#was either pure luck or me using my fucking brain for once

[potionwitchmaya-15]

darkest dungeon 2 makes me so angry in almost every run without fail and it's my favorite game ive played this year im literally obsessed with this game

[mercy-burning]

Affection

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Spencer and Y/N decidedly hate each other. But when a near-death experience puts one of them in a coma, their mutual hatred might have to take a backseat— Or will it? Category: Angst / Happy Ending! + Humor and a lil bit of Fluff Content: Strong language, Reader is in a coma, mentions of injury, kissing Word Count: 2.6k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: This one’s for Pom’s ( @imagining-in-the-margins ) September Writing Challenge, Enemies To Lovers! I have another one coming up as well, but this idea wouldn’t get out of my head ever since I watched The Abyss with my dad and I had to get it out 😅 I hope you like it!!

———

I swear to fucking God, if this motherfucker really thinks he—

That was the last thing Y/N thought before she was knocked out cold.

With her line of work, it was natural to assume that she was thinking about the unsub, but unfortunately the criminal she and her team were tracking down was the farthest thing on her mind. Spencer would have chastised her for it— letting something else cloud her thoughts while she was in a dark alley, alone, and with a serial killer on the loose.

"You should be smarter than that!" she could hear him say in that high pitch he always carried when he was upset— especially with her. "If you don't get yourself killed one of these days, then it'll be the rest of us!"

Thinking about it made her blood boil.

"It's your fault," she wanted to tell him. "I had to blow off some steam because you were pissing me off!"

The only thing was... She couldn't tell him.

Well... She could.

He just couldn't hear her, because no one could.

It was like some stupid, cliché movie, where you found yourself standing over your dying body and having to choose whether to live or not. It seemed like the obvious choice, to fucking live, but... Y/N found herself wandering around her hospital room, yelling into the void and attempting to jump back into her own body.

Nothing was working.

And when Spencer showed up, his face red and his hair and clothes all messed up, she wanted to scream at him.

"Hey!"

Nothing. He was practically lifeless as he drifted to the chair next to her bed and sat down. It was nearly impossible to read from his expression and body language how he was feeling, and that alone was enough to make her angry again. (Not that the anger had really gone away since waking up next to her comatose body, of course.)

"Hey! Dumbass!"

Still nothing.

As Spencer just blankly stared down at Y/N's bed, she decided she'd had enough.

"SPENCER FUCKING REID, IF YOU DON'T HELP ME RIGHT NOW I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL HAUNT YOUR ASS UNTIL THE END OF ETERNITY, AND I'M GONNA LAY FAT, STINKIN' GHOST SHITS IN YOUR SHOES, DO YOU HEAR ME? AND—"

"I hate you."

It was a bold enough statement to stop Y/N in her tracks, no matter how quietly he'd mumbled it. She knew for sure that he didn't like her, after years of constant bickering and dirty glares and whatever else, but... The word 'hate' was like a knife that sliced through her joking rage and stopped the whole world around her.

If she wasn't already out of her own body, she just knew she would have felt her soul leave.

Spencer didn't hate anyone. Not that she was aware of, anyway. He found nearly everyone delightful, and vice versa... But for some reason, he hated Y/N.

She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, well... Feeling's mutual, I guess..."

"You're stupid, and reckless, and you don't think. And you're a goddamn nightmare to work with... You know what— You're a stone-cold bitch."

His words made her physically step backwards, and it felt like if she were a cartoon, there might have been steam coming out of her ears.

"Yeah, well jokes on you, you make it easy," she seethed. "Fuck you!"

"How... How dare you..." he continued, anger reddening his face.

Y/N watched as he balled his fists and leaned in a little closer to her body, his voice tight and strained. "How dare you walk into my life and boss me around and make it impossible to breathe... From the moment I met you, you've brought out this... this fire in me that I can't put out no matter how hard I try, and it's insufferable—You're insufferable, and I hate you, how dare—"

Whatever he was going to say next was cut off by a shortness of breath. Spencer breathed in, loud and choked, and the next breath he let out was nothing short of a sob. His eyes squeezed shut, tears rolling down them and his hands clutched the bedsheets with a vigor and rage that Y/N had never seen from him, even in all the years she'd spent visibly getting on his last nerves.

"N—No," she choked out, feeling her throat tighten. "Don't... Don't turn into a sappy mess on me now, do you hear me, Reid? You hate me, don't... Don't..."

"I don't hate you," he whispered, wiping his eyes and reaching out to grab her lifeless hand. "I hate that you make me feel this way, but... I could never hate you..."

She wanted nothing more than to be able to squeeze his hand back, to tell him, not even necessarily with words but with a simple gesture, that she was right there and wasn't going to go anywhere.

She just... had to figure out how to make that true.

Still, Spencer kept going, a small laugh bubbling up through tears and phlegm. "But I will hate you if you die, because I just know you're gonna come back and haunt me for eternity... Probably... shit in my shoes or something."

Y/N barked a laugh that was true and pure... Happy, even.

The genius may have acted like he hated her, but it turns out he knew her pretty well, perhaps even fondly in one way or another.

To think— All those years she spent seeing him sneer at her, feeling his glare burn into her soul, the amount of times she caught him making faces or inappropriate gestures behind her back, all of it... And the whole time, he was probably doing it with a little flicker of fondness deep within the confines of his heart, which he swore to fill with nothing but hatred for her.

The thought made the little flicker in her own heart burn brighter.

As she wandered closer to her bed, beside Spencer and in front of her own body, she reached her hand out to see if she could touch his face, to give him something...

Even though she had no luck, something shifted when he spoke.

"Just... Come back to me, please? I know I'm not good at apologizing, but if it means I get you back... I swear that I will make up every horrible thing I've ever done or said to you. Just... Please don't leave me."

He laid his head down in his hands and tried not to cry again, every said horrible thing replaying on a loop in his brain like some kind of taunt. He wished more than anything for a chance to make it up to Y/N, and now he might not ever be able to.

"You think I'd leave this mortal earth without getting the chance to kick your ass?"

Everything was so fuzzy and light and brimming with these high emotions that Y/N almost didn't realize she was saying these words and Spencer was hearing them. She almost didn't feel the warmth of her bloodstream beneath layers of skin, the beat of her heart slowly coming back to life at the sounds and smells of the hospital room.

She almost didn't realize that Spencer was grabbing her now, his warm hands covering her cold ones and bringing them back to life as well.

"Screw you," he breathed with absolutely no malice to be detected in his voice.

They shared a smile so bright, no one would have been able to guess that they never got along.

TWO WEEKS LATER

Not only was she stuck at home doing nothing while on suspension (Yes, it turns out that storming off into an alley and not paying attention while on the job, just because a co-worker pissed you off, can get you suspended by Chief Strauss), but Y/N was also being visited by a daily rotation of her co-workers and friends and family, and her house was nearly covered in flower bouquets and baked goods.

It was a nightmare.

The sentiment was nice, sure, but if she had to move one more vase, she was going to start throwing them.

God, maybe Spencer was right, I am a stone-cold bitch...

Thinking of him also put a little damper on her mood.

He hadn't been to visit her once... And she figured that after their nice little moment at the hospital, he'd at least stop by with flowers or an "I'm glad you're not dead!" call, but there was nothing on his end. Not even a text message or a letter.

But for all she knew, their small moment of kindness could have been a figment of her concussed imagination.

Please, she thought, if I brought it up to him he'd probably just laugh in my face.

Rather than a laugh, Y/N heard the bright sound of her doorbell, which normally would have meant a fun unexpected visit or a date she was getting ready for, but by now it only meant another vase of flowers or a pie from a neighbor she still didn't remember the last name to.

Either way, she answered the door with as polite a smile as she could muster, and instead of finding a vaguely familiar neighbor or acquaintance, she found Spencer.

Though, to be fair, he was holding a bouquet of flowers.

"Well, this is a surprise," Y/N drawled, crossing her arms. "I don't even think you've ever been to my house."

She was surprised to see him nervous around her, rather than irritated. And she would have found it endearing had they not been practically mortal enemies from the moment they met... She was suspicious.

"O—Oh, yeah... I know, I just thought... I wanted to come see how you were doing... These are for you."

He held out the flowers, which were truthfully the pretties set she'd received, and it irked her. Because of course he of all people would be the one to tell which kinds of flowers she'd prefer.

"Thanks," she said, taking them from him and allowing him the space to come inside. "Watch out, it's a maze in here..."

While she looked for somewhere to put the flowers on display, she could feel Spencer looking around her space, probably profiling what he could behind a sea of flowers.

"Hm."

Y/N sighed. "What?"

"Nothing. I'm just... I'm surprised this many people actually like you."

Despite the nature of his observation, she found it comforting. That level of playful contempt was what she was used to, and it brought a sparkle to her eye as she turned to face him. "Ha... I'm not a complete bitch, you know."

"Sure."

Between the growing grin on his face and the smirk forming on her own, Spencer and Y/N found themselves falling back into a familiar rhythm. And yet, something about it was still... different.

So much so that Y/N felt honest-to-God butterflies in her stomach when he approached, hands retreating from his pockets and head tilting off to the side. His expression held that look he got when he was trying to figure someone out, usually an unsub. She hated to admit it to herself, but a little part of her always found that side of him extremely attractive.

And now that it was right in front of her?

She didn't know what to make of it.

"What?" she snapped, looking for an excuse to hide any and all attraction she was feeling.

Spencer stepped back a little, breaking away from whatever trance he'd just been in. "God, why do you always have to do that?"

"Do what?"

"You push away every single show of affection! Any time I'm trying to be nice, you just act like it's some big inconvenience to you!"

Y/N laughed. "Ha! That's what that was? Just now? When you insulted me, and then started stalking towards me with that look you get when you're interrogating an unsub? That's what you call affection?"

"That's not... That's not what that was!"

"Oh really? Then what was it?"

"It was part of the routine! Banter! Y—You know, that's our thing! We insult each other, and we act like we hate each other but we... We don't, really..."

The longer he went on, the faster her heart raced. This was the moment in the movie where he inevitably blurted out that he loved her, and in turn she would either kiss him or slap him, or slap him and then kiss him...

But Y/N was still feeling rather playful despite the swarm of butterflies in her stomach begging for some relief.

"Oh?" she prompted, taking a slow step closer to him. "We don't?"

Spencer seemed to get red immediately, and he avoided her eyes. "U—Uh... Well I... I thought... Maybe I read it all wrong, a—and I'm sorry if I did..."

She'd been getting closer meanwhile, and now they were practically toe-to-toe. He did his best to ignore her, taking a few steps back until she cornered him against the front door. And with the way he wasn't doing anything to get out of his predicament, she took that as his acceptance and took another leap.

"What..." she cooed, crawling her fingers up the front of his chest like a spider. "You like me? Hmm?"

When he finally looked down at her, she allowed herself to smile, albeit slowly and with calculation.

In a flash Spencer went from nervous to fed-up, weight seeming to visibly lift from his chest as he sank against the door. "You're messing with me..."

"It's so fun."

"You know what, screw you."

"Is that a promise?"

"Maybe it is. What are you gonna do ab—"

She didn't let him finish.

In an instant, Y/N lunged forward and pulled him down for a kiss.

Even though she thought he might have tried to take control of the situation, he ended up surprising her with a wanton moan as his hands clutched at her sides, holding on for dear life. Their bodies and tongues collided in a mess of years worth of pent-up tension, chaotic and wild and fiercely beautiful in a way that put even the greatest first kisses to shame.

And of course, Spencer had to go and ruin it.

He pushed her away and looked almost panicked. "W—Wait, are you even cleared to do this?"

Y/N rolled her eyes, reaching out for him again. "I'm fine."

"Y/N, you were in the hospital! I thought... I thought you were..."

She appreciated the sentiment, but with her entire body on fire from his touch, she decided she needed more of it. "Yeah, but I'm not... I'm very much alive, and you know what?"

He blinked back at her, watching carefully as she leaned in close to him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"It's because of you. You make me feel... more alive than I've ever been."

"And... You're not messing with me this time?"

With a laugh,  Y/N shook her head and leaned up to brush her nose with his. "Nuh-uh... But if you'd like to, I'd love to mess with you in a more fun way. And maybe I'll even let you do it back..."

Spencer hummed, feeling himself gravitate towards her more with every passing second. "Deal."

He barely got the word out all the way before she was dragging him through the maze of flora and contained food and into her bedroom, where piece by piece, their hatred and fondness for one another combined to create the most exquisite of nights.

———

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[songbirdstyles]

screw my brain (’till it hurts)

summary: you and harry are spies on an assignment to pretend to be a married couple in order to take down a drug trafficking ring. the only problem? you two can’t stand each other.

warnings: smut (18+), hate sex, knifeplay, breathplay (choking), slapping, fingering, phone sex (sort of); enemies to lovers, one bed, fake dating 

song inspo.: death on two legs (dedicated to ...) - queen / back chat - queen / you’re so vain - carly simon

word count: 19.5k 

You can practically feel Harry’s anger simmering beside you, and you’re tired of it.

He’s been acting like a child since you got on the plane, his eyes narrowed and venomous and steam practically blowing out of his ears as though he’s on the verge of throwing a temper tantrum, and you’re sure if looks could kill you’d be dead a million times over again from all the staredowns he’d been trying to initiate. And you’re used to this, for the most part, but it doesn’t make you feel any less annoyed as he huffs beside you, flicking through the file on his lap.

And - look. You don’t like Harry. You can hardly even tolerate him, most of the time, and the only times you manage to be near him without gagging is when you’re on missions. Usually he’s the same way, pushing aside the mutual disdain you’ve shared from day fucking one when there’s goals to be accomplished and targets to take down but he’s just sitting here like an angry log, thumbing noisily through papers as you swipe through your phone.

He’s looking for attention, Mark would tell you - your boss is the epitome of coolness, desperate for you and Harry to get along because of his tendency to force you together on missions - and that is true. You’re just as pissed as he is and you aren’t making a show of it. No, he’s an attention seeking crybaby, and you won’t give him what he craves. Won’t even look at him.

The plane dips a bit, then, and your stomach lurches, grabbing at the armrest in between you two where Harry’s elbow rests, and he jerks it into his side as though you’d burned him. You scoff, then, the pretense of faking casualness abandoned as fast as you’d stuck to it, and you can sense him rolling his eyes at the noise.

“For Fuck’s sake,” you huff, leaning to the side so you can stare at him as you roll your eyes pointedly, and he mimics the movement. “What are you so whiny about?”

“M’not whiny,” Harry insists in a tone that’s strikingly similar to the whine he claims he doesn’t have, and you sigh before reaching over, snatching the file off of his lap. “Hey - I was readin’ that!”

“Really?” you inquire, shifting so your back is to the man next to you and he can’t read the words on the page you’re squinting at. “Could’ve fooled me. Thought you were just sitting there huffing and rolling your eyes like a baby.” After a moment where he doesn’t respond, you risk a glance backwards and are met with the back of his head full of curls as he stares out the window at the passing sunset as you whiz through the sky. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, hmm? Did Mark not put enough into the budget for hair gel and dirty shoes?”

“Oh, shut up,” he says in a wildly mature way of response, and you can hardly resist the urge to smirk at it. “F’the record, m’mad that I have t’do another mission with you.”

You nod, trailing your finger along the line of words detailing aspects about the target you know you’ll have to utilize later - he has four cats. He and his wife are on the brink of divorce. He has two daughters, and he doesn’t speak to either of them. His name is Vincent Carfield, and, boy, does he sound like a real catch - you’re so focused on reading about him that you hardly register that Harry’s started speaking again.

“Wish Mark would realize m’good enough to do shit like this on my own. Don’t need you t’come around an’ pretend to be my - my girlfriend. S’stupid.”

“Well, if you were good enough, I would be at home with cucumbers on my eyes right now instead of reading about the leader of a drug trafficking ring -”

“God, you’re a bitch -”

“And you’re an asshole -”

“Fuck you - m’calling Mark.”

You snort, leaning back in your seat as Harry fumbles in his bag at his feet for his tablet, and he shakily sets it up on his lap, tapping through the screen until he gets to the FaceTime app. “Real mature, Har, going to tattle to Mark.”

“God, not everything’s about you, narcissist - half hour out, need a debrief.”

You crane your neck to lean in front of him and look out the window, and - sure enough - you can already tell that you’re getting closer, plane dipping slowly lower and it wouldn’t be perceptible to you if he hadn’t told you. Harry’s always been a tad bit more observant than you, though you wouldn’t confess that to him if your life depended on it.

Mark answers Harry’s call within mere seconds - he’s always on high alert when you guys call, especially when you’re off on missions together - part of you suspects he’s always waiting for a call that one of you killed the other. “Hello, lovebirds,” he chirps, the pure image of relaxation as he adjusts his tie, shifting in his seat - you and Harry both roll your eyes at his nickname for the pair of you. “Surprised to see you haven’t clawed each other’s eyes out.” “Wish I did,” you mutter beneath your breath, and Harry glares at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Anyway,” Mark says, and you know he heard what you said judging from the ghost of a smile on his pale face, but he brushes past it. “When you land, you’ll have around an hour to get settled into the hotel before dinner. I’ve sent you the address to the restaurant - the target is eating there with his wife, most likely to discuss their divorce, so he’ll be feeling vulnerable and insecure -” “And that’s where I come in,” you finish, trailing your nail across the fine printed page which holds the plans the three had deliberated over for two weeks prior - compared to most of your missions it was an extraordinarily short amount of time to plan but none of you could foresee this one going anything other than disgustingly easy. If you pull through, you could be home by the end of the weekend.

“And that’s where you come in,” Mark affirms, thick rimmed glasses mirroring the image of you and Harry that he’s seeing on his screen. “Find any way to touch him - pretend to trip - and plant the audio tracker on his jacket.” You nod, and Harry drops his head against the seat with a soft sigh that nearly makes you turn and throttle him but you hold back, fingers tensing as though itching for a throat to grab. “Then you guys go back to the hotel, hold back from slaughtering each other, and listen in - he’s staying at the room next to yours.”

If this situation were occurring a year ago in your first few weeks of working as a spy perhaps you’d marvel at the seeming coincidence of Mark just happening to get you a hotel room right next to your target - but your one-year anniversary working has just come up and, as it so happens, you know he can make just about anything happen by pulling the right strings. And staying in the same hotel, on the same floor, is the perfect talking point for dinner - you’re already storing it in the back of your mind to bring up in conversation when you manage to get the tracker on his jacket -

“ - and, look, guys, I know you don’t particularly like each other,” Mark is saying when your attention snaps back to him, and Harry snorts. It’s the understatement of the century - you almost want to laugh with him. “It’s just really important that you sell yourselves as a couple. I don’t care what you have to do - share a drink or hold hands - but he needs to see you as a couple. All of his mistresses have been seemingly happily married - he’ll be more inclined to get closer with ____ if he sees you’re in a good relationship. Then, Harry, of course, can explore his hotel room - snuff out anything suspicious.”

You nod but Harry seems less convinced - his brow arches as his arms cross over his chest, and you glance over at him with confusion written over your features. “M’confused,” he says, and you raise your eyebrows. “She’s gonna fu - have an affair wit’ him, then?”

God, we fucking talked about this, you want to shout at him, to shake his shoulders until he’s dizzy. If you paid attention while we planned instead of sitting there whining that you don’t go on missions by yourself because nobody goes on missions by themselves unless they’ve been here for nearly 10 years and you’ve barely scraped three -

Mark is more patient. He just shrugs, fingers tapping away at the keyboard connecting to his screen. “Maybe - maybe not. Depends how vulnerable she can get him without resorting to sexual means.”

“Don’t think I’ll have a problem with that,” you can’t resist saying, popping the ‘p’ in problem as you smugly smirk, scratching your nails against the smooth paper you’d been reading as Harry glares at you, seemingly affronted. “Only had to resort to getting down and dirty with a target once - that asshole mob boss - everyone else is just dying to tell me their juicy little secrets. Guess it’s a perk at being good at what you do, right, Har?”

“Oh, you’re such a -”

“Children, children,” Mark interrupts the beginning of Harry’s speech about what a cunt you are, holding up his age-worn palms with mock exasperation as he stares the two of you down. “Stay civil. I’ve just booked your reservation at this Italian restaurant called Fucina’s - it’s for 7, under Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson. Vincent Carfield and his wife have a reservation for 7:30 but have a tendency to arrive early. They requested seating in a more private area, as did I, so you should be able to hear their conversations -”

The conversation rolls on for another few minutes until the pilot announces that you’re landing in ten, and that’s Mark’s cue to sign off - with a fleeting inquiry about any questions the pair of you may have he’s gone, wishing you good luck and making you promise to call him after dinner once you’ve set up the tracker and begun listening to your mark. You don’t suspect you’ll forget to - you and Harry generally can’t be in an enclosed environment together for too long without having overwhelming desires to take each other out, and Mark balances you out. Eases the two of you, calms you down, even when you’re so angry at Harry you want nothing more than to stamp your feet on the ground and scream.

It’s how you feel now, a bit, as Harry shuts his tablet and shoves it back into his bag with a dramatic huff after Mark has signed off. He’s angry about something again, surely relating to you and the mission and how he constantly feels snubbed by Mark but, truthfully, as the plane dips lower and lower to the Earth, you find that you really, really, don’t care.

 ~~

 The hotel room is, for all intents and purposes, fairly large. It’s nicer than a significant portion of the ones you two inhabit on missions and you should be grateful, toeing off your boots in the entrance of the suite, that it has a functioning kitchen and a bathroom with a door that closes and an L shaped couch facing the television (based on the description of the suite Mark had sent), but your mood has been entirely soured by Harry’s sore attitude during the drive from the airport to the hotel.

He drops his suitcase against the carpeted ground of the entrance, and it slams onto the ground so close to your sock-covered toes that you jump back, glaring at him as he pointedly ignores you and descends further into the hotel room, peeking his curly head into the kitchen and the bathroom. You watch him as you rest your suitcase against the wall, nudging his closer to the wall with your foot before following him, already tugging your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans to check for any new texts from your boss when -

“You’ve got t’be fucking kidding me.”

You arch your eyebrows, tilting your phone into your chest as you turn the corner into the main living area. And it’s nice, eyes wandering over the couch that Mark had told you about, and the TV mounted to the wall with a Roku connected to it that you’re sure you’ll take advantage of later tonight. The carpet is soft beneath your feet even through your socks, and the bed is nicely made, pillows fluffy and looking soft -

Bed.

Shit.

What a bastard, Mark is - booking a room with only one bed? And not even telling you two about it? God, you could kill him. You really could, and you will, as soon as you get back to headquarters and see his stupid bald head in person - you’ll throttle him. Or shoot him. Hell, you’ll even stab him.

“You’re taking the couch,” you tell Harry, and before he can protest you take a running start to leap onto the bed, plopping onto your back and tucking your arms beneath your scalp. “Looks real comfy, doesn’t it? The bed - not the couch. Couch looks like it’ll kill your back.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Harry practically snarls, voice all venom and teeth, and he sits at the edge of the bed anyway, hands going up to loosen at the black tie wrapped tight around his neck. “So entitled - I’ll take the fucking bed. Been here longer than you, y’know - just ‘cause y’like t’act like you’re so good -”

“And yet,” you interrupt, bringing your foot up to kick at his side, and he turns around and glares at you, “I’m the one getting put on assignments with you, even though I’ve hardly been here a year. Oh, yeah, what’s that Mark told us? I was put on duty the quickest than anyone else after finishing my assignments?” You screw up your eyes as though trying to fact check yourself before nodding, smiling at the positively hateful expression on your partner’s face. “Guess I am good.”

He opens his mouth to reply and perhaps he assumes better of it - he simply rolls his eyes, pulling his tie off of his neck and dropping it on the ground beside him. For a moment you simply stare at him as he peels his jacket off, littering it on the floor in a similar fashion as his tie, until he’s merely donning a white button down and his black dress pants, hair messy and face light red. 

Sometimes you do that - you watch him - because it’s nice to see him look so peaceful and silent when you’re used to spewing hatred back and forth. You could even be into him if he kept his mouth taped shut and promised to never make a single noise, but he would never comply with it - and you’re sure you’d find a reason to get pissed off at him if he didn’t speak.

You hadn’t realized how long you’d been staring at him until he turns around, and your gazes lock, and you lift your eyebrows.

“Don’t stare at me,” Harry demands, backing up on the bed until his head rests on the pillow beside you - you turn your head to stare at him, affronted. “Told you - m’taking the bed. An’ m’gonna take a nap f’a half hour- already set the timer on m’phone - so you can either take the couch or sit here right beside me.”

You push yourself onto your elbows, glaring down at the man beside you who closes his eyes (rather smugly, you’ll add) and mimics your own previous position, arms tucked beside his head. “You dickhead.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Fine by me.”

“I’m gonna nap too -”

“Go ahead -”

“And I stretch out a lot when I sleep.”

“How ever will I handle it?”

You’ve seem to run out of responses, furrowing your eyebrows as Harry’s face settles into an expression of slight comfort and you wonder if he really has gone to bed, resting in the button down shirt and dress pants that he’s always itching to get out of at the end of the day. You’ve had to watch him undress with absolutely no shame in front of your far too many times for comfort, shoved into small hotel rooms together but at least they had two beds - you can hardly control your heart rate as you stare down at him.

(Because you’re angry, of course. Whenever he’s acting like a dumbass your heartbeat quickens to match the pace of a fucking freight train, and that’s nearly every time you’ve ever had to talk to him.)

After a moment you rest back on the bed beside him, head dangerously close to the center of the two pillows where you can feel Harry’s curls, spread upon his pillows, brushing against the sides of your temples. With every feel of his hair against your skin you feel your anger rising, and you exhale softly, pressing your palms to the top of your stomach as you listen to his steady breathing beside you.

He sounds too peaceful.

You wait nearly ten minutes before beginning your plan of attack, not nearly as meticulously planned as the ones you and Harry will employ later - you slowly begin to spread your legs out, feeling your calf brush against his foot, and your arms follow in a similar pattern. They stretch outwards, forearm thrown across his neck, and you can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing against your skin but he doesn’t take the bait - doesn’t even move a muscle, and you can feel his even breathing against your arm.

For a second you wonder if he really is asleep. You’d be surprised.

It’s uncomfortable sleeping on your back and that’s your justification for rolling over onto your stomach, body halfway on top of Harry’s, chest pressed against his and face buried into the pillow beside him so your nose presses into his hair, softly inhaling the fruity shampoo he uses. Your arm lazily throws itself across his torso, leg nudging his until they fall off the bed, and he grunts.

“What th’fuck are y’doing?” Harry questions gruffly, voice just raspy enough to make you consider the very real possibility that he truly had fallen asleep, and you don’t respond. “Get off me, dumbass - tryin’ t’sleep.”

You remain silent. You work on steadying your breathing, faking sleep in the way that you’ve mastered over the past year (and a half, if you count the six months of training you’d done before beginning work) - on one of your earliest missions you’d pretended to be passed out in the back of a work party you’d seduced your way into with a tape recorder taped to your underboob and you’d been able to get enough recording of a conversation between two sleazy old men to support your hypothesis that their paper company was a front for a sex trafficking ring. You suspect this case should be likely the same, albeit easier and likely without the work party, and you’ll breeze through it like nobody’s business if it requires fake sleeping like you’re doing now.

“I know you’re not sleeping,” he correctly deduces, lifting his arm to slam it against your back entirely too hard and you nibble on your bottom lip to keep from making any type of noise at the slight pain the motion brings. “Get off me. Go t’the couch - stop being so stubborn.”

You mumble something incoherent under your breath, digging your face further into your pillow just to hear the way he hisses as you (un)intentionally tug at his hair. You feel his hands dig into your sides and before you can pull off of him he pushes you away with as much force as he can muster, and you’re send tossed to the other end of the bed, grappling at the duvet to stop yourself from slipping over the edge of the bed onto the carpet.

“Fuck,” you hiss, pushing yourself to sit out with your legs stuck straight out in front of you. With a glare directed towards the man opposite you you pull your legs back and push them towards him sharply, kicking him directly in his thigh, and his legs tumble off the bed, forcing him to sit up to maintain his balance. “Take that, dipshit.”

“Can’t you do better than that?” Harry questions, tone so mocking and condescending that you push yourself to his knees just as he rises to stand, the top button of his shirt mercifully coming undone, and you resist the urge to glance at it every so often. “C’mon, babe - if you’re gonna be a bitch -”

You push yourself to stand on top of the covers, taking a leap towards Harry where he stands on the other side of the bed, and your legs hook around his torso, effectively catching him by surprise as his hands immediately land on your waist, tugging you off of him and throwing you onto the bed with an ease that shouldn’t surprise you after this long of knowing him but it still knocks the breath out of you. His body hovers above you, pinning your arms above your head but you won’t have that - hook your legs around the back of his thighs and force him onto his back, throwing your legs over his torso as you mimic the position he’d trapped you in.

“1…” you begin counting tauntingly as you stare down at his face, reaching down to grab his wrists and hold them above his head, watching as he wriggles beneath you, his stomach tensing against your core. “2 … not even gonna put up a fight? What an agent you are -”

He practically growls at that, jerking his hands upward until they slip out of your grasp, nearly whacking you in the chin before he pushes himself up. You’re slammed into the headboard before you can even stop to think of your counterattack, back slamming into the wood as you drop your head forward to ensure you don’t knock your head into the wall, and Harry kneels in front of you with an exasperated, smug smirk, reaching up to press his forearm over your throat.

He’s not pressing hard - not enough to constrict your breathing at all, merely to hold your head in place - and after a second he begins counting just as you had - “1 … 2 … 3.”

You struggle uselessly against him until he reaches the final number, and a satisfied smile etches itself across his face before he pulls away, resting back on his knees to watch you huff before him before he begins crawling off the bed. “An’ I think that means that you, m’lady, have t’take the couch -”

You deliver one final swift kick to the back of Harry’s needs, and he tumbles off of the bed onto the ground with a cry, knees dropping onto the carpet and hands instinctively pressing to the wall he’d nearly slammed his head into. His position becomes one similar to a prayer, dropping his head forward against the wall with a dramatic groan.

“I won,” you tell him, flopping onto your back on the bed with a satisfied hum. “Get on the couch - reckon we still have a good 10 minutes left of our nap.”

Harry pushes himself to his feet in the blink of an eye, turning around with a look on his face that’s so serious you nearly want to double over in laughter, and as he plants his knees on the edge of the bed to resume the fight you’d had earlier, a sudden noise from the wall opposite your bed causes you to hold your palm out to him, effectively stopping him in his tracks.

“Shh!” you hiss, pushing yourself onto your elbows as Harry furrows his eyebrows, craning his neck towards the wall as though it’ll help him hear better. “D’you hear that?”

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, pondering the muffled noises coming from the hotel room next door. “Wha’?” Harry questions after a moment, voice hushed and soft, and you wait a moment before responding.

“The shower -” and, sure enough, just as the thought crosses your mind and the words leave your mouth you know that that’s the noise you’re hearing - the sound of water streaming onto the buff body of Vincent Carfield or perhaps his wife - “what time is it?”

“Uh -” Harry scrambles off the bed, digging through his backpack thrown on the ground until he can pull out his tablet, and the light shines on his face as he turns it on. “6:34.”

“Shit,” you hiss, rolling off the bed and practically darting out to the entrance hall where your suitcase rests against the wall, and you knock it to the ground and unzip it quickly. “Vincent’s already getting ready - we need to be at the restaurant soon. How fast can you get ready?”

“Pretty fast -” by the time Harry’s made his way into the entrance hall to dig through the suitcase he’d attempted to hit you with earlier you’ve peeled off your clothes, dropping them in a pile by your feet until you’re clad in only your bra and a pair of lace panties that leave entirely too little to the imagination, holster holding your knife firm against your thigh, and he freezes. “Christ. Can’t y’get a room f’that?”

“Oh, says the one who strips naked in the middle of the room every single night!” You shake your head, digging through your suitcase until you can find the black dress you’d packed specifically for dinner - it’s folded and mercifully wrinkle free, and you unzip the back to begin stepping into it. “Get ready. I’m going to do my makeup.”

“Make sure y’put a lot on - don’t wanna scare him off -”

“Shut up, Harry!”

 ~~

 Fucina’s is dark and fancy, with hosts dressed in all black and waitresses in a similar fashion. You would almost feel out of place, your arm hooked with Harry’s as you’re led through the main dining room towards the back where your table is, but it’s not any more elegant than any of the other expensive restaurants and galas the pair of you have infiltrated together, and with your tight dress and his suit, you look like exactly the couple to eat and afford a restaurant like this.

“The pasta’s $65,” Harry murmurs, trailing his fingertip down the laminated menu that you can hardly see in the dim light of the restaurant. You squint down at the page, bringing your head closer down to confirm that, yes, the fettuccine truly is that fucking expensive, and - not for the first time - you’re immensely grateful for the headquarters-mandated debit cards that you’ll use to pay for this. “Y’see that? The fettuccine?”

“Yeah,” you nod, though you’re not looking at the menu any longer - your eyes scan the restaurant behind Harry’s back, and of the three other tables in the private section Mark had requested for Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson to be in, none of them are occupied except yours. You and Harry had gotten there ten minutes late, much to Mark’s chagrin when you called him in the taxi, and the Carfields still hadn’t arrived. “Think I’m just gonna get a salad - not too hungry, anyway.”

“Me too.”

The conversation drains into a weird sort of silence - not awkward, and not malicious, either, as all of your silences usually are typically the result of one of you purposely ignoring the other. It’s harder to air out your disdain for each other when you’re supposed to be a couple that’s hopelessly in love in a high class restaurant, and you find that you don’t have much else to talk about with your partner besides discussing either the mission or whatever he’s doing that may be pissing you off at the moment -

He actually looks nice right now. Calm, collected - if you didn’t know better you’d say he looks like a pretty stand-up guy. The kind you’d take home to your mom.

“Why are y’lookin’ at me?” Harry questions, then, glancing up at you, and you internally curse at yourself - you always tend to forget how good he is at identifying someone staring at him. 

“Just thinking about how much I prefer you when you aren’t speaking,” you tell him, voice dropping lower as a host clad in black leads an older couple into the area, sitting them at a table towards the window as Harry rolls his eyes. You lift your water glass to your lips, taking a slow sip as you attempt to inconspicuously decipher if the couple is your target -

“You’re being so obvious,” Harry hisses, voice soft like a breath and yet still retaining all the venom his words always tend to hold. “Is it them?”

“No,” you decide, resting your glass back on your coaster as you slide your chair further into the table, foot accidentally kicking his ankle as you do - his face contorts in both annoyance and pain as he repeats the motion to you. “No - Carfield’s wife is young, isn’t she?”

“27.”

“Yeah.” The wife currently settling into her seat, draping her jacket over the back of her chair, is decidedly not 27 - add 50 years, or so. “Not them. They should be here soon, though.” 

“Good.”

In another moment your waitress has come to take your drink orders - you get a bottle of red wine just to hammer in the notion that you’re a young couple on a date night, even if you really prefer white wine, and you’re sure Harry would rather have a beer, but Mark always tells you to go for red when you’re out to dinner on missions. And - well - you’re not necessarily complaining. Wine is wine.

The wine arrives at your table with two tall glasses and Harry takes it to pour with a faux cheerful grin that has the waitress flushing in the dim light of the room - you tell yourself the tinge of jealousy at her clear adoration for the man currently uncorking the bottle to pour for you is simply because of how in character you are in terms of your fake marriage - and if you were someone else, perhaps you’d get angry at her for clearly flirting with Harry, though he doesn’t seem to notice.

Strange. You’d always taken him as the more observant one of the two of you, but he’s paying no mind to the waitress’s blushed face as he pours wine into your glass and she pulls out her notepad, ready to take your order.

“I’ll have the caesar salad, please, without chicken,” you tell her, giving a tight lipped grin as she scribbles it down onto her page. When Harry’s rested the bottle of wine back on the tablecloth-clad table, you reach over and rest your hand overtop of his, feeling his veins jump beneath your touch. “What about you, honey?”

If he’s confused, he doesn’t look it - just gives you a warm smile that feels entirely wrong coming from him, and the waitress looks positively affronted as he orders a large Mediterannean salad, and when she’s tucked her notebook back into the apron tied around her waist and left the private area, he furrows his eyebrows at you.

“Y’jealous?” Harry inquires, leaning his head in with a mocking grin that makes you roll your eyes, though you make no effort to move your hand from his - it looks better for appearances, anyway. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“In your dreams,” you insist, straightening your posture once a different hostess leads a couple into the room. The man is old, bald head shining in the dim light and donning a suit jacket that clearly hasn’t been tailored to his proportions, and his wife is significantly younger, pale face flushed red and wearing a black dress that looks as though she’s attending a funeral - you suppose she is, to some degree, mourning her marriage, so perhaps it’s fitting.

Harry can tell by the way you straighten up that the new couple sitting at the table behind him is the Carfields. Vincent sits with his back to your table, his wife on the opposite side, and immediately they lean their heads together, surely speaking in hushed tones about - prenuptial agreements and custody of their two girls and the like.

You need to be a couple. Mark had insisted on it, that it’s the most important part for you to get closer to Vincent and make him susceptible to your manipulation - he needs to see you as some sort of forbidden fruit - a married woman with a seemingly happy husband. It’s a control thing for him, and one you need to play into if you want to take his drug ring down.

It would sound like an ambitious goal if you weren’t as confident in yourself and Harry - because even if you hate him, he’s a damn good agent.

Your eyes meet Harry’s across the table, and he raises an eyebrow. You nod, jerking your head up and down before wrapping your manicured fingers around the stem of your wine glass, lifting it up and giving your partner a soft smile - one that he’s rarely on the receiving end of, if you’re being truthful - and you nod your chin towards his glass. Harry follows your lead, lifting his glass and raising it to clink against yours.

“Cheers,” he murmurs, and both of you sip from your glasses before resting them back down on your coasters, the rim of your glass decorated with a generous pink stain from your lipstick. “Happy anniversary, honey.”

His voice raises in volume just a bit, and from the table behind him you can see tears fill Mrs. Carfield’s eyes at the sentiment of a happy couple, and Mr. Carfield’s head tilts to the side though you don’t watch him long enough to see if he’d heard Harry - you simply smile - lift your intertwined hands in the air and to anyone else in your private area you’re sure you simply look the perfect part of a happy couple, celebrating their marriage anniversary. Two years together. Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson have been married for longer than you’ve known (and despised) Harry - surely there’s irony hidden in there, deep enough that you can’t see it.

It’s easier than you’d like to admit to fake a meaningful conversation with Harry. Mark generally gives the pair of you a list of things to talk about so people get the impression that you can tolerate each other but you typically don’t even need it - it’s easy enough to talk about your faux plans for the rest of your marriage.

It’s almost fun, even. Not in a way you’d expect - but it’s funny, talking about whatever the pair of you would imagine married couples would discuss - mortgages and trying for babies and politics - keeping your voices loud enough so the couple behind you can hear but quiet enough so it doesn’t seem intentional.

“D’you think we could turn the guest room into a nursery?” Harry inquires, lips quirking upwards as he lifts his wine to his lips, and you nibble on your bottom lip, pretending to contemplate the question.

“Of course,” you respond faux-thoughtfully, leaning forward just a bit, and his eyes flicker downwards for hardly a second before rising to meet your eyes again. “Or perhaps the office.”

“Yes, that’s a bit bigger,” he says seriously, and you nod, reaching for your glass of wine to take another small sip. It’s bitter and leaves a sour taste on your tongue, but you’re determined to drink the entire thing - it’ll soothe the nerves that you’re sure will arrive when it’s time to plant the bug on Mr. Carfield. You still haven’t figured out how you’ll manage to do it smoothly. “Then perhaps we could save the guest room for the second.”

You nod, hardly able to keep the small smile off your lips, and Harry leans forward, reaching for the stem of his glass - perhaps he miscalculates the force needed to pick up a glass, or maybe he’s beginning to feel the effects of the first glass of wine he’d downed - but his hand knocks into the glass, sending it toppling forward onto your arms, sticky red liquid coating your skin. You jerk your arms back as though he’d burned you, watching him hiss as he reaches for the glass before it can spill any further onto you or the white tablecloth now stained with redness.

You swallow the urge to snap at him - that’s counterproductive, and it’ll blow your cover - so you merely inhale, willing the anger down as you reach for your napkin to begin to mop up the mess. “Should watch what you’re doing, honey -”

“My bad, darling - didn’t mean to -”

And the moment of you beginning to like Harry is gone as fast as it had begun, feeling the simmering anger that’s ever-present beneath your skin already beginning to bubble into existence. He’s looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if this is your fault that he can’t control his own glass, like you’re the nuisance, and your desire to retort snarkily is thwarted only as Vincent Carfield’s head turns just slightly to the side, and you can see him and his wife watching the pair of you in what’s clearly an attempt to be subtle.

You rest your palms on the table as Harry sets his glass back on the coaster, and you can feel the similar waves of annoyance rolling off of him that you’re sure you’re mirroring. “I’m going to go clean myself up,” you tell him. “Excuse me for a moment, sweetheart.”

“Take your time, princess.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you push your chair back with a tight lipped smile, standing up and resting your napkin on the table before your seat as you push past the table towards the bathroom you’d passed when your host had lead you to the table.

The restrooms are nicely decorated, with large mirrors and sinks and two singular stalls - entirely too fancy for the thoughts racing through your mind as you lean over the sink, turning the faucet on and shoving your sticky arms beneath the flow of warm water. You’d managed to clean most of the wine with your napkin but you still just need - perhaps just a moment to yourself, without Harry’s eyes piercing into you in a way that makes it impossible to feel like he doesn’t want to throttle you.

And you want to throttle him, too. That’s why your relationship works because it doesn’t, because you hate him as much as he hates you - and yet, while you were drinking wine and messing around and pretending to be a couple you didn’t hate him. Not even a bit -

Until he spilled the wine. It’s a forcible reminder of why you want to shave off all of his hair when he sleeps, sometimes.

The water has gone cold on your skin when you finally shut the faucet off, picking up a small stack of paper towels to dry off your arms. When you’ve chucked your trash in the wicker-basket garbage bin you take a moment to simply stare at yourself in the mirror, black dress hugging your body just enough to leave very little to the imagination - you adjust the fabric to hide the bulge where you have your knife holstered to your thigh. The cut of the dress dips low into your cleavage - and then you recall how Harry’s eyes had briefly dipped downwards when you’d been talking earlier -

A smile twitches at your lips. You’ll have to remember to use that one against him later.

Just before you turn to leave you pause - stick your hand down the front of your dress to the small audio device you’d hidden in your bra. The bug is small, barely the size of your pinky nail, one side sticky enough to hold onto Vincent Carfield’s tan suit jacket -

You hadn’t thought too much about how you’d manage to subtly get the device on him, but there’s no time like the present, is there?

You leave the bathroom, then - nearly run into your waitress as she stares down at her notepad, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining the dirty look she shoots you - and climb the two short steps it takes to get to the private area you’d been seated in. Harry’s back faces you, curls looking particularly messy and head dropped forward to surely stare at his phone, and you can see Vincent leaning in to talk to his wife with narrowed eyes and a hushed tone.

You inhale and begin your walk over to the table, heels clicking on the tiled floor, and Harry’s head tilts to the side as he hears you coming. Vincent’s eyes rise to meet yours just as your heel slides a bit on the floor and you slip forward right beside their table, and the plan falls into action just as you’d planned in the thirty second walk it had taken to get from the bathroom to here.

Vincent’s arm sticks out instinctively to catch you, wrapped around your stomach for just a moment too long as his other hand rests on your back, and you use the opportunity to reach up and grab his shoulder as a way to steady yourself. Harry jerks around in his seat to watch you, and the concern in his eyes almost makes you revive your brief moment of liking him but it’s overpowered by the pride you feel - if he can’t immediately snuff out that the fall was a fraud, then it had clearly looked realistic enough that the Carfields wouldn’t be able to tell, your hand with the bug pressing to his shoulder

Boom. Planted. Your grip presses the bug against the back of his shoulder as he helps you to your feet, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes trail up your body - his poor wife looks affronted at the clear display of attraction.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” you apologize, trailing your finger down his arm as he drops his hands back to the table. “I’m so clumsy sometimes -”

“No worries,” he assures you, and perhaps he would seem like a kind, well-adjusted man if it weren’t for the way his eyes zero in on your chest like a magnet - Harry shifts in his seat, watching the two of you, and his wife picks up her glass of wine and downs it in one sip. “Always glad to help a pretty girl in need.”

A blush works its way up your cheeks and before you can flirt back - it raises bile in the back of your throat to do it - Harry intervenes, leaning forward with a goddamn award winning smile and absolutely stomping on your chance to ensure some sort of relationship with Mr. Carfield as he says, “Did she wrinkle your suit at all? We’ll get the laundry bill, if she did.”

You grind your teeth together through a smile as Vincent shakes his bald head, sending Harry a warm smile which your partner gladly reciprocates. “It’s fine - are the two of you married?”

Didn’t he hear you two loudly celebrating your anniversary? Perhaps he just needs to confirm it - nothing wrong with it - but, God, he’s forward.

“Yes, we are,” you reply, and you step away from Vincent to walk back to your table - Harry reaches for your hand and pulls you to him, and you suspect the motion would look awkward if done by anyone else but it feels entirely too natural for you to be bothered. “It’s our two year marriage anniversary, actually. That’s why we’re here - on vacation.”

“That’s lovely,” Vincent says, and his smile stretches wider until it makes you uncomfortable to look at so you busy yourself gazing down at Harry’s head as though you’re so smitten you can hardly stand to look away. Then he holds out his hand, and you grab it, letting him shake it vigorously before he moves towards Harry. “It’s Vincent Carfield,” he tells you both, and Harry jumps in to introduce yourselves by your false names. “How long are you here?” “Just th’weekend,” Harry responds, nodding as Vincent does. “We’re staying downtown.”

“Really?” Vincent leans forward, and you lean your body back just a bit - not enough for him to notice, thankfully. “What hotel?”

And Harry gives him the name and Vincent acts as though it’s the wildest coincidence in the world that you both happen to be staying at one of the nicest, most popular hotels in London but you’re glad he overreacts, in a way. It’s important to establish some sort of relation between the two of you and maybe this’ll make Vincent feel like he’s destined to start some sort of affair with you - sure, it’s stupid, but he’s insecure and you’re ‘married’ and that should make him feel a bit more in control, knowing there’s a man waiting for you when you’re with him.

The thought could nearly make you gag. You hope beyond hope that it doesn’t have to get to it - that maybe the two of you could just sit and talk while Harry searches his hotel room - but, judging from the way he’s practically salivating as he stares up at you, you don’t think that’ll be the case.

After another moment of chatter your waitress arrives with a large plate of salad in each hand - you let go of Harry’s hand with one last departing wink to Vincent Carfield as you walk around the table to your seat, pushing your seat into the table just as your salad is placed before you.

Vincent’s wife glares at you - you’d feel bad in any other scenario. But - hey - at least they’re getting divorced already.

You pick up your fork, stabbing into a crouton and a few pieces of iceberg lettuce, and you raise it to your mouth, chewing thoughtfully on your food as Harry mirrors your actions. The two of you eat in silence for a minute or two, and you occasionally lift your wine to take a sip - he hadn’t poured himself a new glass, for which you are extremely grateful - before he leans in, curls flopping around his ears in a way that would be adorable if you didn’t have any sort of niggling annoyance for him still lingering.

“Good job, Mrs. Robinson,” murmurs Harry into a forkful of lettuce before shoving it into his mouth, and you scrunch your nose at his sloppiness.

“It’s what I’m best at,” you respond in earnest, and you relish in the way he rolls his eyes.

 ~~

 Harry takes forever in the shower.

It’s an indisputable fact at this point and one you should have gotten used to but it never fails to amaze you as your fingers type away at the headquarters-issued laptop resting on the carpet in front of you. He’s already been in the bathroom for nearly 20 minutes - you can hear his music playing, old hippie music that’s always blaring from his earbuds on plane and car rides, and steam billows out of the crack in the bottom of the door - and you’ve been picking up where he left up setting up the audio transmitter you’d attached to Vincent Carfield so you can hear what he’s saying, wired earbuds plugged into the computer preparation for when you start the audio.

Harry hadn’t done much at all to set it up - you can’t imagine what he was doing in the hotel room while you were showering if he wasn’t working on the mission, but you’d come out after your shower and hardly anything was done.

They should come up with better technology for this, you think as you drum your fingernails against your laptop, watching the small loading bar inch across the computer screen, transmitting the audio from next door to both your laptop and to Mark, back at headquarters. You’d texted him briefly to ask if he still wanted you to call him and he told you to merely connect the audio to him and there would be no issues - well, that’s fine by you, even if you’d largely counted on him coming between you and Harry when you’ll inevitably want to kill him later tonight.

The water shuts off. You roll your eyes for a good few seconds as you hear the shower curtain being shoved open from inside the bathroom, and you lean further into the computer before you, squinting at the loading bar that hasn’t progressed further since the last time you examined it. You sigh - push yourself off of the floor, arms stretched above your head and the sleeves of your t-shirt slide further down your shoulders. You’re simply donning a worn college shirt you’d gotten when you were in high school and still had dreams of attending a typical university - dreams that, evidently, you had squashed in the years to come - and a pair of sleep shorts, their waist just a tad too big on you and you’ve tugged them up further than they should rest.

It’s decidedly chilly in the hotel. The steam dissipating through the room from Harry’s shower serves as the only way to heat you up, humid air warm on your skin, and you hate the way you almost appreciate him for taking such a piping hot shower - but the thought doesn’t have to linger too long before the bathroom door opens with the force of a fucking bullet and Harry walks out, towel tied around his waist and hanging low on his hips, sopping curls brushed and resting on his shoulders, droplets from the strands rolling down his chest.

Your stomach flips. 

“Christ,” you say as a way of hiding the way your skin suddenly feels like there’s a fire lighting it from the inside out, burning your insides with it. “Don’t have any clothes to put on?”

He rolls his eyes - you swallow thickly, perching yourself on the edge of the bed as he takes a moment to stop and glance at the computer on the ground before turning back to you. “Changing in the bathroom is gross,” and - well, yeah, you have to agree with that. “Y’practically stripped naked in front f’me earlier, y’know.”

“You did it first,” you mutter, pulling your legs to cross beneath you as Harry crosses the room to the full length mirror mounted on the wall, fingers running through his wet curls, and you tear your eyes away from the water dripping onto his bare skin with only mild difficulty. “The audio is loading.”

“I saw that, believe it or not.”

Dick. You bite your tongue, though, and resist the urge to retort that he’d clearly not even started to set up the transmitter while you were showering, because the loading bar has moved nearly to the end of the screen while you’d been conversing with Harry. You climb off the bed, kneeling in front of the computer as Harry looks down at you, and you distinctly feel a drop from his hair land on the top of your head.

“S’done?” he inquires, and you glance up at him to reply but he’s already plopping down next to you, leaning over you to squint at the screen so you get a nice whiff of the hotel soap he’d used and his own distinct scent of shampoo - it’s fruity, mixed with something musky you can’t decipher - maybe tobacco? It’s hard to tell - he smells good. You wonder if he’s noticed how still you’ve gotten but then he pulls away, leaning back on his arm while you clear your throat and lean forward, tapping the mousepad on your laptop a few times in quick succession. “You’ve got it hooked to Mark?”

“‘Course,” you say, if only to regain your composure and keep your pretense of light annoyance with him. “Probably why it’s taking so long.”

“Ah.”

Then he stands, crossing to the entrance hall where his suitcase is opened, clothes folded meticulously because he’s nothing if not a freak for his clothes - out of the corner of your eye you see him pull out a pair of pajama pants and only a pair of pajama pants, and when his head turns to glance back at you, you’re quick to avert your gaze back to the computer -

Which has loaded. Hooray!

“It’s done,” you call to him, a decibel too loud and you’re quick to lower your voice with a small glance to the wall separating you and the Carfields. Earlier, you’d heard their door slam when they got home from dinner and you could make out their faint voices arguing if you focused hard enough - you don’t want them to hear you. “Get changed and we can listen.”

You pick up one of the earbuds connected to the laptop and shove it in your ear, fiddling with the volume buttons until it’s loud enough that you can hear their conversations as Harry ducks back into the bathroom. Clearly the coat with the bug has been folded in such a way that it muffles their voices but hell, it’s a strong bug, and you can still manage to hear them fine enough.

You send a text to Mark, and he confirms he can hear it too - you toss your phone to the side, letting it slide across the carpet as you lean in, adjusting the earbud in your ear.

Vincent’s voice is what you hear first - he’s talking fast, as though he’s in a rush, and your brows furrow.

“The new shipment isn’t set to come in until the first,” he says, tone hushed and soft, and you can’t hear his wife’s response after a moment of listening, and then he continues. “Think, you idiot! She’s trying to milk me for everything I’ve got - everything we’ve worked for -”

For a brief moment you wonder who she is, but after another few moments with no response you figure that he isn’t talking to his wife as you’d expected - he’s on the phone with someone, speaking of his divorce. A business partner - of course. The bathroom door opens, and your eyes shift to Harry’s figure as you hold out the available earbud for him.

Fuck. He’s gonna fucking kill you - not with his hands or with his gun but with those fucking pants, so low on his hips you can see the trail of hair leading beneath the plaid fabric, the tie done loose and casual. He’s not wearing a shirt, tattoos on full display for you to ogle if you had the time to, and you don’t, of course, but it doesn’t stop your eyes from roaming over his torso, throat feeling suddenly dry as he pads over to you on the ground, dropping to his knees beside you.

“Are you checking me out?” Harry questions, a soft smirk dancing on his lips and you roll your eyes, dangling the earbud for him to grab and he finally takes it, placing it in his left ear just as Vincent begins to speak again.

“Never,” you murmur, and if that isn’t the furthest from the truth you could get to you’re not quite sure what is. “Listen to him - I’m going to the bathroom.” And, as you push yourself to stand and walk towards the bathroom, you swear you can hear him murmur slacker beneath his breath but - well - you don’t need to respond to everything he says sometimes.

Truthfully, yes. You did have to pee. And when you’re done with that you turn on the faucet to wash your hands and you stare at the bathroom mirror that’s still damp from the steam of his shower, edges still frosted with the humidity, and it makes your reflection fuzzy as you look at yourself.

What the fuck? Seriously - what the fuck?

There’s a pressure in your lower stomach and a neediness between your thighs that you can only assign to Harry’s freshly-showered, no-shirt-low-pants appearance and it has shame bubbling under your skin mixed with some other feeling you don’t care enough to figure out. You’re feeling very strange things for Harry - things you’ve never felt for him, ever, in the entire year of knowing him - and you’re almost completely positive he doesn’t feel the same, doesn’t have the same desire to bend you over this sink -

Almost. But almost is very close to absolutely positive.

You feel embarrassed for yourself as you glance around the sink. His hairbrush sits on the counter, and there are so many assorted beauty products scattered across the surface that you can’t tell which ones are yours or his.

The lotion is his, you decide. You don’t use unscented lotion - but you reach for it anyway, squirting a dollop onto your palms and rubbing it in for a reason you’re not entirely sure of. When your hands are as soft as they’re going to get you glance at yourself in the mirror again, shirt baggy and long, the ends of your shorts peeking beneath the fabric.

You reach up, pulling the waistband of your shorts up until they aren’t visible beneath the ends of your shirt, exposing your legs until it appears you’re wearing no sleep shorts beneath the shirt. It’s more comfortable like that, anyway, you tell yourself, which isn’t quite true, before pushing the bathroom door open and walking back out to where Harry’s perched on the floor.

He turns to look at you, and you don’t miss the way his eyes crawl up your legs but he’s a bit more subtle about it than you’re sure you were - his bottom lip looks a deeper shade of red than the top and you wonder if he’d been biting it.

You decide not to repeat his retort about checking you out, even if you’re almost entirely sure he was.

“How’s it going?” you inquire, picking up your earbud to begin listening again. The wire connecting the two buds is short and you shift closer to him until the tip of your kneecap brushes his - you’d expected him to jerk away like you’d fucking stepped on him but he doesn’t, surprisingly. “Got anything juicy?”

“Jus’ vague references t’shipments and goods - they’re trying t’trace his call, see who he’s talking to.” You nod, resting your chin on your palm as Vincent drones on about exactly what Harry had said - the only substantial piece of evidence you have pointing to his business being a coverup for a drug trafficking scheme is references to obscene amounts of money he fears losing to his ex-wife that he would’ve never been able to obtain working at a privately-owned tailory. 

For ten minutes Vincent’s phone call remains as a bit of a drag and, truthfully, a rather large waste of time in your opinion - this is stuff you’d already known, including the shipment coming in a week’s time that you know headquarters will be able to intercept - and you’ve just begun to pull out your earbud to retreat to the bathroom once more to brush your teeth when Harry’s arm jerks towards you, fingers wrapping around your wrist and effectively preventing you from rising.

“Jesus hell,” you hiss, dropping back down onto the ground as you shove your earbud back in, “what -?”

But then Vincent is speaking again.

“ - look, buddy,” he says, voice suddenly dropped lower so that Harry reaches out, tapping the volume button a few times until you can hear him properly, “met this girl at dinner tonight, out with Bonnie. Real cute - body like a fuckin’ goddess.”

Your cheeks flush as a small smirk spreads across Harry’s face.

Vincent pauses, clearly awaiting his business partner’s response to this shocking bit of news, and when he speaks again he sounds more annoyed. “Fuckin’ done with Bonnie - I’m a free agent, Jules.”

You snap at Harry, but he’s already fishing for his phone, pulling up the notes app and jotting down the name Jules in a fresh page.

“Can fuck whoever I want to, now, and I swear, you’d die if you saw her.” You can practically picture the scumbag’s face as he says it, all smug and arrogant - as though you’d ever give him the time of a day if you weren’t being fucking paid for it. “Staying at the same hotel too, with her husband.”

Another pause. “Jules, do you think I give a shit about husbands? Remember Mia, in LA? The one married to that big fella? She was all over me.”

Your lips quirk up into a smile even as your stomach continues to churn in disgust, and Harry exhales softly, resting his phone on top of his knee. Clearly, Vincent’s conversation with Jules has turned from fighting for nearly fifteen minutes about shipments and payments to you and it’s entirely less important but it still piques your interest more. The gritty details of their shipping is for Mark to handle back at headquarters - you need to make sure you can distract Vincent long enough for Harry to search his room.

“ - and, man, you should’ve seen the eyes this girl was giving me - and her husband was all over her, too, checkin’ her out but she was still looking at me -”

You nearly choke at that, head whipping to the side to look at Harry, and he’s doing a sufficient job of furrowing his eyebrows and looking entirely confused at Vincent’s words but you don’t believe him for a moment. Checking you out - God, and you had the nerve to feel embarrassed for your desire for him. A month ago you may have been truly annoyed at Vincent’s observation but it only fuels the fire igniting in your core as Harry puts on his pretense of adjusting his earbuds, tips of his ears bright red as he pointedly avoids your gaze, and you bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from grinning.

“I’ll let you go. God, don’t sound so pretentious - didn’t you hook up with that French chick who was married to the boxer? - Yeah, that’s what I thought -”

You’re much less interested in Vincent’s conversations now, pulling your earbud out and standing up, arms stretched high above your head as Harry stays, leaning against the ground with one arm. After a moment, though, Vincent must have ended his phone call - Harry shuts the laptop and pulls his earbud out, standing up, and your gazes meet for a moment.

“Vincent’s an idiot,” he tells you, flush creeping up his neck, and you nod.

“Is he?’

“Y’know he was just saying that so he seemed cool, right?”

“Said what?”

Harry rolls his eyes, then, and you can’t stop the smirk from gracing your lips once more as he crosses across the hotel room, collapsing onto his back onto the bed, and you furrow your eyebrows as you watch him. “Didn’t check you out.”

“I didn’t say you did.” He doesn’t respond, and you sit yourself on the edge of the bed, glaring down at his slumped figure. “You’re not getting the bed.”

“‘Course I am. We fought it out, remember?”

“And we didn’t finish.”

“We absolutely did,” and then he pushes himself to sit up, leaning against the headboard, and it takes more willpower than you possess to keep your eyes from roaming his body but you resist with everything in you - you’ll just about die if he calls you out for checking him out. “I beat you. I had y’against the headboard.”

“That was inconclusive.”

“Get on the couch.”

You narrow your eyes at him and he narrows his right back, staring into his fucking soul because you’ll be damned if you sleep on the couch, even if it makes logistical sense because he is taller than you - but, no. You’re the one who could possibly have to fuck Vincent Carfield in all his glory. You deserve the bed, size be damned.

In the end, you blink first, and come bedtime, you’re nestled on the couch with blankets you’d found in the hotel wardrobe.

You hate Harry.

 ~~

 The couch is extremely uncomfortable. It’s what you’d expected but your back still aches in pain when you wake up at 3 in the fucking morning, blankets dangling off the edge of the cushions you’re bundled on top of, and the pillow your head was resting on has slipped off onto the ground.

The room is pitch black as you groan, the noise purposefully loud, reaching down until your fingers graze the edge of the pillow - but your grip is slow, tired, and as you pick up the pillow to throw it back behind your head it slips from your grasp, dropping onto the ground and bouncing against the carpet until it’s resting a solid six feet from the couch.

Do you really need a pillow? You’re not sure, but you desperately don’t want to have to get up and get it because you know your sleepiness will melt away before you can even think about it, and, more than anything, you desire going back to sleep in order to try and be well rested for tomorrow. 

You reach down and pull your clump of blankets back up over yourself, pulling your knees further against your chest so the entire area of the blankets coats your body. Your head rests against the flat cushion, pillow be damned, and you shift again until your back is rested flat against the cushion as well, legs sticking straight out in front of you, the couch creaking at the movement.

The blankets don’t cover your legs - you push one of them down until they’re situated onto your feet, collectively covering your entire body even if it isn’t necessarily warm. At least they’re blanketed to some degree.

After ten minutes of trying to go back to bed, you pointedly decide that yes, you really do need a pillow, and immediately. Your neck already aches with the uncomfortable position and your ears feel chilly without being pressed into the soft pillow you’d snatched from the bed Harry is currently sleeping on - the bastard. He’d practically suffocated you with his smug gazes before he fell asleep, curled on top of the bed that he’d (rightfully) claimed as his after an arm wrestle, rock paper scissors game, and a half-hearted second attempt at a wrestling match - you’d lost all three.

Whatever. You’d been determined not to sulk at your losses before returning to the couch, trying not to let Harry see you mope but now you wish you’d made a bigger show of your disappointment - perhaps he’d have caved and taken the couch, but you’re sure he’d have stayed firm no matter what.

You slowly push yourself off of the couch, creeping across the room towards where your pillow rests on the ground, and you pick it up, clutching it tight to your chest before returning to the couch. You press it against the cushion, punching it a few times to attempt to soften it before huffing softly, lying yourself back down and tugging your blankets tight back up against you.

The next ten minutes goes by much as the night had previously - you can’t find a good position, turning onto your side and your back and your stomach until you’re hardly sure which way you’re facing, at this point, face buried tight against your pillow. You long for not much more than a soft bed for your back to rest into and you’re sure you’ll be a sore, tired disaster tomorrow when you manage to find Vincent Carfield in the hotel.

You turn to your side, the couch squeaking beneath the shift in your weight, and your body tenses when you hear a soft groan from the lump wrapped in covers on top of the bed, his silhouette illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the window into the hotel room.

“How much longer are y’gonna move?” Harry grunts, voice low and raspy and you swallow when you hear it - if you close your eyes and listen to him speak, you could almost imagine him sounding like that in a very different scenario - “Keepin’ me up.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” you retort, voice soft and crackling with your yearning to sleep. “If you’d like to take the couch so I stop tossing and turning, I’d much appreciate it.”

He exhales softly, the noise sounding so deep and pornographic it makes your stomach flip. “In your dreams.”

You narrow your eyes as you stare at him, duvet pulled up to his chest and head turned to the side towards you - in the dark you can’t tell if his eyes are shut or if he’s looking at you. For a moment you decide not to say anything, hands crossed over your stomach, and then you shift loudly onto your back, couch creaking, and Harry sighs just as you’d anticipated.

“Please,” he begins, tone low and pleading, and you cut him off before he can continue.

“Not my fault the couch is loud, Har.”

“You’re doin’ it on purpose.”

“Of course I’m not,” you tell him, shifting again so another noise permeates the air of the hotel room. “The couch is just noisy - and uncomfortable.”

There’s a rather pregnant pause after that and you keep your eyes on Harry, watching the way he shifts onto his back, opening up a rather small sliver of space beside him and your heart practically leaps at the sight but you don’t say anything else - simply roll back onto your side, the couch creaking as you do, and he sighs again.

It seems like he sighs a lot.

“If I invite you into my bed,” Harry begins, and a small smile begins tugging your lips upwards even if you want to groan at his usage of the word my, “you’ll promise t’be quiet an’ go t’sleep?”

God, he sounds like your mother. “Yes,” you tell him, clutching the blankets wrapped around your torso. “I promise.”

Another pause. “Then - then y’can come. We can share.”

You try not to look too eager. Masking your emotions is, perhaps, the most important aspect of your job and yet you’re sure you look just as excited as you feel, pushing yourself to your feet with your blankets wrapped around your body, pillow stowed beneath your arm. Your feet pad across the carpet, toes sinking into the plushness of the floor before you make it to the bed, and Harry’s staring up at you, face contorted in a mixture of emotions you can’t decipher.

“Not gonna scooch over, then?” you question, resting your pillow against the bed and hitting it a few times. 

“Y’have room, don’t you?”

And the answer is that you don’t, of course. When you lie yourself down on the bed your legs knock into Harry’s, head so close to his you can feel his curls grazing your face, and the duvet you pull up your chin smells like him, distinctly. His elbow juts into your side - your cold foot rests against his warm one - you don’t think you’ve ever touched him this much outside of a mission.

You drape your clump of blankets over your body, partially resting on top of Harry, smoothing your palms over the fabric with a contented sigh. Your back is thanking you for the switch in sleeping spots and your neck sinks into the pillow and mattress, aches already beginning to alleviate themselves.

“Still need me t’move?” Harry asks, and you shut your eyes, nearly missing the way his eyes lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he rests himself back against the bed.

“No,” you murmur, and there’s another moment of silence before he mumbles his affirmation. Tomorrow you’re sure you’ll regret this - sleeping beside him, even if that’s all you do - feeling him pressed against parts of your body you’d never expected to feel his touch on.

Well, you’d rather deal with the tinge of embarrassment (and pride) than an achy back and lack of sleep - you smile slightly.

 ~~

 The next morning comes entirely too soon for your liking - sunlight peeking through the windows permeates your eyelids until you’re groaning awake, palm pressed against your eyes to block the light and face burying itself back into your pillow.

Your alarm hasn’t gone off yet. If your alarm doesn’t go off, then it’s not morning. Surely you have a few more hours of rest before you need to get up - even a couple more minutes will do -

Just as the thought crosses your mind your phone blares its alarm, the loud noise jolting you up like a bucket of ice water, and, from behind you, Harry grunts into his pillow.

Behind you.

You’re quick to silence your alarm - another nine full minutes of peaceful resting, if you’re lucky, before you’re disturbed again, though you’re sure you won’t get back to bed now that you’ve remembered the events of last night. 

Harry’s arm is heavy, draped over your midsection, the soft surface of his cheek buried intently into the crevice between your neck and shoulder - you can feel his soft breathing against your skin, the air a warm and gentle sensation. One of his legs has wedged itself between yours, thigh pressed entirely too high in the crevice between your thighs, and with every moment that passes you can feel the rise and fall of his bare chest as he snores behind you.

What a fucking sight, you think, sitting up slightly to look down at him. God, if he were awake, you’d tease him until he cries about what a position the pair of you had worked yourselves into but you have the foresight to see how that would backfire on you - technically, you’re just as to blame as he is, even if he’s the bigger spoon right now.

But you’re most decidedly not to blame for the hardness pressing into your lower back, tearing a sleepy groan from Harry’s throat when you shift in your position.

The bastard. He’s hard as a fucking rock from pressing against you while you slept, and a sleepy smirk spreads across your face as you glance down at him. In any other circumstance you think you’d poke him awake just to make him aware of it but there’s a certain air of desire you’re feeling as well that makes you feel - well, not as though you’re in the appropriate position to make fun of him for his boner.

Slowly, you disentangle yourself from his body. His leg drops to the mattress when you swing your own off the edge of the bed, his arm falling until it’s resting in your lap, palm pressed against a certain area that makes your breath hitch, furrowing your eyebrows as you glance down at his hand. There are still fading, pink indents from the rings he takes off every night and before every mission, save for the fake wedding band the two of you often have to don on missions, and you scrunch your nose as you admire it.

Married. You don’t think so. The only time you think of him with anything other than hatred is when he’s asleep, like this - or shirtless.

You stand up, shaking your head to wipe those thoughts from your mind. Harry’s hand drops onto the mattress and you can tell it’s the push he needed into consciousness - you glance back at him to see his eyes cracked open, and they shut when your gazes meet.

“‘Morning,” you tell him, voice louder than you’d intended, and he winces at the noise, shifting onto his back - it’s as though you can see the exact moment he realizes his little problem mixed with the realization that you would also know about it, pressed up against him during the night - his eyes widen ever so slightly, and he pushes himself to lean against the headboard, bundling his duvet onto his lap. 

“Um - g’morning,” Harry replies, voice raspy like it had been the night prior and your stomach turns - you shift on your feet. “Y’goin’ t’the bathroom?”

“You can go first,” you say, and he nods, bringing fists up to rub at his eyes. And then - because you just can’t help pissing him off when you have such a golden opportunity - you add, “Think you might need it a bit more than I do.”

His face reddens.

 ~~

 Earpiece. Knife. Boobs.

You go through the things you need on a mental checklist as you pick up your forkful of scrambled eggs, chewing thoughtfully on the bite. The hotel restaurant is nearly completely full, couples and families packed into the small tables as they feast on their complimentary breakfasts, chatter filling the section. You’ve been sitting eating (truthfully, delicious) breakfast for the better half of an hour, bringing your plate up to the buffet to refill your platter of eggs, fruit, and toast.

Realistically, you would have eaten and left had you not been waiting for a very specific somebody to walk in and catch your eye. You and Harry had plugged back into the bug in Vincent’s room to hear him planning to go down for complimentary breakfast - the only clue you had as to how he wanted to spend his day - and it was the only opportunity you had to find him. Get him out of his room - talking, if possible - so Harry can search it.

It’s such an easy plan, you could practically do it in your sleep.

“Is he there yet?” inquires a crackling voice from your earpiece, disguised as an earring dangling from your lobes.

“No,” you murmur, voice soft as a whisper, and you’re sure he can’t hear your response until he sighs.

“Takin’ his time, isn’t he?”

“Mhm.”

You pick up your glass of orange juice, raising the cup to rouge-stained lips as you take a sip. When you rest it back down on the table, there’s a light red stain on the glass - you wipe it away with a manicured thumb, leaning back in your seat, legs crossed. Your eyes scan the restaurant again, lingering on any newcomers leaning against the wall in case you can pinpoint the man you’re searching for - wide frame, untailored suits, bald head that shines in the artificial light.

(Complimentary breakfast ends at 10, and it’s 9:48. It’s safe to say that you’re getting nervous.)

Your nerves, however, are soothed just a bit when a familiar figure makes his way into the dining hall - tall and haughty, phone pressed to his sweaty head, Vincent Carfield is the image of a stressed businessman, recently divorced and searching for a young, married woman who’d given him eyes last night. His suit is baggy, buttons of the jacket undone and his white button up has sweat stains spreading from the armpits, visible with his arm lifted up to his ear. Instinctively your back straightens, tugging down the top of your lace top so that the top of your cleavage shows - it seems to be your greatest weapon, dealing with a man like Carfield.

You lower your gaze to your phone clutched in your hand but you can still sense exactly the moment his eyes land on you. In your peripheral vision you watch him straighten up, lips moving quickly before his phone is shoved into his pocket, weaving his way between circular tables until he’s standing beside you, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes never meet yours - his gaze stays on a point eerily similar to your chest.

“Is he there?” Harry questions, and you clear your throat - it’s the symbol you’d decided on to mean yes if you can’t speak.

“Vincent,” you begin, faux smile spreading across your face, and a similar one lands on his features. He reaches for your hand and you give it to him, watching him press chapped, dry lips to the back of your palm, and the urge to scrunch your nose at the feeling is almost overwhelming. “It’s so good to see you.”

“And you,” he says, and you drop your hand back to the tablecloth resting on your table. “Can I sit?”

“Of course,” you reply, and he pulls out the empty seat across from you, resting with a soft grunt. “Breakfast ends in a few minutes, though - you’re welcome to have some of mine, if you’re hungry.”

He obliges, reaching to pull your plate to him, and you watch as he picks up your buttered toast, taking a large bite and smacking his lips as he chews. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward ever so slightly. “And why is that?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Vincent tells you, and in your earpiece, Harry snorts at his words - you hope you didn’t jump too hard at his sudden noises in your ear. “I hoped I wasn’t getting the wrong idea at dinner, last night -”

“What idea were you getting?”

“That you were interested in me,” and you tilt your head to the side, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth - if Harry could see the act you’re playing right now, you’d be humiliated. At least he can only hear it. “I saw the eyes you were giving me - not even worried ‘bout your husband seeing?”

“He’s too dense to notice,” you say, a smile tilting your lips up as Harry groans - from his side of the earpiece you can hear bustling mixed with the sound of a door opening, and you assume he’s just entered Vincent’s apartment. He needs at least a half hour, Mark had told you - breakfast ends in nearly five minutes, and you need somewhere else to take Carfield. “You know, Vince - is it okay if I call you Vince?”

“I don’t think he cares what you call him,” mumbles Harry, so quiet you’re sure he’s hardly even intending for you to hear it, “as long as you have your hand down his pants in the next ten minutes.”

Your cheeks flush as Vincent smiles, leaning back in his seat as he finishes off your toast. “Call me whatever you want to,” he tells you, and you can practically hear Harry rolling his eyes through your earpiece.

“Alright, Vince - breakfast is ending in a few minutes, and I desperately hope we can keep talking.” He nods along with your words, leaning in as he pushes his plate to the center of the table - all that’s left is the fruit and the remnants of your eggs. “Do you think we could go up to my room? My husband is off visiting some family members across London - he won’t be home for hours.”

“Hours?”

“Hours,” you confirm, nodding as you take another sip of your orange juice - this time you don’t wipe the lipstick stain off of your glass, and you watch his eyes follow the mark as you lower the glass back to the table. “Can we go, Vince?”

Clearly he isn’t thinking clearly enough to question how curious it is that you’d had similar feelings for him without much trouble at all - instead, he smiles like a boy on Christmas morning. He practically knocks the table in his rush to stand up - you watch a red blush creep up his neck to his ears as he grabs it, steadying the wobbling surface, and you pretend you hadn’t noticed when he holds his hand out for you. You allow him to take your hand in his and he pulls you to your feet, wrapping a secure arm around your waist, palm stretched across your hips so his fingertips creep up the hem of your lace shirt.

“Are you going to our room?” questions Harry in your ear, and there’s a few scuffling noises on the other end that makes you internally cringe as Vincent begins weaving the pair of you between tables that are now emptying as complimentary breakfast reaches its end. “____? ‘Y’goin’ t’our room?”

You clear your throat once, and Vincent glances over at you with an amused glance on his face as the two of you make your way out of the restaurant. “Are you okay, darling?”

The pet name makes you cringe internally and you give him a soft smile as you approach the hallway full of elevators, available to take you to any of the available thirteen residential floors of the hotel - Vincent presses the button to go up, and you wait for the doors to open. “I’m great.”

“Make sure he doesn’t want to stop in his room,” Harry mutters, and you swallow, your smile not faltering. You want to tell Harry to make sure he’s completely quiet in his endeavors in Vincent’s room but you’re sure he already knows - you can’t risk Vincent hearing a strange noise while you’re attempting to distract him.

The elevator doors open, and Vincent pulls you inside with a grip on your waist like a vise. He glances at the array of buttons available to press, and looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s floor 13,” you tell him, and he smiles, pressing the button until it glows.

“Floor 13? That’s where I’m staying, too,” he says, and you nod in mock-surprise -

“What a surprise,” Harry snorts in your ear, and you can’t stop the smirk from spreading across your face.

 ~~

 There’s a thick thigh pressed between both of yours, sweaty palms slid beneath your lace top, and you don’t think you’ve ever found a man’s touch less desirable in your  life - and, for whoever may be keeping a record, this job has required you to get up close and personal with more skeevy men that you’d expected when you’d applied.

The only thing keeping a blissed out look on your face is your focus on the soft noises coming from the other end of your earpiece as Vincent lands wet, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, tongue laving over your skin - hearing Harry’s occasional quiet breathing and muffled noises as he searches the hotel room next to yours makes this entirely worth it.

Against your throat, Vincent moans, and the noise is throaty and loud - you can hear Harry stifling a laugh directly into your ear, and the noise sends a chill rolling up your spine. Clearly, Vincent thinks your involuntary movement was for him - his hands grasp on your tits entirely too hard to be pleasurable and you bite back the urge to tell him so. “Such a dirty girl,” he tells you.

You rest your head back against the wall he has you pressed against with a moan that sounds entirely fake from your throat. You can almost imagine how Harry’s going to make fun of this when he sees you next, and your stomach turns when you think about it for a reason you can’t quite decipher. “Fuck,” you say, forcing your voice to a near whine, and you swear you can hear Harry’s voice hitch through your piece but you’re not sure. “Feels - so good.”

The lie sounds natural off of your lips as Vincent’s knee jabs into your clit - the pressure is a pain rather than a pleasure and your breath hitches as you try not to cry out. He chuckles against your skin, clearly taking your soft sign of pain as an emblem of pleasure, and you shut your eyes as his teeth graze the veins in your neck.

“No way,” breathes Harry, and your ears perk up - had he found something in Vincent’s room? “S’he actually good at that?”

You want to snort at that. Of course he isn’t good but the thought of Harry listening spurs you on more than it should - you roll your hips against Vincent’s thigh with a soft moan, higher pitched than your last one, and the man on the other end of your earpiece exhales.

“That sounded fake,” Harry says, voice soft and light, and you want to slam your head into the wall so he knows that he’s starting to piss you off from next door. “So he’s not makin’ y’feel good?”

You practically freeze. If Vincent wasn’t tugging your shirt up to expose your tits to the cold air of your hotel room, you’re sure you would have forgotten where you were completely. Those words from Harry’s mouth mixed with an edge of venom isn’t what you’d expected him to say at all - on the contrary, you’d think he was fucking with you, trying to work you up to embarrass you if you couldn’t hear his little moans that he’s clearly trying to silence.

Is he worked up? Because you can work with that.

You drop your head back to whack against the wall with a loud moan as Vincent’s clammy lips press to the fabric of your bra. Your hand goes up to press to the back of his bald head, fingernails scratching against his sweaty scalp and you wish - not for the first time - that you were feeling thick, chocolate-toned curls beneath your fingers instead, tugging on them as his tongue lavished you. Though, in your mind, it’s more teeth and grit and anger because you’re sure you’d find a way to be angry with Harry even if his mouth were on your tits - it’s one of your special skills - in every fantasy you’ve had of your partner it’s violent and harsh.

“Fuck,” grunts a voice from your earpiece, and hardly a moment later Vincent groans a similar noise as you rock your hips against his thigh. Thankfully he seems to be getting a decent amount of pleasure just making out with your boobs like a teenage boy and - maybe, if Harry is quick enough in his search of his hotel room - you won’t have to fuck him at all. It’ll be a Christmas miracle (a month early, but a miracle nonetheless.) “Are y’fuckin’ him?”

You whimper, Harry’s voice shooting from your ear directly down to your cunt and your clit and you feel wetness soaking your knickers, pressed against Vincent’s thigh though it may as well be the arm of a couch for how it affects you - the only pleasure you get from Vincent’s hard body against yours is the urge to close your eyes and imagine it’s Harry.

“No, you’re not,” says Harry, and there’s a soft clatter in your earpiece - surely he’s dropped something from the room next door and you tense. Surely Vincent hadn’t heard it, teeth still gnashing against your bra, and he seems too distracted to pay attention to it. “M’hard as a fuckin’ rock, ____ - thinkin’ of you, gettin’ off on my voice, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you exhale, and Vincent glances up at you, thick brows furrowed in confusion. You swallow, focusing on giving yourself a satisfied expression, and he turns back to your chest, seemingly convinced of your pleasure. “Yes - making me feel so good.”

Harry groans in your ear, and you wonder, suddenly, if he’s jerking off - if he’s leaning against Vincent Carfield’s bed, hand pumping up and down his cock as he listens to you. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, or leaning against the wall like you are, his breathing picking up as sweat drips down his forehead - 

“Gonna fuck you,” Vincent mumbles against your boobs, and you scrunch your nose. “Want me to fuck you?”

“Just -” you swallow, and Harry snickers in your ear, the soft laugh breathy and groaning. “Just wait, feels so good -”

“Don’t fuck him,” says Harry, and there’s a few more jostling noises on the other end mixed with another soft moan - you have a sudden image of him, digging through Vincent Carfield’s possessions with a firm hand around his cock and you feel the result of that imagery stricken straight down to your clit like a fucking lightning bolt until you’re crying out, and your orgasm is on you so embarrassingly fast you could sob in embarrassment. “I’m almost there -”

You’re not sure if he means he’s almost about to cum or if he’s almost found something to convict Vincent - you’re not entirely sure which interpretation you’d prefer. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you breathe, the words sour on your tongue as Vincent glances up at you with a wicked smile, jolting his thigh further up into your clit, and you furrow your eyebrows at the pain the motion brings. “Fuck, H - Vincent.”

“Y’were gonna say m’name,” Harry hisses, and you squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment coursing through your veins. You almost fucked everything up. “Cum. Let Vincent think he made y’cum - go ahead - do it.”

And - fuck. Who are you to disobey? You grind your core down on Vincent’s thigh with a throaty cry, and your orgasm rushes over you with an embarrassing waterfall of pleasure and shame. Never have you cum so easily and it wasn’t even Harry’s touch - simply his voice, his groans as he listens to you come undone - and, in the end, the only thing to pull you from your high is Vincent’s eyes boring into yours, eyebrows raised and lips parted as he pulls his face from your chest with a most satisfied expression on his face.

You want to smack it off of him - if you hadn’t already cum, that look would’ve stopped you in your tracks. As it is, it slows the aftershocks of your release into dull nothingness while Harry moans in your earpiece, his noises a mere backdrop to the sudden growing sounds of scuffling and jostling, and his sharp gasp is loud enough for Vincent’s head to snap up.

“Did you hear that?” Vincent questions - Harry curses into your earpiece.

“I found something,” Harry tells you, voice dropped to a low whisper. “I found - s’under his mattress - m’calling Mark!”

A small smile spreads across your face at his words. It’s done. He’s found something worthy enough to convict Vincent Carfield, and that’s enough for you to press your palms to his chest, pushing him away from you so forcefully that he stumbles over the carpet, back slamming into the edge of your bed as he falls to the ground. His expression is so confuddled as he stares up at you that, for a moment, you marvel at his lack of self awareness - in an instant you’re reaching up the hem of your skirt to the knife in its holder strapped to your thigh, and you pull the blade out to point at Vincent Carfield, in your ear a myriad of Harry’s delighted cheers of, “I’ve found it!”

 ~~

 Wrapping up a mission isn’t nearly as speedy as you’d like - there’s debriefs and paperwork to complete once Vincent is done and arrested, phone confiscated along with the drugs found in his hotel room by your partner, and physical evaluations to determine whether you’d been hurt, and a long phone call with Mark where he congratulated the pair of you.

Not only for taking down Vincent Carfield, your boss had said, his voice booming and cheerful, but for making it out without killing each other.

If only he knew.

Your plane is set to leave tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, and if you were more reasonable perhaps you’d heade Mark’s advice to go straight to sleep and set an alarm for 3 AM but you’ve never been too bright in that regard. You finish your last debrief in the hotel restaurant, Harry working diligently beside you, and it’s at nearly 9 PM that the pair of you pack up your work and begin to head upstairs.

The elevator ride is silent when Harry reaches to press the button for your floor. Your room had been closed for you to visit for the better part of the afternoon until Vincent’s had been properly searched, though Harry had gladly given the authorities everything he’d found without a moment of hesitation. Tiredness creaks at your bones but here - standing beside Harry, feeling his gaze boring into the side of your face - you desire nothing less than to go to sleep.

“Good work, Mr. Robinson,” you tell him, and he raises his eyebrows when you turn your head to look at him. “Fairly easy mission, wasn’t it?”

“For you,” he says, and you arch your eyebrow, frown tugging your lips downwards as the elevator begins to move up. “Gettin’ off on Vincent’s thigh was the hardest part - I had t’search the room.”

For a moment you wonder if he’s kidding and certainly he’s only teasing you but you still roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest as heat creeps up your cheeks. “Didn’t seem too difficult, moaning and crying ‘bout how hard you were. I bet I could’ve found the drugs in half the time it took you -”

“You couldn’t have,” Harry says, and you exhale sharply. 

“‘Course I could -”

“Wasn’t hidden in plain sight like everything you find.”

“So where were they?”

He pauses, and you smile down at your shoes - surely you’ve got him now. “Hidden in his computer,” Harry says, then, and your smile is wiped away in an instant. Shit, you wouldn’t have found them. “Not so smart now, are you?”

“Oh, you dick -”

The elevator doors open to your floor and Harry pushes himself off the wall, stalking out of the elevator and you jump to follow him, picking up the pace to walk beside him as he begins down the hall towards your hotel room. It’s entirely too easy, falling back into an arrangement of bickering with him as though nothing had happened - as though you hadn’t cum with his voice alone, and you’re nearly positive that he had, too.

He stops in front of your hotel door, digging in the pockets of his pants for the room key, and you cross your arms over your chest. “I don’t know why you’re actin’ so high and mighty,” he tells you, voice biting as he shoves the key card into the door’s slot - it beeps red, and he tries again. “As f’you didn’t cream your fucking pants jus’ listenin’ t’my voice.”

“I’m not acting high and mighty,” you retort, praying the burning sensation in your face isn’t visible to him but you doubt you’re that lucky. “You don’t have to be such a douche all the time - and, by the way, you came in your pants, too, didn’t you.”

It’s not a question, and Harry flings the door open, letting you walk in before he follows. In an instant, before you can march into the bedroom area to huff at how pissed he’s getting you - it is what he’s best at - there’s a tight grip on your wrist, turning you around so fast your head spins, and before you can object, Harry has you pressed against the door, hands caging you in on either side of your head.

His face is so close to yours you can smell the alcohol on his breath that he’d had while you two worked, mixed with the scent of his mint toothpaste and his shampoo, curls dropping into your face as he wedges his leg between both of yours, thigh pressed against your cunt. It’s just as Vincent had done but so different, so much better, and it tears a whine out of your throat right off the bat.

Your urge is to lean in, clash your lips together in a fury of tongue and teeth but you don’t want to make the first move - Harry can take the lead and you’ll follow, and that’s more than enough for you. So you simply drop your head back, breathing heavy as you stare into his eyes, nearly cross-eyed to meet his gaze. 

“Fuck you,” you tell him, and the words lack the venom you’d yearned for. It’s filled with more desperation and neediness than you’d anticipated, and you feel your stomach flip-flop at the smirk that spreads across Harry’s face. “Fuck you.”

His hands drop from against your head and for a moment you fear he’s going to pull away, that he’s doing this just to fuck with you but then his hands are on your legs, fingertips dancing up and down your outer thighs, fingering the hem of your skirt, and you jolt under him. “You’re so responsive,” he tells you, and you roll your eyes, dropping your head back against the door. “I love getting y’worked up.”

“Shut up,” you groan, feeling his fingers working your skirt up your legs, and the fabric brushes over the edge of your knife, still fastened to your thigh. 

“Like makin’ y’angry.”

“Shut up,” and finally Harry leans in, mouth slamming against yours until your teeth grind against his and your lips part with a shocked gasp. His tongue slips between your lips, your hands reaching up to bury in his curls and hold his face to yours. His palm slides up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist and your cheeks burn as the cold hotel room air assaults your skin, goosebumps popping up in their wake. You whimper into Harry’s lips and he pulls away, palms smoothing up and down your thighs before you feel his fingers hook against the top of your knife, and he tugs the blade out of your holster.

You watch with wary eyes as Harry brings the blade up to his eyes, examining it with narrowed eyes, his other hand still resting on your thigh, fingertips rubbing circles into your skin harsh enough that you’re sure you’ll find bruises tomorrow in the shape of his hands. Your breath hitches in your throat as you watch him and his eyes turn to yours, smile tugging his lip up.

“Y’look a bit excited, there,” Harry says - an acute observation, because you’re practically creaming your fucking panties. “Like seein’ me with your knife?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and Harry flips the knife in his hands until the blade is just an inch from the spot between both of your eyes, your orbs crossing to see it. “What are you -”

Before you can finish the question Harry presses the knife forward, the sharp edge of the plate pressed to your cheek, and you inhale sharply, swallowing thickly as he increases pressure against your skin. Fuck, this shouldn’t excite you - he’s not half as good as you are with blades - and you’re sure if he keeps going he’s going to slice you either by accident or on purpose, and it disturbs you how much that thought turns you on.

The blade drags down your skin, tracing along your jawline with pressure light enough to feel like a breath and hard enough to catch yours in your throat - Harry’s watching it with darkened eyes, watching as he lowers it down your throat, tracing it along your neck and the veins.

You drop your head back against the door with a thud, feeling the cool metal on your skin, sweaty from being pressed against him and the heat that encompasses your body until it’s all you can feel, and Harry’s just watching, watching the knife run across your skin.

Your eyes, fluttered shut, shoot open when a sudden burning sensation overtakes the top of your chest - you glance down to see Harry pulling the knife away from you, the tip decorated with just a smudge of dark, red liquid that’s mirrored on your collarbone.

“Did you -?”

“Oops,” Harry says as you bring your fingers to the small nick he’d given you, wiping away the drops of blood that spread on your chest. You raise your narrowed eyes to glare at him and you’re trying - trying so hard - to be furious with him, to get angry, to push him away and yell at him - but, fuck, feeling his thumb rub across the cut on your chest only increases the ball of pressure in your lower abdnomen as you look at him.

Your lips clash once more, more intense than before as you whine into his mouth - Harry’s free hand hoists your thigh around his waist, and when his lips move down to bite at your throat, the hand still clutching your knife pulls back before he slams the blade into the door next to you, surely taking a few of your stray hairs. You yelp, jolting your head back as you whip your head to the side to stare at the knife stuck in the door barely an inch from the side of your head, and Harry lifts his head with a smirk.

“You assho -”

Before you can finish Harry’s hand is wrapped around your throat, cutting off your ability to speak and you can’t help but moan at the pressure even if the noise is choked and gasping - Harry grins, moving his other hand down to your hips until he’s helping you to roll against his thigh, clit rubbing against the fabric of his pants. You tighten your thigh’s hold around his waist, pressing his torso closer to yours, and he, in turn, tightens his grasp on your neck.

“Y’like m’hand on your throat, hmm?” Harry questions, voice low and raspy like how it had been in the middle of the night except more, better and intense, and you whimper in affirmation. “Can’t even talk - can’t even say anything.”

When he finally loosens his hold on you, you gasp for air and bring your arm up to wrap around his neck again, fingers scraping through his scalp to tug his lips back to yours. Your other hand drops to the front of his pants, palm smoothing over his bulging erection before your shaky fingers begin tugging his zipper down.

“Can I tell you something?” says Harry, then, as you fumble to undo the button of his pants until you can shove your hand into the fabric, fingernails dragging along his cock through his boxers - his hips jolt into your hands.

“Yes,” you murmur in response, hand jerking up and down his dick and, even through a layer of fabric, he grunts into your lips.

“I didn’t cum,” he says, and you move your head from his, furrowing your eyebrows. “Didn’t cum, even when I heard y’with Vincent -”

“You -?”

“Didn’t wanna cum when I wasn’t buried in your cunt,” and you gasp sharply as his hand on your throat slides down your body until it’s shoved into your panties, cold fingertips dragging along your soaking folds that drip your ambrosia into his grasp. “Even f’you sounded so good, moanin’ for me - almost pathetic -”

You tighten your grip on his hair until he’s crying out, fingertips pinching your clit in your panties and you jerk your hips into his grasp at the sharp punishment. “Don’t call me that -” you moan, trembling hand pulling his boxers down over his cock while he smirks.

“Pathetic -”

“Fuck you, Harry -”

“Whimperin’ like a baby -”

You move your hand from his hair to his face, grip bruising as you grab his chin in your palm. Your fingertips squeeze his cheek as you force his head to stare at you - the lazy, cocky smile that adorns his features makes you want to throttle him, and your fingers flex against his face.

“What?” Harry questions, tone mocking and it fuels the anger in every crevice of your body as you glare at him. “Gonna hit me?”

Yes, you want to say - before you can even open your mouth, though, Harry leans in, teeth nibbling on your earlobe as he exhales, his words low and breathy, “Do it.”

Who are you to disobey him?

You bring your hand back and smack it down on his cheek with a satisfying slap that reverberates through your hotel room. His head is slapped to the side, exposing his side profile to you, and you smooth your palm over the red mark already blooming on his cheek in the shape of your handprint.

“You like to be hit, do you?” you inquire - for a moment, just a second, you feel some semblance of control over the situation, wrapping your fist around his cock once you’ve pulled his boxers down over his length. He hisses, dropping his head back, lips parted in a silent cry when your thumb sweeps over the weeping tip of his cock, precum dripping down his member. “Never would’ve guessed.”

And you do it again, bringing your hand up to slap his face and it tugs a louder grunt from his mouth, pressing his body further into yours until all you can feel is him, chests pressed together and cock rubbing against your cunt through the fabric of your lace panties. You bring your hand back to give him another slap but then his fingers are pulling your drenched knickers to the side, bulbous tip of his cock nudging through your folds for only a split second before he pushes himself inside of you, sheathing the entirety of his length until he bottoms out, balls pressed tight against your skin.

You can’t help but sob out. It’s, really, not your fault - you can tell how it spurs him on, but before he can keep fucking you like how you’ve dreamt of he’s pulling out completely, taking a half a step away from you, cock tall and leaking. The emptiness you feel is overwhelming, even if you’d only had him in you for a few seconds at best, and objections immediately rise in your throat.

“What the fu -?”

Then he’s grabbing your throat, using his grip as leverage to force you around, cheek smushed against the wooden door frame and back pressed to his chest. His palms smooth up and down the globes of your ass, pulling the cheeks apart until the pressure burns and you throw your head back with a cry. Then he pulls his hand back - lands it back against your ass with a cracking slap that makes you jump against him - and he doesn’t give you a second to beg him to fucking do it again before he’s sliding his cock back into your folds.

“Fuck,” he practically shouts, the noise crackling and broken with arousal practically dripping from the syllable, and you drop your forehead against the door with a cry. “Fuck, so tight - knew y’would be -”

“Move, please,” you beg, tone sobbing and desperate, and Harry obliges without another second to spare - pulls out and thrusts back in, pace brutal and desperate right off the bat until you’re quivering, legs trembling when he’s only been going for a half a minute.

Oh my god. Holy fuck, it feels so good, better than you could’ve ever pictured it, his hand smoothing over your ass before landing periodic slaps to the plump skin - his hand landing on you hardly overpowers the sound of his hips smacking against your ass, filling you until you’re crying for it before leaving you empty and diving back in. You can’t do much else other than stand there on quivering legs that feel incapable of handling your weight and take it, pushing your hips back into his with every thrust until you’ve worked yourselves into a rhythm that makes your fucking head spin.

“Harry -” you gasp as he grabs hold of your hips, pulling them upwards until his cock is slamming into the sweet spot buried inside of your walls that makes you sob out, cheek slamming into the door over and over with the force of his pounding. “Harry - God -”

“What?” he practically hisses, the word full of desire and contempt in the most delicious way possible, and your knees would give out if not for his bruising grip on your hips, keeping you flush against him. 

“Har - choke me, please, want you to - to choke me -”

He stutters a groan at that, moving one of his hands from your hips - he delivers one hard smack to your ass before he’s trailing his hand up your back and around to the front of your throat, squeezing your neck once experimentally just to hear the way you moan at it before he tightens his grasp. Your resulting whimper is caught in your throat, pressing your palms to the door you’re leant up against as Harry just fucking laughs from behind you, thrusting himself into you like he was fucking born for it.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy,” Harry says, then, and he almost sounds in awe as he squeezes your throat tighter, tight enough that your vision goes fuzzy and your head feels light. “So filthy - knew y’would be - an’ so - so - fuckin’ - tight -”

With every word he punctuates his meaning with a particularly hard thrust into your cunt, and the hand on your hip slithers around your body until he’s pressing two fingertips to your clit, rubbing shaking, hard circles against the sensitive nub that has you jolting, arms shaking as you attempt to keep yourself up. “Oh my god,” you practically cry, and the voice sounds far away as he briefly releases his hold on your throat - a firm slap is delivered to the side of your face as you’d given him, the motion forcing your head to the side, and you sob out harder. “Fuck - do it again, please -”

He obeys you, bringing his palm back to slap your cheek again before he wraps his hand back around your throat. “M’gonna cum,” he tells you, words throaty and laced with neediness - you push your hips back against his, a loud, long whine bursting from your throat as his fingers never give up on their assault to your clit. “M’gonna fill y’up - y’want that?”

“Yes!”

“Want me t’fill you up?”

“Yes, Harry, please -!” You come undone around his cock just as his hips stutter to a close - there’s a ball of pleasure that bursts in your core, spreading warmth and euphoria through your body like a wildfire attacks a forest. Your forehead slams against the door with a moan that borders on a scream, nails scratching against the wood as though searching for something to hold onto, to ground yourself, because surely you’re far away - in fucking space - because there’s no way on Earth you could feel this good.

Behind you, Harry’s hand on your clit wraps around your waist, holding your body taut to his as you feel him spurt ribbons of cum inside of you, his release filling you up and it only prolongs yours, aftershocks rolling through you mixed with his warmth spreading through your body. His head drops against the back of yours, breath ruffling the hairs at the back of your neck, and when you finally regain the ability to breathe you’re fucking heaving, gasping for air, the once-simple process labored and desperate.

“Fuck,” Harry groans, and then he pulls out of you - you can feel his cum beginning to trickle down your inner thighs, and that mixed with the sudden emptiness in your cunt makes you exhale a low whine. Your pussy flutters around the sudden air invading it, the loss of a certain appendage filling you up glaringly obvious, and you slump against the door. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, and your knees are shaking when Harry unwraps his arm from around your waist, leaving you to fend for yourself as you try and steady your body. “Fuck.”

You hear, then, Harry walking away - surely stalking deeper into your room, perhaps lying on the bed, kicking off his shoes and beginning to tug off his shirt. You feel sudden embarrassment and heat coursing through your body as you tug the bottom of your skirt down over your ass and the tops of your thighs, walking on shaking legs into the bedroom area of your hotel room -

(Your knife can stay in the door until morning. It is, for all intents and purposes, the least of your priorities when you can’t even think straight.)

Harry’s eyes are on you when you make your way into the bedroom section, leaning up against the doorframe to hide the quivering in your legs, and you hope it looks decently natural but you’re sure it doesn’t, judging by the way his lips tremble upwards as he glances down at the shoe he’s focused on untying.

“I’m gonna shower first,” you tell him. Your throat burns with the energy of speaking after screaming your lungs out and your voice is crackling and raspy - you cough into your elbow, hoping it makes your voice sound a bit less fucked-out than it is, but you’re sure you’re not that lucky.

“Fine by me,” Harry says, kicking his sneakers off onto the ground, and he collapses onto his back onto the bed with a sigh. His pants are still undone and are pushed down his thighs, boxers pulled up over his cock, and you feel - decidedly strange, watching him post-coital, at the way his eyes shut, limbs spreading out over the mattress with a grunt. “M’takin’ the bed, though.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “What -?”

“Y’can hardly walk from how hard I fucked you. I think I deserve it.”

And - well - you can’t quite argue with that logic.

~~

TAGLIST (crossed out urls meant they didn’t show up)

@nineteenfiftyone​ @harryslilkat​ @galacticferns​ @ficrecrry​ @morethanamelodyy​ @hoeeforstyles​ @bunny-munchkin-luvs-music​ @mintchipstyles​ @sstarkme​ @thecitiesintheseas @harry-styles-l​

[tumbleassbitch]

another lost soul (letting my instinct take control) | The Quarry | TravisxLaura

Characters: Laura Kearney, Travis Hackett, The Hackett family Summary: Max dies in the cellar. This changes everything. Chapter 4/? | Chapter 3

July 1st, 2022

“Are you fucking insane?” He meets her frantic gaze unaffected. “Shit. You are insane.”

Science. He wants to fix this with science.

“I’ve been out hunting for that goddamn white wolf every full moon for the last six years. If I hadn’t seen the evidence myself, I’d think he didn’t exist. If you were me, you'd be looking for other ways to end this, too."

“I can help you,” she emphasizes. “I want to stop Silas, too. I’m not some- some fragile fucking daisy that needs to stay locked up.”

“You don’t get it,” he says firmly, slowly approaching the cell bars. “I’m not doing this for another six years. I’m too damn old.”

“Yeah, and I’m twenty-four. Nice to meet you,” she says sarcastically. “You don’t have to do any of this. You could let me join you out there, get a fresh pair of eyes-”

He hooks his thumbs in his belt. “The worst thing for either of us would be if my family caught wind of this. We don’t need more guns. We need brains.”

“I’m not even a veterinarian yet!” she practically screams.

“Hey! You have almost four years of college under your belt,” he asserts with a pointed finger, “and you’ve already been accepted into that vet school on the West Coast.”

Am I really getting a pep talk right now? “That's so not the same,” she laments into her hands, collapsing on the bed. 

It’s true that she was accepted into vet school after applying to almost every one in the country, and yeah, she’s smart. She’d just been waiting to tell Max until he heard back from St. Lawrence… which, he did. And didn’t tell her.

Not that it matters, now.

But this backwater cop apparently took one look at her college resume and thought, Gee, she could probably cure lycanthropy! If this is their only solid plan, they were genuinely fucked.

“You’re the best we’ve got,” he confirms her worst fears with controlled, steady conviction. His eyes tell a different story, though; there’s something barely holding on within those dark pits. Pure desperation.

God, this was his big plan? After taking her back to her cell last night so that she could cramp in peace, for the first time since everything happened, Laura honestly felt that thing’s were finally starting to look up.

But… maybe they still are. Laura’s nothing if not an opportunist. 

“Fine,” she says briskly. Hope dawns on his face, and she shoves down the foreign tinge of guilt that intumesces. “But I’ll need research.”

-

July 2nd, 2022

A thick stack of werewolf legends and fairytales sits beside her bed, each book spine labeled “North Kill Library” on grimy stickers lined up like dominos. The amount of grubby twelve-year-old fingers that have thumbed through these books must be staggering. Because, honestly, who else would be reading about werewolf legends?

Laura wouldn’t. She never had the time for it.

The other paper he gave her, the only thing he initially handed over before she asked for additional reading, sits folded up on her pillow. 

Don’t get bit, cut off your limb if you do, or kill the werewolf that turned you when it’s a full moon in order to break the curse. Scary stories to tell around the campfire, except it’s daylight and painfully real.

Its weakness, however, froths in the recesses of her mind: silver. If she can get her hands on some, maybe bullets, or a knife…? Hell, she's even willing to try and make him eat it.

That is, if she can find Silas. 

Not 'if.' When.

And once she gets out, she will find him.

A phone ringing somewhere in the precinct snatches her attention. In all the time she’s been here, a phone hasn’t rang once. 

She holds her breath, straining to hear a voice, but no luck. He must've gone immediately to his office before answering it.

Time passes long enough until she hears the most faint sound of a door shutting, and then moments later, another.

Did he leave the building? It would make sense. She assumes he is an actual cop, having access to this strange, derelict building and the whole flashing lights and badge business on the night they met when he shouldn’t have needed to go the extra mile to masquerade.

He could be checking in on a disturbance of the peace, or maybe a drunk and disorderly. Something that isn’t hovering near his captor while also tracking down a mythical creature. 

It’s odd to think about. All of her experiences with him have been past the point of bizarre. The thought of him doing something as dull as normal, something expected of him , was just as weird.

The hours pass by slowly, and she keeps her mind occupied by studying, taking notes in the journal of whatever comes to mind as potentially important. It’s a lot like her high school world history class, except this has a lot more riding on it and the only way to double-check her answers is by solving a curse. 

No biggie, she can practically hear Max say. Her heart convulses painfully. She’d do anything to have him here. Hell, she’d do anything to have anybody else here.

Just as her stomach begins to rumble for dinner, the soft shut of a door rings out not once, but twice.

Travis comes a bit later, and before she even sees him, she can tell he’s upset. There’s a little bit of hate that accompanies the fact that she's spent enough time with him to see it.

Polished shoes slap harshly against tile, his gait brisk and heavy. The lines in his forehead are drawn, and sections of hair stick out of place as if too many fingers have passed through. 

He sets down the unappetizing tray of meatloaf and an apple with two pills without a word, turning to leave.

“Hey,” she says quickly. “Can I get a clock?”

He appraises her, impatience oozing out of his pores. “What do you need a clock for?”

“So that I can tell the time.”

“Again, why do you need a clock?” he asks smartly. 

You have such a terrible personality. “Please,” she says, voice straining to hold the soft tone. “I need something to anchor my days by. Something beyond the daylight.”

Some of the fight bleeds out of him, and he purses his lips. “I’ll see what I can do,” is the noncommittal answer she gets, but it’s enough.

Travis turns to leave, and she steps closer to the bars. “I also have some ideas.”

He exhales through his nose slowly, but despite the impatient exterior, he regards her with something close to hope.

“You said you’ve been tracking Silas for six years, right? Have you noticed any seasonal patterns?” At his confused look, she elaborates. “Is he migrating to the south in the winter?”

He nods slowly, considering her with an expression she has a hard time placing. “He does, but not in any single place for long.”

“We know he was in town just a few days ago,” she says. “He could still be here.”

“Could,” he replies evasively.

“And what about your niece?” she presses. 

He narrows his eyes. “What the hell do you mean?”

Laura shrugs. “She’s a werewolf. Are there any, I don’t know, characteristics that you’ve observed in her? Anything that might be helpful for predicting what another werewolf might do throughout the moon cycle?”

He gives off an air of silent bewilderment, and she swallows back her irritation. No use in pushing a man with a gun.

“Is that a … no?” she asks.

“No, it’s not. It’s,” he starts, then stops. “I’m just surprised you caught on to that.”

Her ego preens at the unintentional complement. “Imagine what I could catch onto if you trusted me more,” she says, and the way his face immediately closes off, it's obvious she pushed for too much, too soon.

“You told your mom that you’d let your niece come around more. How are you going to explain this,” she gestures widely, “to her?”

“Here’s an idea— you let me worry about that, and you can go ahead and forget it.”

“Even now, you’re still hiding things from me.” 

The look she gets is so full and dripping with condescension that she grits her teeth. “We could be a team .”

Travis curses under his breath, rolling his eyes. “Look, ma’am- Laura ,” he emphasizes her name, holding up a hand placatingly. “Just because you know, doesn’t mean you know.”

“What… the fuck does that even mean?” she mutters.

“It means I can’t trust you,” he says, “just like you don’t trust me.”

“Yeah, well. It sounds like you can’t trust your family, either,” she says, harkening back to his words from earlier today.

The worst thing for either of us would be if my family caught wind of this.

“That’s a whole world of difference.”

“Is it?” she presses. “How many people has your family killed?”

“How many has yours?” he tosses back flippantly. 

A strange heady current pulses between them. Overhead, the faint wash of summer rain patters on stone.

“Don’t,” she says quietly. Deadly.

His jaw twitches. The air feels thick and alive in her lungs, threatening to erupt in a swarm of locusts, and if she were to open her mouth again, something as deadly as a plague would slip through her chapped lips.

“My family never meant to hurt anybody,” Travis finally says, voice low and strained. The unsaid words are pointed enough that she turns her head to the stone wall.

It’s a clear dismissal. She’s done with him tonight.

He lingers, fidgeting in polyester and scuffed shoes. He’s working himself up to saying something, but whatever it is stays hidden away. A secret.

Just like her.

-

July 3rd, 2022

A girlishly pink, plastic watch is delivered with breakfast, along with a pair of small pills. It’s painfully out of place amongst the werewolf-and-prison theme she’s got going on, but it’ll do. 

He asks if she wants to take a shower, and after a few moments of resolutely staring at the faded cover of The Man-Wolf, he finally leaves with a huff.

She slips on the watch after the door shuts with an echoing creak. 

The early summer sunrises have been deceptive. It’s Sunday, a little after seven o'clock in the morning. As far as her biological clock can tell, Travis has been delivering meals at a consistent time every day for the past week or so.

Three meals a day, plus a shower. How often does he leave this place? If he actually does have a family of his own, which she doubts given the pure stalker vibe he effortlessly gives off, then how the hell is he explaining being at work so much?

Maybe it’s a cop thing, she ponders, digging into her oatmeal. Apple cinnamon today.

-

Travis lingers for lunch. 

Laura tears into a plain ham sandwich, eyes peeling back the absolutely, totally fascinating tome of The Biology, Ecology, and Behavior of Canis Lupus. Seriously, it’s incredible stuff.

“Have you found anything?” he says haltingly, breaking the silence.

She debates icing him out, but self-preservation kicks in. It’s so, so clear that she can’t. She can’t afford to lose whatever ground she’s gained with him.

“Depends on how you classify ‘anything,’” she drawls, not missing the way his shoulders ease ever so minutely. The observation bolsters her to continue. “Did you know that a wolf pack’s territory can be anywhere from thirty-one to over 1,200 square miles?”

“Nothing else?”

Laura sits up, book abandoned on the bed. “Look, I’m trying. It’s not like I have a lot to work with from the huge North Kill library. If I had other resources, then maybe it would be a different story.”

“Keep digging,” he says lamely. The disappointment settles in his voice with easy acceptance. 

She thinks that’s it, but he’s just… staring at her, and though she’s long-since gotten used to his natural creepiness, the weight of his scrutiny causes her to squirm.

“What?” she asks exasperatedly.

“My family is at the bottom of a well.” 

It’s said so quietly, she almost doesn’t understand what he’s saying. Travis exhales deeply, fixing her a solemn look as if she’s a priest that will exonerate him for his sins. “They’re… stuck. And I’m the only one at the top that’s holding the rope.”

“So?”

His baffled face turns towards her, and his stupid expression infuriates her for reasons she can’t begin to dive into. “What do you mean, ‘so?’”

“I mean, so what?”

He scoffs, shaking his head, but she’s already standing up and walking as much into his space as she can. Though the bars separate them, it’s the closest she’s gotten to him since the night she tried to escape.

The way Travis doesn’t move an inch at her approach speaks of a predator’s confidence. “Family,” he says slowly, “is the most important thing in the world.”

“Bull,” she matches his tone, “shit.”

Travis glares down at her, but there’s a tinge of curiosity in his narrowed eyes. It isn’t clear what he thinks she’s trying to do. She’s not really sure, either. The words just pour out.

“Family doesn’t mean shit if you’re living like shit,” she says harshly. “What kind of life is this?”

He grits his teeth. Already, he’s shutting her out.

“I’m serious, Travis,” something flickers on his face at the sound of his name. “Family is meant to, to build you up or whatever. Not threaten you.”

“That’s not what’s going on,” he denies with a scoff.

“No, you said we’re both in trouble, here. Right?”

"Yeah, spot on,” he says unimpressed. “But what I meant by that is that they’ll kill you, and hate me. Just because I can't tell them you exist doesn't mean I can't fucking trust them."

“That sounds toxic,” she replies.

His quirks a brow. “Really? Coming from your home life?”

“God, would you just stop already,” Laura snaps. “You don’t have to keep bringing it up. Fuck you, man.”

Travis actually has the decency to look somewhat chastised. “What I mean to say is- I’m only saying it because of… of the two of us. In comparison. I’d imagine you’d much rather have a family like mine.”

“Yeah, well. Not all of us got so lucky,” she bites out sarcastically. “Doesn’t mean that other families are perfect. It’s not a comparison.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, opting to study the space over her shoulder. The break in eye contact hits her like a bucket of cold water.

She swallows. “And yet your mom would put a bullet in my skull?”

Travis’ eyes flash, and he chuckles low, a grim, humorless breath that barely skims the surface. “You and me both."

"And what about Kaylee?” she brusquely asks, and his eyes snap back to hers. “The girl who turns into a fucking monster every month?" 

“Kaylee?” he repeats incredulously, then visually wrestles with his next words. “No, Kaylee is the sweetest, most, most kind-hearted soul on earth. This curse is what’s hurting people, not her. She’d never hurt a fly if she could help it.”

" If she could help it?" Laura repeats pointedly.

Travis' hackles rise, and he leans so close that if she wanted to, she could easily wrap her hands around his throat. "My niece would be heartbroken if she knew the kind of rot our family has brought on this town."

They're at a stalemate. 

“I know you’re tired of hunting Silas,” she says, softer this time. “And I won’t stop trying to find other ways to stop this curse. At least give me the locations you’ve managed to track him to, see if I can find more of a correlation. I work with animals, remember?”

It’s bullshit, frankly, but for him to think she can do any of this in the first place tells her that he really doesn’t know what veterinarians do.

She can’t deny that the idea of finding a cure for lycanthropy fascinates her. Being a research veterinarian one day has always been the plan— studying animals in a lab environment, looking for ways to prevent and cure diseases. But that’s something… way off in the future. Way above her current pay grade.

Laura’s only interned at a vet clinic, much less gone to actual vet school! The most she’s done is read books and prep surgical sites, sometimes having the exciting job of preparing intravenous lines for anesthetics. Nothing that’s prepared her for what he expects her to do.

But if he ever realizes that she can’t help him find a cure, what then? What happens to her?

“I really do need the information you have about him,” she pleads. “Not the fairy tales. At least, not at first.”

His eyes dart past hers, then back up. This close, she can see the amber curls in his irises, like sunlight shining through a bottle of whiskey.

"Finish your damn lunch,” he says.

And that’s that.

-

Somewhere in the precinct, a door shuts not once, but twice.

It’s three o’clock.

At six o’clock, it happens again.

-

July 4th, 2022

The map Travis gives her is comically large, and not for the first time, Laura is thankful for existing in a time where GPS and Google exist. 

She tapes the map of the East Coast's major roads and cities to one of the walls of her cell, and it easily swallows up the stone. Little red stickers march across Maine to Virginia, conglomerating within upstate New York and branching out as far down as Georgia.

And, that? That’s the problem.

For as much as Silas was confirmed to still be within the state, he was also apparently gallivanting amongst peach orchards and just barely skimming the top of Jacksonville. Talk about ‘Florida Man.’ 

How many deaths is he responsible for? How many others are out there looking for Silas, trying desperately to end their own curse?

The questions consume her from within.

The dark swatch of nothingness has always been there for as long as she can remember, threatening to burn up each carefully laid thought and good intention. But now, as she considers each pin on the map, each one the center of a bullseye, that same nothingness purrs in hunger. 

It electrifies her. It disturbs her.

Laura’s ears perk. The familiar chords of Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. are carried down the hallway, and her heart gives a little tug.

“Could you turn it up?” she calls down the hallway. Though it strains her neck, she’s able to just barely see him appear in the gloom cast down a ways. Late sunset paints the walls. He’s probably going to head home soon, if he ever leaves.

He fixes her with something akin to amusement. “I didn’t take you for a Springsteen fan.”

“My mom used to listen to him all the time,” she says, and instantly imagines swallowing her own tongue. The song, the burgeoning sense of hope today; all of it brings on a false sense of security.

Travis stills, and in the space of a breath, he moves. She watches him scoop up the radio, casually walking into her line of sight, and place it right next to the old chair that’s become a staple of the decor.

You end up like a dog that's been beat too much 

'Til you spend half your life just coverin' up

The words rush over her like a familiar friend, bringing with them memories of wide-mouth smiles, her mom’s blonde hair whipping freely in the wind, both of them singing with abandon. She leans her head back against the wall, shutting out the rest of the world for just a little while.

Aerosmith, Journey, Bon Jovi. Laura was raised on classic 80’s rock, but nothing reminded her of her mom more than the slightly cheesy, ‘total powerhouse of a man’ that was Bruce Springsteen. 

Whenever it was a particularly bad day, and they needed to get away from the house just long enough for the caustic bitterness to settle into a slow ache, her mom would take her to get ice cream.

They’d get in the old Honda Civic and dash down to the local ice cream shop with the windows down, regardless of the time of year, and blast the radio. Her mom would ask her about school, talk about the latest crazy headline she’d seen- anything surface level.

It was never safe to go far from the neighborhood; most often, they’d circle the block several times over, always keeping an eye out in case another car returned to the driveway before them.

Most of the time, they made it back before. 

But not always.

And when they didn’t, Laura wished they never returned in the first place. That they’d have just kept driving, on and on, staying on the highway till the gas tank ran on fumes and hitchhike from there.

God, she had envisioned all of it so clearly: ditch the car, get out of the state. Laura had no aunts or uncles on her mom’s side, but there was a cousin in Oregon that would probably spot them the emergency funds for a flight.

Of course, her mom would never leave.

Travis’ phone vibrates.

She jolts back to awareness. He doesn’t so much as look at her before brusquely leaving, clutching his pocket as if he could smother the sound. The radio stays behind. 

“Damn,” she mutters to no one. Her wrist reads three o’clock.

Travis isn’t treating her like… before , and this observation sinks in more than it should. 

She thinks about the extra berth he gave her that morning when delivering her breakfast. The avoidance in his gaze, never straying too long in her direction. At first, she thought he was being more wary because of her escape attempt. But it feels like more than that.

Laura scowls at the thought. It shouldn’t bother her. 

It shouldn’t, but it does.

-

When he returns with a dinner tray, Laura is laying on her stomach in bed, nose buried in a book on German werewolf fairy tales.

“Who called?” she asks him.

No response.

“Was it your niece?”

The door at the end of the hallway closes with finality.

-

July 5th, 2022

"Hey! Travis!" she calls. 

A moment later, the devil himself appears. Privately, she relishes in the fact that even as a prisoner, she still holds some modicum of command.

“Let’s stick with Sheriff Hackett,” he says with a wilting glare over her shoulder.

Let’s not. She blinks when a hand is unceremoniously shoved in front of the cell bars. Long, faintly scarred fingers uncurl to reveal two little pills. 

“Take ‘em,” he says impatiently. 

“What?”

“I- Uh,” he falters. “They’re for your,” he waves his hand in the general direction of her pelvis, and her brow raises of its own accord.

Oh. Her period cramps. Because he knows she’s on her period. Because she totally bled all over the floor-

“That’s what you’ve been giving me this whole time?” she asks over the absolutely mortifying train of thought.

He blinks. “Yeah. I thought that was obvious.”

“Um, no. I had no idea what they were.”

“Huh,” he says. She gets the faintest impression that he’s embarrassed. “They’ve been missing from the trays.”

“I’ve been flushing them down the toilet,” Laura says bluntly. “But, uh. Thanks.” 

Her fingers brush the skin of his palm when she takes the pills, and his fingers twitch, then curl as if to hide the gesture. The residual tension in the room prompts her to clear her throat before the silence threatens to swallow them whole.

“That’s not what I called you here for.”

“I gathered that,” he says drily. 

She nods towards the map. “Have you actually left town for any of these sightings?” 

Travis clicks his tongue, effectively changing the conversation. “I’ve tracked him with my own connections, but I can’t exactly leave town. Anything outside of a few hours has been undoable.”

“For six years?” she asks incredulously. This guy hasn’t left the area for over half a decade, at least?

“You heard me.”

That’s… not exactly hopeful. “Is anyone else checking up on these sightings?”

He huffs. “At times. But the moment we’re able to follow up on one lead, he’s already long gone. It’s not like we can go through a formal process, here. The only description we have is a feral albino boy.”

“That sounds pretty specific to me,” she says.

He snorts, but it sounds hollow. “You’d think so.”

She grills him about the other leads he’s followed up on, and though he surprisingly answers at least half of them more or less directly, despondency steadily descends upon her shoulders like a familiar shawl.

For one man, he has looked everywhere. 

From keyword filters on local newspaper headlines to online hunting chat rooms, he’s set up enough of a system to generate an up-to-date database of where Silas might be. His entire family, apparently, also goes out every full moon to hunt for him and other werewolves that may have been bit. Well, aside from his niece, who they lock up in a fucking basement.

“What the fuck? You keep a werewolf under your living room?”

“It's once a month. And, it’s the family home, not mine, so no.”

The more she digs out of him, the more it sits in. If she has any hope of finding and stopping Silas, it lies with Travis Hackett. 

For now.

-

At three o’clock, she’s alone.

Two doors shut.

At six o’clock, two doors shut again.

He brings her dinner.

-

“You know,” she says around a mouth of meat-y pasta that was most definitely microwaved, “we could work together better if you let me out.”

He eyes her shrewdly. “I think this setup works great.”

“Of course you do,” she snaps, then reigns it back in. “But I could actually help you gather resources, rather than review everything you’ve already read a million times.”

“Gather?” he repeats. “Hell no, in your wildest dreams, not happening. Take your pick.”

"So, what? You're going to keep me locked up in here forever? That's the plan?" His silence makes her gut churn. Her voice is small when she says, "People are going to start looking for me."

'People' meaning Max's parents and sister. Maybe a college professor or two will wonder why she isn't coming back to finish her degree, but her social circle hasn't exactly been thriving since senior year of high school. 

But he doesn't need to know that.

"I can't trust you," he stresses. There's almost a hint of apologetic sympathy on his face. "Once Silas is out of the equation, I don't care what happens to me. Hell, you can lock me up yourself. But I can't risk this secret coming back on my family." 

“C’mon, Travis,” she says, leaning forward. “Of the two of us, which one of us has more experience with the internet?”

“Sheriff Hackett,” he repeats as if he’s helping a foreigner with the phonetics of his name, “and if you really think I’m going to give you access to the internet, you’re goddamn insane.”

“You think I'm insane?” she shoots back. He sneers at her attitude, and they fall into an uneasy stalemate.

She doesn’t get why he stuck around for dinner. Instead of his usual drop-off and leave, he went against every pattern she’s built up of him and took a seat in the old chair outside of her cell and produced a bottle of bourbon from his pocket, taking sips occasionally in the silence.

Despite being the only free one here, he must be desperate for the company, not that she’s complaining. It's a testament to how lonely she is that she’ll take even the ill-tempered, slightly manic cop over the darkness of her own thoughts.

“Happy fourth,” she says, apropos of nothing. She forgot to say it yesterday.

It’s already July. Her and Max would be toasting s’mores with kids right now, probably not lighting off any fireworks due to fire hazards in the middle of the woods.

Travis leans back with a soft exhale, jostling the bottle against his thigh.

“Happy fourth,” he replies. 

It sounds like an agreement, coming from him.

-

July 6th, 2022

The day starts like every other.

Breakfast, handcuffs, shower. Reading more tales, jotting down notes. 

Lunch. Notes. Doors.

The last one causes her heartbeat to pick up, but she tampers it down as best she can. Sweat gathers on her palms, and she keeps wiping her hands on the sweatpants he’s given her, biding her time with tidying up.

Maybe it’s a dumb idea. 

Actually, it’s most definitely a dumb idea. But Laura can’t spend another hour locked up knowing that this might be the answer. If she’s played her cards right, read the situation correctly, then everything should be fine. Right?

‘Don’t play stupid games,’ her mom’s voice, warm but raspy from years of smoking, chastises her. ‘You need to just be careful and wait. Who knows? It might work itself out.’

No, I can’t, she thinks morosely. We’ve seen how that worked out for you.

She’s not going to be like her mom. If Laura’s ever going to get out of here and fix this mess, it’s going to have to be by her own hands. 

One door shuts. She checks her wrist: six o’ clock. 

There’s no turning back now.

“Boss! Hey, Travis!” she calls out. 

She screams louder, cupping her hands. “Hey! The door shut behind me! Could you let me out?”

“...’s that?” a faint woman’s voice carries down the hall.

“...orry about her.”

“Hey!” Laura calls again louder, injecting some cheer into her voice that hopefully doesn’t come off as deranged. “This stupid thing shut on me again.”

“...Um, Uncle T? It sounds like she’s stuck.”

A woman about her age sporting cropped dark hair and a pink hoodie hesitantly walks through the door, and Laura grins widely, chuckling self-deprecatingly.

“Hey! Kaylee, right?” she asks, casually leaning against the bars. 

The woman’s eyes widen, and she approaches with a tentative smile. “Yeah…?”

Travis watches from the doorway.

“Nice to meet you, my name’s Jess. I’m the new intern,” she lies earnestly. Kaylee glances past her, no doubt eyeing the perfectly straightened bed, map and books hidden from sight beneath the mattress and within the pillow.

To her, it would look like the cell hasn’t been in use for the past ten days. 

“Sorry, Sheriff Hackett,” she says, voice as sweet as syrup. “I was just finishing up in here when I thought I saw a brick loose, and the door shut on me. The stupid thing's stuck again.”

Travis’ teeth grind together, lips twitching like a live snake. If he doesn’t kill her right here, she imagines he’ll do it once his niece leaves.

"Travis has told me a lot about you!” she says brightly, turning her attention back on the totally oblivious girl. “He can't stop bragging. You’re thinking of applying for college, right?"

Kaylee beams, and if Laura weren’t so desperate in this moment, she’d almost feel guilty for laying the false foundation. 

“Yeah!” She tosses a curious look at her uncle, no doubt picking up on the murderous vibes coming off in waves. “I mean, I’ve totally been thinking about it. I’ve just had a hard time convincing my family,” she backtracks slowly.

“Well, if you’re able to convince them, I’ve been attending St. Lawrence and I love it. I’m studying to be a vet, and they’ve got great professors for the sciences.”

Kaylee gives her a smaller smile. “That’s great. I’m, uh, looking to study the arts.”

“Oh!” Laura leans in, effectively avoiding eye contact with the shadow behind her. “What arts?”

“Um, honestly?” Kaylee gives a little self-deprecating laugh, and something about it is so familiar, yet she can’t put a finger on why. “I really love to paint… and sculpt, but I’m not that great at that. Which is why I’d like to get a degree, maybe learn how to paint on something that isn’t a flat canvas.”

“That’d be cool! I’ve never taken a pottery class, but it looks like fun.” Small talk has never before held such a weight. There’s no sign that it isn’t working to endear her to his niece, but Travis is still eerily silent, and this whole situation is a tad too ridiculous to not be skeptical of.

A slight frown perches on Kaylee’s lips, and she casts a look to the man behind her. “Uncle T, why aren’t you letting her out already?”

Because I know you’re a werewolf, and if your family finds out, we're screwed. Kaylee’s eyes dart between the two of them.

Like a magnet, Laura locks onto Travis, and he tilts his head ever so slightly. She holds her breath.

He steps forward, slowly unclipping the ring from his belt. 

The key slips in with a soft click—

—and he lets her out.

[xhanisai]

Truth Or Dare?

AO3 / FFN

Summary:

Adrien gulped, completely frozen in his seat under the gaze of his demonic classmates, the almighty, notorious peer-pressure throwing a concert whilst his Lady continued to act like that the string on the floor was far more interesting than the fact that her newly discovered partner was currently in the hot seat. 'Now how do I answer this!?' He panicked internally, twiddling with his thumbs and praying to the Gods more reliable than Plagg that Marinette would suddenly come up with some brilliant, top-notch plan that would surely get them both out of this. Especially if she doesn't want him to whimper out: "Ya got me! It was Marinette when she kissed the evil out of me after I got shot by Dislocoeur, hahaha! Oh, do I need to mention that I have no recollection of it whatsoever and that I was decked up in my usual catsuit whilst she was in her polka-dotted onesie? A brilliant first kiss, amirite!? Not to mention that our second kiss was also wiped from my memory, cheers for that Alya and Nino!"

Pairing - Adrinette Prompt - 'Truth or Dare?' ~(x)~ . . . Adrien was fucked. He was entirely, thoroughly, immensely fucked. And not in the literal way much to the teen's utter dismay and painful frustration. And certainly not anytime soon, judging by his princesse's stiff, flustered posture who was on the floor across him, along with the rest of their class sitting in a circle (sans Lila and Chloé, Dieu merci). Gremlin-like smirks were etched on their friends' mischievous faces and sinister cackles escaped their mouths like the Madhatter from Alice Au Pays Des Merveilles. Even timid ol' Sabrina wore a grin that would rival the Cheshire cat. But never mind that. What was the cherry on top was how both he and Marinette just found out each other's identities no more than ten minutes prior. The two idiots were desperately sprinting back to collège Françoise Dupont after their latest akuma battle without noticing the other, only to literally collide into one other and their transformation to wear off immediately, leaving them both with matching gaping expressions. If luck was on his side, the scenario would have carried on with Adrien whipping out 'suave move #9236' and channelling his inner 'Tamaki Suoh', helping his Lady to her feet with a smile so sexy and seductive (guaranteed to win her over of course) and then him proceeding to ask her out for a cup of coffee where they can talk! Then, he would have totally charmed her with another brilliant smile that would have surely fly kicked away whatever feelings she had for that 'other' boy (he named him M. Imbécile), caressing that soft, soft cheek of hers with his hand and surely they would have leaned in for a hot, passionate, true love's kiss (and he'd finally know what it's like to be properly smooched)! MAIS NON. NON. His five seconds of absolute happiness, of pure bliss after finding out that the two girls he bloody loved so damn much and practically worshipped, were one and the same- WAS INTERRUPTED. . The inconveniently timed Ladyblogger and her DJ boyfriend arrived at the scene, practically snatching both him and Marinette away and back to class, babbling about how Mme. Bustier was going to arrive late hence they were going to take advantage of it. By taking advantage, they meant avoiding all responsibilities by playing a specific game. A game that Adrien has learnt to now, unconditionally despise. . "We're not getting any younger here, Buttercup. Tell us, who was your first kiss? And don't even think about lying your way out, we can tell by your face that you definitely got some sort of action~" Alya's glasses flashed in such a devilish way, even Le Papillon would have found himself shitting his pants. "Of course, if you don't want to answer the truth...you can always pick dare," 'LIKE HELL I WILL!' The last person to have picked 'dare' was Rose and she was instructed to deliver a hearty smack to Kim's bum! The teen model pretty much vowed that the only booty his hands were allowed to touch was Marinette's, with consent obviously. And vice versa. And the person before Rose who chose 'dare' was Nino! He was dared to sneak outside, climb to the top of the building's rooftop and sing Rick Astley's 'Never Gonna Give You Up' from the top of his lungs, recording himself live on Instagram as proof. It was a miracle that he never got caught by the staff! Again, the feline hero very much preferred that any attempts of his serenading would only be heard by the ears of the love of his life. . Adrien gulped, completely frozen in his seat under the gaze of his demonic classmates, the almighty, notorious peer-pressure throwing a concert whilst his Lady continued to act like that the string on the floor was far more interesting than the fact that her newly discovered partner was currently in the hot seat. 'Now how do I answer this!?' He panicked internally, twiddling with his thumbs and praying to the Gods more reliable than Plagg that Marinette would suddenly come up with some brilliant, top-notch plan that would surely get them both out of this. Especially if she doesn't want him to whimper out: "Ya got me! It was Marinette when she kissed the evil out of me after I got shot by Dislocoeur, hahaha! Oh, do I need to mention that I have no recollection of it whatsoever and that I was decked up in my usual catsuit whilst she was in her polka-dotted onesie? A brilliant first kiss, amirite!? Not to mention that our second kiss was also wiped from my memory, cheers for that Alya and Nino!" Unfortunately, (once again) for him, not even his pleading kitty eyes were able to penetrate the wall of aloofness that Marinette held between them, leaving him completely on his own, ready to be torn apart by their friends' malevolent hands. He was the equivalent of a teeny tiny, illegally cute kitten, surrounded by a circle of hungry, deadly, carnivorous wolves, licking their chops! Yet, Marinette remained unphased, pretending to stare out into space and think about what her Maman and Papa would prepare for dinner as if Adrien's scrutinising gaze weren't like arrows all over her side. However, much to her disadvantage, Agreste is her partner and he knew her very, very well. The desperate cat was able to pinpoint the cold sweat that was growing on her forehead, knowing that his presence was starting to get to her and conscious of the fact that she cannot ignore him for long either. 'Come on Marinette, you can't resist me forever. Please help!' His lack of any sort of psychic powers didn't stop him from wishing that she could read his mind but dammit did he try. 'Don't you love your pauvre Chaton!? Aidez-moi s'il vous plaît, My Lady!!!' Just before he could resort to begging out loud, Alix Kubdel... ...snickered. Simply from that evil, ominous sound, both Adrien and Marinette paled on the spot at a speed faster than M. Césaire's panther could ever dream of running at. "Ever since we asked you that question, not once have you looked away from Marinette...now why is that~?" The short girl's insight caused the rest of the class to gasp cheekily and "Oooh~?" simultaneously, their ferocious appetite for juicy gossip now at full throttle much to both heroes' apprehension. "And you, Mari! You look like a kid who got caught stealing from the cookie jar. I think the two of you have something big to admit to the rest of us, hmm?" "...No-oooo...?" Dupain-Cheng refused to make eye contact with anyone, her lips stuck between what looked like a grimace and a fake smile, continuing her sentence which was just as truthful as Jagged Stone's claims of being in his mid-twenties. "I am still a lowly virgin maiden in the kissing department...heheh...heh..." Adrien on the other hand blinked owlishly as he finally came to a conclusion, his singular working brain cell grinding its gear through his thought process. Oh? Ohoh??? OHOHOOHOH??????? . "So that means I was your first kiss too?" . If there was a compilation labelled "Top Ten Ways That Adrien Mothafuckin' Stupid Agreste Fucked Up"... This would be number one. "...You didn't hear me say that out loud...right?" He gulped meekly, shrinking under the astonished looks that everyone gave him, his Lady's jaw dropping further than what he assumed was humanely possible. He. Was. Fucked. . The entire classroom erupted with utter chaos. Ranging from high pitched squeals from Alya, Rose, Mylène and Kim to "HOLY SHIT!" and "HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!?" from Alix, Nino, Juleka and so on. Even Marinette was left burning brighter than a tomato, covering her face in embarrassment along with her iconic mantra: "THIS IS A DISASTER!!!" and shaking her head. Money was exchanged from secretive bets that were placed on the model and designer, naughty comments were thrown around left and right and even more! If one were to enter the room right now, they'd think that they've just stumbled across a hectic zoo. Never in his life did Adrien want the ground to swallow him up so badly or even run away at the speed of sound to an unknown island where he would live off of fruit and grow old all alone without ever getting married. Marinette probably- no, she definitely hates him now. Her refusal to come out of her 'Don't talk to me, I'm catastrophising' human ball and face him was more than enough evidence to prove that. Who was he kidding, thinking that he would be able to get such a wonderful, spectacular girl like her to fall for a hopeless, ridiculous nincompoop like him? His attempts in the past never worked out before and it certainly wouldn't have worked out now. Forget about pursuing a romantic relationship with her, he's one-hundred percent sure that he's absolutely tarnished what was left of their friendship! He can visualise his terrifying, depressing excuse of a future already. No more shy, cute greetings with a gorgeous smile in the mornings before class from Marinette. No more fun banter and warm hugs on their favourite patrol environments from Marinette. No more cheeky jokes and flirty teasing from Marinette. No more timid conversations and saying his name in the most softest way he's ever heard from Marinette. And, no more perfect "Bien joué!" fist bumps after an akuma battle from Marinette... How...how was he supposed to live without her? 'Shit, I can feel my eyes starting to water...' He took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling to force the traitorous tears away from daring to come out. The last thing Marinette needed was to deal with a dumb crybaby like him after he's just embarrassed her like that with his stupid, big mouth- "-But when did this happen, Marinette??? Girl, why didn't you tell me!?" Snapping out of his self-pity, Adrien tuned back into the pandemonium, wincing at how mortified Marinette still looked (albeit she was no longer in her cocoon of doom). She pursed her lips at Alya with that adorable pout of hers, unsure of how to answer with something that didn't sound like a terrible excuse. . Finally, a solid answer blared in Adrien's brain, the blonde teen adamant that he turned the situation around and salvaged what was left of the bond between him and his Princesse. For now, he can focus on the dreadful future after he got the current situation sorted. He would do anything to make Marinette feel good around him again. "It was during that time we were at le Musée Grévin when I invited Alya, Nino, Marinette and Manon to join me," He ignored the way that their classmates leaned closer with wide grins, focusing on sending a quiet apology to Marinette's direction with his pleading eyes alone. "I was being dumb and tried to play a prank on Marinette when the other three were away. I ended up tripping and Marinette tried to help me but I accidentally pulled her down with me and...we accidentally kissed..." Although the scenario wasn't fully true, Marinette did manage to land a light peck upon his lips during that incident and that's all it took for it to be branded in his memory. The sear of foreign warmth that left his lips in tingles, the subtle taste of strawberry gloss that left him hungry for more and the unadulterated softness that rivalled even the most expensive of silk. He hoped that his little white lie towards the end was enough to alleviate what was left of Marinette's embarrassment, deaf to their classmates' coos and brows furrowed to emphasise how sorry he was to the girl he loves. Although there was still a hint of pink on her cheeks, her expression was something that he wasn't able to decipher and that only made his heart race even faster than before. 'Please don't hate me, please don't hate me, please don't hate me-' "So how was the kiss, then?" Ivan waggled his eyebrows, both him and his girlfriend playfully winking at Marinette at her protesting stammers. "Oh? E-Erm...it was very quick and brief so I didn't get a chance to enjoy it-" His treacherous eyes decided to land on Marinette's lips midway, his mind screaming to stop digging a deeper hole for himself. He wasn't quick enough to flit his gaze away, the indication that he wanted to kiss her again so painfully obvious that even a blind person would have noticed. "-It was very soft and nice, however! I don't regret it-" Suddenly... . ...Marinette stood up. Adrien felt like his heart was going to bust out of his chest with the way it ricocheted against his ribcage, his emerald eyes wide with apprehension and his breath lodged in his throat as if a vice was clasped around his neck. Was she going to kill him? He certainly thought he deserved it. "Alya," The heroine in disguise began, the teen model unable to hide his flinch. "Dare me to kiss Adrien." 

She lifted her head to face her partner, her sapphire blues no longer hidden in the shadows of her fringe and sparkling with both amusement and...love? Her kissable lips were upturned into a confident smile with a gloss that was begging for him to taste and he was absolutely losing his mind. Was he dreaming? He must be dreaming. Yes. No way in the seven heavens would Marinette, THE Marinette, would want to kiss HIM, the embodiment of bad luck! Yet, the twinkling of her eyes and the warmth that radiated from her as she walked closer and closer towards him said otherwise. He didn't even hear Alya's excited declaration for Marinette's dare, solely focused on the way his Lady kneeled in front of him, smoothed her hands towards his cheeks and cupped them so gingerly. . "Pucker up, Buttercup," Marinette murmured against his lips with an endearing smirk, grazing her nose with his and rubbing his cheeks with her thumbs before sealing the kiss. . With all the romantic daydreams and boyish yearning he went through when it came to Marinette's lips, Adrien thought that he was well prepared for the real deal if the day were to ever come, disregarding his bad luck of course. However, he has been wrong before. He's absolutely, definitely, positively wrong now. The brief, shocked, brush of lips back in the wax museum was barely a taster. Barely a glimpse of the real thing. Not even close to a sample of the luxury. From the moment she pressed her lips against his, Adrien was hit with an outstanding overwhelm of fervour, tenderness and sweetness. His body instinctively shuddered as a pleasant fire seeped from her mouth to his and then coursed through the veins of the rest of his body, his hand that was clutching his precious good luck charm gift from Marinette then loosening its grip and automatically reaching for her cheek. His piano fingers dug into the locks of one of her ponytails, entangling them. 'If this really is a dream, then please, don't wake me up,' The sensation was slightly odd and just, indescribable at the same time. Yet, the more he tasted that strawberry gloss, the more her lips moved against his, the further he fell in love, addicted to the sugar that he's craved for so long. His red-tipped ears were oblivious to the class' whoops and cheers, his heart crashing against his chest louder than ever and the feel of hers doing just the same against him had him soaring. 'She never hated me all along, right? This isn't a kiss of hate at all,' But most importantly, the feeling of Marinette's pulse quickening from when his fingertips slid down to meet the side of her sensitive neck, cradling the back of it and the almost inaudible whimper she let out, was branded to his touch and memory like an imprint. 'So this is a real first kiss? Is this what Marinette felt when she kissed me to get rid of Kim's spell? How did she manage to keep her composure around me since then?' Just as Marinette pulled away, her eyes shimmering with wonderful emotions and her lips as beautifully rosy as her cheeks, Adrien couldn't resist and pulled her back in without a beat. As if to make up for all those missed opportunities, all the moments where he could have stolen her breath away and all those unsaid words that surely would have made them happy. They could talk about the reveal and their feelings afterwards in the safety of Marinette's humble balcony without any prying eyes. They could sort out their overwhelming emotions and bask through their memories over that cup of coffee that Adrien now has the confidence to ask her out on. But just for now, the two of them wanted to enjoy their present and make the most of it. 'Sweet, sweet, sweet, she's so sweet...' . . . ~(x)~ A/N: Ah shit it's six am. I'll edit this tomorrow.

[jschllatt]

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆’𝐒 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐁𝐄 𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐘 | 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦

Prompt: After a difficult breakup, you seek your (ex) best friend for comfort. 

Warnings: Angst, breakup, swearing

Pairing: Dream x GN!Reader (Platonic)

Words: 2.2k

Masterlist

I wrote this for the amazing, talented Dreamie! Go follow @dreamiewrites or else >:( /lh

Love hurts. 

Months ago, if someone were to ask you to describe love, you probably would’ve said something along the lines of ‘passionate’ or ‘fulfilling,’ having been unfamiliar with its heart wrenching effects. Now, as you sat in your car, breathing erratically as you tried to process the words that echoed perpetually in your scattered brain, the only thing you felt was utter misery. The last seven months you had spent with him were pure bliss—at least, they were in your eyes. After years of searching for someone to make you feel whole, you had finally found that person. And for some time, it was perfect. Your relationship was void of any complications; the two of you hardly ever fought, and when you did, it was over something minor that was forgotten about after a few hours. 

But then, things went downhill. 

As time passed, it became glaringly obvious that the two of you didn’t feel the same anymore. Days that were once spent in each other's company were endured alone, the two of you busying yourselves in a futile attempt to ignore your dwindling relationship. Every passing hour was a constant reminder of the ache in your chest, the void that was slowly but surely swallowing your heart whole as you felt your world crashing down.

 Then, he broke you. He uttered those dreaded words that tore at your heart in such a way that it became hard to breathe. And then, he made you leave, suffocating you entirely. 

The sun had begun to set by the time you found the courage to start your car, heart pounding rapidly in your constricted chest. Your watery eyes flickered toward his house, taking in every possible detail your obscured vision could manage before you pulled out of his driveway for the last time. Sorrow crept up your throat in the form of an unwanted lump and you couldn’t help but let out a prolonged sob, feeling your body tremble as an onslaught of tears poured down your face. You weren’t sure where to go. Having been accustomed to living with your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—for the past few months, you hadn’t planned on moving out; at least not for a while. Feeling foolish of your naivety, another sob escaped your lips, any remaining sliver of hope you had vanishing quickly along with the final bits of your composure. Your cries made it difficult to drive, vision clouded by a thick sheen of tears as you hiccupped pitifully. Sucking in a deep breath in a failed attempt to steady yourself, you continued to drive aimlessly into the night, unsure of where to go. A few silent minutes had passed and you found it increasingly difficult to see the road, your teary, bloodshot eyes obscuring your vision, and pulled over onto the side of the street. Despite the hollowness you felt in your chest, the initial wave of shock had subsided, leaving you numb. The unbearable silence that hung heavily in your parked car allowed for your thoughts to run freely and that was when you finally processed your situation. Not only were you alone, but you were also incredibly exhausted and helpless. Your hands sported a slight tremor as you reached for your phone, your bleary, red eyes finding difficulty making out any of the contacts you scrolled through. You felt your breath hitch as soon as you saw Clay’s name and for a brief moment, a shaky finger hovered over his contact, contemplating the outcome. Then, without a second thought, you pressed call. In any other circumstance, you would’ve avoided contacting him, especially considering the recent distance that had grown between the two of you, but you were too desperate to care. 

It had been a few months since you’d last talked to Clay. At one point, the two of you were inseparable. You met in high school and became friends, eventually growing significantly closer. You spent most of your free time with the boy, finding comfort in his congenial presence and found yourself beside him more often than not. Even after you graduated, the two of you remained strong. That was, until, he introduced you to his friend—his stupid fucking friend—and unknowingly destroyed you. 

Clay answered after the fourth ring, his voice soft yet tinged with a subtle hesitancy as he uttered, “Hello?” Feeling guilt creep up in your chest, you couldn’t help but feel selfish, suddenly regretful of your decision. It had been months since you last talked to him and you had only considered reaching out to him simply because you had no one else to call. “Hey.” You replied before you could stop yourself, cringing at the waver of your tone. There was a slight shuffling before Clay answered again, “What’s up? We haven’t talked in a while.” A fresh set of tears flooded your eyes at his innocent words, followed by a sob you didn’t mean to let out. Clay immediately frowned, furrowing his brows in confusion. “Are you okay? Talk to me.” Shaking your head, you sniffled sadly before whimpering, “We broke up.”

That was all Clay needed to hear in order to understand why you had called him. He felt his body tense as you continued to cry, finding difficulty keeping his voice level as he asked, “What happened? Do you wanna talk about it?” You shut your eyes, leaning back in your seat with tear-stained cheeks. Lifting up your sleeve-covered hand to wipe at your dripping nose, you sniffled once again, weakly replying, “N-no, I just…” Clay waited patiently for you to continue, “can I just come over for a little while? I feel horrible asking, especially because we haven’t talked in so long, but I just...I have nowhere else to go.” Clay felt his heart shatter at your broken words, a deep ache arising in his chest. “Of course, you can stay as long as you want. Do you need me to come get you?” Mumbling a shaky ‘no,’ you tried to regain your composure, wiping away the remainder of tears that dampened the surface of your skin. “Alright. Just drive safe, okay? Call me back if you need me to come get you.” 

“Okay. Thank you so much, Clay, I don’t know how to thank you, I-”

“There’s no need to thank me. I told you I’d always be here for you, didn’t I?”

He did. Even though it was years ago, you’d never forget the night he told you that—the night in which you’d gotten your heart broken for the first time. Bodies were swarming around you as you swayed subtly to the music, eyes scanning over the crowd of drunken teenagers in hopes that you would find your boyfriend. Following your gaze, Clay yelled over the music, “Can’t find him?” Shaking your head in disappointment, you stood on your tip-toes, giving the room a final once-over before giving up. Your boyfriend had practically begged you to go to some random party with him, but conveniently ignored the countless texts you had sent him, thus leading to Clay accompanying you instead.  “I’m sure you’ll find him soon.” Your best friend reasoned, noticing your dismay. With a tight smile, you nodded weakly, feeling disheartened and slightly embarrassed of your boyfriend’s absence. You tried to sound nonchalant as you replied, “Yeah, I’m gonna go to the bathroom really quick. Watch my drink?” Clay nodded in response, shooting you a reassuring grin before you headed upstairs. When you finally reached the top of the stairs, you were met with a confusing hallway. It revealed four doors, all in which were shut, paint chipping at the edges of each in a rather noticeable manner. Unsure of which led to the bathroom, you tried the first door on the left. No luck. Huffing, you tried the door on the right. Still nothing. Trying a third door, you cringed as it’s hinges squeaked noisily. If the grimy, faded paint wasn’t a dead giveaway of the house’s outdatedness, then the unpleasant groans of its features certainly were. You grimaced at the deafening screech, and then your heart dropped into your stomach. From inside the bathroom stood your boyfriend, lips locked with someone whose face was obscured from your view. Upon noticing your presence, your boyfriend nearly jumped in surprise, his expression one of regret as he watched your face fall. Feeling your stomach grow sick at the sight, you slammed the door shut before either of you could say a word, hurrying down the stairs to find Clay. 

“That was quick,” he observed with an amused smile once you neared him, his pleased countenance fading once he noticed your crestfallen expression. “I have to go.” Your voice was quiet, nearly inaudible over the yelling of the rowdy crowd around you, and your fingers wrapped around Clay’s arm, your grip a silent indication of your distress. “What happened?” He asked, eyeing the hold you had on his arm as you tried desperately to pull him away from the crowd. “I found him, h-he…” You trailed off, still appalled by your discovery, and felt your eyes begin to well up with tears. Clay frowned, using the grip you had on his arm to weave you around the jumbled mass of drunken teenagers around you. You didn’t let go of him until the two of you made it to his car, silent as Clay waited for you to tell him what you’d seen. Staring down into your lap, your expression was one of sorrow as a few tears slipped down your cheeks, dripping onto your thighs silently. “I found him,” You started, chuckling dryly as the recent memory replayed in your head, “he was cheating on me.” Clay stared at you intently, his expression stoic though he felt himself grow furious. The thought of someone breaking your heart made him furious, and the sight of you crying made him want to pummel your stupid boyfriend into the ground until he was a bloody pulp. “I’m so sorry, I can’t believe he would do that to you. You don’t deserve that.” He reached out to grab your hand, his touch soothing as he continued, “I’ll beat his ass if you want.” Clay’s offer elicited a broken laugh from your trembling lips. The sound made him smile, but he found himself growing solemn once again as he reassured you. “I mean it. No one hurts my best friend without getting their ass kicked. Now c’mere.” He opened his arms so he could embrace you, to which you gladly accepted. A few quiet moments passed and you mumbled into his shoulder, “Thank you, Clay. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” The boy smiled to himself, rubbing a comforting hand up and down your back before promising, “Of course. I’ll always be here for you no matter what.” 

Chuckling sadly, you couldn’t help but smile at his words, “Yeah, you did.” The memory flooded your heart with a deeper wave of sadness, a sudden longing filling up your chest as you recounted that night with a sad smile. Clay had always been there for you, and at times, you were too blind to see it. The thought brought more tears to your eyes and you tried to push away your sadness with a slight clear of your throat. “I meant it then, I mean it now. I’ll always be here for you no matter what.” He repeated. There was a brief silence before he spoke again, his voice steady, “I’ll see you when you get here, okay?” You nodded in a hopeless attempt to compose yourself, feeling some of the hollowness in your heart disappear as a result of Clay’s support. You sniffled one last time before replying, “Okay.” The silence that ensued the end of the call left you feeling even emptier than before, the sudden solitude becoming unbearable as you drove wordlessly to Clay’s. The sky had changed significantly since you’d last noticed it, its once cerulean hue now a stormy grey as dusk began to roll in.  

Twenty minutes later, you arrived at Clay’s. You felt oddly nervous as you parked in his driveway, anxiety building up in your stomach though you’d been here countless times before. Everything appeared to be relatively the same, but you felt different, unsure, out of place. Your mind was running a million miles a minute, but you ignored your rampant thoughts and approached the front door, knocking hesitantly. A few seconds passed before Clay swung the door open, his expression softening once he met your eyes. He noticed every little detail that tugged at his heart pitifully, from your tear-stained cheeks to your puffy eyes, and opened his arms immediately. Grateful for the gesture, you nearly collapsed into Clay’s embrace, feeling a lump form in your throat at the simple affection. You couldn’t help but sob into his chest, overcome by a sense of relief as you engulfed yourself in his arms. Clay’s touch was soothing, and you slowly felt your pain dissipate, replaced by the familiarity of his embrace. “It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you.” Clay assured gently, squeezing you briefly as he continued to murmur into your ear, “Everything’s gonna be okay.” You recognized the truth behind his words, realizing that you were here, safe in Clay’s arms, being comforted by your best friend who’d you missed so much. 

You were gonna be okay.

[sevlgi]

how it feels

requested: no

group: stray kids

pairing: hyunjin x gn!reader

genre: fluff, slight angst

contents: high school!au but there’s not much school involved, best friend!hyunjin, mutual pining, hyunjin’s a hopeless romantic

warnings: none

synopsis: comforting your best friend after a breakup usually doesn’t involve making him fall in love with you, but both of you just want to know what it feels like.

a/n: yes hello please enjoy this fic that i’m randomly dropping in the middle of my hiatus 🙃 i’ll hopefully be able to write a gg fic of some kind for y’all soon! the ending of this is so fucking lazy, sorry

word count: 5.3k

“Why, Y/N? Can’t she just tell me why?”

“I know,” you comfort, rubbing your best friend’s back as he sniffles with his knees up to his chest. It’s hard to see him in the darkness that’s brought by the blanket resting over the both of you like a tent, but in the glow of Hyunjin’s phone, you can see the tear tracks on his face. “I’m sorry, Jinnie.”

He pouts and scrubs yet another tear off his cheek, lamenting, “Why can’t I never fall in love with someone who loves me back? We’re only in high school, it shouldn’t be this complicated.”

Dabbing at his face with a tissue, you sigh, “I guess you have bad luck. Or bad judgement, could be both. There are plenty of people who are dying to love and appreciate you, you know, you’re the one who never spares them a glance.”

Hyunjin shakes his head. “No, those people only think I’m the long-haired guy from the dance team. They would treat me the same,” he frowns tearily. “I just want someone who likes me first.”

It always goes this way for him, you know-- you’ve seen it too many times, the stages of your best friend falling in love with someone who leads him on, enjoys his company for a while before dumping him and his expectations in the dirt. Maybe it’s the undeniable pressure to be the perfect partner that Hyunjin wants more than anything, or maybe he just always ends up liking assholes. But either way, it’s carnage for Hyunjin’s heart, and he never gets used to it no matter how many  times it happens.

He’s too sensitive and warm-hearted for his own good, so all he can do after the latest breakup is cry into his favorite pillow on a Tuesday night. If you weren’t so willing to immediately come to comfort him, Hyunjin would’ve been doing it alone, too, and he would’ve cried for far longer than he has.

“Who do I go to prom with now?” he questions sadly, breaking you from your recollections about the many times you’ve done this before.

Unfortunately, all his question does is make you laugh. “It’s a serious question!” Hyunjin protests, scowling at you.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” you say, still chuckling. “I mean, would it be so bad to go to prom with a friend? I’m sure Yeji- wait never mind, not Yeji… I’m sure someone would go with you for appearances’s sake. Or if you don’t mind, just ask Lix, he’s too nice to say no even if he wanted.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” he says, flopping back onto his bed. The clock by his bedside reads 2:33 am, and you can already feel your physics final cursing you. “I want to go with someone I feel something for, you know? It’s our prom, Y/N, I want to feel the prom-ness of promposals and picking out outfits and all that with someone I love.”

You shake your head and push his knee lightly. “Unfortunately, most people our age haven’t even been in love yet, so I doubt many people can help you feel it. But you know what I’m feeling right now?”

“Please don’t say pancakes,” Hyunjin groans, “I’m not waking my parents up to teach us how to use the stove again.”

Throwing a pillow at him, you roll your eyes, “I feel tired, dumbass. And we have finals tomorrow, so how about we invite our friends out to get boba afterwards so we can find you a prom date? You can complain all you like about how the three weeks before prom happens are too short to fall in love, yadda yadda.”

“Fine. But don’t mock me, my many feelings are perfectly valid,” your best friend warns you, and rolls over to turn the light off.

Seungmin frowns when Hyunjin finally shows up at the entrance of the school’s closest boba shop, looking slightly disheveled from dance practice. “Finally. You’re annoying, and late.”

“Jeongin’s later,” Hyunjin objects, plopping down in the spot next to you and accepting the drink you hold out to him. The amount of mango yogurt with boba he drinks is definitely unhealthy (and expensive), but he’ll only groan more about his breakup if you didn’t get it for him. “Why do you literally never complain about him?”

“Jeongin’s cute, and you aren’t.”

The long-haired boy scoffs and sips at his drink sulkily as Felix returns with his own order. “Oh, hey, Hyunjin. I didn’t see you arrive,” Felix smiles sunnily. “Jisung’s not coming today, by the way. Something about having to stay for detention.”

You raise your eyebrows at that new piece of information. “Really? For what?”

“Playing a song entitled ‘Fuck You Bitch’ in Bio, I believe.”

Seungmin snorts in laughter, sighing fondly, “Sounds like him. Anyway, I heard we’re here to solve the problem of Hwang Hyunjin’s prom date. Or… lack thereof?”

“You’re so mean,” your best friend groans. 

Ignoring him, you clasp your hands on the table and lean in conspiratorially. “I doubt any of you haven’t heard at this point, but he got dumped, for lack of a better word, and now, like the rest of us, Hyunjin has no prom date. But unlike us, he actually still wants one.”

“I’ll go with you,” Felix offers, still chewing on the straw in his mouth.

You elbow Hyunjin, who pushes you back before responding. “Thank you, Lixie, but like I explained to Y/N, I want to go with someone I’m in love with. I want to know how it feels, you know?”

“I don’t know,” Seungmin deadpans. At Hyunjin’s crestfallen expression, though, he says, “I mean, we can definitely try, but I feel like the rest of the people left in this school are either too young or not your type. And is 3 weeks really enough for you to be ‘in love again’?”

“Knowing me, maybe…? But I think I’d need to know the person already,” your best friend pouts.

Jeongin arrives then, conveniently missing most of the conversation before he squishes in on the end of the booth. “Well, you better not try to fall in love with me,” the youngest grins.

“I’d never pick you,” Hyunjin jabs back. “But out of the people I do know…”

“I volunteer,” you joke.

Your friends snicker, thankfully, but the boy sitting right next to you turns with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Actually…”

“I don’t like that expression,” Jeongin narrows his eyes.

“I think I could fall in love with Y/N in 3 weeks,” Hyunjin says nonchalantly, as if it’s nothing. He completely ignores all the shocked expressions around him.

In truth, as easy as Hyunjin falls in love, he’s also incredibly easy to fall for. You’d never admit it to him, but you have loved him before, with the kind of burning passion that he somehow has with every one of his relationships.

You’re over it, and you have been for a long time, but him saying that maybe he could love you so very easily makes it all come back up to the surface. “For real?” Felix questions.

“I mean, I don’t like you yet--” your heart falls (stupidly)-- “but I think I could.”

“So… what do you want me to do?” you ask.

Hyunjin smiles, so pure and beautiful that you wonder how his girlfriend just left him, and says, “I want you to help me figure out how it feels to really be in love.” He scrambles to interrupt Seungmin, whose mouth is opening. “It’s just three weeks before prom. We’ll just feel happy together, none of the other shit--”

“You are so cheesy,” Jeongin interjects. “And I think you’ve watched too many dramas. Did you pause to think how Y/N feels about your plan?”

You appreciate your younger friend’s considerateness, but the guilty expression on Hyunjin’s face prompts you to say, “I mean, I don’t think I could like you like that, so… sure. I’ll help you.”

“Really?” All three of your friends ask as they turn to you. 

“Yeah,” you shrug. “What, you fall in love with me in three weeks for prom, I don’t reciprocate, but we move on as friends? I think it’ll be fine.”

“It never works like that though,” Seungmin doubts. He isn’t as cynical as he seems, but in the presence of overly-optimistic Felix and Hyunjin, he and Jeongin always end up as the voice of reason. Usually, you’re with them, but this time, you’re the one enabling the idiocy of the new plan.

Hyunjin grins, “Then we’ll make it work like that.”

With the amount of time that passes before Hyunjin mentions his plot again, you almost forget about it. The first week is normal in a way that makes you nervous-- you hang out like normal, doing homework in the library with your friends as Minho harrasses Chan, eating lunch wherever you can find a spot. There isn’t really time to be alone, just the two of you, and you aren’t sure how Hyunjin is supposed to ‘fall in love’ with you if it’s just normal.

Of course, it doesn’t last long.

It takes a while for it to set in that when Hyunjin asks you to go watch a drive-through movie with him, it isn’t just so he can show off his brand-new car. It’s a date, and it’s stated painfully clearly in his text from the night before.

However, you don’t realize it until you’re literally getting into his car in front of your house.

“Wait. This is a date, isn’t it?”

Hyunjin chuckles nervously, looking over at you in the passenger seat, and you notice for the first time that he’s put on a bit of makeup, and his car doesn’t smell like Jisung’s hot cheetos for once. “I mean, yeah. I meant it when I said I wanted you to help, and I thought you did too? It doesn’t have to be one if you’re backing out, though, it’s totally fine.”

“I’m not backing out,” you shake your head. You really aren’t-- so far, nothing has happened that would make you want to back out yet, and no freshman-year feelings for your best friend have resurfaced just yet. “I just forgot. You know me.”

“Yeah, I know your goldfish brain,” Hyunjin teases, setting the car in motion. There’s lo-fi playing, and he’s a good driver, so you relax. “You forget everything.”

“I do not! You’re the one who has to be reminded of everyone’s birthday but mine,” you protest. If he wasn’t driving, you would shove him, and you remind him of that, to his dismay.

Hyunjin hums as soon as the two of you fall into comfortable silence, your foot tapping lightly to the music, and with the sun setting on the distant horizon, it’s so familiar. You try to interrupt the peace anyway. “So, what movie are we seeing?”

“10 Reasons I Hate You,” he answers. “It’s a classic, and you haven’t seen it.”

“And you love romcoms,” you finish.

He doesn’t protest, only sending you a small smile. You’re pulling into the theater already anyway, in one of the better rows to watch the movie as Hyunjin turns his radio on and starts fiddling with it. “There’s snacks in the backseat,” he offers, to no surprise.

They’re some of your favorites, though there are also the chips that he can’t live without. There’s a blanket, which drapes awkwardly over the cupholder between the two of you, and a bottle of juice that you place in his lap immediately. “You like watermelon juice more than I do.”

“Thanks,” he says quietly, almost surprised.

You scowl and poke him, allowed to now that you’re safely parked and waiting for the movie to begin. “Don’t act all shocked, we’ve been friends since orientation and I’ve spent more than half my paychecks getting this damn juice for you.”

“Mean,” Hyunjin protests, but he hands you your favorite soda from under his seat anyway. “And shut up, it’s starting.”

He seems to know the intro to the movie, smiling when the first line of dialogue sounds, all crackly over the shitty radio, and you eventually stop staring at him to watch the movie instead. Of course, you can’t keep yourself from asking, “Why do you like romcoms so much, anyway? You’ve never explained to me, for all the ones I’ve watched with you.”

“I like happy endings, I think,” the long-haired boy responds after a short pause to think. “Not to be dramatic, but I haven’t had one yet, so maybe watching other people being happy makes me happier too.”

You nod, taking it as a perfectly acceptable answer. Knowing how sentimental your best friend is, it’s nowhere near a stretch, either, being something that just fits with his personality.

He talks occasionally to tell you a little tidbit that he knows: by the end, you’ve learned about how it’s a modern adaptation of a rather misogynistic Shakespeare play, how the entire movie was shot without sets, and how the scene of Kat reading the poem was the first take. It’s interesting, of course, but you’re more captured by the way Hyunjin’s smile glints in the weak light filtered through the car windows.

The sky is dark when the credits roll and Hyunjin reaches for the steering wheel, almost too dark for you to see anything outside when you’re driving back to your house.

“So? How was it?”

“How was what?” you ask, moving your hands around vaguely. “The snacks? The movie? The date?”

“All of the above?” Hyunjin says hesitantly.

You answer immediately, “It was perfect. You knew that, though.”

“I didn’t really. I mean, I’ve never taken you on a date,” he muses. “And plenty of the people I’ve dated before weren’t even willing to watch a rom-com with me.”

“Then that’s their problem,” you say. “Anyone who isn’t willing to watch a rom-com with you is just an asshole, and I stand by that.”

Hyunjin smiles sweetly. You’re parked by the curb in front of your house at this point, so it’s slightly more easy to see the silhouette of your friend’s face. “That’s nice of you. I dunno though, I wouldn’t want to label everyone who doesn’t like romcoms as an asshole.”

“That’s not what I mean.” You shift a little bit to face him, pausing before you explain, “I think that if someone is so unwilling to try something that means so much to the person they like, then they don’t really like them.”

“I guess. You know, there’s another reason why I like romcoms so much.”

You don’t speak, waiting for Hyunjin to explain. And he does. “I think romcoms give me hope,” he nods. “Like… they make me think that anything’s possible, not just happy endings. Maybe the person who I don’t even have a chance with secretly likes me back, you know?”

“I can’t really imagine someone who wouldn’t like you if you liked them, but I think I get it,” you smile.

“At least you try. See you at school next week?”

“Come on, we both know that Binnie’s dragging all of us out to beat Chan’s ass at bowling,” you sigh, taking it as a sign to open your car door. 

Before you make it completely outside, though, Hyunjin’s hand rests on your wrist. “Y/N, thanks for tonight.”

“Anytime,” you respond breathlessly, closing the door a little louder than you probably should.

You do mean it.

“Remind me again why we have to go prom outfit shopping together?”

Hyunjin pouts, peering in the window of yet another shop. His arm rests gently on your shoulder despite the way you jokingly pushed it off at the beginning of the day, but you really don’t mind. “Isn’t it cute to have matching prom outfits? We should be color-coordinated in some way.”

“I mean, sure… but isn’t online shopping just easier?” you ask, raising your eyebrow. “It’s the 21st century, Jin.”

“You’re so unromantic,” he groans, and finally pushes the door open to a thrift store to lead you inside.

You wrinkle your nose at the heavy smell of perfume that hits you as soon as you step inside. “And you watch too many movies. You’ve known me for almost four years, you aren’t going to have some magical moment where you realize you like me just because I put on a sparkly outfit of some kind.”

“Who knows? Maybe you’ll suddenly think that you love me when you see me in a tux,” Hyunjin grins.

You don’t respond to that, and he doesn’t push it, taking it as just another joke of his. Of course he doesn’t know about freshman year, and he definitely doesn’t know about how you still aren’t sure if that crush ever subsided. He shouldn’t know. 

He’s too picky to pick something at the first store, you know, so you just follow him around as he flicks through things that are either too fitted or too loose, too patterned or too plain. 

It takes three stores for him to finally something that he likes, and he appears from the dressing room with a gorgeous grin on his face. “What do you think?”

“It’s… good. I mean, you look good,” you clarify. Of course Hyunjin looks perfect in anything, but the dark navy jacket over the patterned button-down he was already wearing just seem like they were a combo meant for him. 

He isn’t satisfied with your response, towering over you as you slump lower in the chair. “Just good?”

“Hot. Stunning, beautiful, sexy-- is that what you want to hear?” you respond sarcastically.

“That’s exactly it!”

Rolling your eyes, you pick up your things from the chair and say, “Then we’re done? Are you picking this one?”

“Yeah, but what about you?” Hyunjin asks. “Do you already have something, or are we going to get something? I’m still waiting for my kdrama moment, you know.”

You definitely don’t have something at home, but you don’t think you could bear being on the receiving end of the drama moment that your best friend so desperately wants. Something about having him suggest something for you to wear, reacting as dramatically as you know he will, just won’t allow your old feelings for him to sit still.

“I’m good. Let’s check out, and get some ice cream?” you offer to placate him.

Hyunjin grins and offers his arm to you again, practically skipping to the checkout. “Sounds perfect to me.”

“Y/N, what the hell do I wear on a date?”

“How should I know?” You sound listless, flicking through one of the mangas that one of Changbin’s friends left as his house.

“You literally went on a date with your freshman year crush last week and then picked a prom outfit with him,” your friend scowls, tossing a shirt at your face. It’s clean, thankfully, but you still chuck it back at him.

“In my defense, I forgot that it was a date,” you respond, “and shut up about the ‘freshman year crush’ thing. I never would’ve told you if I knew you would use it against me like this.”

Changbin throws yet another piece of clothing in your direction, narrowly missing your face, and you raise a pillow to threaten him with. “You got me into this mess with Felix in the first place, so I think it’s even.”

“It’s not a mess if it’s what you asked me to do,” you complain, “and besides, you wouldn’t stop talking about this date for the past week despite it literally just being something we do together all the time.”

“I like Felix, I don’t like you.”

“Then I’m leaving you to agonize over your collection of colorful track pants on your own,” you warn, and he subsequently shuts up. “There we go. Don’t wear one of those, by the way, even though Felix wouldn’t say a single thing about it.”

“How was the date, by the way? And the three-year-old feelings?” Changbin asks as he continues to dig in his closet.

You hesitate. “It was… nice? Hyunjin knows way too much about Julia Stiles, but he was super enthusiastic and the movie was pretty good. He got the good snacks, too.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he sighs. 

“Then what did you mean, Mr. ‘I Love Lee Felix With My Whole Tiny Brain’?” you challenge.

Changbin doesn’t take the bait, unfortunately. “Jeongin told me about the whole plot you and Hyunjin have going on. Are you really dumb enough to think that you can get him to love you without falling for him again, and then leave him after it?”

There’s no way to respond to his question without making a complete fool out of yourself, and so, you simply don’t. Apparently in one of his more coherent moods, Changbin continues on, “I’d say that you watched too many movies, but I’ve seen you avoid Hyunjin’s movie nights. What the hell is going on with you?”

“I mean, have you seen the way he looks when he wants something?” you answer unintentionally. “Obviously you weren’t with us at the at the boba shop, but I’m serious. I couldn’t say no to him, especially when he’s heartbroken.”

“What does he look like?” Changbin asks.

You sigh, “He… his eyes get kind of shiny, almost like he’se about to cry but not really like that. And I don’t really know, he just looks like he’d be sad if you said no but wouldn’t talk about it, and that’s the part that makes you want to say ‘yes’.”

“It sounds to me like your three-year-long crush is still here, then,” your friend replies. “Because I have never felt that way about Hyunjin before, but I know what expression you’re talking about.”

Staring at him like he’s grown two heads, you realize that he’s wearing a jean jacket that shouldn’t have taken so much time to pick out. “That’s a stupid conclusion.”

Changbin shrugs and picks his phone up on his way out. “You can think about it as stupid if you want, but I’m usually not wrong about this. I’m going now, do you want a ride or something? You can stay here as long as you want, though.”

“I’ll walk home, it’s still noon,” you answer. You need to think, anyway.

He walks to the kitchen for a drink of water, he claims, but he picks up his phone on the way there, presumably to talk to Felix like the lovey-dovey fool he is. You wrinkle your noise and wander in the hallway, fully intending to bully Changbin about his crush as long as possible.

But his low voice, echoing from the kitchen, definitely doesn’t sound like flirting. When Changbin strides out, on a mission, it’s obvious that something is wrong. “We have to go,” he says. “Jeongin and Hyunjin got in an accident.”

Fear bubbles in your throat, and you yank the front door open harder than you could’ve thought possible. “What? How? When? Is it just the two of them? Are they okay?”

“Minho says that he doesn’t know yet, he’s driving there too. They aren’t calling the police, they’re apparently fine enough to get us,” Changbin says as he backs out of the driveway. “But we better get there as soon as we can.”

“Then drive,” you exhale sharply, slamming your seatbelt on as if it’ll stop your heart from beating out of your chest.

You leap out of the passenger’s side before the car even stops moving, finding Minho and Chan’s cars both parked at the side of the road behind the silver one that you remember to be Jeongin’s parents’. There’s a huddle of people there, Seungmin and Jisung parting so that you can make your way to the center.

To your relief, both your friends are okay; Hyunjin’s sitting on the trunk of the car, massaging his legs, and Jeongin’s definitely wincing a bit too much when he moves his neck. The car is dented, but not to the point of no repair.

Still, anger clouds your vision.

“What the hell’s wrong with the both of you?” you almost shout. “And what the fuck happened?”

Hyunjin starts, “Y/N, calm down. I was trying to teach Jeongin to drive, and we went a little off course--”

“Teaching him to drive, on the damn highway?” you question furiously. “You barely got your license three months ago, I get that you’re a good driver, but you aren’t a good enough driver for this! Whose idea was this?”

Jeongin timidly raises a hand, but Felix stops you from saying anything more. “Let’s all calm down, okay? Y/N, our friends are fine,” he says, low voice barely audible over the wind whipping around. “Everyone’s alive, which is the most important part here, and we can fix the car, which isn’t all that important. Let’s just focus on getting someone here to help, okay?”

“I’ve called my uncle to come and tow the car, we’re just going to get Hyunjin and Jeongin to the hospital, okay?” Seungmin reassures you. “Changbin’s car is too small, and you’re the better driver, so you and Hyunjin take it. Jeongin will come in Minho’s car with me, and we’ll meet you there.”

You nod stiffly and get into the driver’s seat first, pretending like you don’t notice how Chan pulls Hyunjin back to talk with him.

You shouldn’t have gotten angry; it doesn’t make sense to be angry at all. You should’ve been scared, worried, anything but angry, and so, you can only try to calm your breathing by the time Hyunjin sits next to you and Chan’s car sets off.

“Why are you so mad?” he asks quietly.

It’s the wrong thing to say; you turn your head to him, incredulous. “Why am I mad? You could have died, both of you could have died!”

“And? How many things have we all done together that could’ve ended with us in a ditch?” Hyunjin raises an eyebrow. “Hell, you were the one who decided that it would be fun to jump from the roof into Seungmin’s pool last summer, what’s changed? I get it, it was stupid, but you’ve never been so mad about something like this before.”

You exhale, tapping your fingers on Changbin’s steering wheel as you follow your friends’ cars. “To be honest, I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

It’s completely silent after that, at least until you reach the emergency room.

Jeongin and Hyunjin are fine, thankfully; the youngest has twisted a muscle in his neck, but it’s nothing that can’t heal on its own, and Hyunjin’s knees are merely bruised. Jisung’s the one who tells you, the older two of your friend group apparently dealing with the parents of the injured.

“Are you okay, Y/N?” he asks, patting your arm. “You reacted a little… adversely earlier. Did you and Hyunjin have a fight?”

“Why is it always about me and Hyunjin?” you ask with narrowed eyes. “Can’t I be mad because they almost got themselves killed?”

Jisung raises an eyebrow. “You never get mad when we almost get ourselves killed, that’s Chan’s job. And you were basically yelling straight at Hyunjin, I’ve never seen the guy so scared.”

You exhale and sit back in the creaky hospital chair. You wish you could tell Jisung if there was something wrong, but you honestly don’t know what it is. “I don’t know. Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

“You tell me, dude,” Jisung chuckles. “I think you should think about it. I mean, there’s barely two weeks until prom now, you barely have time to back out anymore.”

“Why would I back out?” you stare at him.

He pushes you to stand, and only says, “Think about it yourself. Okay?”

You don’t tap out, but only because you don’t get Hyunjin alone enough to do so.

After your little yelling fest at him, he obviously doesn’t want to just talk to you, despite how you publicly apologize to both him and Jeongin. You don’t sit together during movie night, you sit at opposite corners of your study table in the library.

Until Felix’s parents invite all of you over to take prom pictures, all you get is a stilted silence.

“You look nice,” he mumbles when the two of you get ushered together in a pair. Except for Felix and Changbin, all the others are by themselves, and you wonder why Hyunjin was so hellbent to get himself a prom date when almost everyone else didn’t bother.

He himself looks absolutely perfect, his hair styled to perfection and a slight pink glittering on his lips. The suit that you picked out together is paired with a patterned shirt that you’ve never seen before, and it perfectly matches your own hastily-purchased outfit. Hyunjin offers a flower to you, color-coordinated, and you hold it in one hand with the other on his arm. “Thanks. You too.”

“Okay, smile, everyone!” Felix’s mom grins behind the camera. “Couples, stand closer together a little bit!”

With a (rather convenient) nudge from Minho, Hyunjin’s hand slips onto your waist, and heat rises to the tops of your ears. Felix’s mother is pleased, though, and the photos carry on with the occasional hoots of laughter when Jisung smacks a kiss onto Seungmin’s cheek and gets clocked as a result.

Conversation is never stilted when you’re with your friends, so despite the silence between Hyunjin and you, there’s no awkwardness during the ride there. Silence only falls when it’s just the two of you standing together in the corner of the venue, all the others off to dance or raid the buffet table.

You decide to speak first. “Are you pissed at me for yelling at you? Because I said I was sorry, and I am.”

“I’m not pissed at you,” Hyunjin shakes his head.

“Well, you’re sure acting like it,” you snap. With a sigh, you end up apologizing again, “Sorry. I just… I know that the plot was mostly a joke, just to take your mind off of the heartbreak and stuff. I kind of messed it up.”

“You messed it up?” He stares at you.

“Well, yeah… I yelled at you, didn’t I?”

Hyunjin sighs, almost like he expected a different answer. “No, that didn’t mess anything up. I mean, I got what I wanted, anyway.”

“And what was that?”

“I fell in love with you.”

It’s your turn to watch him, completely shellshocked. The sparkling, multicolored lights of the venue bounce off him like an otherworldly glow, and his eyes sparkle even though he’s avoiding your gaze. Maybe all the people falling at his feet, you included, are onto something. “I mean, it’s not exactly what I wanted,” he blabbers. “I wanted to be in love without it hurting, and obviously that failed, but… I should’ve known that it wouldn’t even take three weeks for me to love you.”

“Hyunjin.”

Your best friend still doesn’t look up, so you just ask softly, “Why does it hurt?”

“You don’t like me back, of course it hurts,” Hyunjin frowns. 

“Who said I didn’t like you back?”

He’s quiet, eyes flicking up to you like he thinks it’s Jisung pranking him or something. “Do you mean it?”

“We’re stupid, Hyunjin,” you laugh. “We’re so, so stupid. I had a crush on  you since we met, for two whole-ass years.”

“Well, I liked you for almost four, so I think I beat you there,” he says. But there’s a relieved smile on his face, his eyes curving prettily as he reaches for your hand. “Then… do you want to dance?”

“No romcom shenanigans,” you warn, but you allow yourself to be tugged out to the dance floor next to your friends with a smile.

Hyunjin’s grin as you twirl him around under the burning neon lights suddenly makes it seem like everything will just... magically be okay. If you had just been a little more courageous (or a little less stupid), maybe you could’ve seen it earlier.

But good things come with time and patience. And with all the patience you’ve had, waiting for this to happen, the way you finally feel with him makes it all worth it.

[quietmyfearswith]

happy hoelidays ; preferences

warnings — allusions to smut, swear words, wanting kids (idk)

characters — andy barber, steve rogers, ransom drysdale, jake jensen, bucky barnes, lance tucker, syverson, will shaw, august walker

a/n — here’s my entry for the happy hoelidays 2020 hosted by @stargazingfangirl18, @navybrat817 , and @donutloverxo 🎄 Y/M/N = your mother’s name 🎄 lmk what you think!!

their love language | with their little | when you’re insecure | slipping into little space | fussy

masterlist

I asked for one thing this year…you — dialogue prompt

Andy was going over the last of his files; as Christmas neared, he decided to take the week off. Despite it being something he didn’t usually do, he deemed it only necessary since he was spending the particular holiday with his beloved. Hearing the bustling of Christmas ornaments and decorations made the lawyer raise his gaze from the papers in front of him to the girl who was placing stockings with his and Y/N’s names by the fireplace — he didn’t even know that they had such stockings. “What do you have there, baby?” 

Turning to him with a wide grin as she held the two trinkets, “I bought these two when I was at the mall the other day; they’re so cute!” As she pinned them by the fireplace, Andy hugged her so his front was flush against her back. “I do think they’re adorable like you,” Pressing a sloppy kiss on her cheek, Y/N giggled as his facial hair tickled her, “But I don’t think that the Christmas sock is necessary, especially for me.” Looking over to him with worried eyes and furrowed eyebrows, Y/N assumed the worst, “You don’t like it? Is it the color? Or did you see the gift I bought for you and think it’s shit?” Stopping her from overthinking, Andy kissed her deeply and held her hands between their chests to prevent her from wiggling away, “It’s not that, baby.” His statement didn’t help her confusion so Andy further explained, “I asked for one thing this year,” Kissing the knuckles in both her hands before looking up at her with pure love and adoration before confessing, “You. You’re what I asked for and I’m glad it came true.”

Oh, see, I thought we were going to enjoy a nice holiday dinner, and then you had to go and do that. I’m very disappointed, sweetheart — dialogue prompt

Knowing how much his girlfriend adored the Christmas season, August tried his best to end any missions before it or not accept any new ones. Thankfully this year he wasn’t needed elsewhere; so he decided to cook up a delicious homemade meal for the two of them. While he was doing the final preparations for their meal, he wondered what Y/N was doing. As he placed the chicken he cooked on the table, he removed the apron — something she’d gifted him when she found out he developed a habit of cooking and was extremely good — and headed to their shared bedroom, “Little one? Where are you?”

Y/N was nervous as she twirled in front of the mirror completely fixated on whether or not the babydoll she was going to wear later after their dinner looked good; so fixated she failed to hear his deep voice call out for her. When the door creaked open she turned around, they both gasped at the situation they were in. Y/N wasn’t planning for August to catch her in one of his gifts this early; while the latter was incredibly turned on that his erection was aching to be attended to. “Oh, see, I thought we were going to enjoy a nice holiday dinner,” He pointed to the door as he approached her with slow steps; “And then you had to go and do that,” He grabbed the cloth of her skimpy outfit before continuing, “I’m very disappointed, sweetheart.” Confused about his arousal that she mistook for anger, “What do you mean, Aug? Don’t you like this babydoll I got for you?” Her pout was so adorable that it only added to his desire for her as he clarified, “I love the babydoll, but I’m disappointed because now food’s gonna get cold because we’re gonna have to take care of this,” He grabbed one of her hands and let it feel his raging erection against his pants. Giggling at his problem, Y/N then squeezed his cock and sultrily teased, “Let’s get to it then, daddy.”

Congratulations. You’ve officially won the Ugly Sweater contest. — dialogue prompt

There were a lot of technological advancements that Bucky was thankful for; the improvement of the laundry washer and dryer wasn’t one of them though. It was just too much to comprehend for his cyborg brain with all the options and different detergents and products one can use. So he came to a compromise with his girlfriend; she’ll do the loading of their clothes into the washer and dryer, while he’ll unload them from the dryer and fold them. That set up worked perfectly for the two of them given how Y/N loathed having to fold clothes. But Bucky’s luck was wearing thin; Y/N was out running errands for the Christmas party of the Avengers and the former Winter Soldier was left alone at their living quarter. “Fuck it,” He whispered as he gathered all their dirty clothes and headed to the washer. The sweater he was going to wear was in the dirty pile of clothes and despite his disinterest in laundry. He poured whatever cleaning product looked suitable for the clothes and pushed the button that accomplished the task in the shortest amount of time. Opening the dryer, he immediately fished for his sweater and gasped out loudly with what the clothing article looked like. The once gray sweater was now littered with red and green streaks — thanks to the other Christmas sweaters and pajamas his girl had — and by some sorcery there was a white lace stuck to it as well as some colored cotton balls that were made to look like Christmas ornaments. Deciding that he didn’t really care, he decided to discard the shirt he was wearing and  be clothed in the sweater.

As he was walking over to the party hall, his eyes brightened upon seeing his girlfriend; hugging her from behind he planted a kiss on her cheek, “Hey, doll.” Smiling brightly at him, she kissed his nose and moved out from their hug and took a good luck on her boyfriend. Chuckling at what he was wearing she teased him, “Congratulations. You’ve officially won the Ugly Sweater contest.” He rolled his eyes as he buried his face in her neck to tickle her, which proved successful as she let out a bunch of giggles that made him chuckle against her skin — adding to the vibrations. “Maybe you should ask for Santa for a simple washer and dryer this year?” Shaking his head as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders so they could enter the room he told her, “Only thing I wished for is to spend more Christmases with you.”

^ gif prompt

Despite having computer skills Jensen couldn’t find out the perfect gift for his girl — even though he may have snooped around on her phone and laptop and yet his search remained unfruitful and the man still was clueless on what to get her. He ended up buying a lot of gifts which included her favorite chocolate and snacks, jewelry he hoped she’d like, a sweater he thought would look adorable on her, lingerie he knew would fit her well, her favorite scented candles, and a framed print photograph of the two of them. As he was delicately placing the items into a large box he bought in her favorite color. Deep in focus, he failed to take note of the presence of his beloved woman, “What you got there, babe?”

Startled, he jumped to stand up and used his body as a shield to avoid her curious and wandering eyes to see the gifts. “Babe! Didn’t hear you come in. What are you doing here?” Chuckling at his flustered state she sassed at him, “Well I live here too, right?” As he placed his hands on his hips he shook his own head as he grimaced at himself and was internally smacking himself for his dumb reply; his girlfriend was more amused with his flustered expression rather than what he was previous doing. “Well the surprise is ruined now; since I was wrapping my gifts for you,” It broke Y/N’s heart to see him disappointed in himself so she placed a kiss on his cheek and covered her eyes with her hands, “I’m not looking so you can put that away; then to make you feel better we can have sex.” Jensen was immediately turned on with her sultry tone and preposition that he just shoved all off the things inside the box before covering it; carrying her bridal style and leaving out the spare room. Y/N was laughing loudly at how her boyfriend was more than eager to carry out her suggestion.

“Since when are you so good at wrapping gifts?” — dialogue prompt

The only gifts that were under Y/N and Sy’s Christmas tree were either gifts that had been given to them by friends or the few presents she bought for her boyfriend. Part of her was optimistic that Sy had gotten her a gift too big that it was impossible to place it underneath the tree; but the more pessimistic part of her taunted her that he didn’t bother getting her a gift. Sipping on her hot chocolate as she watched a movie, she scrunched up her face in confusion upon hearing Sy let out grunts as he walked towards her. “Are you alright, bear?” At the moment she cursed at how thick her man was since his body concealed what he held behind him. “I couldn’t wait any longer ‘till the 25th, bug. Just had to give my gift to you.” His Texan accent was thick as he was proud of the gift he held.

She patted the spot beside him and he was more than willing to sit beside her; then pushing up the wrapped up box he himself wrapped. Holding the huge box in her smaller hands, she threw him a mocking look, “Since when are you so good at wrapping gifts?” Rolling his eyes at her jab, he brought his hand to tickle her side, “Since I had to give my girlfriend the best gifts I could ever give her.” Her heart melted with his sincerity and knew in herself that even though she has yet to find out what’s inside the box but knew that it was the best gift she ever received. Pressing a kiss to both his cheeks she shyly mumbled, “Thank you, bear,” Before proceeding to open up the gift. It was a bit of a struggle for Y/N to open the gift as the packaging tape Sy used was sticky on her fingertips; the former Army captain refusing to help her in her distress but instead just chuckled at her adorable reactions. “Oh my God, Sy!” She squealed as she saw what was hidden under the poorly wrapped gift was the laptop she was eyeing for a while since her old one was pissing her off. The captain wrapped his arms around her smaller figure as she put the box on the floor gently and launched herself on her boyfriend’s lap to press kisses all over his bearded face. “You love my gift, bug?” Nodding enthusiastically she pressed a passionate kiss on his lips before answering, “I did bear; thank you so much!”

“Well, well, well looks like you’re my gift…and now I get to unwrap you.” — dialogue prompt

Lance shut the door as he came home after attending the Christmas party he and his fellow coaches and gymnasts had. He was wearing a silly Christmas sweater and a red belt that was tied to mimic a ribbon from a wrapped gift. “I’m in the living room, angel,” He yelled in hopes that his girlfriend would come to him. When he heard the soft pitter patter of her feet, he smiled upon seeing her figure approach him. “Lancey! How was the party?” She wrapped his arms around his neck as he peppered kisses on his neck to which the gymnast giggled at as he was getting tickled by her shenanigans. “It was alright; turns out Maggie got me for secret Santa and just gave me hair gel.” Pausing her actions, she moved away from his neck and ruffled his hair, “She knows you really well considering how you use so much.”

Feigning offense, he placed a hand on his chest as he gasped, “It takes a lot of work to get this hair to look perfect, like it always does.” Giggling at his response she just kissed his cheek and reassured him, “It always looks good, Lancey; but I do love your bed hair the most.” Her lingering hands lifted his sweater a bit and was shocked to see his belt, “Well, well, well looks like you’re my gift,” With curious eyes he looked at her as she wiggled her eyebrows as she lowered herself to kneel on the floor; by now he caught her drift, smirking as he let her do as she pleases, “And now I get to unwrap you.”

^ gif prompt

It was the annual Avengers’ Christmas outreach program and though he wasn’t the overall head, Steve volunteered which resulted in his girlfriend doing the same. As he was handing out the gift baskets the other agents had prepared, he looked over to find Y/N who was currently entertaining the kids. A loving gaze rested on his face upon seeing how much of a sweetheart and how caring she was around kids — his thoughts then drifted about how much more gentle and nurturing she would be if it were their own kids. Few hours after the outreach program ended, Steve was waiting by one of the couches for Y/N as she was still talking to some of the other agents, wishing them a great Christmas Eve. Smiling as she saw his sculpted face she plopped herself down on his lap as she snuggled herself to him, “Hey there, soldier.” 

“You look real happy, doll,” He took note as she stroked the skin of her arm and felt her purr in pleasure from the simple act. “The kids were so sweet and adorable! One of them even thought I was a princess,” As she cooed about the children she interacted with earlier, Steve could not help his imagination as it drifted to images of him and Y/N taking care of their own. Settling one of his hands on her stomach, he began to run slow and soft circles on her skin as he spoke, “What if we had our own?” Craning her neck to look at him, she asked for clarification about what he meant, “What exactly are you saying, Steve?” A soft, serene smile graced his lips as he humorously spelt it out for her, “Why don’t we ask Santa for our own kid this year?” More than thrilled with his suggestion, she kissed his lips multiple times as she excitedly kissed his lips repeatedly, “Yes, yes, yes! I’d love that so much!” Pleased with her response he hugged her as he uttered lowly, “Best part of trying for a kid is the sex we’ll be having.”

Baking together — general prompts

“Baby, can you come over here?” Will’s voice called for his girlfriend as he was laying down the ingredients he bought earlier. Appearing from the bathroom where she peed, she stood beside him as she placed a hand on the kitchen island, “What you got here, bub?” Opening the recipe for the Christmas cookies he found on the internet, he pointed to his tablet and the ingredients, “I need help baking cookies, please.” Y/N softly chuckled at how her man was pouting at her for needing help. “What are the cookies for, Will?”

Pushing away from the sink and heading over towards her, he trapped her between his body and the kitchen island as he revealed, “Well this is really the first time that I’ve been excited to spend the Christmas season,” The business consultant knew that when she tilted her head that she was confused with where his explanation was going so he just bluntly let it out, “I was hoping that us baking together could be our Christmas tradition.” Y/N could not help but feel the butterflies in her stomach erupt as she loved what Will had to say. Nodding her head excitedly,  she hugged him, “I’d love that so much, bubba. That can be our holiday tradition starting from now.”

Kissing under the mistletoe — general prompts

The Christmas Eve gala Carter threw was nothing short of elegant and alluring. But as the CEO had his arm wrapped around his girlfriend, it was the only proof he needed to believe that the night was elegant and alluring with her by his side; they both donned the color red in the suit he wore and gown she was dressed in. “You did a good job, Car,” Y/N whispered before pressing a kiss on the shell of his ear. Politely ending his conversation with one of his business partners, Carter smiled at her, “I think I did. I mean, I got myself a beautiful girl who loves me so much and is great at bed.” His jab resulted into her softly slapping his chest to which he only laughed at as he pressed a kiss on her cheek. “There’s something I wanna show you,” Allowing himself to be dragged away, he excused themselves just as some people were trying to start a conversation with them.

“What did you want to show me, angel?” Standing face to face at an empty hallway, he wondered about what it was she wanted to show him. With a grin — one that seemed innocent but the man knew better that if anything her mind had impure thoughts — she pointed a finger up and his gaze followed and smirked upon seeing a mistletoe hanging from above the ceiling. “My needy girl just wanted a kiss from me huh?” Nodding her head, his soft hands cupped her cheeks and pulled her in so he could plant an ardent kiss on her lips; smiling when he felt her claw at his back moan at the touch of his lips against hers. Breaking away from the kiss Y/N grabbed one of his hands — though Carter raised a brow with what she was up to but remained mum — as he guided his hand down her body he was surprised when she pressed his hand against her clothed core, “My panty has a mistletoe printed on it; does it mean you’ll kiss me there too?” Biting his lip as he got hot and bothered at the thought, Carter promised, “Angel, even without a mistletoe you can bet on it that I’m gonna kiss and fuck you down there.”

Friends w/ benefits  — trope prompts

Ransom rolled on the bed and faced where Y/N was laying; he shocked himself as he ran his finger over the shape of her face with a rare, loving expression on his face. Before going up to dress himself up he kissed her forehead then headed for the kitchen. As he was preparing a pot of coffee and some toast for him and Y/N, he smiled as he heard some footsteps coming from her bedroom; might be waking up already, he thought. The front door opened to reveal a woman who looked like Y/N, but he suspected was older given how she had wrinkles on her face and had gray spots in her hair. “Oh, am I in the wrong apartment? I swear this where my daughter, Y/N, lives.” Putting the puzzle pieces together, he reassured her, “Oh don’t worry you’re in the right apartment,” He pointed to her bedroom as he spoke, “She just woke up and is probably washing up.” Ransom introduced himself as Y/M/N did the same as they shook hands; before an awkward silence could envelope them, there was a soft ping that came from the coffee pot to announce that the hot beverage was ready, “Would you like a cup of coffee?” The older woman nodded as she removed her jacket and hung it on the coat rack, “Yes please; I also bought some bagels and croissants that we could eat.”

“Mom! What are you doing here?” Y/N gasped out in shock as she saw her mother placing down some food on the table; she was also quick to throw an apologetic look at Ransom. “Well seeing as you’ve never given me a direct answer on whether you’ll be spending Christmas Eve with me and your father, I decided to personally get an answer from you.” The trust fund baby quietly laughed at the exchange between the two women; he never witnessed a banter that was filled with love and genuine wit without disdain or revulsion mixed around in it. “Okay, fine I’ll go!” Y/N sighed up in defeat as her mother clapped her hands excitedly, “Is Ransom coming as well? It’s about time you introduced us to your boyfriend you know!” With widened eyes, the younger woman was at disbelief at the fact she knew the name of her fuck buddy; She wondered about how did Ransom introduce himself he was ahead of her in answering, “We’ve been together for just half a year now; but I guess Y/N was just embarrassed of me.” Flinching as her mother smacked her arm as she scolded about how you shouldn’t be ashamed about the ones we care about Y/N was quick to retort, “I’m not ashamed of you. But if you want you can meet my parents on Christmas.” Both Ransom and her mother were smiling wide — clearly excited for that day. As her mother excused herself to go the bathroom, Y/N was now left with the former playboy and she moved to stand beside him and was pleasantly surprised when he engulfed her in a hug, “Is this your subtle way of telling me you want to be more than friends with benefits?” He smirked at her after placing a kiss on her forehead to confirm that it was indeed what he wanted, “Don’t gloat too much about it, princess.”

[echo-hiraeth]

31 + 34 with javi pls <3

Perfect - Javier Peña x F!Reader

You have no idea how much I like actually love requests though!! Sorry it took me so long <3

Prompts:

31: “You’re not going out dressed like that”

34: “You’re so perfect it hurts”

Masterlist

Your clammy hands were shaking as you checked yourself in the mirror yet again. You looked amazing, the short dress with cut-outs leaving little to the imagination. Today would be your first time on the frontline. The Rodriguez brothers were having themselves a little get together, the perfect way for you to infiltrate and get some intel. It wasn’t exactly your style, but you knew for a fact that the only women there were either the ones they scattered from brothels or the rich girlfriends and wives of other sicarios. And since you had no husband for the night, you had to opt for the classic prostitute, much to your own dismay. It wasn’t the first time you’d been used for your assets, the delicate touch and approach of a woman having been proved successful more than once. But to your personal relief, Chris and Daniel, two fellow agents working under Peña, would be right there alongside you.

The tacky red lipstick sat on the counter, practically laughing at you. You quickly put it on, sighing as you reached for the cheap perfume to go along with it. Your fellow agents had provided you with the little outfit, the platformed heels a practical joke more than anything. You’d get them back for this, sooner or later. Three honks outside your building let you know they were here. You scurried for your purse, making your way outside on the torturous shoes. Peña lifted his hand on the steering wheel, greeting you. You got in next to him, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Feistl and Ness not coming anymore?”, you asked, gesturing towards the empty backseat.

He turned his head towards you, sighing deeply. “Get back inside.”

“Mission’s off?”, you frowned, sounding more confused than ever.

He raked his eyes over your body, shaking his head in disapproval. “You’re not going out dressed like that.”

You scoffed at him, turning your body in his direction. “Excuse me? Your men picked this out for me. This is the dress code.”

“Right, you’re just asking for it dressed like that”, he groaned, averting his eyes.

“I’m just gonna pretend like you didn’t just say that”, you laughed, leaning your elbow against the window, “Just drive, yeah? I want to get this over with just as much as you do.”

He started the engine, giving you a quick glare. “Fine. But I’m sticking around. I’ll park a street or two away and need you back in an hour, if not I’ll come looking for you myself.”

“Whatever, just let me do my job. We could use some new leads, can’t let them get away much longer”, you reasoned.

“Leads mean nothing if you’re dead”, he replied coldly. “I-I just want- need you to be safe.”

You smiled a little to yourself, giving him a nod. “I try my best, boss.”

“Javi, call me Javi. We’re not at the office”, he insisted, tilting his head at you.

“Well Javi, looks like this is my stop”, you smiled, reaching for the door handle.

He grabbed a hold of you other wrist, making you whip your head around. “Please – whatever happens, don’t leave the party, don’t even leave the dancefloor. If at any point you feel unsafe or uneasy, come back, no one will hold it against you.”

“I promise you.. I’m okay. I’ve done it before, chat some, dance some, flirt a little bit, get them drunk enough… I’ll be fine.”

He was reluctant to let go of you, resisting the urge to just drive off with you. It was your job, you were trained to deal with these kinds of people. He was probably just overreacting, being overly protective over one of his agents. Except that he never felt this way with the guys. Surely he was seeing things, surely there wasn’t any depth to your kind words and special attentions. Surely you wouldn’t even consider him for a fuck, with the obvious age-gap and all. Not only that, he was well-aware of the way he was so out of shape, the start of a beer gut becoming more and more obvious. He wasn’t the womanizer he once was, but there was just something about you, some magical, gravitational pull that had him breathing heavy when you were close.

“Javi.. I need you to let go”, you repeated for the third time, finally pulling him from his thoughts.

Shit – that was embarrassing. He quickly pulled away, nodding at you. “Good luck.”

You left with another smile, waving to him as you rounded the corner. He let out a breath, softly banging his head against the car-seat headrest. His fingers strained against the cool leather of the steering wheel, teeth gnashing as he tried to keep himself from running after you. You were a big girl, he told himself over and over, you could handle yourself.

The partly was bustling with people, drinks and cocaine flowing freely. You headed for the bar, grabbing a shot of tequila as you scanned the dancefloor for any possible leads. Along the way you’d spotted Daniel, grinding with some girl. At least he was enjoying himself. Chris was off to the side, talking and laughing with some unfamiliar men. It was then you spotted one Gilberto’s wives. An unexpected turn of events to say the least. She caught your eye just as you were looking at her, and gave a saccharine smile, moving to walk over to you.

“Entonces, viniste solo, o..”, she asked, purring into your ear. (So did you come alone, or..)

“Sí, ¿estoy haciendo algo mal?”, you questioned, purposely raising the pitch in your voice to feign innocence. (Yes, did I do something wrong?)

She let out a soft laugh, placing a hand on your shoulder as she leaned in closer. “Me gustaría que conocieras a alguien.” (I’d like for you to meet someone.)

It’s not like you had much of a choice anyway, her tone and grip on your wrist saying as much. You smiled back at her, nodding your head. She lead you into the bar, taking you into one of the backrooms. In passing you’d spotted the Rodriguez brothers in a small room, talking about something you couldn’t quite understand. She gestured for you to stay there, in the middle of the hallway as she disappeared into the nearest room. The stench of sweat and sex hit you hard, making you shiver against the wall. A young girl stumbled out of the room, face stained with black streaks and the straps on her dress torn apart. You gulped a bit, this being much more intense than what you were used to. It was then the wife remerged, leading you into the room. You had to keep your mouth from falling open, David Rodriguez, the big boss’ son sitting there, half-naked, smirking up at you.

“Gracias mamá”, he cooed, pointing the other woman to the door.

He stood up, buckling his belt and zipping his slacks up before stalking over to you. He hummed lowly as his hand traced the cut-outs in your dress, leaning in to press his lips against your shoulder.

“Muy hermosa.. Dime dulzura, ¿te gusta bailar?”, he inquired, raking his fingers through your hair. (Very pretty.. Tell me sweetheart, do you like dancing?)

“En ocasiones”, you muttered, scanning the room for possible escape routes. (Sometimes.)

He stroked a thumb over your lips, grabbing a hold of your hand. “Vamos a bailar, entonces.” (Let’s go dancing then.)

Apparently both your partners had taken note of your absence, shooting you worried looks and glances as you returned to the actual party. You gave them both a subtle nod, assuring them you were okay and unharmed.

Back in the car Javier was a mess, having received a phone call from Chris, informing him you were taking into the building. He was about to go in himself when Chris called back, letting him know you’d come back, seemingly unscathed. It was what he said next that set Javier’s rage aflame, Rodriguez’ son was all over you. Feistl spared him no detail, describing how he had his hands all over you, mouth pressed to your neck occasionally.

“If anything so much as goes remotely wrong, if she looks scared, uncomfortable, whatever, you call me”, he growled into the phone. “And do not let her go into that building again.”

You felt disgusting, feeling the way his hands roamed over your body, squeezing at your breasts and bottom, not shy whatsoever. It was hard not to shove him off of you and beat his ass right then and there. You had to remind yourself it was for the greater good, trying to picture it was someone – anyone – else, to no avail. He swiftly spun you around, having you face him and he leaned in to press his wet mouth against yours. That was a bridge too far, even for you, and in a moment of pure disgust you shoved him off of you, slapping him right across the face. As soon as it happened you regretted it, clasping a hand over your own mouth, lifting it to mutter out a string of apologies.

“Puta”, he snarled, making all the heads around you turn in your direction.

You looked around you, trying to find someone, something to help you. He roughly tugged on the fabric of your dress, resulting in some of the cut-outs ripping even further. Luckily for you, you were in the middle of the crowd, meaning you wouldn’t get your brains blown out right then and there and as soon as David lifted his gaze to see all the partygoers stare at him, he let go of you. You seized the opportunity to disappear into the crowd, sprinting for the exit, with a heart thumping in your throat. Soon you heard the heavy thuds of someone else’s footsteps behind you, making you run even faster. Except that in these fucking heels, it was nearly impossible to make any decent distance whatsoever. One of them broke, sending you gliding over the asphalt, skin painfully dragging over the course ground. It was then you looked over your shoulder, expecting to get shot, only to be met with Javier’s brown eyes.

“Don’t say anything, just walk with me”, he instructed, helping you off the floor and wrapping an arm around you.

The adrenaline kept you on your feet, the pain not yet settled in. There was some blood running down your bare legs and forearms, a scared look etched on your face. He helped you into the car, taking off his jacket before putting it over your torso. When he was a good amount of blocks away he turned to look at you.

“I’m driving back to my place, can’t let them know where you live. We’ll take care of you there.”

He kept his eyes on the road, for fear that he might never look away again if he even so much glanced in your direction. He noticed your discomfort, the jackets strategically covering the new rips and tears in your skin tight dress. The urge to just pull over and hold you, comfort you, tell you – assure you that you’d be okay grew bigger by the second. And by the time he was parking the car, his hands were shaking, shaking with anxiety. You both hadn’t said a word and silences were uncharacteristic for you, hence the worry – or well, increase thereof.

The walk up to his apartment was painful, the adrenaline wearing off and the agony setting in. He noticed the way you pursed your lips with every step, carefully offering you his arm. You thanked him, holding onto his tan forearm. He managed a small smile, heartbeat skyrocketing as he noticed how gentle and warm your grip was.

As soon as you two were safely in the apartment with the door triple locked, he sat you down on the couch, disappearing into the bathroom to gather anything useful he could find. The bleeding had stopped by now, but it was a sight to behold. Your arms and legs were stained with blood and dirt, the cuts on your kneecaps stinging with the slightest movement.

He was tender and cautious, checking in if you so much as winced. The disinfectant stung like hell and had you biting the inside of your own cheek. You cursed the tears as they pricked in your eyes. You closed your eyes, flinching slightly when you felt a hand cupping your face.

“I’ll get you something to eat, to settle your stomach”, Javier whispered, slowly getting up.

You quickly grabbed a hold of the hand on your face, looking up at him with glossy eyes. “ P-please don’t leave.”

He felt his knees buckle the tiniest bit at that. You sounded so small, scared, insecure – so unlike yourself.

“I’m right here, you’re safe with me”, he ushered, taking both your hands in his as he knelt down once again. “Tell me what you need..”

“I-I want to get out of this dress, please”, you begged, tears threatening to spill from the corners of your eyes.

He gave half a smile, softly pressing his lips to your knuckles. “We can manage that, I can draw you a bath as well if you want.. I mean I assume you’d prefer to stay here tonight?”

You nodded slowly, sniffling a little as you went to stand. “Thank you Javi.”

After finally having convinced you that you could safely take a bath on your own and that he’d be waiting just outside in the kitchen you finally got undressed. You felt gross, borderline disgusting and wanted nothing more than to scrub the feelings of those hands off of your body. But no matter how many times you dragged the washcloth over your skin, the feeling seemed to linger and you felt the bile rising in your throat again. It had been too close of a call, you were lucky to even be alive tonight, sicarios usually not afraid to cause a scene.

Outside the door Javier was pacing, some frozen lasagne thrown in the oven. How could those two morons let you slip out of sight? Hadn’t he been clear in his instructions? Hadn’t he stressed how important it was for you to stay out in public? He’d have a go at them later, for now he just wanted to make sure you were okay. The muted sobs spilling from the bathroom didn’t help him either, wanting nothing more than to barge in to check up on you, but he was too afraid to overstep.

You eventually managed to muster up the courage, getting dressed in one of your boss’ shirts and a pair of his boxers, since they were the only thing he had that wouldn’t cover your knees, allowing the scrapes and cuts to air out. You’d have to see a doctor more than likely, the pain in your joints more present now that the initial shock was somewhat settled down. With gnashing teeth you walked out into the living room, Javier’s head immediately whipping around.

“I’ve got some food in the oven for later..”, he mumbled, gesturing towards the kitchen. “I made the bed as well, so you can just crash whenever you’d like.”

“Javi – thank you so much, I-I don’t know what I would’ve done without you there”, you managed to get out before your legs started shaking.

He immediately rushed over, scooping you up in his arms. “Let’s get you a seat, yeah?”

He softly sat you down on the couch, hissing as he accidentally grazed the angry red skin on your legs. “It’s okay – you didn’t hurt me”, you reassured him.

“I should’ve never let you go in there, it was a stupid fucking idea”, he chastised himself, rubbing the skin between his brows.

You sat up straight, putting a hesitant hand on his cheek. “Javier, you did what you thought was right. Everyone made it out and everyone’s safe, you called the right shots out there tonight.”

He looked into your eyes, sighing deeply, softly shaking his head. “Stop this.”

You gave a confused look, readjusting yourself, coming a bit closer in the process. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no. That’s just fucking it – you’re so perfect it hurts”, he murmured, briefly glancing down at your bottom lip.

That took you by surprise, making you chuckle a little. “What?”

“I don’t ever want to see you hurt like this again. I-I was so worried about you and fucking angry that I let you go in there all by yourself. It should’ve been me in there, or at least me by your side. I mean fuck – when I saw you stumbling out of there cariño – my heart nearly stopped”, he rambled once again taking a hold of your hands.

You were baffled at his words, confused at the sudden outing of care and worry. “Javi, I’m a DEA agent, this is what we’re here for.”

“Not to me”, he sighed, averting his eyes from your own. “You’re so special. So humble and kind- smart not to mention and… and so fucking gorgeous.”

It was practically impossible for your eyes to open even wider, the shock on your face more than obvious. “Javier, I-I don’t know what to say”, you admitted quietly.

He only now realised the impact of he what he’d been saying. Surely your boss coming onto you was the last thing you’d wanted, considering what you went through earlier on. “Fuck, shit – I didn’t mean to dump that on you, especially not like this I-“

“It’s okay”, you reassured him. “That lasagne should be done by now right?”

You knew fully well that the damn food was the last thing on your mind but you couldn’t help but overthink the entire situation. Surely your boss, one of the hottest men at the office, wouldn’t feel that way about you? Exactly, it had to have been the adrenaline of it all – or that bloody fucking dress. Whatever it was, you decided to repress that fluttery feeling in your gut and tried to remember what you were truly dealing with here: a boss looking out for his agents.

The rest of the night was spent in a comfortable silence. You decided to just go to bed already, your head spinning. What he’d told you wasn’t lost on you, in fact, it kept you up. You were laid on your back, staring up at the ceiling as you bit your lip. The range of emotions you were experiencing was overwhelming at it was hard to keep the waterworks contained at times.

Eventually, somewhere in the AM’s you managed to fall asleep. But even then you were plagued by your own mind. You felt those hands all over your body again and that slick, slobbery tongue on your neck. You punched him again, as you did before, but only now he pulled out a gun and shot you square in the chest. Clutching at that gushing wound, you sank to your knees, locking eyes with Javier. He rushed over holding you in his arms, shaking your lifeless form as your body went limp.

You sat upright immediately, arms flailing around you, knocking over the glass and clock that stood on the bedside table. The sounds of the shattering rung in your ears, pulling you back from your own head, making you aware of your surroundings. You were alive and more importantly you were safe. As the door swung open you let out a yelp, covering your face with your arms, still panting from your nightmare.

“Shit – are you okay?”, Javier asked, taking note of the broken glass next to the bed.

The familiar sound of his voice sent you over the edge and the tears that you’d been struggling to hold back all night finally got the upper hand over you. As you gasped for hair he quickly threw the nearest blanket atop the shards, deciding he’d deal with it later. He crawled into the bed and you practically threw yourself into his arms. He cradled you against his chest, closing his eyes as he felt you tremble all over.

“I’ve got you sweetheart, I’m right here”, he soothed you, intertwining the fingers on his free hand with your hair, slowly but surely grounding you.

There was something about the way his arms wrapped around you that made you feel safe. Something about the way your head fit perfectly in the crook of his neck that made you feel like you were destined to end up here, in his bed, pressed up against him.

With tear-stained cheeks and glossy eyes you looked up at him, hands fisted in his threadbare t-shirt. “Did you mean it? What you said?”, you croaked out, voice pitchy with emotion.

“Every word”, he confirmed, softly swiping the tears away with his thumb.

You sat upright a bit more, leaning into him as did he until finally your lips bumped into one another’s. The both of you sighed, pulling away after only a few seconds, not looking for anything more in that moment.

“Please just hold me for tonight”, you whispered, resting your forehead against his.

He gently laid down, taking you with him. “I don’t think I’ll ever let go again.”

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

Their Doll 11

Silent scream

B.Barnes x Stark!Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader

series synopsis:  y/n Stark, all records of her non existent, and yet Hydra still find her. When she is kidnapped by a certain super-soldier and no one believes her, she finds herself searching for unexpected familiarity in her not-so-distant past.

Series Warnings: smut, violence, torture, swearing

Chapter Summary: y/n gets shut up

Warnings: mentions of violence, swearing

A/n: The timeline in this has been altered, as there I things I wanted to include but I also wanted this fic to follow the storyline/timeline of Winter Soldier and Civil war.So for purposes of this fanfic, Peter Parker was discovered by Tony at a much younger age - when he was bitten - and has been an intern with him since, almost like a protégée.(For the purposes of this story Peter was bitten much younger too - more like when he was 9 or ten rather than 14/15)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

"Fuck you." I snapped, mustering all the saliva I could before spitting it at his face. He flinched back when it splattered over his cheek, his fingers swiping through the spittle before he was shaking it from them and standing back to his full height.

"It appears this one is never going to cooperate. If she won't give us information, why let our experimentations on her possibly...benefit the girl the the future?" The general spoke menacingly to the guards behind me. "How about way find a way to shut her up?"

My heat thudded so hard in my chest it was like someone was punching me from the inside, all air knocked from my lungs before I was being hoisted up to my feet again with two rough grips on my upper arms. My chest heaving, I coughed a ragged breath before composing myself. The glint of the silver blade in the corner of my vision sent my eyes bugging out of my skull and my mind into a flat panic.

So, I did what any rational person with my capabilities would do. I began to hum the deep melody - one a seldom sung - and a smirk crawled its way onto my now curved lips. Clearly, the general was prepared, but the two guards behind we weren't so lucky.

A desperate cry pierced my tune, harmonising with my voice as I heard the havoc I was causing. This was the first time I'd enjoyed a kill, the very first time I'd wanted to use my powers for such a horrific reason. I'd only ever used this part of my power a few times, but this was the only time I'd been fully lucid whilst doing so.

Some people want nothing more than to blow their enemies' brains out, and trust me when I tell you; It felt good.

However, luck was never on my side, and the General had come full prepared. He wasn't even affected, it must've been something to do with the funny earpiece he was wearing.

As my eyes met his, the General's face held non of the cocky, smug tones that I'd expect. No, the only word I could use to describe his old and crinkled features was pure ire, and it was directed at me.

"You conniving, vile little bitch!" He snarled, the flash of silver weeding a sense of utter and complete dread, tangled with fear inside of me, uprooting my confidence. I don't remember a lot after that, to tell you the truth. I know the blade sliced along my throat. I know everything was rained black. And that's about it.

...

Awakening with a gasp was the last thing I expected to happen. The sight of the blade risen in front of the general burned into my mind, almost as if it'd been scorned against my flesh. But here I was: awake, gasping for breath, completely surrounded by doctors I'd never seen before.

My hand instantly flew to my neck, a stinging sensation pulsing from the delicate skin. I hissed as my sweaty palm made contact with the bandage, the material corse and scratchy against my skin. As a doctor waddled over to me, needle in hand, I flailed desperately, a silent scream ripping from my throat.

Hang on a second-

Silent scream? I tried again, the shrill noise that should be tearing from me simply vanishing as it hit my throat. My eyes widened with the realisation, my bottom lip wobbling as I suddenly pieces together what had happened.

He said he'd have to shut me up, didn't he? The thought made me want to scream loudly, that the blade had touched my skin and left me with no defence.

They took away the hell they'd reigned upon me, something I'd wished I could be rid of for years, and now I was disappointed. Maybe this was their plan all along, that little voice in my head sang. The tears pricked at my eyes, which rolled back lazily as the scratch of the needle poked at my neck.

...

My calloused fingers ran over the cut tirelessly, trying to itch somewhere that I could never seem to find. I don't know how long I was sedated for, but since waking up the bleeding had stopped and there was now an offensive red line that slid horizontally across my neck.

Every time I touched it, it coaxed a wince from me, and yet that's all I seemed to do. It was like poking a bruise, I guess. The more it hurts the more you want to do it.

They'd returned me to my cell, clearly very little need for restraints against my weakened, starved and dehydrated body. I could see the flesh thinning on my arms, my ribs pressing painfully against my skin. Not only could I see the hunger, but I could feel it.

Manifesting, biting, gnawing hunger. The type that are you from inside out, devouring everything of you until the only thing you could think about was eating. Huh, I guess I was already at that stage then.

My eyes remained locked in place, glossy with the endless tears as I stared at the floor. If I really looked hard enough, the still wet blood smeared over the floors of the hallway resembled something close to strawberry jam. The thoughts of the sickly sweat substance spread over a perfectly toasted piece of bread, accompanied with a big glass of fresh orange juice and washed down by a large coffee made my mouth water. The booming rumble in my stomach made the groan, even more drawn out than expected when I remembered all I'd get to eat today: a small bread roll and a tiny glass of water.

Sadly, the sink in my cell did not contain drinking water. The liquid was so discoloured that I purposely avoided washing me hands, preferring to possible have my own germs coating my hands than whatever they were giving me. I'm not kicking you about, I genuinely think the water was filtered through a clump of fucking horse shit, mixed with fish guts and complimented with a hint of rotting fruit. If I could help it, I'd be dodging that water like the plague (if it didn't contain one already) for the rest of my life.

I'm not really sure why, but my head snapped up in surprise why the door sprang open, a single guard entering.

"The general requires your presence." He deadpanned, eyes cold as eyes and sharp as a knife as they stabbed through me. I wanted to fight back, stay glued to the spot and snap back some snarky remark, but in my current condition I almost couldn't bring myself to care where I was about to be taken, or why for that matter.

I stood without a word, silently following the man until we reached an unfamiliar metal door. I found it almost laughable, really, that they'd reduced my strength so much, that no one even considered putting me any sort of restraints anymore.

The door was pushed open with a child-like whine emitting from its rusty hinges, the metal scraping over the concrete floor painfully. The guard simply grabbed my arm before tugging me into the room, letting the door shut behind his with a hollow thunk.

"Ah, she has arrived!" The general's voice exclaimed, a deviant smile spreading over his thin lips. "And just in time to meet Mr Pierce, too." He said menacingly.

I felt embarrassed, exposed, stood before the room of men. My hair was a mess, tears streaking my reddened face, eyes puffy from crying and the only clothes a wore was a now-battered hospital gown. My eyes darted around nervously, trying to avoid the blonde man sat before me, chin resting in his palm as he surveyed me.

"Why is this one...important?" The man asked, eyeing me up and down before his eyes seemed to fixate on my neck. The scar.

"This," the general spoke, but Mr Pierce kept his eyes on me, "is Miss y/n Stark." Mr Pierce's eyes widened ever so slightly, but it was barely noticeable.

"As in Tony Stark?" Pierce pondered.

"The very same." The general smirked.

"She seems awfully...quiet, for a Stark." Pierce said with almost a hint of disgust, eyes still glued to my shaking frame.

"That's because we shut her up." The general snapped, awfully harshly.

"Is that the scar? How fresh is it?" Pierce jabbed his questions, curiosity clearly becoming him in the moment.

"Indeed. Our doctors here are very good, Sir. They had her all patched up and out of bandages in just three days." The general bragged, shoulders back and head held high as if he was posing for a portrait.

"I see." Pierce mused, brows furrowed in thought. "What do you plan to do with her? Now that she can't tell you anything?"

"Oh, trust me, sir. She wasn't giving anything up either way," he paused, striding over to me and yanking my head back with a fistful of hair, my back mow  pressed to his chest and his mouth at my ear, "isn't that right, sweetheart?"he clarified, and I didn't hesitate to nod my head as much as his grip would allow.

"So why isn't she dead?" Pierce gritted, seemingly annoyed. "It's not like Tony's attached to her, he never looked for her and I've never even heard him mention her."

"But then they'll keep coming. I don't want the avengers on my back, and I'm sure you don't either." Pierce hummed in agreement. "She's with them - her and that Captain America guy arrived together - so why not use her to send a message?" The general suggested.

...

That's how I found myself tied up, wrists bound and gun to my head as I sat shakily in a chair in the middle of the quinjet. I had no clue how long I'd been since that day, but I do know that I had been sedated once again. The flimsy hospital gown allowed a shiver to chill me, skin  forming goosebumps as I sat before the open door or the quinjet.

"You will tell them exactly as I just did. Got it?" The general pressed, pushing the gun into my head hard enough to make by head throb. Tears biting at my eyes, I nodded furiously, now determined to live with the promise of being free again. "Good. Soldat, make sure she gets back to New York without being seen, I'd hate to have to spill more blood than we intended." The general demanded, a figure rustling its way out of the shadows at the edge of the room. A gasp tore from my throat at the sight of him - clad in black leather and arm as silver as the moon. The soldier - my soldier.

But he simple stared through me, eyes blank and clouded in a coldness I'd never had directed at me from him before.

"And make sure you don't fail this time, soldat." The general snapped. The soldier nodded solemnly, the echoing of boots thudding filling both their ears as the general walked off the ship.

[silkybullets]

“Death Call”

Midland Hotel, 1925, sitting alone at a table the evening before Christmas, Tommy's icy eyes met with a face he never had ever thought of seeing again, not whilst being alive at least. Which lead us back to Birmingham, 1914, after he volunteered in Small Heath rifles, he spent his last couple of months home holding your hand in the hospital, watching your colours fade as dying of an unknown disease.

Warnings: English is my second language.

Words: around 2k

Tommy just ordered a drink, adding to that a whore, a brand new one in honor of Christmas when he initially went to light his cigarette. His eyes drifted to a table further away where a woman was already sitting down. He did recognize her, remembering the sweet touch of an old lover. His stiffened body didn’t receive the orders to continue moving sent by his brain, his mind too occupied playing memories of before the war. Before it all begins, or all ends, depending which side you’re looking.

One the other side of the room, you were searching the pockets of your woolen coat. When you finally found your cigarette case, you got one out, sliding it in between your soft lips. After pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, you hassled lightening up your cig and welcomed the poison in your lungs as if it was the purest thing. 

The waiter came closer to you, putting down your rhum, which you drank in one go and ordered another one. It’s been a couple months you didn’t drink and, after this first shot you don’t remember why. When doctors failed to diagnose you and closed your file with a lung disease you were young and never tasted the flavor of the liquid poison. But at the cliff of death, God granted you the wish to live.

Too bad that’s when your memories of endless & lonely drinking nights happened. 

Coming from a christian family, it was no question for them you had been chosen by God to do something great in this world. Pushing their luck they sent you to an orphanage run by nuns to pay your debts to God. When their initial idea was to keep you pure for as long as you were to be alive, you chose a different path for yourself, bounged down into alcohol, drugs and whatever came with it.

Saying you were a non-believer would be too much, but the idea of being some kind of “chosen one” was nonsense to you, that just meant death was right under your nose or waiting for you at the corner of the street. What happened next was logical consequence, your depraved self was sent back home after the nuns numerous warnings were ignored. You did not change, and decided not to. 

When being saved or witnessing a miracle helps people get their life in order, it had the reverse effect on you and you had yet to get your shit together.

When they recommended you to drastically change your ways for the sake of your family if not for you, you gave in. You had siblings, and knowing how hard your family could be on them at times, you didn’t want to leave them alone. But your good will ended tonight.

You looked at the filled glass in front of you for what seemed like an eternity,  weighting the pros and cons of getting drunk tonight and all the other after that one. You being dead or alive it’ll be okay for your family, you assured yourself to avoid feeling guilty for choosing not to fight. 

Ten minutes and three empty cups later, you were ordering another one. The waiter was intently looking at you, concerned, while you were ignoring his pout.

“You sure you want rhum, ma’m, Can I bring you something else, gin perhaps?” He was as smooth as one could, but the implicit meaning behind his words irritated you the most.

“Do I look like I’m sad, eh? Tell me ‘cause I don’t look at meself in mirrors these days.” You begin, agitating your fingers that were holding another cigarette. 

“Gin’s for sad women, whiskey for big boys crying, rhum for people like me: We are not sad enough for trying to drown our pain in gin, not hopeless alcoholics enough to to get drunk with something as tasteless as whisky. We simply enjoy a slow death with a sweet and spicy flavor. Please bring me the whole bottle this time.”

Without realizing it, you offered the man the warmest smile he had seen tonight and he gave one back even if still quite taken aback by your confusing revelation.

Tommy had seen enough, he got up throwing a bill near his drink and cleared his throat for lack of clearing his head. He walked to the table, the woman he once knew was seated, his voice already reaching her ears before their eyes would meet.

“Is this seat taken?” He motioned to the second chair around the table. Finishing another glass she invited him to sit down with a move of hand. Her cigarette in between her lips, she poured some rhum into her glass and ultimately lifted her eyes to his face.

“Are you sick of the hotel whore, Thomas? Am not one if this is your question.” She blinked as puffing on her cig. 

“Merry Christmas to you too, Y/N” He coughed. “See you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Nor did you.”

Lies, it was all lies, if it wasn’t her eyes he hadn’t recognized her. The woman he was in love with was long gone and so was the boy who loved her.

“So OBE it is, now?” She looked up to him.

He stayed in her eyes before daring to speak, and break the eye contact.

“You were always used to call me Tommy, we can stick to that.”

She didn’t respond nor look at him, keeping for herself any emotions his words had unleashed into her, if they did.

“What happened to you?” He spoke in a more vibrant ton. An attempt to ease the heavy atmosphere.

“War happened to us, Tom.” 

His eyes snapped open on her.

“What France did to you, remaining alive did to me.” She offered him a fair smile, looking straight at him with the same piercing gleam hiding behind her iris than when they were younger. 

“We all came back alive. John, Arthur, Freddie... Although they are now some missing pieces.”

“Yeah, fucking pieces spilled everywhere. It’s looking like the puzzles we used to play when we were younger, huh? Does that ring any bell?” She giggles.

It was hard for him to read her, he didn’t know what he felt either. 

He stayed at the hospital three months straight holding her hand as her colors were fading. He remembers vividly how difficult it was for her to breath, speak, even keeping her eyes open was a huge sacrifice. But she’d never compromised to keep them shut as he told her to, his face gave him the strength of an army, as she used to say. And that had him laugh, even though now he doesn’t remember the last time something as close as a laugh came out his throat.

“Don’t get fucking lost in memories, Thomas. Just ask for it.” 

She poured some liquor into her glass and slowly slid it to Tommy as if anticipating him telling her he didn’t want it.

He watched her moves with amusement, it was odd to him to find her here, but even more peculiar was the fact it seems like she knew him still. Like those ten years that separated them weren’t there, like there wasn’t a day they didn’t think about the other fondly. Her gaze didn’t leave his, and he knew exactly where her mind was because his own was at the same place. She was getting all the information she could to try to match his now tired face with the one she had been picturing in her head all those years.

“Okay then.” he nodded. “ Where have you been?” 

A smile appeared at the corner of his lips, they were playing a game he couldn’t only play with her, she was the one girl before France, everyone got their advantages.

“Fucking dying of being alive after I got strunk by some miracle.” She raised a brow as if to voice the displeasure of missing the boat.

“I thought you were dead.”

“I wish I was, Tommy.”

He let out a long sigh. Once again he failed at keeping a light atmosphere. It was to be said she wasn’t any help.

That’s when he realized no matter how it felt like they were still the same teenagers, back in 1914 before everybody got fucked up, no matter how hard the memories were hitting him this exact same instant with their first kiss, their first touch and the first time they exchanged their desire to live a life together, they were not the same. Nothing was.

She was only a mere shadow of herself, and he? He couldn’t even look at her in the eyes for more than five minutes, too afraid it would dig out things that must be kept where they were nowhere to be found for his own sake.

Every little thing about before France hurt him. Even the happy throwbacks, especially the happy throwbacks. Knowing he would never feel those feelings again, never get silly about the breeze meeting with his skin or the rising of the sun at the top of a hill killed him most. That’s why he didn’t want to ask more about what happened to her. But at the same time, the questions came naturally to him, as if he waited all along to throw them out, taking off his chest a weight he never realized to initially be there.

“Have you done better after I left?”

“I did. For a time. Some years, in fact, even though my parents sent me to a nunnery to thank God for his mercy.”

He snorted at her words.

“Why doesn’t it surprise me? They were always about keeping you saint, even asked me to fucking give up on taking you running in the fields to watch the night sky until sun rised, they never thought it could be the other way around, you leading me.”

She laughed at this thought.

“Don’t you dare say this as if you disliked me being the lead, Tommy Shelby.” She sneered.

“No, I indeed liked it.” He shook his head without hesitation.

“If only they knew what we did, in those nights.” They both spoke, their voice overlapping along with their minds.

“Tommy you got to follow me, or else we’ll be too late.”

“Let me catch a breath, we got all the time to come up the hill some other nights.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s tonight the fireballs are going to be running in the sky!”

“You aware it’s not called “fireball” and that they are not ‘running’ in the sky?”

The girl stuck her tongue out, turning to him, her eyes mechanically squinted at the move. She did not realize he was right behind her and faked all along still behind at the feet of the hill to annoy her. His body strongly collided with her, making her stagger but Tommy’s arms locked her waist firmly, avoiding her body from meeting the ground, and his lips dropped on her mouth in a second, she couldn’t even close her eyes during the kiss.

“Stop it!” Her suave voice worded as one of her hands went hitting his chest, even if her deepest desire was for him not to let go of her lips.

“I’m thinking about that one night we first fucked. Bodies wet both by sweat and dew“ She muttered.

He was sitting but naked on the grass, his fingers intertwined in her hair that was falling at her back as holding her tightly. She was the type of flowers you thought were beautiful but couldn’t help but rip off the ground, dooming them to die in your hands. 

Her legs were strongly wrapped around his hips, she was carefully grounding down on him, making sure every of her moves were slow to make the pleasure last. She turned loose the grip of her arms around his neck and leaned backward so he’d hit her from another angle, this one allowing him to reach the bottom.

Her screams filled his ears and soon enough his mouth as she straightened back up, seeking his eyes, wanting to connect even more. The darkness he ignited in her eyes that night never left, always leading him to always want her, even in the most inappropriate places.

“I was thinking about that time at the local church.” He admitted.

“Every-fucking-body heard the screams--” She proudly stated.

“The priest was more than disturb” He added. “But they never found out who that was.” 

“Well, we know.” She handed him her cigarette. He gladly took it and smoked as much as he could, clouding his lungs as well as his mind.

She giggled some more, shaking her head both sides, she couldn’t believe they did such a thing, but knowing as mad they were when together, it was all figured out.

“It came back, Tommy.”

“What did?” He gained his serious tone back, eyes locking with hers.

“The disease, they say it’s even more violent this time, but I know it just never left. It has been lurking in the dark to come back when I’ll be happy again. But seeing I figured out its plan, it decided it was time to finish me off.” She sang. Her voice was devoid of any sadness, and he noticed it. “I think it’s a curse, Tommy. Run in our blood. Me grandma’ had that too, it passed a generation, leaving my mother and little sister alone. But I fear for the others.”

Old reflexes leading the way, Tommy’s hand fondled hers in the most natural way. He leaned forward to her as she took off his lips her cigarette, filling her lungs with that poison in hope it would kill the one that resided in her since way too long.

[ggukcangetit]

If The Bra Fits - JJK Fic

Final part of The Unbearable Lightness of Being... Something More series

Part 1 | Part 2 | 

Pairing: Jungkook x reader

Genre: ex-roommate au, f2l, fluff, smut, low-key crack

Rating: 18+

Summary: Jungkook knows you hate it when he pops into your apartment to borrow something, but in the 2 years that you’ve known each other, that hasn’t deterred him much. But one day when he manages to (accidentally) ruin your favorite bra while raiding through your emergency snack supply, he knows that he’s fucked. With only a brand name to help him on his search, Jungkook spends the next 48 hours buying all the bras that look even remotely like the one he ruined. The only problem is - how would he figure out which was the correct size without asking you?

Warnings: a lot of talk of breasts and the trials and tribulations of finding a good bra, oral sex (f receiving), masturbation, kissing, grinding, nipple play

Word count: 3.8k

a/n: thanks a ton to @hesperantha​ for beta-ing this! i was super nervous about writing proper smut >.< anywho, hope y’all enjoy this!

Jungkook knew he was fucked. Worse than when Jimin had walked in on Yoongi doing the do with his girlfriend. Worse than when Taehyung had lost his pet frog in Seokjin’s spice drawer. Worse than-

“Fuck.”

He would probably have to leave the country. Maybe he could move to Canada? Or New Zealand? Anywhere that wasn’t here. Or he could change his name! That might work…

“H-hello?” 

“What the hell, Jungkook? You were supposed to meet me for lunch 40 minutes ago! This is rude and, frankly, inexcusable behavior on your part.” Seokjin’s annoyed voice, talking at 300 words a minute, rang through the phone’s speaker. “And why the hell do you sound like that? Did you walk in on Yoongi and Soya this time? I swear, that guy needs to learn to lock his door. Or maybe just change his locks. I mean this is probably-”

“Seokjin!” Jungkook pinched the bridge of his nose as his friend slowed his word flow. “I’ll be there in 10 and explain everything.”

Hanging up the phone, he surveyed the site of the massacre once more before stuffing the offending object into his backpack and rushing out. True to his word, he was at the hole-in-the-wall dumpling place in 10 minutes, attempting to explain to an irate Seokjin, the reason behind his tardiness. 

“No! You did not do that!” Seokjin yelled, nearly choking on the hot soup dumpling that was hanging - half eaten - from his chopsticks.

Jungkook had, in fact, done that. That being the most cardinal offense his frazzled brain could think of at this point. That being sneaking into your apartment when you were at work, hoping to swipe some of your favorite shrimp puffs, placing his cup of steaming hot mocha on your study table, rummaging through your emergency snack supply but somehow inadvertently knocking over the coffee on the table, and cleaning it up with the nearest article available, which tragically, happened to be your mint green bra. 

“She’s going to kill you. No” - Seokjin picked up a egg cream bun and popped the whole thing into his mouth - “she’s going to whip your ass and then hang you upside down from that metal pole on Hobi’s balcony.”

Jungkook stared at the way the cream bun smoothly travelled down Seokjin’s throat after a couple of chews, and shivered. “What do I do??”

“Why do you have to do anything? She won’t know it was you who spilled coffee on her table and then wiped it with her bra. Unless...” 

Jungkook stared at his fingers guiltily. 

“You took the bra with you, didn’t you?” Seokjin sighed, lightly smacking his friend on the back of the head for good measure. “Well, you could always blame it on Namjoon. That’s what I would do. Heck, that’s what I did when I accidentally broke Hobi’s favorite figurine.”

“I don’t know…”

“You have to commit to something, Jaykay.” Every time Seokjin used his nickname for Jungkook, it meant there was some kind of terrible scheme being cooked up. “Either be a complete little shit and blame it on Namjoon, or just go and own up to y/n. You can’t teeter on the edge like this.”

“I could always just sneak back in and leave her bra where I found it.” Jungkook felt better already. This was it. This was the middle ground he was aspiring towards - the sacred path between Seokjin and Hobi, the Yoongi of all decisions. 

“You might not have to sneak in” - Seokjin held up his smartphone where the group chat was open to a bunch of notifications - “Tae said we’re meeting at y/n’s place for tacos and UNO.”

“Why is Tae so invested in our UNO games? He gets confused every time we play it.” 

“Because” - Seokjin swiped his credit card at the counter and thanked the cashier with a quick wink - “like every good strategist, he plans to improve by observing everyone else’s style of play. He definitely knows how to play by now. He’s just giving us the confused puppy look so that we underestimate him and he can learn all our little tricks. Just you wait - a few more games and that sneaky shit will be handing our asses back to us.”

Jungkook, while mildly interested in Taehyung’s card game antics, was more concerned about returning your bra without arousing any suspicion. The perfect moment presented itself when Seokjin, Namjoon, Yoongi, Taehyung and Hobi were immersed in a game of UNO, while you and Soya were munching on tacos - because let’s face it, food trumps just about everything else. Coming up with a half-convincing bathroom excuse, he snuck off towards your room, hoping to finally rid himself of the mint green burden.

Seconds before he pushed your door open, a snippet of conversation floated towards him and made his heart stop beating.

“I can’t find it anywhere.” You were complaining to Soya about something, loud enough for him to hear. “I must’ve turned my room upside down looking for it.”

Soya didn’t seem too perturbed. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a bra. Yoongi regularly loses my underwear after we have sex in new locations.”

Jungkook chuckled because he could almost see the look of horror on your face at receiving this piece of information. 

“Ignoring that TMI,” you continued. “That’s my favorite bra, Soya! You know how our sizes keep fluctuating - well, this was the first bra I bought after getting measured at a proper place. It literally changed my life. Do you know how fabulous it feels to have your boobs at normal chest level - neither squished up towards your collarbones nor jiggling like that everlasting jello Seokjin keeps buying? I’m tellin-”

Jungkook stopped listening at this point. If he didn’t, there was little chance that he’d be able to think of anything other than that. As it was, the mere sight of you these days, was enough to get blood flowing to certain parts of his body. 

There was clearly only one thing to do.

“You want me to help you do WHAT?” Once again, it was Seokjin who barely managed to stop himself from choking on yet another scrumptious food item on yet another lunch date with Jungkook. 

“I’m going to replace her bra.” The resolute expression on Jungkook’s face crumbled ever so slowly under the scrutiny of Seokjin’s pure, unadulterated skepticism. “It’ll be easy. I-I already know what it looks like, and all the information I need is on the itchy tag she always complains about.”

Seokjin’s thick brow remained masterfully arched. 

“Are you going to help me or not?” Jungkook whined in frustration.

“What do I get in return?”

“Why would you want anything in return? Why can’t you just help me out this time??”

The masterfully arched eyebrow did it’s trick once again.

“Fine. You can borrow all my gaming equipment for a week.”

“A month.”

“No way!”

“Good luck shopping for y/n’s favorite bra.”

“Fine! A month! Now can we get a move on please?”

Thankfully, it wasn’t too difficult to find the particular store that you had bought your favorite bra from. It was a niche boutique on the third floor of the mall, full of politely judgmental staff members and pointedly supercilious patrons, all of whom were highly skeptical of Jungkook’s grey and black hoodie-sweatpants combo. 

“Guess they didn’t really get on board with the whole athleisure concept,” Seokjin whispered, earning a hard elbowing from Jungkook.

The looks of skepticism were further enhanced when Jungkook produced the ruined bra, asking one of the assistants where he could find the same one. Jungkook hadn’t received such a disapproving look since his junior year of college when he had eaten 8 cups of instant ramen on a dare, done a celebratory jig, thrown up all over Yoongi and Hobi’s sofa, and promptly passed out. 

“Er… I, uhm, need something!” The exclamation from Jungkook was received by a few expertly raised eyebrows. One assistant, in particular, narrowed their eyes at him and walked over.

“This is a lingerie store” - they scanned him up and down a couple of times - “sir. If you’re here to buy any lingerie, I’d be happy to assist you.”

Jungkook gulped at the expensive clothes and flawless complexion of the shop assistant. So far, things were not really going according to plan. 

“Ow!” He felt a bony elbow dig into his ribs and glared at Seokjin, who was glancing between him and the assistant so rapidly, Jungkook was surprised he hadn’t gotten dizzy and passed out already.

“Right. Umm, I’m actually looking for this particular one” - he produced the once-pristine, but now covered in ugly brown splotches, bra from his backpack - “in this exact same size. Do you have it?”

If the shop assistant didn’t look particularly eager to be breathing the same air as him before, they now looked like they’d rather choke on month old guacamole than be near him.

“Our products are made for exclusivity. We do not carry the same sizes as the general marketplace. There are 4 basic sizes with 4 variations to each size. And this particular product” - they held the ruined bra delicately between two fingers and examined the tag - “is now only available in 3 particular size variations. You are free to choose whichever one you think is the closest fit.”

Jungkook’s doe eyes widened as he realized the itchy tag that you always complained about, truly had no other purpose but to inconvenience you. His panicked stare fell on Seokjin who had busied himself examining a very interesting leaf on the potted plant near the entrance.

It was up to him now, Jungkook realized. His fate was in his own hands. Walking over to the shelf carrying the mint green bras identical to the one he was holding, he inspected the 3 options carefully. 

“I think I’ll take this one.” Was what he said out loud. Inwardly, however, he was screaming a very different tune.

“HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DECIDE?? I’VE NEVER BOUGHT A BRA BEFORE! I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT SIZE WOULD BE APPROPRIATE! IT’S NOT LIKE I SPEND ALL MY TIME SCRUTINIZING Y/N’S BREASTS!”

Thankfully, no one was privy to his internal screams except for himself.

“Thank you, sir. That will be $89.99.” Jungkook took out his debit card as the song playing over the system changed to No Tears Left To Cry.

Once out of the store, Seokjin let out a low whistle. “Wow… that was, undoubtedly, one of the most awkward situations I’ve ever been in. And I wasn’t even really in it.”

“At least the toughest part is over.” Jungkook felt like he had been running a 50 mile marathon while simultaneously figuring out the square roots of 5 digit numbers. In short, he was exhausted.

“Depends on what you think of that…” Seokjin pointed at a familiar figure, slowly walking towards them - someone Jungkook hadn’t expected to bump into in any of his worst case scenarios. You.

Confronted with an exceedingly dire situation with a bleak set of options, Jungkook vaulted into the nearest store, his entire being on high alert as it entered survival mode. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been paying attention to where he rushed into because-

“Congratulations! You’re our 100th customer this week! You get a complimentary hair spa and perm!” Five extremely eager faces stared back at him as he realized he had walked into some sort of hair salon. 

Whoever was writing the script for this day was definitely high on something because Jungkook walked out of the salon 3 hours later, slightly traumatized, with a head full of small curls, clutching onto the cursed purchase with every fibre of his being.

Seokjin had left hours ago, dropping a text to Jungkook which read something along the lines of catch ya later sucker - but that was the least of his problems right now.

It was nearly midnight when he finally entered his apartment after managing to sneak in the new bra into your apartment. Thankfully, you lived two floors above him, so the trek back to his place wasn’t too long. The stress from the past couple of days was finally catching up to him and Jungkook would give anything for a nice long massage and a bowl of steaming hot ramen. 

Unfortunately, all that he had at home was a few leftover containers Taehyung had left behind on his last visit a couple of days ago. There was also bread, eggs, and milk, but he didn’t feel up to making anything at this point. So dinner ended up being heated, two-day old dumplings. 

Just as he was about to head to sleep, a loud pounding started on his front door. It was well past midnight at this point and Jungkook wondered if he should be carrying some sort of weapon with him while answering the door.

There really wasn’t any need for worry because on the other side of the door stood a very angry, very disgruntled, very flimsily dressed-

“Y/n?! What’re you doing here?” 

“You!” Jungkook stepped back as you poked him in the chest. “What the heck is your problem?” Many more pokes followed, which Jungkook barely registered but which left your index finger increasingly bruised. 

“I- uh, I guess you found the parcel I left for you.” He scratched the back of his head, looking everywhere but at you.

“I CANNOT believe you!” You were fuming and Jungkook was contemplating calling someone for backup. Maybe Namjoon? Or Yoongi? Mayb- “First, you ruin my favorite bra! What were you doing in my apartment anyway? Trying to steal more stuff from my emergency snack supply?! Why can’t you just buy your own s-”

You definitely had a point about the snack stealing. But Jungkook couldn’t stop himself from going over and taking something that would undoubtedly attract your attention, because the last time that had happened, you both had ended up making out aggressively against the wall. 

“-and not just that!” You were clearly not done with being mad at him. “You go ahead and try to replace my favorite bra? With this???” You held up Jungkook’s purchase from earlier during the day.

“What’s wrong with this? It’s the same one, isn’t it? I went to the shop to make sure it was the same.” He didn’t really understand why this particular fact was making you so upset.

“You think this is the same?” You were standing very close to him and Jungkook gulped as he caught a whiff of your lavender body lotion.

“Yes?”

“You think my boobs are this small?? After the way you basically kneaded them with your hands last time??” 

Jungkook’s eyes widened, his face growing hotter with every word you were speaking.

“Why the fuck do you look like that?” you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“L-like what?” His voice came out sort of strangled as he tried to make sense of the situation.

“Like you’ve been caught eating the last cookie.”

Jungkook didn’t know how to respond to this. He was very aware of the fact that you were wearing a flimsy grey t-shirt and very old, very small, sleeping shorts. He gulped and wondered if this was some kind of dream that he’d suddenly wake up from.

“I’ve been waiting for you to make a move since you stuck your tongue down my throat last time. But nope! Nothing.” Now he knew that there was something wrong. This didn’t seem like the rational next line in a dialogue between real people who had just been in a, slightly one-sided, fight. “So, are you gonna kiss me or not?”

“W-what?” His voice was barely louder than a whisper at this point and you scoffed loudly before fisting your hands in his t-shirt and crashing your lips to his.

It took him a few seconds to get his bearings, but Jungkook was soon responding with impressive enthusiasm. His lips glided over yours with a desperation borne out of nearly two years of attraction and chemistry. He groaned in pleasure as your hands travelled into his hair, your fingers running through his freshly done curls. His hands travelled down your back before cupping your butt-cheeks and squeezing them until you moaned into his mouth. The feel of your body against his was enough to make him slowly lose his mind - but your tongue swiping into his mouth brought out a strangled noise from deep inside him. This was so much better than the first time you had both made out - there was more experience and knowledge of each other, and you seemed much more determined than the last time.

“Tell me what you want,” Jungkook’s voice came out huskier than you had ever heard, sending a surge of electricity to your core. “Tell me what makes you feel good, y/n.”

His voice was sultry and his body rock-hard at the perfect places - his breath falling in harsh pants as he recovered from the intensity of the kisses. But his eyes held the soft sincerity you had grown to lov-

“Against the wall,” you breathed, your face flushing as you verbalised your request. “And then on your bed.” You took one of his hands and placed it on your breast, firm with arousal, and guided his other hand to the waistband of your shorts. 

A beautiful pink blush dusted his cheeks as he captured your lips once again. He had you against the wall in seconds, his lips leaving a trail of devastation from your lips to your throat to your breasts. You moaned loudly as you felt his fingers rub against your clothed core while his tongue flicked over your nipples at a deliciously slow pace. 

“Gguk…” God he loved to hear that name coming from your lips. He loved it even more now that it was in the midst of him pleasuring you to the best of his ability. 

“Bed. I can’t… stand...” You managed to say. He obliged, placing his hands below your knees and scooping you up with ease, all while his lips kept pressing soft kisses to yours. 

Once on the bed, you removed your t-shirt and shorts, instructing him to do the same. Jungkook stared at your bare body for a moment, his eyes glazed with lust before he stripped himself of his clothes and continued kissing every part of your body he could find. 

Your insides were coiling, the heat growing at your core as you watched Jungkook’s magnificent, completely naked, body move over yours. Your hands itched to run over his abs but your eyes were fixed on his throbbing dick, your core growing wetter by the moment. 

“Can I?” Jungkook’s hoarse voice broke you out of your dilemma, his face hovering over your thighs. “Only if you want it, y/n.” You were pretty sure his soft, caring words would be enough for your undoing, but you nodded your head anyway.

The first swipe of his tongue against your core had you arching yourself off the mattress, your legs kicking up involuntarily. This was definitely where his gym prowess came in handy, as he held your thighs down with enough force for the feeling to be unbelievably pleasurable. Your hands found themselves in his curls once more, as his mouth alternated between dropping feather light kisses on your core and swiping along the wetness with a swipe of his tongue. 

“I-I’m not…” You didn’t have to complete the sentence as stars exploded in your vision, the high hitting you with more force than you had ever experienced. 

Something inside you tightened as you watched Jungkook emerge from between your thighs, his curls sweaty, and his mouth slick with your arousal. He smiled at you, dropping a light kiss on your lips, even as his dick stood red hot and angry with arousal.

“Can I help?” You asked, although your voice was hardly above a whisper, the tiredness seeping in, as you came down from the orgasm.

“Next time?” His voice was soft as he gave himself a few strong pumps before spilling onto his stomach. 

He grinned at you sheepishly. “I’m also kind of exhausted today.” Getting up quickly, he went into the bathroom and cleaned himself off, before coming back with a wet towel for you as well. 

You smiled shyly as you took the towel from him, wiping between your thighs quickly. 

Jungkook was beside you in a few moments, cuddling you from behind as sleep slowly overtook you both.

“Jungkook!” 

You cracked your eyes open slowly, wondering why someone was yelling at the crack of dawn. You were still pretty much wrapped up in Jungkook, both your legs entangled as your head rested on his chest while he snored softly.

“JUNGKOOK!”

A second, much louder, yell, woke Jungkook up as well. His eyes widening in alarm as he realised what was going on.

“It’s Tae! What’s he doing here?!” He whispered, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Umm what?” You were panicking now. As much as you had been wanting things with Jungkook to pick up, you did not want Taehyung to find you both wonderfully naked after a night of wonderfulness. “He cannot see us like this! Not yet! I refuse to let this be how everyone finds out about us!”

“Jungkook, I’m coming in!”

Jungkook quickly pushed you below the covers, fluffing it up sufficiently to hide the fact that you were under it. He barely managed to close his eyes before Taehyung walked in, much too sprightly for this early in the morning.

“Aww!” His deep voice sounded through the room. “Jungkookie, are you still sleeping?”

Much to his horror, Taehyung made his way over to the bed, his long fingers smooshing Jungkook’s cheeks together as the poor boy tried to feign sleep.

“Did you sleep late last night?”

“Mph.”

“Jungkookie’s still sleepy? Aww!” The cheek smooshing continued, and Jungkook wondered how much longer you could stay hidden without Taehyung’s perceptiveness deducing that you were there.

“Hmmmm.” Jungkook managed to grunt out, tossing over to trap you underneath him.

“Okay, go back to sleep.” With one last cheek smoosh, Taehyung got up and left the room.

“Thank god!” Jungkook whispered in relief, pulling the covers off your face.

“I’m so glad he didn’t figure out I was here,” you sighed in relief. 

Jungkook grinned at you, his bunny teeth poking out adorably as he pulled you closer to him. You giggled, reaching up to place small kisses on each of his moles - there were 5 according to your last examination. 

“The curls are cute,” you said between kisses, running your fingers through his hair. He sighed contentedly, resting his forehead on yours. If it were up to him, he’d stay here forever.

“Oh and y/n-” You both stiffened as you heard Taehyung’s voice from the living room. Apparently, he hadn’t left yet. “-thanks a lot! Seokjin now owes me 50 bucks!”

please reblog this post if you enjoyed reading the story! thank you 😊 

[herstarburststories]

Booze and Boobs

Kinktober Day 19: Boob Fucking

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

A/N: Dean Winchester loves women's bodies and I think this is beautiful... It also turns me on. This fic took a bit longer aka days to be written because piece by piece, but I'm happy because it helped me to get to a certain writing mood again! Also, two nicknames here came from @superbadassnatural smart brain.

Warnings: nipple play, dirty talk, boob fucking

Tenderness is a rare gift when you're a hunter. It's even more sporadic when you are dating Dean Winchester. Not that he isn't gentle with you, no — his tough hands always caress each inch of you as if they aren't covered in bruises, a sweet contrast. Yet, the world is ending every weekend, or a case's showing up, or one of the boys is dying. Therefore, moments like this are made to be burned in the back of your mind, and enjoyed like a lifetime.

Dean's laying on top of you, his hand resting against your chest, arm around your waist. You have one leg intertwined with his as your fingers run through his short hair. The breathing is calm. Surprisingly, not because someone knocked you or Dean out, or you two got too drunk to have a light sleep. Both of you just happen to have a good day, and now are enjoying the end of it in bed, tangled with each other.

Yet, Dean Winchester is Dean Winchester. Old or not, as Jack so lovely points out, he still got the essence. Don't get him wrong, relaxing is definitely something he enjoys doing with you, especially when you play with his hair so good. But there's another part of you that doesn't let him slide into sleep despite how comfortable he is.

Your breasts.

The green eyed hunter always loved boobs. Big, small, whatever. Any color, any size. If a chick got a pair of boobs, he'd be trying his luck with her. Now, Dean doesn't have to run after them, and this position only makes it better.

He's laying on your chest, while you are wearing one of your summer pajamas, the red one with a large cleavage. God bless Kansas nights, he thinks to himself, moving a bit while he glances at your boobs. Your breathing causing Velma and Daphne, as he calls your boobs despite your complaining, to go up and down slowly. Dean can't help but imagine getting between them and making his cock follow the movement— nice and squeezed between your breasts in a good tittie fuck.

The eldest Winchester leans in, loving the heat of your chest against his cheek before he kisses your right boob. Dean's so close to your heart, he can almost discern your erratic beating once he kissed there again. A chuckle leaving his lips, gaining a soft groan from you.

He doesn't stop there, sneak fingers pulling your pajamas shirt down as he starts spreading pecks all over your breast. Sweet kisses soon melting into longing licks, which only appeared to turn into sucking. Dean wants to leave marks, he always does. That man can be possessive when he wants, and the thought of hickeys that he made with his own mouth showing on your skin when you are wearing one of your usual tank tops only makes the crotch in his pants harder.

“Dean.” You moan, both hands pulling his head to your breasts to the point Dean found himself buried between your boobs. This is it, he accepts, I'm in heaven. Heaven of boobs.

He blows on your sensitive nipple, getting a whine of yours back. A lopsided grin on his expression when he notices how much you want him, just like he wants you. His plump lips surround your already hard nipple as Dean sucks your boob, his hand massaging the other one.

The hunter spends time on it, your sighs and moans encouraging him to keep going. His cock's only growing more bothered in his pants, the sweat in the air is as natural as your breathless state. You both need more. You often do. It always starts with a sweet giving until you both feel like owning.

Dean, using all his inner strength, pulls away from your chest. His elbows to the mattress as he lifts his head to look into your eyes.

“We could try a new position.” He suggests.

“What's it?” You furrow your eyebrows, tilting your head to the side. “I'm telling you beforehand, porn isn't real life. No woman or man can do those things.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Relax, Y/N/N. That one's very possible.” He bites his bottom lip, looking at your uncovered, dirty with saliva chest before glancing at you. “I wanna fuck your boobs.”

You have to fight yourself not to moan shamelessly at his statement. Dean, with those hungry green eyes and plump lips red from sucking your boob, openly talking in his gruff voice about fucking your breasts. God, you just want to beg him to destroy you.

Instead, you look to the side, a sloppy idea welcoming your mind. You smile devilish as you notice that the half full bottle is still on the table next to bed— ultimately, Dean's mess would do you good.

Your hand grabs the whiskey, the mouth of the bottle meeting yours in a double intentioned kiss. You toss the cap away, dropping the liquid over your chest. You and Dean didn't have any lube in hand, might as well improvise.

“I guess this will do.” You smirk, savoring the way Dean's mouth is slightly open in surprise. You place the whiskey on its place, wiggling your eyebrows at the hunter. “What are you waiting for, Winchester?”

Dean groans at your teasing. “God, woman. I love you.”

He doesn't want to waste time, decided to fill up the silent of the night with the sound of his cock fucking your titties. Dean throws his pants away, his length hitting his belly as soon as it's free. You lick your lips, watching the magnetic body of his coming closer to yours.

You feel like a prey, cornered by a hunter; the exact minute you know there's no other way but to give yourself out.

Dean isn't too far from that either. He hurries to get on his knees, approaching you with a whimper. You look better than any porn, soaked in whiskey and ready to get your boobs fucked by him.

You can't wait for Dean to make a feast out of your body. Being with him was like becoming a virgin all over again: each touch of Dean's discovered a new shade of pleasure within you, all you begged to be corrupted.

One of his hands holds the bedpost as Dean finally slides his cock between your breasts. His legs are trembling, mouth slightly open and eyes barely shut; this kind of pleasure, this unique sentiment of being hurried between your boobs is marvelous— and Dean hasn't even started fucking them! You aren't away from that either, pressing your lips together in a dumbfounded attempt to contain a moan. . . As if you could ever control how your body reacts to Dean Winchester.

Dean licks his lips, looking down to catch a glimpse of your face. God, this is perfect: you, sitting in bed naked, scotch all over your chest, hard nipples, titties waiting to be fucked by his length. He can't physically wait anymore, even his bones are hurting to get with you. The hunter's hold on the bedpost intensifies, as if he could crave his fingertips like a lover does with a name. His knuckles are turning white, green eyes watching when his cock starts to go up and down between your boobs like he was fucking your pussy. Heaven.

“God, honey. You take my cock so good with your titties.” He groans, “I love your boobs so much. Always thought about fucking them.”

But then you squeeze your breasts together, trapping his hardness between your titties, Dean realizes how wrong he was. Before was just the golden gates, but this is heaven. He starts moving his hips, increasing the rhythm through each thrust.

“Yeah. Just like that. Fuck my boobs like you are fucking my pussy, Dean. Make me come.” Your words are tangling his arousal, getting a howl out of him as he fucks you rougher.

The smell of whiskey and sweat embrace the atmosphere into pure lust, among your and Dean's pleading groans. You feel full in places you didn't even know that were empty, and Dean can't wait to come all over you and mark this spot as well.

Your shared bed crying is a beautiful melody, too. Adrenaline rushing inside your veins like blood, making Dean go quicker, making you press your boobs against his cock harder. You can feel his precum mixing with whiskey and sweat, and God you can't wait to taste it somehow. He's getting tough, your hands are marking your own body. You both want more of this newness.

“I'm gonna come all of your pretty boobs, Y/N/N. Is that what you want? Get all dirty with my cum?” Dean says breathlessly, his voice cracking at each other. He can barely hold himself from screaming and coming. Yet, he wants you to come first.

“Yes.” You whimper, looking up to him. He's on his knees, but you are the only begging. “Please, Dean. Come on my boobs, make me come just fucking my boobs. Please. I need it, Dean, please.”

Any vestige of self control is left behind when Dean grunts loudly, moaning to your name as he cums on your breasts.

Leave a comment and REBLOG. Feedback is magic! Tags on my reblog; send me an ask or dm if you wish to be tagged. Catch up Kinktober!

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS I CHAPTER 29

First time reader click here

Feels like this story is flopping. Is it flopping? Idk. This chapter is 100% plot and it is spooky. Cursed demon box. Helpful Stephen Strange and grumpy Wong. Hovering Bruce and Tony. Loki being a honorary Gen-Z. Found family but make it ✨superheroes✨.

"That's a lot to unpack," Peter stated once I had given him the bare bones report of the situation at hand. "Uh, are you okay?" The boy was obviously upset at my predicament, placing a supportive hand on my shoulder.

"Kinda?" I offered, making space for Wanda and Pietro who decided to join me and Peter, away from the arguing adults. The mission discussion - an absolute disaster - started as soon as Peter had walked in. Evidently experienced in such matters, the boy ignored the bickering and came over to steal me from Bruce's clutches to peacefully finish his egg sandwich in the company of his peers.

"I wanted to ask if I could see your memory of that time," Wanda meekly offered me a piece of candy. I accepted it - sugar sweet sugar, how I love thee so! The witch continued with a smile: "I think it would be helpful to see what we're dealing with, magic-wise."

"Sure," I trusted her. "Just don't scramble what's left of my sanity, please," All of us laughed at my remark as I laid down on the cold floor with my head in Wanda's lap. Her powers felt like small brain zaps, tingles that began at the front of my forehead and ran down into my spine. I followed her instructions and thought about the times I remembered, finding the box, placing it into my closet, the nightmares. I had a mild headache by the time she was done; no grudges against her - Wanda tactfully avoided my private moments and looked only at the ones containing the artifact.

"You've gotten really good," I complimented her with pure adoration.

"Thank you," She blushed, smoothing back my stray hairs. "That stuff is really strong. I don't think you should go near the box," She admitted. "And Doc should take a look at you. You have a residue left. I don't think that's good either."

"Well, fuck," I said in muted resignation.

"Press F to pay respects," Pietro joked in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

"Your luck is almost as bad as mine," Peter pointed out.

I scoffed. "Well, if I see any spiders around, I'll be sure to stay away in case they happen to be radioactive OsCorp runaways."

All of us laughed. Despite the grim situation, I didn't feel doomed. I was surrounded by friends and my boyfriends and my bestie who happened to be a mythical omnipotent god- welp, once again, I was getting too emotional. Once the adults were done arguing, we could start making sense of this mess and hopefully clean it up before the monster is out of the box.

"Mortals," I heard Loki scoff. The next moment, the Asgardian sat down noisily next to me, pout on full display. "This house is a nightmare."

His expression - or the accidental use of a meme - sent me completely, tension leaving my body via copious amounts of nearly hysterical laughter. Through tears and hiccups, I saw Wanda cackle with me and Peter show the meme in question to Loki, noting that he had been once sent to time-out on top of the fridge by Tony himself. Soon, all of us were laughing, much to the displeasure of the adults.

"Children, what is the issue?" Thor asked, irritated.

"We're just waiting for you to be done with arguing," I spoke before Loki could start bitching about Thor calling him a child. "Then I can show Steve and Loki where exactly have I buried the box so Stephen can take me to the healers and get this thing out of me or whatever," I pointed out the most logical plan of action.

Two long strides and the sorcerer was standing over me, boom-boom-whooshing and generally making very pretty golden patterns to appear and land on top of me. Tony and Bruce anxiously hovered behind him, both of my boys concerned and ready to mother-hen me. Ugh, so disgustingly adorable. Wanda's hand encompassed mine - she was nervous.

Stephen took a solid five-minute silence break before coming to a final conclusion. "Wong can get rid of the residual traces of the artifact's influence," The sorcerer announced curtly. "It's good you got rid of the artifact, a few more months and you would have started slipping into insanity if the magic within it was not released," He explained, slowly reaching out a hand to place it on top of my head. I wasn't sure if it was a gesture meant to bring comfort or another diagnostic test but leaned into the touch nonetheless. "Tell me, did you have any behavioral... Disturbances after...?" He trailed off.

I chewed on my lip, evaluating. "I honestly don't know. I've always been kind of an asshole," Honesty was the best policy. "Nothing seems out of order, sleepwalking aside."

"I see," Strange gave me a tight-lipped smile. "Perhaps, it was your stubborn nature that forbade the artifact from corrupting your mind completely. As evidenced by Captain Rogers, even undesirable character traits bring good into this world now and then."

That seemed a little bit hostile. I frowned, giving a questioning look to a frowning Loki.

"Speaking from experience?" Not the one to hold back upon witnessing first-grade bullshit, I withdrew from Stephen's touch, raising a sarcastic eyebrow.

Surprising everyone, the man laughed soundly, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I most certainly do," Shooting me a positively mischievous wink. I felt like I was missing something.

The room's inhabitants slowly ticked out in pairs and threes, eager to complete their assigned tasks. Loki had insisted on coming along to the sanctum with me, even almost getting up in Stephen's face, but Bruce - out of all people - managed to calm the Asgardian down, and together we convinced him his magic would be considerably more useful during the retrieval of the cursed box. Loki was worried - everyone with a pair of functional eyes could see that the spiky attitude was his way of showing he cared about me, which made my insides briefly turn to mush. I didn't expect him to take the title of my best friend so seriously and I definitely was not complaining.

Tony was the last to leave, jittery and shaky, clutching me like it was his last time seeing me, kissing me hungrily in front of everyone. The joke or two he made were weak ghosts of his usual sharp snark.

"I love you and I'll be back soon," I whispered into his ear, feeling him freeze and his fingertips dig almost painfully into my sides. Louder, I repeated: "Not planning on dying any time soon, y'all gotta chill. Let's go, doc?" I addressed the tall sorcerer who was tactfully pretending to be busy with his smartphone.

Wanda pressed a duffle bag into my hands mouthing "clean clothes" a split second before Stephen opened a portal and with a great deal of curiosity, I stepped through it, eyes immediately drawn to the dimly lit space filled with books and antiques. So many books, so many unusual trinkets. The chandelier that hung over our heads rivaled the ones I'd seen in million-dollar-homes of dad's friends.

"Follow me," Stephen extended an arm in the direction of a smaller door, "Please do not touch anything."

I walked a pace behind him, satisfying my curiosity by looking around like a child in a candy store. The air smelled different in the Sanctum, almost as familiar as Loki's magic but less frosty... Warmer. A dash of red fabric swished from somewhere towards me; I giggled. The Cloak of Levitation liked me - not nearly as much as it liked Peter though - so I brushed my fingertips along the fabric, greeting it quietly. Talking loudly in this building was out of the question. I felt like any moment, a disgruntled librarian would appear to chastise me for making noise.

"Strange," A short Asian man appeared, book in hand and looking none too happy. Guess that's the librarian... "I got your text. The room next to yours is prepared for the ritual," The man I assumed to be Wong gave me a curt nod in the way of greeting, doing a quick 180° and walking us back to a small but tastefully decorated room with a single cot in the middle. It was pleasantly warm, a small fire lit in the fireplace, willowy smoke of incense rising from a few strategically placed sticks.

"The bathroom is that way. I'm afraid you'll have to be fully nude for the procedure," Strange declared apologetically, pointing to a door hidden behind the divide.

I snorted, but of course, the weird voodoo shit would require me to be naked. Not that I was embarrassed or anything but still. Tony would have a field day. Locating a chair, I dumped my duffle bag on it, flying out of my hoodie and sweatpants in record time. My underwear and socks followed, feet unpleasantly chilly despite the carpeted floor. I ran a hand over the faint bruises on my hips, evidence of last night, fondly - either Tony or Stephen had left marks on my body and that was... It was great. I loved it, drugs or not.

I heard someone clear their throat and turned around, nearly cracking up at the way both men suddenly averted their gazes, blush riding high on their cheeks. I snorted: "I'm hot, what else is new?"

Wong shook his head, busying himself with some sort of a book; Stephen lingered, eyes fixated on the very same bruises. His tongue darted out, wetting the plush of his bottom lip, and damn, this wasn't the time to get horny. I shook my head and with that, the sorcerer caught himself too, mutely motioning me to lay down on the cot.

"Whenever you're done eye-fucking each other," Wong piped up sarcastically - wow, I liked this man already. Stephen grumbled something quiet and rude, provoking another snort from me.

I followed their instructions - shortly after the Asian man began reading - or rather singing - something in a language I didn't know, I felt myself fall into a deep sleep. Or, I thought I was falling asleep. At one point, my eyes opened to an empty room, a thin sheet covering my bare body, and a silence that made chills run down my spine.

"Stephen?" I called out. I sounded like I was underwater to my own ears. "Wong?"

I was met with silence so deafening, I had no choice but to sit up and look around. The fire was burning strong in the fireplace, several logs blackened from it as sparks flew. It took a second for me to realize it made no sound - there was no crackling. Something was very wrong, the dread was creeping up on me.

Very familiar dread.

With the sheet firmly wrapped around me, I hopped off the cot, suddenly noticing the drawings on my arms, my legs. I was covered in runes similar to the ones I had seen on the cursed box - and my memories weren't missing. As clear as day, I recalled messing around with the box, debating on opening it, taking it out of my room only to find it back on my desk in the morning, some serious Anabelle shit.

I jumped as the floorboards cracked somewhere in the house. Every logical thought I had, backed up by every horror movie I had ever watched, screamed at me to NOT go towards the creepy noise; like moth to a flame, I was drawn in and couldn't resist the unnatural urge to investigate it. On silent feet, I padded out of the room, desperately trying not to think about the lonely, dark hallways filled with strange ancient objects. My steps made no noise.

On the couch, in the main room we'd arrived, sitting lazily, was Tony. I'd recognize his hair anywhere - and the Led Zep tee, old, frayed edges and loose threads. "Tony?" I asked hopefully, trying to make sense of this...

He turned around.

It wasn't Tony. Whatever it was, it wore Tony's face, it held his brown eyes and crow's feet around them - it wasn't him. Wrong, like the lack of sound in this place, misplaced and unnatural. The doe browns didn't sparkle, lifeless, dull color of dried mud. As much as I wanted to go and bury my face in his chest, my limbs filled with lead, my whole body screaming "DANGER".

The impostor kept quiet which only solidified my suspicions. Real Tony would be running his mouth already, poking fun at my impression of a sheet ghost.

"Princess?" The... Thing asked in Tony's voice, but it fell flat and monotone.

"Whatever you are, you sure as Hell ain't Tony," I stated firmly, hoping for some answers. "What the fuck?"

Not-Tony's face changed, familiar features twisting into something sinister, the malice making me sick to my stomach. The creature stood up, causing my feet to take an involuntary step back as he advanced slowly.

"You have no choice but to submit," The Thing replied calmly. "You're not getting out of here. Not even your little Asgardian pet god can save you," Its tone was absolutely flat. I would have thought the thing was a robot if not for the obvious involvement of magic in this situation. Its words filled me with dread as thick as molten lava; unfortunately for the creature, unlocking my memories gave me enough rational balance to be acutely aware of it and therefore, able to fight it.

I could fight it. I didn't know how exactly, but I could resist it. "That's a really bold thing to say for something that... What even are you? Magical STD?" As my brain desperately focused on finding a solution to a problem I didn't know all the details of, my mouth had a mind of its own.

The creature growled, a far more primal noise than a human could make. "You don't know what you're up against, child. I am one for we are many," Suddenly, the room was filled with shadows as if someone had turned off all the lights and cranked up the moon to be the brightest it ever was. The shadows moved, oozed, motion sinister without any light to back it up.

I had no choice but to pucker up. Nobody was coming to rescue me; in fact, I always have taken pride in being a self-saving princess. Damsel in distress wasn't really my style. The hunch in my shoulders disappeared, giving way to a stubborn and stiff expectation of the upcoming altercation, hands bailed in fists.

"I mean, like Legion the demon from the Bible?" I recalled what little I knew from Wikipedia. "I mean, I'm agnostic myself, but if you feel like identifying with that, you should probably see a therapist."

The entity growled, shadows gathering around it like fabric on a string, and lunged. Paralyzed by sudden blinding, deafening fear, I turned tail and ran.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit ​ @littlegasps ​ @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads ​ @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem ​ @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby @cutenessloading @romeo-the-cactus @jelly-fishy-babie @mikariell95

[ktheist]

1 | friend in me.

“don’t confuse your party friends with your real friends.” (x) 

muses. party friend!jungkook x reader ft. bestfriend!taehyung ft. ex-boyfriend!namjoon

genre. university au. fwb. f2l.

words. 6.1k

warnings. mentions of break up, mild exhibition, alcohol use, future mentions of joint, future smut, mature content

alternative title. to my dear friend.

final part. exclusives only (x)

note. this fic hasn’t been showing up in searches no matter how many times i repost and it’s got a special place in my heart so i really want it to reach the audience, that’s why i made a few changes in hopes to beat the odds lol. enjoy!

x

striking up an unlikely pact to look out for each other’s backs at parties, is the last thing you expect to do with jeon jungkook. sure, you may or may not find a reason to laugh at his lousy antics and corny pick up lines - he’s also a great kisser but that’s besides the point.

the point is, you’d like to keep him as that - the friend that you meet at parties and parties only. so when you see him on your campus grounds, naturally your first instinct is to stop, turn the opposite way you’re heading and where he’s coming from - and start fast-walking to the other end of the campus like the devil is after you.

except that devil comes in the form of denim jacket, white undershirt and wavy dark hair that easily falls over doe eyes that seem to sparkle when you freeze at the sound of your name and turn around to face him with an awkward smile.

he breaks into a mini jog, leaving his friends that you’ve never seen before, behind. your own friends who you’ve been walking with and ditched at the sight of him, gawping at you and the new face from the spot where you decided to leave them at.

why couldn’t they have gone on their merry way - regardless if you’d paused and trekked to the opposite direction you were heading to?

jungkook skids to a stop in front of you, pretty pink lips quirking after he tilted his head to shift his hair out of his eyes instead of pushing it back with his hands.

“hey,” he greets, glancing down at his scuffing vans before meeting your gaze again, the tip of his tongue running over his bottom lip before retreating back into his mouth, leaving a sheen of moistness on his lips, “i didn’t know you went here.”

willing yourself to smile, you push your hair to the back of your ear before wrapping your arms around your chest, “yeah,” you drag out with an awkward chuckle, not as oblivious as he is of the stolen glances coming from the people passing through the walkway.

“what are you doing here though?” you notice his own friends that he ditched waiting for him several feet away - a group of attractive men and women who clearly belong to the equally high place group from your own faculty.

and yet here he is, talking to you - the ghost with rounded glasses sitting atop her nose and faded chapsticks on her lips. out of all the days you could have looked more zombie-esque, jungkook had to show up at your faculty today.

he’s nice enough not to point it out though as his lips turn into an ‘o’ shape. if you focus, you’d probably see the light bulb going off in his head as the answer to your question hits him. though at this point, you’ve already been hit by your own realization of the reason for there being more people walking around with mechanical appendages and remote control of every kinds. it must be-

“we’re here for the robocup tournament,” he grins, excitement apparent in the way his eyes seem to widen as you can almost hear the screws in his brains working before the question tumbles out of his mouth-

“what about you? are you joining?”

you want to laugh.

and that’s the thing about jungkook - he’s so good at reading you that he knows something’s up. brows knitting together, “what’s... up?”

the shaking of your head is purely reactionary - you’ve made a few friends who came around to compete at times your faculty was the one to hosted it, like now. it’s not as serious as it seemed to be but it’s not entirely something you joke around either since it involved someone’s blood, sweat and tears to make the cut but-

“guess you haven’t heard about the long standing tradition of the circuit breaker’s string pulling. the competition’s rigged.” despite your too willing trip down memory land, you still let your eyes dart around in case anyone’s listening. after you’re sure no one was, only then do you finally go on, “every year, they pick a judge’s kid as part of the team - even if they weren’t enrolled in seollyu and were in some other non-robotics related university, they’ll get close to them and keep them around until the competition. one year, one of them even went as far as dating a judge’s daughter when they couldn’t recruit her into their team.”

swallowing down the bile, you pretend not to notice the complete downturn of his lips as you roll your shoulders in a shrug out of the need of having something to do that doesn’t require focusing on the conflicted, purse lipped frown on jungkook’s face.

“oh wow, we never heard anything like that in beongju.” he murmurs, eyes drawn to the grass a feet away as he contemplates.

“it’s okay, what matters is you guys have fun.” you wave a dismissive hand, smile more natural but still sporting its awkward tucks.

“yeah,” jungkook nods before he meets your gaze, smiling in a half-hearted attempt to ease his own mind, “who knows? maybe this year, beongju will come out victorious.”

you nod, chest blooming with hope - a wishful thinking perhaps, “maybe.”

it’s when his eyes twinkle with a different kind of excitement that you know the matter of the competition is past him, and that’s your cue to go.

“hey, are you-“

“i have a class to-

you both stop at the same time, staring at the other for the longest moment before jungkook offers for you to continue, “you first.”

“um,” you would have deflect it back to him out of politeness. that is, if you didn’t know that he was going to ask you if you were free. possibly to grab lunch or a smoothie somewhere. but that’s the thing, outside of parties, you’re a completely different person altogether. right now, you’re the all-work, no-play study-hard. none of your equally study hard friends are aware of how you are at parties - none of the people you know, know how you are at parties because you made sure to attend only those you’re sure you wouldn’t run into acquaintances. of course it’s difficult and there are a few familiar faces you can identify as people from your faculty at every party but barely which is a safe amount. so it doesn’t make sense to break the unspoken, mutual understanding of the core you and jungkook’s friendship is built on. he might have forgotten how important it was for you that you were strictly ‘fun’ friends, so it’s your job to remind him, “i have class right now.”

you take a step back in preparation to bolt towards said nonexistent on-going class, “but hey, good luck on robocup. oh yeah, what were you gonna tell me?”

jungkook’s “oh - uh,” shouldn’t have sent waves of relief to you the way it does, but when he mumbles a “nothing - it was nothing.” you couldn’t help but suppress a grateful sigh.

on any other occasion, with a person completely separate from jeon jungkook, you would have pressed on - encouraged them to say what they initially wanted to say. but instead, you shoot him a smile, “oh -okay. guess i’ll see you around?”

“uh,” it’s clear as day that he doesn’t want to just leave it up to chance to bump into you in this big building with at least a thousand occupants coming and going everyday throughout the competition but the way smacks his lips shut tells you he there’s something holding him back, so he settles with a, “yeah... see you around.”

x

“you know,” you pause, tendrils of reluctance forbidding you from relaying the tale of how you and jungkook met in hopes it was indicative enough but judging from the way jisoo has her eyebrows raised, lisa with her knowing smile, taehyung and jimin expectantly waiting but with the first actually shooting you an meaningful stare - it seems like you have no choice but to say it-

“we spoke a few times at different parties and realize we have the same party mutual and get invited to the same parties so... we decided to hang together... at parties.”

“hang,” lisa echoes, underlying tone couldn’t have been more obvious as she grins from ear to ear.

“please, no way in hell do you just hang with jeon fucking jungkook when there’s booze and a dozen of empty rooms involved.” jisoo comes barreling through like a bulldozer, hands in the air as she squeals at whatever scenario her mind is cooking up in her head.

laughter trickles out of your mouth as you hide your face in your palms in an attempt to avoid jisoo and lisa’s eyes and the things that they’re hinting at with a mere gaze.

“why?” taehyung’s baritone finally hits the air as he leans back against the recliner. once the silence settles in a second later and all eyes turn his way, he adds, “not that it’s any of our business but,” he shrugs, “he’s not really your crowd - not any of our crowd.”

that’s the million dollar question. taehyung hates beers and crowded places - which is a surprise given his social butterfly-ness among all five of you. jimin, jisoo and lisa do go parties - those that your closest friends would be at. otherwise, they aren’t adventurous as you.

maybe jimin has a another side that you don’t know - it’s a known fact that he has other friends. dance friends, drinking friends, and whatever type of people with similar interests who flock a certain direction.

just like how you had jungkook and the group of friends you hung out with at parties.

“i mean, my dance friends aren’t exactly your kind of crowd either,” jimin interjects from the floor, head lulled to the back to look at taehyung, “remember how you wanted to avoid hoseok at all costs after i brought you to a practice once?”

“yeah,” you instantly second, hand gesturing to the man in a ‘exactly what he said’ manner before turning to the taller guy, “everyone makes friends where their usual friends aren’t.”

“i guess,” he cedes after what felt like the longest pause in your history of friendship.

it is that moment, just as your muscles begin to relax, that your phone dings with a notification. unbeknownst to you that you still command the attention in the entire room, you cluelessly let check out the new text message.

koo: we lost ):

“it’s him.” lisa announces, the bed shaking as she scoots away when you try to swat her thigh.

“and she has him saved as koo,” she - without any trace of intentionally constructed pun, coos, hands clasped together next to her tilted head as she bumps it with jisoo who’s mimicking her gestures.

“he just texted to say he lost,” you clarify, shaking your head at the two girls’ antics.

not that it changes anything as jisoo leans her whole body against lisa, an arm on her forehead in a troubled manner, “now i wish i had a boyfriend.”

lisa hums in agreement, her long limbs extending to wrap around the older girl’s torso as she rests her chin on top of jisoo’s dark brown tresses.“me too, sweetie. me too.”

typing out a ‘i’m so sorry. it’s okay they don’t deserve your talent anyway ):’ with a mixture of emojis, you hit send just before turning to what jimin is saying.

“...go to one. i heard alpha sig is having one tomorrow,” then he turns to you, as though you bear an abundance of knowledge about which place is having a party and on what day, “right ____?”

it takes you a moment to piece together what he said. you didn’t hear the beginning but you’re sure it’s something along the lines of jimin setting the two lonely singles to break their 2 month no-party streak and maybe get that boyfriend they wanted.

“jimin, i’m not sure,” you say shortly before turning to the two girls,“not that that many good, upstanding citizen of men go to the parties i went to though but maybe there’s a miracle waiting for you girls,” you smile in genuine hopefulness while referring to an entirely hopeless place. but it turns into an emphatic one as the two girls fake cry about the minimal chance they have to get a - in what you could make out of  jisoo’s fake bawling - hot, sexy party boyfriend. whatever that meant.

you don’t have the time to confirm it when your phone dings again.

koo: thanks i can always count on you to be real w me 🥺🥰

another grey bubble pops pushes the text you’re reading upwards.

koo: you coming to alpha sig’s party?

koo: we have to be here for the closing ceremony tmr anyway

koo: help me make good memories before i leave seollyu 🥺

you suppress the urge to roll your eyes at that. he’s only been here for one day and he got invited to one of the most hard-to-get-in parties on the campus.

naturally, you and jimin were invited from your underlying reputations. and naturally, whoever you bring is invited too.

except you’re not a fan of going to parties that you know you’d meet the exact people you didn’t want to meet.

lisa peeks at your phone the second time - and you didn’t even notice until she screams, “___’s going to alpha sig’s!”

“oh my god, will he be there?” jisoo leans her entire body over lisa in a reckless abandon to get a peek of what the younger one saw only to have you hold your phone away.

“um? privacy? anyone?” you offer while jisoo pouts.

“duh, she’s going because of him.” lisa says im a matter-of-factly, “otherwise, she wouldn’t even entertain the thought of going to any party infested with people we already had to see sober.”

“am not.” you counter, the matter of replying already long forgotten as you cross your arms over your chest, phone tucked in between the side of your boob and hand, “if i’m going, it’d be because i want to!”

“so you’re going?” jisoo blinks, eyes twinkling with hope. so are lisa’s.

you have no choice but to turn your cheek to a laughing park jimin on the floor. his pupils disappearing behind his lids. clearly, he’s not going to back you up. so you turn to the only other person who you thought would.

“if tae’s going then i’ll go,” you declare, already feeling the triumph of what the man would choose from his precedent choices. “not that you guys need me to get in since jimin’s already-“

“sure.” the taller man announces.

you’re forced to make a double take while your jaw drops in your lap along with jisoo and lisa’s while jimin blinks in surprise from your periphery.

completely conscious of the gazes boring into his skull, taehyung attempts to casually shrug it off as a- “since you guys are going, you know.”

jisoo yelps in celebration before going “great, who’s up for some chicken?” shooting up and sending the mattress shaking as she takes big steps over your legs and hops off the bed. hands planted on her hips, she glances around the room with the residue of a pleased smile from the decision of all five of you finally going to a party together.

“me!” lisa follows suit with the exception that she’s crawling on her hands and knees to get off the bed.

“me but i don’t want to get up.” jimin whines, unmoving from his spot which is lying on the fluffed pink carpet as taehyung’s birthday present to his otherwise creme themed room.

“come on, park. get your ass off the floor and to the parking lot - get it, park jimin goes to the parking lot?” jisoo begins tugging on his wrist, the sight rather comical considering how she’s trying to make a man twice her size sit up, let alone move to get to the car seeing as he’s the only one with one.

lisa shares a doubtful look with you and taehyung at the poorly made pun, questioning why jimin seems to be the only one chuckling but then again, he’s always been the easiest to entertain.

after huffing and puffing, jisoo finally plucks the boy off the floor. but getting him to walk the distance from his apartment to the car is another feat.

it’s when their voices echo in the hallway, and you and a certain taller man is left in the room, do you notice the difference in this silence compared to the rest as he pushes himself up.

“are you going for real?” you finally ask, throwing your feet over the bed.

taehyung’s lips pucker as he contemplates the pros and cons, “what’ll i do if i don’t go? binge watch maze runner and be reminded of the fact that all third movies suck?”

maybe he doesn’t hate parties as much as you initially thought. after all, it’s been a year since he vomited all over kim sowon while making out on the couch at alpha sig’s.

you grin, elbowing the man as you both make your way out of the room, “hey, maybe you could find yourself a girlfriend while you’re at it.”

taehyung’s laugh doesn’t reach his eyes but you chalk it up with the jitters of the thought of having alcohol course through his veins and surrounded by bodies on the dance floor, “huh, yeah.”

x

the day fly by between getting to classes and getting lunch - it was a feat to convince everyone to go to dumpling place just a little bit off campus but you’d managed and subsequently successfully avoided running into jungkook for the day.

“bih, what the fuck?” lisa gawks, jaw descended to the ground as she stares at your mini black crop top that stops a few inches above your high-waist ripped jeans.

if you didn’t show up to classes in sweats and oversized sweaters, round glasses and hair always up in your laziness to make them look presentable - every day, maybe your ability to throw on some eye make up and highlights over your foundation wouldn’t have been so much as a surprise.

unlike you, your friends have always been on top of their game when it comes to appearing like functioning members of society. the clothes they have now have also been worn to class before - that’s how you know their confidence is sky high while yours require a little bit of help depending on what you wear.

why they decided to adopt a munchkin like you into their otherwise perfect clique, you’ll never know - but maybe it had something to do with you looking like a lost puppy in your first year with your round glasses and the thick books you carry around. it was a matter of time you ran into someone and drop them - that someone being jisoo.

after that, the rest was history - your prejudices towards groups of attractive people have never been so diminished.

your hair bounces gently as you hop into the passenger seat, giggling shyly at the attention you’ve garnered with your otherwise usual getup for a fun time.

“if i knew you won’t have any problems surviving off skinny jeans and cute tops, i would have burned those baggy clothes a long time ago.” jisoo confesses, red lips curled into an impressed ‘o’ as she takes in your appearance.

you gasp, truly offended to know your day-to-day choice of outfit has never been any of your friend’s preference yet only now do they make it known - talk about fake friends! “don’t you insult my comfy clothes like that!”

a light bump on her shoulder forces her to tear her gaze away and turn her cheek to the grinning girl next to her, “maybe she has a reason to dress cute.”

and just like that, the two breaks out into coos. sending you signals with their entire face muscles as jimin chuckles from the driver’s seat.

“but you know, this is how ___ usually dress up for parties even like before she met jungkook.”

you send praises to the gods for sending you this blessing of a friend as you fix the two girls a smirk, posing like a model as much as the cramped space allows you, “nah, i got it from my momma.”

an onslaught of protest - denials - mixed with cheers erupt as you begin to poorly mimic that of models with your limbs pointing in every direction and body bending in weird angles. it doesn’t take long before laughter tumbles out of everyone’s mouth, the front seaters included - taehyung had achingly turned in his seat to attend your fashion show while jimin stole glances in the rearview mirror.

x

yoo jeongyeon is the first to wave you over. if there’s a grey area where party friends and real friends merge together, it’ll be her. you’ve gone to parties together and had fun - though the last time you did, you ended up waking up on the same bed with some guy on the floor.

jin? jun? jeong? j-something grinned when he woke up to the sight of you two, “so... can i get you girls’ number?”

jeongyeon didn’t bother to hold back her grimace and you’d strutted into the bathroom as if you didn’t hear him.

“kim taehyung, lisa manoban and kim jisoo.” she studies each one with an impressed, “how did jimin and ____ manage to haul your asses out and over here?’

“the single life they’ve been walking has finally slapped them in the face and they finally want-“ you get cut off by lisa’s fake chuckle that sounds every bit forced.

“-wasted.”

“-boyfriends!”

they end up saying at the same time. while jisoo is finds no fault in her confession, lisa’s face is heating up - coming second next to you when it comes to shying back into her shell when topics like these come to light.

“taehyung too.” jisoo hooks her hand around the aforementioned man’s arm, stopping him from slowly disappearing into the crowd like a certain park jimin has, her other one around younger girl.

“jeongyeon, you have introduce us to cute guys or we’ll end up dying from all this single-ness!”

at that, the woman burst into laughter, hand on her stomach as she tries and fails to suppress it.

“i don’t know,” she wipes a tear from the corner of her eyes, “isn’t that more of ____’s specialty?”

“uh,” it takes a heartbeat for you to register what jeongyeon is saying before the same heart in your chest crashes against the ground at her next words.

“everyone knows,” a meaningful smile quirks on her lips, “about you and-“

“i- uh, i think i heard jackson calling me - something about a group project.” you quickly say, cursing yourself for the less than plausible excuse to get away.

and the three girls think so too as they call you out for it but you don’t stop until they’re out of earshot and out of the spotlight, ending up at a table full of booze.

you pop a can open, letting the bitter taste wash over your suddenly dry throat. the alcohol hasn’t got to you yet but you know it will and maybe that’s the only thing you have going on as you walk around, waving to people you know and lingering to talk with some, noticing that most of them are halfway to getting drunk.

some time later, you spot jisoo, lisa and jeongyeon dancing with some of your close friends. beer in their hands. you wonder how they’re going to find a boyfriend or even a hook up if they just keep to their circle - that was the clear as day distinction between you and them.

where they feel the most comfortable surrounded with familiar faces - regardless of whether they like them - you find comfort on a room full of strangers and the knowledge that you wouldn’t see them anymore after that.

but that wasn’t the case for jungkook. after one too many parties and several ‘hey, i was hoping i’d see you’s, a sense of camaraderie starts forming. of course, rules don’t apply where it would in a normal, socially sober setting.

you were friends as much as you were fucking like rabbits. finding comfort in mornings where you wake up without a sense of recollection, a throbbing headache and a lump of body underneath the sheets only to sigh in relief upon finding out who it was as though to say ‘oh thank god it’s you and not some rando i won’t know how to politely kick out while emphasizing that i have class in like 5.’

you embark on a visual searching journey to look for the same boy who wouldn’t mind if you had to shut the door in his half-awake face on mornings you had to get ready for class and still smiled at you later that night when you meet at a different party - until your gaze lands on a pair of brown eyes.

instead of wide and doe-like, the one that captured yours are hooded and heavy, boring into the windows of your soul. all of a sudden, you’re brought back to the same time last year. back when you were just a freshie with a stomach full of butterflies as you shyly look away from those piercing eyes.

but now, all you feel is your stomach rearranging and bile almost rising to your throat as you take a swig of the beer before melding into the crowd.

alpha sig is known for their closeness with circuit breaker, having been been sponsored by your own faculty for those with outstanding achievements to stay on-campus.

but none of the circuit breakers ever come to these parties - or at least, he never did.

almost as though the stars and planets aligned to manifest your only thought, a familiar voice wraps around the syllables of your name. and you would have continued on your merry way and pretend like you didn’t hear anything, if only you’re not in a hallway where there’s least people and subdued music compared to the dance floor you just escaped from.

“i heard you’ve been around,” kim namjoon stands at the end of the hallway, decked in plain gray t-shirt underneath a leather jacket and black pants. he takes easy, casual steps towards you with a dimpled smile that couldn’t have been more vain, “but i couldn’t believe my ears,” his shoulder line jolts as he shrugs, “well, until now, at least.”

“who would’ve thought? the cute ___ who blushed from a simple peck would have this side to her.” he stands a good half a head over you, his cologne’s changed from the last time you’d come in such a close proximity like you are now.

“yeah,” you drag out in a half-singing voice, face schooled into an unfazed expression, “i mean, it’s better than going around tricking girls into sleeping with you, right?”

at that, his smile instantly drops into a hard set frown as he lowers his voice, “i didn’t ‘trick’ you into having sex with me,” his lips quirk up at possibly a recollection of that night, “as i recall, you begged me to take your virginity.”

“that was before i knew your shitty motives to get brownie points from my dad just so you could win a stupid competition,” your voice is equally low and threatening, body heating up from the remembrance of those unreplied texts and the look in his eyes when you approached him that monday after the tournament - like he didn’t even know you.

namjoon laughs - the sound dripping with mockery as he throws his head back slightly, “come on, that was like a year ago. get over it.”

that’s it.

that’s when your mind is the clearest. no amount of beer could tell you otherwise - that this man right here doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt on the occasions that your friends begin spilling hot tea about the leader of circuit breaker and the things the members have done to win. they didn’t know about you and namjoon - nobody really does. you should have known those late night meetings and nothing but a polite smile when you pass in the hallways - were all red flags.

ones that you willfully ignore in the guise of ‘i’m not ready to tell everyone yet’s and ‘it doesn’t matter, if nobody knows, right? as long as i know you’re my girl’s

“you’re a dick.”

you push past him, cursing internally when he doesn’t budge and you’re the one who ends up with an almost dislocated shoulder.

it is only when you’re pushing a through the sea of bodies and swatting hands that try to grope your ass, does a certain doe-eyed, bunny smile enter your vision.

almost instantly, the urge to pinch the hand on your lower back disappears after knowing who its owner is. you’re pressed up against each other - the dance floor doesn’t allow much room for personal space and you’ve shared your personal spaces with each other far too many times to need that kind of distance from each other.

“i was looking for you,” the alcohol in his breath doesn’t feel all that repugnant as he nears his mouth to the shell of your ear, igniting a fire that kim namjoon had set up with the previous exchange.

he stands straighter, lips puckered sulkily as he swayed your bodies together, “we lost and everyone in my team had girlfriends or boyfriends to comfort them-”

your hands that cup his face and digs into his messy tresses make him clamp his mouth shut. the gentlest protrusion of his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows in anticipation.

he asked and you shall grant it.

girlfriend. fuck buddy. what difference does it make?

“i know, koo. i’m sorry you wasted your time on that dumb competition.” you purr, noticing how his gaze becomes glazed as he steals a glance at your lips before meeting your eyes again.

a heartbeat later, you’re pressing your mouth against the softest pair of lips you’ve ever known. mentally, you make a note to ask what he uses to keep them smooth and kissable.

he snaps out of his stupor a moment later, hands snaking down to grab your ass like he’s done this a million times before and knows just how to get you moaning into his mouth. almost as natural as breathing, he slips his tongue past your lips tasting you.

another moan escapes you when he begins kissing down your chin, trailing sloppy kisses on your neck and suckling on the one spot that gets your heart palpitating on your chest. hands tucking on his pleated outer shirt for the sake of having something to hold.

you bring jungkook’s face to yours, noticing the sheen on his pinker lips before pressing another deep kiss. he doesn’t to think twice to react. one hand on your free hand slipping underneath your crop top. when someone shove into jungkook, almost sending you tumbling backwards and ending up doing the same to another person - jungkook curses. “fucking drunktards.”

a giggle escapes your lips, “pot calling the kettle black? we were probably bumping into people on nights we were shit faced drunk.”

“probably.” he shrugs, fingers lacing around your wrist as he guides you off the dance floor and into the kitchen where he doesn’t waste a second in hoisting you up onto the counter and slips in the space between your legs.

“hello.” you murmur, resting your forehead against his, cheeks hot and body aflame.

“hey, beautiful.” he fixes you a lazy grin, lips drawing closer to your mouth but before he manages to close the hair breadth’s distance, he stops.

“wait.” he murmurs against your lips, eyes glued to them as though he’s picturing another part of him on them.

“what?” you whisper, just as enticed by his own lips as your try to pull him closer with your arms that’s wrapped around his neck.

“are you drunk?” are his next words and you’re well aware the basis of where it spurred on.

once upon several parties ago, you’d included stopping you from putting on a risque show if your drunken self ever abandoned your self-restraint. jungkook, on the other hand, doesn’t love attention per se but he doesn’t shy away from it either.

“i’m not,” you assure, drawing closer to his lips by the second like moth drawn to flames. but you have enough sense to tilt your head to steal a glance towards the direction where you’ve been feeling a hole being drilled into your skull. your heart skips a beat when you catch namjoon’s eyes - he’s leaning against the wall with his friends either standing or sitting on the couch, beer in one hand.

“but i need your help to make someone jealous.”

jungkook follows your gaze towards namjoon and his friends a few feet away. it doesn’t take much for him to piece two and two together - especially after your a apparent animosity while telling him about the competition being rigged.

“ah,” he hums - you could just hear the smile in his voice. your knees weaken at the touch as you begin kissing the patch of skin closest to your lips which is his jawline. “i don’t know if i should be sad or happy that you’re finally agreeing to have sex in public with me because of some what’s-his-face guy.”

“not have sex sex,” you correct, delight filling your chest when he shivers - whether it’s from your touch of the image your words are painting in his head, you’re not sure, “but make out with me like you’re a kiss away from fucking me senseless?”

“i thought that’s a given?”

not needing to be told twice, you find yourself being devoured like a little rabbit in the arms of the beast. the background around you blurs together as you inhale jungkook’s scent, feel the warmth seep from his body to yours. your hand snakes down in between your bodies with one goal in mind: the gentle protrusion brushing against your own crotch.

“fuck a show,” jungkook hisses harshly against your mouth, breathing becoming labored as you caress him over the layer of his jeans, “where’s the closest room we can get to?”

you nod in agreement, hopping off the counter and tugging on your top to keep your nipples from being exposed after jungkook’s hand fall away from your breast at your retreat.

“they might have empty ones upstairs.” you tug on jungkook’s hand, making your way to the staircase and trying not to step over drunken bodies making out on the ground or simply passed out.

it’s when you get one foot on the stairs, that a clamoring thud erupts from somewhere on the dance floor - the air that was once blaring now pin drop silent. jungkook’s cheek presses against your back as he wraps his arm around your torso, a peck landing on your shoulder, not telling you to move but not really interested at the reason you paused to peer through the gaps of bodies that seemed to be looking at something just around the corner.

“shut the fuck up, dickhead!” a voice thunders against the walls after another thud that sounded like heavy equipment falling against the ground - and possibly breaking.

“must be those football guys fighting over a girl.” jungkook comments, uninterested.

on any other occasion, you would have agreed and gone on your merry way but it’s the unsettlingly familiar baritone that made you freeze in your spot in the first place. it’s with a rattling realization and the sight of jisoo among the throng of people, calling out “taehyung, leave it!” that gets you to trudge back to the floor, vaguely aware of jungkook trailing from behind with a “what’s wrong?”

eyes bore into your skull as you finally push through the throng of people and burst onto the scene. jisoo has her arms around taehyung’s while jimin appear miniature as he stands between the taller man and an unnervingly calm namjoon. the latter wipes a trace of blood from his busted lower lip as chills run down your spine when the man’s eyes falls on you, lips curving into a vain smile.

“why don’t you ask her yourself?” his voice drums against the walls - loud and clear to those who are watching which is basically everyone here.

“come on, ___, everyone wants to know if you begged me to be your first and how we fucked in the back room of the student lounge.”

[whorefordazai]

Hey ! Congrats on 600 I was wondering if I could get a match up for a male bsd character. I use she/her pronouns. I love ice cream, soccer, fries, and traveling. I don’t like spiders. I really enjoy R&B especially Mac Ayres. I also enjoy watching documentaries and cooking videos. Personality wise sometimes people consider me hard to approach, but once they get to know me they say I lose my intimidation. Also I’m kind of a scatter brain so I can quickly lose focus. I am an Aquarius I also really like the nature aesthetic calm kinda vibes. I believe my love language is act of service I don’t mind doing for others. I really like calming/pastel colors specifically blues and purples. I think the cutest date idea is getting material to create matching accessories/objects. Like when people design bracelets or stuffed animals together. Thank you so much in advance !!

I match you with...

Michizo Tachihara! ´ˎ˗

👾 you guys look like complete opposites from the outside, but he’s got a huge soft spot for you. him being intimidating at first 🤝 you being intimidating at first, yet still having soft spots for each other 🥰 you’re a scatter brain? good luck cuz he’s an even bigger scatter brain 😭 it’s probably pure chaos between his thigh gripping urge to pull out his guns every 5 minutes and you trying to hold him back.

👾 he thinks it’s super hot how you’re into sports and doing all these activities. he’s adventurous—you like traveling—perfect match cuz he’s always spontaneously taking you places out of the blue. it doesn’t even have to be in another country or continent, he’ll be more than happy to just throw you in his car and drive to see the sunrise 😋

👾 I feel like his love language is also acts of service along with words of affirmation. so communication between you two is 👌 if you’re having a bad day, he’ll either take you into the forest and just hold you in his arms until you feel better. or he’ll throw you in his car and take you somewhere in the middle of the night—there’s no in between 😊 it’s cannon that tachihara likes the flower hyacinth so expect a lot of random flowers like that 😁

👾 surprisingly enough, he’ll be the first one to suggest getting matching bracelets. it would be spontaneous tho—the two of you would be passing a jewelry store and he’d be like “hey babe, we should get matching ones. I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer 🙂.” soon, matching bracelets turn into matching earrings and chains too. if anyone asks if you guys are matching, he’d be like “yeah, we are. got a fucking problem 🤨?”

SONGS ´ˎ˗

- kiwi | harry styles

- line without a hook | ricky montgomery

- 505 | arctic monkeys

- friends | chase atlantic

- riptide | vance joy

MESSY LAYOUT ´ˎ˗