#Like there was a time before I was perpetually sick. And for a while I was perpetually sick without being perpetually tired. And I had

[ddollipop]

CURB THIS SICKNESS. . . ! — ( SOFT YANDERE!PLAGUE DOCTOR OC X READER. )

#. synopsis! — there's a virus outside that's snuffed out the lights of many. . . and lucian refuses to let you meet such a miserable fate .

#. contains! — f!reader , explicitly nsfw content , multiple orgasms , vaginal fingering , implications of paranoia , cum swallowing , oral sex , cunnilingus , blowjob , vaginal sex , obsessive behavior , frequent usage of endearment terms (love, darling, angel) , missionary position , bathing , established relationship , slight choking , slight hair pulling , creampie , biting .

#. word count! — 5.1k .

#. oc carrd! — click here to find more information on lucian + other original characters of mine that i might write for in the future! xx .

When the virus began to spread in all directions from its alleged location of origin, —you were certain you’d be dead before winter. If not from sickness, then certainly from another disease, or at the hands of some twisted maniac just searching for someone to slaughter that nobody would care enough to miss. You thought it was only a matter of time before you succumbed to hunger or thirst or the changing chill of autumn, or maybe something completely different: but something was bound to happen, and you were sure of it.

And it did. . . But it was nothing like what you had in mind.

Lucian may have seemed like something out of a horror story passed down through generations, still clad in his working attire the night he scooped you up in his arms from a shabby alleyway like a stray kitten, but he was surprisingly gentle (and perhaps unusually quiet.) He wasn’t very talkative, but he cared for you in a way you were completely unaccustomed to, —prepared you a warm meal, brewed you chamomile tea, ran you a hot bath, and gave you a place to sleep for the night. He said you were slightly fevered and a bit malnourished, but all things considered, it could have been worlds worse.

“You’re lucky,” he hummed, a gloved hand smoothing over your jaw, “the pestilence hasn’t taken hold of you.”

Even back then, that wasn’t why you felt lucky. . . No, much to the contrary, you felt lucky because this man had taken you in without expecting anything of you in return, and he sought to keep you safe from the rot of the outside world. Thus, little by little, you stopped caring much about going out there. 

His place is a bit quaint for two, but it’s homey, and it smells perpetually of lavender. Over time, he’s shifted the sleeping arrangements, and now you rest in his arms each night; about as close as one can get to being a lover without having the label.

A part of you is sure you could get it if you asked, but to you, it doesn’t matter much. At the end of each day, he comes home to you, and that’s what counts. You take care of the housework while he’s away (not that there’s ever much to do.) For as odd as he is, his living space is free of most things, —no trinkets unrelated to his work (which you are not keen on touching), and he’s meticulous about picking up after himself and keeping all his items in order, so your unofficial duties are few and far between. Otherwise, the rest boils down to cooking meals, washing clothes, and keeping yourself entertained while he’s away. . . Like some kind of glorified trophy wife.

And sure, this will probably get old eventually, but for now, this is what you’re working with. He likes to have you close and to know where you are, —to know that you’re safe and not out getting infected by anyone or anything. If you’re at his home, you’re safe from all the filth of the outside world, and heaven knows it’s so nice to come home and lie next to a body so utterly unmarred by the grime of society.

You’re sure once the virus has stilled, he’ll ease up.

But tonight is not that night. Lucian all but stumbles through the door, and you can hear his rapid breathing through the long, beak-like shape of his mask. He seems startled and frantic, and you rush over, a concerned expression crossing your features.

“Lucian? Are you alright?” You ask, reaching out to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

In an instant, he snatches your wrist and grabs for the other, holding one in either hand. His grip is fervent, but far from painful, and you become more confused the longer he goes without explaining the state he’s found himself in.

“Lucian—”

“Darling,” he cuts you off, “you mustn’t get near the door.”

“Okay,” you nod in compliance, “but why?”

“The pestilence has taken hold of this city,” he replies. “The air out there, you wouldn’t believe the thickness of that putrid aroma. It’s suffocating.”

Before you can ask if there’s something you can do to quench his worries, he tugs you away from the entrance and into the bathroom. He removes his gloves and sets them aside, reaching down to begin running a warm bath. Then he looks to you, almost expectantly.

“Strip, please,” he encourages, —saying it like he’s desperate for the act, albeit not necessarily under the context you’d prefer of him.

“Lucian—”

“Darling,” he hisses, “please, do as I ask of you.”

His bare hands cup your cheeks.

“Please,” he repeats.

It’s hard to deny him when he asks like that and has been so good to you, and it’s not as if he’s asking for a lot. He’s just having a bad night, and if scrubbing yourself down will help ease his mind a bit, you’re willing to put in that sliver of extra effort for his sake.

Lucian sighs in relief as you begin to disrobe.

“Thank you,” he comments. “I really don’t have a clue what I’d do if you fell ill. . . I don’t think my heart could handle such a thing.”

You slip the last of your clothing off and step gingerly into the filling tub. It’s not long enough to stretch out in, so you bunch yourself up neatly to fit the space and look up at him once more.

“I feel fine,” you assure.

“I’m glad,” he replies. “Even so, it’s much better to air on the side of caution. The human body is a dangerously fickle thing, and it can be incredibly fragile. I’ve seen as much firsthand more times than I can count. In its infancy, this virus is little more than a common cold, but progresses into something fatal at a rapid pace.”

You simply nod as he kneels next to the tub, rolling his sleeves up.

“Your breathing is ragged, Lucian,” you state, “you should take that mask off and get some fresh air.”

“After,” he answers quickly.

He reaches for the half-used lavender soap bar and lathers it on his palms, then reaches out to smooth the suds over your arms and neck. His motions are a little rough and all too urgent. This is far from the first time he’s accompanied you for a bath, but it is the first time he’s ever done so and been this aggressive in his approach (if only as a result of his own anxiety.)

For the time being, he seems to avoid your breasts, instead reaching for one of your legs to hike it up out of the water. He repeats this process with the other, cleaning you until he seems satisfied. When he makes no move to revisit your chest, you take the soap from his hand and lather it yourself, placing it in its previous spot before leaning back slightly and allowing your hands to travel where you’d have liked for his to go.

Lucian watches but doesn’t touch. Your fingertips nudge at your nipples, feeling them harden under the minstrations, your bottom lip slipping between your teeth. If nothing else, he should be getting the hint by now.

Surprisingly, you’ve never had sex with him in all the months you’ve spent curled up in his arms, sleeping in his bed. He’s watched you take care of yourself on a number of occasions, has helped with his fingers another few times, —and allowed you to wrap your hand around him once a few weeks prior; but anything beyond that has seemed to be off limits. You’ve chalked it up to his shyness, or perhaps his distaste for human contact as a result of the pestilence; but tonight feels distinctly different.

Even in his previous state of frazzlement, Lucian seems all too content to sit back and watch you fondle your own breasts, soapy fingers clutching and releasing in tandem. You’ve always liked for him to watch you do things like this. Though his mask obscures the view of his face, you just know his eyes are trained on you, soaking up every movement, and you like to think he’s drooling at the way you grope yourself for his enjoyment (and for your own.)

“Lucian?” You prompt, half-lidded eyes glancing over to him.

His shoulders straighten as you say his name.

“You’re very beautiful,” he says, words almost too muffled by the mask to be made out.

“You think so?” You smirk a bit.

“I do.”

Ah, but that’s nothing new, and it’s nothing he hasn’t shared with you before. On the very night he took you in and washed your hair, he smoothed his gloved hands against your scalp and mumbled about how pretty you looked, even with dirt still caked on your skin. Even covered in filth from the alleyways you’d been sleeping in, he thought you were nothing less than stunning, —a real vision to behold, and he’s never skimped on such compliments.

You pause for a moment, reaching out to grasp for his hands. He allows the gesture, though he seems a bit confused, leaning in closer to the rim of the tub as you position him to your liking.

“Do you think I feel feverish?” You inquire, placing one of his hands on your neck and another on one of your breasts.

He makes no move to pull away, firming his grip up almost instantaneously, as if he’s been itching to feel you this way.

“Perhaps a bit warm,” he mumbles, taking a moment to roll your nipple between two nimble fingers, “but body temperature is known to rise during times of. . .” he trails off, clears his throat, then utters: “arousal.”

You trail your nails down his arm, letting your head tip back again. His hands are a bit calloused, but they feel so good against your skin, and you let a few moans slip past your lips. It’s not often he touches you like this without his gloves on, but the flesh-on-flesh contact is electrifying.

“Not to worry you, but I do feel a bit strange,” you huff slightly.

Through the slightly tinted bath water, Lucian can still watch your hand as it travels between your thighs.

“I’m just a throbbing mess,” you hum, giving him a pointed stare; “but you’ll take care of me. . . Right, Doctor?”

It may just be your imagination, but you could swear you heard his breathing shudder at that request. You’ve never been this forward with him, but something apart from the facial expression that’s still hidden away tells you that he likes where this is going. His fingers clamp down on the column of your throat, squeezing just enough to make taking in air a bit more of a struggle, but not anywhere near hard enough to be fatal.

The bit about being a throbbing mess was by no means an exaggeration on your part, so you take matters into your own fingers for the time being, drawing circles on your clit beneath the water.

“Of course,” he finally finds the voice to agree, “—I’d do anything to keep you from feeling unwell.”

That is what you like to hear.

“Anything?”

“Anything.” 

His grip tightens on your throat again, for emphasis, and with that, he seems to come slightly undone.

“Darling, that’s why I’ve demanded you stay here in my home, —our home. It’s safe here, free of contaminants and filth and anything that could cause you harm,” he says, the words spilling out like he’s been holding them back since he first set his sights on you.

“The world outside is ill, not just this rotten city. I’m working tirelessly to combat this pestilence, but as things stand now, the safest place you can be is here. With me. You understand that, my love. . . Don’t you?”

You’re only half listening, but you nod in agreement anyway. Whatever he’s saying, you trust his opinion on the matter.

“Of course,” you gasp, almost slipping a finger inside yourself to the tune of his melodic voice.

“I knew you would,” he continues, loosening the grip on your neck again. “You know I only want what’s best for you, that everything I do is to ensure your safety, —to eliminate the possibility of you ever falling sick.”

“Of course,” you repeat, head growing cloudier by the minute. “You’ve always taken such good care of me, right from the very beginning.”

God, he’s so elated that you’re seeing things his way. The way this makes him feel is almost too much to handle.

“I try so hard, darling, I truly do,” he says, both hands coming up to cup your cheeks.

“Please, Lucian,” you mumble desperately, “I need you tonight.”

He complies, shedding his long coat and draping it over your shoulders once you’ve stepped out of the tub. The chill of the air against your wet skin leaves your nipples hard and sensitive, and as he leads you to the bedroom, you hope he realizes just what it is you’re asking for. His fingers are a plentiful start, and you just know they’ll feel so good stuffed inside you, curling to hit all the right places, —but they’re nothing compared to the cock he’s stingily hidden away for all this time.

Tonight, you want him in all his glory in the glow of the lanterns on the walls. You want to strip him bare and gag on the length between his thighs, feel him twitch against the roof of your mouth, tease every vein that runs up his shaft. It’s not enough to grind against him while you’re half asleep or hump his clothed thigh until you’ve left his pants damp and your pussy sopping, just begging to be fucked by this man who might just love you more than he could ever fear any virus that lurks outside these walls.

“Don’t fret,” he tells you, though it sounds more like a command than a gesture to soothe any worries, “just lie back. I’ll be sure to give you. . . A proper examination.”

You could cum just hearing that.

With half your body pressed against the headboard and his coat nearly slipping off your body completely, he sets to work in his underclothes and mask. It’s by no means an uncommon sight, but there’s something distinct about him this late evening; the way his black attire contrasts so beautifully with the stark paleness of his skin and the mystery it shrouds him in that you’re just dying to sink your teeth into. Everything hidden beneath that cautious wardrobe and that long mask. . . You’ve gotta have it. It’s a necessity.

His fingers, ungloved, begin softly with your calves, tracing senseless lines.

“I’m not so fragile,” you remind him.

For as oblivious as he can be, Lucian takes the hint, and by the time he’s reached your thighs, he’s content to give them the same treatment as your throat.

The way he splits you apart is almost painfully clinical, a thumb on either side of your lips, peering through the eye holes of his mask to admire the way your folds glisten in the orange lantern light. A few prodding strokes leave you biting your lip again, body waning in anticipation for the moment he finally turns his hand over and sinks the longest of his fingers inside you, —slowly, but deliberately. It’s impossible to see his expression, but you hope his mouth hangs open a little at the way your cunt suckles on his finger, encouraging him to prod more and maybe stuff another few inside for you to grind against.

There’s something about the warmth of his fingers that gets you off almost in equal amounts to the way he moves. Another finger inside, and you whine, halfway to an orgasm from this alone.

He’s not particulary rough in his execution, but there’s a clean meticulousness in every movement that leaves every cell in your body craving more, begging for anything he can offer. Months upon months of wanting, of dropping hints, of hoping he’d catch on and finally see things your way, —and at last, you’ve made it. And now that you’re here, you’re content to simply lie still and let him have his way with you.

“Please don’t stop,” you beg, nearly choking on the words when the tips of his fingers brush just the right spot.

“Before you’re satisfied?” He sits forward a bit, resting his free hand on your stomach to press you down onto the bed. “Darling, I couldn’t fathom it.”

You will your upper body forward, grabbing for the hand on your stomach to move it up to your throat. He squeezes, scissoring the fingers inside you, watching closely as your body shakes and your eyes roll back a bit in ecstasy.

“I’ve tried,” he says to you suddenly. “I’ve tried so desperately to be gentle with you.”

You smile.

“I appreciate that,” you answer. “But I don’t want you to be gentle at the moment.”

“That’s a dangerous request, my love,” he warns.

God, you hope so.

You reach forward and grab at the beak of his mask, pulling it upward gently until it begins to slip off and reveal the handsome face underneath. Dark hair, dark eyes, but skin almost pale enough to be sickly, you meet his gaze just long enough to ask for permission, then lean in to kiss him on the mouth. It’s the first time, and it’s electric. He’s avoided this for months, —avoided your mouth, your unspoken pleas, all the passes you made for the sake of keeping himself at bay. But here you are now with two of his fingers stuffed inside you, his hand on your throat, and your lips slotted against his own.

“Please,” you murmur, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

And you can feel the restraints of his mind come unwound.

He’s no longer gentle in the way he fucks you silly with his fingers, hammering them over and over and over again into that delicious spot buried deep inside you, squeezing your throat hard enough to cut your breathing off. The way your pussy spasms as you cum is blissful, and he loves the way your arousal soaks his digits, loves the way your back arches, soundless moans spilling forth as he makes you orgasm.

“I fucking tried,” he says again.

It’s almost manic, so desperate and sort of pathetic in the kind of way that turns you on. This is the first time you’ve ever heard him curse, and it dawns on you that even the filthiest of words sound so unendingly elegant when they’re spoken by Lucian.

“I tried to be gentle. I tried to keep you safe here, —to shelter you from whatever forsaken wasteland remains out there,” he insists, his fingers still buried in your twitching cunt. “I just wanted to protect you.”

He lightens the grip on your throat as you lean in to kiss him again, cupping his face in your hands.

“You have,” you assure him.

“You take such good care of me, Lucian,” you mumble into his ear. “Let me show you how grateful I am.”

The fingers stuffed inside you slowly slip out, and reach for his hand, guiding them to your lips, taking his digits into your mouth to taste yourself on them. He watches with hunger and interest as you clean him with your tongue. He leans in to kiss you to get a taste of it himself, grasping your hair near the scalp and taking a fistful hard enough to make you gasp.

“I can’t let you leave,” he murmurs. “It’s not safe out there. When this pestilence has been subdued, I’ll do this all correctly. We can start from the beginning, and I’ll be a gentleman.”

“I look forward to it,” you answer softly.

“You’ll stay until then?” He inquires.

He’s clearly overreacting, but it’s hard to care when you just want him inside you. Lucian has seen death day in and day out, —so it’s no wonder it feels like it permeates everything around him. He just doesn’t want you to suffer such a fate, and you’re confident that you won’t, as long as he’s yours.

“Of course I will,” you answer.

It’s like something primal takes over. Suddenly his lips are on yours in a bruising kiss, and his hands are grasping roughly at your breasts, pushing you down onto the bed as he crawls between your legs. He pauses, hovering just above your dripping cunt, turning his head to sink his teeth into the meat of your thigh. It makes you squeal a bit, and he kisses the teethmarks he left behind as if in apology.

You can’t help but wonder how long he’s been yearning for this. It’s like every part of him is thrumming from the thrill of it all, and this man who has previously refused to even kiss you on the mouth is now stationed exactly where you want him, tongue lolling out to lick a solid stripe up your folds. He laps like a man starved, then spreads you apart with his thumbs to suck your clit mercilessly.

It’s good enough to make your vision go blurry, and you can’t seem to form proper words through the haze. Desperately, your fingers claw at the sheets of this mattress, and he moans against your hot cunt, sending a vibration rippling through your core that makes your back arch on instinct. You mumble something that comes out like gibberish, pussy convulsing against the flat of his tongue.

His arm comes round to press your hips down, forcing you to be still. It’s the kind of toruture you’re sure you’ll learn to live for. There’s only so much you can wriggle under his arm, which has a surprising amount of force despite his rather lanky stature.

From what little friction you manage as you attempt to grind against his tongue, you tip yourself over the edge and as the knot in your stomach unties for the second time tonight, he continues licking, lapping at the juices that spill forth.

He stands and reaches for the top button of his shirt, not bothering to wipe his face, chin and lips glistening with your aftermath. You watch him undress with lustful eyes, propping yourself up on your elbow, then slinking back against the headboard once again, resting your weary body against it. The quiver of your thighs doesn’t stop you from nudging at your swollen clit.

“I wanted to be a gentleman,” he comments, untucking the shirt from his pants and pulling the front open.

It’s not skin you haven’t seen before. In fact, you’ve seen every inch of him at one point or another; just never all at once, and now, you’re waiting with bated breath to see him completely exposed for your eyes only.

“I truly did. I wanted to give you comfort and security, —to love you as you deserve. And I knew from the moment I saw you that only I could give you exactly what you’ve always needed.”

You hum in acknowledgement as he continues to strip himself bare.

“But it’s so clear to me now that I’ve neglected you,” he continues. “This beautifully desperate display is all a result of my negligence. . . I failed to realize just how much you needed me like this. How much you needed the touch of a man. . .”

He sounds apologetic, but your eyes are fixated on his half-hard cock. The last time you saw it, he asked that you keep your mouth away; insisting it wasn’t sanitary to use it for such purposes, terrified that you might contract some sort of illness if you sucked his dick for the sheer enjoyment of doing so. This time, however, you have a feeling you’re well past that.

To test the waters, you let your hand fall away from your cunt, slipping off the side of the bed to kneel before him. He gazes down at you as you open your lips and let your tongue fall out, encouraging him to make what he will of it.

“My love,” he says, placing four fingers under your chin to rest his thumb against your tongue for a moment, “—I’ll make everything up to you. . .”

His free hand pumps his cock once, twice, thrice, —then he places it gently on the flat of your tongue, letting you feel the weight and the warmth of it. He sighs.

“Darling,” he groans, “ah. . .”

It takes very little for him to come close to cumming in your mouth, just a few minutes of sucking him off, listening to him moan, feeling him quiver at your touch. You hum with his member stuffed down your throat, and he cants his hips reflexively, an orgasm bubbling up beneath his skin.

Your non-dominant hand holds his cock steady while the other is stuck between your thighs, rubbing furiously at your clit, making you whimper along his shaft. When he notices, Lucian finds that wholly unacceptable and snatches you up to position you on the edge of the bed, relieving the pressure on your aching knees. You weren’t down there for long, but kneeling was hardly comfortable on the hard floor.

He spreads your thighs apart and smacks the pads of his fingers against your slit.

Whatever he’s doing, you’re sure you’ll enjoy it to the fullest, so you occupy yourself with his cock again from this new angle, bending awkwardly to mouth at the reddened tip. His fingers find their way inside you once more, working their delicate magic, brushing against all the right places. At this point, you’re more desperate for his dick to slip inside you like this, but you take what he offers in stride (and more of him into your mouth in the process.)

He’s vocal, and that’s utterly divine. His gravely moans and the pump of his fingers leave you cumming for a third time before his first orgasm arises, depositing a sizable amount of his seed into your mouth.

“I love you,” he huffs, —and if he were anyone else, you’d be certain it was just the oral sex talking, but no. . . Lucian wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t mean it.

Of course, he’s made similar confessions over the months, and has certainly treated you like it long before he ever expressed it so directly, but still. . . It feels nice to hear it, if nothing else.

“I love you too,” you answer honestly, urging him closer with your arms wrapped around his neck. “I’m yours tonight, completely. . . If you’ll have me. . .”

“Oh, darling, don’t be foolish,” he remarks, kissing you deeply. “You’ve been mine since the moment we met.”

Your back to the cool sheets, he lingers over you now, his shadow looming over you so monstrously. There’s a stark flush of red on his face that has begun to spread down the length of his neck, and one of his hands finds its way to your breasts as the other smoothes across your thigh. The head of his cock kisses your sopping entrance, sending a series of chills from the top of your spine to the bottom.

His breath on your neck makes your chest tighten, and he finds your lips with his own again as he sinks inside you, filling you up.

“Lucian,” you whimper, helpless to his touch as he pauses, buried down to the hilt inside your cunt.

He presses a few gentle kisses to your throat, murmuring something about how nice it feels to be stuffed inside you. He feels your nails dig into his shoulders as you adjust to his intrusion.

“You must understand by now,” he says, mumbling the words right next to your bitten earlobe. “Everything I do is for you.”

“I do,” you gasp slightly. 

As he begins to move, your walls clench around him, and he exhales deeply against the junction of your neck and shoulder. You roll your hips to match his pace, but as he goes faster, that becomes fruitless. Eventually, you resign yourself to the fate of lying there against the pillows, speared on his cock, him making a mess of you as you moan uncontrollably.

This was everything you’d been hoping for and then some, like some erotic dream come to life. Lucian’s lips travel where they please, —stopping to peck at your jaw, then to suck on your throat. Your breathing is haggard, and he smooths a hand down your side, resting it against your hip for a moment.

“Just a little more,” he whispers, as if to be reassuring.

“Just look how stunning you are, angel,” he murmurs, “how pretty you look like this.”

He kisses you once more.

“You take this so well, like your body was made for me.”

You’re delirious enough to believe that might be the case.

His cock pounds a little harder, and he hits the perfect spot, tearing a desperate yelp from your throat. You’re overstimulated and weak, but your high is itching just under your skin, and you couldn’t bear to see it disappear.

“Please,” you whimper to him, completely at his mercy, “—please, I’m so close.”

He loves the desperation that clings to your voice. The hand on your hip travels to your clit, pressing roughly against the abused little button, making you jerk slightly. He rubs a few heavy circles against it, and you come undone, cunt spasming around his cock as he chases his own release inside you.

Lucian is sloppy near the end, which may just be the only time you’ve ever known him to not be perfectly calculated and precise. His breath hits your neck again, over and over as he huffs through the hunt, finally sinking his teeth in when he comes to a finish. His cum sits hot inside your cunt, and he catches his breath for a moment, head resting against your throat.

“I apologize,” he utters. “I hope that wasn’t too much for you.”

You exhale slowly, his cock still buried in your heat.

“Don’t apologize,” you murmur, “I enjoyed myself.”

You feel him smile against your neck.

“I’m glad, darling.”

For the first time, he sleeps next to you without clothing, letting you touch every part of him, tangling your limbs together. Your face buried in the crook of his neck, breath fanning softly against him, as close to sleep as you can manage without tumbling over the precipice, Lucian reaches for his long coat and drapes it over your body, holding you closer.

#oc #original character #plague doctor #original character smut #oc smut #oc x reader #yandere x reader #yandere smut #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc #yandere original character #yandere original character x reader #yandere oc smut #yandere original character smut #soft yandere

[anantaru]

a/n. ✩ ˛˚ . i am currently sick and wanted to write something sweet, enjoy my loves while I'm drowning myself in hot lemon water, gn! reader

neuvillette likes to buy you flowers.

he doesn't necessarily have a favorite type of flower that he likes to purchase for you, because to him, it's the plant itself that reminded him of you.

for one, when he looks outside the window to catch the neat, sprouting garden outside your home, the sun rays shimmer gently along the various petals, rainbow roses stretching and slowly opening its eyes to the soft tickle of warmth.

to neuvillette, it felt the same as when he hears your voice whisper a honey-like "good morning" first thing during sunrise, and he wishes he could explain to you just how much the sound of your voice gave him butterflies and hope.

one part of him was on fire when you begin to smile as you realize he had bought you a bouquet full of blossoming lumidouce bells again.

to neuvillette, your grateful smile was resembling a warm gesture that was widely manifested in a garden scented with the fragrance of nectarous flowers, various plants going crazy when they receive the warm affection of the sun.

now, the man was calm and peaceful knowing that you liked them and that when he wasn't here with you, there was at least something that would always remind you of him.

you move towards him, slanting close, settling on his lap, and it makes his heart skip a beat when you leisurely wrap your arms around his neck to pull him into a quick kiss— because you see, every time he connects with you physically, neuvillette felt like you were a piece of him that had been missing perpetually.

neuvillette moves his tongue gently until you forget yourself into his trace, savoring the moment as he runs a finger along your thigh. you shift your hips a little to move closer, a wave of felicity shielding your bodies before the man decides to break the kiss as to catch his breath.

restraining his bliss for a moment, the iudex reminds himself that work had been awaiting him.

he takes your hand and squeezes it gently, "i assume you like the flowers?" as he questions lightly, even though he fully knew the answer to his own questioning— yet his mellow voice was so full of passion like it was attempting to burst his lungs, unable to exclaim the deep gratitude he felt.

you snicker back, quite absorbed in watching him blush vividly after one kiss, "you ask if i like them? i love each and every one of them," you continue, sounding sweet to his ears, "thank you, i will take care of them while you're gone,"

your gentle lips pass a smile, and you admire his eyes, see and notice how they had been cosseting your own.

this love, it wasn't like one you had encountered in the past— because the one you shared with neuvillette was an union of souls and hearts and minds, not something you could put under a microscope and understand immediately, because simply put, it was too complex for that, strong and unbreakable.

pure love, like a liquid which descends from the clouds in rain with your body feeling different— bouncier, more energetic.

feeling happy.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #neuvillette x reader #genshin x you #genshin impact x you #neuvillette x you #genshin drabbles #genshin impact drabbles #genshin fluff #genshin impact fluff #neuvillette fluff

[wanderingandfound]

Oh. Hello grief. Wasn't expecting to see you tonight. Can you go away and come back later?

#Kinda an odd experience to be in the bathroom getting ready for bed and to watch myself hold back sobs like I'm trying to swallow food I #don't like. #At my granny's house being struck for the second time that I don't have any good memories of my other grandparents. (The first time was at #their memorial when I wanted to say something but had nothing to say/no story to recount). #People talk about memory loss due to trauma but I've had no trauma like that. #People talk about sleep being vital for memories but I've had a bad memory for my own life as long as I can remember. No pun intended. #Like there was a time before I was perpetually sick. And for a while I was perpetually sick without being perpetually tired. And I had #pretty much no memory then too. #It's why I've always meant to keep a journal. And this blog has been my biggest success at journaling and yet.... #I mostly just recount the bad inner monologue. So few posts are about What I Did Today (neutral to positive). #And what posts there are in the genre are years and years old. #My memory is like those old tiny-brained computers. My memories of people are usually just a fuzzy snapshot of the last time we were #together/on the phone. Everything prior gets overwritten. #Sometime in the past 8 years (since leaving high school) my granny got Old. #She's not doing well now (still more productive than me though) and like. I can't come up with an actual memory of Before. #I spent every single break with her this in excusable. #(Shit the tears came back.) #And like. As these thoughts always come back here: what do I and will I remember of my Mom? #(That she loves me. That's what I'll remember.) #personal

[hoseoksluna]

MIST | myg ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!yoongi x oc (feat. jungkook)

genre: angst, smut

word count: 11.3k

summary: one encounter with jungkook makes you forget about your boyfriend.

playlist: mist / pinterest board: mist

warnings: the unfolding of polyamory, provocation, cuckold kink, cum eating, oc and yoongi fight, use of vulgar names, mentions of female masturbation, punishment, spanking, hair pulling, dom/sub dynamics, fingering, nipple play, disobedience, use of a sex toy, multiple orgasms, yoongi isn't comfortable with a certain sexual practice at first, spit kink, oc feels pain and likes it

note: it's here, you guys oh my god. this is part two of STEAM. i thought this would have only two parts, but when i got to the end, it was evident that it needs another one. i worked hard on this, guys. if you haven't read my little updates, i was literally sick today and threw up my breakfast, but i still somehow managed to get this writing done, so make sure you let me know how much you love this, hate this, what you expect and what you're feeling. pls!!! my inbox is open for you always x enjoy reading, love you all. ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

side note: HOBI'S NEW ALBUM IS OUT SLDKFJSDLFJSFJSLDF.

The night is feverish. 

So much that small pearls of its perspiration settle over the arc of your hand, between your thumb and your index, peeking from beneath the enfolding of your crossed legs. It’s as if the darkened heavens were hot and bothered while eavesdropping on the conversation you’re having with the two males sitting by the table, one right next to you and the other across from you. Even the clouds have halted their drift and the stars… they haven’t dared to blink, focused entirely on the question slipping from the mouth of the male you’ve known the least amount of time. 

Is this gonna be a one time thing? 

You will your mind to be empty, for if you allow yourself to think about it, your answer is as clear as the flare of those lights above. And you don’t want to voice out how much you like the idea of the sex being continual in fear of being turned down, in fear of Jungkook wanting this to be a one night only matter. What’s worse, you’re terrified of awakening Yoongi’s wrath. You believe the wine in your hand is the only bitterness you can manage to swallow. 

Oh.

You chuckle. 

A mist blankets your shoulders, the softest of summer drizzles. A briskness that steals your attention from the double meaning swarming in your brain. But when you lift your eyes to welcome in the small rain, it’s Jungkook’s gaze that you meet. Dark eyelashes, heavied down by the weight of the half-drunk bottle of red that you and him have been drinking. An ivory swirl of brightness glossing over dilated pupils, fixated on you. On your own blurry left eye, the sheen of your mouth, past your neck to the shimmery glow of your collarbones and your right eye. The coldness of the mist thickens, yet it’s not the reason behind your gooseflesh. No, it’s quite far from it. 

What roughens your skin is that very intentional stare. The slight narrowness to his once perpetually round eyes as he, for a mere second, shifts his gaze from your boyfriend back to you, adamantly expecting a response, one you refuse to have. It’s such a stark change to his countenance that, besides being stirred by it, you’re completely in awe of it. The smooth forehead, the slightly raised brow and smug mouth, now adorned with a lip ring that wasn’t there before. You don’t find the good man with purity in his eyes that, days ago, made a ruckus out of your life sitting before you, but someone else entirely. 

A man, whose arousal emanates out of him like fragrance, seeping into your fresh mango scent scattered along the perimeters of your skin. 

A man, like Yoongi had predicted, came to you like a puppy through him, asking you out for dinner. 

Horny puppy. You squeeze your legs, hiding your faint smile behind the rim of your wine glass, tilting the carmine nectar into your mouth. Jungkook examines the bobble of your throat, the dart of your tongue as the muscle drifts across the rosy brownness of your bottom lip and you’re heedful of it—a moonlight personified, the mist around you like the clouds clinging to that planetary body.

Jungkook calls you by your name. “What��s funny?” 

A momentary stillness. You thought your soft laughter was unheard. Your brain goes empty, mouth parts, the entirety of your vocabulary vanishes— 

“I think that’s something we decide after the night is over,” Yoongi answers Jungkook’s question lowly, propping a strong palm on the cloth of the table. The wet breeze dampens his hair, leaves a glow to his pale face. You wonder how he feels—if he’s still as okay with it as he was while fucking the life out of you—if he’s now, perhaps, facing some internal doubts that you know nothing of, that he hides beneath his words. “A collective decision.” 

He looks at you and beams at you with a tight-lipped smile. An expression that conveys that he wants this for you. You let out a sigh of relief, placing your hand on top of his and Yoongi makes a space for your fingers to fold in between his. Like he always does when he’s giving you backshots. 

A gooseflesh changed for hot flashes. You become the night, its fever thudding inside your lit skin. A familiar ache begins to grow in between your legs, demanding it. As if Jungkook’s lustful expression and energy wasn’t enough, your boyfriend had to remind you of something so intimate. 

You want both of them—right now.

Jungkook’s gape falls on your intertwined hands. Lover’s grasp. You note recognition, and perhaps a flashback, pulses with a dimmed light for a mere heartbeat in his eyes. It worsens your ache and, like Yoongi’s hair, you feel your panties dampen under your dress. You squeeze your thighs one more time before you untangle your legs, your heels clanging on the concrete, your knee bumping into Jungkook’s.

So close to him, yet so far away. 

You let yourself dream about how he fucks. Rough strokes, those muscled thighs straddling you—

“You agree with this?” 

A question from him directed towards you. Your throat dries up, dizzy from being pulled back to Earth. You take a long sip of your wine, but it doesn’t help your state. On the contrary, the buzz of the alcohol makes you tremble all over, intensifying your lightheadedness. You want to be fucked. Multiple times. Until you can’t walk. 

You wet your lips. “Of course,” you say, squeezing Yoongi’s fingers once, twice, letting him know through your own version of Morse code how horny you’re becoming, hoping he gets the memo. “It’s smart. If we made the decision now, who’s to say you won’t get sick of me?” 

Your response hurt you and you cringe, regretting your words. Your knuckles turn white, the breeze brushes through your hair and you relax your hold. Let out a hard breath. 

If he got sick of you after fucking you, you’d hate yourself for the rest of your life. Move out to a cave, far from civilization, so no one would see you ever again. 

Jungkook raises his brows, shaking his head. The smug smile on his lips remains, as if sewn into his skin. You wish you could wipe it away and straddle him right here in front of everyone—

“Sweetheart, don’t think that. I won’t get sick of you.” He toys with the foot of his wine glass, fingers moving it in slow circles as though he was—

Such a fucking tease. 

Your clit throbs. You won’t think that, all right. You’ll keep your mind empty and stupid just for him. 

You watch the movement of his digits, smiling slyly. The night rushes within you and, mentally, you wrap a collar around your neck in order to stop yourself from crawling across the table and taking a seat on his lap. A yearning forms. A yearning to feel the semi you know full well he’s sporting in his pants. You bite your lip, squeezing Yoongi’s hand again. He merely chuckles, aware of what the pair of you is doing and it’s too much for you. 

You need a dick rearranging your guts. Right now. 

Perhaps, two. 

You stifle a groan. 

“Tell you what. I have a cabin out in the mountains. With toys,” Jungkook says and you widen your eyes, his deep voice fraternizing with the night in you. Toys as in…? “An hour away from here. I can show you there how much I’m willing to not get sick of you.” 

Yoongi’s chuckle amplifies and you’re struck. Fucked up. Your cunt drools, ruining your panties. Your cheeks flush. Feverish, beyond feverish—you’re on fire. Your breathing gains speed and fuck. Toys? 

You have no thoughts. All that your brain is filled with is dick. Two dicks. 

Yoongi lifts his hand, unsnarling your intertwinement, and he sneaks it beneath your dress. His fingers feel up the drenched material of your underwear and hums. You reckon he already expected to find you wet and his sound of approval coaxes more of your dewiness to try and come into contact with him, but to your dismay and his, the fabric stands in the way. 

For two beats of time, Yoongi puts pressure on your clit as he feels up more of you and, faintly, so no one hears, you mewl, hiding your face beneath your palm. You swallow your whine for more, instead you sigh, camouflaging your moment of weakness. Bury your gaze into Yoongi’s, silently pleading him to take you home. 

Yoongi only smirks down at you before he faces Jungkook. “She’s wet. I think it’s safe to say she’d like that.” 

You slap his arm and Yoongi takes his hand away. The men laugh and you feel terrible, but not for long. You decide to take charge of the energy. 

“What kind of toys?” You will your voice to be confident and it’s only a split of it that comes out. You don’t mind—it’s enough because it silences their laughter, seriousness taking place instead. 

Jungkook licks his lips, adjusting in his seat—like Yoongi during that video call—and you sense it moving through you. You also feel the need to adjust, to peel your panties away from your cunt, discomfort seizing you a little. “I’ll show you tomorrow. Or the weekend after that?” Your eyes widen in panic. No—no, you can’t wait that long. He smiles fondly at you, sensing your emotions. “Tomorrow, then.”

You sigh in relief, downing your wine, but Jungkook isn’t done with you. 

“Will you pack your little red robe?” 

You choke. 

Amidst the chaos of the situation, you didn’t even realize he saw you. You didn’t even detect his eyes drifting that low. Thought Yoongi’s body colliding into you prevented him from seeing your intimate nighttime attire, but then you grasp that due to your shock, you might have missed that. 

Jungkook’s smirk widens. 

Oh, you want to say you’ll pack your little lace number that Yoongi particularly likes, along with your garters and stockings, though you opt to say something else entirely. You decide you want to steam him a tiny bit. Dominate the energy. Make him uneasy. For ulterior motives. 

“Will you brush off the cobwebs on your condoms  when packing or should I buy you new ones?” You quirk your brow, finger wiping away the drop of red that slipped out of the corner of your mouth. It’s all just talk—you want him to fuck you raw—a straight allusion to his loneliness that Yoongi told you about. Amused, Jungkook’s darkened eyes follow your movement. 

“Will you lick that finger?” 

You’re convinced your bloodstream came to a standstill. You don’t breathe, you don’t hear anything—your entire being becomes him, melding with the night, the moonlight. It’s him who now erases your brain. Yoongi touches your thigh, his fingers skimming the bare skin, but you don’t feel them. No, you pierce your gaze through Jungkook’s, penetrating right into his soul. And you simply decide that you want to own it. 

So much for steaming. 

“Do you want me to?” you retort, fluttering your lashes, the smile you give him as seductive as moonlight fluttering in you. You tap your finger on your bottom lip. Watch as his hand drifts somewhere beneath the table. 

He taps your knee in the same, identical beat. And, instinctively, you widen your legs. Your other knee bumps into Yoongi’s thigh. 

His first touch on your skin. You burn. Thank the heavens for slipping the idea inside your mind to wear a short dress. You inhale a breath in. Bite your lip, impatient for his answer. Tense your body so your trembles aren’t evident. You want to be strong, confident, despite the fact your body longs to submit to Jungkook—to be at his complete disposal, to be his, his to smooth down those quivers. 

Jungkook spreads his fingers along the roundness of your knee. Caresses you once. Then, nods. “Lick it for me.” 

Your heart jumps out of your chest. Right into his glass of wine. A flashback fills your brain—Yoongi saying familiar words to you on the night that perpetually changed your life. Stick it in your mouth for me. It must have rustled through his being just like it has in you. Has caused enough mayhem in him that he used those words. For me. He wants you to be naughty, be a little slut that listens to his commands—for him. 

Oh, and you shall do as he asks. 

Yoongi spreads an arm on the back of your chair, fingers sinking into your hair. The attention of both men, the lewdness, your wetness coating your panties, the warmth of the wine in your stomach, the night and the soft rain—you brim with life. You’re so elated that you’re sure you’re luminous. 

You plunge your red-tinged finger into your mouth. Keep it open for both men to see how you swirl your tongue around the digit before you close it. You make exaggerated sucking noises, your instincts and habits telling you to roll your eyes, but you decide against them. You’re in public after all—and you don’t really want to give Jungkook the full experience. Not yet. 

But then Yoongi pulls your hair and unwittingly, in a second, you moan. You shoot him a look, withdrawing your finger. He only chuckles, loosening his hold on your hair, the love in his eyes growing, mingling with joy and excitement. The sight of it calms you like still, deep waters and suddenly, you’re suffused with the desire to kiss him. 

Jungkook steals your attention, however. In typical fashion. 

He squeezes your knee between his thumb and forefinger, making you look at him. He’s propped his elbows on his thighs and the position broadens his shoulders more, the fabric of his black linen shirt taut around his muscles. The breeze quivers his lashes, strengthening the dimness and the lustfulness in his eyes. No glint of light to be found—just an abyss, bottomless eternity, enlivened by the scent of chocolate, the color of his eyes. It doesn’t unnerve you, on the contrary it boundlessly stimulates you. 

“You listen well,” he drawls, skimming his first knuckle down the smoothness of your shin before trailing back up. Gooseflesh—hard, thrilling gooseflesh. Your breath comes out choppy and you’re too transfixed by his feisty, lascivious aura to do something, anything about it. “But can you misbehave?” 

Your jaw falls open. At a loss for words. Brain muddy, cunt dripping. Your vocabulary long gone, your decision to be the one who takes charge of the situation long forgotten, long erased—more like—by someone who’s proved himself to be more dominant than your own boyfriend. Your boyfriend who has made you cry multiple times during sex. 

You let your trembles show. Bare, vulnerable. 

Yoongi strokes your hair, nuzzling his face behind your ear, placing a singular kiss there and it grounds you. Envelops a shield of safety around you. The breeze nourishes it. 

Jungkook slaps the side of your thigh softly. You gasp almost breathlessly, the impact vibrating through your body, the pulse on your clit a full drum. 

“Tomorrow then. At my cabin. Bring your robe,” he mutters, hypnotizing you with his gaze and you submit to it, unreservedly. This time, he drags his palm down your shin and his warmth guides you as you extend your leg for him, propping it between his outstretched legs, on the edge of his chair. He straightens, welcoming your gesture. “No condoms, no panties. Pussy dripping, preferably.” He halts the venture of his hand at your ankle, long fingers stretching to grab a hold of the heel of your stiletto. Flicks his eyes to Yoongi. “You can either make sure she’s wet or,” he pauses, whisking his gaze back to you. “You can touch your pussy for me? How’s that?” 

A carousel of dreams floods your mind and, fighting against the lodge in your throat, you voice out the one you like the most. You don’t want Yoongi to decide for you—you desire the decision to be yours, yours only. “Can I call you then?” 

Jungkook quickly raises his brows, stupefied by your answer. He didn’t expect that from you, and that fact makes you giddy. Night flowers begin to bloom in you, evening primrose and chocolate daisy—his flowers. They spread their petals when he says, “of course you can. Call me from his phone.”

Ever so persistent in the game of the roleplay. You could have exchanged numbers, but no. He wants it to be from the cuck’s phone. 

Yoongi grips your thigh, hard enough to make you wince. Even through your hypnosis, tipsiness and arousal, you sense that something is wrong. You turn your head to look at him and you discover that the love in his eyes, joy and excitement has gone out. Solemness has replaced it and into it, little by little, like the bottle of red Jungkook now tilts to your glass, overflows his wine of wrath. 

The threat you feared the most. 

You drop your leg to the ground and Jungkook lets you. Yoongi slackens his hold and you wonder what it was exactly that Yoongi didn’t like. The fact that Jungkook touched your leg or the plan between the pair of you—you touching yourself for him—that never had his approval? You release a breath, aware that you’ve done something very bad and your hypnosis and your smile declines with it. You even push your glass away, sobering up. The night flowers in you wilt. 

Yoongi relaxes beside you and you slip your fingers between his. 

You must have overdone it and the perception of that causes guilt to pool in your core. You should’ve at least looked at Yoongi to make sure he’s okay with it before jumping head-first. Nerves rise within you and you reach for your pack of cigarettes, hoping to chase your negative feelings away. Both men watch you, but the energy has already shifted. Arousal has evaporated and now, like the mist, seriousness settles in its place. Jungkook gives you a soft smile and you realize that your guilt is written all over your face, but he doesn’t say anything. Not to you; not to Yoongi.

The man before you returns to the good man you know, although his smug pride doesn’t let him become the healer that you know him to be. 

The ride home is silent. 

Jungkook texted Yoongi the address to his cabin as soon as you said your goodbyes. Your boyfriend scowled at the message before he pocketed his phone, taking your hand and walking a little faster to his car, as if to run away from the mess you’ve created. You felt so bad that you let him trail you behind him like a child, chin tilted to your chest, the heft of your guilt pressing down at you like a murky cloud. 

The rain is thickening by the time Yoongi drives down the familiar road to his apartment. He keeps his hands tightly wrapped around the steering wheel and the gear stick, knuckles white like the moonlight that left you and fled back to the dark heavens. He doesn’t reach for the radio or his phone to play some music. Lets the rain sing instead; lets the rain mend the tension between you. You overfill, uncomfortably, with so many beginnings to your sentences, but none of them fit right—none of them really portray what you think you should say to him, so it all falls into the abyss of the night that still lingers within you. 

It’s Yoongi who speaks first when he kills the engine, as if he needed the fifteen minute long car drive to think about what just happened, but it’s not the words that you want to hear. He stares ahead at the line of cars parked before him, at the canopy of trees bending to their roofs. The pitter-patter sounds of the raindrops worsen the guilt eating at your insides, especially when Yoongi remains seated with his hands in his lap.

“You’re not calling him tomorrow.” 

Your deduction was right. He didn’t like the idea of you calling Jungkook while you’d be touching yourself. You get that he has the right to not feel comfortable letting his friend in on a particular sexual practice, but you want to know why. If you’re not getting your own way and he gets to decide everything, you at least want to know the reason. 

“Why?” you ask, calmly. I want to, you don’t add. You fold your hands on your lap similarly to him, mirroring his body language. Feel the bubble of your disappointment sizzling in you. 

“You’re fucking him tomorrow and that’s the end of it,” he mutters, waving a hand through the air sharply to emphasize his words. Doesn’t look at you. Not once. “No collective fucking decision. One time and that’s it.” 

You will your calmness to stay, even when a foam of your own wrath pours into your disappointment. Do your own wishes and desires not matter at all in this situation? Or does the unfolding of it only belong to Yoongi and you have no say in it? Are you to shut your mouth or speak up? 

He was the one who made a comment about your self-pleasure to Jungkook when he was fucking the shit out of you and picked up his phone to call him. I recall her saying your name would be pretty to moan while she played with her pussy. Why did he say it if the thought of you pleasuring yourself on the phone with his friend makes him jealous? Did he really think Jungkook wouldn’t latch onto it, not want it to play out in real life?

The uncertainty, the questions devour your gut, but you go back to the start. 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

Yoongi sighs. Hangs his head and rakes his hands through his hair. “I said—”

You suck in a breath. “That’s not what I asked,” you spit out with a venom that you didn’t mean and Yoongi finally looks at you—catches you closing your eyes at the rush of your emotions and turning your head away from him. “I want to know why.”

Yoongi scoffs. “How come you don’t know, huh?” His voice raises in volume and it paralyzes you with fear—he’s never yelled at you before. The question itself strikes you cold and you don’t like the feeling of it crawling up your legs. “How come I have to fucking remind you?” 

You’re embarrassed that you don’t know what he’s talking about, caught in the middle. You want to get out of this car and walk home, afraid—so terribly afraid of what might come next. Fuck the rain, you don’t care. 

Silence, intertwined with the long breaths that he’s trying to calm himself with, floods the car. You don’t know what to say and Yoongi keeps it at that. You consider the conversation finished. 

Your hand reaches for the handle. 

“Stay in the car.” 

Your back faces him. “I don’t want to be here.” 

“Then get drenched in the fucking rain.”

In disbelief, you turn around to look at him. Yoongi boils with anger, elbow propped on the door, index finger outstretched along his cupid’s bow, staring down the myriads of cars before him, setting them on fire with his gaze. 

“And I will,” you bark, frowning at him, needing to have the last word. “Don’t come running after me.” 

Your hand reaches the handle again and pops it open, your foot swinging over to the wet ground, but Yoongi grabs your leg and hauls you back inside, closing the door shut.

You open your mouth to yell at him. “What is your—”

Yoongi takes your face in his hand, puckers your lips and kisses you harshly. You groan, but you don’t fight it. In fact, you kiss him back, needing him—needing him warm and not cold to you. He stays nose-to-nose once he withdraws, watching as your irises dilate. The sadness that you catch whirling past his eyes punches you in the gut, hard enough that you regret the fight you’ve caused, regret every word you said and every action that can never be erased. You hate yourself for your desires, for your ugly soul and your abhorrence becomes an anchor wrapped around your heart, dragging it down. 

You whimper, but no tears come out. Yoongi pulls you onto his lap and cradles you, folding you into his chest. He rubs you back in circles, sweeps your hair to one side and you cling to his heat, wondering what the fuck just happened. 

You and him never had an argument before, never met each other halfway through the decaying meadow of negative feelings while being two opposite forces. You both were always there for the other person, absorbing their feelings, on their side through and through. Until now, you’ve truly never been two separate people with separate emotions and it’s a reality check. A breath of fresh air—the sudden, brisk disentanglement of an unhealthy attachment. 

Jungkook didn’t just make a ruckus out of your life, but out of your relationship, too. And by that ruckus, he healed it. 

And right then and there, you find the beginning to your sentence that you were searching for. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper into the fabric of his polo shirt and your apology stops Yoongi’s motions. You lift your head to look into his eyes. “I should’ve checked in with you—I admit that. It was wrong of me. You’re allowed to not be okay with something and I should respect it, act accordingly, even when I might have a different opinion.” 

And your opinion shouldn’t change to be identical to his. Your thinking is your thinking. You’re your own person. 

The anchor loosens and falls from your heart when that understanding takes form within you. You feel much lighter. 

Yoongi frowns, but it doesn’t perturb you. Not anymore. “I will say this once so listen to me carefully,” he says, curling a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m not letting him see you touch yourself because that belongs to me—that’s what we do. Remember that.” 

So that’s what he meant. Guilt clenches your heart in a deathly grip for not knowing, for not realizing it. 

“If you so much as touch your clit tomorrow when he fucks you, I won’t think twice to carry you away and leave him with blue balls,” he continues, keeping his hand on your cheek.  “You’re still mine, even when I’m letting him have you. You’re mine. You got that?” 

You place your hands on his shoulders and nod. 

“Are you still okay with it, though?” you ask, not expecting him to go along with it after this and you wouldn’t be disappointed, not anymore. The healing that took place is bigger than your desire. The freedom that you feel is better than anything your intimate parts ask for. Your relationship at this very state, at this very moment, has grown past the sexual part. Before it was just lustful love. “We don’t have to do it. Jungkook would understand, wouldn’t he?” 

Yoongi sighs and presses a kiss on your cheek. You feel all of his stress and wrath dispersing into your skin. “I want this for you, honey. You were so excited about it, so into it. I’ve never seen you filled with so much light before.” 

You do the same for him—you press the same kiss, on the same right side of his cheek. “So just tomorrow then?” 

A tight-lipped smile, like the one at the beginning of the night. Yoongi nods. “Just tomorrow.” 

You disobeyed in every way you could. Brought panties and condoms. Left your red little robe at home. Didn’t look once at the lace little number you planned to pack. Decided you wanted to keep that for Yoongi’s eyes only. 

Decided you were going to paint your encounter with Jungkook with different colors, one that differs from the stained ones on your palette that you use with Yoongi. 

He wants you to be bad. Yoongi wants you to be good. 

It’s all your mind is suffused with as Yoongi drives into the woods and the sunlight spilling through the windshield, cutting through the trees, tempers it. No music, no conversation. 

You’re empty. You think the brown barks of the passing trees have more life in them than you do and along with that difference rise questions. Questions of what you’re allowed to do and what you’re not. Questions that you’re wary to ask. 

Not because there’s a lingering tension between you and Yoongi after the fight. As a matter of fact, he made love to you after you both ran for the door. Licked you clean of the rain while breathing in the heady scent of petrichor on your skin. All that had been broken was mended, beautifully. The reason why you’re nervous to ask is that you don’t want to venture back to that place of wrath. Where you are right now is a place of brisk freedom, one that you don’t want to leave, but to have a clear state of mind, you reckon you have to risk it. 

You place your hand on top of Yoongi’s on the gear stick, breaking the silence with your body language. You turn your torso halfway to face him. Meet his angelic early-afternoon-kissed countenance, hidden by his black shades and the long wisps of hair falling to each side of his face. 

Murmuring his name, Yoongi only hums at your call. 

“I have some questions,” you say slowly, carefully making your way to the place you’re timid to go to.

“Ask away, honey.” 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I know I’m not allowed to touch myself and I won’t, I promise. But is there anything else that’s off limits?” 

Yoongi also swallows sorely, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He takes a moment to think about it and because you’ve already brainstormed what he might not like, you make it easy for him. 

“Is he allowed to kiss me?” you try, fingers grasping your dainty necklace to play with, to distract your nerves. 

“Kissing is a part of sex, but if you’re not comfortable with kissing him, you don’t have to. Please,” Yoongi says your name with a sigh. “Don’t force yourself to do anything that doesn’t feel good. I beg you.” 

A hit of your liquid emotions. A little vein of life springing in your body. You blink the sudden tears away, dipping your fingers into the space between his. You’re so grateful to have such a thoughtful, intelligent man like him. 

“Okay, what about blowjobs?” 

Yoongi sucks in a breath. Ponders it. “Well, that’s an important part of the kink, isn’t it?” He looks at you momentarily before bringing his eyes back to the road. “Watching your girlfriend suck someone else’s dick. That’s the appeal.” 

“Besides watching her get fucked.” 

He chuckles shortly. “That’s what I’m most excited about.” 

A soft smile. “You’re excited about watching me get fucked?” Yoongi nods, but you didn’t get the answer you wanted. You go back. “So you’re not comfortable with me sucking his—”

Yoongi sighs, rubbing his forehead before slapping his hand back down on the steering wheel. “I don’t know yet, honey. We’ll see when we get there.” He squeezes it, the white of his knuckle appears and you take a mental note of that. No blowjobs, or no overindulging in the act, more like. Not knowing is an answer, too. 

“And he’s allowed to eat me out?” 

He doesn’t smile as he says, “he’s skilled with his tongue. You’ll lose your mind. It’s all I could ever want for you.” 

You raise your brows in doubt. “No one is as skilled as you.” At that, his coy smile finally rises and you brush your thumb across the side of his hand. “Will you join in or are you just gonna watch?” 

Yoongi shifts the gear and speeds down the road. “I was planning to watch only, but I guess it depends on the situation. I’m willing to join if I feel like it.” He lifts your hand and kisses the soft skin. “You nervous, honey?” 

You still feel slightly empty, no nerves to be found. You shake your head ‘no’. 

“You’re gonna like it there. It’s a nice cabin.” 

What Yoongi said was an understatement. 

When you witness the greenery enveloping the mountains, you stand gaping with your mouth half open. A warm summer wind billows in and out of the balcony, ushering in such liveliness and joy of life that you feel it slinking into each and every pore of your body, filling you up with all that you’ve been lacking. Giddiness clutches you and lingers, the flimsy curtains quivering against your thigh with each movement to and fro. You willingly become the nature—the sunlight and the slowly diffusing mist wrapped around the grays, blues and greens. The trees curtsy at your presence and a fond smile blossoms on your face. 

Now, at last, you can’t wait to get fucked. You’re glad it’s going to happen at such a lovely place like this. 

Jungkook, dressed in a white oversized T-shirt and a pair of cargos, takes your travel bag from Yoongi’s hand. He looks so soft that it’s hard to believe you’re staring at the same man from yesterday—he changes drastically when he’s aroused, like you takes on the likeness of the dark whenever he hears its call. It’s fascinating to you. 

“Come see the room upstairs.” 

Quietly, you and Yoongi follow him, your feet thudding along the wood of the stairs. And there, there your breath gets snatched altogether. 

A white, heavenly canopy above the king sized bed, white furniture—void of any dust—adorned with nourished plants that sway and rustle in the wind. The summer breathes through the open wide windows and in the corner, next to a dresser, a mirror stands, a mirror with a rocking chair right beside it that causes gooseflesh to prick at your skin. 

If this is where you’re getting fucked, Yoongi will have first row view of it. It’s as if Jungkook planned it all along and that speculation causes a shiver to run down your spine. 

Jungkook sets your bag and Yoongi’s on the mattress. Skims his surroundings in case there’s any untidiness that he hasn’t touched and one glance at Yoongi tells you that he spent the first half of the day cleaning up the place. 

Cute puppy. You and Yoongi share a smile. 

“This is where you’ll be sleeping,” Jungkook says, straightening his spine. 

“We’ll be sleeping?” you joke and the men shoot you a look, which makes you burst out into laughter. The sound blends into the song of the birds and the sway of the trees. You feel a spark of joy perk up in your chest. 

“I’ll fuck you to sleep.” 

Oh. 

He said it so casually that you feel hot all over. You glimpse at Yoongi, though his face utters no words of emotion. Eyes fixed at a point on the hardwood floors, hands in his pockets, teeth nibbling on his bottom lip. Did he not say he was excited to watch you get fucked? Have you made a mistake? 

You rake a hand through your hair, exhausted of your questions and doubt. 

Jungkook leads you back down to the main floor, but Yoongi stays behind. Wants to take a shower before lunch. Nervousness nips at your fingertips at the thought of being alone with his friend, but you nod anyways, having no other choice. 

You watch the swing of his body as he goes down the stairs, little wisps of hair bouncing on the back of his head that you find immensely endearing. They’re like some floppy ears of a puppy to you. Your breasts bounce as well with each skip down and you become aware of how full they are in your low neckline as with each movement your bare, pebbled nipples graze against its fabric, stimulating you, sending a familiar ache down to your intimate parts beneath the ruffles of your skirt. 

You need to be very careful from this moment on upon this dangerous territory. 

“I want to show you something,” Jungkook says, walking towards the balcony. He doesn’t look back at you, he just expects that you’re following him blindly and something about that overwhelms you peculiarly. You want to slap yourself for getting aroused so quickly—you just got here. 

He extends his arms along the railing and you saunter to his side, taking a peek above his shoulder but failing, miserably. All you face is the hard wall of his muscles, even when you lift yourself on your tippy toes and it makes you huff out a frustrated breath against the material of his T-shirt, despite the fact his tall form dampens your cunt—

Is it your ovulation day? Fuck, you make a mental note to check that later. 

Jungkook turns his head to look at you and chuckles. Grabs the back of your neck to push you closer to the railing and you fear your eyes will pop out of their sockets due to the way you widen them. The second body part he touched—one of many. You hope, you pray he keeps his hand there but he withdraws as soon as your fingers wrap around the wood of the railing. You narrow your lips in a tight line. 

He points to what he wanted to show you. You try your hardest to not notice the details of his tattooed hand, to ignore the silver ring around that index finger of his and the ghost of his touch on the nape of your neck. You close your eyes for a heartbeat to regain your composure before they catch the view he’s pointing to. 

A pond. A clear body of water under a thick weeping willow that wets its petals in the freshness of it. Your mouth parts. You sense his gaze on you, but you can’t reciprocate it. Not when such a lovely view like this lulls your soul, permeates it with the pleasure of beauty. 

“Can we get closer?” you ask, mesmerized completely. 

Jungkook grabs your elbow. Another body part. He drags you to another set of stairs. And you realize that the balcony is a veranda of some sort. The feeling of grass under your bare feet is exhilarating and, like a child, you begin to run to the pond, your skirt furling around you, exposing a sliver of your bottom. Jungkook lets you. Walks sluggishly with his hands in his pockets, watching you—smirking at that piece of skin he got to see. 

You crouch to touch the stillness of the water, your fingertips reflected upon it. The coldness, despite the steaming sunlight, is so refreshing and you long to take a dip, to fill your hot body with the briskness it so evidently needs. 

Standing upright, you twist to yap about how beautiful the scenery is—but Jungkook pushes you into the water. 

You were so wrong. So very wrong. 

Your feverish body didn’t need the coolness of the pond to dull your arousal because when you come up for air and your little outfit sticks to you body, your heartbeat picks up its speed, thumping in tandem with your clit. Jungkook wipes his smirking mouth at the sight of you and you’ve convinced that’s your undoing. 

Nipples stiffened through your little top. Skirt shrunken. Skin wet and glossy. You run your palms through your hair, squeezing water out of your strands, feeling sensual, confident and so fucking playful. You smirk right back at him when you wade your way to him. Pull your shoulders back, tits on full show for him, when you lift your leg onto the grass. 

And you stalk him down. You thought he’d move but he stays put. Those hands still in his pockets, those eyes zeroing down on yours—now different, now much smaller. Darker. Willing you to come after him. 

“Prick.” You screw up your face at him, your chest tightening, an inch away from his. 

Jungkook releases a breath. Grins smugly, briefly, swiping his tongue down the side of his inner cheek, as if he liked the fact you called him something like that. His irises drift down to your tits unabashedly and you swear you can see his hands twitching—

“You look pretty like this,” he murmurs, irises back on yours, twinkling, dilated. “Wet.” 

You blush. Ache to be touched. Think about Yoongi and whether he’s finished with his shower because you need to be attended to. Taken to a safe place where the pleasure of his words and energy can unfold, where you can enjoy it. But Jungkook hypnotizes you again—and you don’t know how he does it, how he manages to draw your body close to his without hands. You hate him for it. 

“Prick,” you repeat, more to yourself than him, drops of water trickling down every perimeter of your skin. 

Jungkook cups your chin, raising it to his level. “And what else?” 

You dart out your tongue and wet your mouth— slowly around the arc of your top lip to tease him. Then, you narrow your eyes even more at him. “Asshole.” 

Affectionately, he titters, influenced by your actions so much that you catch flecks of drunkenness in his features. It makes you feel so brilliant that you beam up at him and once his laughter softens, he reciprocates the grin. Like you and Yoongi had, but in a different way. 

The swish of the willow tree. A teetering bird. Jungkook fondles your glowy cheek. 

“Why didn’t you call me?” 

Your breath lodges in your throat but you push against it. Want to speak up. “I couldn’t.” 

He frowns. “But did you want to?”

You nod. The question causes you to blossom, shed the last of thorns left in your body from the attachment. He’s the only person you could say this to and naively you trust that he won’t peep a word to Yoongi. A relief bolts through you that you put yourself first and spoke your truth for the first time in your life. You understand the reason why Yoongi isn’t comfortable with that practice and you promised him you wouldn’t do it. Intending to keep your word, it doesn’t change your opinion, however. Your opinion being that there’s nothing wrong with letting him see this part of your sex life. 

It could be reversed. Jungkook being the one who watches. 

He wraps his fingers back around your chin, hovers his thumb an inch away from your lips, as if he’s fighting himself from touching them. “Tell me with your words.” 

A question that makes the time stand still. Do you listen or misbehave? 

The decision is fast. 

You press up your body against his. Jungkook sucks in a breath at the sensation of your stiffened nubs beneath his pecs, the water of the pond soaking through his T-shirt, marking your tits on him. You interlock your hands behind your back and Jungkook withdraws his hand. Surprises you when he lets it roam down your arm until he finds your clasped wrist. 

He’s waiting for your answer. You know he is. And you want to gratify the puppy. 

“I did want to rub my clit for you,” you breathe out and the hotness of his exhale envelopes you in a heat, even more so when his other hand grips your wrist and nuzzles you even further into the shadow of his body. 

Hard length against your tummy. The roundness of his nose nudging against yours. It’s too much, way too fucking much and you mewl—to which Jungkook immediately responds, approves of the sound, of your neediness and presses you closer to him, your tits squished against him. 

Lips above your ear, he whispers, “would you have called me or would you have let me see?” 

He takes both of your wrists into his fist and his other hand goes to your wet hair, smoothing down the strands. You find the gesture calming, calming enough for you to say, “let you see.” 

You inhale his scent—wood, vanilla and fabric softener. The fragrance of gentleness. 

“Hm, would you have fingered yourself for me?” Jungkook continues, pulling your hair so you look at him. No hint of darkness in his eyes, but tenderness—a healing kind of tenderness that makes you give yourself over to him. 

“Yes. More than once.” 

Jungkook grunts. Turns you around and flips your skirt to see if you’re wearing any panties. Is met with the bareness of your behind as your choice of underwear for the day is a white thong. Optical illusion. 

A quick heartbeat. Dry throat. 

He straightens you and presses you back against him—this time from behind. Lips to ear, the same one. You feel the shape of him on your palms. Thick. Big. You roll your eyes back. “On the count of three, you run and hide. If I find you, you get fifteen spanks for wearing panties when I specifically told you not to.” His breathing turns ragged, in sync with yours, the thought of punishing you turning him on. 

“What happens if you can’t find me?” You squeeze his full balls and you hear that grunt again, vibrating through you. 

“You don’t wanna know. Did you forget I have toys?” 

With that, he pushes you and you gaze back at him with horror—a lustful horror that blazes you. What kind of toys does he have? You want to find out, badly enough that you don’t mind misbehaving. 

Jungkook begins to count. 

You don’t wait until you hear the number three before you run for your life. 

Inside the cabin, near the balcony, you bump into Yoongi’s naked chest. And you don’t have time to react before Yoongi scowls down at you, ridding you of any sounds of shock that desire to pour out of you. 

“Why the fuck are you wet?” he asks, bracing you with both hands, skimming a glance upon the sight of you. 

You panic. “Yoongi, I—”

A creak on the hardwood floors behind you. You round your brows. Will you ever make a decision on your own? Your fate was, again, picked for you. By Yoongi, by Jungkook—who didn’t give you enough time to hide. 

Even a tendril of disappointment doesn’t have time to perforate your being because you sense another hand on the ruffle of your dripping skirt. 

“Tell me why you didn’t take the second to make sure she was bare for me? You don’t check her holes?” 

A deep, indignant murmur. Not expressed towards you, but towards your boyfriend. Yoongi’s scowl deepens, but you smile through your shock—the sun leaking through the clouds—and you sneak a finger along the definition of his abdomen that tenses under your touch. A conveyance that it has begun—that he should play along. You nod your head even, shortly, letting him know it’s okay. 

Yoongi relaxes. Drifts his hands to your palms, holds them. Flicks his eyes to Jungkook above your head. Swallows. “She’s a brat that has a mind of her own,” he says and perhaps he’s right. Now you get to be one, at last. “She didn’t even pack her robe. Did she tell you that?” 

You freeze. Jungkook fists your skirt. 

Lips back to your ear. Heat radiating. You hope Yoongi didn’t see the marks of your breasts on his T-shirt. “Is that right?”

Vigor courses through you. You get to be a brat. And the possibility makes you feel infinitely alive. 

“Yes,” you giggle, and when Yoongi gives you an endearing smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling, you find that safe place you were searching for, that you needed. “I figured I should be naked for the occasion.” 

Jungkook scoffs. “And yet you disobeyed me. Do you even use your brain or are you just that horny?” 

Your lashes quiver at that, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip, feeling stupid, although you know the reason behind your defiance. 

Jungkook doesn’t wait for your response. He pushes you towards Yoongi until you collide into his chest. If your panties weren’t drenched from the pond, his manhandling would’ve taken care of that already. “Turn her around and strip her.” 

You panic. Fear that Yoongi will see your tits on his T-shirt. Noticing your emotions, Jungkook understands. Pinches the back of his shirt and flings it on the back of the couch. Broad shoulders, big pecs, deeply defined abdominal muscles and the lines of his V leading into his intimate parts. No happy trail. Jungkook smiles at your relief. Your body flutters. 

Yoongi’s hands grasp the hem of your soaked top and swiftly pull it over your head, making your full breasts bounce from the impact. He can’t help but knead them, face nuzzling into the crook of your forest-scented neck to pepper kisses there, and you catch the protest in Jungkook’s eyes—only to watch it dwindle away with the slow realization that he can’t tell your boyfriend not to touch you. 

It makes you whimper. And the licks of Yoongi’s tongue and harsh kisses merely heighten that sound. 

He continues as his hands find the waistband of your skirt and drag it down your hips until it plops onto the floor. And to fully present you to him at last, he hooks his thumbs under your thong—at which Jungkook shakes his head, disapproving. Walking towards you, he kneels before you and Yoongi blows on the traces of saliva he left on the side of your neck. Shivers, ones that Jungkook smooths down on your thighs to calm you down before he rips your panties in one motion. 

If Yoongi wasn’t holding you, you’d fall to the floor—your legs boneless, jelly. 

Like a leaf out in the forest, your ruined thong plummets to your feet. Jungkook lifts your ankle, helping you step out of it. Throws the scrap on top of his T-shirt, perhaps as a keepsake. 

He doesn’t rise. Gazes upon your cunt, instead. Upon the glistening of your folds and lips, the swollenness of your clit. You part your legs wider for him. In appreciation, he looks up at you and strokes the back of your knee. Pupils dilated, the black swallowing the brown. And when Yoongi presses his length against you, pinches your nipples and you roll your eyes back, your attention stolen, Jungkook rises to his feet. 

Licks his fingers and places them on your clit, starting a speedy series of circles—and you can’t catch your breath. Not when Yoongi rolls your nipples under his digits, not when Jungkook narrows his eyes at you and commands, “apologize.” 

The pleasure overwhelms you so fast and you can’t speak. Can’t for the life of you remember how to apologize and what for, especially not when you grind your ass against Yoongi’s length and he grunts into your ear, not when you’re aware of the quickening of Jungkook’s breath. 

Briefly, Jungkook speeds up his pace before he plunges the same wet digits into your hole. Doesn’t let you adjust, but instead keeps filling you to the brim. Then, with the same rapidness, he fucks you. 

And you can’t stop yourself from coming and drenching his hand. The second fastest orgasm of your life. Your drops of essence are added to the pile of chunks of dry mud, grass and the pond water dripping from your hair on the floor. 

Jungkook withdraws, completely. And you feel cold without his heat, without his closeness. “Why did you come?” 

Yoongi begins to focus on your earlobe and you perceive the smug, proud smirk on his mouth. You don’t know what to say—beyond overwhelmed, beyond fucked out. All you know is that you don’t have enough, that you need more, that you hated how quickly your orgasm came upon you. 

Jungkook takes Yoongi’s hands gently and rearranges them. The right one on your cunt, the left one on your jawline. To your surprise, he lets him. Something about that coaxes a string of your wetness to trickle down your thigh. 

Yoongi’s hold on your chin is rough, causing a litany of soft mewls to spill out of your mouth as you wait for the next move. Needy, horny. And your mewls turn into loud moans that waft out into the forest when Jungkook grips your tits, pushes them together and licks against both of your nipples, your whole body fluttering, trembling, weak and stimulated. Yoongi begins to rub your clit and Jungkook catches you go cross-eyed, stifling his chuckle, but smiling at you regardless. 

Drawing close to you until your bare, wet nipples come into contact with his skin, he glimpses at your mouth once before boring his eyes into yours. “Apologize,” he says lowly. “Apologize for wearing panties.” 

Yoongi squeezes your cheeks, puckering your mouth, despite the fact this is something you only do together. Then, Jungkook tilts his head to the side and kisses you softly, owning you entirely. The puffy tenderness of his mouth, the gentleness which he pressed that kiss with—Yoongi squeezes your cheeks even harder, opening your jaw, giving Jungkook the green light to use his tongue and you’re gone. 

You’re gone when Jungkook swipes his tongue on top of yours. Gone when he toys with it, swirls around it for a moment before closing his lips around yours, kissing you deeply—the smacking sound so loud in your ears, so delicious that you moan, losing your strength to stand and sagging a little bit in Yoongi’s arms. 

“Fuck,” you utter once he lets you breathe and even through the hypnosis, the hot flashes signaling the upcoming of your second orgasm and the blurriness of your vision, you can see how much that kiss affected him. 

Softening glossy eyes, features loosening—smirk wiped clean, unbelief, wooziness and arousal in its place instead. Mouth parted, puffy, shiny with saliva. A beautiful, extraordinary sight. 

“She can’t apologize, but she can swear,” Jungkook comments, but it doesn’t reflect the turmoil happening on the inside of him. And it doesn’t explain what he does next. 

He kisses you again. More gently than before. A slight whirl of tongue around yours before he closes his lips against you all over again. Although this time, he doesn’t stop. He pinches your nipples with his fingers, over and over, while moving his mouth against yours, a slow ripple of the pond behind you if there ever was one. And you feel the heat, the sweat coating your body and you feel Jungkook feeling you come. You don’t have to make a sound. He knows. 

Your orgasm is a deep current moving through you. Like that kiss. You lose yourself in it, eyes rolled back into darkness, fluttering to and fro—from light to dark—and when you resurface, you find Jungkook’s cavernous, enthralled gaze fixed on you, fixed on the forging process of your orgasm taking roots in you. 

Yoongi lets you drop to the floor, breathless. Jungkook shoots him a dirty look, but you reach for the button of his pants, not caring. He stops you with a gentle grasp of your wrist. Bends to your level. 

“You’re not sucking dick. Not mine, not his,” Jungkook snarls, helping you stand to your feet. Hooks an arm under your knees and back and lifts you into his arms—carries you upstairs, without any other words spared. 

He sets you on the bed. Gently cleans your feet with a wet cloth and when he’s done, he takes a seat on the white rocking chair across from you. Palms his length briefly before he manspreads, propping his elbows on his thighs like he did at dinner. Once Yoongi arrives, he pats your head and caresses your hair, an apology for letting you fall. You’re on the verge of tears. 

Jungkook doesn’t even look at him. “Fifteen spanks from him for wearing panties. Fifteen more from me for not apologizing. To me.” 

Yoongi never spanked you. You recognize it’s as much of a punishment for him as it is for you. They haven’t been friends for a day. Jungkook must be very well aware of Yoongi’s disliking of any impact play. He might like to make you cry during sex, but he never uses violence to do so. He uses his words, his dominance and his length. 

Jungkook is teaching him a lesson for letting you drop to the floor. And it coaxes an onrush of foreign emotions to swarm within you. You’re touched. Deeply, deeply touched. 

So much that you don’t take in the fact you’re getting spanked thirty times. 

Yoongi scowls and you’re sick of seeing it. Getting on your knees, you wait for him to sit down. He remains standing. 

Jungkook clicks his tongue. “Sit down, hyung.” 

Power play. He has no business ordering him around and calling him hyung while at it. Has no business to be in control when he’s the bull. Your essence sticks to your thighs. 

“I’m not spanking her,” Yoongi mutters. “Do it yourself.” 

Jungkook leans back, a finger to his temple. Darkness soaks him in heat and he shines, dimly. “You allowed it to happen, so you punish her. For me.” In other words: You dropped her, so you’re getting punished. 

Yoongi has no other choice. You can see the defeat wrung into his face and he doesn’t look at his friend as he sits down. You do. 

And the look you share should mangle your heart, but it doesn’t. You should feel bad that you’re on his side and not on Yoongi’s, but you don’t. 

Purposefully, you angle your pussy so Jungkook has a perfect view of her as you crawl on Yoongi’s lap. One leg on the mattress, the other in the middle of his thighs—

“Lie down,” Jungkook orders and you listen, immediately, plopping down on Yoongi’s lap, making him gasp. 

Yoongi cages you in. Pushes you farther towards his back, but you fight against it. You want to look at Jungkook when you’re getting spanked by your boyfriend for the first time, and so you twist your torso to the side. Just in time to catch a sunray penetrating his aura of darkness, enkindling him softly. 

With his hand wrapped around his still clothed cock, Jungkook nods at Yoongi. You didn’t even realize he was waiting for his signal. Your pussy drools. Jungkook squeezes his girth in response. 

The first spank is tender. And so is the second and the third. Jungkook sighs, rubbing his temple, but he doesn’t say anything. Not yet. 

Fourth and fifth—it gains a small amount of intensity, barely. Sixth and seventh, he rubs both of your cheeks as if it hurt, when in reality it was a caress to you. 

Jungkook slowly blinks at you, telling you to be patient through that gesture. 

Because it’s the tenth one that makes you gasp. The prickling pain coursing through your body, pooling at your core—your core that shows him how much you liked that sharp spank. Jungkook smiles, proven right. 

Yoongi’s breath shakes. His cock twitches against your stomach. 

“Harder,” Jungkook mutters, his own breath quick, eyes never leaving yours. “For the last five. And faster.” 

Yoongi obeys. Your moans grow in volume with each spank, your bottom painted in faint red. Yoongi quickly pulls you up to face him, brushing your hair away from your face. 

“You liked that?” he asks in disbelief, eyes flicking between yours, looking for any hint of discomfort. 

You nod. “I need—” Him, you don’t say. You can’t. 

The rocking chair creaks. Jungkook walks towards you. You twist your body again to meet him halfway and he caresses your cheek, rewarding you. You go to turn your body wholly, but Jungkook stops you, holding you steady by the waist. While you still straddle Yoongi, knees on either side of his thigh, he gently prompts you to lift up your bum against him, arching your back, tits in Yoongi’s face. 

“Stay like this,” he whispers into the waterfall of your hair and as you rub your cheeks against his manhood slowly, he hums, pressing a deep kiss onto your scalp. “Hold onto his shoulders.” 

You do as he says. As if Yoongi knows something you don’t, he latches his hands onto the back of your knees, clamping you down on the mattress. 

The first spank causes you to squeeze your eyes shut, pain so acute striking your body like flashes of lightning. And unlike Yoongi, Jungkook doesn’t stop. He keeps spanking you, each hit harder and more painful than the one before and you lose count of how many you’ve taken. You grip Yoongi’s good shoulder with all your might, wrapping your other hand around his neck. 

You like the pain. You like the pain so much that you stay still. And because of that, Jungkook tilts your chin so you can look at him, coming to your side and propping a knee on the mattress. You see amusement and amazement swimming in his eyes when you finally open yours, dazed. He smiles at you, softly and tenderly. And you pucker your lips at him, asking for a kiss. 

Jungkook willingly obliges. Gives you a deep peck full of meaning that you don’t know the language of yet—and it sinks down your body, makes a bed there. The coldness of his lip ring turns you whiny. Jungkook kisses you over and over again, just to hear your sounds. 

Yoongi is red when you glance down at him. He’s at loss for words and there’s a puzzling look to his face that you don’t want to decipher. 

“Five more,” Jungkook whispers, tracing the outline of your abused, sensitive ass. “Can you handle five more? You’ve taken it so well so far.” 

“Yes, please,” you breathe out and the fact you asked for it makes both of the males still. Jungkook sneaks a hand between your legs and circles your hole, gathering your arousal, teasing you, finding you wetter than before. 

Yoongi begins to suck on your nipples. And when Jungkook finishes his punishment faster than you anticipated or even noticed, your bum burning, you could come like this—but you don’t. Jungkook sticks his tongue down your throat, does what Yoongi does on your nipple and you begin to tremble, making a mess on Yoongi’s thigh. 

As if pitying the abuse, Jungkook kneels before you and peppers gentle, wet kisses on the red flecks of your disobedience, making it right, healing it. Careful with his lip ring, careful not to suck on the skin. 

Then, he places a singular kiss on your clit, making you shiver. Stands to his feet. Walks over to his dresser. “Both of you lean back against the headboard. You against his chest. Keep her legs open, hyung.” 

You hiss at the change of positions, your cheeks hurting, even when Yoongi places a pillow underneath your butt. It worries him, your expression of pain and he tries to alleviate it by kissing you. There’s so much difference to the way he does it that it makes you emotional, drags you deeper into the madness of your hypnosis. 

“You enjoyed that?” Yoongi asks, knuckles brushing against the side of your face, as if he truly can’t believe you enjoyed the inflicting of pain. 

And you’d want it again, if your skin wasn’t so sore. 

“I loved it, Yoongi.” 

Shock flares in his eyes and you look away. 

Jungkook crawls upon the bed with a pink toy in his hand. A small egg with a small gap in the top half. You smile at him, excitement surging in you, and he reciprocates it. Lifts your leg to your shoulder and Yoongi holds it in place. 

“Butt hurts?” Jungkook asks, noticing the pillow, and you nod. “Good.” 

You laugh, softly. 

Placing a hand on your mound, covering it entirely, he brushes his thumb across your cunt, checking your arousal, spreading it on your clit. Doesn’t think there’s enough, which you find ridiculous, and he spits on her, making you moan. Turns the toy on. 

“Spit on her again,” you command, grinding your hips, feeling the trail go down to your hole. 

Jungkook smirks at you. “Filthy girl.” 

Bends to your cunt and spits at her again, tongue darting out to lightly keep the liquid love, where he wants it to be. And you mewl, welcoming his tongue on your clit, and you yearn for more, lifting your pelvis even though it hurts, but Jungkook withdraws. Places the toy on it, thumb clicking on the intensity, rising it, rising it high so much that you widen your eyes—

It sucks on your clit. 

You cry out, pleasure seizing you in its grasp and all you can do is close your eyes and feel it. It paralyzes you, takes your breath and—

“Look at me.” 

You can’t. 

“I know it feels good, but I’m not letting you have it until you look at me.” 

He takes the toy away. You grip his tattooed arm, opening your eyes. 

“Please, Jungkook—”

He doesn’t listen to your plea. Lifts your other leg. Doesn’t give it to Yoongi—keeps his hand there, nice and firm. Begins to concentrate on the back of your thigh, leaving behind wet marks of red and purple, tongue sliding on the skin before he sucks on it, keeping his eyes on you as he does it. You grab a hold of his hair. Soft, so silkily soft, short and healthy. You imagine the tiny petals on the weeping willow outside have the same softness. 

You’re spellbound. Jungkook places the toy back on your clit, pleasure flooding you—now more fervent and extreme, with his puffy lips still sucking your skin in tandem. And hearing your moans, Jungkook fires them back at you, setting your body ablaze. 

“That’s it. Keep looking at me,” he husks and Yoongi squeezes your other thigh, kissing your hair, reminding you he’s here with you. But he’s not the one who moans along with you. It’s Jungkook. Your eyes lid, but you try your hardest to keep them open, your feverish body swaying, the nearness of your orgasm at hand. “Yes, like that. I’m gonna make you come for me.” 

Letting go of your thigh, he sinks the two of his fingers inside your heat, gasping along with you. Stuffing you to the brim like he did before, he doesn’t have to fuck you fast to bring you over the edge. He moves the toy from side to side—and it’s the feeling of fullness, the twist of his features as if he was the one pleasured that makes you come all over his hand, the pillow and the bedding. 

It’s like being submerged under the water of the pond and you keep your eyes open the entire time, the endearment on his face and his attentiveness taking care of you, watching over you as he talks you through your orgasm. 

“Don’t hold back for me, yes, take it, baby. Good, so good, I know,” he says it in such undertones that you sob, emotions rushing out along with your release, trickling out of your tear ducts. You feel so safe and so well taken care of, so content that you don’t shy away from your feelings. You let both males be witnesses to it. 

It’s Jungkook first, who reacts. Brows knitted, he wipes your tears away. And it’s him who decides to take a break. 

“Let’s eat lunch.”

Your focus is enveloped around him so tightly that you don’t even know how your boyfriend reacted to your tears. You don’t feel him when he lets go of your leg and stands up to his feet to dress. It’s Jungkook who cleans you and checks the redness of your ass if there are any bruises. 

Yoongi doesn’t wait for you as he goes down the stairs. 

And it’s you who feels defeated now. And when Jungkook looks at you, he knows. 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist / READ part one 

#jungkook x oc #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fluff #btscreatorscorner #kpop smut #jungkook one shot #yoongi smut #yoongi x oc #yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine

[skzdarlings]

verisimilitude ; hyunjin x reader ; one-shot

masterlist.

( READ ON AO3. )

You are a self-identified no-nonsense curmudgeon. Your best friend is an eccentric pretty boy. You accidentally send him an explicit video of yourself. What's the worst that can happen?

pairing: hwang hyunjin/reader content info: romantic comedy. best friends to lovers. curly-haired reader because mood. accidental sexting. accidental voyeurism. sexual tension. resolved sexual tension. very explicit sexual content. not so much dom/sub but hyunjin explicitly prefer control. sexual discovery. very horny leads lol. (word count: 19500 words.)

-

You look like Hyunjin’s lawyer again. 

Your best friend has gravitated to a somewhat more punk persona in recent years.  You say somewhat because you are not sure it runs deeper than aesthetic, though he would probably be forgiven on account of his perfect face.   His good looks combined with his natural charisma lets him get away with most things. 

His vibrant red hair catches the sunlight like a painted flame, a perfect stroke of red against the beige canvas of the art gallery’s exterior.  He is slouching against the wall, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, squinting in the light.  He looks like a rather put upon a vampire given the dark garb and eyeliner. 

Then he turns his head and sees you.  You are wearing one of your usual blazers and modest skirts, your untameable mess of curls twisted into an updo that is fighting (and losing) against the wind.  You try not to feel too preposterous, peeling bits of hair out of your mouth as you approach him. 

He smiles.  Some people think his smiles look a bit smarmy and you suppose they are not wrong, his lips perpetually quirked like a punchline just occurred to him, but you know your best friend well.  Despite the intimidating ring of dark eye-make up, his eyes are alight with a great deal of affection.  If you were prone to sentimentality, you might concede a heart flutter. 

You clear your throat and march ahead.  He saunters up the path to you.  You meet halfway. 

“Hi, pretty girl,” he says. 

He is the only person allowed to call you that. 

“Hello, Hyunjin,” you say.  You lack his playful charm so you do not have a nickname to return.  You are more comfortable around Hyunjin than anyone else on earth, and you are still awkward around him.  “Thank you for the invitation,” you say. “I appreciate you might have otherwise wanted the time to yourself, so I hope I am not imposing by accepting.” 

He laughs.  When all you do is blink at him, stone-faced, he covers his mouth with a delicate touch of his long fingers, still smirking behind them.    

“Sorry, why wouldn’t I want you to say yes?” he asks.  “We always go to the new exhibitions together.”

You tuck back an errant curl only for another to whip across your brow. 

“Well,” you say, tucking that one back too.  “Since I am temporarily living with you, I thought my company might grow wearisome in a way it usually does not.  Familiarity breeding contempt and all that.” 

Though you state this observation with your usual pragmatic detachment, you are very insecure about it.  You gave this risk a great deal of consideration prior to moving in with Hyunjin.  You are only staying in his apartment’s spare bedroom for a few months while your disaster of a townhouse undergoes repairs (the upstairs bathroom flooded again), but you have never lived with Hyunjin before.  You are aware of your short-comings and you were very worried that your best friend was going to tire of you within a week. 

It has been a month now and he has shown no signs of despising your existence, but it is still best to brace oneself for every eventuality.  

He just smiles and puts both hands in his pockets. 

“Are you getting sick of me?” he asks. 

Another ringlet whips across your face. 

“Good grief,” you say, frantically pushing it aside.  “Of course not!  How could anyone ever get sick of you?”  What a preposterous thought.  Hyunjin just has to wink for the universe to re-arrange itself.  People adore him.  He is handsome and funny and charming and talented and intelligent.   You have known him for most of your life and you are still unearthing his many intricate layers.  As if you could ever grow tired of him.   “I think that’s the most foolish thing you’ve ever said,” you say with complete sincerity. 

He laughs some more, tossing his head back so all that red hair flutters behind him.  The wind co-operates with his hair, of course, working in tandem with the sunlight to flatter him. 

“Are you sure?  I’ve said a lot of foolish things,” he says.

You sputter when a curl flies into your mouth.  You push it away. 

“Yes, well,” you say.  “That much is true too.”  

He looks at you for a moment.  You can’t imagine why.  The sunlight is beaming right in your eyes and the wind is beating you to a pulp.  Maybe you look so hideous that he is contemplating a means of escape. 

Then one hand lifts out of his pocket, long fingers reaching for you.  It is very unexpected.  You stare into his face, a stoic mask concealing your confusion.  His eyes do not meet yours, his gaze on a loose curl.  He is gentle in the way he scoops it up and smoothly tucks it behind your ear.  A shiver erupts under the brush of his fingertips, that heart flutter loosing itself when his touch lingers. 

Then he smiles and puts his hand back in his pocket. 

“Sweet?” he asks. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Do you want a sweet?” He whips an open bag of gummies out of his pocket. 

“Oh.”  You look at the bag.  “Um.  No.”

“Are you sure?”  He shakes the bag.  “It’s your favourite.” 

“Oh.”  Your attention went awry with the race of your heart but you do observe the candy is one you enjoy.  “Okay. Thank you.”  You take a few and pop them in your mouth. 

He upturns the bag over his mouth, finishing off the sugar.  You hope your eyes don’t widen at the flick of his tongue.  Oh, it really is cumbersome when your nether region gets an idea about Hyunjin.  You try to ignore the heat down there.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he says, already striding away.  The man is at least 80% per cent leg so it puts him ahead rather quickly. 

You are too refined to scamper-and-scurry, but you might pitter-and-patter to catch up. 

-

You are able to lose yourself in the art exhibition.  You and Hyunjin share a meal afterward, discussing everything at length.  Hyunjin is a little quieter than usual so you apologize for speaking too much.   He is gazing at you, his chin is propped in his hand.  Surprise flickers in his expression when you apologize, but he recovers, waving his hand like it’s no matter. 

You return to his home and separate for the evening.  You to your studies, him to his evening work-out. 

You are in the apartment’s quaint living room when Hyunjin gets back from the gym.  He is an absolute sight, bare-faced, his red hair yanked into a half-ponytail.  There is a subtle, rolling musculature to his arms, proudly displayed in his sleeveless shirt, and he is glistening with sweat from top to bottom.  It should be gross.  You pride yourself on cleanliness. 

But good grief.  He is gorgeous. 

You are sitting cross-legged on the couch, comfortably dressed down in a sweatshirt and pyjama pants.  You peek at him over the top of your book only to find him already staring at you.  He is rubbing the back of his neck with a towel, his arm flexed.  When he catches you looking, his lips pull into a lazy smile. 

You duck behind your book again.  It is a poor shield, or maybe he is a cunning adversary, because your heart keeps racing anyway. 

“Whatcha reading?” he asks.  You can hear his slow approach.  The towel is tossed somewhere. 

“A book,” you say. 

“Funny,” he says.  He is in front of you now.  You have no time to strategize before he plucks the book out of your hand and holds it over his head. 

“Hyunjin!”  You muster all the indignant attitude you can.  “That’s not funny.  We’re not children anymore.  Return my book at once.”

“I want a hug first,” he says, his full lips in a silly pout. 

“Out of the question.”  You hope you do not sound as flustered as you feel.  “You’re disgusting.  Look at the state of you.”

“Please?”  He blinks his long lashes at you.

You stand up and try to look imposing, hands on your hips.  His smile does not diminish.  He waves the book in the air. 

You lunge, diving at the book and failing spectacularly.  He holds it out of reach, laughing, then he tries to wrap you up in a hug.  He smells like sweat and exertion and it makes you think of sex.  This is sufficiently startling enough to cause a fumble.  You spill backwards, a frantic hand thoughtlessly grasping for an anchor.  Your fingers hook in the neck of his shirt which has the predictable outcome of dragging him with you onto the couch. 

His more athletic reflexes kick in, just enough that he drops the book and catches himself with his hands.  He successively suspends his weight above you, which is nice, but you still thump your head on the arm of the couch, which is less nice. 

“Are you okay?” he asks when you hiss and grab your head.  The laughter has left his voice, replaced with genuine concern. 

“No,” you say, petulantly.  “A horrible sweaty man stole my book and beat me up.” 

He laughs, a twinkling sound that enchants you despite everything. 

“Poor baby,” he says.   “That sounds so disgusting.  Will a hug help…?”

“Don’t you dare—hmmf!”  He lowers himself and squishes you.  You can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of you, partially because he swipes his nose on your neck and it tickles, largely because his laughter is infectious.   “Oh,” you say, pushing his face away. “You are a horrible person.”  

He giggles with boyish mirth.  It is at odds with the man he is, all hard planes and sturdy lines, an unfamiliar twinkle in his dark eyes.  You look back at him, at a loss for words.  Even if you were the sort of person to confess attraction, you would surely seem strange for finding his dishevelled appearance so desirable.  

Finally, you push him, diverting your gaze with an eye roll. 

“All right,” you say.  “That’s quite enough now.  There’s a shower at your disposal and I recommend you make use of it sooner than later.  Go on, get.” 

He obliges, but not without a cheeky kiss to your forehead.  It flusters you more than a chaste kiss should. 

He just winks, because of course the charmer is unaffected by such an innocent touch.  Hyunjin is too gushy and romantic to womanize, but he is certainly liberal with his sexual appetite.  You had the displeasure of running into a one-night stand your first weekend here.  Hyunjin left for work and let her sleep, assuming she would show herself out.  She was a pretty chatterbox and she bounded into the kitchen to strike up a very one-sided conversation with you in your bathrobe.

He did apologize for that.  He knows you do not like unexpected visitors at the best of times, never mind first thing in the morning, and certainly never mind ones he knew intimately.   Fortunately, it was the first and last time you made scrambled eggs for his hook-up. 

You are not in the habit of hook-ups, to say the very least, preferring a serving of scrambled eggs for one.  You had one boyfriend a few years ago but he was not the sort of man to tackle you onto the couch in a sweaty, flirtatious tangle.  You would have bopped him on the nose for trying, in fact.  Hyunjin really does get away with everything. 

Your nethers are getting ideas again.  The territory below your belt is usually well-behaved but unfortunately it lacks any sense when it comes to Hyunjin.  More time spent in proximity appears to be worsening its condition. 

You assume a blank face in the hopes of concealing any trace of arousal, watching Hyunjin amble his sweaty way to the bathroom. 

Oh dear.  You are very wound up.  Something will have to be done or you will never sleep tonight. 

You are blessedly granted an opportunity to satisfy your baser urges when Hyunjin emerges fully dressed for an evening out.  Some friends are at a bar down the street and they invited Hyunjin to join them.  Hyunjin tries to cajole you into joining him, promising it’s just a few drinks and teasing that your book won’t go anywhere, but your book is not how you intend to pass the time alone so his encouragement does not tempt you.  

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, shrugging on a leather vest.  His back is to you so you openly admire his form, his arms on display, his long legs, his ringed fingers as they gather his hair to tie in a knot.   He turns around before leaving, giving you one last finger-wiggle wave and a bounce of his eyebrows. 

He looks sinfully good.  You hope you look casual.  Innocently awaiting a quiet evening. 

Fifteen minutes later you are sitting in front of the full-length bedroom mirror, admiring yourself in a white satin babydoll.  Flaws like frizzy curls or unflattering shapes seem insignificant in the soft lighting and lingerie.  Your curls seem curlier, your face lovelier, your body more tempting than ever.

Though the idea of pursuing a real fling is mortifying, you lament the lack of company in an abstract way.  You feel pretty and ready and wound up.  When such a fancy strikes, the best form of satisfaction is found in self-appreciation.

The taboo of filming yourself always triples your arousal.   Even if there is no real audience, you can’t help but feel regarded. 

Eyes closed, phone camera filming, you imagine a certain pair of dark eyes on you.  You make the vaguest attempt to think of something else, peripherally aware that you shouldn’t fantasize about your best friend like this, but the attempt is useless.  It will always be Hyunjin.  Hyunjin with his fiery red hair, his smirks, his expressive brows and dark eyes.  Hyunjin’s hands, his fluid hips, his athleticism.  Hyunjin in black and leather, so contrary to your modest simplicity. Hyunjin sweaty and raw and determined, pinning you under him. 

Hyunjin, the person you know and like and love more than anything. 

You lift the babydoll and twist, filming yourself through the mirror, showing where a thick toy disappears inside of you.  You rock a little, so wet you can hear it, every nerve tingling as you become someone else in your reflection.  With the apartment to yourself, you don’t restrain any noises, especially when you sit back and fuck yourself with the toy.  You stop filming because you need that hand to finish, but you are so close that it only takes a few touches to climax. 

You slump back, satisfied for a while, then a little embarrassed.  You have a quick shower then climb into bed where you can’t help but watch your video.   You imagine a particular someone else watching it and it winds you up all over again.  You are still wet and sensitive, your fingers slipping smoothly into your shorts.  Your put the phone down and think of Hyunjin’s long fingers, his breath on your neck and his lips grazing your skin as he works his lovely hand inside you. 

When you are finished, truly finished, you feel momentarily miserable in your loneliness.  You try to imagine a version of yourself that went with Hyunjin to the bar, but even that fantasy only gets you so far.  Nothing would have happened.  Nothing has ever happened.  

Hyunjin interrupts your wallowing stream of self-pity.  He texts you a rather exasperated-looking selfie, captioning it with, I miss you, I’d rather be at home.  

It makes you smile.  It is probably foolish, but suppressing it is useless so you surrender to the warm glow in your chest. 

You text back a heart.  He replies, you never told me what you were reading.   He must be truly bored if he is texting about your books, but you dutifully reply like there is nothing unusual about the question.   He sends back a smiling emoji and a string of hearts.

You fall asleep after that.  You wake in the morning to a slew of missed text messages, Hyunjin insisting that he is having the worst night of his life because you didn’t come with him.  This is nonsense, of course, but he attacks you with an arsenal of teary-eyed emojis so you send an obligatory heart his way.  You are too sleepy to formulate a rejoinder, much less type one, so it will have to suffice. 

You click through your phone to wake up, still foggy after exhausting all notifications.  You open your photo album and find your video from last night.  You click on it just as a message alert swings down.  You instinctively swipe it away, but your clumsy finger opens the messenger.  You click around a little haphazardly, finger flying everywhere. 

After a bit of sleepy swiping, you close everything then check the message.  The text you just swiped was from Hyunjin, some goofy good morning remark with a squinty-eyed selfie under it.  Hyunjin does his make-up so severely these days so you like his softer, bare-faced selfies, especially because you know he sends them to no one else.  He will post elaborate photos all over his social media, but the simple stuff is for you. 

But you have no time to enjoy the selfie, because you are distracted by your own unwitting reply. 

Oh no.

You snap up so quickly that it nearly causes whiplash.  You are wide awake now, staring at the paused video of you in a white satin babydoll. 

You slap a hand over your mouth.  For a long moment, all you can do is stare.  Your head feels fuzzy, a radiating aura of fantastical insanity clouding your periphery.  Then you realize it is actually just your hair, because you fell asleep so suddenly and didn’t put on your bonnet. 

You look in the mirror.  You look like someone electrocuted you.  Fitting, because that’s what you feel like. 

Your phone buzzes.  In your silent but sublime mania, you dropped your phone facedown on the blanket.  You are tempted to hurl the demonic device across the room but that will solve nothing.  

You pick up the phone.  This is probably what execution feels like. 

Hyunjin, perpetually artistic in every capacity, even the literary, summarizes the exchange with one poetic text:

?!     

You fling yourself facedown on the bed and kick your legs like a petulant child.  The sky does not open, you are not struck by lightning, and the earth does not gobble you up, so you roll over and shakily type a reply. 

That was an accident, you write.  Surprisingly, once you start typing, it is hard to stop.  You continue:

Oh my good gracious, Hyunjin. 

Hyunjin, I am so sorry.  I cannot apologize to you enough. 

I assure you that was a complete accident.

I would never accost you so unsuspectingly with unprovoked licentious content.

An ellipses appears in the corner, Hyunjin typing a reply.  It feels like your stomach has folded in on itself.  You lay there with your hand cupped over it, willing yourself to explode.  But no, it would be very rude to explode in Hyunjin’s spare bedroom.  Bad enough you have attacked him with your inappropriate spank fodder, it would be uncouth to make him clean your spattered guts off the wall. 

Hyunjin finally replies, that makes sense… you aren’t the unprovoked licentious content type usually…

I assure you I am not, you reply.  I keep these videos to myself.  I would never intentionally spring them on you.

There’s more than one?? he replies, and you are mortified all over again.  Maybe you should just explode after all.

I assure you I will keep those where they are, you reply.  I cannot apologize enough.  If you want me to leave, I will pack my things immediately.  You are not one for extreme emotion, but you feel an unfamiliar stabbing in your eyes.  You realize with horror that it is the threat of tears as you imagine Hyunjin banishing you from his life forever.  Other people come and go but there is only one Hyunjin.  He is irreplaceable in your esteem, even if he dresses like a goth Las Vegas showgirl.

His replies come flying in, one after the other:

Whoa whoa

it’s okay

calm down

pretty girl hey hey hey

I don’t want you going anywhere

You take a breath and calm yourself.  You do Hyunjin a great disservice by thinking he would destroy your friendship over an accident.  You blame your embarrassment for your poor rationality. 

I should be apologizing to you, he says.  He continues swiftly: 

I kinda clicked on it…? 

I didn’t know what it was.  But I stopped once I did

I feel really bad

See baby now we’re both embarrassed idiots <3     

You can’t help but laugh, just a little, the entire mishap suddenly comically preposterous.  You smile fondly at your phone.  The unexpected address of baby gives you a heart flutter, but then the rest of it makes you pause.  A different embarrassment creeps into the corner of your brain, something gross and mean that interprets his words ungenerously.  Stopping would be the gentlemanly thing to do, so you should commend his restraint.   Still, some half-insane part of you is offended that the only emotion it invoked in him was “bad”. 

It made him feel bad.  Goodness.  Talk about an ego blow. 

The least you can do is soothe his conscience.  You have already put your foot in your mouth, not to mention toys in unspeakable places, so you figure another penetrative misstep cannot hurt the situation.   You write, I don’t mind you watching it.  I just feel horrific for sending it in the first place.  I really am sorry.

The ellipses appears.  Then disappears.  Then appears.  Then disappears.  Then appears.  Then disappears. 

You start to wonder if you should check on him.  He is just one room over, after all.   But you would rather explode once and for all than face him right now. 

The buzzer goes off in the main room, signalling a visitor outside. Hyunjin finally texts, one sec.  Then you hear him clamouring around in the next room.  Hyunjin is very graceful when he deigns to apply himself but other times he has the equilibrium of an overgrown gazelle.  All those limbs clatter around his bedroom and you think he knocks a lamp over. 

It sounds like the visitor is just a package delivery.  You leave him to his devices.  In the face of chaos, routine is a reliable companion.  You get up to dress yourself for the day.  Your hair is trying to force its way into a new dimension so it should take a while to fix.  

Everything will be fine.

-

Everything is fine until it is not.   Well, Hyunjin’s complexion is red as his hair when you meet face-to-face, but he recovers with an expected degree of poise and equanimity.  Despite your own internal chaos, you feign a similar indifference. 

Verisimilitude, you tell yourself.   Pretend everything is fine and everything will be fine. 

You think there might be an undercurrent of awkwardness to your interactions, but your social ineptitude makes it difficult to discern.  Your usual frankness fails as deliberately enquiring after Hyunjin’s opinion would consequently highlight the very issue you are striving to ignore.  Verisimilitude means nothing if you look him in the eye and ask if your pussy has made the friendship awkward.   

After a few days of polite camaraderie, you opt to solve your problems by running away.  You inform Hyunjin you will be occupied with a research project and thus mostly absent for the duration of its completion.   By the time you emerge from the depths of the university library, hopefully this entire embarrassing situation will be forgotten.    

You throw yourself into your academic distraction.   A truly comprehensive research project encompasses obstacles, minute quandaries you inevitably resolve, but this time it feels like there are no answers to be found.  No resolutions, no conclusions. 

Your anxiety is ultimately exacerbated.  Even your dreams suffer.  You wake multiple nights in a row from nightmares caused by stress.  Your usual pragmatic thoughtfulness abandons you in the dark, every shadow just another terror waiting to unleash itself. 

You wake from yet another nightmare.  Your heart is palpitating and you are too hot under your covers.  You kick to freedom and swing out of bed, whipping your silk bonnet onto the floor in a rare display of aggression.  You are frustrated with your seemingly inescapable burdens.  You want to pick up your phone and text Hyunjin despite the late hour, but that is the one thing you vehemently cannot do right now. 

You sigh and leave bed.  It is the middle of the night so you cannot start the day, but maybe a glass of water will refresh you. 

It seems your friend had the same idea.  Hyunjin is puttering around the kitchen when you stumble into the soft golden lamplight.   

“Hey,” he says, not unfriendly but maybe a little uncertain. 

“Hello,” you duly reply.

You are definitely awake now.  Hyunjin is standing there wearing a pair of black boxers and a t-shirt.  His red hair is loose around his bare face, unkempt but somehow still charming.  He is so effortlessly beautiful.  You feel like a mongrel in your baggy shirt and panties, your hair down like a messy lion mane. 

You try not to stare at him, meeting his gaze politely only to find him blinking quite wildly, a stuttering breath spilling over his full lips.  He clamps his mouth shut and returns your stare, smiling a thin smile that does not reach his eyes. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

It is a thoughtless query, no doubt.  The sort of inane question one poses because decorum dictates it is appropriate chatter.  Are you okay.  Yes, how are you. 

But you are looking at the beautiful and completely unattainable man you are so irrevocably in love with, and you feel horrible and disgusting, and you sent an embarrassing video that somehow humiliated him even more than you, and even your reliable books and academic joys are lacking these days. 

You can count on one hand the number of times you have cried over the years.  It is not something that comes easily to you.  You are not made of stone, despite the occasional lambaste at your expense, but your emotions seldom manifest according to the unspoken rules of human conduct.  But right now your eyes strain and your throat feels rough.  You sniff and shake your head. 

“No,” you say.  “I’m not okay.”  

A single tear falls.  From you, that is practically a waterfall. 

Hyunjin snaps out of whatever trance had him so enthralled.  You cannot see him clearly through your watery eyes, but you feel his hands as they wrap around your arms.  Hyunjin is an artist, those long fingers deft and nimble and steady.  You shiver when he brushes your hair off your neck, when he cups your face in his hand and strokes your cheek tenderly. 

“Hey, hey, pretty girl,” he says.  “What’s this?  What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say automatically.  You hate being a burden.  Feelings belong in bottles, not streaming down faces in salty rivulets in the middle of the night when everyone is in their underwear.  

But it is too late to spare your dignity.  Hyunjin is wiping away your tears and looking at you with abject concern, his expressive dark brows furrowed and his eyes so intensely locked on yours.  You heave a sigh. 

“A lot of things,” you admit.  “I’m sorry, Hyunjin.  It’s just stress.  My research.  You know how it is.” 

He does not look satisfied, all that concern still scrawled across his face.  He swipes his thumb across your cheek again.  Then he is pulling you towards his chest, arms open for an embrace that makes no demands but simply offers.  You are usually stiff and awkward when people hug you, but Hyunjin is not just people.  You fall into his arms and all but collapse there. 

Your next sigh is filled with relief, your head on his shoulder and your hands curled up on his chest.   He runs his palm down your hair, soothingly, his other arm secure around you. 

You do not know how long you stand there.  Long enough he stops catching his pinky on errant curls.  Soon he is smoothly running his fingers down your hair, a gentle rhythm that lulls you to drowsiness even while standing on your feet.        

“Come on,” Hyunjin says when he sees your drooping eyelids. 

You blink to attention, looking at him questioningly.   He gives you a quick smile then takes your hand.  To your surprise, he leads you to his bedroom.  The lights are off but the blinds are open and an ocean of blue moonlight floods the room.  It is bright enough you can make your way around his bed without stubbing any toes. 

While he folds back the bedcovers, you stop at his desk, brow crinkling at the scraps littering his work space.  His canvas depicts something floral, half-painted and oversaturated but clearly a bundle of flowers.  The rough sketches scribbled in the margins of his drafts do not depict flowers.  They are little portraits, some doodled distractedly with wiggly lines, and others more precisely drawn, painstakingly, almost lovingly.

That’s me, you think, looking at the woman who overwhelms his art.  It must be.  The unmistakable cascade of curls makes it irrefutable.  But the likeness is far too flattering to bear your full resemblance.  This girl is extremely pretty, even if she does have your quirky, lopsided smile.  Either Hyunjin has met your better looking doppelganger, or… this is simply how he sees you. 

“This is your room,” you say instead of that drawing is me.  It would be embarrassing if he denied it.  It would be even more embarrassing if he confirmed it. 

“Ha-ha, yes,” Hyunjin says, none-the-wiser.  He is arranging pillows for you.  By the time he looks your way, you are facing the bed.  He beckons you over.  “Come on,” he says.  “Like the old days.  It’ll make everything better.  I promise.” 

Your heart is working overtime in its rushing and pounding.  You shuffle to the bed, smiling your quirky smile then feeling even more feverish, thinking about him having your smile memorized.   Oh dear, why is that so deeply embarrassing?  It should be a compliment.  Maybe it is because no one else ever looks at you that closely, at least not with such affection.  

You are not good with attention.  You were bullied for your peculiarities quite badly in childhood.  Invisibility became something you sought, because the alternative was always much worse.  Attention meant derision.  If someone was paying attention to your half-smiles or awkward reactions, it was for the express purpose of mocking them. 

When you were ten years old, Hyunjin and his family moved in next door.  Those ramshackle houses, long weathered and much loved, leaned towards each other as if magnetized.  At the closet joining, the sill of your bedroom window touched his.  

An elderly widow previous owned his house. She had a puppy who would scamper up to that window.  You were quite devastated to learn a boy would be replacing the dog.  Boys and dogs were both slobbery creatures, but at least puppies could fetch. 

You were resolved to ignore your new neighbours.  You spared a fleeting glance at the moving van then occupied yourself with a book.  

A few hours later, your peace was forever disturbed.  A toy car flew in your window and landed at your feet.  You popped your curly head over the sill to face a dark-haired, dimple-cheeked boy. 

“Meet me downstairs,” he said.  He did not wait for an answer, dashing away before you could even blink at him.

You picked up the toy car and marched downstairs, determined to return it and explain to this boy, in no uncertain terms, that he was not allowed to throw things in your window, that he could have hit your head or one of your dolls, and unless he was prepared to offer financial compensation he should keep his cars to himself. 

The second your feet touched the lawn, he was there.  He grabbed your hand and dragged you off, already prattling about where he came from and where he was starting school and his favourite food and – everything.  You did not speak for a whole ten minutes. 

“My name is Hyunjin,” he finally said, after regaling you with the detailed events of his decade-long life.  “What’s yours?” 

You told him.  You also returned his toy car but you could no longer remember the script for your lecture.  He smiled at you, took your hand, and raced off again, towing you behind him.  

Hyunjin was very loved, even as a child.  It never occurred to him that someone might not like him.  He made friends so effortlessly.  His confidence was easy, his gravitas electrifying even at that age. 

His congeniality was infectious and you found yourself reciprocating his enthusiasm.  He was a natural showman and a creative visionary even at that age, coming up with detailed games of pretend with very involved storylines.  You ran amok in your yards, dressed in your costumes, and at night you giggled at your windows, close enough that if you stretched out every finger you could clasp hands.   

Climbing across that meager gap was an obvious inevitability.  When you were teenagers, your parents expressly forbade spending the night unsupervised.  The boy-girl dynamic concerned them despite your ardent protestations that it was not like that.  It just meant you got good at sneaking around. 

You sit on his bed now, remembering the many nights you curled up together just like this.  You would talk about utter nonsense and you would talk about your deepest thoughts, at least until the sound of your father’s footsteps sent Hyunjin hurtling back towards the window. 

There are no interruptions now.  You lay down beside him.  You squeak when he tugs you across the bed, pulling you closer to him.  You find yourself clinging to him, like you are suspended in that blue ocean of moonlight and he is your only life preserver.  He does not seem to mind, wrapping his arm around you, fingers tracing circles down your spine.  

“Your research will be fine,” he says.  “I wish I could help with those things, but I’m not smart like you are.  You’ll figure it out, okay, baby?”

You hope he does not notice how the pet name makes you shiver.  It really is quite unfair.  How is a person meant to maintain verisimilitude if Hwang Hyunjin is calling them baby so nonchalantly?

The flattery brings discomfort so you deflect.  “I’m not that smart,” you say.  “I’m just pathetic enough to waste my life in a stack of books.” 

You concede the self-deprecation is fishing for reassurance.  You burrow yourself deeper at his side.

“Hey,” he says sharply, tugging on a lock of hair so you look up at him.  He tsks and shakes his head, wisps of red hair appearing dark in the moonlight and falling into his face as he gazes at you.  “Don’t talk about my girl like that,” he says with another playful tug.  “You know what happens when people do that.” 

You find yourself smiling despite yourself.  Because, yes, Hyunjin has often defended you.  One time, when you were about fifteen, you were at his house with him and his school friends.  You were all in the yard and you excused yourself to wash your hands.  You returned just in time to see Hyunjin backhand one of the boys.  The boy stumbled then swung back.  Soon everyone was trying to pull the pair of them apart while they bit and kicked and swung at each other. 

When everyone went home, you and Hyunjin sat on his bed.  You were cleaning a nasty cut on his cheek, where the other boy’s ring broke skin. 

“Stop that now,” you said, because he was dramatically hissing and cringing while you rubbed ointment in his wound.  “You brought this on yourself,” you scolded him.  “I hope you learned your lesson.  There is absolutely no argument worth escalating to that degree of violence, you understand?”

“There is,” he said, pouting. 

“No.”  You pinched his arm and he yelped.  “There isn’t.” 

“This time there was,” he said.  Your mouth opened with a ready retort, but he interrupted, “It was you.” 

There was a moment of silence, your hand still on his cheek.  He was pouting into the distance and avoiding your eyes. 

“What was me?” you asked after a beat. 

“He called you strange,” Hyunjin said.  “And other things. I told him to stop and he didn’t.  So I made him stop.” 

It honestly never occurred to you that someone might stand up for you.  You hardly even defended yourself, long since resigned to the reality that some people were just not nice.   You were stunned into silence at your friend’s confession.  Only when he looked at you, a tentative sideways glance, did you clear your throat and nod. 

“Well,” you said.  “I am strange.  If you’re going to get into a fight, then next time make it about something worthwhile.” 

He smiled.  You smiled back.

You are quite certain you fell in love that day.  Curling up in his arms felt different after that.  You felt flustered and feverish, though you hid it very well.   You could not bear the thought of losing his friendship and, besides, it was such a cliché. You at your nicest still looked like the before shot of every romance movie makeover and he got stopped by model scouts while lounging in his sweatpants.  Cliché indeed.  That story never ended well.  You could not abide by it.  It was better to repress and deny those feelings. 

You are laying on his chest now, listening to his heartbeat, yours skipping erratically in your chest.  You think your affection has only grown more over the years, despite your effort to quell the brunt of it.  Those efforts seem ridiculous in the calming midnight blue, this comfortable little haven with no reality beyond the perimeter of the bed.  Your thigh drifts over his naturally, your bodies angled to each other.  He continues stroking your back. 

“Please don’t say those things again,” he says, his voice gentler in the calming quiet. 

“Sorry,” you grumble. 

“So many people admire you,” he continues.  “I… I do.  I know I’m a dumbass and my opinion isn’t worth much… but I think you’re the best.  You know that, right?” 

“Yes,” you say in a weak voice, feeling watery again.  You sniff.  “And you’re not a dumbass.  Your opinion means a lot.” 

His hand slides up and dives under all that hair, then he cups the nape of your neck.  You hide your face in his shoulder when he pulls you even closer.  Your palm is over his heart.  You feel the racing thrum. 

“Were you having nightmares?” he asks, because he knows you too well. 

“Yes,” you admit.  “The usual stress dreams.”   

“Poor baby,” he says, massaging your neck.  “I wish there was something I could do.” 

Keep touching me like that, you almost say, your frankness compelling you to blurt that vulnerable truth.  That his touch feels so good it makes you forget all your insecurities and grievances.  You will think clearly when he lets go, but right now his deft massage loosens the tension in your neck and shoulders.  You feel yourself go lax against him, limbs like jelly, and warmth spreading from somewhere low and deep within you. 

Your hand leaves his chest.  Dreamy and absent-mindedly, you reach to touch him like he is touching you. 

All you do is tuck some hair behind his ear, then trail your fingers ever so lightly down the side of his neck.  It is barely a caress. 

Despite the lightness of the touch, you feel his reaction.  Quick and unquestionable, his breath catches like he is surprised and his whole body jerks toward you.  Your leg is still thrown over his middle.  You can feel how fast he gets hard.

Men just do that, you think, even while remembering your ex-boyfriend did not react that way, not that fast, and not to that kind of touch.  You try to reason with yourself regardless, coming up with a million biological reasons why your best friend is getting turned on.  It has absolutely nothing to do with you wrapping around him in bed wearing nothing but a t-shirt and panties and tickling sensitive places on his neck. 

No.  It must be something else. 

Feeling awkward, you lift your head to deflect.  You force a smile and a weak laugh. 

“You cannot judge me in the morning,” you say.  “I am going to look awful.  My hair is going to be standing up in ten different directions.  You must promise me right now you will be gentlemanly and not deride me for the untameable monstrosity that latches onto my head overnight.  Do you promise?” 

He replies in a most ungentlemanly manner. 

He kisses you. 

His hand still cups your nape.  He pulls you close.  His lips are so full and his mouth so warm.  You must seem limp in comparison, so shocked that you just lay there, mouth and eyes wide open.  It is considerably more difficult to convince yourself this is not what it seems, that it has nothing to do with you.  Unless he is in immediate need of CPR.  Perhaps he is seeking resuscitation because he is feeling lightheaded. 

That is ridiculous.  It is you who is light-headed, eyes closing as you succumb to the dizzying dark.  He takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, opening his mouth against yours. 

For all that his kiss is very thorough, it is not overly demanding.  He coaxes rather than takes, all slow seduction as his lips take yours, as he sucks your bottom lip then licks at your open mouth.  He swallows down your gasp. 

It feels like his hands are everywhere.  In your hair one moment then around your waist the next.  You think you are floating but then you are being pressed into the pillows.  When you open your eyes, he is half on top of you, propping himself up on one arm while his other hand tilts your face up. 

A stuttering thought dances on your lips, your eyes wide and breath short.   Is this real?  This cannot be real.  Can it? 

That bemused thought, tangled in your breath, dissolves into a surprised whine – a pretty, mewling sound that you did not know was inside you.  You have never made that noise, not once, not even alone. 

Hyunjin draws it out of you, gracefully manoeuvring himself, his thigh pressed between yours.  He nudges your legs apart, somehow spreads your thighs with a gentle push of his hips.  Your shirt rides up over your belly and you feel so hot and flushed, realizing you are barely clothed.  Somehow, before now, it did not truly occur to you.  It was a mere observation as you fumbled through your various anxieties. 

Now it is all you can think about it, how vulnerable you are, how little there is between you.  You gather fistfuls of his t-shirt when he presses against you, when he keeps your thighs open with his own and brings your bodies together.  You make a surprised sound, embarrassed because you are so wet and so hot where he is so hard and touching you.  A million nerves come to life under his weight, sending sparks shooting to every extremity.  It is a lot.  It is so much.  Too much?    

“Hyunjin,” you rasp, clutching his shirt so tightly that your hands are shaking.  “Wait.” 

He stops immediately, holding himself above you. 

He is out of breath, his chest moving as quickly as yours.  His hair is as dishevelled for once, though it makes him look ruggedly sexy.  There is already a sheen of perspiration on his hairline.  His heart is thundering where you touch his chest. 

“Okay?” he asks, breathlessly.

You nod, taking a few deep breaths before your voice is under control.  “I just… overwhelmed… I think…”   

It all happened so fast.  One moment you were thinking about how he would never want you that way, and then suddenly he was kissing you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. 

Hyunjin is something of a rakish libertine, but his partners are always so enthusiastic and friendly, all his pursuits fully consensual even in their brevity.  He would never use and discard someone.  He would certainly never use you.  But your heart is brimming with emotions and this is causing them to bubble and boil over.  You cannot, under any circumstances, be physical with him and just move on.  You do not work like that. 

You have written papers, won awards for your ability to string sentences together.  You cannot find two words to put together right now.  Nothing to explain why you have to stop, how you do not want to stop, how desperately you love him, why you want him.  Why is it so hard to say?  Is it hard for everyone or is this another peculiarity of yours?  It is always so hard to tell. 

You close your eyes and catch your breath.  He gives you space, laying down beside you while catching his own breath.  He runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it back. 

You look at each other at the same time. 

“I still want to sleep here,” you say.  You hope the words are enough.  You are not upset.  You still want his company. 

He nods.  “Of course,” he says, his voice rough in a way you have never heard before.  It sends an electric shock through your body, igniting between your legs.  You push your shirt down when his gaze wanders there and he swallows, hard.   He lays flat on his back and closes his eyes, his lips moving like he is murmuring to himself.  You think he might be counting. 

You lay back as well, looking at his handsome profile then up at the ceiling.  You are not sure that counting will slow the race of your heart or the muddled mess of your mind.   You try anyway, backwards from one-hundred. 

You are asleep before fifty.

-

You wake to a predictable mess of hair.  You yawn and stretch and scratch your head. 

Then you remember why your hair is a mess.  Why your bonnet is on the floor in a different room.  That you are in Hyunjin’s bed and last night—

You look at his side of the bed.  The shape of his body indents the sheets and the space is still warm.  He must have just left.  Your heart is already pounding like it wants to leap out of your chest.  It does not feel like the healthiest way to the start the day. 

You are not sure if you are giddy or terrified.  How do other people cope with the sheer inundation of sensation that is wrought by desire for another person?  How are you expected to carry it inside of you, all day every day, with absolutely no reprieve?  How on earth are you expected to walk into the next room and start a conversation with a man who had his tongue in your mouth last night, especially when that man holds a lifetime of friendship in his hands? 

At least the video you sent was an honest accident.  Verisimilitude will do you no good here.  There will be no pretending it did not transpire. 

You should have just exploded when you had the chance. 

You slide out of bed and cross the room.  You poke your head out the door.  The bathroom door is closed and you can hear the shower running.  You take the opportunity to scurry across the apartment, back to your temporary room where you close the door then slide down it. 

You turn yourself into a boneless lump on the floor.  Then you huff and stand.   

Something will need to be done.  Conversations will need to be had.  That is simply the rub of it.  If he clarifies it was all a physical reaction, you will politely inform him that such a dynamic will be impossible to pursue.   If he claims it was because he likes you the way you like him –

It doesn’t matter.  That will not happen.  You convince yourself of this, running several scripts through your head as you get yourself dressed for the day.  You have a conversation with your reflection in the mirror, making some very good points to the abstract Hyunjin of your imagination.  He is very compliant.  If only real people could stick to your pre-determined scripts the way their imaginary counterparts do. 

You stand in front of the mirror, assessing your appearance one last time.  Your hair is neat as possible, the more unruly ringlets pinned back.  You are wearing a modest sweater and a long skirt.  You slip into your shoes and finally leave your room.  You hope Hyunjin is still home.  You want to talk to him while the script is fresh in your mind and your appearance is composed. 

But then you see Hyunjin, making his morning coffee, also dressed for the day.  He is wearing all black, shirt and suit jacket and trousers and boots, with a sparkling slash of a silver necklace.  His make-up is breath-taking, severe but beautiful.  It leaves you slack-jawed.  He looks sleek and sexy, but still this side of rebellious with his vibrant red hair and dark make-up. 

You cannot help but stare, thoroughly looking him over before you blurt, “Wow. Why do you look so good today?”

A surprised little laugh bursts out of him, almost like a yelp

“I’m taking some photos today.”  His gaze is very intense.  Or maybe it is the make-up.  It makes your heart palpitate regardless, dark eyes fixed so resolutely on you as he smiles and says, “Thank you.  You look lovely, pretty girl.”

“Nonsense,” you say quickly.  “I look no different than usual.”

“You always look lovely,” he says without any hesitation. 

“Be quiet,” you reply.  He is already preposterously off-script. 

It makes him laugh again.  He covers his mouth politely, shaking his head as he pours his coffee.   He offers you some but you decline.  You want to speak your piece and be done with this awkward situation once and for all. 

Hyunjin takes a sip of his coffee, looking at you over the rim of the cup. 

This should be easy.  You have the words prepared; all you have to do is say them.

“I have to go,” you say instead, because your good sense flitters into oblivion and takes your words with it. 

Hyunjin chokes on his coffee, sputtering while you dash to the door.  Your purse is sitting on the shoe rack so you snatch it.  Your heart is racing like a prey animal, your predator a red-headed pretty boy wiping coffee off his chin as he stumbles after you.   He says your name but you ignore him, fumbling around for your keys. 

“I’ll be back after dinner,” you say.  “Lots of research.  Reading.  You know how it is.  I might lose track of time.  We’ll talk later, yes?  Yes.  Okay.  Goodbye.” 

He reaches you when you open the door.  You can see he wants to talk.  You know you should talk.  No good ever comes from prolonging the inevitable.  But you suddenly cannot face him. 

You know you are being cowardly.  You know it is unkind because he might want answers too.  But you are not good and open like him.   You are shut off and shut down and shutting doors. 

You stand in the hallway, the closed door between you.  Your heart is still pounding.  You take a deep breath then turn to leave.  You are halfway down the corridor when you realize you need your work bag.  Your purse has basic necessities but no study tools. 

You stomp your foot, frustrated with yourself and this stupid emotional tempest.  If only you were as cold-hearted as people said.  But you feel everything with so much burning intensity that you fear it will burn you down to cinders. 

You pace in the hallway for a few minutes.  It accomplishes nothing but stalling for time, because you cannot go anywhere without your bag.  You don’t even have your parking pass or library card.  With a resigned sigh, you glumly unlock the door and step back into the apartment. 

Fate has opted to spare you a chagrined return. Hyunjin is in his bedroom and does not hear you come in. 

You hurry to your room.  If you grab your bag and bolt, he might not even notice you returned at all. 

Unfortunately, you are a disaster. 

You were so frustrated yesterday, overstimulated and erupting at the slightest provocation.  Then your bag strap had the audacity to catch on the doorknob, sending papers flying.  In mature retaliation, you dumped all the contents of your bag on the floor.  It was a mildly satisfying expulsion of frustration at the time.  Now you want to shriek because it will take a few good minutes to organize and pack everything again. 

You lean your door closed, leaving it cracked just a sliver.  You plan another mental script, despite what little good it did last time, explaining to imaginary Hyunjin that you have deadlines and, yes, it is inconvenient, and, oh, maybe we should order take-out for dinner, yes, because everything is normal between us and no one needs to grapple with the onward progression of time and the subsequent shifting relationship dynamics therein—

You hear a creak.  You pause, kneeling by the door, holding a stack of papers.  You peer through the sliver to see Hyunjin, sighing to himself as he ambles across the room and plops down on the couch.  He leans forward, elbows on his knees, scrolling on his phone. 

You find yourself once more arrested by the sight of him.  He looks so beautiful but also starkly masculine, sophisticated but dangerous.  A gentleman and a bad boy and every other dreamy amalgamation of boy crushes. 

He tucks some hair behind his ear and you feel hot, remembering how you touched him just the same, remembering the reaction it garnered. 

You fantasize about a braver version of yourself, someone brash and confident enough to approach him.  He would look up at you with those smoky eyes, curious but wanting. You would touch him, that same simple touch, and he would rear up and kiss you with abandon once more.  You would not even need a conversation because action would speak for itself. 

Instead you are peering through cracks in doors, separated thanks to your own cowardice.

He touches his fingers to his chin.  Whatever is on his phone is causing a great deal of deliberation.  He turns off his screen and lays his phone facedown.  His contemplation looks almost painful. 

You want to comfort him because he is evidently perturbed by something.  But the longer you wait, the more awkward it will be to reveal yourself.

He heaves a great sigh, doubling over, his face in his hands.  He shakes his head.  He looks truly forlorn, so you finally lay the papers down and try to think of something to say.  You watch as he leans back, as he picks up his phone again.  He stares down at the screen. 

You are still psyching yourself up, preparing yet another useless script. 

Then he turns up the volume.  

You have rewatched the video you sent him more than once, assessing the details to torture yourself.  Maybe, also, secretly, sometimes… imagining him watching it.  Then shaking your head and turning it off, because he said himself it made him feel bad and nothing else.  So that was impossible. 

So why is he watching it now?

Because he is.  Unmistakably.  You know the sound of your own voice.  You know the sounds in that video.  You sit there, wide-eyed, staring at him as he stares at you – the you in the video, the you in white satin, the you moaning and touching yourself, fucking yourself while you thought of him. 

He puts the phone on his knee, not moving his eyes from the screen as he peels off his jacket and chucks it aside.  You can only blink, stupefied.  This does not feel real, just like that kiss.  Except that kiss was real, this is real, and you are watching Hyunjin as he slouches back and parts his knees and cups his hand between his legs.  He touches himself with those long fingers, fingers you imagined while touching yourself in the very video that has him captivated. 

He picks up the phone to rewind, all while undoing his pants then reaching inside. 

You realize he is about to get his dick out, right here, right in front of you, completely unwittingly, and that snaps you back to reality.  Far too quickly, because you make a surprised noise.

He freezes and looks up, first to the front door, then to your bedroom door.   You make eye contact very briefly. 

Then you slam the door shut. 

-

You do the only logical thing.

You do not go to the library.  Hyunjin leaves for his photography session and you pace your bedroom about a dozen times, then you sit down and write.  You make a chronological notation of every emotional turning point in your friendship.  You chart the data and sketch a few rough diagrams.  You arrange all the appropriate paperwork and laminate a few important spreadsheets.  Then you clip them all in a binder and pick up your phone and think of how to succinctly summarize three hours worth of deliberation.   

The facts fall thusly:

You accidentally sent your best friend a sexually explicit video of yourself. 

You granted him permission to watch it.

He watched it. 

You caught him in a compromising position with it.

You made a spreadsheet. 

Based on your calculations, the probability of Hyunjin returning your feelings seems fairly substantial.  But you are not sure how to articulate any verdict based on the facts presented.  Your spreadsheets contain data, not a resolution. 

Hyunjin is a romantic and soulful creature.  You wooed your last boyfriend with a portfolio but he was nothing like Hyunjin.   That courtship was an amicable affair and little more.  The break-up was cordial and tearless.  You shook hands then walked in opposite directions. 

A memory comes to mind. 

You and Hyunjin.  Starting university together.  Back when the world first offered itself to your young adult selves.

One day he skipped class and you went to check on him, only to find him curled up in bed in his baggiest sweatshirt, sniffling away.  He was blonde then, a burst of starlight in every room he occupied.  It was so strange and so wrong seeing him so grey and dejected.   

He laid his head in your lap and let you pet his hair.  It took some cajoling to get the story out of him.  His secondary major was dance studies and he spent months preparing a showcase.  Apparently his instructor did not offer him the same thorough critiques he gave other students.  You tried to say that was a good thing, but he insisted it was not. 

“He doesn’t think I’m worth improving,” he said.   “He told me I’ll get by because of my looks.  That’s the only thing I have.  No one really likes me or thinks I’m worth anything.” 

“I know it’s hard because you are a natural drama queen, but don’t be dramatic, Hyunjin,” you said.  “Plenty of people like you just fine.  They adore you, in fact.  And you are very talented.  It is not your fault if this one person cannot see past appearances.”

“It’s not just one person,” he said.  He sat up to wipe his tears.    

You sat awkwardly beside him, hands twitching with the desire to do something helpful but at a complete loss.  You never intentionally sought comfort, keeping your feelings to yourself, so you were bad at giving it. 

You put a hand on his shaking shoulder.  “Hyunjin,” you said, imploringly. 

“No,” he said, miserable, his face all scrunched up.  “Everyone leaves me when I’m not what they want, and I’m never what they want, because I’m just a worthless face and nothing else.” 

It was very strange to hear him express such a sentiment.  Hyunjin was always surrounded by doting crowds.  But you supposed he had his share of heartbreak as a consequence of knowing so many people.   He gave away his heart so easily and it was sometimes returned in pieces.  It did not stop him from trying again, which you always commended.  You wished you knew how to express that. 

“We’re friends, are we not?” you finally asked.  “I care for you very dearly.”   

“You do?” he asked.  Even his voice sounded wet.  You grabbed a tissue and shoved it at him. 

“Of course I do,” you said.  “Though statistically no one can be truly unique in every capacity, and friendships and relationships are often founded by chance and choice, I nonetheless consider your amalgamation of parts to be quite magnificent, and I find your character irreplaceable.  You are, indeed, very handsome, but also witty and playful, dramatic to your detriment but nonetheless entertaining, creative and soulful, and you have a defensive streak and natural bite, but a fragile heart beneath that, and I rather admire that.  I am afraid I will like you forever, regardless of our proximity or friendship status.  Such is the nature of affection.  Why are you still crying?”

You were immensely confused when your consolation generated more tears, but you accepted your best friend was an emotional riddle.  

Hyunjin has many layers.  You have always known this.  You told him as much.  You have done him a terrible disservice by assuming the worst, that he would be shallow in regards to you.  He has always exhibited a fondness for your own depths. 

It is more difficult to accept him finding your surface just as attractive.   It seems conclusive, though.  There is no shortage of sexual content in the world.  He could have watched anything.   So it is safe to say, touching his dick while watching you fuck yourself might have been a demonstration of a certain level of attraction.  Possibly. 

You sit on your bed, staring at your phone.  You jump when it buzzes with a text alert.  You open it, your heart skipping beats when you see it is from Hyunjin. 

I’m sorry for this morning, he writes.  

I can stay at Felix’s place until you’re comfortable okay..  Please just tell me

i deleted the video now.  and the message where you sent it.  I should have done that right away

I know you said you didn’t mind but still.  I should have just

just done it all differently

The messages come flying in one right after the other.  You imagine him a mirror to you, sitting somewhere, slouched over his phone.  Hair dishevelled from jamming his fingers through it.  A shaky breath on his lips.

You look up, picturing him across from you.  You want to reach across the space between you, stretch out every finger, and clasp his hand.  You never want to let go. 

Your phone buzzes again.  You read his words and your heart floods with more than desire.  Rich with sentiment, it leaves you more breathless than a kiss.    

you mean everything to me.

He is still typing.  The ellipses in the corner flashes.  You suspect he will send you an endless stream of consciousness if you do not reply soon. 

You look at your binder of data, then you look at your phone, then you look at your binder, then you look at your phone.  You take a breath.  The decent and logical approach would be patience.  To study everything you have compiled.  To see if he concurs.  To communicate the best way to move forward, what that looks like, and how it should happen. 

You are not someone who intentionally takes risks.  You are not wild and spontaneous.  You are not brash or confident.  You are not sexy.

Verisimilitude, you remember.  Act like it is true, maybe it will be. 

You type.  

Hello, Hyunjin.

His ellipses disappears.

It is true.  I sent that video by accident.  But I did grant you permission to watch it.

You open your photo album.  There is the video, so inconspicuous, one of a dozen.  It is not your most extravagant nor the longest.  You were too eager in the moment to prolong anything.  You could film it better if you did it again.  But it is nonetheless the video that started this whole thing. 

Even though you were not trying, the video turned him on.  You are hot all over, remembering how he warred with himself before submitting.  You remember the amorous look on his face, how desperately he watched you while touching himself.  He could not rip his gaze away for even a moment. 

You click on the video.  You send it with your next message.

This is for you.

You can keep it.

Then you take a chance and write, I want you to keep it.

There is a long moment with no reply.  Or maybe it feels longer because you are holding your breath.  You exhale with a whoosh and a breathless laugh when he finally replies.   

fuck.

are you trying to kill me

You smile, though even that gets you hot, remembering your portrait doodled in the margins of his art.  A lightness fills your heart, recalling that, picturing him now.  You can imagine his wide, startled eyes, expressive dark brows lifting as he stares at his phone.

No, you write.  You are not sure how to respond to a flirtatious overture so you opt for simplicity.  You are not one to colour your statements with unnecessary artifice so you state your intentions without colourful obfuscations.  To clarify, you write, I fully consent to you masturbating to it.  It is only fair.  I was thinking of you while I made it. 

You wonder if he is still at the photography studio.  You can picture him sitting behind the camera, waiting for the next set, his make-up touched up, his black ensemble pristine, and his face humorously contorted. 

so you are trying to kill me, he writes.

and i thought you weren’t the unprovoked licentious content type....

You are fairly certain he is playing with you, but texts are even harder to construe than verbal tones.  You tilt your head, staring at the message, imagining his voice.  The little ellipses flashes in the corner, then you smile when his next message comes through. 

I’m just teasing you baby. 

He knows you so well.  Years of friendship have fortified the affection between you.  You were so foolish to ever think otherwise.   Of course he can picture you like you can picture him.  You feel as if he is holding you in those steady hands, comforting you with that loving touch as the tension leaves your body.  You feel safest curled against him and you always have.  The only difference now is he calls you baby and your heart does a flip.     

I see, you write.  Well.

Technically that was not wholly unprovoked.  It was very much within the context of our discussion. 

This one, however, is entirely unprovoked.

You send another video.  This one you filmed a while ago, back in your own bedroom at your townhouse.  You are wearing a sweater he bought you.  The gift was touching because there was no occasion.  He saw it and thought of you so he got it.  And he knows your tastes so well, your fit and size and style.  He knows you prefer a more modest ensemble in the world.    

This video is not modest.  You filmed the sweater from every angle then laid down, wearing nothing else.  You held a vibrator between your legs and arched your back and filmed yourself, every whimper and sigh and breath.  You stopped just before coming, dropping your phone to focus on your orgasm. 

You send the video and wait.  His ellipses appears and disappears then he finally writes:

fuck.

You flop back on the bed, biting your lip as his rather frantic messages fly in one after the other. 

god. pretty girl. you know i'm obsessed with you right?

jesus we did all this backwards.  i wanted to be cool when i told you but I’m a stupid mess.

fuck I’m about to have my photo taken

hiding in the bathroom because christ

what are you doing to me

where are you right now??

After all that, you simply answer, In bed.  You realize it sounds suggestive only after the fact, but you do not retract it.  Nerves gather inside you, blending into adrenaline and anticipation.  You know him well but you are not sure what he will say now.  This is new territory.  It is exhilarating.  You do not remember feeling this way with your ex.  He was too much like you, so there was nothing to discover between you. 

Hyunjin is so different but he fits with you like a puzzle piece, complimentary rather than contradictory.  You feel sweltering hot, thinking he must reciprocate those feelings.  Maybe he likes your hidden depths.  Maybe he likes knowing it is all for him.  He is romantic that way.  So maybe he likes to see your articulate and intelligent self let go of inhibitions.  Maybe you like it too, becoming a body and sharing it with him. 

Show me, he writes, echoing that very sentiment. 

Be polite, you reply, mostly to buy time while you temper your racing heart.  It melts at his next words. 

Please.   

Show me you want me.  want this.  want us.

Pretty girl.

My girl. 

Please.

Okay, you type.  You are quivering but the sensation is not unpleasant.  Last night was overwhelming, so much at once, but this you can do.  This you want to do.  There is a breath of distance, so it is a step rather than a leap.  You are no stranger to aiming a camera at yourself. 

Before you prepare, you take a breath and write, You show me too.

You get an idea.  While he formulates his reply, you jump out of bed and hurry to the front room.  He has an array of leather jackets hanging by the door, because of course he does.  You rifle through them, looking for the one he wears the most.  It smells like him, that rich cologne, a hint of his hair product.  If your knees were not already knocking, it would send you swooning.  You clutch it to your chest as you make your way back to your room. 

You close the door, as if it matters, but this is between you and Hyunjin, the rest of the world insignificant. 

You strip down to your underwear then don the jacket.  You keep your hair pinned so you do not look like a mess, then you arrange yourself on the bed as neatly as you can.  You try not to overthink, even though overthinking is your speciality.  You pretend this is a video like any other. 

Except the scent of his masculine cologne surrounds you.  He is inside your mind, completely and irrevocably. 

You open your phone to a new message, a video from him.  The lighting is dark in the small studio bathroom, backlit in red.  It makes it all the more erotic. 

You have never unwittingly clenched.  You did not even know you could be so aroused that your body would form a mind of its own.  But you are, and it does, pussy very literally throbbing as you watch the video.  His artist hand, long fingers curling around the hard curve of his fly.  He lowers the zipper and you clench again, making that meek little whimper. 

Apparently you like watching videos just as much as making them.  You are a mess by the time he gets his dick out. 

You turn up the volume to hear his breathing.  You know he has to keep his voice down, but it makes his breathy little fuck all the hotter. 

Oh Hyunjin, you write.  Your vocabulary otherwise fails.  There is no other word. 

Yes please, he writes.

My pretty girl.   

Say my name. 

Your next sound is embarrassing and guttural.  You are a little glad you were not filming yet. 

You clear your throat and position yourself, holding the camera above you.   You start recording.  With your free hand, you touch the collar of the jacket.  You rake your teeth over your bottom lip then lower the camera.  The jacket falls open just enough to hint at every curve in contains.  You skim down your body.  You touch yourself and you are so wet and so ready that you cannot help but make another noise.  Unlike him, you are free to be noisy, so you do not restrain yourself. 

It feels so different, knowing someone will watch this.  You have never been so wet in your life.  You cannot even tease yourself, so desperate that you quickly push two fingers inside you.  Oh, dear, god, you really sound filthy, ridiculously wet as you fuck yourself with jerky little thrusts.

“Hyunjin,” you murmur, the name that has often perched on your tongue while you do this.  It feels so good to say it out loud.

You send him that much, continuing to stroke and fuck yourself while the video sends.  You close your eyes and stimulate your clit, rubbing and circling, finding a rhythm.  You need it.  You need him. 

Your phone buzzes and you turn your head.  You open the message.  You clamp your thighs around your hand, your pussy clenching around your fingers as you read his words. 

God I wanted to film it but I just came all over myself

baby you are everything

I wish I was beside you I need to say so many things

god..

pretty girl if I ask so politely will you come for me?  will you let me see your pretty face when you come? Please.

You do not type a reply because it is too difficult with one hand, and you will not stop touching yourself, not when you are so close. 

It is just a few flicks of your thumb to open the camera again.  You frame your face and hit record.  You come only seconds later, releasing such a desperate cry as you unravel.  It is so much yet not enough.  You thoughtlessly shove your own fingers in your mouth, closing your eyes, imaging it is his hand, his wet fingers dragging over your tongue.  You want to taste him.  You want to choke on him.  You just want to feel him so much that the rest of the whole world will fall away.  You don’t need to be anyone else.  You don’t want anyone else. 

You say his name again.  Your pussy clenches as if already trained to react to it.  You stop filming and send it, breathing hard in the aftermath. 

As your adrenaline dwindles, you feel a modicum of embarrassment, but no regrets.  Your logical brain does make a grudging return, however.  As much as you want him, you know if you rush into things that you will end up balking again.  You need a proper conversation.  You need spreadsheets.  You need to do it his way and your way too. 

But for now, you smile, giggling to yourself as you read his replies.  Half of his texts are unintelligible gibberish, the other half completely and utterly worshipful. 

Nonsense, you finally write. 

I’ll come home right now and prove it to you, he says without hesitation. 

Except by right now I mean in two hours, because I caught the train out here and it doesn’t leave until then.

Then you’re all mine. 

You laugh in spite of yourself, curling up in his jacket.  You take in a breath, the scent of him.  You type. 

I’ve been yours for a long time.  I can wait two more hours. 

Then… can we talk?

Yes, he answers quickly.  Absolutely.  I have so much I want to say to you.

Me too, Hyunjin.  

He caught the bus to the train station but you offer to pick him up.  He enthusiastically agrees, evidently eager to see you again.  You find yourself laughing, such a light in your chest that it cannot help but spill out.  You are somehow both anxious and excited, but so happy that you do not mind. 

When the details are settled, you lower your phone and look at your binder. 

You have two hours.  That is enough time to laminate a few more spreadsheets.

-

You tell yourself you will be resilient.  You are notoriously stringent and a self-identified no-nonsense curmudgeon at the best of times.  Given you have expelled the brunt of your sexual frustration, you figure there will be no problem.  You will meet Hyunjin at the train station, you will come home, you will share a meal and have a conversation, and everything will go smoothly from there. 

Except Hyunjin changed clothes.  It is not anything extravagant by any means.  He is in black jeans and a red shirt, his black dress shirt shrugged overtop. The wind tousles his hair just so, and his make-up has been redone, a little less severe but still so sharp.  It is more casual than you expected, and somehow that undoes your perseverance.

You are gawking at him, staring through the car window as he strides over.  He gets into the passenger seat like nothing is remiss, tossing his bag into the back.  He is wearing heavy boots that thunk when he sits.  He closes the door and looks over at you with a smile.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he says. 

He is so atrocious at keeping to your script.  Imaginary Hyunjin is much more accommodating. 

“Hello, Hyunjin,” you say. 

You sit there for a long time.  It is getting dark outside, which makes it easy to forget you are in a parking lot outside a train station. 

Then he has the audacity to be sweet, at such odds to his daring appearance.  He looks so rebellious and you look so meek.  He is all vibrant colours and dark slashes, while you are in a blazer and a long brown skirt.  Your shirt is buttoned all the way up to your chin and, despite your best efforts, your hair has come unpinned.  The wind has never been your friend. 

You are certain you make a funny sight, but he is not laughing at all.  His gaze is so affectionate but so warm, burning you up.  You gaze back at him, your heart already skipping beats.  Then he reaches out and tucks a loose curl behind your ear.  You remember him doing that at the art gallery.  He was looking at you then like he is looking at you now.  You realize you have been such a fool. 

You lean in at the same time.  This kiss does not even pretend at patience.  It is a hungry collision, his hand in your hair and yours on his chest.  You make a wanting noise when his fingers hook through the curls at your nape and he tugs just a little, just enough to move your head where he wants it so he can deepen the kiss.  He makes a noise too, something low and needy.  He licks into your mouth, far too hot and far too dirty for a parking lot kiss. 

You remember yourself, vaguely.  You break the kiss with a gasp.  Your fingers curl on his chest and his grip tightens in your hair.  Your foreheads touch.  The only sound in the car is your mutual rough breathing. 

“Right,” you say, your voice raspier than you expected.  “Um.  We should.  Go.” 

He nods.  But then he proves he is as evil as he looks, because he tilts your head and exposes your throat.  He leans in, presses his full lips on that soft vulnerable skin and kisses it so delicately that your whole body is wracked with a shiver.  He exhales, warm breath fluttering over your pulse.  Then he finally lets go and leans back. 

“Okay,” he says.  “Let’s go home.”

Home.  You have a discussion on that very subject upon arrival. 

Prior to departure, you arranged your papers on the kitchen table.  You deposit your take-out boxes alongside it, then sit down to eat and discuss. 

He furrows his brow as he holds up a spreadsheet. 

“Is this laminated?” he asks.  “You brought a laminator with you?”

“Of course I brought a laminator with me,” you say unflinchingly.  “What kind of question is that?”

He cracks a smile and nods, then waves you on.  He listens diligently to your proposed contingency.  You prepared index cards so you would not be distracted and led astray.  You are glad you did, because when he finishes eating he just stares at you, and he still looks hungry, but not for sustenance. 

You clear your throat and try to disregard this, but it is difficult.  You unbutton the top button of your shirt to breathe a little easier and he looks at you with more voracious intensity than a single button warrants.  You might as well have stripped down naked. 

You suppose you already have, halfway.  You swallow hard. 

“Look,” you say, lowering your index cards to speak frankly.  “The bottom line is this.  I desire you greatly.  I believe there is some reciprocation in this regard.  But we are living under a shared roof temporarily and I fear this may cause us to progress faster than I am ultimately comfortable.  I would like some longevity in our blossoming dynamic.  You are very important to me, Hyunjin.  I want us to succeed.  I would feel more comfortable if we waited to sleep together, at least until I am back in my townhouse.  That means no sharing a bed too.  When I am back home, we can properly date, and see how this grows between us.  What are your thoughts?” 

“When will your place be ready again?” he asks.  He is sitting back in his seat, arms crossed, looking thoughtful.  You appreciate he is not grabbing at you or immediately trying to convince you otherwise. 

You knew he would not pressure you. Regardless, you cannot help the skip in your bloodstream, the natural nerves that surface when he looks at you.  You have known him for years.  You wonder if these sensations will ever diminish.  Present research dictates no. 

“The last estimation was six more weeks,” you say.   

He smiles.  It soothes your heart.  You stare at his hand as it crosses the table, as he gently laces your fingers together and squeezes.   You blink up at him. 

“If you asked me to wait a year, I would,” he says.  “If you told me there were things you never wanted, we would make it work.  I’ve waited years for you, baby.  Six weeks is nothing.”

Goodness gracious. Exactly how is a person meant to be strict and curmudgeonly with this man?  He really is the universal exception to every rule.  You have just outlined your rubric and you are already considering breaking it. 

“Kisses are okay,” you say, hot under your skin.  Writing your flirtations was easier than speaking them.  Your tone is brusque because you are bad at this, but it just makes him smile.  “Maybe other things when the circumstances arise.  But we will wait for the rest.”

He lifts your hand to his mouth and places a soft kiss on your palm, holding your gaze all the while.  You are quite certain your insides turn to complete mush. 

-

It occurs to you in bed. 

You have long since said good night and retired for the evening.  You pick up your phone and sigh.  You are already skirting the edge of your rules, fully aware you are about to poke a sleeping beast but unable to resist.  The realization plagues you, the subsequent questions burning in your chest. 

And you are wet.  So, so wet, and so, so needy.  Because Hyunjin walked you to your bedroom door like a gentleman.  Then he kissed you like a scoundrel.  He leaned you against the door, his hand planted beside your head and the other holding your face.  He kissed you long and slow, like he wanted to draw it out, like he did not want to say good night.  Your hands were clasped together because you did not trust yourself to touch him.  If you did, you would have dragged him into the bedroom and regretted it later. 

But in the moment, it felt so right.  You are certain that no kiss, ever, since the dawn of time, had ever felt as good as that one.  He took his time with each gentle press, each touch of his tongue, each shared breath.  Your chests rose and fell in tandem, your legs turning to jelly where you stood.  He fiddled with that one undone top button.  You would not have resisted him tearing them all open. 

He did not.  He kissed you slowly.  He kissed you sweetly.  With one last peck, he whispered, “Good night, pretty girl.  Sleep well.” 

You could not find your voice.  You made a weak gurgling noise and nodded frantically.  He smiled.  You rather suspect he knew his effect on you, the rapscallion. 

Now you are in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about something he said at dinner.  You debate texting him.  It will open a floodgate.  You lower your phone a few times, but ultimately determine you will not sleep until you have settled your mind.

Hyunjin, you write, if you liked me for years, that means you were already inclined towards affection when I accidentally sent that video. Correct?

Correct, he answers with a little emoji face, one with a quirked eyebrow.  Why do you ask…?

I was just wondering…

If when I saw you was your first time watching it. 

The ellipses is there for a while.  Your heart is pounding in your chest.  You are certain this man is going to send you into cardiac arrest one of these days.  Then you will finally explode at the most inopportune moment.

You sink into the bedsheets, pressing your legs together when his reply comes through. 

Honestly… I watched it more than once.  I did stop when you first sent it. even though it got me hard in seconds.  then you said i could watch it.. and i honestly thought i was still dreaming.

You cannot help but laugh a little.  You turn on your side, smiling as he types some more.  Then his message comes through and you swallow, flush with heat. 

I tried to answer.  I tried to flirt with you.  I tried to be funny.  It all sounded stupid.  Then I got back in bed and tried to think of something to say… but god. 

god..

Baby what was I supposed to do?  if I resisted that they would have made me a saint. 

You laugh again.  You marvel at his ability to make you smile and get you hot at the same time. 

Did you masturbate to it?  you ask.  It sounds too frank to be seductive but you are not sure how else to pose the query. 

You really don’t pull your punches, he says.  You think you can somehow hear a smile in his words.

yeah baby, he writes. I did.  More than once. 

I see, you reply.  Okay, thank you, I was just wondering.  Good night.

The ellipses flickers again.  You release a torrent of giggles into the blankets when he sends you a very tortured looking emoji.

This is going to be a long six weeks. 

-

He is not wrong.  It is simultaneously the longest, most arduous six weeks of your life, but also the fastest, the most lively, and the most fulfilling. 

You spend the first week stealing kisses.  He is good to you, respecting your boundaries.  He never asks to share a bed and he does not initiate anything beyond your established desires.  He leaves space for you, his arms always open, but he does not force you. 

This is sufficiently more seductive than if he started yanking on your clothes in the corridor. 

You are watching a movie one night.  He puts an arm across the back of the couch but makes no further demand.  You settle under that arm, nestling closer at your own pace.  You are not watching the film, all your focus on him.  He has a foot propped on the coffee table, his arms spread across the couch, and he bops his head along to the music.  Of course, he does that even when the music stops, so you think he not paying attention either. 

Eventually, you succumb to the butterflies in your belly.  They flutter free with an exhale.  You touch his cheek and turn his face.  He requires little convincing, kissing you without a word. 

His foot thumps onto the ground.  You find yourself in his lap.  You do not know how you lose your head around him.  One second, you swear you are on solid ground, the next you are floating.  Someone should study this phenomenon.  You, yourself, have no idea how to parse its logic. 

You straddle his lap, your arms wrapped around his neck.  He is dressed in all black again, black jeans and a black t-shirt, his eyes still smudged with black eyeshadow.  It makes him look so utterly devastating, his eyes so dark and searching. 

It makes you bold, coming to life under the intensity of that gaze.  It is like some subliminal message passes to something rooted deep inside you, something primal and animal that he plucks with ease. 

You dive in for another kiss, burning too hotly under his gaze.  He cups your head with both hands.  He tosses little hairpins everywhere, grunting with displeasure when he finds them.  When you are completely free, he groans, a deep and ravaging moan as he buries his fingers in your hair and pulls you close. 

“Hyunjin,” you say, once more at a loss for any other word. 

He cannot even manage that much, nothing but a guttural sound leaving his throat.  It makes you melt against him.  Your body really has a mind of its own these days.  You find yourself rocking against him, making his breath catch. 

He tugs your hair a little more viciously, thoughtlessly, so entangled that it cannot be helped.  You make another ridiculous mewling sound that will embarrass you later, but in the moment it slips free. 

He holds you in place, palm cupping your head, keeping you steady while he rolls his hips under you. 

It makes you dizzy.  Your mouth opens and your eyes close.  You slowly rock back.  You dig your nails into his shoulders and you are amazed it does not hurt him.  But, then again, he is tugging your hair inadvertently and if that hurts you do not notice.  The seam of your own pants presses deliciously against you, the hard line in his jeans grinding against the softest part of you, again and again and again. 

“Oh,” you say, or rather sigh.  Your shoulders shake and surprise thunders into your racing heart.  You realize are going to come like this.  “Oh.  Ohh.”

“Yes,” he says, and holds you steady, and keeps rolling his hips until you come apart in his arms. 

You slump against his chest after, resting your head on his shoulder.  You can feel him flicking your hair out of his mouth, but he doesn’t complain.  You are breathing hard, clinging to him, still surprised you did what you did. 

Eventually you find a modicum of strength in your arms.  You somehow push yourself upright.  You deposit a single apologetic kiss to his shoulder, which is doubtlessly riddled with crescents from nail bites. 

He looks at you with a smile, a little breathless himself but evidently pleased.  

“You’re beautiful,” he says, so reverently you actually believe it.  Instinct still compels you to argue, but you cannot find your voice to do so.  You just make a little noise and look down at your hand on his chest. 

His heart races under your palm. 

You think you need to see him come too. 

You were previously too nervous to strike the endeavour.  You sexted again in bed the night before, but leaving him to his devices is different than taking matters into your own hands.  Literally.  You are not inexperienced, but he is certainly more experienced.  It is another reason you cannot rush into things. 

He does not rush you.  You arrive at the moment in your own time.  And in this moment, it stops mattering.  His heart beats under your palm and he looks at you with such an outpouring of affection, it makes your own heart stutter.  You are tingling with aftershocks, feeling so alive and vibrant with his eyes on you. 

You trail your hand down his chest to his belt.  His eyelashes flutter, surprise crossing his own face.  His hand covers yours and he lifts a questioning brow.  You nod and he lets you go. 

You get his belt open with a little struggle.  You are a prestigious academic decorated with multiple literary awards, but a belt stupefies you.   

He lets you work, twisting a curl around his finger, smiling a lazy smile.  You pry the belt open and get his fly down, satisfied when some of his cockiness dissipates as your touch overwhelms him.  It is a good overwhelming, given the noise he makes as he rests his face on yours.  He murmurs your name and presses kisses all over your face as you work him in your hand. 

The jeans are thrown into the laundry hamper immediately after. 

-

The second week is mostly comprised of your usual routines.  You have both shirked some responsibilities, too busy flirting like horny prepubescents to get any work done.  You eventually return to your books and make remarkable progress on your research project.  Hyunjin edits the photos from his latest shoot, uploading them to his profiles and collecting his sponsorships. 

You go to your favourite café.  You accompany him to his favourite bar because it’s a trivia night and you enjoy it more than you anticipated. You return to the art exhibition then rehash your previous opinions over dinner. 

Some moments feel like dates, like when he holds you hand or gets the door or you dare to kiss his cheek in public.  Some moments feel like the comfortable friendship you have long enjoyed, and for that you are glad.  Gaining Hyunjin as a boyfriend would mean little if you lost him as a friend. 

But he is still your Hyunjin. 

He just puts his tongue in your mouth now. 

The couch becomes a site of utter debauchery.  It is the apartment’s no man’s land, given the beds have been relegated to solitary confinement.  It really is for the best.  For now.  You will enjoy yourself more when you are truly ready. 

Until then, the couch is subject to repeated episodes of defiling. 

You and Hyunjin sit down with the intention of reading your own books, but they are both on the floor and you are on your back and Hyunjin is on top of you.  It is not unlike a few weeks ago, when he stole your book and pinned you down.  It feels like a lifetime since then.  You never would have imagined yourself in this situation for real. 

But it is real.  You know that, because every nerve in your body is alive and shooting sparks.  You make little moans, weaving your fingers in his bright red hair as he kisses you deeply.  His jeans are blue today.  You are in a long skirt.  It makes it a little easier for the material to fall on its own, gathering around your thighs as he presses against you. 

You take his hand and guide it up your skirt, resting it on your inner thigh.  When he squeezes the soft flesh, you arch your back.  A shaky please leaves your lips, breathing the word against his own.

He nods quickly, thumb stroking a circle high on your inner thigh.  “What do you want, baby?” he asks. 

“Hand,” you say, thinking about that video of him unzipping his fly, how many times you have gotten yourself off to his perfect hand sliding into the frame.  His deft and nimble fingers, so precise for his artistic crafts.   You blink up at him, hoping you do not look so dishevelled that it is ridiculous.

He clearly likes what he sees.  He reaches under your skirt to slip your panties down and off, shoving them in his back pocket so they are not lost.  His jeans have a long chain on the hip that he pushes out of his way when he kneels upright on the couch.  He guides your thighs apart and angles your hips up, your thighs resting on his. 

“Sorry,” you say when he touches you, because you are already so wet from just kissing. 

“Sorry?” he asks in a rough voice, very lightly touching you, gathering all that desire on his fingertips and making you shudder.  “For what?” 

“Just… so… ready…” 

It sounds ridiculous to say out loud.  He must agree because he laughs incredulously.  But you do not have time to feel ashamed because he slides two fingers inside you, your body offering no resistance to him.  Then he starts curling up and putting pressure on your inner walls in a way that makes your head spin. 

“Poor baby,” he says, his other hand sliding up your waist, holding you steady.  “What should we do about that?” 

You are coming minutes later, your shirt half-off, your breasts mauled with hickeys and your pussy spasming around his fingers.  It feels so good, you do it again, and he ends up coming before you even touch him once. 

Next time, you are not on the couch, but standing by the front door, preparing to go out.  He is fully dressed with his leather jacket and boots, but you are missing a sweater and one shoe.  He is standing behind you, your cheek pressed to the door as he works his hand under your skirt.  You cant your hips up and back, grinding against him while he finger-fucks you. 

You come so hard your knees buckle.  Fortunately, he realizes what it is about to happen and catches you.  He does not slow down, though, the bastard, and you keep coming, balanced in his arms. 

You are halfway to the ground when you are satisfied.  He puts you down gently.  And maybe it is being half-dressed at his feet, maybe it his boots or his belt or that leather jacket, or maybe it is the way he looks down at you, but your mouth waters and you swallow hard. 

“We don’t need to—” he starts, but you interrupt by opening his belt.  You are much better at unbuckling it now, hardly wrestling with the leather at all. 

You are acutely aware that you are not very good at giving oral.  You are sensitive to sensation and it can be a bit much, but you like the noises he makes and the way he grabs your hair.  You are certain he has had better, but you would not know from his reactions.  He curses and sighs and groans, alternating between looking at you lovingly and ravenously. 

He gets down on one knee after and cups your face and kisses you. 

And that is just week two.

-

By week six, an amendment has been made to the bedroom rule.  You will not share a bed overnight, but the morning is a different matter entirely.  When the sun is up, the day is starting, so there is nothing wrong with climbing into bed together to talk about the day. 

To be fair, sometimes you do just talk. 

Other times, like now, your shirt is pushed up to your breasts and his face is buried in your pussy.  He is wearing boxers and nothing else, his face bare.  You like to look at it, his soft eyes glancing up at you as you push his hair back. 

Unlike you who still administers oral with something of a polite and fastidious air, he gets messy with it.  You are both drenched when you come, your pussy and thighs a mess while he wipes his face on a discarded shirt. 

“So,” he says.  “About the townhouse?” 

-

When you finally step foot in your townhouse again, it is an abominable mess.  You stand in the foyer with your luggage, slack-jawed and already so overstimulated that you nearly start vibrating. 

Hyunjin joins you a second later, carrying the rest of your bags.  He knows better than to yank you around when you get like this, but he does guide you to the couch to sit you on a clean cushion.   He gets you some water and makes you drink.   It helps, marginally. 

“Oh dear,” you finally say, an understatement. 

You made dinner plans, mostly to dissuade you from desecrating the foyer before you had an opportunity to unpack your bags, but those plans are cancelled in light of all the work that needs doing to make the place habitable again.  You are immensely glad there is no longer a river of water leaking out of your shower and into the living room, but the contractors were not overly kind regarding dust and debris, to say nothing of plain dust and dirt. 

Your poor bookshelves have been so neglected.  They are the first thing to get a good dusting. 

It is not an impossible task, when all is said and done, but pizza delivery replaces a dinner out.  Whatever plans for seduction you might or might not have had, all evaporate, because you are so exhausted from cleaning that you fall asleep on the couch before it even gets dark outside. 

You wake with a start in the middle of the night.  You dreamed about giant dust bunnies devouring your poor innocent bookshelves.   It takes a minute to ground yourself in reality, your surroundings unfamiliar.  You have grown so used to the spare bedroom at Hyunjin’s apartment that you forget your own bedroom for a sleepy moment.  When you fully come to consciousness, you remember where you are. 

Then you remember you fell asleep the couch, a half-finished plate of pizza in your lap.  Hyunjin must have gathered you in his arms and put you to bed.  The thought is a little touching but also embarrassing, because that was not the plan for tonight.  You suppose your provisos merely outlined not sleeping together until you were in your townhouse, not that it was a requisite for moving back in, but you still miss his company. 

You search around for your phone.  He left it on your bedside table for you.  It is not as late as you thought it was, probably because you fell asleep so early.  You text him an apology.  You assume he went back to his apartment but you are not sure if he is awake or asleep. 

You always liked living alone, but you suddenly lament the empty space.  You miss the comfort of another person just one room over.   No, not just another person, but Hyunjin. 

hey it’s okay, he texts back.  you were tired.  you should go back to sleep it’s late

I am unfortunately wide awake now.

Yeah me too. 

Why are you so awake?

Thinking about you. 

If you were not already wide awake, that would have done the job of waking you all the way.  You sit up in bed, all your attention on your phone now.  You type a reply. 

Oh?  What about me? 

You are not sure if his tone is flirtatious or not.  You are getting better at verbal cues but it is still impossible to read someone, even Hyunjin, over text.   You cannot even read your own tone, uncertain if it comes across as flirtatious or just curious. 

That I’m kinda glad you fell asleep. 

Don't laugh at me.. but I think I am nervous

About sleeping with you

You expect any number of answers, but not that one.  You struggle with a reply for a moment, not sure if he is seeking reassurance or he just wants to speak his mind.  When he starts typing again, you decide to wait. 

I know it sounds stupid. 

We spent all this time waiting

And god I want to.  my girl

I’m so scared of messing this up and letting you down. 

Hyunjin, you finally type, before he can descend in a spiral.  You told me you would wait a year, or that we would work something out for ourselves if it was necessary.  Do you not think I would do the same for you? 

The ellipses appears and disappears as he contemplates this.  His answer comes a moment later, You’re right.

Of course I am, you reply.  I always am. 

You hear a laugh.  It startles you so bad, you drop your phone on the floor.  You snatch it up quickly as possibly and frantically type, Please tell me that is you laughing in my living room. 

Oh yeah sorry I just slept on your couch.

This man will be the death of you one way or another, that much is for certain.

You frightened me half to death.  I thought you left. 

Ah sorry baby..

Do you… want me to come upstairs?

That restless heart of yours skips beats for another reason, a different type of fear, one not unlike his own.  You are not sure how the night will progress, but you know one thing for certain, one thing that is true and will always be true: you want Hyunjin.  You want him with you, and beside you, now and always. 

Yes please, you write, then wait. 

His footsteps creak on the stairs.  The human body really is a peculiar creation, because your fear seems to bleed right into newfound arousal. 

You look up as he opens the door, using his phone flashlight as a guiding light.  It is facing upward, illuminating him.  Your phone screen is on, offering some light over your own features. 

You are still wearing the sweater and sweatpants you cleaned in, absolutely not a sexy outfit for a first time sleeping together.  You considered ordering special lingerie for the occasion but you are still quite bad about feeling embarrassed about those things.  You made yourself nervous and balked every time you pictured walking in the room with them on.  You think you will do that one day.  You will probably have to make yourself comfortable with it first.  Maybe you will send him a video. 

You look up at him, your heart pounding just thinking about it.  He gazes back at you.  He is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, also not an especially fancy outfit to celebrate any firsts. 

His face is bare.  Your hair is loose.  There is something about the shadows and a new room that makes you feel like strangers for a moment.   You tell him as much, mostly to fill the silence, because he is staring at you and his gaze is far too amorous to be directed at a silly woman who fell asleep in her cleaning clothes at suppertime. 

He tips his head as he looks you.  You shiver, as if it is the first time he has ever looked at you, as if he has not made you come a dozen times on his face and hands, as if he has not known you for most of your life. 

He turns off his light.  The room is plunged into darkness.  That ridiculous heart of yours starts leaping around like it has an electric current. 

“Hyunjin,” you say, reaching blindly.  You gasp when he captures your hand, leading it onto his shoulder.  Then you feel his whole body, his hair brushing your face, his hands on you.  Your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness and see you him a little better, the muscle definition in his arms, the necklace dangling when he leans down towards you. 

“I’d fall in love with you again,” he says.  “If we were.  Strangers.  If I was seeing you now for the first time.”  He touches your cheek, brushes his knuckles up your temple then slips his fingers into your unruly hair.   “I think I’ve fallen in love with you a hundred different ways.  I think I will again.” 

“You know I am not good at speaking with poetic embellishment,” you say, swallowing around the lump in your throat, one caused by both sentiment and nerves.  “So I will have to speak plainly with you.   I love you too, Hyunjin.  I always have.  If we were meeting for the first time right now, though, I would probably be screaming and throwing things at you.”

He laughs and the sound make you feel like you are glowing.  You need no other light.  You reach up and touch his face and you see him perfectly, can picture his smile even before you trace your thumb across his bottom lip.  You cannot draw like him, but if you could, you would scribble his likeness in the margin of your work as well.   

“Good thing we’re not strangers, then,” he says.  “Because I’d really rather make love to you.”  He swoops down and kisses your forehead.  “My friend.”  He kisses a sensitive spot below your ear, the place he teases when he wants to rile you up quickly.  “Baby.”  Then he is tipping your head at the perfect angle to lean down, his lips brushing yours when he says, “My pretty girl.” 

“Nonsense,” you say breathlessly, because of course you do. 

And of course he kisses you.

He kisses you deeply, holding the back of your head as he gently lays you down.  You push the covers away, opening yourself to him completely.  You wrap around each other, sinking into the sheets, arching your back to feel more of him. 

You gasp when he tugs your hair.  He has already found so many ways to make you plaint and needy, to forget your skills of articulation and lose every word but his name. 

“That’s it,” he says, hooking your legs around his waist.  “Show me what you want, baby.” 

You reach between your bodies, cupping where he is already hard in his jeans.  Everything about him is so hard against you, you in your soft sweats with your pool of curly hair, losing yourself as his strong hands work their way down your body.  He lifts your shirt off and tosses it to the side, then gathers your hands because you always have an instinctive moment of covering yourself.  You are modest by nature, but you trust him with everything.  It is exhilarating, when he takes your wrists and pins them by your head. 

For a moment, you do imagine every version of yourselves.  You and him, old friends turning into lovers.  You and him, established lovers, finally coming together.  Two strangers, finding each other for the first time. There is always something new to discover. You love him again and again. 

“Say my name,” he says, working his way down your body.  He is still fully clothed when he has you fully naked, writhing under him as he pushes his tongue in you.  It is a slow seduction with his mouth on your pussy as he kisses you there as thoroughly as he kissed your mouth.   “Say it.”

“Hyunjin,” you say, repeating it as you come, your legs wrapped around his head. 

He spares you only seconds before his fingers are inside you.  You cling to his arm, making noises that still surprise you, begging him with your eyes and hands and little cries.  When he cups your face after, you open your mouth wide, wanting.  He fucks your mouth like he fucked your pussy, two fingers gliding across your tongue until you are bucking and pleading, sucking on his fingers and staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Fuck,” he says, then whips off his shirt. 

He kneels and you help tug his jeans and boxers down to his knees.  You curl towards him, situated so he can finger you while you wrap your lips around his cock.  You are usually very neat about it, but you cannot think clearly with his fingers inside you.  You mostly wet him, barely blowing him, but he still kisses you when you pull back. 

When he gets the last of his clothes off, he surprises you by sitting back against the headboard and pulling you into his lap.  He surprises you even more by folding your arms behind your back and pinning your wrists at the base of your spine.  He holds them there in one hand, the other between you as he helps you settle on top of him. 

He does know you well.  The second his cock so much as brushes you, there is an instinct to cover up.  You hands twitch but he holds you, speaking to you gently, soothingly.  He eases you through it, breathing just as hard as you sink down until he is fully inside you.  Then you are clenching sporadically around him, almost a mini-orgasm just from the initial thrust.  He is still holding your arms behind you, guiding you through it with him completely in control.  It seems to be the way he likes it, but you don’t mind at all.  You can be a stern stickler everywhere else; here you can be his. 

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he says, free hand on your hip, holding you as he rolls his hips under you.  “That good, baby?”

You answer with a mewl, dropping your face to his shoulder and staying there.  He laughs, eventually lifting your head.  Then he puts you on your back and lifts your leg onto his shoulder, and he fucks you in a way you once could only imagine. 

He pushes your knees back, presses his body so close to yours.  A sheen of perspiration covers his skin and you are certain you are not faring better.  It feels good, it feels free.  You wrap your arms around him and hold tight. 

“My girl,” he says, with a strong thrust, then another.  Sounding as deliriously inarticulate as you when he says, “Mine.”  And thrusts again.  “Mine.”  And again.  “Always.”  Again. 

You seek his hand blindly.  He offers it, lacing your fingers like the romantic he instinctively is, but you lead it right to your throat where you want him to hold you.  When he does, your body goes completely soft for him, like every worry flees at once.  You are always so in your head, to be a body feels good, to share it with him even better.  You hum with pleasure, mouth open like a good girl for your dreamy bad boy as he leans down and kisses you, his tongue fucking into your mouth with the same vigour he takes your pussy. 

When he rubs his thumb over your clit, you last only seconds, your whole body shaking as you lose complete control.  He holds you through it, rocking into you, kissing your face and neck.  He pulls out and strokes himself to completion, coming on your thighs and pussy. 

You wrap around each other after, rolling into the middle of the bed.  You somehow migrated horizontally during your lovemaking.   You will need to move eventually, but sleep is finally hitting you.  You feel Hyunjin clean you up with his t-shirt, but you only stir when he kisses you.  You wrap around him and return a few sleepy kisses down his neck.  He slides a hand in your hair, cups the back of your neck, and stays like that. 

“What next,” you ask sleepily, not fully conscious of your words. 

“Mmm.” He sounds just as sleepy.  “Still need our dinner date,” he murmurs.  “Can decide in the morning.”

“Okay,” you say.  And even though you are half asleep and barely conscious, you add, “I can make a spreadsheet.”

He smiles.   You think maybe you should learn to draw just so you can draw that smile after all.  Maybe there is an artist and a romantic inside you, or maybe it is just the parts of him so entwined with you, forever embedded in your heart.  You are actually excited to learn. 

You give him one more sleepy kiss.  It is early morning now.

You fall asleep together at the start of a new day. 

#hwang hyunjin x reader #hyunjin x reader #skz x reader #hyunjin smut #skz smut

[diejager]

Something crazy lol

How would the monster 141 guys react to hunter sneezing so hard their nose starts bleeding? cold is crazy where I am that this just happened

Cw: weird medical thing, blood, bloody nose, tell me if I missed any.

You caught a fever on the last mission, having to treck through the cold, rural regions of Finland, your bodies victim to the biting frost and staying in an abandoned bunker turned safe house for a few days resulted with that. As a medic - the medic of the Task Force - you knew what to do and what not to do, it was implemented in your training to rid of a cold or small sickness as quick as possible for a weakened body. They naturally flock you like worried mothers once you’re back on base, whenever someone was free, they’d tail you around the base, helping you with things if you had trouble with it because of your runny nose and dazed mind. They became your shadows, a perpetual shape following you from behind or the side.

It was expected from you to help even when you were sick, wearing a mask around people, taking care to avoid infecting others with your strand, and eating farther from your team or in the safety of your room where you wouldn’t worry about sharing the contagion while you ate. You took your medications on a regular schedule, a pill of ibuprofen for the aches, your pounding head, your throbbing joints and general soreness, and acetaminophen for your growing fever. You estimated, from prior experience, that your fever would break a week or two in when you took care to drink water, ate correctly, took your meds and slept regularly, but it persisted. Your fever was like a pest, consistent and stubbornly staying in your system. 

It got to the point that your nose became much too irritated, sensitive to the slightest touch or whenever you sneezed again and again. Your nose pained you with everything you did, and after one too many sneeze, something ruptured. You splattered blood on the inside of your mask after a painful sneeze, a raspy cough following it and a flurry of panic from them. Throwing away any caution and self-consideration for their health to hurry to your side, worried hands pawing at you and whispering their concerns at your sudden bloody nose. 

If they were worried about you before, now they were extremely concerned. Price had you confined to your room, tied down to your bed and left under watch with at least one man by your side, and they ignored every little complaints and huffs you threw at them. Ghost and Horangi had to manhandle you to your bed, laying your head on the soft pillow Alejandro and Rudy went on a hunt for and covering - wrapping you in with how much you struggled against them - you with a thick and warm blanket that Gaz went to the trouble of buying on a sudden whim. 

The sergeants had more time on hand, rerouting to your room so often that they lived with you, entertaining you when you grew bored from reading novels and watching a série or documentary on your tablet. They made you laugh and made your moments less depressing. Ghost and the colonels had less time to visit, but they came whenever they could, always bringing a plate of sweets or a snack to fix your occasional hunger; Ghost with his chip bag, König with his pastry, and Alejandro with his spiced food. Price was the busiest man of the team, glued to his desk and old and used chair, signing paperwork and having to think of a temporary replacement for you, but he still had time to pass at night or after he ate, bringing you a plate from the mess hall. 

You hated being sick, it went against all you stood for and it ultimately made your Task Force worry and fuss about you.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

#x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #konig x reader #konig mw2 #soap mw2 #soap x reader #gaz mw2 #gaz x soap #price mw2 #price x reader #horangi mw2 #horangi x reader #alejandro x reader #alejandro vargas #rudy x reader #rudy parra #monster 141 #monster cod au #monster 141 au

[almightyellie]

i'm not in love

in which angus always preferred being alone. at least, he used to.

pairing is angus tully x fem!reader

word count is 3.4k

author says don't look at me <3 not proofread bc it's me

you should watch out for college-aged angus, mostly just two besties who are so in love it makes them stupid

title song is i'm not in love // 10cc

angus tully answers his mother’s biweekly calls diligently. not because either of them truly want to speak to each other—it’s more perfunctory than anything. she calls and asks about school, and he tells her it’s good. then he asks about stanley, and she tells him about stanley’s job, and then she’ll ask angus about his job. he tells her it’s fine, and she offers him money that he’ll accept only if he’s in a particularly foul mood. after three years, they almost have it down to a perfect script. 

at least, he thought they did. 

“how’s y/n?”

the question catches him so off-guard that his sharp intake of breath makes him choke, but judy waits patiently for an answer. he mentioned you every once in a while. mostly, he likes that you’re an entirely separate part of his life from his mother and stanley. he’ll bring you up if she asks why he isn’t coming home on a holiday, or on the off-chance she asks about his weekend plans. yours is one of the only names he’s ever given her when he talks about school, and one of the only ones that seems to stick around longer than a few months at a time. “she’s…good,” he responds tentatively.

“what are you guys doing tonight?”

he stares at his phone in bemusement. “what is this?”

she sighs, and he can almost see that displeased look on her face. he had it memorized. “when are we going to meet her?”

“why do you want to meet her?” he asks. if he really thinks about it, it makes sense. you two had lived across from one another for three years, and you had fallen together in a way that almost felt predetermined. you are the longest standing person in his life post-high school, and his mother knows this.

he had always preferred being alone. even as a child, he had no interest in playing with the neighborhood kids in the middle of the street. he liked doing things by himself. he liked doing what he wanted without having to inform anyone else. when he had gone to college and found a semi-affordable apartment that he wouldn’t have to share, he had been elated. the cute girl across the hall had just been a plus. 

you two had always just worked. he holds everyone at arm's length, but it had never even occurred to him to shut you out. you two end up together most nights, watching movies or doing homework. it happens so easily that he hardly recognizes how strange it is. perpetual wallflower angus tully is attached.

“well, you two have been together for a while. if things are serious, i think it’s best that we meet her.”

angus blinks, shocked, before a nervous laugh bubbles up in his chest. it starts low, but the longer she waits in her own confused silence, the louder and more unruly his laughter becomes. he’s laughing—not because the idea is ridiculous, but because it’s so plausible that it takes him by surprise. he had spent the last two years trying to bury his feelings for you, and he had been so unsuccessful that even his mother had picked up on it.

“angus,” she snaps, and he giggles, even though it isn’t funny, even though his stomach twists and rolls in a way that makes him feel sick.

“i’m sorry,” he gasps, covering his eyes. “just…we—y/n and i aren’t together.”

there’s a long moment of silence where he catches his breath before his mom says, “angus, that’s not funny.”

“well, it is, if you think about it really hard,” he offers. she sighs, exasperated, and angus rubs his eyes. he can’t possibly explain to his mother what about this situation is truly amusing, because really, it isn’t funny. it’s not funny that he’s desperately in love with his best friend, and it’s not funny that she oscillates between entirely oblivious and seemingly aware. 

“you’re telling me you’ve been missing family holidays for a girl you aren’t dating?” 

he can tell she doesn’t believe him, and he doesn’t bother reminding her that they haven’t had a real family holiday in years. long before he started university, and long before he met you. besides, answering that question honestly is dangerous, and should he not handle this delicately, he’ll find himself on the wrong side of his mother’s wrath.

“uh…”

he’s fumbling, panicking, and it only gets worse when he hears his front door open. “angus?” you call, and his whole body cringes, his head falling to rest on the wall.

“angus,” judy warns.

“yeah,” he blurts, watching you round the corner. you smile, offering only a small wave as you drop your bag onto his kitchen table. “no, mom, obviously not. that would be ridiculous.”

as he feels her anxiety cease, his own skyrockets. he’s focused entirely on you; your back is turned toward him as you open his fridge, searching through the shelves for something to eat. if it were anyone else, he’d be irritated, but he almost loves it when you do it. loves that you feel comfortable enough in his home to make yourself feel at home, that he can take care of you in the smallest way. most nights, when he lies in bed and thinks of you, he finds himself thinking of the ways he could take care of you. the ways he could give you what he never had, the things that had been ripped from him. security. unconditional affection. peace. he’s barely listening when his mother sighs again. “you know, i don’t understand your humor sometimes.”

“i know,” he says. you kick the fridge closed, enough food in your hands to feed both of you. “hey, she actually just got here. can i let you go?”

“not until you answer my question.” her voice is clipped now, and angus winces. some nights she’s a little more forgiving with his distraction, a little more responsive to the things he says that she doesn’t necessarily understand. tonight, he’s more distracted than usual and less decipherable than ever. “when can we meet her?”

angus groans, and you smile over your shoulder. you know better than anyone how much he struggles with his mother. you’ve listened in on many of their phone calls, and patiently listened to him complain about them later. “i don’t know, mom.”

“how about easter?” she asks. angus turns to lean against the wall and watch you, and you lean against the counter, waiting for him to be done. he rolls his eyes, a silent cue that things are taking longer than he’d like. “stanley and i can drive up that saturday and take you guys out for a nice dinner. on us.”

reluctantly, only because he knows that she’ll blow a gasket if they don’t nail down plans on this phone call, and because he wants this to be over, he huffs. he pulls the receiver away slightly and asks, “you want to have dinner with my mom and stanley easter weekend?”

you blink owlishly. “what? why?”

“they want to meet you.”

“why?” you insist. he glares at you impatiently; knowing angus—more, knowing what you know about his mother—an answer is needed now, and explanation must come later. the idea of meeting his mom makes your stomach turn uncomfortably, but there he stands. even with a hard glare, you feel safe with him. you feel the need to do what he asks of you, and you know him well enough to know that he wouldn’t ask if he thought it would be something you couldn’t handle. “uh…i guess, yeah.”

he offers a grateful smile. “easter weekend sounds great, mom.”

they quickly finalize plans before hanging up, and the second the receiver is back on hook, he groans loudly, rubbing his eyes. you wait for him to speak, but he stands with his hands over his eyes, hiding from you. “angus.”

“she thinks you’re my girlfriend,” he blurts.

you really don’t mean to start laughing. “what?”

his lips turn up in a sheepish smile. “i guess they’ve thought we were together this entire time,” he chuckles. “and i panicked! she accused me missing holidays to spend time with you and i didn’t want to get in trouble—”

you clutch your stomach, doubled over in laughter. he doesn’t want to laugh—frankly, he’s a little hurt that you find the idea so laughable, but he had laughed, too. “you caved,” you gasp. “you caved and told a lie because you didn’t want to get in trouble with your mommy.”

“okay.” he rolls his eyes. “whatever. you’re part of this now, too.”

your giggles die down and you turn to take the food out of the microwave. “hey, i could back out. i could break up with you at any time.”

he scoffs, but doesn’t respond. often enough, when you’re doing exactly what you’re doing now, angus’ feelings become overwhelming. watching you move around his kitchen with the kind of natural domesticity makes him feel choked, buried under his overflowing affection.

the harder he fights his feelings, the worse they get. you’re his best friend—it’s not on purpose, either; you aren’t at all the kind of person he ever thought he would fall for. you were bitingly funny, of course, but you fought him constantly. he wouldn’t even say you were particularly nice for the first few months you two knew one another. you’re entirely out of left field, and he can’t even get a read on you half the time—not that he even really wants to. part of him thinks that knowing exactly what you think about him would be truly crushing.

“i guess a free meal could be nice,” you tease, stirring your dinner with a knowing smile.

“yeah, you’re so unused to those,” he bites, pushing himself off the wall. you beam.

it’s surprising, in a way, that you hadn’t met angus’ mom and stepfather already. he’s met your family a thousand times over; they take you both out to dinner every single time they visit you. they had sent him a birthday gift this year, for christ’s sake. but you could probably count the amount of time angus had seen his mother in the last three years on both hands. you were surprised enough that she even remembered your name.

you had spent your entire friendship with angus thinking about his mother. being angry with her. your best friend is caring, in his own stilted, modest way. he’s witty and so smart that it intimidates you, and he’s loyal. it tells you all you need to know that his relationship with his mother isn’t strong. 

he bumps you out of the way, and you let him. you watch him open the cupboard for plates to evenly split the leftover pasta, and your chest nearly heaves with confused affection. you see the way he looks at you when he’s not careful. with an unrestrained reverence, with a tenderness that can’t be forced. it had made you uncomfortable, at first. made you feel like you couldn’t be around him anymore. you had tried to pull away—for a day or two. 

the reality of the entire situation is that angus tully belongs in your life. you adore him too much to cut him out, and even if you didn’t, it kills you to think of him alone. he’s a lone wolf; it’s amazing enough that you two have connected the way that you have. if angus didn’t have you, he had a few friends from class. maybe two or three guys from work. but nothing as deep, nothing as serendipitous as your friendship. 

discomfort with his feelings had grown into a tentative acceptance once you realized he had no plans on acting on them, and after a few months, tentative acceptance had grown into…something else entirely. you aren’t sure exactly what it is. it isn’t like those juvenile, giddy crushes you had harbored in high school. angus doesn’t keep you up at night, nor does he make you lovesick. he puts you at ease. he makes you feel safe. he makes you feel like yourself.

you don’t want to confront the strange sense of peace that angus has offered you without even knowing. without even trying. you don’t want to change your friendship, or misattribute your feelings, so you ignore them. and you ignore the way he looks at you, and how he insists on making your favorite dinners, even though he complains about you eating his leftovers, and how he uses your spare key to lock your door every single time he leaves your apartment without fail. 

your knees bump together under the tiny table in his kitchen as you two eat dinner. you listen to him talk about his coworkers, lulled into relaxation by his deep voice; you always loved your dinnertime conversations. mostly, one of you just talked. you would talk about school and work and your classmates and your days; they aren’t even really conversations. it’s just an excuse to talk and an opportunity to listen. he doesn’t mind when you don’t respond, and neither of you care if the other person talks the entire time. it’s time spent together more than anything else. you think about how effortless it feels. how you could do this every night with intention, not under the guise of getting out of your apartment. you think about the dinner with his mom, and how you’ll both put on nice outfits to go out, and how you’ll come home together, and how you’ll dissect every detail of the dinner and the conversations for the entire night, if not for days afterwards.

you notice only a moment too late that you’ve zoned out, and angus kicks your shin gently. “you good?”

with a reassuring smile, you nod. “yeah. i’m just thinking about dinner with your mom.”

he’s bashful when he laughs quietly. “yeah…sorry. i know i kind of screwed you over.” you can tell that he truly does feel bad, but the longer you think about it, the less you dread it. you think you might actually like an excuse to acknowledge the way angus looks at you, for him to not have to hide it. 

“i don’t know…i’m kind of excited,” you admit, pushing food around your plate. angus looks at you from under his lashes, taking pause at your tone. you refuse to look at him, and it sends his heart into overdrive; he’s panicked, certainly, and so in love with you that it makes him nauseous. he isn’t entirely sure that he’ll survive a night of you pretending. of it all feeling so real.

he can feel a confession coming, bubbling up in his chest, and he swallows in panic. “she’s—she’ll like you, i think.”

with a slight smile, you push your plate away from you. “i’m not sure i’ll like her.”

which he loves about you, naturally. 

he clears his throat to bury the confession and stands; angus grabs both plates and turns his back to you to hide his flushed cheeks. shamelessly, since he can’t see you, you watch him, soothed simply by the way he moves. by how familiar he is. by how you can almost predict every move he makes. the words fall out before you’re even cognizant of them

“just so you know, i don’t mind your mom thinking i’m your girlfriend.”

the way he freezes makes your shoulders tense. you hadn’t meant to say that. it was true, but he didn’t need to know that. angus’ mind screeches to a full stop before it starts running ten times faster than before. what did that mean?

slowly—so slowly that you almost don’t notice—he sets the plates in the sink. you won’t get out of this. you know you won’t, because you know angus. once the door is open, he’ll take the opportunity to push it every single time. “why?” he asks, his voice a carefully constructed tone of ease. he plays it well; his nonchalance is almost perfectly natural. it nearly tricks you.

still kicking yourself, you shrug even though he can’t see you. instead, you start emptying your bag to distract yourself. textbooks and notebooks and pencils clatter against the table. “just…we could sell it, don’t you think?” it’s not even close to what he wants to hear, and you buckle down even though you know you won’t win this one. “we know everything about each other.”

he snorts, and it puts you at ease. not because you’re going to get out of this. you know something dangerous is going to come out of this conversation, but because it’s angus. it’s your best friend. and you know him, and you know the way he treats you is symptomatic of something much larger. it used to scare you, but it doesn’t now. not now that he washes your dishes, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows. you trust him. you know that any vulnerability you share will be returned to you tenfold.

“yeah, right. that just makes it convenient,” he says knowingly, head tilting. he watches you sort through your textbooks, hiding your anxiety while you busy yourself.

part of you hopes that he’ll just drop it. not because you don’t think things will work out, but because you love how things are between the two of you. the almosts, the what-ifs, the wondering is something you so love to savor. it’s still so easy between you two; all of those what-ifs still exist only in your minds, only in the silent space between you that neither of you are willing to acknowledge. there’s plausible deniability. there’s safety.

you smile shakily, glancing up at him. “i guess i mean…that we…work?”

he smiles back, comforting but still audacious. “and by that, you mean…”

with a groan, you fold your arms and bury your face in them. you know this leap can only be beneficial, but you’re struggling to let yourself admit anything. it’s more frustrating than the denial. 

angus stares at you, suddenly the emotionally constipated one, and his heart is pounding in his ears. he can feel it beating against his chest; he’s not brave enough to hope. it’s too scary for him to wonder if this is finally it, if you had been as keenly aware as he had assumed you to be. 

“just…i think there’s a reason my mom thinks we’re together. just so you know.” you groan louder, unmoved by his words, and he continues, “beyond the fact that we’re constantly together.”

you peek up at him, your chin still pressed against your forearms. he watches you, big brown eyes wide open with vulnerability. he’s waiting. you figure it’s as good of a segue as he’s going to give you. with a deep breath, ignoring the turning and rolling of your stomach, you say, “i feel like…things could be like that between us.”

he breaks into a smile so wide that you have to look away from him. “oh, is that what this is about?” he asks facetiously. 

you grunt, irritated. “don’t tease me.”

he laughs, uncrossing his arms. you don’t even want to look at him, humiliated. he hasn’t rejected you—in fact, you know he’s just keeping you on the line to tease you. it irritates you, but he seems giddy, even if he tries to act like he’s unaffected. he can’t keep that goofy smile off his face. it entirely gives him away. “hey,” he says, voice bright. “c’mere.”

“no,” you spit, annoyed. you know that the second you give in, everything will change. for the better, you think, but it will change. you hold on to the wondering for just a moment longer, but you can’t help yourself. he waits patiently at the counter, holding on to the ledge. you like the wondering, but you think you’re ready to find out if it’s as good as it seems it would be.

self-conscious, you cross the room to him. you stand only centimeters apart, and he grins at you, fingers gently stroking the hem of your collar. “you know, right?”

you don’t have to ask what he means. you know. maybe not the depths, but you know. the way he looks at you is enough to let you know. the way he takes care of you tells you what his words haven’t yet. they will. “you can’t hide from me, angus tully.”

he loves that about you, too. he’ll tell you all the specifics later. for now, he kisses you, a long arm around your waist, and you think that this is much better than the what-ifs.

#angus tully #angus tully imagine #angus tully x reader

[kana-daydreams]

𝐚 𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 || 𝐙𝐨𝐫𝐨

summary: zoro decides just for your sake and his, for once, to allow himself to express a feeling he’d long buried inside him after Kuina’s death—and a feeling he’s only ever had for you. genre: mild angst, fluff cw: none wc: 3.2k

I love you.

Settled atop the crow’s nest dome- shaped roof of the Thousand Sunny, Zoro’s dark-brown eyes dart open to meet splotches of fluffy white painted across a canvas of endless blue.

A gentle breeze rustles his clothes and threads through his mint-green hair as he lays with his back pressed flat against the roof’s surface,  head cushioned by his arms, while his gaze continues to follow the clouds lazily gliding across the sky.

I love you.

Zoro clicks his tongue when he hears the words teasing melody continue to play in his head.

Words that had repeated its haunting every daylight, and every nightfall.

Words you’d confessed to him weeks ago—and words he had thought would be your last.

Why did you do it? 

Zoro still relives the moment when he watched your body go limp in his arms, crimson red trailing its way down in gushing streams from the wound in your torso.

Why did you risk your life to save his?

A question that lingered along with your confession deep within his mind during the couple of weeks you’d remained a victim of sleep.

A furrow lines Zoro’s brows, deepening as he unwillingly recalls the urgent scream of your voice calling his name, followed by the sound of steel tearing through flesh and then the painful sight of your body collapsing, motionless, in a pool of red.

After the tragic occurrence, day after day, Zoro would visit you inside the sick bay. It was a difficult task at first, seeing your comatose state, but he made it part of his daily routine to check up on you. And assisted Chopper where he could, sometimes spending the entire day by your side and wishing that you would just open your damn eyes.

And during that time he spent with you and without you, he prayed. 

Zoro never believed there was a god but yet, for you—he did. 

Like a devout believer, day in and day out, he prayed and hoped for a miracle. 

Hoped that some god— any god—would hear his prayer and that you would awake from your seemingly endless sleep. 

Though when a couple of weeks had flitted past and you showed no signs of waking up, the little faith he’d mustered started to wane. 

Waned until like a flame drawn down to a single spark of light left with nothing to fuel its burn, it extinguished.

But today Zoro’s flame reignites.

At the sound of Chopper's crying voice, Zoro’s body bolts upright, his eyes drawing wide when he hears him announce in between sniffles and hiccups, that you’re awake.

And in an instant, he’s on his feet. 

And in an instant, his legs carry him with desperate steps towards the direction of the sick bay, Zoro thinking to himself, despite his once wavering belief—for the first time—a god really just might exist.

“Nami, Robin— you guys are going to hurt her!” Chopper’s worried voice warns the two women hugging the life out of you—literally, Chopper thinks.

“Okay, just one more hug.” Nami snivels, long tears rolling down her cheeks as she gives you one last squeeze before she and Robin unwrap their arms from around you, moving to stand amongst the rest of the crew huddled around your bed.

Your eyes scan each of their tear-stained faces like your own, at the same time searching for the perpetual stone-cold expression of Zoro’s, your heart sinking when there’s no sight of it. 

“I’m so happy to see everyone.” You manage a weak smile, brushing off the disappointed feeling at the swordsman’s absence, and instead focus on the wide smiles, happy tears and collective expressed words of happiness and relief of your long-awaited recovery.

For the next hour or so, the sick bay’s room is permeated with mirthful chatter and laughter until Chopper starts kicking everyone out, informing them of your much needed rest.

“I don’t understand? Why would she need more sleep?” Luffy who sits cross-legged at the foot of your bed asks with a genuinely confused expression. “She’s been sleeping for we—” he’s interrupted when Nami grabs a hold of one of his ears and forcefully starts dragging him out of the room, the scene making a small laughter bubble up your chest.

Luffy’s painful groans and complaining voice drowns out when the door clicks close behind them, and with solitude now your only company, your mind is left to idle.

To idle on the memory of Zoro.

To idle on the memory of his mortified features as he held your form, drenched in blood, close to his chest. And the prominent picture of hurt mixed in with other indiscernible emotions that crossed his face when you confessed your years-long harboured love for him, just before your vision turned dark.

You can’t help but wonder exactly what he thought during that moment of your untimely confession, as you absent-mindedly reach your hands under the hem of your shirt, smoothing it along the rough scar that lines across your stomach. A reminder of the small price you had to pay in exchange for the life of the one you’d always cherished with your whole heart, and the one your eyes longed to see the moment you’d opened your eyes.

A sudden rap at the door pulls you out of your thoughts and you rasp out a “You can come in!” wondering if Chopper had returned to check up on you.

However, when the door cracks open, instead of the doctor, it reveals the familiar figure of the man you’ve yearned to see. 

You watch as he steps into the room, your eyes catching his steely expression which immediately melts at the sight of you. 

Zoro closes the door behind him and wordlessly approaches your bedside, neither of your gazes unyielding from the other. That is until his eyes flicker down to your hand still settled on your exposed stomach, the muscles in his jaw becoming visibly tense.

There’s a silence that settles between you both. One that is equally tense and you can’t help but attempt to lighten the mood.

“Fell asleep again or forgot I existed?” You quirk a brow, a teasing lilt carried in your tone. “I’m placing my bet on the first one.” You chuckle.

 “It’s none.”

Your laughter simmers down when you look up to see that Zoro’s features are void of any hint of amusement.  

“Oh? Then…” 

“I wanted us alone.” He explains and your head tilts in curiosity at his words.

 “Alone?”

“Yeah. We need to talk.”  

You ponder on what he says. On what the topic of discussion might entail that he didn’t want the others around. And in a second or two, when an answer suddenly dawns on you—that it might be about your declaration of love— you feel a faint touch of warmth caress your cheeks.

Shyly, you pat a hand beside you on the mattress. A motion for him to have a seat. 

Zoro takes you up on your offer, joining you on the small bed after removing his swords which he settled in a nearby corner of the room.

“So, what you wanna talk about?” You ask as you feel the bed sink under you from his added weight.

Zoro takes his time to form an answer as his eyes examine you for a bit: the healthy gleam of your skin, the vibrant light in your eyes, and the way your lips curl into that beautiful smile he’d longed missed.

And the longer he takes to respond, the more your heart races in anticipation.

“How do you feel?” He finally asks.

You pout. It isn’t what you expected, but his concern for your well-being at the same time isn’t a surprise.

“A little woozy and tired. But Chopper said I’ll feel better with a little more rest.”

“Right…rest.” Zoro murmurs to himself.

He had been more than determined to see you as soon as he watched the others leave your room that he didn’t consider the toll their long visit had probably taken on you.

“Then you should get some.” He stands to his full height, ready to make his departure, only to be stopped by a sudden and gentle tug on his shirt. 

He peers over his shoulder, looking down to see your fingers gripping onto its hem, your face creased with worry.

“Please Zo, don’t leave.” You plead. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

You’d noticed it in his tense expression—that what he wanted to discuss carried a heavy weight on his shoulders, though you weren’t exactly sure what it might be if not your confession.

“You need to rest.” Zoro urges.

“I won’t be able to unless you tell me what’s bothering you.”

Your persistence and stubbornness is no surprise to Zoro. He knows all too well that your words are true, and stands there conflicted with your hand still glued to his shirt, before momentarily releasing a deep sigh as he relents to entertaining your request.

You watch as he seats himself near you once more. “Tell me Zo. What is it?” You prompt when a lull falls, lingering between you two. 

Zoro’s eyes sweep down to where your hands lay before flitting up to meet your worried eyes. “Why…” He pauses for a beat as if gathering his thoughts, before he pieces together the rest of his words; finally asking the question, though not in full, that has been long weighing on his mind. “Why did you do it?” 

Your brows wrinkle, confused. “Do what?”

When his gaze leaves your own and you notice it drops down to your stomach, you immediately come to comprehend the meaning behind his words.

“Because I wanted to.” A smile pulls at your lips. 

A smile that makes Zoro’s hands, unnoticeably to you, ball into fists.

A couple of weeks ago, you were on the brink of death because of him and now you’re here, smiling warmly up at him, saying that you didn’t mind that you’d almost die!

Zoro’s fingers curl, digging deeper into the palm of his hands.

He’s happy—overjoyed, though his features mask the feeling—that you’re okay and that he gets the chance to see your smiling face again. But what if he had lost you?

What if he had lost you, just like he lost…

Zoro shoots up to his feet, your fingers hold on his shirt, ripping away.

 “You’re leaving.” 

His sudden burst of words leave you to stare dumbfoundedly at him as he walks over to the side of the room where his swords lay, propped up against the wall.

“What do you mean ‘you’re leaving’?”

Zoro faces your direction once he’s finished securing his swords to his hip. “As soon as we dock at the nearest town, you’re getting off.” The tone of his voice hints that there's no room for an argument.

 You gape up at him. “You can’t be serious.”

This wasn’t the first time, the second nor the third, that Zoro had tried to get you to leave the ship—and to leave their crew.

He’d wanted you long gone since the day Luffy’d recruited you and tried his earnest to get the boy to throw you off the ship. 

Figuratively of course.

“I thought we were past that phase. Aren’t you tired of trying to get rid of me?”

“Not, exactly.” Zoro says and you purse your lips, brows knitting into a frown at his curt and honest reply.

 “Well like I’ve told you countless times, Roronoa. I'm not leaving.” 

Zoro gives a subtle flinch when you refer to him by his family name instead of the nickname you’d called him since you were children. He then releases a deep sigh meeting your defiant gaze. “Being a pirate isn’t child’s play.” He ends with your name. “It’s dangerous.”

“And, what? You think I don’t know that.” You cross your arms, eyes narrowing. 

You were aware that like the others,  Zoro was worried about you. But you were here because of your own volition. Not his. A fact you verbally express.

“I’m not a little girl, Roronoa.” You say, voice stern. “I’m an adult. Meaning, I make my own choices.”

Zoro scoffs, almost mockingly at your words. “Yeah, choices that almost left you in a permanent coma, sleeping beauty.”

“I was only trying to protect you.” You feel yourself becoming more pissed, for  lack of a better word, at his retort. “You could have died if I didn’t—”

“I ain’t no weakling. I could’ve taken it.” He argues back.

“You don't know that, you arrogant seaweed!” 

Zoro was strong. Inhumanly strong. A verifiable truth you’d always known. But like any other human being, he was still mortal—and all mortals bleed. All mortals die.

Seaweed?! Zoro’s brows furrow, the muscles in his face twitching. He then heaves a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look…” he starts, voice much mellow than before. “You’re not a pirate. You’re not me and you’re not Luffy—you’re not like any of us.”

Zoro watches as your expression morphs into a reflection of hurt at his words—and it aches him. But his words are somewhat of the truth. You aren’t like any of them. You don’t have raw strength or devil fruit powers to protect yourself nor are you cautious when faced with life-threatening situations, choosing to tackle those situations head on without much of a drop of hesitation.

And that’s what scared him the most. 

“It'd be best if you just go back home where it’s safe.” Zoro finishes, eyes meeting anywhere but your gaze.

“So that’s the real reason you don't want me around?” Your fingers clench around the sheet wrapped around you. “Because I’m weak?” 

“That’s not what I mea–”

“Then what do you mean, huh! Zoro Roronoa.” Your eyes well with unshed tears and your voice cracks as you choke back a sob. “Why is it that you keep trying to get rid of me?” 

Your question is only met with silence, as Zoro continues to keep his mouth sealed.

“Is it because I’m a burden?”

You weakly voice a thought that’d always remained rampant in your mind since the day Zoro vanished a few years later after Kuina’s death, leaving you only a single letter explaining his aspiration and his pursuit of becoming the world’s greatest swordsman along with a stern warning that you never attempt to search for him.

You’d adhere to his wishes which brought with it many sleepless nights, especially when you thought you would never see him again. 

Fortunately, by a stroke of luck, you’d managed to cross paths when you stumbled upon him wandering around like a lost puppy back in one of the towns you usually frequented for selling your goods. And after your fateful reunion, spurred on by what’ve been years of friendship blossomed into unrequited love, you decided to join Zoro in his ambition—and the rest of the straw hats who’d unexpectedly and without a doubt become your home: your family.

“...It is. Isn’t it?” You say when you notice him tense at your assumption.

“No it is’n—”

“Then what is it!” Your voice consumed by a mixture of anger, sadness and disappointment bounces off the walls of the room. “At least tell me why?” 

Zoro looks across at you and a pained expression shadows his face when he sees droplets of tears rain from your eyes, wetting your cheeks, falling and seeping into the white sheets clutched in your grasp.

“Why do you want me to leave?” You continue. “Why don't you want me to be a part of your life?” Some of your words get caught up in an uncontrollable storm of hiccups and sobs. “... and I promise Zoro. Tell me why and I promise I’ll leave.”

Zoro was never one to be emotionally transparent. You know that. But you wanted to know why… 

Why is it that he was so determined—eager to make you leave? 

Why is it that he was so eager to drive you away like you were never a part of his life? And him, never a part of yours.

Silence permeates the room as Zoro’s lips remain sealed shut like before, and as it prolongs so does your impatience.

“If you’re not gonna answer, then go.” You breathe out a weak sigh, feeling new tears starting to emerge. “I’ll leave just like you ask, so just get ou—.” 

“‘Cause I love you.” Zoro mumbles out in a rush, that you barely register what he says.

You blink away the tears, directing your attention over at him, more precisely his back.  “What…did you say?”

Zoro’s face contorts into a frown, heat burning at his cheeks. “I said…” He grits his teeth, finding it cruel that you were making him repeat such cloying words. “...I l-love you, you idiot.” He stammers out and you notice his ears tinge a dark red.

Your heart stutters at his unanticipated confession, words you’d been longing and hoping to hear for years—and words which render you speechless.

“S-say somethin’” Zoro practically begs, growing increasingly embarrassed by your lack of a reaction, still keeping his body pointed in the opposite direction.

You shake yourself out of your surprised state. “You love me?” You ask as heat fans across your face. “Then…why do you keep pushing me away?”

“..Because you’re reckless.”

Your face contorts into a slight grimace, feeling somewhat offended by his words. “I am not reckless.” You retort, regretting it when he starts to recount childhood memories and those of late, that bear witness to his claim. 

Though those events couldn’t compare to the one that almost made him lose you.

The room descends into utter silence when Zoro finishes, leaving you with your head drooped down in embarrassment which had seeped in bit by bit during his narration of your every rash act.

 “I can’t…” 

You raise your head slowly to look across at Zoro whose voice punctuates the silence. And your heart sinks when you hear the subtle crack of his voice.

“I can’t...” He repeats, pausing for a moment before continuing. “I–we lost her. You—” Zoro grits his teeth, clenching his eyes tightly from the growing pain in his chest. “I don’t wanna lose you.”

To Zoro, you are his everything.

The woman who holds the entirety of his heart in the palm of her hands; all he has that reminds him of home—and a reason other than his promise with Kuina to become the world's greatest swordsman.

Zoro’s hands ball into fists as he feels a burning sensation settle behind his eyes. “I can’t lose you t—” 

The words that pained to leave his lips are cut short, when Zoro feels arms wrap, snug around his torso, a soft and familiar body pressing against his back.

“I’m right here, Zo.” You reassure with tears and soft whimpers. “I’m here. And I’m alive.”

Zoro’s heart pounds violently against his chest when you hug him closer to your body, as if trying to prove to him you were real and not  just a figment of his imagination.

To your surprise, Zoro turns around and captures you in a tight embrace. “I know…” He presses a light kiss to your hair, letting it linger for a second, before settling his chin atop the crown of your head. “And about what’ve said before. Forget about it.” He says, as your soft sobs continue to fill the room. “I…I don’t want you to leave.” 

“You mean it?” You quiver out.

“Yeah.” He replies. “Just please, promise me you’ll be more careful.”

Your eyes flutter close as you snuggle closer into his warmth. “I will. I promise.” You say, both of you, unknown to the other, making a silent vow to become stronger.

Stronger for each other.

© 2024 kana-daydreams

#𓇻 kana's op ddrms #zoro x reader #one piece x reader #op fluff #zoro x f!reader #zoro fluff #roronoa zoro x reader #op angst #one piece angst #one piece x you #zoro angst

[moondirti]

7. PROPOSITION

CHAPTER SEVEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter six / chapter eight ⇀

summary: a proposition is made in hope for new beginnings

mature | 4.7k words warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, apocalypses, death, decay, blood, injury, sexual tension, angst, no use of y/n notes: I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE ORIGINAL. anyway repost lol

During the liminal period between detonation and your understanding of it, you’d been convinced of your own fatality. Dead girl walking; the shell-shocked mantra playing in an unremitting loop as you navigated the flattened planes of your once-home.

New York was a ghost town. Or – town isn’t exactly the proper verbiage, not when it comes to describing the hollowed locale. It’d been flushed of all its previous pomp; skeletal buildings with their windows blown to bits, light posts bent at the root, central park a glorified bonfire pit for skyscraping flames. In truth, when you’d awoken, you couldn’t recognise your whereabouts. 

That was the basis for which you told yourself it was a dream. Everything existed as a distorted reflection of what you were familiar with, a fucked plane capable only of occuring in feverish delirium. The bite, you’d accepted – nodding to yourself grimly. You must’ve gotten sick again and passed out before the speech, transported to some stuffy hospital that pinned you with needles full of hallucinogens. How else could you have explained your occult ability to phase through walls, or the complete absence of people?

(In hindsight, it was denial more than anything.)

Yet time progressed on a tortoise’s shell, marching with all the leisure of reality. It didn’t jump like it would’ve had your consciousness been in charge, with its aversion to the mundane and grotesque. No; you’d started to see the faults in your logic when the substance that perpetually fell from the sky proved to be human ash, or when – the further down you travelled – maturating flesh increasingly marked your path. You’ve never known your mind to be so cruel. 

So, dead.

If so, then you’d settled on purgatory. A state where souls atone for their unforgiven sins and are purified. It was an interim solution; you weren’t the religious type, anyway. But maybe that'd been it. Maybe you’d been given a last hope at redemption, thrust in a distinctive nightmare to comprehend how much worse hell could be. At least you lacked pain, at least you were dressed – clad in the silk of your gala gown. But the sky had been red, covered in a sheet of dismal smoke, and you couldn’t see the stars at night.

It was a sign; you’d failed at reaching them. 

The notion had paralysed you for days, tearing at the false comfort you’d wrapped yourself in up to that point. You’d weeped, and tested the limits to your intangibility with lacking enthusiasm. Blotchy faced, snotty nosed – passing your arm through rubble, succeeding, then trying the same with your feet, which abraded against the rough surface instead. The inconsistency was hard to keep up with, but the task at least distracted you from a profuse existentialism.

You’d heeded no patterns; some days, you were completely nonphysical. Or, parts of you remained that way, while others shifted back to palpability. It’d been a tug of war, dependent entirely on your mood and a greater scheme you had no part of. With your limited comprehension, it’d only guaranteed the purgatory hypothesis. Not mortal, nor spirit. Stuck in a great between. 

(What heaven was worth this? Who deemed it so?) 

The guessing game got old. You’d needed something else – more than water, or a fresh change of clothes; good, honest science. Truth. You couldn’t move on until you’d had reason to believe the outcome could justify this. 

You turned to the cosmos then, impartial as ever, despite their discernible absence. They were still there, you knew. Just beyond the firestorms, the sun burnt bright enough to penetrate smog. Its hazy glow provided an alternate reminder of something for you to still pursue – wherever it was, wherever you were. You couldn’t be sure that an afterlife meant nirvana or elysian fields, yet fulfilment looked to be the common denominator. An underscore.

To you, that would only ever be one thing. 

Deep space, your stars – your Sol. 

(It was hope in the one way you could define it.) 

The threads started to converge in an instant of poetic cognizance. The Phoenicians had done it, and so too had ancient sailors. Stars for navigation, for reasoning. Of course. All that entailed for you was to certify you were worth it. 

You’d started by cleaning. Little things, far from where you’d originated. A neighbourhood of collapsing houses, nested in beds of fine porcelain and dust. The times where you could use your hands, you’d sweep the debris onto them and deposit it in a hole, harrowed from a singed lawn at the end of the row. When you were immaterial – a state that had begun gaining rarity the better you were able to cope – you’d focus on mentally tallying inventory. Some to set aside, for whatever poor individual would visit next, and the rest for you. A diet of canned beans and bottled water was better than nothing. 

Then, you��d dealt with the bodies. 

There were none within the city, nor the suburbs. It was only when you’d ventured outwards did they start to crop up; thin corpses with leathery skin still stretched over their frames, starved or burnt or both. The smell had been putrid, reeking of pure rot, and you’d surmised that perhaps they’d taken too long to find salvation. It’d motivated you to keep working, burying them in marked graves with a plug fastened over your nose. You didn’t want to end up like them, as a chore for the next. 

It was near impossible to keep a timeline of it all. Now, you estimate it as months, though it had felt longer. You’d gone through it with no milestones, or any inclination as to whether you were finally getting close. Cleaning the entire expanse of purgatory seemed too big a task to ask of anyone, immortal or not. Yet as the weeks crawled by, you’d started to reckon that was exactly it. You’d felt nothing special, no sweeping message from God alerting you of your success. Just more devastation, more labour. 

(Were you wrong?)

You’d started to get sick again. Irritated sinuses, a scratchy throat. Every breath you took was more useless than the last, oxygen unable to circumvent your system. Smoke inhalation, likely. You’d searched for ventilators to help treat the symptoms, alongside pain relief for the sores spotting along your palms. There’d been nothing, and that wasn’t to say it had always been that way. Empty, orange bottles decorated every barren street, purged by apocalyptic gluttons.

(You couldn’t trick yourself – the dead had no use for medicine.) 

Some fate must have willed it, though. It was there, in the seventh hospital you’d scavenged, that it’d happened. 

A… being, no taller than five foot four, decked in a bright yellow suit and a hazmat mask. Loitering the entryway with a trash bag full of salvaged goodies. It hadn’t noticed you, preoccupied with routing the way back home – so you rushed into a nearby room to change into your gown. It was wrinkled and torn in places, having been the outfit you’d initially spent weeks in, but it was far better off than the grimy cargoes you’d adopted in its place. 

You’d kept it for this; your day of judgement. 

It – he, as it turns out – lived in a bunker, deep beneath the catastrophic surface of the state. You’d followed him there. A perfectly normal thing to do, candidly, for someone who’d forgone social interaction since death. It couldn’t dawn on you that he was surely in the same boat; isolated, cornered like an animal on its haunches. If it had, you would've made an effort to approach him with caution. 

So, it certainly shouldn’t have come as a surprise when your ecstatic hello was met with an axe to the face. Naturally, it’d phased right through you, a feat which only furthered the old being’s terror. 

God had turned out to be more skittish than you’d expected. 

(“Blimey, whit the hell are ye supposit tae be.”

“I’ve been waiting so long–” 

“Ye're gonnae get yourself killed wearin tha’ flimsy thing, lass.”

You’d felt so stupid. You should have surmised that the occasion called for modesty.

“Forgive me,” 

“Whit is it ye want? I don’ have any food for sharin’.”

“Redemption, if you please. I promise I’ve been good, I just want to see the stars.” But of course he’d know that. “Sir. Lord, sir.”

“Is somethin wrong wi yer head?” He’d huffed. “It's tha’ radiation, I'm tellin’ ye. Or maybe I'm dead an’ seein’ things.”

Dead? Another lost soul? 

“Are you not God?”

“God? Ha!” The human scoffed. “Trust that I wouldn’ be livin’ in this rat’s ass if I was.”)

It turned out that he did have food, and plenty – stuffed cans stacked in rows atop rows of nourishment. Medicine too, an age old ventilator that he’d tapped with a knuckle to spur into function. He’d agreed to let you replenish if you’d take a gander at his malfunctioning radio, of which you had limited knowledge on but were willing to give a try. You’d no idea what he needed a radio for in the afterlife, anyway. 

(“The battery contacts are corroded, I think.” You had spit through a mouthful of corn. It’d tasted like pure sugar to your neglected tongue. “If it matters to you this much: baking soda to neutralise the acid, then a bit of vinegar over it to help wipe off the gunk.” 

“Smart one ye are,” He’d pulled a cigarette from one of his various pockets, lip curling at your inquisitive gaze. “Don’ give me tha’ look, I ain' got none for ye.” 

“I’m okay, thanks.” After a bit of deliberation, you’d added, “I’m afraid I don’t understand something.” 

“Whit is it this time?” 

“Why’d you set up permanent camp here? Don’t you want to leave?” 

“An’ where wad I go?” His lighter had taken several starts to sputter a flame. 

“Heaven. Hell – if that’s your thing. The cosmos?” 

He’d barked another one of those sturdy laughs. “Ye one o’ them fanatics? That say wha’ happened wis for good cause?”

“Huh?” Tentatively, you’d placed the radio back on its rickety stool. “What happened?” 

And all humour had drained from his face, his pupils hardening to flat beads. If it hadn’t been for the sudden shift in mood, you’d have gone forever traipsing on a fantasy. No; it was the tremor, the breaks in his once haughty inflection – idiosyncrasies that could’ve only been described as sympathy-triggered. It’d built upon your doubt, your already wavering faith, to strike you out of your mental regression. 

“The Alchemax bomb, lassie.”)

He had a bucket for you to throw up in, slick with panicked sweat, unable to hold on to anything as your body oscillated between materialities. He’d made no comment on how your hands fell through the floor, or the knees that started to sink alongside them. Your fault, your fault. Any thought besides blame hadn’t time to develop, recycled for fuel to keep the cognition running. Your fault. Your fault. All this time. 

(Who could you have turned to? You’d been praying to deities who’ve long since left.)

Night bled, and the man had retired. You’d stayed plastered to the ground, crouched over a slosh of your purged innards. The foulness hardly moved you; it’d felt good to punish yourself in that way. You’d taken to being your own arbiter, and such was one of the many reparations to come. 

(You’d shunned the voice that insisted you deserve none of it. If you hadn’t been so ambitious, so blind to the flaws–) 

You’d wanted to leave. So desperately that the wish had seized every cell in you, shaking them with a vigour unparallel to even celestial fury. You’d wanted to leave. There’d been nothing for you to divert your efforts to after learning the truth. Nothing you could have done to fix it. You’d wanted to leave. To anywhere but there.

Please. Please. Please. 

Just this one thing. 

The air warped.

You hadn’t noticed it immediately, still wrapped in your own misery. Scratchy skin accredited to grief, you kept rocking in place, bathing in muggy sobs. But it’d only grown worse, like a fraying fabric chafing along every appendage. Your dirty nails dug into your palms.

The friction peaked, rubbing you raw. You’d heaved in large gulps of oxygen, pulling at your flesh like it could’ve stopped it. Your jaw had unhinged, teeth clamping down on your thumb to muffle the overstimulated scream that’d threatened to break. Tears sealed your lash lines shut. 

Almost a second later, it stopped, interrupted by the blare of car horns. 

And, when you’d opened your eyes, you found that you were someplace else entirely.

Your fingers graze along something rough. At first, it’s easy to mistake as your jeans, the denim hardened in places with lack of care. 

The space seems to have shrunk since Miguel fell asleep, slumping inwards, its rock walls poking your elbows and curved spine with a clinical brutality. It’s difficult to imagine how he feels; twice your size, unused to fitting those muscles through tight squeezes. Disastrous still, the low creak of the steel arch above puts a timer on your misfortune. The topic of your demise is of increasing relevance. 

Perhaps he drifted off for that exact reason. To hinge on ignorance; an avoidance of this waiting game. Or, more credibly, to force you into a figurative detention. Think about what you’ve done, and what I’m asking of you. 

In any case, it’s working. The trauma you’ve tried repressing thus far rushes through your conscience, carving gaping canals of remorse, lapping at its banks to keep it fresh. You’re convinced your heart could give out, wrenched in innumerable directions, the only respite afforded being the glitches that rip through you. You deserve to stay here, but he doesn’t. He’s always only sought what was right. 

(You can fix it, do this one thing.

Though you can’t grasp where to begin.)

You pinch the fabric, tugging at it in a nervous tick. You don’t feel the tension across your calf, an observation that grows stranger the harder you pull. Reaching over with your free hand, you smooth over your pants. They’re still level with your shin bone, unmoved. 

Huh. 

There’s a mortifying moment where you fear that it’s Miguel’s suit you’re fiddling with, before taking into account that it’s impossible to twist the nanotechnology. 

And it’s too close in to be a wall.

You delicately trace the surface with your pinky, searching for any discernible edge, intent on mapping out the overall shape to deduce its origins. Your arms wave about in a frantic fashion, but to your bewilderment, you find no real boundary. Weirder yet, it appears to slice through your shoe and a portion of Miguel's thigh. 

Feels like–

Your stomach lurches, broiling in a bold concoction of thrill and trepidation. It throws you off guard, your brain lagging behind the reality your body already accepts. You know what it could be, having undergone the phenomena in several situations similar. An answered prayer during your lowest points – back at the man’s bunker, a few times since then.

Nerves humming with electric fervency, you tamp your hope into something more manageable, unable to handle another blow should this turn out poorly. Or – comparably – should you succeed; if this is, indeed, a portal. Your resolve trembles with the strength of a baby bird's wing, missing the survival instincts that once bolstered it. 

(What would it mean for you?)

Biting your lip, you plunge your fist through to the other side. 

It comes in contact with something cold, unlike anything in your little cave. Cold, glossy and… crinkly. A plastic bag of sorts, packed full of a pulpy filling. You’re tempted to draw away, disgusted, but redirect that intensity into inspecting instead.

The bag rests upon an uneven floor, marred by pebbles that lend a sense of ruggedness to the place. Outdoors. Downright filthy, too; judging by the clammy residue that sticks to your knuckles. Bile nudges up your oesophagus, inspired by the unidentified refuse you’re granted access to. Squalid; a dumpster, probably. Decorated in bursting trash bags.

But then–

Mooring yourself upon Miguel’s abdomen, you dip your forearm further in. The static off the portal’s perimeter sings with discordant vibrations, its intensity bordering on painful. It prickles the fine hairs along your limb, scouring any goosebumps raised with a grating ferocity. You stifle the whimper that arises as a consequence.

Your fingers dip under the trash, grazing something that makes you pause. Rubber. Ring-like. 

The day pass? 

Swallowing, you jerk it towards you. It doesn’t budge, stuck under the refuse. 

(It occurs to you to give up. The moral dilemma its purpose poses is abundantly clear.)

Hooking all four digits around its circumference, you pull harder. The portal eats at you, hostile to the foreign intrusion. Any longer and you’re afraid it’ll cut your arm clean off, right under where that gutter almost did the same. Your adrenaline had been enough to numb the torturous incident then, both physically and in memory – and though you lack that direct threat to your life now, the setup is much the same. A situation where you’re finally in control, a reclamation to the morality you’ve long since lost. It’s personal – the scolding he’d given you like a knife to old wounds. 

The prospect fuels the surge you need, distending through your biceps, reinforcing their efforts as you finally yank the bracelet out. The portal makes no noise when it zips back shut, but you feel the lull, its energy abandoning you to wallow, alone again. Or, not alone; you gently settle between Miguel’s legs, careful not to disturb him. 

There’s a stark silence that passes afterward, a line of astonishment keeping it intact. You allow it, needing time to process the staunch implications of the day pass sagging upon your lap. Its lilac hue gives a faint light to your surroundings, illuminating the cranny you’ve only been able to picture so far. It’s about what you expected – save for the resting face of your companion. 

He looks good. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t usually, but the peace that graces his features compliments him, rounding out any harsher edges. You trail your gaze up his neck, to the jaw that points to a pronounced chin. Lips that pout even over retracted fangs. An aquiline, masculine nose. It fits him, you think. Lends itself to the fluffy hair that frames his sharp cheekbones. You linger on it probably longer than you should. 

That is, until you catch sight of the blooming discolouration marring his temple. 

It’s partially obscured in shadow, yellowing along the ends and purple in places you don’t have the advantage of properly observing. Yet, the bruise communicates all it needs to, loud and explicit. You’re not in a position to procrastinate any longer; you’ve already spent a year running from fate. It might make you sick, your organs tying together in a nauseating knot – and every impulse in you might scream against it. To run away; to leave him here for dead. Live the rest of your life in peace – it’s only right, it’s only right.

Then, you remember what he’d said to you. 

(“Explain this to me, O’Hara – what just providence made me spider-woman to a barren land?” 

“It’s not fair.” He didn’t skip a beat, tone laced with a hard understanding. “But it’s fact.”) 

You really hate him sometimes. 

Bracing yourself, you shake his shoulder. He’s up in an instant, snatching your wrist in one warm palm. You wait for the tired mist over his awareness to melt, a stone lodged in your throat.

“¿Qué es?” He whisper-shouts. “What?”

“I–” Your voice warbles. Pathetic. “I have something for you.” 

He squints. 

(Rightfully so.) 

Breathing through the hesitation that strikes the rungs of your ribcage, you hold up the day pass. 

He doesn’t realise what you mean immediately, flicking back and forth between the bracelet and your furrowed brows. Realistically, his doubt can’t have lasted longer than a few seconds, yet you’re eternally paralysed within the anticipatory dread – a fossilised mosquito captured in amber. Even when he does eventually catch up, you stay still, letting him pilfer the key to your freedom and watching as his drowsiness sharpens into a pointed resolve. 

And you don’t stray, not for the entire stretch during which he tinkers with its components. It’s not his aforementioned allure that encourages it, nor the sudden flashbacks to your earlier breakdown. Ridiculously enough, it’s satisfaction – a contentment at having finally defied your self-interests. You look to him like you had the sun back home. For validation on the path you’re headed towards, a small hint of a job well done. You’re too cautious of your own pride, betrayed by it more often than anyone else, but he–

He knows what it means to be a true spider-hero. 

You hope that one day, you will too. 

“Lyla?” Miguel demands into his watch, testing to see whether the spare parts of your contribution resolved its issues. 

“You’re alive! Huh,” A miniscule projection of his LYrate lifeform approximation blinks into existence, tilting her heart-shaped glasses down as if to punctuate her disbelief. 

“I came across a few obstacles, but I’ve got the Wr-” He catches your wince. “Our target. Set coordinates for 928. I’m coming home.” 

“Gotcha. Can you wait until Reilly coughs up a twenty, though?” 

“You bet on my survival?” 

“Silver linings!” 

“Lyra.” 

“Okay! Alright. Home it is, boss.” 

“And tell Jess to be on stand-by with an empty cell,” He adds, lowering his pitch to one more understated. You can’t lie and imply your appreciation – no matter what he does to soften your circumstance, it retains its somberness. You’re going back to that desolate wasteland, and this time, you have no will in ever leaving. 

“Figured you’d want to get her in the go-home machine as soon as possible. No?” 

“No.” He asserts, the decision rumbling from deep within his chest. You steel yourself against the shiver that wobbles through you. “I’m not done with her, yet.” 

“Explain something to me, would you?” 

You smell of lemon antiseptic and dirt, arms wrapped in fresh bandages from shoulder to wrist. It’s an unpleasant combination, exacerbating the headache that gnashes on your skull under these fluorescent lights – darkness having been an ally to your concussion. The acetaminophen they’d given you at the med-bay has done nothing to aid your pain, and you’re convinced that the only thing that would work is a long, hot bath. 

That is to say, you’re not ready to have this conversation. 

When you don’t respond, Miguel stands from his seat, exercising the prominent muscles in his legs. His sweats do their best to conceal them, but you’d been in close quarters with him for far too long to have forgotten the way they bulge and shift with every move. If you focus, you can sense them now, pressing against your ass, pinning you in place. 

He huffs. You doubt your glassy-eyed ogle is doing you any favours. 

“Can’t make any promises.” You murmur, before deciding against it. It probably isn’t the best time to test him. “I’ll try my best.”

It’s the first time you see him in casual clothing, which changes him – much like sleep does. Outside of his suit, he looks younger, on a pedestal closer to common man. A white t-shirt stretched taut across his chest, loose pants. Lighter colours, in complement to his bronzed complexion. 

Get a hold of yourself. 

“For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve managed to weasel your way out of responsibility.” He starts. Wrong, you want to say, because your breakouts have always been based on pure luck. “You threaten falling into floors, to phase through walls. Except, when we were trapped back on 15. You silently accepted our fate, despite having every means to prevent it. It’s telling, in my opinion.” 

You nod, already aware of what he’s getting at. “Sounds like you don’t need me to explain, so–” 

“You can’t control your powers, can you?” 

“Bit late in figuring that one out.”

“Then how’d you come about the day pass?” He presses, not so much questioning anymore.

As it stands, you have two options: 

To lie. It’s easy, natural after a full year of it. Your interrogator doesn’t need to know the truth if all he’s going to do is send you back, and with his newfound revelation about the nature of your abilities, it could prove advantageous to keep their full scope from his knowledge. You don’t owe him shit. 

That’s Wraith talking, of course.

The you you want to be, however, beckons for candour. There pervades the confessional once more, a box drawn around you, prompting you to relieve yourself of all your secrets so you can be cleansed. Religion – a fickle thing, but it feels right, here. 

Besides, who knows when you’ll be able to talk to anyone again. 

“I’m not… entirely sure.” Your frown tucks underneath your teeth, and you suck on your lip while trying to formulate a coherent answer. “It’s happened previously. It’s like a portal, except it’s invisible and appears on the irregular occasion. I was thinking of ho– my earth when it materialised by my hand.” 

His forehead creases, drawing in incredulously. 

“You can create gateways into other dimensions?” 

“Not quite. My working theory is that, somehow, the boundaries between worlds are thinning. I think I mentioned how my intangibility works?” He gives an affirming blink. “My atoms find the quickest way through something, so maybe they’re able to do the same through, ya know, the literal fabric of space-time.” 

It really does sound idiotic to put out loud. 

Miguel cups his face, rubbing away the weariness gathered in his wrinkles. There’s a plaster over the contusion on his forehead, overcast by rowdy tresses of wet hair. You do your best to suppress the image of him in the shower, steeling your expression into one of indifference. 

“That holds up. This started a year ago?”

“Yeah,” 

“There was a thing with a super-collider.” 

“A… thing.” The scientist in you cringes. Though, you have no room to talk. 

“All I’m getting from this is that, if I were to send you home, you could just high-tail out of there whenever the opportunity arises.” 

His distrust shouldn’t shock you as much as it does. You ponder the best way to go about this, yet your tongue betrays you, speaking before you can lasso it back under command. 

“In theory, yes.” You pause, waiting for it to sink in. “But I won’t.” 

Some grand gesture of faith that was, you imbecile. 

“Sure.” He stresses, unconvinced. 

Taking a step forward, you crane your neck to meet his eye. Patchouli catches the office draft, clouding your head until all that comes from you is unintelligible nonsense. 

“I’m sick of this game of cat and mouse. I don’t want to be the bad guy any more.” Your thunderous heartbeat drowns the effect of your proclamation. It’s hard to tell whether you come across as genuine or not. “All my life, I’ve only ever done what was wrong, what was selfish.” You rephrase his earlier reproach. “Let me be right, just this once.” 

Your conviction sways when he tenses. No; this doesn’t feel honest, not even to you. 

You want to be good. With all the fire of every star in this goddamn universe, blazing hot and colliding to expel devastation upon its neighbours. It shrinks up in your core, skyrocketing in temperature. It verges on explosion; a supernovae, life-giving. You want. You want. You want.

But, you’re afraid you don’t know how. 

“We can make a deal?” You offer, plummeting to new depths of uncertainty. A deal requires mutual credence; for every skipped vow, you’ll lose out on something too. “Let me stay, just until I learn how to be the hero you need me to be. After that, I’ll go home – I swear it. And you’ll never have to worry about me again.” 

He gives no blatant indication as to whether he’s seriously considering it. His head dips, and he turns his back to you, likely calculating collective factors to form the best solution. The way you perceive it, though – this elongated reticence:

He sees no other choice. 

chapter eight

follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs to be alerted of future updates!

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse #spiderman: across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara x y/n #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x you #spiderman 2099 x reader #x you #x reader #x f!reader #x y/n #fanfic #fanfiction #spiderman across the spiderverse #spider man: across the spider verse #spiderman: atsv #atsv #spiderverse #spider man across the spider verse

[the-broken-pen]

“You’re going to blow out your arms,” the villain observed. They watched as the hero merely grit their teeth, shoving themself through another pull-up. It looked painful, and if the sweat slicking the hero’s brow was any indication, it was.

They waited for the hero to let themself drop from the bar and accept the villain was stronger. But they didn’t.

Three more pull-ups, and the villain stepped in.

“Hero,” they said slowly. “You’re about to tear the ligaments in your arms. You need to stop.��

The hero blew out a shuddering breath. Struggled for purchase, fighting gravity—and let themself drop.

The hero’s hands were bleeding, calluses torn open by the bar. The hero didn’t seem bothered when their own hands shook so much that their blood began to splatter on the gym floor.

For a moment, the villain could only stare at them.

Shit.

They didn’t know how to handle this. They knew the hero was dedicated. They knew the hero was strong, and perpetually trying to be stronger, but they hadn’t thought…

They hadn’t thought the hero would be so willing to tear apart their own body for success.

It was supposed to be fun, the villain thought. They felt a little sick as the hero pressed their palms together to soothe the bleeding, an action that was practiced and familiar. As if they had done this before.

The hero reached for something in their bag, smearing blood on the side, and pulled out a roll of blue electrical tape. The villain didn’t understand why, until the hero tore a strip off and made to wrap their hands with it.

The hero would be the death of them.

They crouched in front of the hero, plucking the electrical tape out of their hands.

“What are you doing with this?”

The hero blinked at the villain like they were the strange one in this situation.

“Wrapping my hands?”

The villain hissed in a breath.

“With electrical tape?”

The hero flushed slightly, looking down at their bloody hands. They looked close to tears.

“It…sticks to skin, really well. And it doesn’t move, either, when you move your hands or wherever else, even if you’re fighting. Plus, blood doesn’t make it come off, at least, not for a while.”

The villain blinked at them.”

“Blood doesn’t make it come off,” the villain repeated, processing. The hero nodded, reaching for the electrical tape. The villain settled it out of reach.

“Not if you wrap it right.”

Dimly, the villain realized that meant the hero had done this enough times to have it down to a science.

“And you couldn’t use a bandaid?” The villain asked incredulously. The hero shrugged a shoulder, then winced at the motion.

Yeah, the hero had absolutely blown out their arms.

“Bandaids move—“

The villain hushed them.

“Be quiet for a second.”

The hero, wisely, went quiet.

The villain rubbed a hand over their face, then studied the hero for a moment. They took one of the hero’s hands into their own, studying the damage.

“Why did you do this to yourself,” the villain murmured.

“What do you mean, why,” the hero snapped. “It’s my job.”

“Your job is to save people,” the villain corrected. “Not destroy yourself.”

“I’m not destroying myself—“

“You are.”

“Shut up—“

“Hero.”

“I need to be better,” the hero snapped. Their voice rang out across the gym, echoing into the rafters, and they both froze. After a moment, the hero spoke again, voice soft. “I need to be better.”

They said it like they needed the villain to understand. The villain wondered who they were really saying it to—the villain, or themself.

“Better than who?”

“Everyone.” It was hushed, like a secret.

The villain watched them, waiting.

The hero took a shaky breath

“My whole thing is being the best. I have always been the best. That’s the only reason I matter. If I’m not strong enough, then I am nothing, so I need. to be. better.”

The hero had started crying, very quietly, like they were afraid to take up too much space.

The villain was not equipped to handle gifted kid burnout.

“There’s more to you than just being a good athlete,” the villain said hesitantly, and the hero shook their head.

“No. There isn’t.”

“Hero.”

“Can you give me back my electrical tape?” They hiccuped to contain a sob.

“No,” the villain said firmly, and then the hero really was sobbing.

“You don’t understand—“

The villain didn’t. Not really. They had never been the kind of talented that the hero was.

They wondered now if maybe that was a blessing.

“I don’t,” the villain agreed. “But I do understand that you’ve saved half the city, and you give everything you have to give, and you always do your best.”

“But I-“

“No.” The villain stopped them. “You are doing your best.” They tipped the hero’s chin up until they met the villain’s eyes. “And it is enough.”

The hero froze, eyes darting over the villain’s face. They wondered if anyone had ever said that to the hero, if whatever mentor they had was giving them anything other than orders to be stronger. Be better. Be more.

The villain had some new targets to take care of, it would seem.

For now, though, they had to take care of hero.

“We’re going to go wrap your hands,” they said softly. “And then we’re going to take care of your arms, and you’re going to take a nap.”

The hero nodded, watching them like they were some kind of good, selfless person.

“And if I ever catch you using electrical tape again, so help me, I will put you six feet under.”

That startled a laugh out of the hero, and they let the villain guide them to their feet.

“Fine.”

The villain turned to them. “Okay?”

Are you going to be alright?

The hero seemed to understand.

“Okay,” the hero agreed.

Yes.

And so, it was.

#writing #writing community #snippet #angst #heroes and villains #ficlet #writblr #writing prompt #hero/villain #hero whumpee #exhaustion #overworked #villain caretaker #whump #kind of #in case you’re wondering. yes you CAN do this to yourself. it’s completely possible #essentially what happens is if you do a motion (a pull-up) more than your body is capable #it gets mad. this is different from training till failure. this is to failure and then beyond #so while you started using the correct muscle groups you those muscles get tired and despite the tired you don’t stop #so then your body switches to muscles it SHOULDNT BE USINF and then you fuck up your elbows (in the case of pull-ups) #and then you can’t straighten your arms for a week bc the ligaments and tendons and all the little movement parts want to keep it curled in #I’m not a doctor #I’m just a gifted kid who was an athlete who got burnt out and destroyed her body lmao #this is possibly maybe based on true events that occurred #anyways. I’m not a doctor but you can use electrical tape on wounds. yes it sticks. yes it stays. it’s honestly very useful. #electrical tape > bandaids #do not do anything listed here it is BAD. do not blow out your muscles it hurts. properly clean ur injuries. I beg you. #don’t get injured at all #thank you to my friend who went “pull-up’ competition and then watched me create this angst #love u besties. drink water. go to sleep. summon demons. ❤️ self care

[idkfitememate]

Hello! I’m here to enter my thoughts for a deer! Creator! Reader in Sumeru! I know there’s tiger creator! Reader for Sumeru already but I feel like since nahida is so peaceful and kind she deserves an animal (even if only by isekai) buddy that matches her vibes because deer are usually symbolic with peace and stuff.

So deer! Reader starts out as a wittle ol’ fawn with gangly legs that they can’t seem to get the hang of at all. Teyvat helps their creator out with giving them food that they can reach out and nibble and it conveniently rains water in a small pool for reader to drink from. So they take the first few days easy trying to figure out how to stand and stuff. Everything is going well, all is peaceful and no one has tried to kill them yet. They could even stand on their stick legs for a full minute yesterday!

But that all changes when some sleazy treasure hoarders from Liyue decide they want to hunt for some easy grub as they smuggle expensive artifacts out of the nation. Sadly for deer! Reader, that means they want them on their dinner plates tonight. An odd choice, but right now you are easy pickings.

Teyvat is obviously not happy about this, so the rishboland tigers and birds near Gandharva Ville are trying to get Tighnari’s and Collei’s attention while small shrooms try and protect you. Though it is a slowly loosing battle.

Tighnari quickly realizes the wildlife is acting strange. His large fox ears help him pinpoint the problem and he rushes off into the forest with his bow. Collei quickly follows behind, although confused. They follow the roaring rishboland tigers to a secluded grove in the forest and find deer! reader an inch away from getting hit in the head with an arrow.

Both the tigers and the forest rangers are not happy.

Tighnari has no time to nock an arrow so he uses his dendro vision to slap the arrow out of the air. Deer! Reader is saved! The treasure hoarders are swiftly knocked out by Tighnari and Collei(with a few…casualties because of the tigers). They were going to be turned in to the authorities. But before they could do that, Tighnari and Collei had to figure out what to do with deer!Creator first.

They thought you were a normal wild deer that the rishboland tigers might have taken as one of their own by some miracle. So they tried to leave you be after they checked that you were unharmed but you were adamant about going with them.

You bleated and wailed pitifully, trying to stand on your thin legs only to topple over. Getting used to standing on four hooves was one thing but trying to walk was another. So you gave them your best baby deer eyes until Collei caved and tried to find an excuse to convince Tighnari to bring you with them.

She winged it and spoke about how your legs weren’t working properly. You weren’t standing and you couldn’t walk when it was obvious you looked a few months old. Maybe they should take you back to the village for better inspection?

Tighnari didn’t buy it but the sad look you were giving him with your droopy ears and (fake) teary eyes made him cave. He would break protocol just this once. He couldn’t leave a possibly sick baby deer all alone could he?

So he scooped your small deer body into his arms and set off for Gandharva Ville.

Little did he know you would refuse to leave his and Collei’s side afterwards.

—-

Sorry if it seems long! 😖 I just have so many deer! Creator reader brain rot ideas I want to share with you!

If it’s okay with you and no one else has taken it, could you call me 🦌 deer anon ?

Never apologize for a long ask! It shows your idea in the fullest and I love it! ૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა˖⁺‧₊˚

I’ll just pick up where you left off!

Now he had a deer in his office. Tighnari simply stared at your small body as you tried to stand. He honestly didn’t know why he allowed himself to take you.

(It was those stupid perpetually teary eyes of yours)

He stood and stared at you.

And you stared back.

And it continued like this for a least five minutes.

“… Mr. Tighnari?” Collei called out.

He only hummed in response.

“There are a bunch of Rishboland Tigers outside.” She said. And he sighed.

“I’m just going to assume it’s the ambush that was watching them. Just… inform everyone not to attack. They seemed relatively harmless and I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible.” He didn’t turn away from you and you didn’t turn from him.

“…Okaaayyyy then.” Collei said. She stared from the door before gently closing it.

The fox and the deer continued their staring contest.

Until you sneezed.

And threw your tiny head back, shaking your head with a surprised expression. You rubbed your nose a bit with your front hoof, your ears swinging a bit from the motion.

Tighnari suddenly understood why Collei was so keen to keep you.

Hehe little guy. While I think I’ll be keeping the Tiger!Creator cannon, I would adore to see more of Deer!Creator from you! Can’t wait to hear more!~ ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

Also fun fact! A group of tigers is called an ambush! But a mother tiger and her cubs is called a streak! ૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა˖⁺‧₊˚

#🦌Deer anon <3 #anon <3 #asks <3 #Deer!Creator

[matchadobo]

KIDD; the captain has an allergy!

wc: 2061 summary: kidd has an allergy, he's allergic to... you. warnings: afab reader, none, just dumb kidd who can't figure out his feelings while killer tries to compartmentalize the captain's head to sort out his feelings for you, just fluff, a bit suggestive but no nsfw, kidd rambling abt you that's it

something's wrong with eustass kidd. he reckons that he's fatally ill. he feels like he could die any second. his chest feels tight, his muscles feel tense, his vision hazy, his body temperature skyrocketing, and his body perpetually weak most times of the day. he wanted to kill someone, the next pirate king shouldn't be so frail!

"man, i-huff-i feel like i'm having a-huff-a heart attack." the redhead clutched his chest tight, discarding his fur coat off and tossing it somewhere in the blond's quarters. killer looked quite offended that his captain interrupted his knitting.

"what's wrong with you?" killer started as he watched his captain sit by the edge of his bed, taking his vest off as he tries gathering air. "not a fever perhaps?" he stood up and placed the back of his hand atop kidd's forehead, he seemed to be sweating coldly. "talk to me, kidd."

"can you- huff- can you get allergic to someone?"

killer looked at his best friend like he grew a another head. it took him a while to respond. he cleared his throat and continued. "sorry, kidd but... whatever the fuck do you mean?" he tried searching clarity from his captain's eyes as he tried racking his lacking-medicinal-terms brain.

"this is fuckin' ridiculous, alright mate? don'tcha dare laugh at me." kidd started, leaning his arms back behind him as they supported his weight. after taking in a deep breath, he continued. "i think i'm allergic to name."

killer tried stifling his laughter but failed, receiving death glares from the other. "oh you're serious, damn." the blond soon realized and cleared his throat. "how did you... arrive at that verdict, kidd?"

"to start: whenever that fuckin' woman's around, she always makes my stomach feel funny. like i'm about to puke rainbows and shit." he started. "i feel all hot and my throat goes dry, like cat got my damn tongue." he moved his hands around for emphasis, mostly towards his head and chest.

at this point, killer's not getting enough credit for stomaching whatever bullshit his captain brings upon him. he's thanking all the gods there is for his mask because he can't muster how contorted his face looks from the dumb shit his captain is spewing. the amount of times his best friend rambles incoherent drivel about you will send him to madness the next time he hears about them and not see any development. it's nonsense like these that makes him rub his temples and would rather physically punt kidd to make that boneheaded captain realize what he truly feels about you.

the blond stared at him with a grim aura around him, "the fuck are you staring at me like that for?!" kidd protested.

"do you not realize that maybe- just maybe- she makes you feel something else more than... just a fellow crewmate? like i don't know maybe fucking love?" killer tried tiptoeing, piecing it out for him. that is until kidd just blankly stared at him, blinking his eyes as he waits for a word that he understands.

"love?! pft, hell no, shit doesn't sound like me. and that's impossible, i am in hate with her." he shook his head, crossing his arms. "that's why she makes me sick all the way to my stomach. she's a witch i'm tellin' ya."

killer worried at how serious kidd was at that last bit, the redhead's brows furrowed earnestly as he clasped his hands together. "and you think these are all uhh- symptoms for your allergy?"

"not just those!" he interceded, fist slamming down the wooden table. the impact shaking the cup of tea killer had before this disaster walked in. "my chest, i can't breathe each time she's there. just like earlier before i came in, she walked pass me and then i feel like she casted some kind of stupid witchcraft and then i suddenly struggle to breathe...! have i told you that i strongly think that she's a goddamn witch?!"

"yeah, that's twice now."

"i can't eat, feels like i'll throw everythin' up once she sits beside me. and each time she does, her touch feels like i'm bein' stung. she'll walk up to me with that annoyingly beamin' smile and bright fuckin' eyes, i just end up embarrassin' my damn self if i associate myself even further..." he downed the rum in his hands, "there it is! i feel fuckin' hot again! that woman really-"

"what woman?" you suddenly came around, peeking at killer's quarters. kidd jumped at your voice, knocking over things from the table and immediately falling off his seat. killer could be seen with a hand buried on his face, well in this case helmet. you let out a laugh at your rum-drenched captain who was sitting bashfully on the floor.

despite that, you sauntered towards him and squatted down. you took your hanky and unfolded it, drying his hair and wiping the residue liquid on the rest of his face. "what dumb shit are you up to again, captain?" you tilted your head to get a good look at him, but he refused to meet your eyes. you sighed, realizing he was too embarrassed to speak. "well, pick yourself up cuz you look stupid. also, it's not good to see the future pirate king on the floor, don't you think? whatever, see ya." you stood upright, waving to the two men goodbye.

"kidd, you alright?"

"you're right. i'm in love, am i?" he looked up at his best friend, fisting his pants bashfully.

killer rested his chin by his hands with a sigh, "about time you fucking realize."

"that's fuckin' funny, how could i be fuckin' in love?! cuz i hate that she shuts me up cuz i think she's right most of the time. i hate that all that i see is her, every minute for every day. i hate how her eyes shine when she smiles. i hate how she looks at me with that much faith that i'd make it. i hate how she calls me captain and it messes with my fuckin' head, drivin' my chest abnormal. i hate how i constantly want to be beside her. i hate that i always think about where she is and what she's up to. i hate that i am dying to know if she feels the goddamn same for this helpless sack of fuck that can't even pull himself towards her!"

"damn." killer clicked his tongue. "you really are crazy for her, aren't you?"

"from the beginning of it all," he shook his head in disbelief. how can a woman, manage to weaken eustass kidd like this?! just how?! "but i doubt this'd happen, have you seen her and have you seen me? she's way out of my league." he picked himself up, padding his bum with dirt and wiping himself with that hanky you gave. your perfume mixing with rum on his hands.

"oh? humbling yourself, kidd? now, that's not like you." killer countered.

"i-i'm not!" his ears turned red just as fast as he shot out a response. "she's just..."

"too precious you don't want to ruin her?" killer finished, the shock in kidd's eyes proved his accuracy. killer stood beside his best friend and put an arm around his shoulder. "come on, kidd. i look at the two of you and all i see are a couple of hardheaded crooks from the same mould with the same attitude, same stubbornness, and same passion for their dreams. she's tamer than you yes, more intelligent yes, more emotionally aware yes, and much calmer than you yes. that's exactly why you need each other, she regulates your storms and you give her peace a little peril. and trust me, i've seen how much she craves for your danger."

that bit made something primal awaken within kidd, something that he won't be apologizing for once it reveals itself later.

"so go, kidd. get her." killer gave him a little pat on the shoulder and pushed him out his quarters. a sigh of relief as he finally sees the end of this farce.

kidd took a deep breath and went on a search for you. he went looking for you in almost an hour, only to find you in his workshop as you mused at his trinkets and creations. "name, i've been looking everywhere for you. the hell are you doing here?"

"jeez, a hello would be nice." you rolled your eyes. "i wanted to tell you something."

"that's crazy, so do i." he shut the door behind him. he saw the shift in your expression as you heard his statement.

"you can go first." you smiled, making his heart skip a beat again.

"nah, you go."

"i insist. go on."

"no, go ahead."

"captain, just spit it out."

"you spit it out."

"you were the one looking for me, you go first!"

"well, you're the first one who said you were gonna say somethin'!"

"you know what?! neverfuckingmind! i can't with your dumb, stubborn ass!" you walked pass him. that is until he impulsively grabs your wrist and puts you back in your initial place.

you felt your skin burn at his touch, sucking in a deep breath as you regulated your rhythms from his firm grip.

"stay." he announced, seriously this time. you got a good look at his face, the faint light of the lantern along the little window by the other side of the room illuminated his sharp features. his eyes glowing with earnest and the genuine

need to say something he seems to be keeping for a while now.

he got closer and closer until your bum met with his worktable settled at the other side of the room, your hands holding at the edges for support as he got precariously close. you looked away as to not make your heart explode, mustering something up to calm yourself down. "w-why are you s-so clo-"

"look at me." he raised your chin with his index finger, directly locking eyes with you. "you aware that you've been driving your captain fuckin' insane ever since you set foot in the victoria?"

you furrowed your brows lightly, looking for any sort of clue in his honey eyes. your mouth was agape, too lost at the situation and too aroused at the proximity between the two of you. "from the way you always oppose me on the littlest things as you measure up to my stubbornness and knock some sense into me, to the way you usher me on to my dream like my pocket-sized cheerleader." he started, hypnotizing you with the fiery burn of his golden orbs; honey swirls swimming in them. "i love you." he placed a kiss on your forehead, down to your nose, to each side of your cheek, before pausing and waiting for the green light to your lips.

"well?" he raised a brow, keeping a milimeter distance away from your lips you could choke physically.

"tease." you replied, pulling him by his collar as you two clash your lips against each other. you wrapped your arms around his neck and he did too around your waist. it went on for a while before you two pulled away to get some air, panting in each other's lips. "your breath stinks of rum."

"as if that doesn't off you." he smirked, playfully tugging at your lower lips between his teeth. "so, what were you gonna say?"

"that i'm nuts about you too." you kissed his cheek. "funny how this whole shit works, right?!"

he threw his head back as he laughed. "all this time i thought i was the only crazy one."

"well, you're not very good at hiding how you like me so much." you teased, poking his cheek.

"shut it and kiss me more." he changed the topic, growling as he nuzzled his face by your neck. grinning as he elicited a little moan from you.

"have i told you how much i love your perfume?" he sucked in a deep breath, buttering your jaw and neck with kisses as the red pigment from his lips spanned further across your skin.

"no i thought you hated it."

"that's code for love, you dumbass." he breathed in your ear, making you giggle. he littered your neck with kisses, reveling at the fits of giggles he kindles from you.

i took this idea from an ao3 fic i read abt todobaku aND I CAN'T FIND IT ANYMORE! but anw i thought it'd be a good idea to incorporate kidd into this hehe. FINALLY FLESHED OUT A FIC IN SO LONG WOO

#one piece #eustass kidd #anime #cha writes #manga #one piece headcanons #one piece x reader #eustass kid #eustass kidd x reader #eustass kidd headcanons #eustasscaptainkid #eustass captain kidd #eustass kid x reader #one piece scenarios #one piece imagine #one piece fluff #fluff #eustass kid headcanons #one piece x female reader #one piece kid #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #eustass kidd x y/n

[rory-multifandom-mess]

My Thad Headcanons

Because I'm so totally autism about him, you have no IDEA

.

.

.

I took this from a fic I read, but Thad runs warm. By this I mean his cooling system likes to malfunction every now and then and he has to throw himself into a bunch of icepacks until it works again. If he overheats, he’ll shut down so it systems can cool down much like a phone would

He's self conscious about his sharp canines, but not in the sense that he’s constantly thinking about it. It’s more like a “if i look at myself in the mirror and see my smile, I’m going to remember they’re there and be like ‘oh. that’s not right.’” Because of his insecurity with his sharp teeth, he refuses to go to the dentist

The fact Uzi had a crush on him before meeting N absolutely flew over his head (he’s stupid)

He likes girls AND boys

Ever since the fight with J and V in the pilot, he coughs up oil on occasion. Basically; Worker Drones are stupid and don’t know anything about their own anatomy, so instead of trying to fix the internal damage, they just welded his wounds closed, so now he’s just perpetually internally bleeding

He heals pretty quickly and has a high pain tolerance (entirely because he’s a sports player, and also he heals quick because of the fact he runs warm)

Sometimes he’ll get nightmares about the attack with V and J and also when Solver yonk’d his ass in episode 2. These fucked him up for a little while after and he couldn’t sleep very well, but they’re not as big of a problem anymore

His room is usually surprisingly neat and full of trophies and medals and other various sports memorabilia

Gets really competitive during football matches, but has really good sportsmanship <3 like he’ll be screaming shit during the match and then he’ll lose and to the other team he’s like “good job guys you absolutely rocked it out there, but we’ll beat you next time i’m sure of it >:)” he likes a lil friendly competition

Thad and Lizzy are twins but he’s younger than her by like 2 minutes. She teases him for this. In retaliation, he teases her because he’s taller (by 1 inch)

Sometimes they get in trouble for ‘bullying” each other, but every time they do, Lizzy just says “Siblings are fair game!” and Thad nods

I think he says “no problemo” a lot. He also says other silly phrases like "Okie Dokie Artichokie" and calling things "Rad" and ironically saying" tubular." Lizzy says "This isn't the 80's" and then he responds with "Well the 80s were sick as heck dude so I don't care"

He's a morning person

Listens to highly energetic songs without paying attention to the lyrics, so he’ll listen to the most like. Innapropriate songs without even realizing it just because they’re bops

Gets dating advice from Ron (the drone at the door from episode 2 for those who forget the bg characters)

Yk how people will throw food like popcorn into the air and then catch it in their mouths? yeah he’s really good at that

Sometimes when he can’t sleep he goes out and plays basketball by himself. tires him out so he can eep

Has a nice singing voice, but he doesn’t think he does (i’m projecting)

He doesn’t like to swear, but sometimes jokingly says “I will swear word at you” to his friends

If he’s holding something, he’ll start idly just flip it in the air and catch it over and over. subconsciously too, he just does that

He also plays Soccer and Basketball

Sometimes when someone grabs him unexpectedly, he’ll flinch a little (thanks solver). This usually only happens if he’s been spacing out or doesn’t see the person who grabbed him at first

Chill until someone messes with Lizzy. Then he will fight. Though she’s one of the popular girls so it doesn’t happen often

Weak to flirting; he gets flustered easily. Yet he’s a total flirt when he likes someone and is comfortable enough around them

I like to think Thad gets hurt a lot because he’s a fucking football player and usually he doesn’t get it fixed because it’s normal, but Lizzy and/or Uzi will yell at him to get it fixed because it could fuck with the strength of his casing

One time Thad said “Bite me” to Uzi and she just looked at him like a smug cat while he had a moment

Sometimes he’ll try to hide in his collar when he’s flustered (it never works)

He, Lizzy, and Doll were a trio of best friends (Until Doll's Solver infection started getting really bad and began distancing herself from the other two)

#murder drones #murder drones thad #md thad #thad #thad headcanons #murder drones headcanons #md headanons #headcanons #uzi doorman #murder drones lizzy #murder drones doll #serial designation n #serial designation v #serial designation j #murder drones solver

[henchy5824]

My newest project is a scene inspired by the #666 live on air series from the amazing @prince-liest Go check out their stuff!

Jazzhands

SO I've never done lighting before. I live in perpetual darkness. I don't know what light looks like, can't you tell??!

I've had to actively hype myself up to draw Alastor and I kept putting it off. The intimidation factor with the strawberry pimp is pretty high....

Alt version below

"something violently teal-colored", you say? "fluorescent purple cap", you say? Say no more fam ❤ Of course it would be Nuka-cola-quantum. What else is there?!

They both have a bad day, I feel like. Vox is wearing the most scraggly looking shirt that was not yet chucked in the laundry and he doesn't even care that it's buttoned unevenly. Val is on a date without him, after all.

Alastor has one of those bad hair days. He kept going through his hair all day. Not sure about the ghostly sensation of Vox scritching his ears the day before.

Also: I don't know why Vox would have pcb patterns on his arms on the outside of his body but the idea seemed hella sick, so I had to draw it.

So headcannon time:

-Vox would be the type to have the most designer- and bare-looking kitchen in the history of Hell. Velvette designed it for him and he didn't mind.

-He's got a Potoro Marble countertop and he uses it to eat takeout straight out of the cardboard box and microwave meals straight out of the tin they came in.

-If the appliance isn't fisher price-coloured, it's not VoxTek and therefore has no place in his kitchen.

-The most used appliances are the coffee machine and the microwave.

-He has more barstools but the only one he uses is the one Alastor is currently sitting on. Vox only lingers in the kitchen to scroll on his phone while his meals are heating up or the coffee is brewing.

-He does own a knifeblock and several high-grade kitchen knives but they are still in their packaging in one of the drawers under the counter. He only uses his claws to perforate his microwave meals.

-He does own pots and pans....somewhere.. They are also VoxTek branded.

-Of course he would choose the most retro-50s-looking wallpaper possible. It drove Velvette up the wall but he insisted.

Things I've learned while doing this piece:

-How to use colour swatches

-Being sensible about layers and which layers will interfere with others

-Using light gradient boxes and swatches (omg so helpful)

-Actually using a colour pallette

-The perspective tool!

-Creating a colour filter by applying opacity. (yea, as if I actually knew what I was doing!)

Thanks for reading my brainrot and sharing in my continued effort to draw somewhat adequately looking stick figures and badly lit settings!

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor #hazbin hotel vox #fanart #headcanon #666 live on air #my artwork #my art #vox #radiostatic #radio demon #tv demon #digital art

[amatorygirls]

GtN and HtN spoilers!! CW: talk of not having control over your body

just randomly thought of this now so excuse my incoherentness or possible ignorance or if anyone has said this before (this is also my first ever tumblr post so sorry for formatting errors), but i was looking at fanart of cytherea the first and just loving it. i realized there’s just something so baroque about her, and i think that’s on purpose. because she’s of the 7th house yes, the emperor’s joy and all that, but also because she’s a woman, and also because she’s dying. she’s expected to be beautiful because of her affiliation and her gender, all while she’s decaying from a disease that she was doomed to be born with and could never escape until it ultimately killed her. wilting away infront of everyone. and the ENTIRE time, she was given roses. roses, the pinnacle of beauty. every single rose she was given had a meaning, a life. and every single rose died. inevitably, wilting away infront of her. reminding her of her own fragile, ‘beautiful’ self. and even after she was dead, she was laid to rest drowned in roses that were modified to stay perpetually fresh, along with her body (i think) ((which of course john would do, after reading nona i’m not surprised)). not even eternally asleep could she catch a break. i think tamsyn muir was saying something here about how the ‘ideal woman is a dead one’. she is silent, still, and malleable. that’s what she pretended to be in canaan house. but i don’t think she ever could truly be. she was too angry. too enraged. also the fact that she became a lyctor in hopes she could be cured but just ended up suffering in a stagnant state of sickness for thousands of years, the fact that she was purposely given this disease. the fact that john LIED. lied to everyone. lied to HER. before her life, during her life, and after her life, things were done to her body without her informed consent. her cancer being almost prophetic, her unknowing improper lyctoral ascension, and the possesion of her empty shell of a body. (also it being used as a medium for pyrrha and wake is a whole other thing) she IS the rage of not having control over your own body. i think, ultimatley, that’s what her character is about. i mean, i’m pretty sure harrow stabbing The Sword™️ INSIDE her unwilling corpse was probably a metaphor or something…

“we take so much. i’m so sorry.”

(again i just thought of this thirty minutes ago so feel free to add anything 🙏) ((i also wonder how this parallels dulcinea and her life but it’s 1 am and i don’t feel like thinking anymore. but i think we’ll learn more about her in alecto.))

the art that inspired this was a beautiful cytherea and harrow drawing by pygmypouter on tumblr!

#the locked tomb #harrow the ninth #gideon the ninth #harrowhark nonagesimus #nona the ninth #tlt #tlt spoilers #tlt series #tlt brainrot #cytherea the first #cytherea loveday #gideon nav #dulcinea septimus #tlt analysis #tamsyn muir #sorry if i did anything wrong LMFAO #tamsyn you’ve done it again #alecto the ninth #palamedes sextus #camilla hect #locked tomb #tlt meta

[crucifiedramblings]

Fool Me Once — Dr. Gregory House x F!Reader (Part I)

Hello! This is my first Gregory House fic, I've been truly obsessed with this old man recently. No warnings for this chapter (edit: mention of pill abuse), but I will list full work warnings below.

Word Count: 789

Content Warnings: Angst, implied/referenced drug use & addiction, eventual smut, swearing, graphic depictions of medical gore

Next Part: N/A

            

The pills hadn’t been in House’s system for a few days— he would have to rebuild his Vicodin tolerance again. Nothing like a “V-Break” to get the same hazy punch as before— the name could use some work, though. House lazily looked at you through heavily-lidded eyes, his head dipping to the side to look at his own vitals on the small monitor to the right of his bedside.

            You had only been on House’s diagnostic team for a few days when he collapsed in the middle of a briefing. His toxicity screen showed a spike in narcotic levels, and you flushed his system while he was out. He argued that it was doing more harm than good, but you replaced the chemical with comfort medications until he had clean blood. Once it ran clear, and he was no longer dying— you practically spoon-fed his Vicodin right to him. 

            Maybe it was the sympathy— no, empathy— of being a former addict. Maybe it was the fact that you hated seeing House detoxing. Maybe it was because you knew how sick he must have felt. Whatever it was— it triumphed over any nobility you held as a doctor as you placed three white pills into House’s shaking hands with a reassuring smile. 

            House looked at you with an almost frazzled gaze, dry-swallowing the pills as if you were going to snatch them away if he took too long. You sat on a stool by House’s side, holding a small styrofoam cup’s straw to his lips. He gratefully sipped, a soft whistling coming from the lid as House greedily gulped down the frigid water. He gave you a nod, as if to say ‘thank you’ without the words ever leaving his mouth. You only nodded in response.

            House asked for your name, a raspy request given between sips and wheezes. You gave it to him, although skeptical he didn’t know the name of the newest hire on his team— House was a very thorough man in his decisions. He gave you a lazy grin, giggling to himself and eventually drifting off. At least the pills did what you hoped, giving House some much-needed rest. He looked so much more peaceful like that— no longer sporting a leaping forehead vein, teeth no longer bared— he looked at ease. Like he wasn’t in any pain.

            After several torturous hours— the ones that bled into days, which crashed down into weeks— House was cleared to return to work . . . although he technically never left, and was sure to remind everyone of such knowledge. He walked circles around his bed with a newfound vigor, having just replenished his fix for the morning. House’s limp was barely noticeable when he first dosed, and you were consistent in tracking how his decreased mobility affected his mood by the end of the day. 

            The truth was, you were used to House— but you were not accustomed to sober House— the version of himself that he hid away until he could take time off work. The persona that House barely allowed to see the light of day if unnecessary. The facade that reminded House too much of his father in a certain light. 

            You didn’t blame him— you used to be the same way— although he didn’t know that much from your file. He treated you like some brown-nosing geek, saving his life to look good in front of the new boss. House didn’t understand why someone would fight so hard to save him, and then hand him the pills that almost killed him in the same breath. You didn’t quite understand it either— maybe it was the words Wilson muttered by House’s bedside when he was still in a perpetual coma.

“I can’t lose you yet— fight it.” 

            Maybe it was the pang of hurt you felt at the sight of him when he awoke— dripping with sweat, pale, scratching at his own intravenous drip to make himself feel something other than the pounding of his head and the bile in his belly. Whatever it was— the semblance spoke to you well enough to place his own killer into his discolored palms. 

            It was worth it, the way House’s gaze lit up— he angled his head to the ceiling tiles and hastily, shakily swallowed the pills without any consideration. You almost took pity on him— that was, until he commented on your bust in your top. You smacked him with his own file, grateful to have the version of House you had come to know up and running again— regardless of how annoying that version may be. Your help remained unspoken, but in the following weeks, some distant glances and singled-out tasks would bring any tension to a head. 

#gregory house #gregory house x reader #slow burn #house md