakusa doesn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, he says, “I get that.”

You glance at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“Volleyball is kind of the same,” he continues, eyes still on his laptop screen. “I love it. But sometimes, it’s a lot. The pressure, the expectations. Some days, I wonder if I’d still play if I didn’t have to.”

You study him for a moment—the tension in his posture, the way his fingers tap idly against the desk. It’s rare for Sakusa to talk about himself like this.

Impulsively, you say, “I could come to one of your games.”

His fingers still. He finally looks at you, brows slightly furrowed. “Why?”

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “Because. You put up with all my ASU crap. I can support you, too.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at you, something unreadable in his expression. Then, he exhales and looks back at his screen.

“If you want,” he mutters.

But you see the way his ears turn pink.

After that, the changes keep coming.

One night, you fall asleep in Sakusa’s dorm.

It’s not on purpose.

You were both exhausted, drained from another grueling meeting that had stretched far too late. The weight of festival logistics, last-minute approvals, and endless emails had pressed down on you until neither of you could keep your eyes open. What was supposed to be a brief pause—a moment to catch your breath before making the trek back to your dorm—turned into you lying there, too tired to move.

You’d meant to get up. You really had.

But then Sakusa had tugged the blanket over you with an almost reluctant kind of care, his movements cautious, deliberate. His arm had settled around your waist, warm and steady, like he’d done it without thinking; his breathing had evened out against the back of your neck, deep and slow, and suddenly, the thought of moving felt impossible.

You don’t remember falling asleep—only that the next thing you know, soft morning light is filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. For a moment, you forget where you are. The sheets smell like him—clean, crisp, something faintly citrusy beneath it all. The kind of scent that lingers, that sticks to your skin in ways you can’t quite shake.

You should get up. You should leave before this gets any weirder.

But then Sakusa shifts beside you, his grip tightening, just for a second. His voice is rough with sleep, barely more than a murmur.

“Go back to sleep.”

And, for some reason, you do.

The lingering turns into something more.

You start walking back to your dorms together after meetings, shoulders brushing in the cold night air. Neither of you talk about it. Neither of you acknowledge the way Sakusa always seems to fall into step beside you, how his hands slip into his pockets but his body angles just slightly toward yours.

The touches that used to be quick, fleeting, become longer. His hand stays on your lower back when he passes by, his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your shirt. When you both reach for the same document, his fingers brush against yours, and he doesn’t pull away as fast as he used to.

It’s not just the physicality that changes.

He starts noticing things about you—things no one else does.

Like how he always makes sure there’s an extra bottle of water on your desk because he knows you forget to stay hydrated when you’re stressed. How he starts bringing you food when you work late, tossing it onto your desk without a word. Eat, he mutters, barely meeting your eyes. You’re going to pass out if you don’t.

And then there’s the morning after another late night in his bed.

You wake up groggy, the lingering warmth of sleep making you slow to realize that Sakusa isn’t next to you anymore. The room smells like coffee, and when you push yourself up onto your elbows, you see him standing by the tiny dorm kitchen, placing two plates of food on the counter.

You blink at him sleepily, confused. “Did you make extra on purpose?”

He doesn’t look at you as he plates the food, but you don’t miss the way the tips of his ears turn pink.

“You’re already here,” he says simply.

That’s all he says.

But when he sets the plate in front of you, something warm settles in your chest.

The first game you go to, Sakusa plays like his life depends on it.

You hadn’t planned on sitting so close to the court, but one of his teammates had insisted, ushering you into a seat with a too-knowing smirk. The energy in the gym is electric, the air thick with anticipation. You’ve never really watched him play before—not like this.

He’s already on the court when you spot him, stretching near the net. His head turns slightly, scanning the crowd like he’s looking for something. His eyes pass over you once, then snap back.

For just a second, he falters.

It’s quick—so quick that if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you might’ve missed it. The moment his gaze locks onto yours, his fingers twitch at his sides, his jaw tightening.

Then, he exhales. Rolls his shoulders back. Locks in.

You’ve never seen him play like this before. Focused, sharp, completely in control. His serves are ruthless, each one hitting its mark with unwavering precision. Every spike is calculated, every movement fluid. The intensity radiating off him is almost palpable.

His team wins, of course.

Afterward, you wait for him outside the locker room, arms crossed, watching as players filter out one by one. When he steps out, fresh from a shower, his hair damp and his bag slung over one shoulder, he stops the moment he sees you.

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you play that well just because I was watching?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sakusa scoffs, rolling his eyes.

But his lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile.

You grin. “You totally did.”

He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

And when you both walk back to your dorms later, shoulders brushing, his fingers graze yours before he pulls away too quickly.

You pretend not to notice.

That night, after another round of pretending this is just stress relief, neither of you move when it’s over.

You’re lying on his bed, your head turned slightly toward him, watching the way his chest rises and falls with each slow breath. His arm is draped loosely over your waist, fingers resting lightly against your skin. The room is quiet, save for the muffled sounds of students passing by outside and the rhythmic hum of the dorm heater kicking on.

You could get up. You should get up.

But instead, you speak.

“You know this isn’t normal, right?” you murmur.

Sakusa doesn’t open his eyes. “What?”

“This,” you say, voice quieter now. “We don’t have to do this.”

His fingers tighten slightly against your hip, just for a second. “I know.”

A beat of silence.

You swallow. “So why do we?”

Sakusa finally opens his eyes, looking at you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something there—something simmering beneath the surface, something unspoken yet unmistakably there.

You expect him to dodge the question, to brush it off the way he usually does. But he doesn’t. He just looks at you.

And you realize, in that moment, that you don’t really want to hear his answer.

You just want him to keep looking at you like that.

five.

A week before the festival, the networking event is in full swing. The banquet hall is filled with students, alumni, and faculty—mingling, exchanging business cards, and making polite conversation over expensive hors d’oeuvres. The hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of polite laughter—all of it blends into a constant, low-level buzz, the kind that starts to wear on you after the first hour.

And it has been an hour. An exhausting one.

You’ve spent most of it bouncing between conversations, smiling until your cheeks ache, engaging with donors who are all too eager to talk about their latest ventures. It’s tedious, but necessary. Part of the job. You, as much as you sometimes wish you weren’t, are the face of the ASU, and that means standing here, playing nice, keeping people happy.

Across the room, Sakusa is lurking near the back, a glass of water in his hand, his expression unreadable. He never cared for these kinds of events, and you’re not sure why he bothers attending in the first place. Maybe because you’re here. Maybe because it’d be more suspicious if he didn’t. Either way, he’s kept his distance all night, watching the room with the sharp, observant eyes you know so well.

You’re halfway through an exhausting conversation with a donor when someone sidles up beside you, close enough that the scent of his cologne—something expensive, overly strong—settles in the air between you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says smoothly, his voice carrying just enough self-assurance to set you on edge. “You look good tonight.”

You barely remember his name—Terushima, maybe? Some business major, someone who always carries himself like he’s the most interesting person in the room. He’s charming, in that forced, calculated way, and it’s clear he expects the same back.

You force a polite smile, instinctively taking a step back. “Thanks,” you say evenly. “Are you enjoying the event?”

He barely acknowledges your words. His eyes linger. It’s not overtly inappropriate, but it’s enough to make your skin prickle with discomfort.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask—”

Before he can finish, a hand lands on the small of your back. Warm. Steady. Familiar.

You glance up just in time to see Sakusa step in beside you, his expression unreadable but his presence unmistakably possessive. His fingers flex slightly against your waist—not hard, not urgent, but firm enough to ground you.

The guy’s smirk falters.

“Oh,” he says, glancing between you and Sakusa, processing. “Didn’t realize you were… with someone.”

Sakusa doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The air around him shifts, a quiet warning woven into the sharpness of his gaze.

The guy clears his throat, mutters something about catching up later, and disappears into the crowd.

Sakusa’s hand doesn’t move.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, tilting your head up at him.

He exhales sharply, finally letting go. “He was annoying.”

You bite back a smile. “You’re grumpy.”

He gives you a look—flat, unimpressed—but there’s something unreadable in his expression, something tense, something simmering just beneath the surface.

You don’t think much of it. Not until later.

That night, everything feels different.

Sakusa’s touch is rougher than usual. Not careless, not cruel—just… more. Harder. His grip on your hips is firm, his fingers pressing deep into your skin, like he’s trying to anchor himself. His kisses are deeper, hungrier, laced with something unspoken, something desperate. Like something inside him has snapped, like he needs to prove something—not to you, but to himself.

You notice immediately.

The way he pushes you back onto the mattress, the way his body moves against yours, the way his lips chase yours with a kind of urgency you’re not used to—it’s different. There’s a tension in him that wasn’t there before, a weight behind his touch that makes your breath hitch. It’s not impatience, not exactly. It’s more like restraint fraying at the edges, barely holding together.

When he settles between your legs, when he pulls you against him like he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers, you smirk against his lips.

“Someone’s in a mood,” you murmur, voice teasing, but there’s an underlying curiosity there too. A question you don’t quite ask.

He exhales sharply against your neck, a breath that sounds almost like a laugh—but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he tilts your chin up, kisses you harder, swallowing whatever words might have come next. And just like that, the conversation ends.

You don’t tease him after that.

Later, long after the room has gone quiet again, your breath is still uneven, your body still humming in the aftershocks of it all. The warmth of his skin lingers against yours, the feeling of his touch still imprinted in every place he’s been.

You expect him to roll away like he usually does—to shift onto his side, to put that familiar distance between you. Sakusa isn’t distant, not in the way that people assume, but he’s careful. Careful with his space, with his touch, with how much of himself he lets you see.

But tonight is different.

Instead of moving away, he stays close. One arm draped loosely over your waist, his fingers resting against your skin. His breathing is slow, deep, steady. When you shift slightly, his grip flexes—just barely, just enough to keep you there.

You blink, caught off guard.

Sakusa is guarded, meticulous, composed. He doesn’t do things without reason, doesn’t let his guard slip without meaning to. And yet, right now, he’s letting himself be close. Letting himself stay.

You watch him for a moment. His curls are messier than usual, some strands falling over his forehead. In the dim glow of the night, his features are softer, more open than they usually are. There’s something about seeing him like this—unguarded, still half-lost in the haze of sleep—that makes something tighten in your chest.

Without thinking, you reach up, brushing the hair away from his face.

Sakusa’s eyes flutter open.

You freeze. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers on you, dark and unreadable. Then, after a moment, he exhales, his eyes slipping shut again.

You take that as permission.

Your fingers move again, slower this time, threading through his hair. His breathing evens out, his shoulders relaxing beneath your touch. You don’t think he even realizes it, the way he melts into the warmth of your palm, the way his body unconsciously shifts closer.

A strange warmth settles in your chest. Something soft. Something quiet.

The urge to be closer to him—to feel more of him—creeps in before you can think better of it. And so you don’t think. You just act, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek.

Sakusa’s eyes snap open again.

He stares at you, startled, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“What?” you ask, amused. “I can’t kiss you?”

His brows furrow, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he says, “You never have before.”

The words sit heavy between you.

You blink, lips parting slightly. You don’t know why his voice sounds like that—soft, careful, like he’s treading over unfamiliar ground. You don’t know why it makes your heartbeat stutter, why it makes your chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.

You swallow. “Did you… not like it?”

A beat of silence. Then, just as quiet: “No.”

Your breath catches.

He exhales, turning his face slightly into the pillow, but not before you catch the faintest hint of red blooming across the tops of his ears.

So you take a chance, leaning in again—this time pressing a softer kiss against his temple, then another against the bridge of his nose.

He lets you.

And when you settle back down beside him, his fingers find yours, hesitant but deliberate.

Neither of you say anything.

You don’t need to.

six.

Sakusa isn’t paying attention at first.

He’s in the ASU office, sorting through the last of the Spring Festival budget reports while the others talk idly around him. The voices blend into the usual hum of conversation—background noise, nothing worth listening to. At least, not until he hears your name.

That’s what makes his focus shift, what makes his fingers still slightly on the paper in his hands. His head doesn’t lift, his posture doesn’t change, but his ears tune in before he can stop himself.

“Are you guys dating?”

Kiyoko’s voice. Calm. Casual. A simple question, but one that makes his grip tighten around the page in his hands before he even knows why.

There’s a pause—just long enough for something to stir uneasily in his chest.

Then you laugh.

“Oh, no,” you say, amused. “It’s not like that.”

His stomach drops.

The feeling is sharp, unexpected. Foreign.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. It’s not like you’ve ever talked about this. It’s not like there’s anything to talk about. You both agreed—no feelings, no complications. Just stress relief.

Still, the way you say it—so easily, so effortlessly—it makes his throat tighten.

Not like that.

Not even close.

Sakusa forces himself to breathe, shifting slightly in his seat as he stares at the document in front of him. He clenches his jaw, willing himself to let it go, to shake off the strange weight settling over his chest. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. The festival is next week. His schedule is packed. He doesn’t have time to dwell on things that shouldn’t even be a problem in the first place.

But for the first time in weeks, his brain refuses to cooperate.

The conversation continues around him, but it’s as if everything has dulled—like the words are passing through a filter, muffled and distant. All he hears is your voice. The casual certainty in your tone. The way you’d dismissed the thought so easily, like it wasn’t even worth considering.

Like the idea of being with him was ridiculous.

He exhales slowly, his grip on the budget report tightening until the edges of the paper crumple under his fingers. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t ease his hold, just stares down at the page as if forcing himself to refocus will make the feeling go away.

It doesn’t.

It lingers.

All through the rest of the meeting, as he signs off on expenses and finalizes last-minute festival details. As you talk to him like nothing has changed—like he’s still the same Sakusa you’ve always known, the one you don’t have to think twice about, the one who isn’t even worth a second glance.

By the time the meeting ends, he feels restless.

Then, later, you invite him to a party.

It’s casual—one of your friends is hosting, nothing too fancy, just a small gathering with drinks and music. The kind of thing you don’t usually ask him to go to.

“Come with me,” you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow as you both leave the office. “You never go out.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t have time.”

You groan. “Oh my god, Sakusa, for once in your life, stop being responsible and just come have fun.”

But he shakes his head. “I’ll pass.”

You stop walking. Turn to face him.

“Why?”

The question is simple. Easy. You’re not even upset—not really. Just confused. Because he never used to turn you down before.

He hesitates.

He could lie. Say he’s busy, that he has too much work to do, that he’s too tired.

But that’s not the real reason.

The real reason is this: if he goes, he can’t pretend it’s not real anymore.

He can’t keep pretending this is just stress relief. That it doesn’t mean anything. That he doesn’t want more than what you’re willing to give.

Because if he goes, he’ll see you in a setting where you’re not just the ASU president, not just the person who collapses into his bed after long meetings, not just the person who understands him better than anyone else.

You’ll be you. Loud, laughing, electric.

And he’ll look at you, and he’ll want. And he can’t afford that, not when he already knows how this ends.

So instead, he meets your gaze and says, “I just don’t feel like it.”

Something flickers across your expression. It’s quick—so quick that if he wasn’t looking at you so closely, he might’ve missed it.

But he doesn’t.

He sees the brief drop of your shoulders, the slight shift in your posture. You don’t push. You don’t ask again.

You just nod once, tight and short, and say, “Okay. Whatever.”

And then you turn and walk away, sparing only a quick glance over your shoulder.

The moment you’re gone, Sakusa exhales, running a hand down his face. He tells himself it’s fine. That this is what he wanted. That this is better.

But he feels like shit. His head hurts. He feels like he can’t breathe.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, Sakusa wonders if he just made a mistake.

seven.

Sakusa starts pulling away first.

It’s subtle in the beginning. Little things.

You don’t notice it immediately—not with how chaotic the week leading up to the Spring Festival is, how much there is to do, how many fires there are to put out. The days are long, packed with meetings, last-minute approvals, and problem-solving. You’re too busy running from one crisis to another to really stop and think about it.

But then it starts becoming undeniable.

He stops lingering after meetings. Stops staying late in the office with you. Stops brushing his fingers against yours when he hands you documents, stops nudging your knee under the conference table, stops looking at you when he thinks no one else is watching.

And, most noticeably, he stops touching you.

That’s when it really sinks in.

Because you had started to grow used to it—the warmth of his hand on the small of your back, the way he’d reach for you without thinking, the way he used to pull you into his side when no one was around. It had become second nature, a quiet, unspoken thing between you.

You had never questioned it before, had never asked what it meant, because you didn’t think you had to.

But now? Now it’s like none of it ever happened. And you, despite all your reasoning, don’t understand why.

At first, you try to be patient. Try to tell yourself it’s just stress, that he’s just overwhelmed with work, that once the festival is over, things will go back to normal.

But then another day passes.

And another.

And suddenly, you can’t ignore it anymore.

The shift between you is undeniable. It’s in the way he moves around you now—distant, calculated, careful. In the way he answers you with clipped, impersonal responses. In the way he keeps space between you, never standing too close, never reaching for you like he used to.

You wait for him to snap out of it.

He doesn’t.

And when another day ends with nothing—no lingering glances, no easy, familiar touch, no warmth—you start to wonder if you imagined it all. If it had only ever been real for you.

So the night before the festival, you finally snap.

The office is empty, save for the two of you. The exec board has long since gone home, leaving behind stacks of paperwork, half-empty coffee cups, and the heavy silence between you.

Sakusa is seated across from you, scrolling through his tablet, looking as calm and composed as ever. You, on the other hand, are vibrating with frustration.

You don’t know how to bring it up. You don’t know how to phrase it, how to put into words the mounting tension, the frustration, the confusion—the gnawing ache in your chest that has been growing with every passing day.

So you wait. You tell yourself you’ll wait for him to say something, to acknowledge the change between you, to explain why things feel so different now.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he closes his tablet, grabs his bag, and stands up—just like that, like nothing is wrong, like he hasn’t been slowly pushing you away without a single explanation.

And that’s what finally breaks you.

“That’s it?” you blurt out.

Sakusa pauses, glancing at you with a frown. “What?”

“That’s it?” You stand, crossing your arms. “You’re just gonna leave?”

He exhales, clearly exhausted. “It’s late.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

Silence.

He looks at you, expression carefully blank, and for the first time, you realize how much that pisses you off. How much you hate that unreadable look, how much you hate that he’s acting like he doesn’t know exactly what you’re talking about.

Your stomach twists. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like I don’t… like I don’t exist.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” You take a step forward, your pulse racing. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me anymore.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you push forward. “What the hell, Sakusa?”

He stays silent, staring at you.

You shake your head, frustration mounting. “You know what? Fine. If something’s wrong, just say it. If I did something, just tell me. But don’t—” Your throat tightens. “Don’t just shut me out.”

Something flickers across his face, but it’s gone before you can place it.

Then, he says, “You’re overthinking it.”

You blink.

And then, you laugh—sharp, bitter. “Oh, I’m overthinking it?”

“Yes.” His voice is calm, infuriatingly so. “It was never meant to mean anything, remember?”

The words hit harder than they should.

Something cold settles in your stomach. You stare at him, suddenly unable to breathe properly.

He doesn’t even flinch as he says it, doesn’t even hesitate. Just looks at you like this is nothing, like the past few weeks have been nothing, like the way he used to kiss you like he needed it, like the way he held you close at night, like none of it mattered.

Like you don’t matter.

You swallow, forcing down the lump in your throat. “Right,” you say quietly. “I forgot. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Pretending things don’t matter.”

Sakusa’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. You should really leave. You should walk away before you say something you can’t take back. But you can’t—not yet.

So instead, you inhale sharply and take one last shot, your voice softer now. “Did any of it mean anything to you?”

Sakusa’s fingers tighten around the strap of his bag. His posture is rigid, his face unreadable. But he doesn’t answer.

And that tells you everything you need to know.

You let out a shaky breath, blinking fast. “Okay, then. If it doesn’t mean anything, then let’s just stop.”

Something shifts in his expression—something small, something almost imperceptible. But you don’t wait to figure out what it is.

You turn before he can say anything else, before he can twist the knife even further, before you can say something you’ll regret.

You’re the one who walks away.

This time, you don’t look back.

eight.

You pretend everything is normal.

Meetings are professional. Efficient. Painfully, excruciatingly polite.

Sakusa hands you reports with a clipped, “Here.” His voice is devoid of warmth, of the quiet familiarity that used to live there. You take them without glancing up, without acknowledging the way his fingers twitch as if resisting the impulse to linger. When you slide budget breakdowns across the table, you’re careful—so careful—not to let your fingers brush his, even by accident.

Once, you might have laughed together at the absurdity of this project, whispering half-serious bets about which department head would crack under the stress first. Once, you might have stayed late in the ASU office, shoulders brushing as you worked through spreadsheets in the dim glow of your laptop screens, stealing moments of shared exhaustion, shared silence, shared something.

Now, there’s nothing.

Now, there’s only distance.

It kills him.

At first, he thought this would be easier. That shutting you out would make it hurt less when you eventually drifted away. That if he built a wall between you first, he wouldn’t have to watch you build one later. He thought he was protecting himself.

But this—this is so much worse.

Because you’re still here, but you’re not his anymore.

And it’s all his fault.

You distract yourself with the festival. There’s no time to dwell on things that don’t matter, you tell yourself. Vendors need coordinating. Performers need confirming. Alumni need charming. A hundred little details claw at your attention, demanding focus, pulling you away from thoughts that ache too much to touch.

You throw yourself into the work like it’s a lifeline, like drowning in logistics and schedules will somehow silence the restless thoughts that gnaw at the edges of your mind. If you keep moving, if you keep planning, if you keep pushing forward, then maybe—just maybe—you won’t feel the weight of what’s missing.

And yet, the stress is worse now.

Because Sakusa used to help carry it.

He used to take half the burden without being asked. Without expectation. Just because he could, because he wanted to. Because he used to look at you and see someone worth helping.

Now, the weight is suffocating.

You feel it in the silence of the ASU office late at night, the way the empty chair beside you seems colder than before. You feel it in the exhaustion that clings to your skin, sinking into your bones. You feel it in the dull ache that settles in your chest every morning, never quite fading, never quite leaving you alone.

But worst of all, you feel it every time you see him.

He looks fine. Composed, indifferent, the same as always.

It infuriates you.

Because really, how dare he? How dare he act like nothing happened, like nothing changed? Like you weren’t tangled up in his sheets just days ago, like he wasn’t tracing circles against your skin in the quiet hours before dawn, like he wasn’t the one who pulled away first?

How dare he pretend you never meant anything, when he was the one who made you feel like you did?

You hate him for it. You hate him for leaving, for walking away.

But more than anything, you hate that deep down, under your hurt, you don’t hate him. Not even a little bit. Not really at all.

Sakusa is miserable.

Volleyball used to be his escape. His sanctuary. The only thing that made sense.

But now, even that feels wrong.

Because before every match, before every practice, he used to look for you in the stands. It wasn’t even conscious—just instinct, muscle memory. A habit woven into his routine, as natural as breathing.

He knew you didn’t come to every game. But you did, a lot. Sometimes he’d glance up and catch you pretending not to watch him too closely, pretending not to care, even as your gaze lingered a little too long. Sometimes he’d meet your eyes, and you’d smirk, and he’d know—know that later, when the dust settled, you’d have some sharp-witted comment about his form, his plays, his post-game interviews.

But now, he looks, and you’re never there.

It fucking sucks. It ruins his whole routine.

It starts to show, too. His blocks are sloppy. His serves lack precision. His reactions are just a half-second too slow, and he knows it. He can feel it in the way the ball doesn’t quite connect the way it should, in the way the court doesn’t feel like home anymore.

And his teammates notice.

“You good, man?” Bokuto asks one afternoon, frowning after another off-target spike.

Sakusa exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not, though,” Hinata says, watching him carefully. “You’ve been playing like shit.”

Sakusa glares. “I’m not—”

“Ya are,” Atsumu cuts in, arms crossed. “And it’s not just yer game. You’ve been miserable for weeks. If somethin’s wrong, deal with it.”

Sakusa clenches his jaw. Says nothing.

Because what is there to say? That he’s miserable because of you? That he’s the one who ruined everything? That he made this choice, and now he has to live with it? That he doesn’t even know if you’d forgive him, even if he tried to fix it? That the only person who could make him feel like himself again is the one person who won’t even look at him anymore?

No.

He can’t say any of that.

So instead, he just exhales, picks up the ball, and mutters, “Let’s run it again,” and pretends like everything isn’t falling apart.

nine.

The festival, despite everything, begins.

It should be thrilling. It should feel like a triumph, the culmination of months of relentless work, late nights spent hunched over planning documents, and a hundred tiny decisions that should have amounted to something seamless, something grand.

Instead, it feels like hell.

Everything that can go wrong does. Vendors arrive late, throwing the entire setup into disarray, their excuses flimsy and their apologies meaningless when the delay sends a ripple effect of chaos through the carefully arranged schedule. The sound system glitches in the middle of the first student performance, transforming the singer’s voice into a garbled mess of static before cutting out entirely, leaving behind a stunned silence. Booths sit empty, their intended attendants missing due to some logistical oversight—some failure of coordination that has faculty members exchanging exasperated looks, their whispers dripping with disapproval.

You are drowning.

By the second day, you are running on caffeine, frustration, and the sheer willpower not to completely unravel. Your feet ache from hours of pacing across campus, your temples throb from the unrelenting onslaught of problems, and your patience—already stretched thin—is now nonexistent. The pressure is suffocating, bearing down on you like a weight you were never meant to carry alone.

And Sakusa?

He is just as miserable.

You see it in the rigidity of his posture, in the way his fingers curl into fists whenever another problem arises, in the exhaustion darkening his gaze. He moves through the chaos with his usual efficiency—quiet, methodical, unreadable—but you know him. You know him better than anyone.

And you know he is barely holding it together.

Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you mention how your interactions have been reduced to clipped exchanges, words stripped of warmth, spoken with as much distance as possible. Neither of you admit that this week—this godforsaken week—has been unbearable without the other.

Unfortunately, your executive board notices.

“Okay,” Futakuchi announces, arms crossed as he surveys the two of you like a detective piecing together a crime scene. “Something is wrong.”

“You’re imagining things,” you mutter, flipping through the latest stack of vendor complaints. The words blur slightly, but you refuse to let anyone see just how exhausted you are.

“I’m not,” he insists, undeterred. He gestures between you and Sakusa, who is seated across the room, fingers flying over his keyboard as he types with a level of aggression usually reserved for his worst enemies. “You guys are acting weird. Weirder than usual.”

“We’re fine,” you snap.

Kiyoko adjusts her glasses, her sharp gaze cutting through your defenses. “You haven’t smiled in days. You’re constantly on edge. And Sakusa—” she tilts her head towards him, “—hasn’t insulted Futakuchi even once today.”

“That’s actually a huge red flag,” Futakuchi adds helpfully.

Ushijima, ever serious, nods in agreement. “The dynamic of the team has shifted.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “Can you all not? We have actual work to do.”

Aone, silent until now, observes the two of you with his usual quiet intensity. Then, after a painfully long beat, he gives a single, solemn nod. “Tension,” he murmurs.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face.

Futakuchi’s smirk is infuriating. “See? Even Aone notices.”

You don’t bother responding. You don’t even have the energy to argue. Instead, you gather your paperwork, shove your laptop into your bag, and storm out.

You don’t look back.

If you did, you’d see Sakusa watching you leave.

You hit your breaking point halfway through the week.

It happens during the alumni networking fair—the crown jewel of the festival, the event that was supposed to impress donors, alumni, and potential sponsors. The one you poured every ounce of your energy into perfecting, sculpting each detail with the precision of a master craftsman.

Instead, it crumbles.

A venue miscommunication leads to seating chaos, leaving guests aimlessly wandering, confused and increasingly irritated. The guest speaker’s flight is delayed, the catering company—despite weeks of prior confirmation—chooses now to re-verify their payment processing, and as if fate itself is conspiring against you, an administrator corners you minutes before the event, droning about “expectations for student leadership” and how “this level of disorganization reflects poorly.”

You can’t do this.

You feel it building—the pressure, the exhaustion, the sheer weight of everything going wrong all at once. Your chest tightens, your vision blurs at the edges, and for the first time all week, you recognize a terrifying truth:

You cannot do this alone.

Then, before you can completely shatter, Sakusa steps in.

One moment, you are teetering, barely keeping yourself upright. The next, he is there.

He moves swiftly, seamlessly, fixing problems before you can even register them. He handles the seating issue with a few clipped instructions. He calls the speaker’s team, negotiating a workaround before you can even reach for your phone. He takes charge of the caterers, shutting down their nonsense with two curt sentences and a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

He moves through the chaos with the same unshakable precision he always has—calm, efficient, controlled. He has always been good under pressure, but this is different. This is not just problem-solving. This is something else.

And it hits you all at once: you miss him.

Not just the arrangement. Not just the late nights, the convenience, the way his touch had always lingered longer than necessary.

Him.

The way he always knew—knew exactly when you were on the verge of unraveling. The way he kept things from falling apart, even when you felt like you were. The way he understood you—truly, deeply, in a way no one else ever had.

And it is terrifying, because it is not just missing him. It’s needing him.

Sakusa realizes it too.

Not just that he still wants you, not just that ignoring you has made this entire week unbearable. Those things were obvious. What he realizes now is that none of this—none of the work, none of the stress—was ever what exhausted him.

It was pretending. Pretending he didn’t care. Pretending it was just an arrangement. Pretending he didn’t—

Well.

Pretending he didn’t love you.

And now, watching you—watching the way your shoulders finally loosen as you let him help, watching the way your eyes flicker with something unreadable when you look at him—he knows it is too late.

He’s in too deep. He’s always been in too deep.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even care anymore. He misses you too much to care.

ten.

It’s as if the universe has finally gotten its act together.

For once, everything aligns. As if things have finally conspired in your favor, the remainder of the festival unfolds with an almost unsettling ease. No vendor catastrophes, no logistical nightmares, no alumni with their impossible demands.

Thursday slips into Friday, Friday into Saturday morning, each day a seamless rhythm of events ticking by without incident. Your executive board exhales in collective relief, tension unspooling from their shoulders. Your own pulse, which has been a metronome of stress all week, finally settles into something resembling normalcy. You even manage to sleep—five full hours, a luxury that feels like an eternity compared to the restless snatches of rest you’ve been surviving on.

And now, the final night is here.

The Spring Gala. The grand finale. The last orchestration of the festival—a beast of an event that had consumed endless planning meetings, countless revisions, and more compromises than you’d care to admit. And yet, somehow, impossibly, everything is running smoothly.

The ballroom glows with golden light, strands of soft illumination draped elegantly across the ceiling, casting a warm haze over the room. Candlelight flickers along the tables, their delicate floral arrangements arranged with meticulous care, petals unfurling under the glow like they, too, are basking in the perfection of the night. The gentle hum of a live string quartet weaves through the space, their melody twining through laughter and the quiet clink of champagne glasses. Students and faculty glide through the room in their finest attire, the men crisp in tailored suits, the women draped in silks and satins, everyone engaged in the carefully curated illusion that deadlines and responsibilities don’t exist beyond these gilded walls.

Everything is perfect.

And yet, your focus narrows to one thing.

Him.

Sakusa looks good. Too good.

The sharp lines of his black suit mold effortlessly to his frame, the dark fabric absorbing the ambient light, making him appear even more striking. His curls are tousled, just slightly, as though he had run a hand through them absentmindedly before walking in. He stands with practiced ease, scanning the room with the same sharp, unreadable expression he always wears—one that betrays nothing, yet you’ve always found yourself trying to decipher. And it’s infuriating, because you’ve spent the entire week meticulously avoiding the gravitational pull he seems to exert, trying not to let your eyes linger too long, trying not to remember the weight of everything unsaid between you.

But right now? Right now, he’s making it impossible.

Especially when his gaze finally lands on you.

It’s just a flicker—a second’s pause, a shift in his expression so fleeting you might have missed it if you weren’t already attuned to him. But you see it. The way his dark eyes sweep over you, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. The way something unreadable flickers in his gaze before he schools his features into careful neutrality.

Your throat tightens, but you force yourself to move, bridging the space between you with a measured ease you don’t quite feel. Every step feels deliberate, a careful choreography masking the unease curling in your stomach.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” you say, tilting your head slightly, voice lighter than the weight pressing against your ribs.

Sakusa’s brow lifts—just barely, the movement almost imperceptible—but you catch it. “I planned half of this.”

A smirk tugs at your lips as you cross your arms over your chest, trying to steady yourself in the face of his presence. “Yeah, but you hate these things.”

He exhales, his gaze sweeping over the grand spectacle around you as if only now acknowledging the elaborate display—the glittering chandeliers, the swirl of expensive fabric, the low hum of conversation filling the air like static. “Figured it would be suspicious if the EVP didn’t make an appearance.”

“Mhm.” You hesitate, just for a beat, before speaking again. “So… where’s your date?”

His eyes snap back to yours, something sharp and immediate in the way he looks at you, like the question caught him off guard. “What?”

“Your date,” you repeat, forcing nonchalance into your tone even as your pulse betrays you, drumming against your skin. “Someone as charming as you must have one, right?”

Sakusa’s expression flattens, unreadable yet telling in ways you don’t have the words for. “No.”

The single syllable lands heavier than it should. You had expected a different answer—assumed he would have someone by his side, someone who had effortlessly captured his attention in the time you had spent pushing him away. And yet, here he stands. Alone.

You don’t know why that realization makes your heart stutter.

“Well,” Sakusa says, his exhale quieter this time. “Neither did you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

His gaze remains steady. “You didn’t bring a date either.”

“Yeah, because I was working.” You scoff, deflecting without hesitation.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way that makes you feel like he’s seeing more than you intend to show. “Still.”

It’s just a single word, but it lingers, curling around you like an unspoken challenge, seeping beneath your skin, sparking something warm and restless in your chest.

Before you can unpack it, before you can shield yourself from whatever this is, he speaks again.

“Dance with me.”

You freeze. “What?”

Sakusa sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, like he hates what he’s about to say. “Dance with me,” he repeats, softer this time. “Since neither of us brought dates.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, trying to decipher the layers of meaning beneath the words.

Sakusa Kiyoomi—who loathes social events, who avoids unnecessary physical contact, who has spent the entire night lingering at the edges of the room—is standing here, asking you to dance.

And for some reason, against all logic, you say, “Okay.”

The music shifts into something slow, something delicate, a melody spun from soft strings and quiet longing. It doesn’t demand anything extravagant, only movement, only presence.

You expect him to be tense, awkward, but when his hand finds your waist, his fingers curling against the fabric of your dress with a touch more certain than you anticipated, there is no hesitation. His other hand finds yours, warm and sure, his grip anchoring. His movements are smooth, practiced, betraying a familiarity with this kind of closeness that feels at odds with the person you thought you knew.

You, however, are acutely aware of everything.

The warmth of his palm burning through the layers between you. The faint press of his fingertips against your lower back, light yet possessive. The scent of his cologne—crisp, clean, laced with bergamot and something deeper, something uniquely him.

And then there’s his gaze, dark and unreadable, flickering down to meet yours, searching for something you’re not sure you’re ready to name.

It’s too much.

And suddenly, before you can stop yourself, the words slip out, quiet, hesitant, but real.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

Sakusa blinks, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “For what?”

You inhale, fingers curling against his shoulder, grounding yourself in the press of fabric and muscle beneath your touch. “For how things have been. For the way I acted. For… shutting you out. I really did miss you, you know.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, so quiet you almost miss it: “I missed you too.”

Something in your chest loosens, a tether unspooling, unraveling the knots that had been holding you in place. But before you can fully breathe it in, before you can settle into the tentative relief of it, he continues.

“I just… couldn’t pretend anymore.”

You frown, caught on the way his voice shifts, the way something raw bleeds into his words. “Pretend what?”

Sakusa hesitates. His fingers flex slightly against your waist, his grip shifting as if trying to hold onto something unseen. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, rougher, like he’s forcing the words out before he loses the nerve to say them.

“That I didn’t care about you.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter, weightier—“That I didn’t… want more.”

The world tilts.

Your breath catches, your pulse tripping over itself, something dangerous and inevitable clawing its way up your throat.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. It’s like when you first kissed him in the office so many weeks ago: you, despite everything, just move—heedless, reckless, drawn forward by something deeper than reason.

Your lips find his in a collision of heat and longing, tentative at first—a question whispered in the language of touch, of all the words left unsaid, of all the moments spent waiting, wanting.

For a single, breathless heartbeat, the world hangs in stillness. A hesitation. A precipice. Then Sakusa exhales, a sharp, punched-out sound like he’s just had the wind knocked from his lungs, and something in him snaps like a wire pulled too taut for too long.

His grip tightens at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress, pulling you against him with a desperation that makes your pulse stutter. His other hand finds the back of your neck, calloused fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head just so as he deepens the kiss—no longer a question, but an answer.

The world outside of this moment ceases to exist. The only thing real is the warmth of his mouth against yours, the steady, insistent press of his body, the scent of him—his detergent, his cologne. He tastes like something intoxicating, something you want to drown in.

Sakusa kisses you like he needs to remember this very feeling, like this time away from you has been centuries rather than days—like he’s tracing the shape of your lips into the fabric of his being, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he so much as loosens his hold. There’s something achingly restrained in the way he moves, like he’s been waiting for this—for you—for far longer than he’s willing to admit.

And the thing is, you don’t want to let go.

Not now.

Not ever again.

eleven.

The final night of the festival is winding down, and the fundraiser gala is drawing to a close. The speeches are about to begin. The crowd falls into a hush, the hum of conversation quieting as attention shifts to the podium.

You grip the podium, clear your throat, and begin your speech. It's the usual stuff—thank-yous to the faculty, acknowledgements of the hard work that went into the festival, and a few light jokes to keep the atmosphere warm.

And through it all, he's there.

You feel Sakusa before you see him, his presence quietly grounding you. His hand brushes against yours just as you step up to the stage, a small, subtle touch that sends a wave of calm through you. It’s enough to settle your nerves, even if just a little.

The speech goes on. You focus, but in the back of your mind, you’re aware of the quiet weight of him standing beside you, unmoving but unwavering, just like always. Then, under the podium, his fingers curl around yours. The touch is light, hidden from the crowd, but it’s there.

Your breath hitches for a moment, but you keep going, squeezing his hand once in quiet reassurance. You keep speaking, maintaining your composure.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Futakuchi freeze. His eyes flicker to your joined hands, and you catch the brief, silent exchange between him and Aone. Futakuchi’s soft exhale is followed by a rustling of bills, Aone accepting his twenty-dollar winnings without a word.

Across the room, Kiyoko watches with a knowing smile, her gaze flicking between you and Sakusa.

When the speech ends, the applause fills the room, warm and inviting. You turn slightly, feeling Sakusa’s hand slip away, but before it fully retreats, his pinky brushes against yours for just a moment longer than necessary. Your heart stumbles again.

“Finally,” Futakuchi groans the second you step offstage. He throws up his hands in exaggerated relief. “Do you have any idea how painful it’s been watching you two not be together?”

You blink in surprise. “Excuse me?”

Kiyoko hums, setting her drink down. “He’s right.”

Ushijima offers a solemn nod. “It was inevitable.”

“You guys knew?” Sakusa asks, furrowing his brow.

Futakuchi scoffs. “Obviously. Everyone knew.” He sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “You two always fit together, even before you realized it yourselves.”

Aone gives a single, affirming nod.

Kiyoko just shrugs. “You just took your time getting there.”

You glance at Sakusa, and to your surprise, he doesn’t seem annoyed. He’s not irritated—just thoughtful. His fingers twitch slightly at his side before he exhales quietly. “Yeah. We did.”

You smile, feeling the weight of the moment.

The gala lights shimmer above you, casting a warm glow over the ballroom. The noise of the crowd rises around you—the low hum of laughter, clinking glasses, the soft notes of a song playing from the dance floor. The air smells of champagne and wax from the flickering candles, mingling with the floral arrangements around the room. But none of it feels overwhelming. Not with him beside you.

Sakusa stands next to you, solid and constant, just like he always has been. You glance at him again, noticing how the light hits his sharp features, how his dark eyes flicker with something unreadable. He exhales slowly, and then shifts just enough for his shoulder to brush against yours—a small, silent reassurance.

The conversations around you—Futakuchi’s exasperated muttering, Kiyoko’s quiet amusement, Aone’s rare nods of agreement—become distant, secondary. In this moment, it doesn’t matter. Because here, with him beside you, you realize one thing.

You don’t have to hide. There’s no more second-guessing, no more wondering.

No more pretending.

You are here, beside him. And he’s here, beside you.

Sakusa exhales again, barely audible over the music. His fingers brush against yours once more—nothing more than a whisper of a touch. But the warmth it brings lingers in your chest, steady and real.

He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

The night goes on—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the celebration. The festival is over, the gala winding down, the world moving forward as it always does.

But for now, in this moment, standing next to him, you know something for sure.

You don’t have to walk alone anymore.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

⨭ closing notes; special thanks to @megapteraurelia for beta reading!! veryyyy meh abt this one so far but who knows lol. ngl i'm not a sakusa girl so i hope i did him justice if u guys have any suggestions for improvement pls let me know!!! btw i am working on smth lowk crazy so i may not have a new fic for a hot sec but when im back it'll be w smth SPECIAL

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brownsugarcoffy · 3 days ago

Text

The Vine Between Us (5)

Summary

Annie left the Mississippi Delta with a broken heart and a full-ride scholarship, determined never to look back. Now a celebrated professor in Chicago, she’s called home to care for her mother—and the last thing she expects is to run straight into him.

Elijah "Smoke". Her first love. Her first everything.

He disappeared the summer after graduation, leaving only unanswered calls and a goodbye she never got. Now he's back in town, running a moody, magnetic blues lounge with his twin brother, playing late into the humid Southern nights like he’s pouring his soul out just for her.

Annie wants to hate him. She wants to forget the way he made her feel. But one look from those stormy eyes, and she’s seventeen again. Burning, aching, and lost in the man he’s become.

He left without a word. But now? He wants to finish the story they never got to end.

Characters: Annie x Elijah " Smoke" Moore (Modern AU)

Themes: Angst, Fluff, Mention of Abuse, Vulgar Language, Sexual content & more...

Chapters: PART (1), PART (2) , PART (3), PART (4)

NOT EDITED

The sun cracked over Mississippi like a slow yawn. Golden light sliding across the treetops, catching the dew that still clung to grass like glitter. Somewhere, a rooster crowed, and the world kept turning, but inside the modest brick house on Walnut Grove Road, Smoke was standing in his kitchen barefoot, staring into nothing.

His house. Paid for with his own hands.

Two bedrooms, one bath, and a wide front porch with peeling white railings and a crooked swing that creaked when the wind blew right. It wasn’t fancy, but it was his. A symbol of every hard-earned dollar, every late night he hustled behind that lounge, and every early morning, he kept grinding instead of folding.

Inside, it smelled like strong coffee, lemon oil, and the faintest hint of Egyptian musk from his cologne still hanging in the air from when he’d showered and dressed. The soft voice of Sade record Kiss of life play spun low in the background, the scratch of vinyl threading through the silence.

Smoke leaned against the counter, fully dressed but still unsure.

His hand rested on his keys, but his mind was somewhere else.

Annie.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her. That look she gave him last night. It was measured, cautious, but open. The way her voice dropped when she said “Just one date.” It had stirred something in him that he hadn’t felt in years.

Hope.

It terrified him.

It thrilled him.

He hadn’t been nervous like this since he was a teenager. Sneaking with her to the greenhouse just to hold her hand and listen to her talk about dreams too big for their little town. However, wasn’t that boy anymore. He was a man now. One with his own house, his own business, and a love still lodged deep in his chest like it never left.

He was going to show her that.

He just had to get past his nerves and his damn brother.

BAM BAM BAM!

The sound of hard knocks rattled through the old screen door like somebody was tryin’ to break in or deliver a package with attitude.

Smoke, still nursing the last few swigs of his black coffee, squinted at the front door through the living room archway. The sunlight was barely warming the porch steps, and already somebody was testing his patience.

He opened the door slowly, eyebrow already cocked.

“Stack, what the hell you doin’ on my porch this early?”

His twin brother stood there grinning wide like he had fresh gossip and nowhere else to be.

“Don’t start nigga” Stack said, brushing past him like he paid rent. “I told you last night. I’m helpin’ you get ready. It’s date day, and this is a full-service brother situation.”

Smoke looked down at his watch.

“It’s not until six.”

“And it’s 9:45,” Stack countered, sliding off his sunglasses. “You act like we ain’t got a whole man overhaul to do.”

Smoke blinked. “You sayin’ I need an overhaul?”

“I’m sayin’ Annie deserves a man that dresses like he ain’t just rolled out a jazz club in '1945.”

Before Smoke could clap back, Stack was already halfway up the stairs like a man on a mission. “Let’s see what tragic collection you’ve been hiding in your closet, Mr. Comfortable.”

Smoke muttered under his breath, shutting the door. “This nigga gon’ make me smoke two packs before noon.”

He took his time climbing the stairs, his cigarette already perched between his fingers as he entered his bedroom. The morning light poured in soft through the window blinds, hitting the room in golden slices.

Stack was knee-deep in his closet, already tossing shirts on the bed with surgical disgust.

“No. No. Hell no. Smoke—what is this?” Stack held up a faded brown shirt like it had personally offended him.

“That’s vintage.”

“That’s dusty.”

Smoke leaned against the doorframe, watching the chaos. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling through his nose.

“You know,” he said coolly, “most brothers bring coffee when they show up early. Maybe some eggs. You brought judgment and shade.”

“Nigga I brought style,” Stack shot back, pulling a pair of slacks off a hanger and holding them up like a tailor in disbelief. “These pleats? This what you wear when you give up.”

Smoke chuckled, finally stepping into the room and sitting down in the old leather desk chair near the dresser. “You actin’ like I’m goin’ to prom. It’s just a date.”

“With Annie, bruh. Ain’t no just about it.”

Stack tossed a shirt onto the growing “no” pile and kept digging. “You only get one shot at a second chance. You need to show up lookin’ like the man she’s been tryin’ not to think about.”

Smoke smirked and shook his head, watching his twin tear through his clothes like he was building an altar. “You flashy as hell. Always been.”

“Nigga. Damn right!” Stack said proudly. “I’m the sparkle. You the smolder. Together, we unstoppable.”

Smoke laughed and leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. “I swear, you missed your calling. Should’ve been a stylist for them R&B videos.”

“Still got time,” Stack said, holding up a sleek black shirt and nodding in approval. “Now this… this could work. Clean. Fitted. Smooth.”

Smoke leaned forward, tapping ash into the tray. “I told you, man—I ain’t worried about no fits. I just wanna show her who I am now. That I ain’t that scared, foolish boy who left.”

Stack turned, a rare seriousness on his face. “And you will. But listen...don’t underestimate the power of a first look. Let her see what she been missin’. Inside and out.”

There was a beat of silence, soft Motown still playing faintly from the stereo downstairs. Smoke nodded slowly.

“Aight then,” he said. “Show me how to look like the man she’s been missin’.”

Stack grinned. “Thought you’d never ask. Now take that shirt off nigga. We startin’ fresh.”

Smoke laughed again and flicked his cigarette into the tray. “If I end up lookin’ like a backup dancer for Ginuwine, I’m blamin’ you.”

Stack winked. “You wish you had my glow.”

Stack turned from the closet, holding up a pair of pants he’d finally approved of, and narrowed his eyes.

“Alright,” he said, tone already suspicious, “so where you takin’ her?”

Smoke, now pulling off the black shirt he had on, paused for half a second, just long enough to raise suspicion. “Horseback ridin’.”

Silence.

Thick, judgmental silence.

Then Stack dropped the pants onto the bed like they’d betrayed him. “Nigga! Hell no! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Smoke turned slowly, one brow lifted. “What’s wrong with that?”

Stack looked at him like he’d grown a third ear. “Horseback ridin’? On a first date? Elijah, this ain’t no cowboy movie. And Annie? She ain’t wearin’ no boots with spurs and a ten-gallon hat. Lord…”

Unbothered, Smoke grabbed two bottles of cologne off the dresser and began sniffing between them, cool as ever.

“I ain’t tellin’ you the whole plan,” he said, a smug little smirk curling the corner of his mouth. “Horseback’s just one part.”

Stack clutched his chest like he needed a fan. “Oh, so now nigga got a whole itinerary? What’s next, huh? Y’all throwin’ clay together like them people in that ‘Ghost’ movie?"

Smoke chuckled low, spraying a light mist of cologne onto his neck. “ Nigga.You done?”

“I ain’t even started,” Stack snapped, flopping onto the bed like a judgmental auntie at a family reunion. “What if she allergic to horses? What if she fall and bust her ass? What if her wig fly off in the wind?”

“She don’t wear a wig, Stack.”

“I’m just sayin’!”

Smoke shook his head, amusement glittering in his eyes. “Look. Jericho, that cat from the lounge last night? He owns that big ol’ farm off Old Highway 12. Acres of land, real peaceful. He opens it up to the public sometimes, but I called in a favor. Got it all to ourselves today.”

Stack blinked. The jokes paused. He sat up a little straighter. “Wait. You got a private farm reserved? For y’all to ride horses on?”

Smoke nodded once, solid. “Just me and her. No crowds, no chaos. Just peace, nature, and a whole lot of time to show her I ain’t the same man who let her go.”

Stack stared a beat longer, then gave a low whistle. “Damn. You really pulled out the grown man playbook.”

“Told you. I ain’t playin’ this time,” Smoke said, smoothing his beard with a fresh stroke of the comb. “She mean too much.”

A grin broke across Stack’s face, more proud than playful now. “Okay. Okay. I take it back. You got this. I mean..barely, but you got this.”

Smoke smirked in the mirror. “Keep doubtin’ me nigga, and I’ll make you ride the horse in my place.”

“Oh, hell no! Ain’t enough cowboy hats in Mississippi to make that okay.”

They both laughed, the room warming with a rare and unfiltered brotherhood. Years of pain, silence, and struggle hadn’t stolen this from them. Not completely. And right now, the lightness felt good. Easy.

But beneath it, Smoke’s heart thumped wild.

Not from nerves.

Not from fear.

From hope.

Tonight, he planned to give Annie a piece of his heart wrapped in something real. Something soft but certain. And he was going to show her exactly why she should believe in them again.

The Mississippi sun was melting into the trees, streaking the sky with gold and fire as the Moore twins walked the gravel path leading to the town park. The kind of humid, heavy evening where everything felt slower.

Elijah, fourteen and nervous, tugged at the stiff white collar of his button-up. It was his only nice shirt he own. The one they usually saved for church or funerals. His hands were clammy, his stomach doing flips like he was about to step in front of a judge instead of a girl.

Beside him, Stack walked like he didn’t have a care in the world. Same age, same face, but everything about him was louder, bolder, slicker.

“You gon’ strangle yourself with that collar,” Stack said, slapping Smoke’s hand away. “Quit fidgetin’. You actin’ like you meetin’ her daddy, not Annie.”

Smoke sighed. “You sure this don’t look stupid?”

“It looks fine. You clean, you don’t stink, and your breath smells like peppermint. That’s all you need at.” Stack glanced over with a grin. “Well… that and game. Which is why you got me.”

“Oh Lord,” Smoke muttered, already regretting bringing him along.

“Rule number one,” Stack said, raising a finger dramatically, “you gotta hit her with a compliment right out the gate. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. Soon as she step out the car, hit her with it.”

Smoke looked skeptical. “What I’m supposed to say? ‘You look nice’?”

“Hell no,” Stack said, appalled. “You tell her, ‘Annie, the sun mad tonight… ‘cause Naomi Campbell just walked up in the park.’ Boom. Done.”

Smoke frowned. “That don’t even make sense.”

“Don’t matter,” Stack said, tossing a Jolly Rancher into his mouth. “It ain’t about logic. It’s about confidence. You say it like you mean it, and she’ll be blushin’ all over them pretty cheeks.”

Smoke gave a nervous laugh, shaking his head. “You sound like you rehearsed that in the mirror.”

“Maybe I did,” Stack said with a smirk. “Point is, you got this. Annie like you. Anybody with eyes can see that. And you might walk around all quiet like Daddy when he sober, but when you talk to her? You light up.”

Smoke’s smile faded just a little at the mention of their father, but he didn’t say anything.

They crossed the corner where the street met the edge of the park. The sound of summer surrounded them. The kids laughing, grills sizzling, the buzz of the projector being tested at the drive-in screen set up across the grass. It was movie night, and half the town had come out with lawn chairs and coolers.

“I’m meetin’ Keisha over by the bleachers,” Stack said, adjusting his collar like he was about to walk into a photoshoot. “She said she saved me a spot on the blanket. Brought Twizzlers and everything.”

“You look like you brought too much ego,” Smoke said, eyes scanning for Annie.

“I’m just tryin’ to make a memory,” Stack said with a wink. “You should too. The first date’s important. It sticks with you.”

Smoke was about to respond when he heard the familiar growl of an old pickup rolling up. His pulse skipped.

The beat-up green truck pulled into the dirt lot by the basketball courts. He knew that truck. Everyone did.

Annie’s daddy.

Stack elbowed him. “Game time, Romeo.”

The passenger door opened, and there she was. Annie Baptiste, in a soft blue sundress with little white flowers and white sandals that showed off her painted toes. Her curls framed her face perfectly, catching the last of the sun. She stepped out with that calm grace she always had, like nothing ever rushed her.

Smoke’s breath caught.

Stack leaned in again. “Say it.”

“What?”

“The line, man. Naomi Campbell!”

But Smoke ignored him, taking a step forward as Annie turned toward them.

Her eyes found his almost immediately, and she smiled soft, bright, and just for him.

That smile made Smoke feel like maybe he didn’t need to say anything at all.

And just like that, everything else faded in the background. The sound of the crowd, the buzz of the projector, even Stack’s teasing.

At that moment, there was only her.

And the beginning of something he knew would stay with him for a long, long time.

The soft clink of a belt buckle brought Smoke back to the present. He blinked, realizing he’d been staring into the mirror, his fingers frozen mid-loop. His mind had drifted back to that summer evening, that baby blue sundress, and the way Annie smiled like he was the only boy in the world.

It had been years, but the memory sat fresh on his chest like it happened just last night.

He finished buckling his belt, his movements slower now, a little more thoughtful.

Funny, how one smile could follow a man for most of his life.

Stack, now stretched out on the bed with his phone in one hand and a bottle of cologne in the other, didn’t notice the shift in his brother’s mood.

Smoke pulled on his tan boots, clean and rugged while let out a soft breath.

“She was somethin’ else back then,” he said quietly.

Stack glanced up. “Annie?”

Smoke nodded, still tying his laces. “First date, I was nervous as hell. You remember that night?”

Stack smirked. “Do I? I gave you all the lines. You still ain’t use ‘em.”

“Didn’t need ‘em,” Smoke muttered with a crooked grin. “She smiled at me and I forgot the whole damn speech.”

Stack chuckled. “Yeah, she always had that power over you. You was walkin’ ‘round like a baby deer for a week after.”

Smoke didn’t deny it. He stood and grabbed his favorite watch from the dresser. The worn leather band hugged the edge of his snake tattoo, inked and curling down his forearm like it had always belonged there.

“That’s more like it,” Stack said, standing up and brushing imaginary lint off Smoke’s shoulder. “Now don’t forget this—”

He reached over to the nightstand and clipped the thin diamond chain around Smoke’s neck. It caught the light just right, subtle but sharp. “That necklace still hits, especially with that clean white trim shirt I picked.”

Smoke glanced at himself in the mirror. Stack had styled him casual, but polished. Crisp white short-sleeved button-up trimmed at the collar, dark Levi denim that fit just right, and those tan boots that made him look like he walked straight out of a GQ spread… if GQ featured Mississippi men who could build a deck and break a heart in the same day.

Stack grinned proudly. “You look good, bruh. Like a man who’s about to get his woman back.”

“You sure I don’t look like I’m trying to hard?”

“Nah,” Stack laughed. “You look like Elijah Moore. The grown version. Rugged and fine. Annie gon’ be speechless.”

Smoke straightened the collar slightly. “Long as she don’t laugh, I’ll take it.”

They both chuckled, and the air warmed with that rare, easy joy that only came from years of surviving hard times together.

But under it all, Smoke’s heart was pounding and not with fear this time, but something heavier. Hope.

He glanced at the clock.

“This time,” he murmured, more to himself than his brother, “I’m doing it right.” Tonight, he planned to show Annie just how serious he was.

Stack gave Smoke one final approving nod. “Alright, Mr. GQ. You ready.”

Smoke adjusted the collar on his white shirt once more, then reached for his wallet and keys on the dresser. “Almost. Gotta run a few errands, with final touches and whatnot.”

Stack raised a brow. “Final touches? Man, this date soundin’ like a proposal the way you plannin’ it.”

Smoke shot him a dry look. “It ain’t a proposal, but I ain’t leavin’ nothin’ to chance. I got somethin’ to prove.”

Stack folded his arms, his tone teasing but sincere. “She gon’ see it, bruh. She already do.”

Smoke looked over, paused a beat, then gave a nod of appreciation. “Thanks.”

Then he clapped his brother on the back. “That said… as much as I love you, Elias, you gotta get the hell up outta my house.”

Stack burst into laughter. “Damn nigga, I can’t even ride with you? Be your date’s stylist in case her earrings clash?”

“Hell no nigga!” Smoke said, already moving toward the stairs. “This is solo mission territory. You done your part. Now go home, change your own damn clothes, and stop tryna live vicariously through me.”

“Whatever,” Stack grinned, grabbing his phone and sliding it in his back pocket. “I’ll expect a full report by midnight.”

“Don't wait up,” Smoke called behind him. “I’m tryna make her forget what time it is.”

Stack shook his head, laughing to himself as he followed his brother out. “Lord have mercy. This man tryna bring romance back.”

Smoke stopped by the door, keys in hand, a crooked grin spreading on his lips. “Nah. I’m tryna bring me back.”

He stepped outside into the sun, heart beating fast, ready to spend the rest of the day making damn sure Annie Baptiste remembered exactly who Elijah Moore was and what he was worth.

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

The house creaked soft beneath the weight of the Delta heat. Outside, cicadas whined like power lines and the air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and clay. Inside, a ceiling fan ticked lazy overhead while sunlight poured through the kitchen window in golden streaks.

Annie dragged herself in, bonnet crooked, eyes still puffy with sleep. She was barefoot in an old Jackson State T-shirt, moving like someone who got in just a little too late.

At the kitchen table, her mother sipped sweet tea from a cloudy Mason jar, a thin brow arched without saying a word. Her reading glasses sat low on her nose, and a worn copy of Essence Magazine lay folded beside her plate of toast and peach preserves.

"Bout time you came out that room," her mother said without looking up. "Sun been out so long I thought it gave up on you."

Annie yawned, grabbed a bottle of cold water from the fridge. "Good afternoon, Mama."

"Mmhm," her mama hummed. "So... how was it?"

Annie turned, cautious. "How was what?"

Her mama lowered her glasses and gave her a pointed look. "Don't act brand new, Annie. You went out to the Cypress Lounge last night, didn’t you?"

Annie blinked, lips twitching into a guilty smile. "I did."

Her mother smirked slightly. "Mmhm. With Pearline, right? You told me. Said you were just going to catch up."

"And that’s what we did," Annie replied quickly. "Hung out at the bar, saw Cornbread still bouncing folks at the door, danced with a couple fellas, watched Lil Sammie tear that stage up. That boy can sing."

"What about Stack? How is he doing?"

Annie chuckled. "Caught up with him too. He’s doing good. Looks like he got it all together now."

"Uh huh. And Elijah?" her mother asked, too casual.

Annie hesitated. Took a long sip of water. "What about him?"

"Don’t play with me. You know damn well what I mean."

"We talked," Annie admitted.

"Just talked?"

"And he asked me out," Annie added with a sigh, bracing herself.

Her mother straightened in her seat. "Oh? And when is this date happening?"

"Today at six."

Her mother leaned back, eyes studying her like an x-ray. "Lord. And you said yes?"

"I said one date," Annie clarified, holding up a finger. "One."

Now her mama leaned back in the chair, crossing her arms, lips curling into something amused and knowing. “And you know where he takin’ you?”

“Nope,” Annie said, popping the ‘p’ with a sigh. “Didn’t get that far in the conversation. Just told him to pick me up by six.”

Annie took a slow breath, shoulders lifting slightly. “I don’t know what I still feel, Mama. But I figured… if I said no without even tryin’, I’d regret it.”

Her mother stared at her for a moment, then smiled soft. “Fair enough. Just be careful with that heart of yours. It’s strong, but it’s still yours to protect.”

“I will.”

“And put some lotion on them knees before you go anywhere. Looking like you been wrestling in flour.”

“Mama!”

Now freshly shower and all lotion up, Annie stood in front of her open suitcase, arms folded under her chest, eyes narrowed like she was staring down a personal enemy.

Clothes were everywhere draped over the chair, hanging halfway out the drawer, even tossed across the little fan box she brought from Chicago.

“Okay,” she mumbled, pulling out a lilac sundress and holding it up to her body, “this says church picnic… not first date with the man who broke your teenage heart.”

She tossed it onto the bed and sighed, reaching back into the chaos.

“Do I go casual-cute? Or prim and proper? Or... grown and sexy?”

She stopped mid-rummage, narrowing her eyes.“No. Not sexy. He ain’t gettin’ the wrong idea. This ain’t that kind of party.”

She yanked out a short white romper with gold buttons and studied it in the mirror. “Mmm... This says I’m a walking daydream, but also says please touch me, and he don't need that kind of encouragement.”

Toss.

She bent over and found a baby blue halter top. Simple. Clean. Then she saw the light denim shorts tucked underneath it like they'd been waiting on her to remember who she was.

She held them both up.

“Now see... this says, you missed this. It says, I been doing just fine without you, but also you might wanna try again just to be sure.”

She smirked and stepped into the shorts, adjusting the waistband so they hit just right. She slipped into the halter top and turned to the mirror.

Her short curls, freshly set in rollers all morning, bounced free around her face like polished springs. She leaned closer and fluffed the sides.

“Annie,” she told her reflection, “you better not fall for a damn word he say. But you will look good while you ignore him.”

She clipped on her silver hoops, smoothed the hem of her halter, and opened her jewelry pouch. Her fingers lingered on the soft velvet box containing her diamond tennis bracelet.

“Daddy ain’t spend no thousands for it to collect dust.”

She fastened it to her wrist, then slipped on her white strappy sandals. Not too high. Not too flat. Just enough to show off the fresh white polish on her toes.

With one last look in the mirror, she gave a quick twirl, then stopped herself.

“Okay, girl. That’s enough. We ain’t tryna give him a reason to breathe heavy.”

A glance at her phone showed 5:42 p.m.

Her stomach did a little nervous flip.

“Alright, Lord. Be a breeze and a boundary.”

Annie had just finished adjusting her silver hoops when her phone buzzed on the nightstand, screen flashing: Pearline

She smirked, picking it up and sliding her finger across.

“You don’t miss a beat, do you?”

Pearline’s voice came through loud and nosey.

“Girl! I been waitin’ all day to call. You ready for your little secret date?”

Annie walked over to the mirror, fluffing her curls one last time.

“First of all, it ain’t secret. Second of all… it ain’t that deep.”

Pearline laughed.

“Oh, so we lyin’ today? Okay. Cool. Let me lie too. I'm not eatin’ peach cobbler right now straight from the dish.”

Annie laughed despite herself. “You a mess.”

“Mmhm, and you lookin’ cute, ain’t you?” Pearline said, all knowing. “I know you ain’t letting that man pick you up lookin’ regular.”

Annie looked at her reflection and shrugged, though her smile gave her away.

“Just threw something on.”

“Lies. I bet you in them little shorts with your legs out, skin glistenin’, bracelet sparklin’—lemme find out you out here tryna ruin that man.”

Annie grinned wide, looking down at the bracelet on her wrist.

“I just wanted to remind him who he lost, that’s all.”

Pearline sucked her teeth. “Oop! She got her foot on his neck already.”

“I ain’t doin’ nothin’,” Annie said with faux innocence. “I’m just goin’ on a date.”

“With the same man you said you wasn’t even checkin’ for last night. Now look at you—heart racin’, tryin’ to act cool, talkin’ ‘bout it ‘ain’t that deep.’ Girl, please.”

Annie flopped onto the bed, the sound of her laugh soft and breathy.

“You right. I’m a little nervous,” she admitted quietly.

Pearline’s tone gentled. “Aww. You got butterflies?”

“Not butterflies,” Annie muttered, fiddling with the hem of her halter top. “Maybe just… a breeze.”

Pearline laughed again. “Whatever it is, I hope it go how you want it to. And if he act up, just call me and I’ll pull up with a belt.”

Annie giggled. “Please don’t. I already got enough pressure just tryna look like I didn’t spend all day gettin’ ready.”

“Well, mission accomplished. You ready.”

Before Annie could respond, she heard tires crunching in the gravel outside.

She stood up slow and walked to the window, peeking through the blinds. Her heart did that annoying flutter again.

“He here?” Pearline asked.

Annie took a breath.

“He here.”

Pearline’s voice brightened.

“Alright then. Go be cute. Call me after. I wanna know everything from the appetizer to the kiss goodnight.”

“Girl, goodbye!” Annie laughed and hung up, her stomach now officially dancing.

She slipped her phone into her purse, glanced at herself one last time, and whispered: “You got this.”

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

The Mississippi sun was just beginning to dip when Smoke’s truck rumbled into Annie’s gravel driveway. The heat of the day had softened, casting the sky in a warm haze of gold and blush. Smoke rested his arm against the open window, tapping the steering wheel slowly, eyes trained on the front porch.

Everything was set. He had double-checked the details of the date before leaving the house. Jericho had everything in place, the horses were saddled, and the spread for dinner was chilling on ice. All that was left was her.

He climbed out the truck and started up the porch steps. Just as he raised his hand to knock, the door swung open.

There she stood.

Annie.

She wore a light blue denim short set that hugged her hips just right, with a blue halter top tied behind her neck. Her short curls framed her face, bouncing softly as she moved. Silver hoops glinted beneath the porch light, and her diamond tennis bracelet shimmered on her wrist. The white sandals wrapped around her feet like silk.

Smoke felt the air leave his lungs.

"Evenin'," she said casually, arms folded under her chest.

He took a slow glance, eyes lingering on the curve of her thighs, the slope of her waist. Goddamn. She was always fine, but tonight? She looked like a memory wrapped in something dangerous.

"Evenin'," he returned, his voice lower than he meant it to be.

Annie arched a brow. "You just gon’ stare or you wanna tell me where we headed?"

Smoke smirked, leaning against the porch rail. "Nah. You’ll see when we get there."

She rolled her eyes but followed him down the steps toward the truck.

He opened the passenger door for her, stepping back as she climbed in. As she passed him, his gaze couldn’t help but drop to the curve of her behind, the way her skin glowed in the falling light. He caught himself and looked away, but not before the image settled deep in his chest.

Annie noticed. Of course she did.

Once he was in the driver’s seat, they sat in silence for a minute. The tension was thick, not hostile, but heavy. The kind that sizzled.

"So," Annie said, adjusting her bracelet, "this whole thing… you been planning it a while?"

Smoke kept his eyes on the road. "Not long. Just wanted to do it right."

She nodded, eyes forward, then turned to glance at him. “You really think a date gon’ fix all that old mess between us?”

Smoke didn’t answer right away. He shifted in his seat, flexing his hand on the wheel.

“Nope.” he said finally. “I don’t think one date will fix anything. But I do think one night can remind you of what’s worth fixing.”

That shut her up for a second.

He glanced over at her. She was biting the corner of her lip.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Like you know me.”

Smoke grinned. “I do know you. Better than you think. And I remember the look you give when you tryin’ not to fall.”

Annie scoffed, looking out the window. “Boy, please.”

But her voice lacked the bite she probably intended.

And Smoke felt something stir in his chest.

Tonight wasn’t about perfection. It wasn’t even about forgiveness. It was about possibility. About standing in front of the only woman who ever truly saw him and trying, just once more, to be enough.

And maybe, just maybe… to breathe again.

The soft hum of the truck’s engine filled the space between them, and windows rolled halfway down to let in the thick Mississippi breeze. Cicadas buzzed lazily outside, and in the background, a low crackle played through the truck’s stereo as the opening piano chords of “Breathe Again” by Toni Braxton drifting in the air.

Annie sat with one leg crossed over the other, her short curls bouncing just slightly with the motion of the road. Her scent—something sweet and warm, like vanilla and coconut—was driving Smoke half mad. He kept his eyes on the road, but he could feel her watching him from the corner of her eye.

“You not gon’ tell me where we goin’?” she asked, her voice light, but with that familiar edge.

Smoke grinned. “Nope.”

Annie raised a brow. “You know, I don’t usually get in cars with men who won’t tell me where they takin’ me.”

“Well, good thing I ain’t just any man.”

That earned him a soft chuckle. “Still got that mouth, I see.”

Smoke glanced her way, just long enough to drink her in—those bare shoulders catching sunlight, her skin glowing, her legs looking like temptation incarnate under those light blue denim shorts. He gripped the wheel a little tighter.

“You know you wrong for wearin’ that,” he muttered.

Annie smirked. “Wearing what?”

“That whole outfit. Lookin’ like a sin and a half before sundown.”

She laughed, turning her face to the window to hide the faint blush rising in her cheeks. “I just threw somethin’ on.”

“Uh huh. You threw it on just right.”

A moment of quiet passed between them. The pine trees blurred by outside, the road stretching on, humming beneath the tires. Smoke drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel.

“You look good, though. Real good,” he said after a beat.

Annie turned back to him, her expression unreadable. “You always were good at compliments, Elijah.”

“I ain’t complimentin’. I’m speakin’ facts.”

She didn’t answer right away. Then:

“This don’t change anything, you know,” she said. “One date don’t mean I’m forgettin’ everything that happened before.”

“I don’t want you to forget,” Smoke said calmly. “I want you to remember. Then I want to show you who I am now.”

Annie went quiet again, the weight of his words settling in the air like dust.

After a moment, she looked over at him. “So what happens if I don’t feel nothin’ after this?”

Smoke gave her a slow, side glance and smiled. “Then I’ll let you go. But you’ll feel somethin’. I promise you that.”

Annie rolled her eyes, but there was a slight curve to her lips now. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrected, easing the truck around a bend. “Big difference.”

The wooden sign for Jericho’s farm came into view up ahead, partially hidden by the trees. Smoke slowed down, his heart picking up speed.

Annie squinted through the windshield. “This ain’t no restaurant…”

“Nope,” he said.

“You takin’ me to a damn farm, Elijah?”

“Maybe,” he said with a smirk, turning down the gravel path.

Annie shook her head, but he could hear the smile in her voice. “This better not be no foolishness.”

He chuckled. “It’s not. You trust me?”

Annie looked over at him again. The pause that followed was long and loaded.

“…I’m tryin’.”

Smoke nodded, the gravel crunching under the tires as they pulled closer to the open pasture. The sun had dipped just enough to cast a golden glow over the field, and two saddled horses stood waiting by the fence, along with a small table under a tree draped in white linen and a vintage record player sitting beside it.

Annie blinked. “Elijah…”

He put the truck in park and turned to her fully now. “Just wanted to give you somethin’ you’d remember. Even if this is the last time I get to.”

For a second, Annie didn’t say a word. She just stared out the window at the quiet setup completely caught off guard.

She turned to him slowly, arms crossed. “You planned all this?”

“I told you I wasn’t playin’.”

Annie opened her door slowly, sandals crunching against the gravel. Smoke came around to her side. He tried not to look, but he did. His eyes tracing the curve of her behind as she walked ahead of him. It made his mouth go dry.

She turned around with a raised brow, clearly catching him.

“Mmhm,” she said. “Better stop starin’ before your retinas burn out.”

Smoke smiled. “Too late. You blinded me years ago.”

“You cheesy.”

“You like it.”

She didn’t answer that, just stood there, watching as he stepped ahead and nodded toward the horses. “Come on. Let’s ride.”

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TAGLIST:

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @brattyfics @chrisevansmentee @margepimpson @blaqgirlmagicyallcantstandit @bigjh @est1887 @thegreatlibraryofalex @127hydrangeas @tadjoa @thickmadame @chixkencxrry @jackierose902109 @carmilladias @rolemodelshit @lilblckraincloud @thesmutconnoisseur @hotebonynearby @lizbehave @fadingbelieverexpert @samiecemonet-blog @nebulamilkyway @shamansha @soufcakmistress @diamondsinterlude @sarcastic-sunshines @blaqgirlmagicyallcantstandit @hotcommodityyy @coolfoodrunworld-blog @thefutureemmywinner @childishgambinaax

#sinners fanfiction #elias stack moore #sinners #elijah smoke moore #michael b jordan #wunmi mosaku #annie x smoke #smoke x annie #smoke x stack #elias ‘stack’ moore #elijah “smoke” moore

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dilf-luvr-4evr · 4 months ago

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Idk what this is lol I hate it but something quick because I’m crayyyyzyyyy about him…………….. (no warnings)

It was a successful robbery.

Too successful, too easy, it might as well have been a set up.

But life was too difficult for the gang for you to frown on it. You’ll think of it later.

Right now, you had heaps of money. More than enough to go around with no one on your tail.

No one but Arthur.

He watched you laugh. That infectious laugh of yours that pulls on the ends of his lips and the strings of his heart. The sight of Rhodes shrunk more and more as the both of you rode further. Deers galloped away, clearing the road ahead as he remained entranced by the bounce of your hair.

“Let’s race!” You called over your shoulder, hands gripping the reins. It was the adrenaline, the joy of a job well done. You were smiling so much, your face hurt. “3, 2, 1, go!”

“Hey- how’s that fair?” He yelled out, laughing anyway, quickly spurring his horse. Hearing him complain tickled you so much, your stomach ached from chortling. There’s always this feeling when it came to him. Childlike, curious.

You were having so much fun in fact, that you didn’t see the snake that slithered by. With a loud whinny, your horse reared and sent you falling on your back.

Hell, did it hurt.

But somehow, you find it in yourself to chuckle, groaning right after when you felt the familiar spike of pain on your sides that followed. Damn that horse. You love her though.

“You alright?” You heard Arthur shout, almost forgetting he’s there.

Your good mood got the best of you and you decided to play dead.

The clacking of hooves grew louder, sounding even faster than when he raced you. You could hear strings of swear words fall out of his mouth as he nears and you almost regret pranking him. Almost. The guilt unfortunately wasn’t as big as your interest to see his reaction.

You were tempted to peek upon the sound of him jumping off his horse and running. It was just a casual fall off a horse, nothing new. Well to be fair, you were acting dead.

There was shuffling on grass, warm calloused hands on your cheeks. You stilled your movements to further convince.

But when he said your name? Once.

Twice, laced with urgency. Trembling?

You had to flutter your eyes open though the sun was no longer as blinding. Like an eclipse, he was blocking it.

Arthur.

Arthur, the most scared you’ve ever seen him. Pale. Dilated pupils when he saw you wake.

Arthur with hair ending in soft wisps that looked like they fade under the sun.

Arthur who’s all muscle and force but gently held your face.

“Oh, I thought-” he exhaled, head dropped. With another deep breath, “Christ..”

Arthur who smelled like cigarettes when he sighed. Strong features softening whenever he smiled.

Arthur whose eyes just landed on your lips then back up your eyes, hands stiff in place.

Your fingers found his knuckles with the softness of a butterfly’s wings. You leaned forward before holding back.

But he met you halfway.

With the quickening of your heart, the click of a safe’s code figured out in your head, you realized as you kissed him, here in Scarlett Meadows, March 6th, 1899.

That you are in love with Arthur Morgan.

Thank you for reading!! <3

My masterlist

#idk im trying to write more ig #maybe dont read it 😝🏃‍♀️💨#i’ve been a little off lately but trying to get into it again #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption community #red dead fandom #rdr2 community #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan red dead redemption 2 #lyla’s rdr fics

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rootspiral · 7 months ago

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Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 6 part 3

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4][5][6])

I think this might actually be my favorite Agatha, for real? Like, the ring binder. The pOUTING. She's SO serious. I want to talk to her in a baby voice, just like, to be supportive of her little things.

And the Bohner family reunion shirt, of course. the gray socks, the garden hose sprayer as a gun. To use tumblr lingo, that's the saddest meow meow of a woman I've ever seen, and I'm obsessed with her.

GAY ON GAY VIOLENCE

joe was holding for dear life, but he didn't laugh. because he's a professional.

billy putting all the hours he spent on tvtropes dot com to good use

he's always a little smug, like he thinks he's in control, that he knows better. when he actually doesn't know shit! that's the whole attitude he brought to the Road.

and that's detective agnes o'connor to you, you little punk.

the click pen gag destroys me. this is 5 minutes of kathryn and joe being silly and, look, does it further the plot? no. am I having fun? sure am! so who's to say it's wasted time?

and the way she looks so small and lost when reality slips in for a moment, she is so precious to me.

look at the hand going in witchy position, the real agatha fighting to regain control. what a great acting choice.

for context he spent all of five minutes in the closet before bursting out in a a cloud of nail polish fumes. and it still was five minutes too many

the draMATIC zoOM IN

you thought quicksand would be enough to kill thee agatha harkness?? you're gonna need to put some more effort to it, some flair! and what's more, she's gonna complain about it the whooooole time

fare thee well swooshy coat

I just realized all the little innocent questions billy keeps peppering agatha with are exactly because he can't read her mind, so he's trying to get information for the Road on the down low

you guys keep accidentally shaping reality. it's a fairly big tell.

she tries to joke as usual, but when billy doesn't respond she sighs and tries to be soft and thoughtful. she's not AT ALL comfortable opening up so it's laced with manipulation, but hey, she tries

goddamnit she's crying again. I told you she loves billy for being billy, and not just as a nicky stand-in. this is the brilliant little boy who could always see right through her, and agatha has loved him since the day he was born.

hey there kiddo. so you've killed a few witches, happens to the best of us. look at me, killing witches never opened a gaping black chasm in my soul or anything. you're going to be fine.

billy is so not amused

just like with wanda, there's so much there. sympathy, thirst for power, genuine interest in cool witchcraft, self preservation, fear, desire. she wants to connect, she wants to squash him like a bug, she wants to steal his powers and run, she wants to MOTHER him

and in all this whirlwind of emotions, mothering wins out. and it's projecting and it's selfish, she's telling him what she wishes her own mother would have told her.

she is uplifting billy and giving him a pep talk, but she's also giving herself a pep talk. she's proudly claiming her status as a survivor, while also trying to justify - to herself and to billy - all she atrocities she's committed. like I said, there's always so much there. at least 90% of her is purely selfish, and then there's a luminous little corner of her soul that is capable of so much love.

and at the end of a speech that started calculated and became all passion, she reclaims her identity as a witch, despite all the difficult history there. her mother passed on overwhelming internalized hatred and fear of witchfolk and - inevitably, some serious self-hatred. Her sense of identity and belonging is all fucked up, she must have been trying to negotiate and come to terms with it since she was a child.

and of course, being agatha, she hates herself while still believing she's the greatest witch that ever lived.

oooh, who's an edgy boy! I've been thinking about billy's defense mechanisms too, he usually goes for the innocent teen persona (a bit like agatha chooses to play cheesy characters) but he gets so very edgy and dramatic when upset. I think deep down he's more proud and self-involved that he'd be comfortable admitting, and why wouldn't he? he's so powerful. he can read everyone around him like an open book, a part of him genuinely thinks he's figured it all out. he doesn't like being told that he's wrong because ultimately he's TERRIFIED of being wrong and making a mess of things like agatha or wanda.

and he's carrying so much destructive potential that his growing pains, the mistakes that every young person ought to make, could have catastrophic consequences. that's why he so badly needs agatha's guidance, she's the only one who could possibly understand all that. if, you know, she could only work through her own shit first.

lmao that was such an elaborate (and cruel) way to land a joke. and she KNOWS tommy's name, she's just being a bitch

mustache!

billy getting in her face to yell at her reminds me of when she's confronted by jen in the finale, she tries to joke and deflect until jen no longer allows it. she is so afraid of facing her own responsibilities.

and she gets serious just for a moment, just long enough to betray how much billy's rejection actually hurts her. and she didn't expect anything else, so she keeps rejecting people first only to be heartbroken again when they do too. such a vicious cycle.

and the walls are up again.

and she swaggers off, the wretched muddy little creature. she looks almost cool.

next up:

yeah, it's lilia's episode.

goddammit.

#agatha all along #agatha harkness #billy maximoff #agatha deep dive #kathryn hahn #joe locke #character analysis

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biasbuck · 7 months ago

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BiAsBuck’s ficrec Fraturday

Hi everyone, how we holding up? I'm coping (ish) with a Ghost Whisperer watch through and an abundance of wonderful fic. Back with another fortnight of fic that I've read and loved recently, and wow there's been some amazing stories! As always you can find previous rec lists here.

14 December 2024

at this fork in the road (I want the path that leads me to you) by @polkadotk804 was recommended to me by an anon (thank you!), and has firmly cemented polkadot as a must read author! A sliding doors split narrative fic, in which in one strand Eddie asks Buck to come with him to El Paso, and in another strand he stays silent. Moving, emotional, full of small and large steps to reconciliation with Chris, Eddie as a brilliant Dad actually thank you very much, and the Diaz parents interfering, this is such a great read.

love letters written by someone else's hand by @moonsharky is so much fun!! After the 118's cameo on hotshots' midseason finale, buck finds himself hooked on the show and binge watches the entire series, quickly immersing himself in the fandom life. He's deep diving on reddit and stumbles across RPF of him and Eddie (aka Nurse 1 & 2) and curiosity strikes. Joyful, and brilliantly done.

beating the horse by @doitbuckley in which Eddie is moving to Texas, and looking back at his various 1.0 2.0 upgrades, Buck finally figures out what he wants. But of course first he has to spiral hard, whilst trying not to let on that that's just what he's doing. Oh this hurt so much, but was so good. Buck just absolutely ripping himself to shreds whilst Eddie quietly self combusts in the background. So so satisfying, and I loved the open endedness of it all. Wonderful work!

the sweetest possible lie by @wildehacked Chris’s fifteenth birthday falls on a Tuesday, and it couldn’t be more different from last year. Eddie and Buck take him to dinner to celebrate, and an assumption from the waitstaff leads Chris in a bout of teenage grandiosity to ask why Buck still denies being his father figure when people suggest it. This is short but packs a punch, and has such a clever and sympathetic eye on youthful wilfulness, as well as the balancing act that Buck and Eddie are on.

Somethings Said (to turn you inside out) by taegyungie absolutely KILLED ME with the sexual tension, my goodness, I kept having to pause to catch my breath. During the end scene in 8x08, Buck catches Eddie on Grindr, gets confirmation he's started sleeping with men...and now Buck can't stop thinking about it. Absolutely unable to stop his curiosity, he finds himself drawn to Eddie's profile, and soon casual chatting leads to more. Absolutely sizzling hot, and the voice and characterisation of their teasing friendship developing was so gorgeous.

bad luck to talk and the strangers by jaekyu both incredible! In BLTT, we get thee most miscommunicating dummies fic - in which buddie start having casual sex in the midst of season 8 but do not talk about it, just add it to the mix of their friendship. Eddie is convinced this means they are dating, Buck thinks it must be a case of fwb as Eddie can't love him. They both reexamine with the benefit of hindsight. It's hot, compelling, and full of aching romantic tension. In The Strangers, we have them coping with Eddie moving to El Paso by hooking up, and then Eddie running, with Buck later visiting, and the cycle repeating. It's so much connection and hope and pain, and beautiful, with some A+ Eddie thesis statements.

and i fell (like a dead body falls) by fearofgod oh my god this one near broke me 😭 Buck and Eddie are on their first date, when the ground literally drops out from beneath their feet in an explosion at the restaurant. Both badly injured, they rely on each other to help those they're trapped with, whilst life slowly drifts ever further away. I realised as I was reading that I hadn’t checked for a MCD tag and was genuinely like oh god what if they actually die? (Don't worry, there's a hope!) I really adored the characterisation of them both being already all in on their relationship, and the weight of their friendship and working partnership history coming to the fore in the crisis, and yet that they were still figuring things out and on the cusp of feelings actualisation. Literally an edge of your seat, heart in your mouth read and some absolutely stellar hurt/comfort fic.

I have had enough of crime by @lamardeuse will I ever get enough of Josh and Eddie gay yoda worsties? Not likely! The author sums this up brilliantly as 'Josh's view of Eddie's journey in 8A and beyond through the gay Olympic sport of competitive brunching.' Delightfully bitchy but also forging a solid foundation of quiet friendship and support, I loved this so much.

I should be pushing daisies by @exhuastedpigeon ooooh this was so healing. With Eddie leaving for Texas, Buck is still in LA and at the 118, and pining. He leans on the people around him, Bobby, Maddie and long calls with Eddie over facetime. All he needs now is a Christmas miracle. The perfect warm hug of a holiday fic.

That's all for now, see you soon for Christmas recs!

#biasbuck recs #buddie fic #buddie ficrec #buddie fanfic #911 fic #911 ficrec #911 abc #(thank you Rose for screaming about a lot of these in DMs with me <3)

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moony-mybeloved · 2 months ago

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Under Pressure

The Marauders band au I suggest in my last post received a resounding yes so heres chpt 1! comment to be added to the taglist 🫶

The last thing Remus Lupin expected to be doing after a very successful show was driving home in his shitty car, down his shitty road, to get back to his shitty apartment, without his shitty boyfriend.

It wasn't supposed to end like this. Sirius wasn't supposed to say those things, he himself wasn't supposed to flip his lid, but here he is, and now he has to pull over before he kills someone because he can't see the road past the tears blurring his vision.

The break up was messy, backstage of a show, Remus was angry already, Sirius had been a dick before the show, going mental at James for taking a shot before the show, yelling at Peter for snapping a string on his guitar right on their 5 minute call, and scolding Remus for showing up with his cane in hand.

'You can't play with one hand! your gonna have to, I don't know, lean on something, just make it look cool ok!?'

Make it look cool? Remus had been livid, it was a bad hip day, he could barely walk on his own, but god forbid he run Sirius Blacks big show. He would have blamed it on the mans nerves, if he hadn't been acting like this ever since the band got a big break, and now The Marauders are a known name, then Sirius changed, been more like a boss than a boyfriend of 10 years, it pissed him off, to say the least, and he couldn't handle the diva he turned into.

Remus wants the days when they had fun, played in pubs where the only people who came to really see them was James' parents, but now Sirius black is a ridiculous control freak who is now more focused on the fame, the money, the opinions than the fun of it, the passion that he once had.

Its the radio that snaps him out of it, Sirius' energetic, belty voice along with his own smooth tones that bring a fresh wave of sobs wracking his aching body.

Under Pressure. The song that made the band and broke the bond, his shaky hand freezing when he hears Sirius sing 'Can't we give love, one more chance?'

No. Not with the way you've changed.

That's the only thing running through his mind as he manages to drive home, unlock his apartment and immediately find a bottle, when the phone rings, he lazily grabs it off the wall.

'Hello..?'

'Alright, mate?'

'..What do you want, James?'

'We just like..y'know, wanted, to know if you were, serious about the whole break up, with sirius..no pun intended-'

'Yes, I am, and..'

He hesitates. Does he really want to do this? Throw everything hes worked for since school, away? Because of a break up?

'I'm quitting the band,'

'What!?-'

He hangs up before James can try to convince him to stay, because it would work. Instead, he takes a long sip of his beer, rolls over on the sofa, and closes his eyes.

Remus doesn't leave his house for about a week, moving boxes scattered about the place, he had been supposed to move in with Sirius that week.

James and Peter had been ringing, from Sirius? Radio silence, which tells him all he needs to know. Hes angry. Hes upset. He regrets it. But hes free.

And so Remus deals with his feelings the only way he knows how, he writes music, he pours his anger into the lyrics, thinking about meeting sirius in school, who was desperate to fit in, despite his stupid posh parents, how Remus had fallen in love with him, but once a stuck up, arrogant prune, always a stuck up arrogant prune, I suppose.

When he finishes, he feels like he can take a deep breath.

He names the song 'Common People'.

After writing a song, crying, quitting his band, drinking, smoking, drinking and crying a little more, and sleeping for a week, only one thought is clear in Remus' mind.

I fucking hate Sirius Black.

Short first chapter ik!! but it was more of a setting the scene kinda thing, but the next ones will be longer promise! hope it lived up to expectations, and i plan to post a new chapter every Wednesday!

#Spotify #the marauders #headcanon #remus lupin #sirius black #wolfstar #remus x sirius #french sirius black #james potter #marauders band au #marauders brainrot #wolfstar angst

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spectrayus · 2 months ago

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What would your OC's reaction or interaction if she met Leila? 🤔

How do they meet?

Option 1: Sayu accidentally teleports through a multi-universe portal and ends up in the world where Leila lives. Looking around, she doesn't notice anything different, so she calmly starts heading home.

On the way, she casually notices that many inhabitants run away screaming in fear. However, when she runs into Leila, who doesn't even flinch, Sayu becomes intrigued.

Reaction:

Sayu approaches her, full of curiosity. It's rare for her that someone doesn't react with fear or negativity toward her, and it sparks her interest.

Teasing, she says, “Hey, I'm a ghost, be scared”

Leila chuckles lightly and replies. “Haha, I know. I'm not blind”

Still puzzled, Sayu insists, “You're really not scared?”

Leila smiles and answers casually, “No. Especially not when you look so adorably confused”

Sayu, caught completely off guard by the unexpected compliment, blushes furiously. Flustered and embarrassed, she pretends to be indignant and floats away as quickly as she can.

Complot:

Sayu eventually discovers a painful truth, his father, Betrayus, doesn't recognize her. He looks down on her, speaking with the same cold authority and arrogance he shows to everyone else.

Reeling from the shock, Sayu wanders the unfamiliar world, trying to make sense of it all.

At some point, she stumbles upon a photograph, a faded, fragile image. Her heart stops when she realizes it's the same girl had encountered earlier on the road, only much younger, still a child, cradled in the arms of Betrayus, back when he was alive.

In that moment, the truth becomes chillingly clear,

In this version of the multiverse, she was never born.

Option 2: One ordinary day, Sayu was so bored that she decided to wander into the living room. There, she spotted a collection of books and, with little care, began browsing through them, leaving a mess of scattered volumes on the floor.

While rummaging around, she stumbled across an old photo album, something that immediately piqued her curiosity. Inside were dozens of pictures of her father, Betrayus, from his teenage years onward, back when he was still alive. Some photos were funny, others strange or intriguing.

Sayu flipped through them absentmindedly, until one picture made him freeze.

It showed his father holding a small, cheerful girl, who smiled warmly with an expression that mirrored Betrayus's own.

A strange sensation hit Sayu in the chest, a mixture of mistrust, contempt, and rising curiosity.

He felt an urgent need to confront Betrayus.

Trying to act casual and indifferent, Sayu floated over to the throne room, “Hey, dad, I have something to ask you” he said nonchalantly.

Betrayus, half-distracted by the tv, glanced at him and replied, “Hm? What is it?”

Sayu took a deep breath, then held up the photo as a reference, “Who's the girl in this picture?”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Betrayus didn’t respond right away, he just stared blankly at the photo, his dull reddish eyes seemingly lost in thought.

Sayu shifted awkwardly under the weight of the silence, eventually prompting, “Dad?”

Finally, Betrayus blinked, slowly turning toward Sayu with a nervous, almost haunted look.

“She’s your half-sister” he said quietly.

How would their interaction be?

For both scenarios, the result would be the same.

At first, Sayu might not like Leila, and it wouldn’t entirely be her fault. Sayu' occasional arrogance and selfishness, combined with deep-seated jealousy and resentment over her father's affection, would create tension. Especially once Sayu realizes she's not truly the only child.

Naturally, this would lead to conflict between them.

However, if Leila eventually opens up, perhaps during a vulnerable moment where they both discuss their inner struggles and shared distrust toward Betrayus.

Sayu’s intense defensiveness would begin to soften.

Curiosity and a rare sensitivity would surface within her.

Through these honest conversations, they would slowly find common ground, gradually improving their relationship and building a genuine bond over time.

#pmatga #pacman and the ghostly adventures #myart #digital art #digital drawing #betrayus #fankid #not my oc #leila #myocs #sayu #spectrayus #pmatga headcanons

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legendary-69420 · 8 months ago

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Chapter 20: Between Fame and Feelings (Part 1) Underneath the Spotlight

(Racing Hearts : VOLUME 2) Part 1 : Underneath the Spotlight Song : "Espresso - Sabrina Carpenter"

The air was electric as fans filled the venue, their excited chatter echoing off the walls. Charles stood at the entrance, his heart pounding—not from anticipation for the concert but from the simmering tension within him. Over the past few weeks, rumors had spread like wildfire, and Charles found himself caught in a storm of jealousy and confusion. Mark, his best friend, the guy he couldn't stop thinking about, had been seen everywhere with Sabrina Carpenter. Cafes, parks, and now a concert—an image burned into Charles’s mind.

He clenched his fists, trying to suppress the frustration bubbling inside. Why does this bother me so much? He should have been happy for Mark, but the sight of them together twisted something deep within him. He had not voiced his feelings, choosing instead to keep his thoughts bottled up.

“Hey, Charles! You okay?” Lorenzo's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Yeah, just… thinking,” Charles muttered, glancing at his friends. Arthur stood nearby, scrolling through his phone, oblivious to the turmoil swirling in Charles's mind.

As the concert started, excitement filled the air, yet Charles felt isolated, as if there was an invisible barrier between him and the festivities. Mark had invited him and the rest of their group, but the absence of his friend was palpable. Where is he?

The opening act blared through the speakers, and the crowd cheered, but Charles’s heart wasn’t in it. His eyes scanned the stage, searching for a glimpse of Mark. Finally, as the beat dropped and the lights shifted, the moment Charles had been waiting for arrived.

“ESPRESSO!” Sabrina's voice rang through the venue, and with it, Mark appeared, looking effortlessly stunning. He was dressed in a sleek costume that hugged his body, revealing his toned abs and muscles. The way he moved on stage was mesmerizing; he and Sabrina danced with a chemistry that sent a jolt of jealousy through Charles. They were close, practically entwined, every move perfectly choreographed, yet it felt too intimate for Charles's comfort.

As the song progressed, Mark glanced over at Charles, and their eyes locked. Mark winked at him, a playful gesture that sent a thrill down Charles's spine. Charles's heart raced, but the flutter of excitement was quickly overshadowed by a surge of frustration. Why was he with her?

When the concert ended and the crowd began to disperse, Charles lingered, anxiously waiting for Mark. He felt an overwhelming urge to confront him about everything—the rumors, the dancing, the closeness. But when Mark finally made his way through the throngs of fans, he wore a bright smile that only deepened Charles’s inner conflict.

“Hey! Did you enjoy the show?” Mark beamed, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

“Yeah, it was great. You were amazing up there,” Charles replied, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Thanks! I had a lot of fun,” Mark said, oblivious to the tension in the air. “Want to drop me off? I could use a ride home.”

“Sure,” Charles muttered, feeling the weight of unspoken words hanging heavily between them as they walked to the car.

The drive home was filled with an uncomfortable silence. Charles focused on the road, but his mind was racing. “So… Sabrina, huh?” he finally blurted out, unable to hold back any longer.

Mark shifted in his seat, his expression turning serious. “Yeah, we’ve been hanging out a bit. She’s really nice. We’re just friends, though.”

“Just friends?” Charles echoed, trying to keep his voice neutral despite the sting of jealousy. “It looked like more than that up on stage.”

Mark sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not what you think, Charles. I have to do this for my career. The publicity, the exposure… It’s all part of it.”

“I get that, but it just seems like…” Charles hesitated, searching for the right words. “You’re spending a lot of time with her.”

“I know it looks bad,” Mark said softly, his tone turning serious. “But you know I care about you, right? You’re my best friend. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.” ...

(Dividers by @thecutestgrotto and @enchanthings)

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gghostwriter · 1 year ago

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Yours Truly, Romeo

Chapter 4 __ The Profile & The Profiler

Spencer Reid x FOC

Summary: Washington, DC - A string of grizzly murders and obsessive love letters causes Olivia and Spencer’s paths to intertwine. With a serial killer proclaiming his undying devotion to her and the thick tension surrounding her and her agent turned bodyguard, Olivia’s life is writing out like a contemporary love story that she, as a successful writer, could see herself publishing.

previous chapter || series masterlist || next chapter

"You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings and soar with them above the common bound." - Act 1, Scene 4. Romeo & Juliet by William Shakespeare

“We believe our unsub is a white male driving an SUV. He uses the vehicle to abduct and transport the male victims from Washington DC to Maryland,” Hotch stated in front of the members of the Washington PD.

Morgan stood next to him, hands on his hips. “His victims are between the ages 27-35 and we think the unsub is in the same age bracket.”

“Add to that, our unsub is experiencing a psychosis specifically called erotomania. This form of delusion is when an individual believes that another person, usually of a higher status, is in love with him. His weapon of choice also gives us another understanding on his psyche to these killings, using narcotics to kill symbolizes the emotional detachment the unsub has to his victims—” Spencer elaborated.

“Which means the victims were a crime of opportunity, rather than crime of passion,” Morgan injected.

“—and with his use of methanol and formaldehyde to preserve the body parts, we believe we are looking for an intelligent unsub.”

“Which is not unusual. True psychopaths often have above average intelligence.” Hotch clarified.

“This type of unsub will not have injected himself into the investigation as we often see. He will not be following the case very closely unless his fantasy to Ms. Olivia Hill is disturbed.” Morgan concluded.

The Washington chief detective raised his pen up in the air. “So how come he hasn’t tried to kidnap Ms. Hill rather than kidnapping all these male victims?”

“It’s because his fantasy—transformation if you will—isn’t complete yet. He’s collecting all these different body parts to fit into her perfect male partner. Once that process is complete, he will try to kidnap her next.” Spencer explained.

Morgan took a deep breath. “There is something about him that would be helpful, he has a superficial connection to Ms. Hill. Not enough for her to notice his feelings but enough for him to project his fantasy, possibly a colleague or someone she interacts with on a daily short basis like a delivery man.”

“We suggest not to go public with this information and to re-interview female co-workers to ask if they’ve noticed any untoward or suspicious behaviors from their male co-workers to Ms Hill,” Hotch said as Morgan’s phone started to ring. “Thank you very much.”

With his back turned to the police officers leaving the premise, he accepted the call and put it on speaker. “Prentiss, what you got?”

She sighed. “Another body has been dumped in the Potomac River, skinned from his upper thigh to feet.”

“That completes his suit,” Spencer noted.

“Forensics is currently running his fingerprints in the system to see if we have him in the database. I’ll get Garcia to forward any information she has,” she stated before ending the call.

The two FBI agents turned around to face their stern unit chief for further instructions. “Morgan, you’re with me for the re-interview. Reid, you go back to Ms. Hill’s residence and Reid,—“

“Yes?”

“—keep us updated on any slight disturbance.”

Spencer nodded, gathering his belongings before dashing out of the precinct.

———

Dusk was beginning to settle when Spencer turned off the SUV ignition in front of her residence. Crossing the empty and calm street road, he took note of any rustling noise, flickering neighborhood lights—the lack thereof—and dark corners where the unsub could hide while keeping watch of the doorstep. All the curtains were shut, he observed, as if mimicking a moat bridge drawn up to protect the castle and it’s inhabitants. Steeling his nerves, he knocked on the door and announced his presence.

“Olivia, it’s Dr Spencer Reid,” He called out.

Several bolts were heard being unlocked from the other side before the door fully swung open, Olivia’s eyes darting behind his stature before widening as it settled on his form.

“Oh, uh-hi Dr. Reid, you look—different,” her cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink as she observed his change in attire. Gone was the brown sweater vest that emphasized his lithe form and the lilac button down shirt that was once hidden underneath now had its sleeve pushed up to his forearms. With the vest out of the way and the gun holster secured on his waist visible, he looked formidable, sensual, and dangerous rolled into one. The sharp contrast to the soft spoken and intriguing male that she met this afternoon to the knight and shining armor rounding her living space had her feeling lightheaded with desire.

Spencer sat down at the worn love seat sofa located in her office. “My team is re-interviewing your female colleagues and I’d like to ask you for any strange male colleagues and interactions that rubbed you off the wrong way.”

“I don’t really interact with any other publishing employees beside from my agent and publicist,” she sat beside him with a glass of water in hand. “One of the perks of being a writer is not having to interact with anyone beyond necessary.”

A heavy silence covered their surroundings. Their thighs softly caressing the other, as if whispering the subconscious declaration of intrigue and attraction. Eyes flitting across the room, never meeting each other’s gaze afraid of unconsciously communicating their innermost thoughts.

His palms opening and closing, unsure of what he needs to do and apprehensive of what he wants to do. Hers drumming on her thighs, nervous of the palpable tension around them. He wanted to touch her delicate hand, he realized—to envelope hers in his, to trace patterns on the back of her hand that will never leave a trace but wishing it would, and to never let go.

“Dr Reid, is it too forward of me to ask if you’re in a relationship?” Olivia rushed out to ask, clearly sheepish with her inquiry.

His ears turning red at the implication behind her questioning. “My job and its urgency isn’t ideal for a relationship,” he explained. “Being on call 24/7 and not knowing when I’ll be able to return home isn’t a fair deal for a potential partner. Statistically speaking, divorcees are common in the FBI, especially in the BAU.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

A silence crept between them.

“Spencer,” he clarified, noticing the little scrunch of her nose as if asking him to further clarify. “Call me Spencer.”

She smiled, the kind so infectious that he felt his own lips curling upwards and his filter evaporating into nothing. “Did you know that women in the romance community are more likely than the general population to be currently married or living with a partner?” He articulated as his fingers tapped a rapid beat on his thigh, an outward display of nervousness. “More often than not, most writers are to be in happy relationships. The stereotype depictions of the lonely, lovesick romance writer who pens alluring novels is largely false in narrative.”

“Huh, I’ve always thought the minds behind romance would be the hopeless romantic pouring over their frustrations, hopes, and dreams into ink to escape reality and live out their fantasies,” she countered back.

His body shifted to face hers. “That is not necessarily incorrect. Romance novels are, for the most part, written by women, about women, for women but it also allows the writers to explore who they are as a woman. Who you want to be. Finding out what you can be. Pushing yourself to be more of who you are.”

“So it’s more of self navigation and therapy?”

He nodded, pleased that his intention was understood even if he explained it in a convoluting way. “Yes, actually more like a self discovery and research.”

“Sadly and realistically speaking, I do tend to fall on the stereotype category of being a romance writer,” she shrugged as if it was no big deal. “So Mr Genius, how’d you end up in the FBI and as a profiler?”

His eyebrows scrunched in concentration unsure to what extent he should divulge. “I was recruited and this was the path that I wanted to do.”

“Can you profile me, then?” She smiled, leaning further into him. “I’m no criminal but I’d like to see your job in action. To see if it’s how they portrayed it in the movies, I mean.”

She was obviously flirting, Spencer noted. He was known to be oblivious to these types of advances as Morgan pointed out, mainly rooting from his deep sense of insecurity, but she was making it clear that she felt an attraction to him or maybe he was just projecting his own emotions, he countered in his mind. After all, he didn’t have the typical male physique—muscles that allude a capability to protect and attack. His greatest asset would be his IQ of 187 that slashes into 60 whenever her set of doe-eyed eyes looks into his with such trust and comfort. His hand moved on their own accord, swiping on her lower lip that was being assaulted by her teeth.

Her breath hitched and his hand quickly dropped, a visible flush coloring his cheeks. “That was, uh, that was inappropriate of me—“

“It’s alright, Spencer.”

“I—it’s really not. You—you asked for a profile, yes?” He brought up, desperate to diffuse the atmosphere and change the subject matter. “You’re a perfectionist based on the organization of your home. Your books are a financial success but you still use an old sedan, possibly a hand me down from your father based on the color and make, which tells me you’re frugal with your income, despite the fact that your house is located in one of the pricier neighborhoods—I believe this is your biggest purchase to date—and that you possibly grew up in a middle income family. You subconsciously tap your fingers on your thighs when you’re nervous and you keep your nails short meaning you’re other tic would be nail biting which you’re trying to break. And you mentioned that you fall under the stereotype category of being a romance writer which tells me you didn’t date much during your school years and never felt the need to go through all the usual considered landmarks of being a teenager, kissing under the bleachers and such. Perhaps you’ve had a boyfriend or two, nothing noteworthy for inspiration and romance, so you pour your hopes and dreams into the characters and scenarios you create.”

“You missed one more important piece.”

He titled his head, thinking of what he could have possibly missed.

“You, and my apparent attraction to you. How I’d like to see you again once this situation is through,” her voice trailed off, the sudden confidence evaporating from her body.

There was silence. His intelligent, hyper-active mind not knowing how to respond. Her confession had rendered him mindless and mute.

The lights flickered, as if wanting to escape their bodies as the space in between lessens ever so slightly, before complete darkness and danger shrouded over.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x fem!oc #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #gw fics #ytr fanfic

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alphabetboyluvr · 2 years ago

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throttle - jjk | six

one/ two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

warnings - heavy on the angst, we finally learn jungkook's true motives, we learn about what happened to his mother, mentions of death, written before we knew jk's birth time so (1) inaccurate saturn placement, general smut, titty sucking, unprotected sex, very intense breeding thoughts from jk, it's angsty!! he dnf :( sad :(, hair dye, showering, fingering, jungkook's time runs out </3

throttle has 3 defined acts - this is the end of act 1

word count - 20k

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

It's warm when you wake.

Daylight pours in through the curtains, of which neither of you bothered to close last night, and it rudely intrudes on the intimacy you've fostered together - yet when the man beside you begins to stir, small squeaks signalling that he's now awake too, you don't seem to mind all that much.

His hair is tousled like the waves of Busan's shoreline, lapping against the sand, adding a soundtrack to the sound of his breathing. You love it when he looks like this; serene and secure in the sanctuary of your company.

Last night's tête-à-tête is a distant memory, chalked up to a misunderstanding between the minds of two lovers who aren't yet aligned, but are getting pretty close to it. Rome wasn't built in a day, and nor was any love worth withstanding the test of time.

You're still learning about one another. Prior to last night, you knew nothing of Jungkook's romantic past, and while part of you is smug to have your initial assumptions about him proven right, it also makes your chest feel all heavy, too. Melancholic, almost, but you think it sounds far too poetic.

When you're met with his drowsy morning gaze - all puffy and unable to open in the way his eyes typically do - you can't imagine anyone ever wanting to hurt him. The thought of his eyes turning black when he looks at you, instead of their usual deep chocolate brown, has the chime in your stomach ringing like an alarm bell. You never want that. Ever.

He yawns, and says good morning to you with a smile that seems almost surprised to still see you in the sheets with him. He pulls you a little closer, nestles his nose to the crown of your head and inhales. He'll never get sick of that scent. Sick of you.

You're like gasoline spilt in the forecourts before a spring shower. It'll wrangle with the puddles of rain, which will pour and pour and pour - but still, it'll remain. An iridescent rainbow that refuses to fade.

You'll never wash away, he thinks. Forevermore; eternal.

He knows, just like you predicted, that he'll think of you whenever he passes gasoline puddles. Five, ten, twenty years from now. It won't matter how distant the memory of your laughter becomes, nor if he even remembers the colour of your skin as it blushes after a few too many drinks.

What he will remember is how your hair always smelt like gasoline.

It's a gateway drug to everything you are. One sniff; he's hooked.

Though he doesn't wish for death often, he hopes that when he does go, it'll be in his car. Hopes that an oil slick on a wet road will be the reason why. He'll smile as he thinks of you for one final time.

You'll get your vengeance, love.

But why waste time thinking of the inevitable future, when he could just revel in the present?

He's the first to suggest sleeping in, staying together, for a little bit longer.

"I'll call my dad, see if we can switch to this afternoon instead. You cool to run your errands in the afternoon? I'll take you to that place I wanna show you this morning. Then you're free to do as you please with your day."

A nod grants permission for him to set about altering his plans, and you watch him with curious intrigue as he opens up his contacts and heads straight for his father. You don't even have your father's number, anymore.

It's oddly comforting to hear Jungkook on the phone with his dad. The call is short, more formalities than anything, but you can hear his father's voice vibrate through the speaker.

You're integrated into Jungkook's life, now, you think. You're a part of family affairs, his plans, without even so much as a second thought given.

'Thank you' seems like a strange thing to say, but you consider it.

His openness with you is rancid. So sweet, so sickly; enough sugar to rot even the most frigid of hearts.

It makes you wanna tell him everything; who your father is, and how you can't call him anymore. You think Jungkook would understand, or at least he'd try to - and that would be the most meaningful thing a man has done for you in quite some time (though you're sure Yoongi would disagree, and cite one of the many things he's done for you that have gone unnoticed).

The words you want to say to Jungkook are lost in the feather down quilt, expert seams flawlessly keeping the pair of you pristine. It's like a shield, in a way. The world can't hurt you when you're beneath it. The needlework is exquisite, the finest cotton - Egyptian, you assume, but know better than to ask.

Not because you don't want to know, but because Jungkook hates itches he can't scratch.

He wouldn't have a clue of the sheets origins, but you're almost positive he would ask the reception staff for clarification later that morning, just to be able to give you an answer.

You don't want to trouble his mind with such trivial things. Especially not if it's working as hard as yours seems to be right now. You're counting every thread - two, four, six, eight - just as a way to distract yourself from him.

He's playing with your hair, and asking about your dreams - you didn't have any - and it's getting pretty overwhelming just how much of your brain you seem to be willing to share with him.

Sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four; you're asking about his, too, and he doesn't hesitate to answer.

He's talking shit about a praying mantis that stalked him as he slept, and reaches for his phone so that you can google what it means together. He doesn't hide his screen, doesn't clear his notifications, doesn't check what he was last searching for to spare himself from embarrassment.

Not that it matters, but he'd been checking to see if Lotte World was open. It's endearing, the way he seems to want to experience life with you. Comforting. Snug.

You lose count of the threads, and you don't care to start again.

"Positive and negative," Jungkook muses over his dream as he scrolls, holding his phone up in front of you both.

His arm is looped around the back of your neck, and you're busy watching the tendons of his wrist flex beneath his skin as his thumb flicks up and down the screen.

There are Seven Natural Wonders of the World, but you think the adjudicators must have gotten it wrong.

They clearly hadn't met Jeon Jungkook.

He's brighter than the Northern Lights; gets you higher than the peak of Mount Everest. More breathtaking than the Grand Canyon, more fire in his heart than Paricutin. Gets you wetter than Victoria Falls, but that's not really what constitutes him as being one of the greatest natural wonders of the world (though it surely helps). He rivals the Great Barrier Reef, and Guanabara Bay; expansive, a facilitator of life, new beginnings.

But the Great Barrier Reef is dying, and Guanabara Bay is the product of erosion. Everest is a death trap, the Grand Canyon too, and Paricutin forced hundreds from their homes. Droughts around Victoria Falls are threatening its very existence, and soon, what once was could be no more.

The only wonder worthy of comparison to Jeon Jungkook is Aurora Borealis. They burn brighter than before, making their way through their eleven-year cycle undisturbed, undimmed. They're magic in the mundane, and so is he.

He hums, unaware of how you're romanticising him to be far more than what he is, and it sounds like he's frowning. You reach over, thoughts absent, and take his phone to continue reading for him.

"To dream of a praying mantis could mean many things," you recite mindlessly. "Firstly, it could indicate that you need to remain calm and assess situations before you dive right in. Be patient. Alternatively, it could indicate that you are preying on others. Have you been calculated recently? Devious? Perhaps reflection is due. There are positive indications associated with the insect, though. A baby praying mantis suggests a bright, wise future ahead. To dream of being attacked by a praying mantis suggests that you are faced with a test that you are strong enough to pass."

You ignore all the bad, because of course you do, pass him back his phone and say, "see? Nothing to worry about."

He locks his phone, and lets it drop down onto the bed. The hushed clunk of it hitting your sheets is drowned out by his voice, all dulcet and dreamy in your ear.

"Wasn't worried, baby. Got you here with me." His lips press against your temple. "I got you."

Hook, line and sinker. Yeah, he's got you good.

But within half an hour he's got you coming undone; got you mewling his name, got you gripping his neck as he fucks himself into you like he always does so well. He's got you where he wants you, got you in missionary 'cause of that one time you lied and said it was your favourite, got your nipples in his mouth 'cause there ain't no way he can have you naked and not indulge himself just a little bit.

Jungkook has you. Has his way with you.

But you have him, too; have him whispering how gorgeous you sound, how much he loves the way you feel.

You have him coming undone.

Perhaps, neither of you 'have' nor 'has' the other.

Perhaps, you aren't commodities to be owned.

If anyone was to own you, though, you think you'd quite like it to be him. You think he'd keep you forever. He once said he would, so it's not like it's a foolish thing to daydream about.

And so you do just that as he weaves through traffic in the hustle and bustle of Busan. You think he's mad for choosing to drive instead of just getting the subway, but Busan is spread out so far that it would have taken a handful of changes to get to where he's taking you.

He's still not told you where you're going. Even when you ask for a dress code, he simply says, "as you are, baby. You're perfect."

He calls you baby a lot lately.

It used to just be when you were naked, but he calls you baby when you're all wrapped up now, too. When he puts his hand on the small of your back, to guide you in whichever direction he wants, and when he pulls your hand to rest on the gear stick beneath his, it's 'baby' that he hums.

In fact, he calls you baby so much that CC has taken a backseat.

The radio drones through the speakers, neither of you connecting to the aux. It's all very grown-up, you think, listening to the traffic news, and whatever is currently charting. It doesn't hit in the same way that your playlists do, but it reminds you of driving to the coast with your parents as a kid. The memories are fond - cherished by you - and it's how you like to think of your family.

Or at least it is, until the disk jockey segues into the morning news. There's the usual mindless garbage, celebrity gossip, upcoming festivals and community events - and then there's politics.

"The Mayor of Daegu Metropoli-" is as far as the broadcaster gets before you change the station. Jungkook doesn't react initially. In fact, it takes him a few seconds to reply, and when he does, it's inconspicuous.

"Not into politics?"

"Not into politics."

You're sharp as you deliver the lie, and Jungkook can feel the blade of your tongue slice his heart. He's deserving of it, admittedly, but you aren't aware of that. Not yet.

He switches the radio back. "I am."

You want to be sick, but you put it down to the fact that Jungkook drives a little faster than he really should do, and that breakfast had been substituted for sex. "You are?"

"Uh-huh."

Silence resume as you listen to the broadcaster. It's an innocent report about cities linking for eco-initiatives. Apparently, Daddy dearest will be visiting Busan just as you're leaving. It's an odd thought. You've taken pride in not keeping tabs, and yet here you are, wondering if you'll pass his car on Monday morning as you leave the city and he enters it. Unlikely.

A possibility, but unlikely.

When you pull your hand back to your lap from beneath his, Jungkook lets you. It's a call for attention. You want to see what he does. Want him to pull it back, want him to question why you've pulled it away - but he doesn't.

Instead, he talks.

"I hate politics," he admits. There's a sternness to his face. An honesty. "I can't name you a single politician who actually seems to care about the communities they represent. They're bastards," his voice quietens. "The lot of 'em."

Only then does he reach for your hand, again. He's the one searching for comfort, now.

There's something about the way Jungkook doesn't look at you, but grips your hand far tighter than he had done before, that has you concerned. It's unlike him.

"I agree," you tell him. "S'why I don't care for it."

He nods, pulling his bottom lip beneath his teeth, as if he's trying to stop a secret from coming out.

You wouldn't mind if one did. You'd quite like to know his secrets - even the deep, dark, scary ones. Especially those ones, actually. His jaw rocks gently, the pillow of his lip being massaged by his teeth, eyes hard on the horizon line.

"Probably should have given you a little warning as to where we're going," he eventually divulges, pouting his lips and letting air squeak through them as he inhales a breath.

Your lift your brows and furrow them slightly. "Why's that?"

The question is answered as soon as he flicks his indicator on. You look to the sign above the highway, and that's when you realise you're going off the beaten track. There's only one destination listed on the reflective sheet of metal: a marine life conservation hub.

Something tells you that you're not headed towards the marine life conservation hub.

Something - or someone- by the name of Jeon Jungkook, and the way as soon as his indicator is flicked off, his hand is holding yours oh-so-tightly, again.

Your eyes follow the trajectory of the road, and the small row of parking spaces covered in fine gravel. You're partway up a short mountain, and you know exactly why you're here.

Mounds of earth rest neat and uniform on the mountainsides, clustered together, decades of tradition lacing the soil. There's a small path that stretches to the upper elevation, where a set of mounds lie perfectly still, small statues and floral arrangements decorating them in the most beautiful of ways.

You know hillsides like these. It's been a while since you last visited one, but the memories of places like this tend to haunt people.

He doesn't reply to your earlier question. He doesn't need to. You already know exactly where you are.

His name escapes your lips, voice quiet, but pacifying. You rub his thumb with yours, which only makes him squeeze your small hand even tighter.

He's silent, but he's hoping you know that he's sorry.

Sorry for a whole host of things. Too many to list. This - taking you to a fucking graveyard unannounced and non-consenting - is what he's currently apologising for in the guise of silent squeezes.

"Your mum?" You ask, as he pulls into a space on the gravel parking lot.

He's only mentioned her once, and the fact that she would have been 'rolling in her grave' at the thought of him being rude to you. You'd clocked it at the time, but had never dared ask since. Figured that when he was ready, he would tell you. Seems like he might just be ready.

Jungkook nods, and when he looks at you, he seems younger. Eyes wider, searching for refuge; finding it in you.

"Mum."

When he makes no attempt to move, seemingly a little frozen in place, it's you who starts to squeeze his hand right back. "You wanna go see her?"

And again, he nods. There's a bottle of soju in the back from one of his many GS25 trips, so you reach for it, knowing that there was no way the pair of you could visit somewhere of such importance without an offering of some kind. He whispers a thank you, as if you've done something of value. It's just soju, and it's his, regardless. You wish you would have known. You'd have insisted on picking up banchan, or something more substantial.

There's reluctance as he leads the pair of you, second-guessing his every step. It's important that he shows you this part of him, although, when he thinks about it, he's sure he could have just explained it. Over a coffee, or on a walk by the river. He didn't need to be so dramatic about it all. The past has happened, and he lives with the consequences.

But that's this thing - the past has happened, and Jungkook is still living with the weight of it like it was just yesterday. The consequences of it rule his daily life. He needs to show you, because simply telling you wouldn't have been justice enough.

His mother's grave is well-kept. Tended to. The flowers - large, white, and glorious, though you're not sure what kind - are wilting slightly, but are fresh enough to put the dead foliage of the winter mountain to shame. The mound above her is small, so you think that perhaps she was, too.

You just can't help yourself, can you? Another assumption made.

Your thoughts are cut short as he reaches for the bottle of soju from your hands, and nods towards the small ceramic dish that's been collecting rainwater. Supplies are low - the winter is incredibly dry, and had it not been for a storm that blew in a few days ago, it would be empty.

"Can you?" he asks, but doesn't finish. You let go of the soju bottle which is now secure in his hands, and head towards the direction of his nod, to rinse off the flat stone ready for offerings - though a cap full of soju doesn't feel like enough.

He walks further ahead, while you tend to the service stone, pouring soju into the bottle cap, and tossing it in the woodland as an offering to the mountain God; a thank you for watching over his mother. It's been too long since he last visited. Things have just gotten so busy, and he's under so much pressure. He can't think straight, let alone do anything that makes any sense and - oh God, the weight of it all - it's all just too much. He can't handle it. Refuses to. If he could scream right, he would - but nothing comes out.

His lungs are heavy in his chest, heart pounding. He doesn't know why he gets like this. He thinks it's the guilt; the fact that his mother would hate what he's become. She didn't raise him to be like this. Vengeance wasn't part of her vocabulary. She was kind, and she was considerate, and she cared so deeply about him.

In a lot of ways, you remind him of her. The acknowledgement of this only serves to make him feel worse.

When he finally turns to face you again, you're waiting by her grave, watching him with curiosity. You've been to many graves, but only ever those of your own family members. Never somebody else's. Traditions vary, and you don't wanna do anything that he wouldn't appreciate.

It had always been the same in your family; the eldest men bowed first, down through to the youngest, and the women watched on. The respect of women wasn't worth anything, you see.

As Jungkook comes to stand beside you, he takes your hand, positioning you directly next to him.

"Will you do it with me?" he asks so timidly that it almost doesn't sound like him. "Please?"

You're hesitant. It's a big ask, not because it's a difficult task, but because you know the first bows are always reserved for those closest to the deceased.

"I never normally do it alone," he adds, noticing your reluctance. "I'm normally with my brother. I just... I don't want to do it alone. I'm no good at shi-" he cuts himself off, not wanting to curse. "I'm no good at stuff like this."

It's a request you can't refuse. You follow his lead, getting to your knees, torso folding to the earth as a sign of utmost respect. He holds his bow for longer than you expect, but you match it second for second. He rises and repeats. You follow suit.

You think it's important that you don't overstep boundaries, not in a place so sacred to the boy beside you, so you let him take the lead. Not once do you move before him, but when he resumes to a seated position, you turn your body to face down the mountain.

It's not tradition, not really, but it feels like the best way to honour his mother; to provide her time with her son, but still offer support should he need it.

"I'm not doing recitals," Jungkook says tenderly, a pain in his chest pinching and soothing when he sees what you've done. "You don't have to face that way."

But you shake your head.

"I do," you reply with so much kindness in your voice that Jungkook thinks it's a wonder he hasn't melted and become at one with the earth, too. "Just pretend like I'm not here."

He wants to laugh at such an instruction. How the hell could he be expected to ignore you, when the way he feels about you burns brighter than the North Star whenever you're close by.

Instead, he just tells you that you're dumb, and sits beside you, facing his mother's grave. You hear him unscrew the cap of the bottle, metal cracking just how it always does upon its first few opens, followed by a small glug.

You twist your head, and catch him pouring soju into the bottle cap, before he places it in front of his mother. He nods towards her, as if she could actually see him once more, then brings his arms to hug around his knees, pulled tight to his chest. The bottle is still in his hand, so he takes a swig. There's a faint grimace as he swallows it back, and then he passes the bottle over his shoulder to you.

It's kindly received, and his actions are mirrored by you once more, a shot finding its home in your throat. The soju is lukewarm, the heat of his clammy hands altering the temperature.

The bottle is passed back and forth, Jungkook silent as he tries to muster the courage to speak up. There's so much he wishes he could say, but so little that feels safe to divulge. It's not until the bottle is halfway done that he seems to have the strength.

"It's been four years," Jungkook eventually says. You stay silent, the words you want to say threading through your lips like cotton through a needle, keeping your mouth shut. Nothing that could be said would make any of this any better for him. "Doesn't get any easier."

Instead, you lean your head on his shoulder. You're still looking down the mountain, and he's facing up towards the peak. His head rests against yours, and there's comfort to be found in his posture. The support he feels from you goes beyond that of physical.

"It was a long time coming, so we had time to prepare," he adds.

He brought you here because he wanted to share this part of himself with you, so he knows he needs to make the effort to actually speak up. Nothing cryptic. No half-truths.

"How can you prepare a kid for that, though? 'Hey Kook, mum's really sick'," he imitates the voice of his older brother. "'Probably won't make it through the winter'. She did, though. Make it through winter, that is. The hospital couldn't figure out what was wrong with her for the life of them. First, they said it was a pancreatic thing, then decided it was liver. Kidneys, bladder - you name it, they tried to pinpoint it as that. Round and round in fucking circles. So much time wasted. Years. I was 14 when she first got sick. 19 when she passed."

He lifts his head from yours and hugs his legs tighter into his chest. He hates this mountain. It's like he's got hayfever, even in winter, as his eyes start to warm a little. Realistically, he knows that it's perfectly apt to cry in such a place, but he doesn't want to. Doesn't want his mum to think he's upset. Doesn't want you to think it, either.

Deep down - although really not that far down when he comes to think of it - he's still just that scared boy, knowing he's going to lose the person he loves the most in the world. Funny, how history likes to repeat itself, even if in a slightly different hue. The colours of grief are always the same.

"She ended up getting referred to a specialist in Daegu," he sighs, knowing that he's about to divulge far more than he should.

He's thought about this alot. Thought about what he'd say to you before he knew you - like, really knew you - and how he'd deliver the lines with such venom your throat would swell and you'd choke on the faux pars of your family, just like his mother had.

But none of this was your fault. You were still just a kid, like he was, when all of this transpired.

You had no jurisdiction over budget cuts or the shift patterns of overworked hospital staff. You weren't the one syphoning money out of the public health sector, and you weren't the one who followed orders to treat common symptoms with the same cheap medicine, regardless of the fact it could have been wrong for the patients.

You weren't the one who decided that those who benefitted from the specialist centre were expendable. You weren't the one who cauterised their funding. You weren't the one who ignored the pleas and cries for help from the families of those suffering.

You weren't the negligent medical staff who mistreated Jungkook's mother, and you weren't the man in charge of the budget who decided that her life didn't matter anymore.

But your father was.

And so Jungkook has thought about this moment a lot. He's thought about how he'd tell you that you deserved to lose just as much as he had. He's thought about how he wouldn't feel a damn thing except for satisfaction when your father got his just deserts.

Now that the time has come, however, all he can do is shrug.

"They were great. The staff at the centre in Daegu, I mean. Really fucking great. Genuinely wanted to help - but you know Daegu," is all he could really muster. "They don't have the money for shit like that. And nor did we."

Daegu's local government did, however, have the funds for a fucking waterpark installation, which opened three weeks after the clinic was shut down indefinitely. "We sacrifice the good of the few, for the good of the many," your father had once told you, and it makes you just as sick now as it did back then.

"Anyways," he tries to downplay it, as if the memories don't haunt him. "Funding got cut. Mum got sicker. It was..." he struggles to find the words to articulate just what he went through. "Dad was always a hard ass, yanno? Do your homework, go to school, you wanna end up with a shitty job? Drop out like me! That kind of stuff. It's only 'cause he wanted what was best for us, he just.... didn't really have a nurturing bone in his body. Just how he was built, I guess." He pauses. Gathers his thoughts. Shrugs. "Mum... Mum was soft. Do you need help with your homework? How's school? You can be whatever you want to be. Didn't have a clue what I wanted to be, just knew I wanted to be like her. Seeing her get sick..."

He stops talking. There's a heaviness that looms over him like a cloud blocking the sun in the height of summer. It's stuffy and claustrophobic, yet there's nothing that can be done to ease it.

"The specialist centre treated her for as long as they could, ran as many tests as they could afford, but-" He cuts himself off. "Well, I mean, we're at her grave, aren't we? Doesn't take a genius to work it out."

He doesn't mean to be so scathing with his tone, the words delivered with a snarl typically reserved for his boxing opponents (or Namjoon when he takes the lead in a drag race), it's just that he doesn't know how to articulate himself. Not when it comes to this topic. He's never shared it with anyone before. Never thought he would.

And especially not with you.

There are parts he leaves out. Just little tidbits. Anecdotes, like the way he spent the night his mother died just driving and driving and driving, only coming to a stop when his tank had exhausted the very last drop of gas - at which point he just sat, grief-stricken, cheeks wet until sunrise.

He didn't speak to anyone for weeks. Didn't do anything except fill his tank up, get out of town, and occasionally train at the club. The force of his fists against another person never helped, though. Even beating the shit out of Taehyung didn't lift his spirits.

How he quite ended up in his current predicament is a little more complicated.

It started the same as any other night he'd crawl through the streets, red tail lights leaving a trail that evaporated into nothingness, thanks to the winter fog. Eventually, he ended up in Daegu. It was a common occurrence.

The shadows seemed darker in Daegu; sinners glowing red in the haze of smog and winter frost. It felt like home in a way. Somewhere to hide when he no doubt sold his soul to the Devil.

Sometimes, he'd drive in circles around the affluent streets, just hoping, praying, to see the Mayor out for an evening stroll. Of course, it would be an accident when he put his foot to the floor, full throttle, wheels turning in the Mayor's direction. A freak mishap. A car fault.

And if he were to suffer the same fate as Jungkook's mother? Oh, well what a fucking shame that would have been.

He never did see the Mayor, though. Of course he didn't.

But he did, however, spot Kang's. The light had still been on, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. He knew Kang's, thanks to his club in back in Busan, and he wanted to fight. Wanted to pummel any fucker who voted the Mayor into power. Wanted to break their nose; have them swallowing their teeth.

Of course, seeing a jumped up kid - who, as Namjoon put it, looked 'fresh out of nappies' - with a vendetta against the most powerful man in the city had the older boys amused. Truth be told, they laughed in his fucking face. Told him he was in the wrong place, 'cause there ain't no way any of them would be caught dead voting for that pompous fucking twat.

Jungkook learnt a lot that night; learnt that he wasn't alone in his fight, and that other people had lost unfathomable amounts of their lives, their livelihoods, and their loved ones, as a result of your father, and his wasteful, inhumane policies.

Though not a single one of those boys shared the same story, they all shared the same callous, complacent antagonist.

And they all wanted vengeance.

That wasn't the only thing he learnt that night, mind you. It was also the evening he learnt your name.

It'd be romantic, if the situation had been... well, anything but what it was, really.

He learnt who you were, what you meant to the Mayor, and just how you could be the winning ticket for their vengeance lottery. A plan was devised over a few too many Soju's, and before he knew it, he was playing the long game. They wouldn't initiate the plan for years. Sleeping dogs had to lie, dust had to settle.

There was another election; your father reinstated to his position. Only after then did you stop making public appearances with him, and the rest of your family. You didn't seem to be part of the in-crowd anymore. Didn't really matter to the boys. All that mattered was that you had fewer eyes on you, now. You faded into obscurity; Jungkook into obsession.

See, he's like you in a lot of ways. He makes assumptions, too. Had this whole idea of who you would be mapped out in his head. Pin by pin, you realigned his red string; tied it around his pinky and linked it with yours.

"Dad isn't who he used to be," Jungkook finally admits. His Mother's suffering may have ended with her passing, but his Father's seemed to only begin as hers ended. She passed a baton, Jungkook thinks, and his Dad is still running the race. "Doesn't really talk all that much. Loves to fucking gamble, though. All of her life insurance is gone. Half of my salary goes to the loan sharks that he owes from a bad spot he got himself in a few months ago. S'why I needed to come, had to check that everything was okay and that he hadn't got himself into too much trouble. Nasty fuckers, sharks are."

"How bad is it?" You ask, knowing that sharks are more like parasites. "The sharks, I mean."

"Um," he pauses, and shrugs. There's no way you'll be able to understand what it's like being in financial difficulty. Not a fucking chance. "Pretty bad. They were hounding him to the point where he just locked himself up in the house, wouldn't answer the door for weeks. My brother's just had a kid, he can't afford to help, so I'm stuck footing the bill for the interest Dad's having to pay. 'Bout half my salary. I'm gonna be paying them off till I'm six feet under. Bastards raise the interest whenever they fucking feel like it. I'll never be able to pay it all back, not all of it, and Dad's too fucking out of it to get himself a proper job. Whole situation is fucked."

That's a tiny little lie. Should everything go to plan, he'll have the money he needs to pay the sharks off within a week or two.

Should everything go to plan.

See, this isn't about vengence. Not now. Not anymore. This about surviving the sharks - but Jungkook has blood on his hands, and it makes him so much more tempting.

When you lean your head on his shoulder, comforting and reassuring all in one gesture, he swallows back a sob.

He's sharing all this because he wants - no, needs - you to understand why he made the choices that he did before he knew you. He needs you to know that the guy who is going to fuck you over next week isn't the guy who's been, well, just fucking you for the past couple of months.

He rests his head on yours, hair interlinking, silky and smooth, as if you're one.

The way that he feels about you oozes from him like the blood of a fresh wound; red and hot, sticky and sickening. Yet he knows that he'll never let the wound heal. He'll pick at it like it's a scab, because he'll never want to lose the feeling that the potential of a happy ever after with you gives him.

His body relaxes a little, spine curving, posture sloped. There's no need to remain poised; no need to be anything other than the imperfect version of himself that you seem to like so much.

"I'm so sorry that this happened to you," you whisper, eyes closing to hide the foot of the mountain you're sitting on. It feels so wrong you being here. Feels like you're intruding; encroaching. Perhaps you're the parasite.

The weight that's lifted from Jungkooks shoulders presses itself against your sternum. It cracks your ribs and impales the snapped bones into your heart. It's quite aggresive, you think, for a secret.

They say a problem shared is a problem halved, so if this is only a mere fifty percent of the pain that he's endured, you don't even want to imagine his reality. Now is not a time for pitying yourself, or lamenting the fact that it was your father who ruined Jungkook's life by proxy. You're sure it wasn't your father's intention, but you also know that he wouldn't have cared had he known the impact that his choices would have.

So much is left unsaid. Nothing you can do nor say will erase the hurt caused by the man who provided for you. A private education, wanting for nothing, your heart's desires fulfilled all came at a cost. Jungkook is just one of the many receipts; ripped at the edges, ink faded, paper creased in such a fashion that it can never be undone.

The guilt will weigh on you for eternity.

There's a part of you that wants to tell him. Wants him to know who you are, where you come from, how you ended up here - but you're convinced as soon as he knows, he'll wash his hands of you. Especially now. It feels kinder to just stay silent.

And so you do. You let him process his grief, and follow his lead when he decides that enough time has been spent by his mother's side. There's little chatter as you make your way down the hillside, his hand outstretched whenever you come to a rocky patch, just in case. It seems he doesn't want you to fall.

He also doesn't mind the silence. In fact, he quite likes it. He knows you're probably uncomfortable. Burial sites aren't exactly on the itinerary list of many romantic getaways, and he's not deluding himself about your actual reason for staying silent.

You make assumptions. He knows this, and wonders if you just assume he knows who you are.

But if he tells you - for definite - that he knows, and that it's okay, and that it doesn't change a single thing about the way he feels for you, it'll be game over.

For him, for you, for God knows who else.

By keeping you in the dark, he thinks he's keeping you safe until he can figure a plan that really will ensure your safety.

The drive to the nearest subway station is silent, too. You lie about your errands, and tell him that catching a subway would be easiest, simply for the fact it is closer to you than any of the bus stops.

You just want to be out of the car.

It's not that you don't want to be with him; it's that you do. It feels wrong to lie to him, deceiving him.

Opposites attract, or so they say, but they're wrong. You're birds of a feather, apples that have fallen from the same tree, left to rot in the height of a Daegu summer.

Your day is spent without him, and yet you're utterly consumed. He's in every shop window, his laugh rattling in the exhaust pipe of every shitty car that drives past. There's no escaping Jeon Jungkook. He's not the kind of guy you can just forget.

In fact, you're so consumed by him that all you want to do is head back to your hotel and lay in wait for his return. You don't know when that will be, and refuse to text him when he's spending much needed time with those closest to him, but the idea is so tempting that you find yourself sprawled on the sheets for hours regardless.

Your day is wasted, but you think that days without him are wasted, anyway.

It's nearly seven by the time he gets home. There's a hum as a keycard is tapped outside your door, the metal of the lock grating against itself to bid the intruder of your heart a welcome entry. Your eyes move to the door, because of course they do. Watching the man you... enjoy spending time with come 'home' to you is something that you never realised you would enjoy so much.

You wonder if it's the highlight of his days, too.

The location never matters, for it's in his eyes that your find your home - though 'home' looks a little different when his eyes are all puffy and bloodshot, his dark irises acting like a curtain. The window is covered. He's hiding his soul from you.

Hard to notice, though, when his cheeks are wet, and you mistake that as his biggest vulnerability.

"Hey," you whisper, legs unfolding as you stand and walk towards him. The door shuts by itself, Jungkook not caring for it. He doesn't even toss his bag down; just kind of stands there. Sniffs. Shakes his head, goes to speak, but chokes on his words and how big they feel in his throat. "It's okay, it's okay," you reassure, a hand on his cheek, the other on his collarbone. "You're safe. What's up?"

He leans into your touch, jaw tense, eyes resting shut. It's been a long time coming, and he knows it. Wonders how the fuck he hasn't already broken. He wasn't made for shit like this; for lies and deceit, especially not when it's someone that he really cares for the will suffer the consequences of his actions.

All he wants, all ever seems to want, is to be in the shower with you. Doesn't even care about stripping bare. Wants to be saturated with the promise of purity; in the way he feels for you, how you feel for him, and how your life could be together.

There's nothing inherently sexual about his desire, though he knows he wouldn't be able to resist to the eroticism of having you naked and wet - it's just not his intention. He simply wants to be close to you. Wants to care for you. Wants to wash your hair and rinse you off; ease the burdens of everyday life.

He forgets that water isn't strong enough to cleanse him of his sins. It will run black, always, because of what he's done; what he will do. Like ink bleeding from his tattoos, he'll still be left with scratch marks of the choices he's made; scars in the place of his missteps.

No answer is given to your question. Instead, he sobs a little harder. Hugs you, now. Drops his bag to the floor and holds you so tight he's afraid you might break.

He'd rather this, though.

Rather his affections for you be the breaking point, and not his sheer cowardice that will no doubt shatter your perception of him.

Your arms wrap around his neck, feet strained to the very tips of your toes, your hand in his hair. You've never been good with those who cry; never known how to comfort. It's not your fault. Just how you were raised. Nannys and au pairs were all well and good, but they never had a mother's touch. Your scrapes and scratches got bandaids and banana milk, but never any kisses better.

There's a curious softness to the way your hold Jungkook. There always has been. You've never really understood it; the need you feel to nurture him. Perhaps part of you always knew - could always tell - that the loss of his mother had been more profound than he could articulate.

You don't want to mother him. It's not your job. Maternal instincts aren't your thing - but the way you care for Jungkook is so pure, so unadulterated, that you find yourself wanting to ease him of all his pains.

And so even though it's not your job, you'll kiss his wounds better, just so that someone does. You'll fulfil his needs. Be everything he needs. Why would he ever want for another when he could simply just have you?

Your lips press against his temple, willing him to heal. Whatever's wrong is clearly bottled up inside, and a small part of you hopes that your lips could draw the venom from within. It's fruitless.

"Tell me what you need," you say softly. You're not a mind reader. Life would be much simpler if you were."What do you need?"

He thinks it's a stupid fucking question. Doesn't understand how you can be so oblivious to it all; but also doesn't realise how much of an impeccable liar he is. It's a learned trait. He wasn't born to be like this.

He was born to be soft, to be gentle, just like you. Under the bravado of your sarcasm and vulgar language, you're nothing more than a heart in search of its place. More fool you for thinking his ribcage would be a fitting dwelling for it.

And so Jungkook tries a little softness back.

"Need you," he finishes his sentence with a slight hiccup, his irregular breathing throwing everything out of whack. "Need to know you'll stay."

It's cruel, the way he makes you promise the idea of forevermore, when he knows full well that come next week, that heart of yours? The one sitting comfortably in his chest beside his own? Yeah, come next week it will be in his hands, blood coating his fingers as they dig into the muscle and tear it apart.

How beautifully unaware, you are.

"As long as you need," you whisper back. "I'll stay for as long as you need me, Kook. You don't need to ask. You know you don't."

And that's the kicker.

It's what has him in such a sorry fucking state.

Your hairband around his wrist, and the scrunchie on his gearstick, had been the catalyst to his tears; you're his demise.

There's a dusty footprint on the dash, right by the passenger seat glove compartment. It's yours, small and insubstantial, from the drive back from the beach the day before. Anyone else and he'd had tapped their legs, made them put their feet down.

In fact, he did with you, too. He'd tapped your leg, and was met with refusal, so instead he had just wrapped his hand around your ankle, and kept it there until he need to change gear down from fifth. He knocked it straight into third, and as soon as he was off the clutch, his hand eased off the stick and wrapped around your ankle once more.

It's gonna be you, it's gonna be you, it's gonna be you.

When he's cold and alone in the weeks to come, it's gonna be you he thinks of at night.

When he spills a couple drops of gas onto his clothes at the pump, it's gonna be you he thinks of when the scent of it makes him feel all lightheaded and nauseous.

When he gets into the ring at Kang's and is perishing just to feel a little rush, it's gonna be you that he thinks of.

It's gonna be you.

Far sooner than you realised, and for far longer than he can even imagine.

"Shit," he hisses, pulling away from you and heading towards the window. His back hunches as he leans on the ledge with one hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. He sniffs back the evidence of his upset and shakes his head. "Sorry. Just been a long day. That's all."

You perch on the side of the bed, understanding that space is needed. You're not good with comfort, but you are good with recognising the needs of others, at least.

"No bother," you shrug, not that he sees it. "We don't have to talk about it."

"Nothing to talk about," he says as he turns to face you. His features are all red and puffy, the friction of sleeves against his cheeks tarnishing them in flecks of crimson. A weak smile is plastered on his lips, and he knows it's not convincing. "I'm good."

And so you pretend that you are convinced, for the simple fact that he wants you to be. "I know. Was just saying. If you did wanna talk, you could. If not? We can do something else."

Jungkook's mind jumps to fucking away the upset. Seems like a good distraction.

But he also knows that if he fucks you right now, he'll cry. He won't mean to, but he'll feel the way you pulse around him, and he'll start thinking about your heart, and then his nose will be nestled in your hair, and he'll be thinking about all that he stands to lose, and then he'll break the fuck down; buried in your pussy, suffocated by the adoration he feels for you. It's a grave he's dug himself.

He pouts as he shakes his head, bottom lip protruding as if he doesn't give a fuck what you do. "Not fussed. What do you wanna do?"

You hold out your hand to encourage him to walk towards you, and he does it without a second thought. He kicks his shoes off by the foot of the bed and takes your hand, climbing onto the mattress with you.

"Not fussed, either," you hum all rather pleasantly, pushing a few strands of his hair back and out of his face. The blonde is growing out, and there's a warm band where the toner has faded. It doesn't look bad, but you also know there's nothing better than fresh hair to boost a mood. It's your classic hot girl in crisis mood. He might not be a girl, but he's hot as fuck, and seems to be in a crisis, so maybe it could help. "Why don't we dye your hair?"

There's a grin on his lips, his brows lifting as he pushes your hair behind your ear, too. "Dye my hair? You saying you hate it?"

"God, you're so dramatic," you laugh - and that's the exact reason why he's so bloody dramatic. He loves to hear you laugh.

"You do hate it?!" he cries, feigning pain. "You think I look like shit?"

"The shittiest," you confirm, though the way you're smiling at him says otherwise. If your smile was anything to go by, he'd think you love his hair.

He'd be right.

But maybe it just went with the territory; a byproduct of loving him for everything he is.

The thought of you loving him flashes in his mind like a weather warning: Storms ahead. Take cover.

It's replaced by mindless banter; you telling him how ugly you think he is, and him pretending like his feelings are hurt. There's a tussle between the pair of you, just for an excuse to be touching one another. It's inevitable that you end up on top of him, holding his hands above his head to stop him from tickling at your sides. He lets you take this role of dominance, even though he could overpower you if he really wanted to.

He wants you in charge; wants you calling the shots.

"Let's dye my hair," he agrees and seals the deal with a kiss. "You gotta do it too, though. Yin to my yang."

"Matching hair?" You raise a brow as your hair hangs delicately around your face, tickling at his.

"Matching hair," he nods, because fuck it. He's never gonna get to do the couple shit with you. Never gonna get you a matching pair of sneakers, never gonna switch the sim card ports in your phones. If this is his only chance, he's gonna take it. "You'll do mine, I'll do yours."

It's a fair trade. One you can't argue with - and so you simply smile. "Alright, fuck it. I'm in."

────────────

"Forgotten something?" you hum, as Jungkook makes a u-turn on your way out of the city. You're not really surprised, nor concerned about his change in direction. You trust him. Wherever he goes, you'll follow.

The blue of Busan's endless harbour darts past you, teasing you, mocking the freedom you think you have. You're shackled, cuffed to the armrest, a prisoner of the way your heart beats a little faster, a little harder, whenever you're inside his Pony. It never eases. It's just like that chime in your stomach, which only gets louder with every rev of his engine.

You're sad to leave the city. Had never cared much for Busan before. You care for him, though, and that's what makes the difference.

"No," he says with a small smile, one that he's trying to hide. There's excitement in his gaze, celestial entities sparking in his midnight eyes.

"Hotel's a little further up," you add.

"I know," he smiles again, simple and pure. You're a bad listener, he realises. Stubborn. Believe your own assumptions, even when presented with contradictory evidence. It's a flaw, yet he can't help but find it endearing. "We're not going there."

He glances over towards you and catches the way your face changes as you recognise the road you're heading down.

He loves that little thing you do with your brows; the way they furrow for just a second as you try to figure out what's happening. It's a common occurrence, brief confusion, and it only ever flashes over your features for a moment or so, but it's undeniably one of his favourite expressions of yours.

You're holding it now, brows still pushed together as a grin rests on your lips in disbelief. He flicks his indicator, and it's all but confirmed: you're heading towards your bucket list hotel, the one you've dreamt about for years but never fancied booking alone.

It's been mentioned between you once, maybe twice - and he remembered. Maybe it's the bare minimum. Maybe it isn't as much of a big deal as you think it is - but your heart swells like proofing dough in a baking tin, waiting for heat to transform it into its final form. Soft and warm, it'd be everything he needs to survive.

And yet the only thing you can articulate is, "fuck off."

He takes it all in good humour though, because he knows you, and he understands that you're overwhelmed with an abundance of delight. It trickles from every part of you, your happiness infecting him like some sort of disease. A glorious cause of death he thinks it would be, to perish from your pleasure.

"Can't," he grins. "The booking is under my name. You need me here, Little Miss Clutch Control."

The change in his tone from factual to flirty has you all hot and bothered. You didn't expect such a lame term of endearment to get you feeling like this, but something about hearing it in full glory really gets to you.

The car pulls to a stop, but neither of you get out. You continue talking, bantering, existing next to one another. You're prolonging it, the anticipation that makes your hands all clammy, feet tingly. He's the one to break from the cautious climate between the pair of you, when he says, "if you go check us in, I can bring our bags."

They say that you should never meet your idols; that the disappointment of them being just like any other human breaks the infatuation.

The same can be said for a hotel.

You've dreamt about this moment for so long. The room is gorgeous - not quite the top floor, but close enough - and it looks exactly how you always imagined it. White marble coats the floor, the walls, the ceiling, too. It's grand and demure, but it's cold. The bed is flush to the floor, and there's little else to look at other than the view which pours in. It's blue. Cerulean. Sky and sea, with nothing in between.

It's everything you expected, and everything you wanted.

But what you want isn't always what you need.

You find yourself missing the old hotel. Just a little bit. You miss the intimacy you felt in the previous room with Jungkook; the warmth, the limerence you shared. It's hardly surprising. That room saw your fledgling romance crash and burn, but it's also where you patched each other up and promised not to let it happen again. A lot was learnt beneath those sheets. On top of them, too.

Still, every inch of you - your face, your body, your posture - is draped in delight. You're radiant.

The hotel really doesn't matter. It's the effort that he's gone to which has you so enamoured. It's more than you think you deserve.

But most of all? You can't believe that he actually cares so much about your desires, your dreams, your wants, that he tries to turn them into realities.

"Gone to a lot of effort for 'just a friend from Daegu,'" you simper into his lips as he joins you by the window, watching a ship seep across the ocean.

He smiles. Pecks you once. Twice. Holds it a little longer. Withdraws. "My best fuckin' friend," he growls, a little frustrated with the way he knows you're gonna be using that against him for months (if you make it that far, that is). Pinkies beneath your jaw, thumbs on your cheeks, he kisses you again. "Stop saying shit like that, C."

"Or what?"

"Or," he laughs tenderly against your lips. "I'll be left with no choice but to show how much your... 'friendship' really means to me."

The worst part of it all is that Jungkook actually believes it. He really does think you're his best friend.

It's a shame. He always thought that once he found his best friend, then that would be it. He'd settle for life. Loyal like a dog, is Jungkook, yet he'd always anticipated his mating habits being like those of a wolf. After all, what's a soul mate if not your best friend?

Big, big shame.

For now, though, his focus is on the present. There's a future outside of these four walls, and he'd love for you to be it.

And so he behaves in such a way that he convinces himself you could be. You; his, eternal. No sharing. No take backs. In this shit together for life.

Comfort comes in the form of his smile, and the way he makes you feel so secure in yourself. He laughs at all your jokes, reciprocates humour that matches your own. Tells you tales of childhood, and has you thinking maybe one day you could have little terrors of your own. You ask him what he'd call his kids - and proceed to tell him that his hypothetical son, 'Manta Ray', would 100% hate him. He asks you what you'd call yours. You list your girls names. They're pretty. Standard. Nothing remarkable. For a son? You look at him, lashes low, smile saccharine, and simply say, "Manta Ray."

It's that statement which has Jungkook determined to fuck you raw tonight; fill you up, toy with the idea of what it could be like to get you pregnant. It's far too soon for any of that, but the thought of it gets his balls all tight, cock twitching in his sweats. He thinks about the way your body could change; all shapely and swollen because of the semen he's fucked into you. He thinks about your tits, and it's when he thinks about tasting your fucking milk that he knows he has to stop. He's way too far ahead of himself, all horny and engorged, wetness seeping from his tip.

It's inevitable that you'll end up naked at some point.

But it's not just because he's like a dog on heat, right now.

See, your dream of staying in this specific hotel comes in two parts.

The first is sweet; innocent pleasure found in the harbour view.

The second is far less innocent. It's still about the view, but more so about how much you wanna get railed in front of it.

Jungkook wises up to this pretty quickly, without complaint.

It's impossible not to - primarily because he's reclined on the bed, legs spread, cock hard as he strokes his thick shaft, watching you strip for him by the time night has fallen.

He takes in the sight of you under the silver moon; ethereal in the way she beams on you. The curves of your body are accentuated by the shadows, his lips desperate to devour every inch of your skin.

You're made for the moonlight, he thinks, made to be more than just a being of the sun.

He's always thought he belonged to the night, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe he belongs to you.

It's not long before he's taking in the rest of you in; your scent, the way you sound, the tremor of your sternum as you laugh while he dapples kisses down your body.

You're celestial, laid bare, your soul for the taking. His lips are tender against your skin, as if he knows he could steal it. Keep it forever.

He's trying not to. He doesn't want to keep you, not like that, and not forever. He wants you to find happiness after him - but selfishly, he never wants anyone else to hear your laughter, not when it's coated in syrup, sweet enough to devour.

It's all very conflicting.

He can't wrap his head around it.

Can't make sense of any of it - but he can wrap his lips around your swollen pussy, tongue teasing as his fingers find their home inside you. He can make you forget the world, and that's exactly why you'll never be able to forget him.

His name is lodged in your throat as you come undone for him; a block of ice that melts with the heat of his limerence as he kisses through your post-climax comedown.

Body heavy on top of yours, his cock digs into your thigh as he ruts a little, unable to stop himself. He tries to hold back, but your tongue is in his mouth, hands are in his hair, and you're moaning.

The sound of your desire vibrates against his lips; has him shifting his hips until the tip of his cock is kissing your soaked entrance.

You tell him that you want him. Need him.

He shakes his head, and smiles, though he doesn't find much happiness in the admittance that comes with the gesture. "I'm no good for you, CC."

"Bit late for that, don't you think?"

His lips press into your throat; travel down to the hollow of your collarbone, skirt the tops of your breasts, and then he kisses right where he thinks your heart might be.

"You're so good for me," he whispers, lips brushing against the skin of your bare chest. You're more than he's ever deserved; more than he'll likely ever experience again. There's a fear - a very valid one - that this could be the last time. Part of him doesn't want it to happen. It will all feel so final, he thinks. Alternatively, perhaps it would give him closure - but what about you?

He's trying to do right by you, but it's so gut-wrenchingly difficult when all he wants is to give you what you want, instead.

He's slow as his hips begin to pulse, pushing ever so gently against your entrance before he retracts. He repeats this; once, twice, three times. Asks if you're ready. Waits for your nod. Feels his heart ache when you do. Sinks into you, slowly. Sheaths himself within your walls. Whines as he hits your cervix, balls ghosting your perky little ass as he does so.

Full capacity, you're stuffed with his cock, and yet he pushes just a little deeper to hear the way you gasp.

It won't take long to have him unloading himself into you. Doesn't even thinks he needs to fuck you. Your throbbing walls could milk him, even if he stays entirely still on top of you. He knows he'd make you so filthy, cunt throbbing, plugged with his fingers because he wouldn't want any of his creamy load to escape your pussy.

He knows exactly how he'd fuck you, how he'd position you afterwards, how he'd keep you reaching Nirvana again, and again, and again, just to increase the chance of fertilisation.

Jungkook is losing his fucking mind.

He's always been thankful for your birth control, because he loves to fuck you raw, but he hates it now. Wishes your body would just let you mother his future children. Doesn't give a fuck about anything else.

You're it.

He thinks you're fucking it.

His lips wrap around your nipple, mainly to stop himself from saying things he can't take back. Doesn't imagine you'll react too well to him growling about how much he wants to see your belly all round, tits engorged and leaky, body destroyed (though he'd argue it was beautiful) thanks to his insatiable cock and need to keep your pussy as his.

His mouth is warm; wet and gentle but firm with its movements. He's doing it with intent. You know why. You know what he's thinking about, cause you're thinking about it, too; how you're built for him to ruin in the most beautiful of ways, and how it's only fair he should reap the rewards.

"I know, baby," you husk, fingers stroking his hair as he groans against your soft chest. There'll never be another him. Ever. "It's cause we're good for each other."

There's something going on with him. He's always fucked you well, fucked you right. This is more than that, you think.

You aren't an idiot - but as vulnerable as he may seem, now doesn't feel like the right time to ask. You've dated men in the past who grew irate when sex would be interrupted by matters of the heart, and you've been conditioned to not 'ruin the moment.'

Jungkook wishes you would. Wishes you'd tell him to stop, tell him that he shouldn't do this, tell him that you don't want him - but you do, you do, you do.

There's movement; your hips working against his own, your hot walls milking his length.

He knows he shouldn't let himself indulge in such a ludicrous fantasy. You'll never get the picket fence. Never get the rose garden. Never take the kids to basketball practise on a Sunday, and fuck in the car as soon as you get a moment of peace together.

On the contrary, you think he should indulge in these little dreams - but there's hesitation, and it confuses you. All of his movements stop. His forehead rests against yours. He's inside you, still, but not how he was.

"You wanna stop?" You ask with a voice so tender that Jungkook just wants to melt into you. His lips find yours, pressure controlled, restrained.

One hand is supporting his body above you, the other holds the underside of your jaw. There's no further discussion, just mewls; groans of want, need, desire. Your legs wrap around his thighs, encouraging him to follow through on the pleasure that the hardness of his cock is promising.

He could do it. Make you his. Fill your sweet little cunt up so well like he always does. Have your back arching, body at his disposal. It'd be so easy.

Or at least, it would be if he wasn't getting soft.

It's not you. Fuck. God, no. Nothing to do with you. He's just so inside his head over everything - the way he feels, the fact he knows you arent built to last - that he's finding it hard to focus. That family he thought of? The happy one he could have with you? It'll never exist.

Jungkook can't think straight, let alone keep his prick straight.

You can feel that his cock isn't as firm as it was, but you think maybe it's just a blip. Maybe Jungkook trying to make himself last longer? You're not really sure of the mechanics involved in that, but it seems plausible.

You move your hips to give him a little encouragement, your pussy stroking against his shaft ever so gently. You're wet - so fucking wet - for him, and it gets him even more wound up.

Why is his body not responding in the way he wants it to? Why won't his head just let him fuck you like he wants to fuck you? Unfair, he thinks, so unfair.

You don't mind the fact he's not rock hard. He's only human. It's natural for things to not always go right, and it's not like he'd be the first boy you've ever known to have performance issues. It happens to everyone at some point or another - yourself included.

"What do you want me to do?" You offer, because you think it will help; think that by showing you don't mind helping out, it will make him feel more comfortable.

But he knows you've noticed and it's fucking mortifying. This never happens to him.

Then again, he's never fucked a girl he likes as much as he likes you. Naive of him to think he could trust his body not to betray his mind at such an important moment. Only fitting, really, considering that it's his mind that will betray his heart when it matters most.

It's a cycle, and Jungkook's struggling to get to grips with the pedals. He'll fall off, crash and burn, if he's not careful.

"Shit," he hisses as he bridles his hips and pulls himself away from you. His back meets the mattress with so much force that your body shakes, cold and alone without the weight of him on top of you. He lies next to you, staring at the ceiling, cock limp, jaw tense. So fucking embarrassing. "Dunno what's wrong with me."

You tell him that it's normal, nothing unusual, and that you don't care - but it's not normal. Not for him, and especially not when it comes to you. He's been a walking boner since the moment he met you. Hard as a steel pole for weeks. In fact, if anything, he's barely soft these days.

"Just give me a moment," he says, though he doesn't move. He's trying to focus.

He breathes, in and out, slowly, his eyes glued to the ceiling, tattooed hand draped across his sternum. In, and out. He remains flaccid, cock resting shamefully against the top of his thigh.

This is, he thinks, hands down the most mortifying experience of his adult life.

You don't give a shit, but he's so uptight; lips pressed shut, eyes hard, as he seems to look anywhere but your direction. It gets you feeling all insecure. You didn't think you were the problem at first, but now it's starting to feel like you are.

The awkwardness is uncomfortable, and the fact that you're naked is even more so.

You're both on top of the quilt, so you can't even hide. Instead, you have to reach down the bed for the closest piece of discarded clothing - Jungkook's flannel shirt.

It's about now that he wants to die. Not like a brutal, slow death (the kind that he knows he deserves). He just wants to be zapped like a fly with an electric bat. The kind you see Ajummas with during the summer, wafting them around in the air, tasing everything they come into contact with.

He rubs his palm across his face, and when he's done, his hand comes to rest over his pathetic cock. The worst part of it all is the minuscule trail of precum that has oozed from the tip of his cock and onto his thigh, tangled in his leg hairs.

He could have fucked you. Could have fucked you so well.

But instead, he's watching you get dressed - although he isn't even doing that. He can't even bring himself to look at you.

He had asked for a moment, so you decide to give him just that. You head towards the bathroom unannounced, and Jungkook wants to tell you to stay, but he can't get any words out.

Door locked, closed, metal threaded through a loop, you're alone - and you fucking hate it. You're embarrassed and ashamed and confused. Your acceptance of his performance issue was genuine, but it doesn't stop it from hurting. You think his desire is dwindling, and you don't know what you'll do if it burns out completely.

You breathe. Take a second to reset yourself. Everything is fine. Everything is okay. Jungkook is just having issues. It's not me, it's not me, it's not me, you tell yourself, though you don't really believe it, and then you head back towards the bedroom.

When you return, Jungkook's got his underwear on.

He's sat with his back to you, facing the sea view, legs crossed, knees raised for his chin to rest upon. There's a crease in his stomach, his posture pathetic and feeble.

You'd never tell him, because you know that he trains so hard at the boxing club, but you sort of like it when torso creases like this. It makes him seem human. Soft; his hard exterior subdued, just for you.

The bed shifts as you walk across it and plonk yourself down beside him, mirroring the way he sits. There's a tugging in your chest, like your heart is clawing against your ribs, begging to be let out so it can go and sit beside Jungkooks. You tell it no, that it has to stay put.

But then he inhales a sharp breath through his nose, and you can hear he's torn himself up over what just happened. Your head rests on his shoulder, and your heart pacifies. His bottom lip is beneath his front teeth, the pressure so great that it feels as if he could burst through the skin. He doesn't ease up.

Silence remains. You can hear the waves crashing through the double glazing, and you wonder why you find such peace in something so hostile. The sea could kill you without a care in the world, and yet you'd let it, if meant your final moments were as peaceful as this.

"I'm sorry, CC," Jungkook eventually whispers. His voice shakes, and your lips press a gentle kiss onto his shoulder.

"You don't have to be."

Oh, but I do, babe. You'll never know how sorry I am.

You continue, knowing Jungkook won't clarify any of his misgivings. "C'mon," your head knocks back. "Let's sleep. Check out is early."

And so he settles into the sheets with you. Doesn't really say much. Just spends an eternity looking at you. Such a sight to behold; a work of art framed by the sea view.

That's the thing about works of art: you can see all their imperfections up close.

You've an eyelash that sticks out straight, while the rest of them curl. There's a small scar just below your ear from a childhood accident. He must have pressed a thousand kisses against that spot and never realised before.

He's never paid much notice to your piercings - lobes, double; helix, single - but he notices now that the stud in your cartilage has a stone in it. Opal, he thinks, but isn't sure. He wonders why you chose that one. Doesn't think you chose it just because it's pretty. You put too much weight on intangible things like fate and karma to have not chosen something specific.

You'd had a field day when you found out he was a Virgo, but he didn't have a clue what you meant when you said, "Saturn in your seventh house? Curious."

He was even more confused when you apologised for the fact you have Mars in your seventh. At the time he'd made some juvenile joke about sticking his seven in Uranus, but he wishes he'd listened more carefully, now.

It was the first time you'd shown belief in something other than the power of peach teas to remedy a bad mood, and it was significant. Not to him, admittedly, but to you. In turn, it made it important to him.

There's very little he actually can say about you - concrete things, like your childhood hangout area downtown, or the career path you had dreamt about. He knows how you laugh, what kind of humour gets you, but not what makes you sad. Doesn't know how you grieve.

How much of you does he really know? Or has he just been infatuated with the idea of you?

After all, you're everything he was hardwired to hate. Perhaps he's fooled himself. Maybe the wool he's been pulling over your eyes is over his, too.

He's the one who's been knitting, though. The crochet is a product of his own making. He's only got himself to blame.

But of course, neither of you are to blame. Not really. This was never meant to be more than what it is. You're just a friend from Daegu, after all.

It doesn't feel like that, no, but for all intents and purposes, that's what you are. You aren't his girlfriend. He's never asked for more, and nor have you. Keeping things simple has only served to make everything so much more complicated.

"Hey," he whispers quietly, just to get your attention. He's embarrassed, and it shows in the way he's nibbling down on his lip, but he doesn't want to be. Deep down, he knows that there's no shame to be found in what happened, and yet he can't help but think maybe you like him a little less, now.

Maybe that would be good. Maybe you should like him less. Actually, he's certain that you should.

But he doesn't want that. The idea of you looking at him with anything less than utter adoration has his stomach in knots. He's so used to it now; the way your pupils widen, lashes flutter. It's juvenile, and he knows it doesn't mean as much as he thinks it does, but he's convinced that your eyes don't lie.

He and you both are nothing but spinners of yarn; the tellers of tall tales, romancers of wrong-doings. Rumplestiltskins' of sorts, spinning gold where there once was straw.

You murmur a noise, but your eyes are still shut. It isn't enough for him. Needs to be greeted with your eyes; to be welcomed home. And so, he tries again, thumb stroking your cheek, the side of his head nestling into his pillow as he shuffles in a little closer. "CC?"

A delicate breath huffs from your nose as you smile, curiously smitten with how tender his voice sounds. Part of you is tempted to feign sleep a little longer just to have him addressing you like that again, but you find your eyes open - and once you're looking at him, it's borderline impossible to stop.

"Morning," you smile, even though the moon is still peering in, checking in on the lovers she's nurtured to a point of no return.

"Morning," he smiles back. The clock on the wall behind you read 2:24am. "Missed you."

"Been right here," you counter, as if the chime in your stomach isn't ringing like Jungkook's phone always seems to do whenever he's getting lost in you. His thumb strokes at your cheek again, then pushes your hair behind your ear. He wants to see all of you. Every inch of your skin, every fleck of colour in your iris, every strand of hair; wants it all. The hollow of your collarbones, the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your chest beneath his flannel shirt. All. Of. It.

"Too far away," he pouts.

"Too far?"

"Too far," he doubles down, still stroking hair behind your ear just because he can. Your head nestles into the pillow as you figure out what he's after. 'You' is the simple answer, but what exactly he wants from you is unclear.

"I can be closer," you whisper.

All he does is nod. He doesn't want to ask for what he wants, fearful of repeating his earlier mistakes - and to be honest, he doesn't really want to fuck, anyway.

But Jungkook hasn't fucked you in a long time. Sure, he's been sleeping with you - having sex with you - but he can't qualify it as fucking. It's too brash. Too careless. Inaccurate.

The way he fucks himself into you lately is deliberate; a facilitator of the way he feels. And he's not gonna call it what it is, because the term makes him uncomfortable, but it's undeniable.

Jungkook fucks you like he loves you. Kisses you like it will be his last, touches you like it's still the first. He's tentative. Tepid. Tactful.

More than anything, though? He's absolutely fucking terrified.

The fear doesn't leave; not when your body grinds against his, not when you end up on top of him, not when he's kissing you like he means it, stroking your skin as if you bruise like a peach. It never dilutes. Never ceases.

He can be rough, if he wants to be - but he doesn't.

He wants softness, with you, always.

And he'll only have himself to blame when he loses it all.

────────────

There are 38 boxes of hair dye facing Jungkook, and he thinks they all look the same.

You had been in Daegu for less than a minute when you reminded him to swing by an Olive Young to pick up some hair dye - and how could he ever refuse any of your requests?

It's so simple making you happy. A peach tea from a drive-thru on the way home, no complaints when you change what's playing through the aux after 20 seconds because you get bored, the way his hand squeezes your knee at red lights. Making you happy is the easiest thing in the whole wide world - but of course it would be.

There's no hardship that comes with your happiness. Everything Jungkook does is second nature, as if he's been doing it his whole life, and not just a few months.

"See, this one is ashy," you say, and he pretends as if he understands. It's been twenty minutes now, and no conclusion has been reached. You thought it would be easy, an in and out job, but Jungkook is full of surprises. It's not like you mind though. Learning his ways - how he behaves when no one else is watching - is a luxury that very few are able to indulge in.

He catches your gaze occasionally, and the way you marvel at him without even realising it. It makes him smile. Make him blush. Has him scared you're gonna start noticing his imperfections.

You won't - and even if you do, you'll file them under 'endearing habits' or 'cute quirks'. He's nothing short of perfection as far as you're concerned.

Foam or serum? Powder or liquid? He didn't remember it ever being this hard before.

But of course, it wasn't. He wasn't actually the one who had dyed his hair blonde. Namjoon's sister had; a trick to foster intimacy with him when he wouldn't reciprocate her longing gazes after casual fucks.

He hadn't told you that, obviously. Didn't have a death wish - but he did remember that, for a short period of time, her attempt at faking closeness seemed to have worked.

It was a moment of madness for Jungkook, one too many sojus and he'd been seduced; a couple more and all of his clothes were on Naejeon's bedroom floor. He did as he always had done with her; took her from behind, spanked her ass when he was done and offered to drive her home after the alcohol had worn off - but he'd been foolish and gone back to hers that evening. While he was still a little bit worse for wear, he'd agreed to let her do his hair. He thought it'd be fun. She thought that maybe he'd realise there was more between the pair of them than just a good time after dark.

It wasn't long, and it wasn't love, but Naejeon had him reassessing whether or not it was just fucking, through the simple means of hydrogen peroxide coated strands of hair.

As much as he lamented the time he had spent with her towards the end of their arrangement, for a while she had been good for him. He'd become kinder, more gentle, and it seemed you were the one who reaped the rewards.

"And ashy is..." he carries his words on, as if the answer is on the tip of his tongue, but you know him well enough now to know that they're not. He's overwhelmed by the choices, simultaneously wishing he could pick without a care in the world, but also worrying about making the wrong decision.

"Bad."

"-Bad, yeah, that's what I was gonna say," he bullshits, but you don't mind the white lies all that much. He goes to say something, then cuts himself short. "And why is it bad again?"

It's the fourth time you've explained colour theory to him. "It's bad because you need a warm tone over the blonde, otherwise it will go green."

"I like green," he speaks with a small pout, not realising the green his hair will go isn't the same green as the trees in May. It will be murky, and grotty, like the streets in April rain.

"So do I," you smile. "But not for my hair. How about this one?"

His eyes follow your hand to one of the thousand boxes: a deep crimson red. It's not a shade he was expecting, nor one that he thinks will work on your hair. You know it won't, so you add "we can just bleach a little bit first. Like the underneath layer, or something."

His head tilts, a dimple forming as he tries to imagine what it will look like. You can see he isn't sure, and that he feels a little hesitant. He wants to do this. Wants to reinvent himself with you - an artist fixing up an old oil painting, filling in the cracks, restoring it to its former glory - but he's scared that what's done cannot be undone.

Ironic, really, that it's his hair that he's scared of. Consequences have meant little to him as of late, and yet here he is all pouty, huffing through his nose a little bit because the poor baby can't decide.

It makes you laugh how childish he can be. He just needs a little push you think; a helping hand.

"You trust me?"

The question is asked so flippantly that it would seem unfathomable for the trust between the pair of you to be broken. Flirtatious in your tone, he knows this is all just fun to you. Maybe he should loosen up. Maybe it should be fun for him, too.

Yes is the answer to your question - not that he'll give it to you. Words are dangerous. They can be used against him.

"I think you're mad," he tells you, but there's a smile that he just can't hide. It rests on his lips, crooked and glorious; sun breaking through a storm. It's yours, you think. Mine, all mine. "Get the bleach, you little fucker."

"See," you grin back, all big and pleased, and Jungkook thinks he'll never be able to smile without you. "You do."

You do as you're told; grab the bleach, get in line. Jungkook stands behind you, kisses your hair, tells you he likes it enough as it is, but that he's excited to do this with you. And then he's whispering some bullshit about how he wants kombucha, but the one he likes is sold out, as per usual.

When you go to pay, his card is already in the machine. It's on him. Everything during your trip has been. There's something charming about it; chivalrous. You've never needed a man with a white horse, but you got yourself a boy with a red Pony regardless.

Scarlet in colour, his car screamed danger when you first met him, but as you ride in the passenger seat, feet on the dash, hand beneath his on the gear stick, you feel safe. There's a world out there around you and yet none of it can penetrate the metal body. You like to think it's bulletproof.

It's an old car. A heap of shit, if you will, especially by today's highway standards. You had made a point to pay your respects a little longer at the road safety shrine at Haedong Yeonggungsa when you visited in Busan.

A bullet would tear through it - but how lovely it is to pretend that you could be invincible together.

You ask if he fancies doing his hair at your place.

It's the first time you've ever offered.

You asked if he trusted you earlier that evening, and now you're the one showing him that you trust him.

This is bad. Really bad, in fact. In too deep; six feet under. He's sinking, buried in the way that he feels for you, but thinks that it's just his guilty conscience that's tickling at his tummy.

Your apartment isn't too dissimilar from his; a little one-room, cheap and drab, but brightened by your personality. There are photos on the walls, pictures with friends, postcards of art, memories of times you barely remember, now. Your bed is sort of hidden, a shelving unit separating it from the rest of the room. The first thing he notices about it is how many pillows you have. Plushies, too. He looks bewildered, but you simply shrug and smile. "Never take me to an arcade."

Your statement only serves to make that an insatiable desire of his. He's obsessed with the idea of you in front of the machines, neon lights glowing in your eyes, lips parted as you aim for yet another ridiculous plushy.

In fact, it's all he wants to do now, go to an arcade with you. Considers saying fuck it to the hair dye, and heading downtown instead.

But you usher him into the bathroom, and say, "c'mon, buddy. I gotta bleach mine first before we can put colour on."

Perched on the closed lid of your toilet seat, Jungkook watches on in awe as you get to work on your hair. The way you called him buddy plays on loop in his head. He thinks it's a joke because of the fact he told Taehyung you were just a friend, and he'd be right to consider that. He realises, rather quickly, that he doesn't ever want to be just a friend to you. Impossible, he thinks.

Mindless chatter takes hold as you paint bleach onto your hair. It's only on the underneath layer, and it washes out to be the most god-awful orange, but it's fine. All you need is a base for the colourful dye to stick to.

You've done this before, he assumes, but doesn't like that he's picked up that trait of yours - so instead, he asks about it.

"Shoulda seen me in high school," you smile. "Rebellion was my middle name."

It's said in jest, but Jungkook wonders just how true that is. You're the black sheep of a family you're pretending doesn't exist.

"Did it win?" He teases. "The rebellion?"

He likes the idea of your defiance being nurtured at an early age. You've always had fight in you, or so it would seem. It's something he finds attractive, the way there's bite behind your bark, and yet he appears to have you tamed.

You don't look at him as you smile, putting on a pair of latex gloves and reaching for the tub of crimson dye. The plastic container fits into your palm like it was made to be there. This new identity? The one that matches Jungkooks? Made for you.

Painting the dye onto your hair without much care, you shrug. Consider telling him about your family. Stop yourself at the last minute.

"Rebellions endure," you tell him, all matter of a factly and as if you know what you're talking about. You don't. You're a sham. Wouldn't know rebellion if it bit you in the ass. Stupidly, you think that disowning your family counts as an act of rebellion - but you did it all so quietly that no one even noticed. Rebellion would have been publicly denouncing them - also would have saved Jungkook a whole lot of hassle, that's for sure. "There's no winning. Just perseverance."

He doesn't agree. Thinks that life is a rotating door of winning and losing; a turnstile in the subway that will let anyone through given they can pay for the fare. That's what life boils down to for Jungkook; who has money, and who can spend that money.

The ones with the wallets always win.

Give it a week, and his wallet will be fat enough to run with the big boys - and yet he's never felt less powerful in his whole entire god damn life. He's watched girlfriends fuck about with his friends, his family disintegrate, his mother die. You - and your stupid fucking smile, the way your eyes always land on his lips before they meet his eyes, the smell of your gasoline tainted hair - trump it all.

He's a loser in this game, whether he 'wins' or not.

There's no winning without you.

There's a clamminess to his palms, a beating in his chest that goes a mile a minute, far too fast for a healthy heart. You're a comedown short of a cocaine upper, and Jungkook knows that his addiction has grown out of hand. Cold turkey is going to leave him in tatters, but he can't seem to ween himself of your body, your touch, the way your pinky loops with his. He knows what this is. Knows that the way he feels is far too much for what you are.

You catch him looking, his stare stern, and hard, and it has you smiling. He looks so serious - angry, almost - but you know he isn't. He's just thinking. Contemplating. He does it when he eats, too, and he's never angry when his belly is full. When you smile, the furrowing of his brows eases, and he begins to smile, too.

"What?" He questions, his eyes so fond that you can't believe you get the luxury of a man like him looking at you like that. Lucky bitch, you think. Luckiest in the whole wide world.

"Nothin'," you grin back, and he rolls his eyes. He looks so pretty, a strand of hair hanging over his forehead as you wait for the dye to process. His will be brighter than yours - just the tips of his hair where the bleach once was, but you think he'll look so pretty with a little colour against his honey skin.

He won't be able to hide the way he's paired with you. You've always scoffed at the couples who walk down the street in matching shoes, matching clothes. You think it's cringe. Vomit inducing. Gross.

But you're also so smitten that your lips are constantly curved into a smile, eyes fond as you look at him. You're absolutely infatuated.

So is he, but chooses to downplay it. Has a smirk on his lips as if he isn't obsessed with every little thing you do. "This is so dumb. Can't believe we're doing this."

"You suggested it!" You protest.

So hot, he thinks as you whine. He just wants to have his way with you, right then and there on the spot. Feels like he can never be close enough to you.

"So? Didn't think you'd agree," he smiles as he sinks his lips onto yours and forget all above the fact he's supposed to be careful.

Within half an hour, he's spraying you in the face with the showerhead, when he should be rinsing your hair instead. He laughs when you squeal, not caring for the fact you're both still fully clothed. A kiss is gifted and received, then given back, water from the shower hitting you both.

You're both in black, so the running red dye doesn't matter, despite the grout in your tiles turning pink.

"This doesn't seem like the most efficient way to rinse out hair," you husk against his lips, but he ignores you. Presses your back to the wall, and supports his body with a palm on either side of your head. The shower is clamped beneath one of his hands as the head sprays directly onto the wall, but he doesn't care.

"Yeah you're right," he agrees, his showerless hand cupping one of your breasts and squeezing it through the fabric of your soaked shirt. "Would be far easier if you weren't wearing this."

You laugh now, 'cause he's just so bloody predictable. A one-track mind, but you're glad he's thinking like this again. He's so much more himself when he isn't in his head over things.

His shut down yesterday has scared you; left you thinking that maybe he didn't want you anymore. The way his lips are on your neck, rough, teeth present, not caring about the crimson water running down your throat, suggests otherwise.

"You're a menace, Jeon Jungkook," you whisper, voice airy and light as it dances around the room, weaving between the droplets of water that pitter-patter on the ground. A menace; a maverick. Both could be true. When you look at him and see the way the dye is dripping down his skin, too, you think 'masterpiece' may be more apt.

He holds the showerhead over himself, letting the water run faster, more freely. The red feels never-ending, as if he'll be forever tainted by the colour of your love.

He then does the same to you, deliberately aiming straight for your face just to fuck with you. He loves how cute you sound when you squeak, body instantly shifting to defend itself.

"No, no, no," he koos, pulling the shower away and hugging you close just so that you don't retaliate against him.

The way his clothes stick to his skin is uncomfortable, but you love the way his muscles feel beneath the drenched cotton. His chest is strong, arms even more so. Needless to say, he's obsessed with the way you look too: his shirt over your shoulders, water collecting in the fabric and forcing it to stick to the contours of your curves.

Reaching for the taps, he knocks the temperature down a little bit.

"I'm sorry, baby," he whispers, pressing a kiss into the side of your head. The shower pours onto your feet, but you can feel it travel up your legs. There's a shift in your position as Jungkook says 'You should lift my shirt a little bit."

You feign naivety. Pretend like you don't know what he's going to do. "Like this?"

It's inched just a little further up, resting just above the lace trim of your underwear. You're a tease; Jungkook your favourite victim.

He nods. Swallows. Rests his lips ajar as he struggles to breathe. "Just like that, C."

The heady nature of the steam fogging up the bathroom fails to hide the fact he looks nervous; intent on succeeding where he had failed the night before. He watches as your lips part, brows furrowing.

The way your chest heaves isn't lost on him, but he finds himself lost in you, and the way you look at him when he begins to hit just the right spot with the steady stream of water. You grip onto his arms, rising to the tip of your toes. A moan husks in your throat, and he smiles.

Crown of your head to the tiles, you let your head tip back, eyes closing. Your showerhead isn't something you often indulge in for pleasure by yourself, favouring your hands or a toy instead - but there's something so deeply erotic about the way he's watching your body respond to the water that he's controlling.

Occasionally he'll dip his hand down to your clit, not wanting the showerhead to take all the responsibility for what Jungkook knows will be his favourite part of the day. It's noticeable, the way a little extra moan will escape your lips whenever he uses his fingers. It's ego-boosting. Cock-swelling.

Your nails begin to dig in deeper to his muscles, no doubt leaving a print on his skin. Your whines, sultry and slow, take dominance over the running water which has been soundtracking your build-up.

"That's it," he keens, finally slipping his middle finger into you. He curls it, and the way you silently gasp has him smirking. He's still got a firm grip on the shower, his wrist moving in small circles to make sure he hits all the right places. "You gonna come for me, C?"

You're not there yet. Just a little further. A little more. A little - oh, fuck -deeper. You wanna tell him yes, yes you will, but all you can do is nod. Your eyes are shut, too embarrassed to look at him when you know you're going to finish in record time. The way you moan is sinful, and it only gets worse when you feel his tongue circle one of your nipples through the soaked shirt. He sucks, and lets it go with a pop.

"Keep-" you try and speak, but it's lost to the pleasure that's running down your spine.

He laughs. "Keep what?"

The question is answered by the way his lips wrap around your other nipple in place of a question mark. His tongue works at the swollen bud through the shirt, massaging it just enough to have your hips grinding against the pressure of the water, riding on his finger.

It's when he adds a second finger that things really start to become out of your control. Nothing you're saying makes any coherent sense. His replies are simple hums that vibrate against your chest as he sucks on it.

The thing that tips you over the edge is his third finger. The sounds you're making are lewd, and filthy, reserved only for him.

"The way you take me, baby," he grits against you, amazed by everything you are. "God, you take my fingers so well, don't you?"

"Kook-" you try, but are cut off with his lips against yours. His tongue is in your mouth, your hands in his hair, heart pressed against yours - and then you're unable to think, let alone kiss back. Your moans melt into his mouth, onto his tongue, and he devours every single one of them.

"Shit," he moans right back. "Yeah. Fuck my hand like that. Like that, CC. Coming all over my fingers aren't you?" His teeth graze your neck. "Filthy fucking slut."

The hands that are in his hair drop to his throat, and squeeze. His eyes are on yours as you ride out your high, but it's a warning you're giving him. He knows this. He likes it.

"Not like that one?" He teases, jaw hanging slack in a crooked kind of fashion that makes him look like he's from an 80's movie. You shudder a little, the ends of your orgasm still washing over you.

On the contrary; there's nothing you'd enjoy more than being bent over his leg and having him call you nasty little names while he leaves handprints on your ass. You're just fucking with him. Know that he'll take the graze of your nails as an indication you wanna fight. And you do. Just in such a way that you end up fucking, too.

You're still shaking as he withdraws his fingers. He looks at them, how they're coated in your juices, and debates who should get the honour of licking them clean. His eyes are on yours as he licks a stripe up his index finger.

"Fucking hell," he husks, lips wet from your mess. No one's ever tasted as good as you before. He doesn't think anyone else will ever compare.

He was gonna be strong about this; gonna take a sample and then give you the rest - but he just can't help himself. He sucks on his fingers - index, middle, then fourth - one at a time, before all three are in his mouth.

If you were breathless before, then you think you might have stopped breathing altogether, now.

He stares at you. Sucks. Withdraws, but only a little. Pushes his fingers further into his mouth. Closes his eyes. Groans. Moans. Grunts. Begins to withdraw. Opens his eyes. Releases his fingers with a kiss at the tips.

His eyes look down your body, then up to your eyes. "Where were we again? Ready to shampoo?"

The visual of him sucking on his fingers plays on repeat in your head. You need to see it again.

It's almost embarrassing how paper-thin you are when you shake your head, and say, "rinse and repeat. Gotta do that again."

He raises a brow. "Which part, C?"

There's a playful nature to him, pleased and protected in how easy he finds it to get you coming undone. He feels safe, now. There's security to be found in your eyes; a sanctuary, a dwelling, a hearth. Somewhere to curl up on the cold nights. A place to congregate. Someplace to call home.

You'd give him a key, if you had one. Put it on a chain around his neck. Maybe you'll just match your door code to his, instead. Cute couple things. The kind of shit that makes you roll your eyes and gag a little.

Ironic, really, when you think about it, as you wash the remainder of the dye from his hair. He reciprocates, but you don't think he's done it properly. It's only now that you pull his shirt off your body and let it fall to the bathroom floor with a loud slap. He sits on the closed lid of your toilet, still fully clothed, drenched, ruby red hair framing him perfectly.

It suits him, even now, before it's styled pristine in that rugged kind of way he manages to perfect so effortlessly. He watches as you run the water through your hair, and you're surprised when you glance in the mirror to find him looking at your face. You thought his eyes would be elsewhere.

In all honesty, they had been - you just caught him at a good moment.

Smiles are exchanged between the pair of you without your consent. Funny, how everything with him is involuntary, but in the best possible way. You don't have to think about happiness, it just comes.

"You look like a mermaid," he tells you, cheeks dimpled and bright. You cast your eyes to your legs - which are very much legs and not a tail - and give him a questioning look. "The hair," he clarifies. "I mean the hair. Bet you'd look fit as fuck with a tail though."

"My lord," you groan, tilting your head back in jest. "I'm dating a dude who's into fish?"

"Dating, eh?" Jungkook's ears grow red and hot, but he hides them well.

He wouldn't mind it if you were dating. Would quite like it actually.

You ignore him for a moment, caught out in the admittance of how you view the relationship between the pair of you. You don't feel embarrassed as such, you just didn't want to be the one to elevate the status of what you are.

"Not anymore," you say. "I prefer men who like girls with feet."

"I'd let you give me a foot job any day of the week," he protests almost too quickly. You reach over to knock the tap off, so Jungkook reaches behind himself to pull the towel down from the rail. He stands as it falls, opening it up for you to wrap around your body.

Gestures like this are normal for Jungkook; thoughtless thoughtfulness. You notice it often, and you always say thank you, but he just shrugs. He doesn't see it as a gesture. He's doing what he wants to do, and what he wants is for you to feel comfortable. He wants to ease your burdens.

Perhaps it's guilt. The knowledge that he's about to be the biggest burden you've ever encountered.

Or perhaps it's the language he speaks when words aren't enough.

Perhaps, just maybe, he's in lo-

The moment is cut short when Jungkook's phone begins to ring in the kitchen. You usher him out, tell him to get it, and head to your bed. Flopping down, still wrapped in your towel, you listen in to the conversation - "Jin? Yeah. Yeah. Back in Daegu. Tonight?" - and notice the way his posture changes. His back grows tighter. Voice becomes agitated. He's whispering, but is seething. You sit up, eyes trained on him.

He glances over to you, brows hard, eyes narrow. He looks away. Looks back again. Looks like he might fucking cry.

"No Jin, tonight is a bad idea. It just is, alright! No- Fucking hell, would you listen to me alright? Jin, she- No! No."

He looks at you again, eyes wider than the full moon peering in through the kitchen window. Divine feminity washes over him and berates him for his choices - but you mistake it for the sheen of a good man.

It's guilt that glitters in his eyes when he looks at you. He thinks you're gorgeous, but knows you must be a little bit stupid, too.

How the fuck did you let him in this far? Why didn't you see right through his facade? Why didn't you just cut him off?

God, he adores your brain - is absolutely enamoured with it - but fucking hell.

A beautiful fool is what you are, and to play a fool is to lose.

He wishes you never agreed to go on that fucking date. He only asked in the first place because he couldn't bring himself to let you get hurt, but it's gonna be so much worse now. Infinitely more destructive. Physical pain you'd have gotten over. Maybe even forgiven.

But this?

Jungkook's standing on dynamite. If he even takes one step toward you he'll catch the tripwire that will strike a match on the wick, and everything will be in fucking tatters.

It already is.

And all the while, you're reaching into your wardrobe to find him a pair of sweats big enough for him.

"I don't care what Joon says!" He hisses into the phone as you finally find the pair of sweats you had in mind. They're far too big for you, but hopefully they'll do the trick for him. "How far am I? From Kangs? 'Bout half an hour."

You close your wardrobe and look at him, head tilted, brows pinched together. He's barely a five-minute drive from Kangs. Ten tops. You figure he must just want more time with you before his boys steal him away.

"Jin?" He says into the phone, but is met with what must be a response he doesn't like. "Jin? The fuck man! Just listen to me! Please! Plea- fuck."

His words are interrupted by the crack of his phone hitting the steel sink basin in your kitchen. Shoulders hunched, he rests his palms against the counter, his breathing accentuated by the way his back is moving.

You're not scared, but you are cautious. You know he boxes. Know he has the potential to lose his temper.

If only you knew how well he's controlling his emotions in this moment. He should be given an award. A medal. A plaque. Jeon Jungkook, Container of Emotions, 2022.

Or perhaps 'Liar of the Year' would be more apt.

"You good?" You asked, edging towards the kitchen, sweats in hand. "Here, change into these. You'll catch a cold, otherwise. I'll put the heating on tonight."

Jungkook shakes his head. Stays silent. Sniffs. Is cold when he finally growls, "no, you won't."

"It's fine," you promise. Your heating bill is never that expensive. "I don't mind."

"C-" He begins, but cuts himself off.

When he turns to face you, his eyes are black. Just like they are in your nightmares. You always thought you'd die if he ever looked at you like this. The way your skin crawls has you thinking you might.

"What?" you speak so quietly that Jungkook wants to set himself alight on the gas stove top behind him.

He closes his eyes. Hangs his head in shame.

"You trust me, right?"

Something about his tone, his demeanour, has you frozen. Your kitchen light is off, bathroom too, and there are shadows on his face that obscure his intentions. 'No' echoes in your head, but you can't bring yourself to speak it into existence. 5 minutes ago, it would have been an unequivocal, unwavering 'yes.'

He tries again. Eyes wide. Still focused on the floor. Petrified. You mistake them for being honest.

"Tell me you trust me, C."

"I-" you choke on your words, heart lodged in your throat. He refuses to look at you. Heat gathers on your lash line, and it confuses you. He confuses you. You don't understand what he's asking of you. He's in your home. You invited him here. Is that not proof enough?

"C," he demands an answer. His eyes are on you now, finally looking in your direction. They're black, and they look right through your skin, as if he's watching the way your heart beats beneath your ribcage. You find yourself cowering into a shadow of the woman you are, and it's just another thing he adds to the list of reasons to hate himself.

You're meek and pathetic when you nod in response and say, "of course I do. Why would you even ask that?"

He's never seen you timid. Never seen the way you used to be before you left your family and became a human in your own right. There's something deeply unsettling about the way he's managed to revoke you to this version of yourself, and he knows this just as much as you do.

He sniffs back a sob. Turns away from you. Rakes his fingers through his damp hair, and turns to face you again. Jungkook is struggling to survive inside the vessel of his which has been taken over by a fucking monster.

"Yoongi," he speaks quickly, not wanting to waste time. "Your co-worker, right?"

You nod. Say nothing.

"He lives around the corner, right?"

There's no reason for Jungkook to know that. No feasible reason at all. You can feel your pulse. You're panicking. Why does he know that?

"Take the fire exit and go to his, okay?" He says. "And fucking stay there until you hear from me, alright? Don't leave his place. Stay with him."

He expects you to nod. Expects the pathetic demeanour that's masking who you really are to agree with him. Yes, Sir. No, Sir, Three bags full, Sir.

But you stopped letting men tell you what to do a long fucking time ago. You don't take orders from any man - and you especially don't take orders from boys.

You stand straighter. Taller. Raise your chin, and look at him through your nose. For a second, you almost forgot who you were.

"What the fuck is going on, Jungkook?"

The question is stern. Sterile.

Fuck.

He's so taken aback by the way you address him that he feels winded. Cannot breathe. Will die.

"You said you trust me-"

"Yeah, and you'd never given me reason not to trust you before now, but what the fuck is this?" You gesture between the pair of you. "You say jump, I say how fucking high? Nah, fuck that, Kook. What's going on?"

He paces, pushing a tense hand through his damp hair, before rubbing his face with his palm. The red runs through his fingers like a warning sign. Danger. You better run, too.

"C, you just gotta trust me-"

"Trust?"

You laugh now. At him. Trust? When he's behaving like the sketchiest dude you ever met? You think the fuck not.

"I don't trust you," you spit, and rightly so - although you know you're being reactive. You should be calmer. Evaluating the situation, considering why he's asking this of you - but you've seen red, and it clouds your better judgement. "It's earned, not owed. Either you tell me what's going on, or you get the fuck out of my house."

"C-"

"Do not try and reason with me, Jungkook," you assert. "You tell me, or you go."

And that's when he realises.

That's when he knows there's no coming back from this.

"I can't," he whispers, the crack in his voice so painfully tortured. "I can't do either of those, C."

"You're gonna have to."

"C-"

"Kook."

"Plea-"

No, you think. You told him not to try and reason with you. What does he think he'll achieve? You'll magically say yes?

Incorrect.

"Get out."

"I can't."

"I'll even open the door myself, if I really have to."

"C-"

"You've got thirty seconds."

"C-"

"Twenty."

"You gotta just-"

"Ten."

"You're not even giving me a second!"

"Five-"

"Fine."

"Four."

"You want the fucking truth?" He shouts.

"Three," you smile. Yes. I do.

"You really want the truth so fucking bad, do you?"

Oh, you big fucking baby, you taunt internally. Men. Always too good to be fucking true. Always have to do something to go and fuck it all up.

You toy with the possible answers of what the truth could be. Fucking someone else? The other woman planning on showing up for a fight? Maybe the mother to a child of his, or something like that. He seems to be good at running from his responsibilities, so it would make sense.

"Two."

He pauses.

And then he thinks fuck it.

You want the truth? You'll fucking get it.

"I know who your family are, C. Know all your dirty little secrets. Everything. And I also know that if you don't shut the fuck up and listen to me, you're gonna get real fucking hurt tonight. That's why you have to trust me. You have to get out of here. Something bad is gonna happen thanks to the past you keep trying to hide, so I need you to trust me. I don't want you to get hurt."

Bull. Shit.

This might all make sense to you one day.

But for now, all you can focus on is the audacity that the man in front of you has.

You reach over to your front door, and open it wide. His time is up.

"I don't fucking trust you. Now get out of my apartment before I call the police and have you arrested for breaching the peace. Clock struck one, Cinders. Time to flee before I find out who the fuck you really are."

He looks at you, helpless and confused. This isn't what he had expected. Not in the slightest.

"C-"

"One. Now fucking leave."

────────────

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pavartijanuswrites · 11 days ago

Text

Cover art by the lovely @i-choose-the-road

Characters: Jake/Danny slash!

Word count: 3,121

This is a standalone chapter involving an established relationship as part of the Darling Series on Ao3

Synopsis: A photography session in a picturesque garden devolves into a stolen moment of carnal pleasure as the pair find themselves alone in the bedroom of an Italian villa.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Filthy, explicit M/M sexual content ahead. Explicit language, self-penetration, self-pleasure, penetrative sex, an*l, handjobs, messy f*cking, sloppy kissing, c*mshots, and some gushy, fluffy aftercare

Note: I wasn’t quite happy with the ending yet, so rather than make you lovely folks wait, i decided to make it a two-parter instead! Thank you for your patience as I fine tune the ending. Enjoy!🧡

Part 1/2

Jake’s bones sink into the mattress, the curves of his silhouette hugged on all sides by the rich reds and golds of the patterned blanket. But his mind doesn't rest with his body. It runs at a dizzying, frenzied pace, his thoughts chasing one another in a restless loop like an aggressive Formula One race. One thought overtakes the next, then another contender vies for the forefront of his attention, then yet another stifles them all, dominating the space within his skull.

His need is suffocating. It had only taken one image for the picture to become fixed in his head, and now his thoughts whirl around it, stirring up his desire like a pool of piranhas ready to feast and devour. It overwhelms him, flooding him until there is nothing left but the building pressure in his groin and heart.

Jake had only been innocently exploring the grounds of the rented Italian villa where the band had holed up prior to that evening’s concert. He’d been deep in thought, eyes wandering from one botanical wonder to the next. Then he’d rounded a corner and been confronted with an image that hadn’t left the inside of his eyelids: Danny, posing alluringly for a photograph.

There’d been lace. Trailing scarlet beads, hugging the contours of his lean body, dark hair forming perfect ringlets around an angular face. And those deep, endless eyes had been set in the same haunting expression Jake had seen numerous times–the expression of a man steeped in desire.

He’d been so beautiful. He has always been so beautiful.

The image had conjured such lovely daydreams–of sweating and panting, licking, sucking, moaning… But then he’d been faced with a familiar gush of heat in the depths of his organs, and had subsequently been forced to return to his room to conceal the telltale signs of his rampant arousal.

So now he lies, re-imagining the same image over and over. The beautiful shawl yoking the broad shoulders beneath it, its vibrant color contrasting against the ivy and weathered wood backdrop. The dangling strands of beads, hanging like sheets of blood rain. The sculpted column of Danny’s waist, his skin exposed between the lacy breast piece of his shawl and the waistline of his pants. And the tantalizing trail of hair leading tauntingly down past his navel and alluding to the secret beneath his clothes.

A secret that is only Jake’s to keep.

There’s a creak of ancient hinges as the carved wooden door falls inward. Then a lean, athletic shape fills the open threshold.

“You’re in a state,” There’s a smile in that low, buttery voice, “Did I really make that much of an impression?”

“Don’t act so innocent,” Jake pulls up on one elbow, the flap of his bejeweled stage jacket falling open, “You know exactly what effect you have on me, Danny Boy.”

He only clicks his tongue, only stands, observing. Studying. Wanting. The light beyond the doorway turns him into a lithe silhouette, his curly hair a golden halo around his head. Then he steps nearer and the light illuminates his features.

Danny’s eyes hold the same darkness they’d held in the photograph–the same boiling desire that had set Jake’s soul aflame in the garden. His sculpted Roman nose and narrow chin form hard lines and chiseled angles, but his skin grants his face a certain youthful softness, the brown lakes of his eyes resembling pools of sugary sweet chocolate.

“Then it seems like I owe you a favor,” Danny smiles deeply.

“Indelibly,” Jake breathes, “You’ve rendered me rather indecent.”

“I can see that,” He locks the door behind him, then casually ambles nearer, “Think we have time to…relieve ourselves before the show?”

“We’ll have to make time,” Jake shifts in discomfort, “Otherwise, this’ll be a problem.”

Danny’s eyes fall to the straining bulge within the confines of Jake’s silken stage pants, his pupils visibly dilating with desire. Then he wedges his tongue in his cheek and steps quietly across the hardwood floor, “Well, you were supposed to be up next with the photographer.”

“The photographer is gonna have to wait,” Jake resists the urge to adjust the constricting tightness of his zipper, “Because right now…Let’s just say this doesn’t look very professional. Might not be the best image to project to the public.”

“I think it’s a beautiful image,” Danny murmurs, his smile broadening, “And to think: all it took was some beads.”

“It wasn’t just the beads.”

For a moment, the two hold a silence taut with want, regarding the other with equaled hunger.

Then Danny withdraws something from behind his back. An electronic device, its black eye shielded with a lens cover and its chrome body suspended by an embroidered strap.

“Borrowed it from Sam,” The dark curve of Danny’s eyebrow raises in smug satisfaction, “Since you seem to like it when a camera’s involved.”

Jake swallows and studies the metallic contours of the innocent object. Then his eyes pass back to the breathtaking man before him, watching in rapt fascination as long, dexterous fingers enable the camera’s settings.

Then Danny raises the lens to his eye and clicks the shutter.

“I wasn’t ready,” Jake complains. But his cheeks flush pink at the thought of the vulnerable image he’d captured.

Danny only smiles, sidesteps as if to explore a different angle, and shoots another photo, “Try looking dramatically off in the distance.”

Jake complies, barely suppressing his smile.

“Fucking beautiful,” Danny groans, “See, the daylight is hitting you just right.”

“Hitting me just right, you say?” Jake fails to stifle his levity, dropping his head back to let loose a full-throated laugh.

There’s another shutter click, and Danny’s entrancing eyes crease in a smile as he meets his gaze over the camera, “That one might be my favorite.”

“My big dumb mouth, you mean?” He shakes his head bashfully, flushing even pinker at the thought of the photo containing so many teeth. His wide smile isn’t quite so evident while his face is neutral, so Jake favors leaving it that way—where he can hide within his comfort zone.

But Danny lowers the lens, face creased in indignation, “I love your big dumb mouth,” He closes the distance, placing a knee on the mattress and leaning close enough to sink a deep, hungry kiss against his waiting lips, “I’m a little partial to your beautiful—” He interrupts himself with another quick peck, “…Fucking—” A longer, sloppier kiss emphasizes his passion as he drives Jake’s skull against the bed, “Incredible mouth.”

Jake can’t contain himself anymore. He feels a rush of heat in his belly, a primal need flooding his mind, and a flare of blush in his face and chest. He grips a fistful of Danny’s hair, pulling him deeper and deeper, until he’s drowning in his kiss.

“Take off your pants, Dan,” He gasps for air, “I need you. I need to fuck you. Now.”

“Feisty today, hmm?” Danny laughs gently into the kisses, “How do you want me?”

“I don’t care. Just—” Jake gropes the warm plane of skin beneath the breast of the shawl, the beads parting around his wrist and clicking musically against his own chest, “Please?”

Jake can hear Danny kicking off his shoes, one clunk followed by another as they fall to the wooden floor. He gently places the camera on the blanket by Jake’s head, then slowly, slowly unbuttons his charcoal black pants, never allowing his gaze to break Jake’s.

“Not sure how to unclasp this crazy thing,” Danny gestures to the brilliant red of his costume, “Might need a little help.”

But Jake only clicks his tongue, his wide smile returning. He defiantly rests flat on his back, chest racing as he regains his breath. His dark eyes explore every movement as Danny strips for him, each article dropping to the floor in slow succession. First socks, then pants, then boxers. Then his fingers pry at the clips at his sternum.

“Leave the shawl,” Jake’s voice comes out low and gruff, dripping with seduction as they pass his lips, “I wanna see those beads move when I fuck you.”

A muscle in Danny’s jaw ticks as he registers Jake’s request. Then he reaches determinedly for Jake’s zipper.

But he’s stopped midair as Jake shakes his head and whistles low in his mouth, “Not so fast. We’re gonna need something first.”

Danny’s head slants in confusion, his silvery earring dangling alluringly in the light.

Jake raises an eyebrow and nods toward the suitcase on the bench at the bed’s foot.

Understanding dawns on his face. Then he circles the bed’s edge, his newly naked intimate parts exposed at Jake’s eye level and moving obscenely with his motions.

Jake squirms with desperation, “Fuck, Dan, how are you so huge?”

“Genetics, I guess,” The laugh in his voice bubbles over, “Compliments of my blood.”

The blood in question begins to circulate near the surface of Danny’s skin, lighting his chest and the tips of his ears aglow. The cock at Jake’s eye level engorges as if in response to his staring, rising slowly to its fully aroused potential.

“Just…” Jake thoughtfully licks his lower lip, “Sometimes I wonder how I managed to fit it all that first time.”

Danny pauses his rummaging, his own eyes glazing over with the sweet memory, “Well, if I recall,” He finds his prize, tossing the bottle end over end and catching it with dexterous finesse, “It wasn’t without pain.”

“Mmm,” Jake begins to breathe heavily again.

“And it took patience…” Danny squeezes a measured amount of gel onto his fingers, “We had to take it so, so slowly…” He rotates to apply the substance to his own entrance, “It was scary and new…” He gasps as he penetrates himself with one gentle fingertip, “But we breathed together, held each other…”

Then Danny folds over, placing one knee on the bench and one elbow beside Jake’s head.

“Then what?” He watches, entranced as Danny meets his eyes and the streams of beads rain from his chest to mingle with Jake’s hair.

“You told me you loved me,” Danny cups the curve of Jake’s jaw, his thumb stroking the defined ridge of his cheekbone, “I think that trust…it went a long way to helping you relax.”

“Well you did have to remind me to breathe,” Jake reaches upward to hold Danny’s face between his hands, “But yeah—having someone to guide me…it helped.”

Danny’s eyes flutter shut as his fingers work to loosen himself for the impending intrusion. His breath hitches and puffs gently against Jake’s forehead.

“That was the first time anyone had done that for me,” Jake sighs and distractedly twists one of Danny’s curls around his fingertip, “Before you, I was the one who usually did the talking. The guiding. So yeah…That meant a lot. To hear your voice through the pain.”

Danny’s head tilts to one side, his eyes glimmering with emotion as they watch him from above.

“You look funny upside down,” Jake remarks with a warm, broad smile.

A gusty sound escapes Danny’s lips as his soft laugh morphs into a plaintive whimper.

Jake strokes the overwarm column of his neck, thumbs following the scratchy beaded neckline of his shawl, “That’s it, Danny Boy. Keep it going. Get yourself nice and ready for me.”

Danny slouches low, lips meeting Jake’s with a hot gust of breath as his first moan slips through the gaps in their kiss. Their contact is flooded with want, with relief and affection and dizzying lust, all bundled together in twin knots in their throats. Coils of dark hair fall around their faces like the curtains of ivy in the garden below, swathing Jake in Danny’s musky-sweet scent. Warmth surrounds him. Need fuels him. Danny’s body above him trembles as he stretches himself open.

“How many fingers?” Jake pants heavily.

“Two,” Danny gasps, “Almost to the second knuckle.”

“Easy, Boy,” Jake croons, “Don’t push yourself too hard, too fast.”

But Danny only shakes his head, curls swinging with the motion, “I can take it, Jake. I want you inside me so fucking bad.”

“Okay, but—” Jake hunches upward to press a reassuring kiss to his trembling lips, “You do have to be able to walk later.”

Suddenly, Danny’s eyes slide open with surprising clarity. Then a faint smile crosses his face a heartbeat before it transforms into an overwhelmed wince. Then a thick, gravelly moan breaks free and Danny sags to touch his forehead against Jake’s shoulder.

“Easy. Easy, Boy,” Jake grips the back of his neck, knowing that Danny needs a grounding touch as he grapples with the first sensitive waves below, “Don’t rush. Breathe.”

Danny’s breaths blast through his throat in a rhythmic pulse, the body temperature air slipping beneath the collar of Jake’s jacket and warming the pocket of fabric encasing his shoulder.

“Shhh. Breathe,” Jake murmurs against his ear. He keeps his voice low, his grip solid, and his sentences simple and short, “In and out. Good. Just like that.”

Jake can see the muscles flex in Danny’s upper arm as his fingers work. The ripples of motion under his skin make the constellations of freckles dip and swim like reflections on calm water, the light from the open window sculpting his anatomy like brush strokes. His beauty is staggering, his form like priceless art from another time. His body is sculpture, his movements poetry, and his face a portrait of Adonis turned flesh.

“They’re in,” Danny moans, the muscles in his arm finally falling still as he holds steady, “I’m ready for you, Jake.”

“Hang on, Danny Boy,” Jake soothes, running a hand down the curve of his skull, “Feel how open you are right now.”

A pitiful noise throbs in Danny’s throat.

“Do you feel it? How tight you are?”

“Yes,” Another blast of breath fills the shoulder of Jake’s jacket.

“Good,” Jake croons, his voice turns low and gentle as he speaks sweet praises against the shell of his lover’s ear, “You’re doing perfect. Just a little longer. Feel how deep your fingers are. How warm it is inside.”

Danny nods hurriedly. His breaths seem to even out and deepen as he adjusts to his body’s oxygen demand, “So good, Jake,” He moans, “But I want it to be you.”

“Oh, you’ll have me. I’m unequivocally yours, sweet boy,” Jake grins into the musky cloud of Danny’s hair, “Now fuck yourself for me. Show me how you want it.”

A shiver passes through him, as though Jake’s words had been ice cubes against his feverish skin, slipping in delicious relief down his spine. Then the muscles in his arm flex and work with renewed vigor and the resulting sticky sounds pulse with his breathing. He thrusts, rhythmically pounding in and out at an almost animalistic pace.

“Fuck, Jake,” Danny moans, then buckles forward against the solid plane of Jake’s chest.

“That’s it,” Jake clutches his angular face against his neck, grinning as Danny’s desperate noises diffuse straight into his skin, “Oh, you sound so pretty.”

The pressure is becoming impossible. Jake readjusts his hips yet again, then his hand snakes downward as he folds to his need. He only needs to relieve this strain in his pants, only needs to tease down his zipper and cool himself in the open air.

But his willpower collapses and he finds his own fingers wrapped around the steely hardness of his long-disregarded cock. His light moan joins Danny’s as his touch brings sparks of sensation to the surface, his careful fingers tracing the entire, overheated length. He is fascinatingly hard beneath the flower-petal softness of his skin. The head of his cock is drawn taut and pink, and he rolls a thumb across its flushed membrane, smoothing a droplet of aroused precum in a whorl around his seam.

He’d wanted to wait. He’d wanted to stretch this out for as long as he could bear. But evidently, his patience is much shorter than he’d thought.

“Ride me,” Jake gasps, “Fucking ride me, Dan.”

Danny’s arm loses its rapid pace, stilling into nothing. For a moment he only lies there and breathes in broken gasps against Jake’s neck, as though contemplating how to leave this vulnerable position. Then he shakily pulls back onto one elbow. He pushes off the bed and supports himself with the heel of one hand, his weight cratering the mattress by Jake’s head. Finally, he dismounts the bench altogether, wincing as the motion strains at his entrance where his fingers remain deep within.

“Fuck,” He curses, his shoulder slanted to accommodate his arm’s awkward angle. His cheeks are flushed with heat now, painting his skin with rosy blotches, their pink hue a compliment to the bloody red droplets of beads from his shawl. But while his skin is a companion to the scarlet, his darkness contrasts like a shadow in a rose garden—Dark curls, dark body hair, dark eyes, desperately watching him. They all call to Jake, his beauty a siren song.

“I need you, Dan,” Jake strokes himself from base to head, a light, airy moan slipping from his lips as he flicks his thumb over his oozing slit, “I need you now.”

Danny obediently slings a long, muscular thigh onto the bed, followed shortly by the other. Jake can feel the radiating heat of him as his body kneels so very, very near. Then Jake drunkenly watches as the pendulous weight of his cock dangles in the air between them as Danny leans, then straddles, then sinks down on Jake’s waiting erection, his eyes never leaving his lover’s below.

Jake’s moan is full this time. Loud. Unabashed. The dryness of his own palm is replaced by the divine warmth, slickness, and muscular embrace of Danny’s body as he lowers himself completely.

“That’s all of it,” Jake groans, “Holy shit, you took it all.”

“Mmm,” Danny’s head sags low, his curls obscuring his face as he waits. As he allows his full weight to rest on Jake’s pubic bone, his cock settling on Jake’s abdomen and pulsing with the heartbeat that drives it.

But there had been pain in those features. Jake had seen it as Danny had taken inch after engorged inch. It had been hidden in the twitch of a muscle, the hitch of a breath, the line of a forehead pleating into the faintest frown.

“Shh. You’re okay. Don’t move,” Jake strokes the long, downy planes of Danny’s thighs where they clench at either side of his waist, “If it’s too much, we can stop.”

That curly head only shakes from side to side, hair swinging into motion—an adamant, determined No.

Jake grins fondly, patting the flushed skin beneath his palms, “Alright, then. Don’t stop.”

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added!): @i-choose-the-road @musicislove3389 @josh-iamyour-mama @cheersdannyx2 @gold-mines-melting @sacredsparrow @girlattheseaside @jazzyfigz @heykoonsy

#Pavarti #greta van fleet #jake kiszka #danny wagner #gvf fanfiction #gvf fic #gvf fandom #janny gvf #gvf

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sweet-villain · 1 year ago

Text

Just Another Lie~ Part 1

Summary : Billy works in the mechanic shop with Eddie, Eddie Munson. But he hasn't told you. He kept it away from you while you moved on in your life to be a mother, to Billy Hargrove child. What happens when things get ugly?

Angst

Eddie had always been fascinated by cars since he was a young boy. He would spend hours watching his father tinker with engines and fix up old cars.

As he grew older, his love for cars only intensified, and he knew that becoming a mechanic was his true calling.

After graduating, Eddie wasted no time in pursuing becoming a mechanic.

He landed a job at a local auto repair shop and quickly proved himself to be a skilled and dedicated mechanic.

At the auto repair shop, Eddie's expertise was evident in the way he handled every car that came through the doors.

He had a natural knack for diagnosing and fixing any issue that a car may have.

Whether it was a simple oil change or a complex engine repair, Eddie approached each task with determination.His attention to detail and meticulous work ethic earned him a reputation as one of the best mechanics in town.

But he wasn’t the only one. He worked alongside someone he learned to tolerate. Someone who isn’t exactly he would call a friend of his.

Billy Hargrove.

He had a tough exterior and a bad-boy attitude that seemed to repel authority.

But deep down, Billy was just a lost soul trying to find his place in the world.

Growing up in a broken home, he never had a stable father figure to look up to, so he turned to his love for cars and mechanics as an escape. From a young age, Billy was fascinated by the inner workings of vehicles.

He would spend his weekends at the local junkyard, scavenging for spare parts and learning everything he could about engines and transmissions. It was his own little sanctuary, away from the chaos of his home life.

As Billy got older and started working odd jobs to make ends meet, he always found himself gravitating towards anything that involved cars.

Whether it was working at a gas station or helping out at a body shop, Billy was drawn to the mechanics and the thrill of fixing something broken and making it run like new again.

He had a natural talent for it, and it gave him a sense of purpose and control that he had never experienced before.

Eventually, Billy landed a job at the local mechanic shop, and it was there that he truly found his calling.

He was able to use his skills and knowledge to help people, to fix their cars and get them back on the road. And for the first time in his life, he felt like he was making a difference.

Billy tolerated working alongside Eddie Munson, the two didn’t see eye to eye in the past but things have changed and they have grown. The two sometimes helped the other out with certain cars that came into the shop.

They both liked their job therefore they didn’t act out, cause any messes or push each other who gets to work on what car.

Eddie had been working on a car for what felt like hours. Every time he thought he had fixed the problem, the engine would sputter and die again.

Frustration was building as he wiped the sweat from his forehead and leaned against the hood of the car.

He had planned to take it down the road now it seemed like that was not going to happen.

As he was lost in his thoughts, a little boy came walking up to him, his big blue eyes curious and filled with wonder. Eddie could not help but smile at the sight of the boy, who couldn't have been more than 7 years old.

The boy was holding a toy car in his hand and had a look of pure excitement on his face.

The boy had a mass of blonde curls on top of his head, he had the brightest smile that Eddie has seen.

'Hey mister, what are you doing?' the boy asked, his voice filled with innocent curiosity.

Eddie explained to the boy that his car wouldn't start and he was trying to fix it.

The boy's eyes widened in amazement as he watched Eddie tinker with the engine.

He was fascinated by all the tools and parts that Eddie was using, asking questions and trying to understand what each one was for. Eddie couldn't help but feel a sense of joy and nostalgia as he watched the boy's enthusiasm.

Where did the boy come from? Where were his parents?

“ My daddy fixes cars, too!” the boy shouted with his hands in the air like two fist bumps.

A pair of footsteps could be heard as Billy rounded the corner with his eyebrows knitted and a deep frown on his face as he looked around until he spotted the little boy.

“ There you are, I’ve been wondering where you’ve run off too” Eddie’s eyes grew wide at the moment, noticing the same hair Billy has as the little boy. The little boy resembles Billy, a lot. A light bulb goes over his head as he understands where this boy came from.

This was Billy’s son.

“ Here I am, daddy!” the little boy cheered as he hopped up and down on his feet, giggling. Billy shook his head as he knelt down next to the boy and began to tickle him. The little boy laughed telling his dad to stop it otherwise he would pee his pants.

Billy laughed.

Eddie has never been like this, nor to anyone at all. It was new. Kinda nice too.

Billy notices that Eddie has been watching this the whole time, he clears his throat and picks up the little boy.

“ Sorry, Munson.” Billy tells him. “ Didn’t mean to bother” he adds as he looks at the car that doesn’t seem to want to start. Billy eyed it, and turned back to Eddie.

“ Having trouble?” Eddie scratched the back of his neck and nodded his head.

“ Daddy help! Daddy help!” the little boy tells Billy, “ You can do it”

Eddie chuckles at the little boy and can’t help feeling a tad of sadness inside of him. He never got a chance to be a dad, one of many things he wanted in life. He never found the right person.

There was someone in the past. But the past was the past.

“ What is his name?” Billy was looking under the hood of the car to notice that Eddie had been talking to him. Eddie glances down at the boy, puts his rag over his shoulder and kneels down in front of the boy.

“ What’s your name, little man?”

“ Dino!” the little boy points out the dinosaur picture on his shirt as a reference.

“ That’s really a cool name, little man. My name is Eddie” Eddie didn’t want to reach out to shake the little boy’s hand. Not because he didn’t want to. But he had grease on his hands and he hasn’t washed his hands yet.

“ His name is Daniel,” Billy says, removing his head from under the hood. He had a smirk on his face meaning he figured out the problem before Eddie had. This was a game they played where one found the problem and would not tell the other.

“ No, Dino” Daniel stomped his foot on the ground and crossed his arms over his chest. “ Mommy calls me Dino” he stomped his foot again, not having his way.

“ Dino” Billy nodded as he wiped his hands with the rag over his shoulder. “ Come on, Eddie here has work to do. He hasn’t even begun to look real hard to fix the problem..”

“ You’re just going to leave me hanging, Hargrove?” Eddie huffed as he waved his hands around. “ Right now? It’s almost closing time.”

Billy shrugged as he gently pushed onto his son’s back leading him to the office where Billy was going to give him a bowl of candy. Right before his mom would pick him up.

As it was almost closing time, the window of the mechanic shop was foggy from the day.

The bustling sounds of car engines being fixed and tools clanking against metal filled the air.

The smell of gasoline and oil lingered, but amidst all the chaos, a figure caught everyone's attention.

A beautiful woman with long flowing hair and a confident stride, walked into the shop with a purpose. Heads turned and conversations paused as all eyes were drawn to her.

She seemed out of place in such a rough and dirty environment, but her determined expression showed that she was not one to be underestimated.

As she made her way towards the counter, the mechanics couldn't help but admire her grace and poise.

Some even stopped what they were doing just to catch a glimpse of her. She was like a breath of fresh air in a place filled with grease and grime.

As she approached the counter, she flashed a bright smile at the mechanic behind the desk and confidently stated her request.

She was picking up her son. The mechanic behind the counter blinked a couple of time and not comprehending what words were coming out her mouth,

He tilted his head to the side as he eyed her. He couldn’t stop staring at how pretty she was and it annoyed her. Her nose scrunched up in disgust as she sighed.

“ Nevermind” she mumbled underneath her breath and looked around. She had no idea where her son would be or her ex boyfriend for that matter.

She had to run some errands today with her mom, begged Billy to take little Daniel to work and she would be back soon.

Her boots hit the ground as she eyed under each car and hummed as she passed on the working cars in the shop.

The smell of gasoline hit her nose causing her to cover her mouth and nose with her sleeve as she continued her search.

It wasn’t too long before she saw the mop of blonde curls knowing those shoulders too from afar and headed that way.

The little boy opening the tool cabinet and banging it shut perked her attention. A wide smile came to her face seeing her little boy was entertained.

“ Oh, Dino…” she sang, removing her sleeve from her mouth.

The little blonde head turned and those big blue wide eyes stared at his mother with joy on his face, he dropped what he was doing and made a run to her.

She met him with open arms and lifted him up as she twirled with him in her arms.

Little Daniel was giggling as he waved his arms, enjoying this. Billy had stopped what he was doing and laughed along with his son seeing the happiness on his son’s face. It always brought joy to him.

“ Hi, mama,” Daniel greeted her. His mother gave him a squeeze to her chest as she happily peppered his cheeks with kisses. Daniel moved his face, giggling saying how icky it was.

“ But you love my kisses,” his mother said. Billy’s heart clenched as he watched the scene in front of him wishing he could go back to the time he ended things and regrets it every day for letting you go.

You were the most beautiful thing he has ever seen and you’ve given him something that he would die for, a reason to live and the main important thing in his life.

His son. Daniel. Dino.

Daniel wiggled his mom's arms until she set him down.

“ You have to meet my friend, Eddie,” her son tells her. His blue eyes widened in excitement. “ Can she, daddy?” he turns to look at his father in question, a small pout on his face that he knew his father would cave into.

His mother wasn’t aware of who this Eddie was, but the name rang some familiar bells in her mind. She used to go to high school with Eddie.

Daniel took his mom’s hand and led the way in excitement.

“ Eddie! Eddie!” Daniel kept shouting through the mechanic while Billy bit down on his bottom lip knowing he was going to get yelled at later when she found out who it was really.

He never told her it’s the Eddie she went to high school with.

The same Eddie that broke her heart all those years ago.

Eddie was happily eating his lunch when he heard his name benign called.

A soft small voice called out his name. Eddie chuckled to himself, setting his lunch down knowing who the voice belonged to now; He stood on his feet but he didn’t stand for long because his eyes met hers.

His eyes scanned her face and he found his heart stuck in his throat. It was you.

He knew you. All those years ago and here you were standing there right in front of him.

It seemed like just yesterday that the two of you were running around the school, at the Hideout, at Family Video and in your neighborhood, causing mischief and getting into all sorts of trouble. But now, here you were, all grown up and a mother.

It was like he was stuck in a time warp, unable to comprehend how the years had passed by so quickly.

He remembered the days when you would come over to his house, your pigtails bouncing as you eagerly asked him to play with you. And now, you were standing in front of him, with a child of your own.

He knew you since you were a little girl playing with him on swings and sharing your lunch with him.

As he took in your appearance, he couldn't help but notice how much you had changed.

Your once carefree and mischievous demeanor had been replaced with a sense of maturity and responsibility. Your eyes, once full of innocence, now hold a sense of wisdom and experience. It was clear that motherhood had transformed you in ways he couldn't have imagined.

Eddie couldn't help but think back to the last time he had seen you, at your high school graduation.

He remembered how proud he felt as he watched you walk across the stage, ready to take on the world. And now, here you were, taking on the biggest role of all - being a mother.

A smile appeared on his face as he was ready to say your name and throw his arms around you but you had other plans in mind.

“ Don’t you fucking smile at me, Munson” you closed your son’s ears as you started the sentence.

Eddie’s face dropped hearing your tone. You have never forgiven him for what he has done and he deserves that.

He sighed and looked away, not knowing what to say.

“ No, not today or ever” you mumbled to yourself but he heard it as he watched you walk away from him with Daniel holding your hand. He winced when the door you had shut loudly causing the paintings in the office to shake off the wall.

He was surprised they had not fallen.

You stood in front of Billy Hargrove, anger boiling inside, you couldn't believe he had the audacity to keep such a huge secret from you.

How could he not tell you about Eddie Munson? Was he planning to keep it like this? Does he even care about your feelings?

You couldn't wrap your head around it. The two of you had been friends for so long, how could he betray you like this?

You thought about all the times you two hung out, the laughs you two shared, the secrets you told each other.

You two had a child together. And yet, he kept this huge secret from you.. It felt like a slap in the face.

“ I can’t believe you, how long were you going to keep this up? Huh?” Billy’s shoulder sunk down. He knew he had screwed up. His eyes casted down at his shoes as you continued to yell at him, feeling hurt.

“ You knew what he did, and you still try to hide this from me. Why? What did I ever do to you?” your voice trembled.

“ Mama” Daniel called out to you. You forgot for a moment that your son was there.

“ Oh Dino” you kneeled down in front of him, sniffling.

“ Don’t cry” he says and offers you his toy truck that he always carries around.

“ This will make you feel better,” he adds. You sniffled, chuckling as he dropped it in your hands. You pull him into you as his arms wrap themselves around his head and he puts your back with his small hand.

You adored moments like this with him.

“ …I’m sorry…” you heard Billy say to you. You held up a finger up to him signaling he didn’t have the right to talk to you at the moment.

You were having a moment with your son.

As you were putting Daniel in the car, a voice spoke out.

“ 'I know I don't deserve it, but I need to say this. I am so sorry for hurting you. I have been a complete jerk, and I don't blame you if you never want to forgive me.' Billy paused, his eyes searching yours for any sign of forgiveness when you turned to look at him.

'I know I've been a terrible person, but please believe me when I say I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t mean to not tell you. I was going to. I didn’t know how or when…”

Part of you wanted to forgive him, to believe that he was truly sorry.. But another part of you was still hurt and angry, unable to forget the pain he had caused.

You remained silent, unsure of how to respond. Billy took your silence as a sign to continue.

“ I didn’t know where to start. I knew the two of you had history and as our son’s father, I should have told you whom I was working with. But at the same time I didn’t because this is work, and this isn’t your business. And we have been doing good at being friends, for our son. For Dino” he looks over your shoulder at his son in the car.

He sniffles. He reached out to take your hand, but you pulled away, still not ready to forgive him.

He understood, and with a heavy heart, he walked around the car to kiss his son on the forehead and say bye and that he would be back soon to see him.

You watched over your shoulder, melting at the sight of him being such a good father to Danilel.

You felt eyes on you and turned to look towards the shop seeing Eddie has been watching you. Your mouth turns into a scowl and your nose scrunches up in disgust.

You hated Eddie Munson.

He deserves it.

Billy closed the door and as he walked around you, he noticed the look on your face and looked towards Eddie watching the two of you.

“ He still talks about you” Billy says like he was going to fix it.

“ He never meant anything at all to me”

Billy snorted.

“ What’s funny?”

“ You’re full of shit and you know it” He says as he walks away.

#Eddie Munson #imagine Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson imagine #Eddie Munson x you #Eddie Munson x reader #Eddie Munson x y/n #jewls writes #Stranger things x reader

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point-of-the-stag-enjoyer · 3 months ago

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OC Bio: Rudie-7.

Ahhhh, the noble art of Gambit. One of those game modes i'll fixate on for a day or two at a time then not play for weeks. But when i fixate, i bring out Rudie. Inspired at first by me soaring through the air and getting a quad-kill as an invader mid-glide while eating a burger, Rudie's grown into her spot in my OC line up as "The chill one". She's not an ex-Warlord-turned-Iron Lord like Jackson, a fanatical befriender like Aoife, an archaeologist-slash-hive-fetishist like Lissan. Rudie's just a chill dude. A laid-back gal. An alright fella. And an absolute fucking mote fiend :P

His short deets:

Name: Rudie-7

Nickname(s):

Pronouns: He/him/she/her.

Ghost's name: Sparko.

Ghost's pronouns: Zey/zem.

First resurrected: Just after the Great Ahamkara Hunt.

Her long deets.

Not long after the conclusion of the Great Ahamkara Hunt, Rudie trudged into the Last City from the a village[1] deep in the wilds and immediately became aware of the atmosphere swallowing his fellow Guardians. Guilt over the Hunt was rife, the mood near-universally dour and depressive, with nothing to really allay it. And that gave her an idea. Back in her old village, Rudie had helped run a public house for some time. He got nothing out of it loot-wise, but being able to help people feel better tickled a certain itch in her head. After a while in the Last City's dour enviroment, all he thought was: "How hard can it be?" As it turns out, not particularly. Staking her claim on a hall on the outskirts of the City, left half-collapsed and abandoned after the Battle of Six Fronts, Rudie set about converting it into his own little speakeasy. She hadn't legally acquired the building, and quite frankly he didn't care to. She'd noticed pretty swiftly how little the Vanguard & other City leadership were doing for the Guardians traumatised by the Hunt, and that lack of care got them in Rudie's bad books pretty quickly. So if they weren't going to do anything, she would. It took her a few months to finish repairing the hall, putting out feelers for supplies and acquiring security systems, but eventually her speakeasy opened its doors, catering exclusively to Guardians. For being a fairly remote illicit establishment the place did rather well for itself, quickly turning a profit and garnering a whole host of regulars who wanted to escape life for a while. Rudie ran his bar singlehandedly for years acting as both bartender and bouncer, him & her ditz of a Ghost becoming somewhat well-known in the Last City's underworld. Not the most glamourous of roles for a Guardian, but she was happy with it. He never had much of a desire to leave, why do that when he could help people? He ran his bar (which she never ended up naming, most just referred to it as "Rudie's Place") with minimal interference all the way up until the Red War. He abandoned the place reluctantly, heading out of the city in a refugee caravan. She tried to keep up her role as bartender while on the road, "sourcing" several different varieties of intoxicant for both recreational & medicinal usage. After laying low throughout the war, Rudie returned to her old haunt, thankfully out of the way enough to not get touched by the Red Legion's bombardments, and carried on business as usual. He continued quite happily for about a year, until a certain meretricious rogue showed up in the Last City touting a new scheme that caught Rudie's attention...

FOOTNOTIES:

[1] Not the same village as Torre, for clarity. Ooooooooookay then. God this one took a while. I blame Iron Banner restarting my love of Crucible & me subsequently becoming a PvP glaive main(ish). Seriously those things are so much fun with Astrocyte. That aside, i did have to remake a lot of this on the fly, Rudie's one i only wrote pretty fragmentally before now. Happy to get this done, hoping having her on my mind makes me wanna play gambit more xD ^^ Thanks for reading <3 -'Stag

#potses ocs #OC: Rudie-7 #destiny 2 #destiny 2 oc #destiny 2 warlock

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ot7stan4life · 2 years ago

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Always

Yoohyeon (Dreamcatcher) x Female Reader

*Requested*

(1 part - completed ✅)

Word Count: 4,711

Summary: One night, you’re walking home from campus when you hear someone following you. Things escalate quickly and before you know it a strange man has you pinned against the wall with his fist around your throat. You manage to get loose but not far when he lands a punch to your face, sending you to the concrete. Little did he know, drawing blood was the rescue call you needed when a motorcycle pulls up in front of you.

Warnings: sexual harassment (it’s over before anything serious happens), physical assault, blood, violence, cursing, smut, vampire bites/blood sucking

The night air was eerily cold and quiet as I left the campus gym to head home for the weekend. This area wasn't always the safest at night, but I convinced myself the short walk to the subway wouldn't be too much of a risk. Though the dim moonlight shaded by clouds and the deserted roads lit weakly by flickering streetlights did little to help protect me as I started my way down the sidewalk.

The distant sounds of night traffic and city life calmed me for the time being and the subway was in sight before I knew it. Only one block left to go and I was out of harms way. Until I started to hear something approaching. Footsteps. Distant, somewhere behind me. Slow at first, but then picked up their pace. So I did the same, speeding up to a fast walk and eventually a jog as I tried to close the distance between me and the stairway down to the subway. All I had to do was cross the street-

"What's the hurry, baby?" The man's deep, grossly taunting tone elicited a sickly chill sensation in my body warning of danger. Stupidly, my feet froze in fear, choosing neither fight nor flight. "Come here, just let me talk to you a second." His footsteps grew closer and I finally snapped out of it, turning towards him and grabbing my pepper spray from my bag.

"Don't come any closer!" I shouted, holding the mace up in front of me. The man looked to be in his 30s with long, greasy hair and a cocky grimace that showed off a few silver teeth.

He halted his movements, raising his own hands in mock defense. "Woah, woah, easy there," he chuckled in a way that I knew was condescending, like he thought my attempt to protect myself was pathetic. "I was just gonna offer you a ride, that's all."

I scoffed, staring him down. "I don't need a ride," I said firmly, about two seconds away from turning on my heel and sprinting in the opposite direction. Although, the dude's muscles exposed by the white wifebeater he had on told me I stood little chance of winning that race, so that was out of the question.

"Alright, you don't need a ride," he repeated, advancing towards me once more. I started taking a few steps backwards so that he couldn't close the distance. "Then maybe there's something else I can offer you." The smirk on his face made me sick to my stomach. He kept getting closer, his steps reaching further than mine. This situation was getting worse by the minute and I knew if I didn't act now this wouldn't end well for me.

"I don't want anything from you-" I yelled just as I pressed down on the pepper spray, but nothing managed to come out of it before he swatted it out of my hand, moving so fast he looked like a blur. There was no time for me to escape now when he backed me against the nearest building with his hand around my throat.

"I was trying-" his tone dripped with anger as his grip tightened, cutting off my airway, "to be nice!" My hands desperately clawed at his massive fingers but it was no use. He was too strong. So I hiked my knee up and did the only thing I knew to do.

When it landed forcefully between his legs, his hold on my neck loosened and I took my chance to run. "Help!" I screamed, hoping that someone nearby might hear me. Then I remembered. There was someone. "Help, I need you, Y-"

My last word was interrupted by a searing pain in my face that sent me crashing into the concrete. His fist had landed an excruciating punch to my jaw and I could already feel the bruise forming beneath my skin. My hand reached up to assess the damage and came back with a smear of red on my fingertips from the fresh cut on my bottom lip. Blood.

"Oh dude, you really shouldn't have done that," I mumbled, knowing exactly what was coming next.

"Why?" he chuckled again, utterly oblivious to his impending doom. "Are you gonna beat me up or something?" he said like a twelve-year-old boy mocking his little sister.

"Not me," I replied, grinning when I heard the familiar hum of a motorcycle approaching.

The man went silent as the low rumbling grew louder and headlights soon blinded us from the right. I watched from my spot on the ground as the bike stopped a yard or so away from us and a black figure got off. Still towering over me, my attacker tried to act tough but I knew he was seconds away from cowering in fear. I, on the other hand, finally felt at ease.

"And who the fuck are you?" He yelled, annoyed that someone had interrupted him.

The figure slowly took off the helmet, balanced it on the seat of the bike, and walked into the light. When the man got a view of the biker's appearance—short brown hair, innocent-looking feminine features, slim but muscular body covered by a black leather jacket and jeans—he scoffed. "This is what I'm supposed to be afraid of?" His finger pointed lazily at her while his eyes were focused on me. Big mistake.

I smirked. "You will be."

He merely had time to furrow his eyebrows before the woman in front of him reached out to crack his finger in one effortless snap, spin him around, press him face first into the building, and pin his arm behind his back. He screamed in agony at his now broken appendage and started whimpering like a wounded animal from the painful position she was holding him in.

"Did you hurt her?" She growled, her other forearm digging into the top of his back, making his face scrape painfully against the brick wall.

"Ow, ow- no, no I didn't," he whined, exposing himself for the true coward he was, scared of a 5'7 twenty-six-year-old woman.

"Then why the fuck is she bleeding?" Her voice had grown harsher by the minute as she bent his arm further in the wrong direction.

"Ow, please- I-I don't know," he pleaded, but she wasn't having it.

"Don't fucking lie to me!" She yelled, releasing his arm only to turn him around and slam his back into the wall so that they were face to face. Her eyes were so intense as she stared back into his that I swear I almost saw them turn red and the pressure of her forearm against his chest never weakened. He couldn't even squirm against her, her hold was so tight. "Did you hurt her?" She repeated, narrowing her eyes at him.

His body seemed to still and his pupils dilated as he stared, hypnotized by her gaze. "Yes," he finally answered truthfully.

I could practically see the anger boiling in her as her jaw clenched, but she managed to keep her voice calm. "Are you going to do it again?" She asked.

"Y-" he started to answer until she clutched his collarbone, tightening her grip so much that the bone beneath her fingers started cracking. "No," he yelled, half in agony, half to answer her question.

"Say. It." she seethed, digging her thumb further into his collar with each word.

"I'm never going to hurt her again," he stuttered weakly. She stared at him for a moment, making sure he was truly convinced.

"Good," she said, finally satisfied, before her gaze turned mean again. "Now, run."

The man didn't wait any longer to question whether her threat was real or not, instead sprinting away the second she loosened her hold on him. I half expected her to go chasing after him to make sure he couldn't even make the decision to break his promise, but I knew she wasn't like that anymore. She knew I never liked seeing that side of her.

"Yoohyeon," I called out, seeing her eyes still trained on his receding figure as he hobbled away in pain.

Without hesitation, she was crouched down on the ground in front of me in a flash, eyes now soft and touches gentle. "Are you okay?" Her voice came out as a whisper and I knew she felt bad that she wasn't there sooner to protect me.

"Thanks to you," I reassured her with a small smile. Though it turned into a grimace immediately after, a sharp sting of pain reminding me of the cut on my lip. Yoohyeon frowned, her hand reaching out to hold my cheek.

"You're bleeding," she whispered, her eyes darkening at the fact.

"I'm okay," I insisted once more, grabbing ahold of her hand. Her skin was cool against mine. "Will you take me home?" I whispered.

She smiled sadly. "Of course."

Without giving me a chance to do it myself, Yoohyeon lifted me up off the ground and walked me over to her motorcycle. After tightening my backpack on my back, she demanded that I wear the helmet. She would always insist that she didn't need it anyways. Giving in, I let her help me put it on, careful not to make my injury any worse than it already was.

Once she made sure the buckle was secured under my chin, she took her seat on the bike and held her hand out to me. I grabbed it, her strong grip making it easy to steady myself and swing my leg over to take my place behind her. Out of instinct, I wrapped my arms around her torso and leaned into her. One of her hands rested on top of mine for just a moment before she started the engine and I knew it was her way of reminding me that she would always protect me.

After tonight, I knew I'd never have to doubt that again.

We made it back to my house not long after and, when I walked inside, Yoohyeon ended up hesitating in the doorway. I sat my bag down in the hall and took my shoes off before noticing her there, looking over at me like a lost puppy who had just shown up at my doorstep, waiting to be let in.

I smiled at her as best as I could with my split lip. "It's okay, you can come in."

She smiled shyly, staring at the ground and stepping through the threshold. Just as I had done, she took her shoes off at the entryway and followed behind me as I walked into the kitchen. She stayed silent, just watching as I dug through the fridge for an ice pack. It was unusual how quiet she was being. Maybe seeing me hurt had really shaken her up. But even then, this wasn't the first time something like this had happened. I was lucky I had someone like her to look out for me, but I wondered if it was starting to take a toll on her. Or if it was something else entirely.

Settling on a bag of frozen vegetables for a makeshift ice pack, I closed the fridge and leaned back against the counter to place it on my face. The bag never got to make contact with my skin, Yoohyeon's hand darting up to stop my movements. I don't even remember when she got in front of me, but now she stood mere inches away. Her eyes were locked onto my lips as she brought her thumb up to brush against my bottom one. It stopped just before reaching the cut and she swallowed thickly, staring at the dried blood there.

Her gaze flicked up to mine, eyes darker than I had ever seen them before, and she muttered, "Can I-"

"Yes," I rushed out, already knowing exactly what she wanted.

Her hand holding my wrist let go and moved to the nape of my neck. I discarded the bag of vegetables on the counter behind us and clung to her waist as she leaned in. Her lips met my bottom one in a gentle kiss, almost as if she was testing the waters. When I didn't pull back from the pain, she repeated her actions, only this time she began sucking down on my lip without pulling back. I gasped, more out of surprise than pain, feeling her tongue swipe over the cut. Her fingers gripped the back of my hair and she got more greedy now that she had finally gotten a taste of what she really wanted.

She was quickly getting carried away and the moment I felt something start to pierce my lip, I had to push her back. If she actually still used her lungs, I was sure she would've been panting while she stared back at me, eyes glowing a crimson red as two sharp fangs slowly hung from her mouth.

"Are you hungry?" I asked in a whisper, though the answer was already obvious.

"Yes," she whispered back—more so because she was embarrassed to admit it out loud.

"Okay." I gave her a soft peck on the lips before she stepped back. "Come on," I said softly and she let me pull her up the stairs and into my bedroom without question.

I took a seat on the bed and looked over to see her standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. "Come here," I laughed, gesturing her over. She nearly teleported to the edge of the bed, giving me the chance to grab her arm and pull her on top of me. I'm sure she would've fumbled into me if she didn't have such fast reflexes, but she did, allowing her to catch herself with her arms on either side of me and one of her legs landed between mine. She stayed like that for a moment, just staring down at me like she didn't know what to do. Her fangs had retracted, but her eyes were still glowing, telling me she was nervous.

"Why are you acting so shy today?" I asked softly, reaching up to pull her face towards me. She still just stared into my eyes while I tucked her short hair behind her ear. Something about the way she was acting had my heart racing. "I know you'd never hurt me. You know that, right?" I whispered, tracing her jawline with my thumb and soaking in her pretty features.

Her eyes scanned slowly across my face for a second before she finally leaned in. She was more gentle and restrained this time around, careful not to be too greedy, but still intentionally cherishing each and every kiss I gave her. And it was sweet—like so sweet that she was making me fall harder in love with her with each kiss—but after a few minutes, the feeling of her cool, full lips sucking the warmth from my own and leaving me lightheaded was making me want more.

"Take this off," I breathed against her lips, tugging at her leather jacket. She finished the kiss before leaning back to sit up and do as I asked. I felt my face heat up when she finally removed it, her sleeveless shirt underneath showing off her biceps that flexed when she leaned back down to continue kissing me. My hands trailed down her arms, admiring the curve of her muscles before making their way to the hem of her shirt. She leaned further into me, transferring all her weight onto one hand to use the other to hold my face.

When my fingers edged their way up under her shirt, she slipped her tongue over my lip. I parted mine, allowing her to finally deepen the kiss. Our tongues met just as my fingers grazed over her abs and the sensation caused her to sigh into my mouth. My heart pounded in my ears but I knew she could hear it too when one of her hands grabbed both of mine, slowly leading them up her torso and under her sports bra. She whined and lowered her body further into mine when my fingers brushed across her nipples. Her kisses quickly became less coordinated and I knew she was starting to lose her self control. But I wanted to enjoy this for longer—until she really couldn't hold back anymore—so I pushed her up before she lost it completely.

Our lips separated and my lungs fought for oxygen while hers remained still. It was an unfair advantage, especially when she got carried away, completely forgetting that I needed to breathe. Sometimes I thought about how, if we had both been turned, we could kiss for days on end without ever needing to take a breath. But then I remembered, waiting makes the reward so much better.

So, I decided to drag it out, not letting her have what she wanted just yet. While she was still on top of me, I took the chance to slip her shirt off over her head and throw it to the side. She tried to lean back down to kiss me again, clearly impatient, but I pushed her over and straddled her. Sitting up, I took a moment to take in every inch of her perfectly sculpted abs, burning the image into my memory—not that I needed to given her literal immortality and self-proclaimed undying love for me. Even still, I didn't get to see them every day (though I wouldn't doubt she'd let me stare at her shirtless for as long as I wanted if I asked).

She watched me intently as I shamelessly checked her out, her hands now gripping my thighs almost painfully while she fought to contain her hunger. She never lasted much longer. So I took my shirt off, slowly, as her eyes were on me, because I knew it drove her crazy. Still, she didn't make a move to take over again, showing me how good she could be for me. I ran a hand across her stomach, leaning down into her. I almost thought her skin felt colder than normal, but I knew it was because my body temperature had grown so hot.

Her hand moved to my waistband, while her eyes followed mine as they raked up her body and landed on her face. I couldn't help but stare at her skin that lacked any blemishes or beauty marks besides the cute little mole on her nose and her features that looked like they were crafted so carefully and intentionally by the gods above. She quite easily had to be the most beautiful woman I had ever seen and it baffled me to think that she craved no one other than me.

Overwhelmed by this feeling of intense admiration, all I could do was kiss her. And that must've been what she was waiting for, because she met me half way, pulling me into her by the back of my neck. "You're so perfect," I told her when I pulled back, sending the tiny amount of blood she currently had in her body rushing to her cheeks.

I kissed her on the lips one more time before moving to place kisses across her jawline and down her neck. Her skin was like cool, smooth silk and the heat of my lips left a trail of fire in their wake that I knew she was addicted to. She gripped the back of my head as I planted kisses above her bra and down her stomach, trying her best to enjoy this moment even though her hunger was fighting to take over. As I neared her waistband and started sucking down on the soft skin above it, she started to break.

"Y/N," her voice came out weak and I peered up at her to see her jaw clenched and eyes desperate. The hand that wasn't gripping my hair had already torn a hole in the sheets from how much she was holding back.

My stomach fluttered knowing how worked up she was just for me and I crawled back up to her. "I know," I whispered before kissing her. She didn't kiss back as much as she wanted to and I soon found out why when I felt her fangs slowly growing from her mouth. I smirked and hummed happily against her lips. "You've been so good for me, baby," I praised, rubbing my fingers across her jawline while kissing her again. She whined as her fangs grew their full length and pushed me back so that she didn't bite into my bottom lip.

"Sorry," she mumbled, embarrassed that what I said was finally what got to her.

"Don't apologize," I smiled and kissed her on the cheek before rolling off of her to lay on my back. "I'd say I've made you wait long enough already," I said, suddenly feeling nerves rise in my chest when she got back on top of me. Though they all went away when I looked up to see her staring down at me with two little white teeth peeking out from beneath her top lip, resembling a giant puppy.

"Are you su-"

"Yes, I'm sure," I cut her off with a gentle laugh. "You're sweet, but you don't have to ask me every time." I pushed myself up and kissed her bottom lip to show that I was being sincere. "I promise it's okay," I whispered and rubbed my nose against hers before laying back down. "I'll push you back if it gets too much, okay?"

She stared at me a second longer before whispering, "okay." I settled back into the bed and made myself comfortable before flipping my hair to one side, out of the way of my neck. She lowered herself onto me, kissing along my jaw as much as her fangs would allow her. The gesture was a million times sweeter knowing how hard it was for her to resist sinking her teeth into me right away. She leaned onto her forearm while her other hand met my waist, gently rubbing across the skin there to try and keep me relaxed. Her lips planted a few weak kisses down my neck, working me up to what she was about to do. I reached my left hand up to brush her hair behind her ear before settling my hands at the back of her neck.

She gave me one final peck against my pulse point to show her gratitude before grabbing the opposite side of my neck for leverage and sinking her fangs into my skin. I inhaled, one of my hands instinctively tangling itself into her hair while the other moved to clutch the back of her hand. The initial bite was never enjoyable, a searing pain spreading across my body as her teeth tore through layers of skin like needles piercing my vein, but the sensation of her cold thumb rubbing soothingly over my fingers that were now tightly wrapped around her palm managed to distract me long enough to get past the worst of it.

It barely lasted a few seconds and the following feeling made the pain more than worth it. Her bottom lip pressed into my neck as she started sucking down, draining the blood from my veins at an intoxicatingly slow pace. She could feel every beat of my heart as I could, relishing the way it sped up just for her. As much as she was addicted to the taste of me and had the uncontrollable urge to drink her share in seconds, she learned to enjoy the process and take her time. It only took a few feedings and an impulsive hand sliding past my waistband for her to figure out that the experience was just as pleasurable for me as it was for her.

I pushed her off of me that night, embarrassed she caught how turned on I had gotten from the feeling. But, this time, the strangely intoxicating sensation of blood rushing through my veins and Yoohyeon's mouth latched onto my throat kept me from stopping her hand as it traveled down my body. Instead, my free hand joined my other, locking my fingers together at the nape of her neck.

Before she reached my shorts, she paused, silently asking for permission. Her incessant sucking had me growing dizzier every second, making it difficult to form coherent thoughts, let alone spoken sentences. All I could manage was a feeble, "please."

Within a second, her hand slipped beneath my shorts, more than happy to grant my request. I gasped and tightened my grip in her hair, subconsciously bucking my hips the moment her cold fingers brushed across my clit. A wave of pleasure like I had never felt before overtook my body. I could feel her voluntarily inhale into my neck at my reaction, edging her to dip her fingers lower. It didn't take long for her to feel just how soaked she made me, forcing a stifled moan from her throat that vibrated against my neck. I whined, tightening my thighs around her hand at the sound.

Yoohyeon continued sucking and started a similarly slow, mind-numbing rhythm rubbing her fingers against me. The pain of her feeding off of me and the sensation of her icy skin against mine heightened my senses, making every little touch a million times more intense. It was almost too much, it felt so good, and the longer it went on, the more overwhelming it became. I had been close since the moment she bit me, making her teasing pace absolute torture.

"Yoohyeon," I said breathlessly, feeling a thousand degrees too hot.

There was no need to say more when she plunged one of her long, slim fingers inside of me without warning. Something between a gasp and a moan escaped my lips and my hand reached down to grab her wrist. She was much stronger than she realized and I hadn't grown used to her yet. She immediately started to pull back, misreading my reaction.

"I-it's okay," I said breathlessly, keeping her hand in place. Still, she didn't make a move to continue and the sudden lack of contact was driving me crazy. "Please, Yoohyeon," I gripped her wrist tighter, "I need you."

Yoohyeon didn't hesitate any longer, sliding her finger back in and returning that excruciating wave of pleasure she had just taken away from me all at once. I lifted my hips off the bed to meet her pace, her finger reaching deeper with each slow, tantalizing pump. Even with how gentle she was this time, I could feel myself seconds away from coming undone underneath her. Realizing she was acting so shy because of how desperate she had been to fuck me ever since she found out I was just as turned on by her feeding from me as she was almost sent me over the edge alone. And it would've eventually, had she not suddenly added a second finger, her relentless roughness as she stretched my walls and sucked me dry of the very thing keeping me alive catalyzing my climax instead, finally sending me over.

Now I understood why they called it a 'little death,' because I felt it. My heart stopping for a full few seconds, my mind losing all capacity to function, my voice unable to do anything other than call out and my body ascending to the heavens as the pleasure surely only angels were capable of gifting washed over me in waves. Waves that Yoohyeon rode out with me, her fingers making sure I felt every last drop of pleasure each of them had to offer while she kissed my neck, drawing the high out as long as possible to show just how much she felt for me. Insurmountable. Inexplicable. And yet I knew its value. I knew what it was.

"I love you," was the one thing I could process as I came crashing back down, only to be caught in her embrace. I love you, as if she still had to say it after letting me feel it in a much deeper way than words could ever even begin to articulate. And yet she did. "Always."

**This imagine was transferred over from my Wattpad account OT5Stan4Life**

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