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utterlyazriel · 4 months

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an eternity, my love

eep! this is a bit longer than the last at just over 6k forgive me... but thank so much for all love on the first piece 🥹 and thank u for all your lovely ideas! i hope this does sum justice to the nonnie who asked for further miscommuncation... <3 part one here but u don’t need to read it to read this :)

How does one even begin to decide what to wear to dinner with a person, the person, who matched your soul perfectly?

When your friend had hunted her way through clothing stores of Velaris and stashed away a custom dress — far fancier than anything you owned — for the first date with her mate, you had laughed at her.

Now, staring at your closet in only your undergarments, you were beginning to envy her preparation.

Seriously, how are you supposed to choose?

You pick up your latest addition to your closet, a glossy dress the colour of red wine that reveals the length of your legs and planes of your collarbones— perfect for a night out dancing.

With a grimace, you place it back on the hanger. It was far more scandalous than you would want to be on a first date, even though — well, you’re sure that, being mates, Azriel would like anything you wore.

You heave a sigh. An uneasy prickle beneath your skin has you crossing your arms; it was almost alarming how badly you wanted to impress him. But… mating bonds were rare and powerful.

Almost as if you had summoned it — in fact, maybe you had — there’s a soft shimmer in your chest. Your beautiful glow, the bridge between you and Azriel humming to life. In a way you can’t explain, it’s as though you can feel him soothe across your mind, his soft touch full of assurances.

He’s comforting you. All your emotions must be shooting down the bond without your permission. Gods, that would take some getting used to. You wonder if he can feel your resounding pang of embarrassment as well.

You do your best to push back something less nervous, more of your excitement for the night to come — and you know, without even seeing him, he’s smiling.

After another moment of fussing, you decide on something simpler than your glossy night dress.

Comfortable black slacks with plenty of flow to them and a shirt you thought was one of your nicer ones. With the slightest touch ups to your makeup, you rush yourself out the door before you convince yourself to change all over again.

The Sidra keeps you company, a rush of water beside you as you wind through the streets of Velaris, eyes flicking up to take in the darkening sky. The sun was sinking below the mountain tops, rays tickling across the ridges.

And while you could admit that Velaris was very beautiful in the daytime, you were a true Night court citizen— and believed its true beauty came out at night.

Somehow, despite the lack of concrete plans made as you had ushered the male out of your office, you knew resolutely that you would be able to find him. You weren’t even worried about the timing of it all. It was… what was the word? Absurd. Insane. Utterly, breathtakingly incredible.

Sure enough, as you exit the alley and round the corner, your eyes falling on the sage green building you reside in for work, there he is; waiting for you.

You inhale a sharp breath. A thousand cells in your body fizz, hum, and glow, at the mere sight of him.

It's easy to understand just how he had garnered his dark reputation, the image of him every bit of the Spymaster of the Night Court — a title like Shadowsinger has never been so fitting for him.

He’s blurred at the edges, a thousand tiny wisps that blend him into the shadows of the nighttime. His wings stretch up behind, towering over his already tall frame, black as ink, and beneath his darkened attire, you can spot his tan skin. Your eyes drag up his neck, tracing his adam's apple, along the scruff of his sharp jaw until you reach his hazel eyes.

Your heart burns.

In the depth of it, you know, if he doesn't love you, he will undo you completely.

It's wholly terrifying to come face to face with — the intensity of the mating bond scorching through your mind like a fierce wind, burning embers left in its wake.

It's enough to make you pause, the definitive thought that doing this, offering him your heart and trusting him, could very well lead to your ruin.

Your chest squeezes tightly. You let your eyes drink in the Illyrian, the Male who waited so patiently for all those years and was prepared to wait years more, if you had asked.

Focusing, you pluck up that golden thread in your chest and hold it tightly. It heats and melts, hotter and hotter, and you know that any fear you have, you can conquer to be with him.

Ruination be damned.

—

Azriel notices you the moment your frame exits the alley, notices the moment you pause — has been able to feel you drawing nearer to him this whole time. Your every emotion is transparent to him through the bond between you, whether you’re aware of it or not.

You must not have the tightened mental shields he had come to be so familiar with over all his years. It makes sense; you are no warrior. Mental walls over your mind are not something you have ever had to concern yourself with.

Azriel vows it to be one of the things he teaches you. You deserved the privacy of your emotions, at the very least.

But... for now, Azriel can feel them all. It's why, as you round the corner, Azriel can feel your eyes on him and then, then he feels it.

The wash of fear that spills over your bond like icy water.

An old enemy rises within him. He grits his teeth, even as he feels the fear from you slide away and he tries to ignore the sting from an unhealed wound. But self-deprecation never seems to drown, no matter how much he tries to suffocate it within him.

He shifts his hands, relieved suddenly to have them covered up beneath gloves. His wings tuck in tighter, if possible, and he wills his shadows sternly to contain themselves. Something in the slightest baring of his teeth has them obeying. They shoot to his sides and make themselves scarce.

All this in time to greet you pleasantly as you bounce into view, sidling up before him with a shy grin. It's only been a few hours since he got his proper look at you and yet, you're every bit as breathtaking as you were earlier. More so, in fact.

It feels as though Azriel has never seen the sky before and you before him, are the first sunset of his life. You look so pretty that Azriel could probably gaze at you all evening if you so allowed him to.

And then, he remembers the pang of fear.

He doesn't waste time mulling over which detail of him had made you afraid — only that he would dim or change or hide any part of himself to stop it from happening again.

"Hello, again," You say, your lips pressed together to contain your smile. You have to tilt your head back to look up at his handsome face. His shadows swirl around him and despite his strict instructions, one still slips away to touch you.

You don't notice it circling your ankle, tentative and shy.

"Hello, again." Azriel echoes your words, unable to help his own glimmer of joy.

He wants to offer you his arm, his hand. Can feel it within him, down to the very marrow of his bones, the craving to be closer to you, to touch you, however he can.

Azriel swallows heavily and does what he has done over decades, over centuries; he takes the wanting and pushes it down, down, down.

The two of you begin to walk, side by side, with no destination in mind. Aimless and content at the same time.

Azriel doesn't need the bond to see the flittering of nerves hidden in your expression. The shadow still circulating around your ankle climbs higher, like it wants to comfort you too.

Azriel wills it to still, desperate to not scare you again. He drops his shoulders from his usual warrior posture in hopes of making himself a little smaller.

“You don’t need to be nervous.” He says reassuringly.

You steal a glimpse at him, your smile breaking into a grin. Your nerves are still potent but less so.

“Who says I’m nervous?”

Azriel smiles gently, his eyes dancing across your face as he reads your lie easily. “I do."

There's a scrunch between your eyebrows then, like he had seen during his time in your office earlier. Azriel places a hand on his chest, over the place where the glowing tug is strongest.

"I can feel it.”

Your eyes widen slightly as you stare at his gloved hand, the cogs in your brain spinning and turning at a rapid rate. Still strolling, your hand rises slowly and touches to the same spot on your own chest. Azriel can feel his heart stutter at the sight, you holding the spot that connected you to him undeniably.

"You can?" Your gaze lifts to his face, puzzlement adorning your features. You frown and focus for a moment, staring hard into the distance — and Azriel feels a sudden twinge of disgust through the thread.

"Did you feel that?" You ask, eyes wide and curious.

Azriel nods wordlessly and he can't help but ask. "What is it you were thinking of?"

You look embarrassed for a moment, eyes averting to the ground. You chuckle awkwardly and tuck your hair behind your ears, glancing back up at the Male with a sheepish smile.

"Brussels sprouts."

Azriel blinks once, twice, and then has to turn to hide his smile. He tries to cover his laugh with a cough. It doesn't work, given how you make a small noise of indignation. He turns back, his politest expression on.

"Don't laugh at me!" You whine, reaching out to poke him in the shoulder. Your touch radiates through his body like a drop of golden sun, blazing warm.

"You're right," Azriel hums, his lips twitching as he presses back his smile. "My apologies, my lady. This is important knowledge I should be filing away. I swear on my life I will feed you no brussels sprouts this evening, or any in the future."

He wants to nudge your shoulder with his own, just to touch you, wants to reach out as easily as you had. But his shadows slip before his self-control does, skittering out along onto your shoulder and giving you a small shock and Azriel remembers himself. His fists clench tightly at his sides.

You walk side by side all evening, like two planets in orbit — close, oh so close, but never quite touching.

—

The first date you share is nothing short of… wonderful.

Resolutely and overwhelming good, the entire date you can't help but feel as though your very soul is singing, a thousand particles blithesome at the nearness you get to share with Azriel. He's surprising in a manner of ways.

Firstly, he's terribly quiet.

Next to him, you look quite the blabber-mouth, no matter how much he insists he enjoys it. His dark eyes are intense as they watch you closely, soaking in every word that passes your lips, and yet, beneath it, his dry sense of humour comes out to play. There's the occasional tease, almost as if just to see if he could make you flustered. (He could, easily).

With a Male as beautiful as him, suited to your very being in every way, it's nearly unbearable how much you ache for him. How much his very attention creeps down your neck and makes every nerve along your spine tingle.

You know it will take some time to get used to his unwavering and devoted attention.

There’s… just one small, itty-bitty, tiny problem.

He doesn’t touch you.

Throughout that whole first evening, you had noticed it somewhat— a flex in his gloved hands, a moment where his wing strayed too close only to be pulled back in a flash, even his shadows, darting out to be near you but never quite touching you as they had on that first meeting.

His hands reach out but they do not find you.

At first, you believed it was a first date thing. Azriel was, first and foremost, a gentleman, and you thought perhaps, his skirting touch, like his hand lingering over the small of your back but not touching it, was to be polite. Courteous and gracious.

Then, you had seen him just two days after that date, all bundled up in your giddiness that it had managed to slip your mind.

The two of you had spent the day together, traversing through the market — before you quickly found a quieter space for your mate as it became clear that large bustling areas, such as the Palace of Threads and Jewels, were not so suited to his tastes.

As you had tugged him out of the crowd, laughing over your shoulder at how he fought to keep his broad wings from knocking into anyone else, the thought suddenly snapped back into you.

Though you yearned to link his arm with your own, to interlace your fingers with his, you remembered his hesitance. Remembered the hover of his gloved hand.

And so, you dropped his arm the moment you cleared the crowd.

A hurt warbled deep within you to so do and knowing you were not the deftest at schooling your expressions, you hid your face so you could contain your childish reactions. You huffed at your own upset. What matter is it if your mate has no affinity to touch?

Truly, it was a miracle to have found a mate at all, you tried to scold yourself. You would not take him for granted for a moment, not even if it was not quite the picture of perfection you had envisioned.

Rooted deep in you was a truth; you could abide by this, abstain to his level of comfort for years, for millennia, if it made him happier.

The fabric of the mating bond, connecting the two of you intrinsically, made it so you would not want it any other way.

It's a decidedly Azriel thing.

He always wears the gloves, he never touches you more than he has to, and he's got... this really specific look when you're doing a terrible job of hiding your emotions.

As he had vowed, Azriel had set about teaching you how to build the mental walls up within your mind, brick by brick by brick. While it would help you hold against daemati if that loathsome situation should ever arise, it would also shield you from your mate.

It would protect you from having your emotions ripped out for him to see, no matter how much you held back — if it was in your mind, it would travel down the bond.

So, the wall had to be built. It had been tedious, tricky, and tiring work. Yet every time you would feel yourself ready to throw in the towel, Azriel would lean in closer, his hazel eyes softened, and his hand resting upon your arm, thumb swatching up and down, to encourage you.

"I know it is tiresome," He had mused, that faint smile twitching at his lips as you scowled at the ground. His thumb was still moving, still drawing light circles on your bicep. The skin beneath it blazed with warmth. "But it is worth it, that I can promise. You deserve this privacy, my dear. I would never wish to take it from you."

My dear, my dear, my dear— the words had sunk into your sternum and bloomed, bright and golden.

It's enough to hold onto, his kind affections. The sweet shape of his mouth when it says your name. The way his lashes kiss in the corner when he can't hold back his smile.

It's enough to soothe yourself over. To take the lack of touch on the chin and swallow down your desire for more.

It's why— why you can't help yourself— why you couldn't tear your eyes away from Azriel's hand where it touches Cassian's arm.

You're meeting his family today, which you've quickly realised doesn't mean his mother or father but instead means... the literal Highlord of the Night Court.

There are several warriors crowded around the cramped entrance room to the River House. Each of them is taller than you, and two of them with the very same huge wingspans that you've come to revere on your own mate.

Your usual talkativeness has been dimmed in your shock, though, really, it shouldn't be such a surprise. Azriel is a force to be reckoned with, honed over decades, and the Spymaster of the Night Court. You know these things. The company he keeps makes sense.

Somehow... still, seeing them all together leaves you strikingly speechless. The legion that protects your home — a family.

Rhysand greets you first, dapper in his dark attire, his violet eyes equal parts calculating and welcoming as he steps forward and offers his hand.

Despite the fact you have never bowed to him before, you still have to repress the urge. His power is overwhelming, the very night lapping at his edges and you're suddenly very grateful to be meeting him as a friend and not as a foe.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Rhysand's voice purrs out, soft as silk. When you place your hand in his, he brings it to his lips and presses a polite kiss to the back of your hand.

"Any friend of Azriel's is a friend of mine."

You can feel your own heart thundering in your chest. Azriel hovers behind you, his presence soothing in itself. You can't see it but his wings are outstretched towards you, cocooning around you ever so slightly. A shadow hovers behind your shoulder, just out of sight.

"I— the pleasure is mine, my Highlord." You manage to make yourself speak.

You almost wish you hadn't when your words inspire a burst of laughter from one of the others behind Rhysand, the other Illyrian. He's tall, his hair dark but longer than your mate's own.

As your hand is dropped, Rhysand turns to scowl at the Male laughing, and you only grow further perplexed when he gives a whack against the other's shoulder. They begin to squabble for a moment — and you don't even hear Azriel move until he's speaking, his lips right by your ear.

"You'll have to forgive Cassian." His voice is low, raspy in a way that sends a zing down your spine. You shiver lightly. "He can be well-mannered at the best of times. But I promise he isn't laughing at you."

The two Males seem to tune back into Azriel's words, even though they had been whispered for you specifically.

"It's true!" The Illyrian, Cassian you now know, pipes up. He brandishes a devilishly handsome grin at you, with his hands held up in defense. "I apologise. It just still makes me laugh to see someone address this one so formally."

You blink. "But... he is the Highlord."

Azriel speaks again, bent over still to talk in your ear, but much less of a whisper this time. "Rhys is our Highlord but he does not bother with such formalities."

"And," Cassian interjects, lugging a punch into Rhy's shoulder, much like the other had done to him not a moment before. "Before he was the o'mighty Highlord, he was our friend."

Cassian says the word o'mighty with such an air of sarcasm that you can't help but glance at Rhys, sure he wouldn't take such disrespect. But around you, there are only easy grins.

"Might we move to somewhere more comfortable than the doorway," Azriel speaks up from behind you, his voice dry. "Unless that is, you're all hoping to do one-on-one greetings with her?"

There it is, the dry sense of humour you've come to adore. The group before you seems to grumble, as if they were quite keen on the one-on-one meetings but begin to move through the house.

One of the group dips back to walk beside you and you do your best not to repeat your past mistakes, even as your eyes widen almost comically. Azriel chuckles silently to himself, feeling your polite astonishment down the bond.

"It's so great to finally meet you.” Feyre, your Highlady greets you, her pretty face rife with glee. She seems genuinely very happy to make your acquaintance. "Azriel has told me all about you."

You stumble in surprise, your eyes casting back to Azriel behind the pair of you. His eyes are fixed on Feyre, narrowed at her blatant betrayal, his shadows swirling around him. She sticks her tongue out at him playfully and you smother a laugh.

When his eyes shift over to you, you're positively delighted at how his cheeks have turned the lightest shade of ruby.

"Feyre is very persuasive when she wants to be." He murmurs, almost grumbling. You turn back to the Highlady and she grins at you, devious and captivating all at once.

It’s a whirlwind once you reach one of the many living rooms, each member of Azriel’s family all very eager to shake your hand.

Cassian grips it firm, his grin still on the side of wicked as he tells you he’s been waiting years to find the woman who could contain Azriel. Nesta, his mate as you find out, is a fierce kind of pretty with a grip as strong as Cassian’s. She tells you welcome to the family with the smile of a shark.

Morrigon is next, breathtakingly gorgeous, and every bit as charismatic as Azriel had described. You don't catch the glimpse between Mor and Cassian, not the beat of relief they both feel at your arrival in their lives— in Azriel's life.

It's swallowed up in her words, going a mile a minute. She jumps about, like popcorn in a pan, overly keen to finally speak to the one whom the Mother deemed worthy of Azriel’s heart. Where are you from? What do you do? How did you meet?

“Mor,” Azriel warns, after her twelfth consecutive question about your life. He hasn’t moved from his protective position behind you, close enough you can feel the heat of his body. His wings had brushed your shoulder just once.

“Yeah, Mor,” Rhys jeers. He nudges his cousin in the side playfully and Cassian snickers behind the group. “Give the girl some time to breathe.”

Even with all of Azriel's masterclass on who you would be meeting, it's still terribly overwhelming just trying to keep track of them all. They're each such strong spirits, each with seemingly a thousand battles in their past and far more years with Azriel.

On top of this is the fact you met both your Highlord and Highlady so casually in one single afternoon. It's difficult to not be daunted by the group that is so clearly intertwined with each other on a deeper level altogether— bonded by devastation and choosing each other through love.

Try as you might, you can feel the seed of doubt, of insecurity, make a home between your ribs.

You clamp down the shields you've spent the last few weeks learning, building the wall up and holding it tight. It's silly to feel dismayed because these Fae, these friends, know your mate better than you do.

Azriel had told you he had been waiting for you for five hundred years. For the first time since you've met him, you wonder if he was ever disappointed.

And then— then, you see it.

Azriel's hand on Cassian's arm. Then the half embrace they share, a hand on each other's neck as Cassian grins, wild and fierce, and presses his forehead against Azriel's own; brothers, sharing a moment of euphoria at the other finding his long-deserved happiness.

You should be soaking in the smile Azriel hides from you too often, showing his teeth and crinkling his eyes. But instead, you can't see past it, can't stop the loop in your own mind as it prints a fact over and over and over.

It isn't an Azriel thing; it's a you thing.

He doesn't touch you.

The mental walls in your mind feel paper-thin as a fresh kind of agony ripples through your chest. The soft rejection of a mate stings, a papercut on your very heart. You can feel it warble through you and know, terribly, the exact moment that Azriel feels it too.

His head whips around, his dark shadows that surround him suddenly spinning and flitting faster than before— a couple dive across the room to you.

You stand up and the chair scrapes noisily beneath you.

"I—" You say before you realise you haven't planned an exit or an excuse in the slightest. Azriel's gaze burns into you. You turn to Feyre instead, who had been talking across from you when you rudely stood up.

"I'm so sorry, I just—" Some excuse, any excuse! "I think I— left the stove on."

It's a lie. A complete utter lie that fools no one in the room as you retreat from it hastily. None of them try to stop you though, which you're thankful for. Each of them watches, every expression slightly concerned as you hurry out of the room, your feet walking backward rapidly until you bump into the door frame.

You pass through it with your eyes on the floor, knowing that all of the eyes are on you. You know the ones you can feel searing into your soul are Azriel's.

You leave the River House. You walk along the Sidra, your steps hurried and your chin tucked low. It hurts. It hurts the feeling inside you. A tear streaks down your cheek, unbidden, and collects on your jaw. You wipe it away meanly.

The sight of your apartment door is an overwhelming comfort, one that has you sighing aloud as you rush up to it, your fingers already digging around in your pockets for your key.

And like always, you never hear him coming.

"What happened?" Azriel asks, his voice almost pained.

You give a little yelp of surprise and whip around, remembering half a second later that there's still evidence on your face of your tears. Azriel grows characteristically still, his hazel eyes fixed on yours as you sniffle for a moment, aggravation beginning to creep in.

He could feel everything from you and you got... what? Whatever he deemed fit to offer? How is that fair?

His usually wispy shadows are inkier than usual, almost tornado-ing around his shoulders. They keep leaping out towards you before being caught in an invisible net, a barrier between you and them.

Even as Azriel remains motionless, his eyes are the opposite—they jump around, searching, hunting, begging to find the cause of your pain. Had it been one of his friends?

"Please," He tries his words again.

His heart throbs painfully when you finally find your key and turn your back on him without a word, unlocking your door and pressing your way inside. He follows quickly, wings tucked in tight, unable to keep his shadows at his side this time. They whiz to you, circling your ankles protectively.

"Please," Azriel says, an anguished growl to his words. "What hurt you? I will— my friends, if they said something— if it was someone, I hunt them down and make it right for you."

You inhale sharply and when you speak, your tone is cold in a way you have never used before with Azriel. You say the words without thinking.

"It would be impossible to hunt yourself, Azriel."

Regret howls through you like a hurricane the moment you say the words. You don't mean to be mean, jealous, or whatever unseemly emotion you can't stop from sprouting in your chest, growing in size, tangling into your heartstrings like twisted gnarled vines. It hurts.

You turn back to him, mouth open. No words come out.

Hurt is slashed across his face, his eyebrows furrowed tightly, his shadows tucked in tight. It's as though he's blended into the very air, the wispy edge of him threatening to retreat into his own shadows.

All his emotions on display just for a moment, before they're schooled away. Tucked away, hidden, not for you to see.

Inside, your hurricane howls again, this time in pain.

You can tell he feels it, even as you mentally gather your bricks. It isn't fair. How can he have every bit of you and you get what he pleases to return?

You want to know him completely, want to see every part of his rugged, weathered soul, and love him anyway. It's an untold type of agony to have him deny you.

"My love," His feet finally move, his wings almost dragging on the floor as he steps forward, slowly, as though he was afraid he might spook you.

"Tell me how to fix this pain." He pleads. His gloved hands are held out, palms up and suddenly, he looks nothing like a warrior. Just a Male, afraid of losing what is most dear to him. You shake your head, like a child, and keep building your brick wall.

"Please don’t keep this from me," He takes another step forward, his shadows sent awry as they dart across to you. You can feel them on your calves, on your arms, feel the tiny kisses they leave. Azriel speaks again, voice low. "My love, I can feel your pain.”

You can't help how you screw your eyes closed, the ache in your chest unbearable— made worse when you know he can feel it too.

"That is my problem." You utter the words quietly, eyes still clenched shut, knowing he can hear you. He takes another step, close enough now that you can feel the heat of his enormous frame, his wings bracketing around you. "I cannot hide anything from you."

Azriel makes a noise, a punched-out wounded sound that reverberates down the bond.

"My love," He murmurs for the third time. Down the bond, you can feel his sweet love, his golden gentle feelings travelling along to assure you. "I would not wish for you to hide anything from me."

“But you hide everything from me." You whine, eyes finally crinkling open. Azriel stares down at you, his eyes softer than they've ever been. You can see the hurt swimming in them, the hurt you've caused. Still, you speak.

"You hide your emotions. You hide your touch, yet you give it willingly to your friends." You share each ugly thought with him, whispered as you gaze into his face to search for your answers.

Lifting your hands, you curl your fingers around his wrists tentatively. Azriel swallows heavily, his eyes dancing down to where you're touching him. You slide your hands forward, dragging the pads of your fingers over his pulse, along his palm, til your hands are holding his gloved ones.

"Is there some test I don't know about?" You ask, your focus on your intertwined hands. "Is there— do I have to earn this?"

"No," Azriel chokes out the word suddenly. You look up at him. He clears his throat and you feel his hands grip yours back, surer and stronger than you had. "No, I'm sorry. There is no test, nothing to prove you deserving of this. I just..."

His words trail off and you watch as he closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if gathering his courage. His hands slide from yours, pulled backward and you nearly feel the urge to cry once more— before you realise he's removing his gloves.

The skin of them is warped, you realise acutely with horror. The skin of his hands is swirled and mottled, an injury long healed but scarred for eternity. Azriel is watching your face closely, holding his hands close to his chest as though he was prepared to hide them away at the first flicker of fear.

You're grateful for the link between and all your shoddy attempts at blocking him out. Your love and your unwavering devotion drifts along the bond.

Azriel shudders, his wings giving the tiniest shiver. Slowly, gently, he reaches out towards you. You feel his hands, the unruly scarred feel of his skin sliding along your jaw to hold it tenderly. He has never held you like this before.

He cradles your face gently — like his hands have never held weapons of war, like they aren't twisted and marred with a memory he can't forget, like they're worthy of holding something so precious.

Azriel holds you as if you're holy — and he's come to kneel at your altar.

"I was afraid of what you would think." He admits. His voice is hoarse, gravelly as he fights off the lump in his throat. "I— on the first day we met, I felt your fear along the bond and—"

"It was not of you." You interrupt him, your hands jumping up to cover his own where they hold you. Azriel inhales sharply, eyes darting to watch.

But you pay him no heed, the palm of your hand covering his like a lover would. You let your thumb soothe up at down the ridges of his skin. You let your love ripple along the bond.

"It was not fear of you, Azriel." You repeat, your voice soft. His eyes are still fixed on your joined hands. His wings have begun to pick up, no longer drooping behind his back— you're not sure if he even notices.

"It was fear for how strongly I already felt for you." You lean into his hand and Azriel lets you, lets the length of your nose nuzzle into the touch of his hands — something no one in all his years of living had ever done before.

"It was fear that you already could ruin me," The words are murmured. "And that I would let you."

You whisper his name to pull his wide-eyed gaze from where his hands touch you and his hazel eyes burn into yours. Every whitened scar on his skin, every eyelash, the adorable pinch between his eyebrows; you drink it all in and smile at him. Azriel, your mate.

"Azriel, I chose this despite that fear. I choose you.”

Azriel quivers at the words, at your unflinching tone and suddenly the world seems such a perfect place, time moving around you, untouching, with such a perfect grace.

“I choose you too,” He murmurs, an emotion so strong a fire of possessiveness streaks down the bond. This time, you can feel his wall melt away, allowing you access to all he feels — his mountain of fear and his melting relief.

“Forgive me—” He begins and you laugh without meaning to, cutting him off.

“Stop,” you say, the word light and as pretty as your grin. “We keep doing this to ourselves, tying ourselves in knots over and over.”

Azriel laughs, his lips twitching into a smile as he allows himself to stroke his thumb lovingly over your cheek. The way you melt beneath it, your lashes fluttering and heart burning so brightly he can feel it in his own chest too— Azriel knows this longing will long outlive his body.

“We do,” He agrees. He dips his head a little lower, probably the only apology you’ll let him have, and inhales shakily. His hands shift across your face, down to hold your chin, his fingers pressed together tightly to hide the way they quiver.

“Then let me apologise in another way,” He murmurs, his voice closer to playful. “In a way I’ve been selfishly depriving you of.”

And when he kisses you, it’s with a reverence that softens all your corners.

His lips are plush and sweet, and with the way he dedicates himself to your bottom lip, you can’t help how you sigh into his mouth. He finds home in the curve of your mouth.

It’s delirious the way he kisses once, twice, three times like he’s hungry for something found only in your lips.

Your hands stagger forward, leaving his own to wind over around his neck. Your fingers curl up, raking through the hair on the nape of his neck — feeling the shiver that travels up his spine, his wings giving a little flare out.

He kisses you breathless, one hand abandoning your jaw to wrap snugly around your waist, bringing you closer to him.

When he pulls back, something within you glows molten gold at the panting that leaves his lips. He’s gazing at you, his hazel eyes alight in a way you haven’t quite seen before. His wings shift behind his shoulders, curling forward to wrap the two of you together, not quite touching.

Your heart thrills. You grin, your lips still just an inch apart as Azriel nudges forward, his own twitching in that way when he fights his smile. His lips brush yours, his smile barely held back.

“Have you forgiven me yet?” He says, sweet and low, allowing the smile to finally pull his pretty mouth up at the corners.

“Or should I make it up to you a little more?”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, chaste and gentle.

“Mmm,” your eyes are bright as they peer up at him, full of playful mirth and adoring affection. “You're forgiven but... I think you should make it up to me, just a little more.”

Azriel willingly obliges, his smile as sweet as the moonlight.

—

some people i thought might want to be tagged :)

@strangerstilinski @astoriaviviane @lana08 @florence-end @lportes-22 @torrick17 @florencemtrash @sidthedollface2 @seafrost-fangirl @goldenmagnolias @jeweline16 @meshellexplosionmurder @michellexgriffey @susiekern @toobsessedsstuff @fxckmiup @littlebookbengal @elenapril0502 @glitterypirateduck @hnyclover @technoelfie @itsapunklife @coffeecares

#it got very long... i'm sorry!#we can't talk about bad miscommunication and then me not set up valid reasons for miscommunication tho #i can't DO IT #azriel a big softie in this one...#i mean he always is :)#azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger x reader #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #azriel acotar #acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel hurt/comfort #miscommunication #idiots in luv <3 #i need a writing tag.....

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cinnaminsvga · 2 months

Text

Harana | Jungkook

harana (n.): the act of wooing someone by serenading them

→ summary:

Unwilling to settle down with you after five years of dating, Jeon Jungkook decides to break up to chase after his dreams. In the aftermath, you leave your hometown, desperate to forget your past and relearn what it means to be on your own. Two years later while on your way to work, you pass by a familiar voice singing songs about a girl he had left behind.

{or alternatively: Jungkook still sings the love songs that he wrote for you. He still means them, too.}

→ genre: busker!au, exes to lovers, angst, humor → warnings: jimin is insane and kinda crude (he has some issues going on), jungkook is a pathetic wet bunny but he's trying his best, oc has So Many Problems, so much arguing and yearning, ambiguous ending??? but my god there is hope!! the humanity of it all!! → words: 16.1K → a/n: HOLY SHIT IM BACK (kinda) and happy new year!! yeah ok its march but im relearning how to form coherent sentences so be patient ;w; this is the first installment of my hfoh series that i teased a LONG time ago... i made it a resolution to complete this series by the end of the year before i kms (Keep Myself Safe) so here's to a brand new year :D (oh god @ universe pls be kind)

part of the “heart full of hugot” series

Two days before the incident, your shower nozzle decides to explode.

Okay, you have to admit that statement is a little misleading. Shower nozzles, in all its nonsentience, do not randomly decide to explode no matter how much you try to defend yourself to your landlord. Maybe your grip had been a little too harsh that morning, or maybe hanging 5 pounds of hair products on the handle had been a bit too much for the old sport to handle. Or maybe, just maybe, the universe was warning you about the incident.

Whatever it was, it doesn’t erase the fact that your shower would be out of commission for the next week or so (though your landlord seems adamant about prolonging your suffering as long as possible). Until then, you’re going to have to find some other ways to keep the grease and grime from building on you. Heavens know that you already have a thriving ecosystem living in the back of your couch—you don’t need another one growing under your armpits.

Lucky for you, you have friends. More importantly, you have friends who have showers. There is one problem though—all your friends live on the other side of the country.

It’s been two years since you moved to the Big City™️, but you have done little to grow your social network. Call it introversion or depression, either way, you have no more contacts on your phone than you did when you left your hometown. Well, except for one person, if you could even consider him one. Frankly, you didn’t have a choice.

“Welcome to my humble abode, stinky,” Jimin greets you as you enter his house. Your nose is instantly assaulted by the smell of Bath & Body Works® Sweet Pea, reminding you once more why you didn’t consider him a friend.

“Hey,” you reply gruffly, shucking your ratty shoes near his entrance. Your shoes look incredibly out of place amidst the sea of designer Chelsea boots and a singular pair of thigh-high heels. You take a glance at his living room, already feeling worse about yourself tenfold.

You had met Park Jimin by complete accident, much like how his mother probably felt when she first saw him too. You had never known anyone quite as… interesting as him, to put it lightly.

When you got your job as a hostess for a luxury bar and restaurant, you figured you wouldn’t make many friends with your coworkers. Everyone was so… pretty, but in the shiny, untouchable sort of way. Almost all of the servers were as gorgeous as the models you’d see in magazines. You hadn’t known that the owners only hired a certain “demographic” of people for their restaurant, and you were equal parts flattered and disgusted that you’d somehow made it (though you suppose your bullshitting skills were all to thank).

Unsurprisingly, even the bartenders were gorgeous, including one Park Jimin. He did have an aura to him that screamed “I’m a cut above the rest and I know it,” but that could just be the gold chains dripping down his neck. You almost mistook him as one of the patrons who mistakenly made his way behind the bar, and knowing the sort of clientele you’ve had to deal with so far, you wouldn’t have been surprised. It took a couple of weeks before you finally found out who he was (and what his fucking problem was).

Jimin was a part-time bartender with a full-time job as a bitch a self-made entrepreneur. Which is to say, he sold… tasteful photos of himself on the internet. You had nothing against his line of work. In fact, you would go far as to say you didn’t give a shit what he did outside of your shared workspace. But if there’s one thing Jimin is, it’s that he hates being ignored.

So when you were adamant about not oohing and aahing at everything that makes Park Jimin perfect, he made it his self-appointed mission to befriend you. Or at least that’s what he claims, but given how he treats you lesser than the shit that cakes his cheeks, you have a lot of doubts. Perhaps he’s never made an effort to make a friend, hence his inexperience with being a decent human being. Or perhaps he’s just an asshole, but who is to say? The point is: he’s the only person you knew in this godforsaken city who would likely allow you to use his shower without being awkward about it and that’s that.

The worst part about being an acquaintance with Park Jimin was that he lived in the richest area of Downtown but he wasn’t old money, that’s for sure. His entire essence screamed overconsumption, and his myriad of little trinkets littered across his apartment confirmed your previous assessment. You wouldn’t be surprised if you opened his freezer and found ten types of ice sorted assorted by color and shape like the extra bitch that he was.

He made his money through sheer force, and it would have impressed you if he wasn’t, you know. Him.

“Bathroom is over there. I placed a towel and other shower amenities that you can borrow,” he says pointing to a door with a large “FART ZONE: ENTER WITH CAUTION” sign taped to it. You don’t ask.

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You wait patiently for his out-of-pocket comment.

Like clockwork, Jimin smirks. “Sure thing. I gave you the super heavy-duty stuff. Figured you’d burn a hole through my expensive towels with how stinky you are, with your yeasty cu—”

“Aaaand I’ll be done in a few minutes. Thanks again Jimin,” you interrupt, making your way to the bathroom and slamming the door with as much force as you can muster. You hear something fall as the door shuts, and you vaguely hear Jimin mutter something about his “fart zone” signage.

You begin to prepare your shower routine, humming lowly as you go about your business. You try to ignore the suffocating scent of ten million diffusers entering your nostrils, wondering for the umpteenth time if Jimin is suffering from long-term olfactory dysfunction.

“Focus, Y/N. The quicker you shower, the quicker you can get the fuck out of here,” you whisper to yourself. However, in your haste, you knock over Jimin’s towel by accident. When the towel falls, a sheet of sandpaper slips out from underneath it, and you stare bemusedly until it finally hits you.

“YOU ARE SUCH A LITTLE BITCH!”

From behind the door, you can hear Jimin’s infamous cackle. “Did you find the loofah? I got it just for you, darling!” he shouts back through his laughter, and you just grumble back in response. How on earth no one has strangled him to death, you have no idea.

“Whatever. I’m gonna shower now! Go beat off or whatever the fuck you do in your spare time,” you grouse, stripping as quickly as possible.

When the first droplets of water hit your body, you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. You had both anticipated and dreaded going to Jimin’s house, but you desperately needed the shower. So you go through your routine, trying to find some semblance of relaxation throughout the process. However, it seems that Jimin was yearning for a little bit of attention as he chose to recline on the other side of the door and chat your ear off. Peace was never an option, it seems.

“Hey, Y/N! So why haven’t I seen you at work recently?” Jimin hollers from his living room. Despite the wall separating you, his voice manages to retain its volume.

You squirt a large glob of Jimin’s (expensive) conditioner onto your hands. “What do you mean? I go to work every day. You were the one who hasn’t been clocking in.”

You can hear Jimin scoff. “Um, correction! I went to work last Friday, which so happened to be your day off. If I didn’t know any better, I would have assumed you were avoiding me.”

And right you are, you think. But instead, you say, “Yeah, what a coincidence. I’ll be back to my regular schedule on Monday, though.”

“So that means you didn’t see the Justin Bieber wannabe stationed outside the restaurant then?” Jimin asks, voice miffed. “The guy suddenly sat down by the entrance window and a whole damn crowd started to appear! The absolute nerve of these people—don’t they know Park Jimin was just past the doors?”

This provokes Jimin to go on his long epic soliloquy, which you’ve learned to drown out over the past two years. He could go on hour-long tirades if he wanted, and any interruption from you would just bounce off his nonfunctioning ears. And so, you allow his voice to fall to the back of your mind, similar to white noise if it wasn’t so grating.

However, this was likely your greatest mistake. If you hadn’t been so exhausted, or if Park Jimin hadn’t been so damn annoying all the time, or if the stars had aligned just right… Maybe you would have been forewarned about the incident. It’s as if the universe was screaming at you to pay attention, but alas… You were standing on the proverbial highway, unbeknownst to the incoming traffic because you had your metaphorical AirPods on.

So there you are, completely showered but none the wiser to your impending doom, naively looking to the future with unsuspecting eyes. Even if you had known of what was to come, would avoiding it even be possible? In hindsight, you suppose not, but you still kick yourself for being so blind. If only you’d steeled your heart, then maybe you wouldn’t have felt like vomiting in front of a crowd of innocent bystanders the very next day.

xxx

Monday comes and your shower still isn’t fixed. Jimin makes the benevolent gesture of allowing you to use his shower in the meantime, though you’ll only partake in his offer as minimally as possible. He does mention that he’ll need at least an hour’s notice, warning you about “accidental voyeurism.” You shudder to think of what sort of horror you might find if you did visit him without warning, and you pray for the continued well-being of your retinas.

On your way to work, you’re too busy watching cute videos of animals to notice the unusual flock of people idling close to your workplace. When you get closer, however, the growing commotion is enough to rip your gaze away from your phone, and the sight of the large crowd makes you stop in your tracks.

It is 4 pm and the usual line of waiting patrons should not start piling up for another three hours, so this confuses you more than anything. You shuffle closer, squinting at the crowd until you notice that they aren’t lined up at all; instead, they have congregated into a large circle, but you are too far to see what they are surrounding.

An accident? You worry, wondering if something terrible happened. You tiptoe above the heads of people, subtly moving forward to take a better look. Curse you and your curiosity. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself to see something grotesque or astonishing, but instead…

It’s worse.

Inching closer, you can begin to hear a soft thrumming of a guitar and a gentle singing voice that causes alarm bells to ring in your ears. The warm melody digs up old memories of a time long past: of ballads sung outside your childhood bedroom window, of promises whispered under Spiderman sheets, of tender caresses tucking stray hairs behind your ears… They flood your senses, but all you can feel is dread.

It can’t be who you think it is. You accidentally elbow a guy on your way to get closer, unsteadying his grip on his phone.

“Hey, watch it! I’m filming a totally not-staged TikTok over here!” He yells, but you can hardly pay attention to him when you feel unnaturally drawn to come closer, still.

You’re nearly at the front, with just a couple of teenagers standing between you and the (not-so) mysterious street performer. But the distance is enough, and your breath catches. You can see him—

Black hair partially hidden under a bucket hat. Boots bigger than Pangaea and a pair of eyes equally as large. Dark ink snaking down his arms, peeking out from under oversized sleeves. Piercings that could rival Park Jimin on a good day. He isn’t facing you, but you can still see his big doe eyes, gentle sloping nose, and pretty lips stretched into a handsome smile.

Your heart is thundering in your chest. This can’t be happening, you panic. After two whole years of rebuilding and reshaping yourself, relearning how to be yourself and not… not just his girlfriend.

Jeon Jungkook stands before you, busking in front of your workplace of all locations. The universe could not have been any crueler to you.

You—you had been known as nothing more than Jeon Jungkook’s high school sweetheart. Buried memories of snide comments from jealous teen girls fill your mind, reminding you of the time when you were coined a simple side piece to the main attraction. Decor, as they would call you. Nothing more than a girl who happened to snag Jungkook before people realized he was going to turn… hot. A hot guy who could sing. An inevitable chic magnet, as they would call him.

And now, years later after much therapy and soul searching, your worst nightmare is standing in front of you in the flesh. This is what you will eventually dub the incident.

At that moment, however, there is little to no time to dwell on naming this ongoing core memory. All you can feel is the adrenaline pumping through your veins, as well as the nausea rising up your throat. You stumble backward, blatantly shoving onlookers away as you struggle to find some air to breathe. In hindsight, you probably should have backed away as subtly as possible, but you hope that your dyed hair might be different enough that Jungkook wouldn’t know it was you if he had glanced your way.

Even when you stagger towards your work establishment, the walls cannot perfectly muffle his soothing singing. You can’t make out the lyrics to his song too well, but his unmistakable voice is hard to ignore. Working as a hostess, your station is also coincidentally as close to the door as possible for maximum torture.

This can’t get any worse, you think as your mind races with conflicting emotions. You thought you had moved on, thought you were past the pain and the memories, but seeing Jungkook again, unexpectedly, stirs up a storm of feelings you thought were buried deep. Anger, hurt, betrayal—all rush to the surface, threatening to overwhelm you.

But there is no time to unpack all that baggage right now. Time will continue to march on, and your job is still on the line. How can you have the time to have a mental breakdown when you were still living paycheck to paycheck?

But even as you try to push Jungkook out of your mind, his voice echoes in your ears, his image burned into your memory. It's as if the universe is laughing at your misery, reminding you that despite all your supposed growth, you are still just you.

Painfully and pathetically you.

As you struggle to pull yourself together, a familiarly loud voice rings outside the edge of your consciousness. “Hey, Y/N! Fancy seeing you here…” Jimin greets you, his usual jovial demeanor halting midway when he sees your panicked expression. He clears his throat, perplexed. “Umm… Are you alright there, girl? You’re looking a little pale.”

You do not even have the mental capacity to wonder why Park Jimin was miraculously early to his shift, nor why he seems genuinely worried for you. Rather, all you can do is wave him off and use what little time you have before the restaurant opens to steel yourself for hours of melodious torture.

“I’m fine, Park. You should get to work,” you grit out, wiping your sweaty palms on your uniform. Normally, Jimin would have teased you about the obvious wrinkles on your skirt.

“You’re not the boss of me,” Jimin huffs, always the contrarian. He thinks better of it, however, and softens his tone. “Are you feeling sick or something? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

You freeze, perhaps giving yourself away a little. “I’m fine,” you repeat.

“You know, if you refuse to elaborate, I’m going to have to retract your shower privileges,” Jimin taunts with a smirk.

You feel a migraine growing by your temple, making you wince. God, why must men be the source of all your problems?

“I’m just… a little annoyed by the busker outside the restaurant,” you eventually admit, trying to be vague. Unfortunately for you, Jimin hates beating around the bush and would never take your crap if he knows something is up.

Unable to withstand the weight of his unimpressed stare, you clarify, “He was someone I used to know, that’s all.” You aren’t going to be any more specific than that, though you imagine Jimin gets the picture. You zip your lips, hoping to whoever is causing you pain that Jimin would somehow let the matter drop and leave you to your misery.

You brace yourself for his onslaught of questioning to come, and… it doesn’t happen. Instead, when you glance at Jimin, he is mysteriously stone faced. You wait for him to speak for what feels like a few minutes, but he doesn’t show any signs of wanting to tease or ridicule you. He simply watches you with a pensive expression. You can barely stop yourself from staring back at him, slack-jawed at his silence.

Of course, you aren’t just going to question your luck, or what little you have at least. So, you stay silent back and fidget uncomfortably.

Finally, Jimin seems to snap out of his strange reverie. He fixes you with a bizarrely sympathetic grin, patting you affectionately on the back. “I see… Well, if you ever need a drink tonight, head over to the bar for a little sip. I got you covered,” is all he says in response before sashaying away.

That was so fucking weird. You want to chase after him, perhaps beat the truth out of him. Jimin is nothing but a scheming dick, and you aren’t about to let him roam free with such sensitive information about yourself. Just as you’re about to stomp his ass (perhaps to relieve some of the building tension from your weary soul), your manager pops his head from his office door.

“Y/N! Make sure you’re logged into the booking system. There’s going to be a party of 20 coming in about an hour,” he reminds you, shooting you an apologetic look. You nod back with a sigh, swiping the booking tablet from the hostess desk and scrolling through the logs. Sure enough, it is going to be a busy night despite being a Monday evening. Perhaps a little busier than usual, in fact.

Whatever. You will use whatever distraction you can get, and perhaps the approaching noise from the restaurant patrons will be enough to drown out the sound of his voice.

You aren’t religious by any means, but you pray to whatever higher power exists that Jeon Jungkook doesn’t somehow decide to enter the restaurant. Stay outside, you plead. Outside the restaurant and your life, if possible.

Throughout the evening, you do your best to push aside the memories that threaten to resurface. You greet customers with a smile, lead them to their tables, and ensure their dining experience is pleasant despite the anxiety poisoning your insides. It's a routine you've perfected over time, a shield against the chaos of your emotions.

As the night wears on, you can feel Jimin's eyes on you from across the restaurant. You sneak glances back at him, and you blanch at his pitying gaze. If the restaurant had been slightly less crowded, you would have flipped him off.

He’s probably enjoying my suffering, you think darkly. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, you straighten up and do your best to appear more unaffected. Just as you do so, you can hear Jungkook perfectly hitting a soulful high note.

“I’m so sorry for thinking I was strong,” you whisper to the universe. “Forgive me for my insolence.” You clench your fist in anguish, ignoring the confused looks from the customers in front of you.

By the time your shift comes to a close, you are completely and utterly drained. You feel like a snail that has been continuously salted over the past eight hours, and you cannot help but cheer in relief when the clock finally strikes two in the morning. You have to wait for the last few diners to make their leave, but otherwise you are ready to let your bed swallow you whole.

You stand by your hostess desk, leaning your head against it with a defeated sigh. Jungkook’s voice had died down only a few minutes ago, and you hope that by this point he has mercifully left the premises. You want to take a peek to make sure, but just as you’re about to make your way to the door, you feel a hand on your shoulder stop you in your tracks.

“‘Sup, bitch.” Jimin still has that weird, pitying gaze pointed at you, though his words don’t match it. “Are you okay to go home alone tonight? I can bring your dumb ass home if you want.”

You shove his hand away, ready to bite his head off when you think better of it. If Jimin drives you home, then that lowers the chances of seeing Jungkook down to pretty much zero.

“You know what? Thanks,” you grouse. Jimin smiles at you winningly, and the image of it brings a shiver down your spine. You hit him, creeped out. “Hey. Stop that, will you? You’re being really weird?”

Jimin scoffs, crossing his arms. “Me? Weird? At least I don’t look like a damn firework ready to explode just because my cringelord ex-boyfriend is singing sappy love songs outside—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you seethe, stomping on his foot. He yelps in pain and slaps your shoulder in retaliation.

“Ouch! Watch your ogre feet! My shoes are worth twice your monthly rent I’ll have you know,” he bristles. He breathes deeply, likely finding his inner calm (which you doubt exists). “But because I’m so nice, I’ll ignore your earlier transgression and blame it on your underdeveloped amygdala.”

You don’t know what’s more surprising: the fact that Jimin knew what an amygdala was or that he was forgiving you in the first place. “Whatever. Let’s finish closing up and then head out. I’m exhausted.”

You make quick work of your task and when you’re ready to head out, Jimin is already waiting by the backdoor. He’s twirling his car keys with a finger and gestures for you to follow him. As you make your way to his car in the back parking lot, you catch sight of a lone figure standing next to a beat-up pickup truck. He’s leaning against it, his hands busy tuning a battered guitar.

Your breath hitches, and you immediately feel nauseous. Of course the incident has yet to end. The night is young, after all.

Jimin accidentally slams the backdoor closed, and the noise wrenches Jungkook’s attention away from his ministrations. Immediately, his eyes lock with Jimin before finally turning to you.

Your heart skips a beat as he gazes at you, your mind racing with a hurricane of emotions. You hadn’t expected to see him again so soon, especially not after the tumultuous encounter earlier in the day. What did you say earlier? That “the chances of seeing Jungkook was down to pretty much zero”?

The chances of seeing Jungkook is low, but never zero, your mind unhelpfully supplies.

There is a long period of awkward silence. Jungkook has his mouth slightly agape, his hand subconsciously lowering his guitar to rest against his truck. To your left, Jimin’s breathing quickens slightly. You, on the other hand, are trying your best not to projectile vomit in this damned parking lot.

Jungkook is the one who decides to break the delicate silence. “Is that you…?” he calls out hesitantly.

Don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my—

“Y/N,” Jimin interjects. His gaze is steel cold, uncharacteristic of the carefree boy. He slings an arm around your shoulders, gently nudging you towards his car. With your view still fixed on Jungkook, you miss the way Jimin shoots the other boy with a playful smirk. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go home.”

His words startle both you and Jungkook. “Wha—? Jimin?” you splutter, flushing at his flirtatious undertone. You want to curse him out for his strange behavior, but all the shock has left you mute.

Jimin all but shoves you into the passenger seat. But just as he’s about to slam the car door, you hear Jungkook call out your name. It’s fleeting and quiet, but you heard him crystal clear.

It breaks your spirit to hear him say your name. For a moment, you feel as though you are floating.

When was the last time he called your name? And so softly, too? If you could replay that moment over and over, would you be able to catch some signs of tenderness in his voice? When you close your eyes later that night, would your dreams show you that he had been gazing at you with yearning? Was any of it true?

As Jimin starts the car and pulls away from the curb, you steal one last glance out the window, only to find Jungkook staring at you with an arm outstretched. You continue to watch him until his figure disappears into the night.

You are quietly immersed in your own thoughts, the whirlwind of emotions intensifying your persistent migraine. Unaccustomed to silence, Jimin decides to give his unsolicited two cents, as per usual.

“Geez. Didn’t know you were into the whole starving artist type. If I’d known, then maybe I’d stop trying to brag about my fortune to you,” Jimin scoffs. “If loser buskers like him impress you, then maybe I should—”

“Would you shut the fuck up for once in your fucking life!” You explode, whirling to face him with a glare. Jimin has the audacity to flinch, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

“What the fuck? Why the hell are you mad at me?”

“What the hell was that back there? ‘C’mon babe.’” You mimic his voice with a sneer. “Why on earth would you do that? Now he thinks that we…”

“Why do you care what he thinks? He’s your ex, remember?” Jimin cuts you off, but you can’t even refute him. He continues, “Figured as much. And judging by how spooked you’ve looked all day, I have to assume that he was an asshole, right? Why else would you accept my offer for a ride home if you really wanted to avoid seeing him?”

You shrink under his accurate assumptions. Damn, were you really that easy to read? “I… I mean, yeah but…” You clear your throat, still feeling wronged by him. “You didn’t have to act like a weird prick in front of him!”

Without warning, the floodgates burst forth. You begin to ramble, the thoughts that have been weighing you down pouring out of you in waves. “Jungkook was my ex, yeah. But he wasn’t an asshole. On the contrary, he was really sweet. The nicest guy in my school, at least. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, that sort of person. I dated him all throughout high school and he was a great partner.”

Jimin hums skeptically. “Then why the messy break-up?”

“It wasn’t messy!” You retort defensively.

“Could’ve fooled me!” Jimin snorts. “I also frequently act like a trembling kitten when I see my exes,” he says sarcastically.

You ignore him. “The reason we broke it off was because he wanted to pursue his dreams to become a singer after high school and I wanted to do other things. It was a mutual break-up! Honestly, I’m glad that we did. Too many girls wanted him and all the unwanted attention was getting on my nerves. I was glad to find a reason to end it all,” you explain, hoping you didn’t sound as shaky as you felt. What you said was mostly true, though you left out the important bits to yourself. Mostly to save some of your dignity intact. (Truthfully, you just didn’t want to admit things you weren’t ready to face.)

“Then if you’re so glad, why do you look like you wanted to shit yourself? It ain’t adding up,” Jimin fires back.

“It’s just—” you stammer, trying to find a reason why you were so bent out of shape after seeing him. “I-I was caught off guard, I guess. I knew he was pursuing his dreams to sing and all, so I expected him to leave the country. I wasn’t expecting to see him outside where I work, of all places,” you mutter lamely. You have your head bowed, biting your lips from the nerves. Again, you weren’t totally lying.

Jimin is silent for a moment, contemplating your admission. When he looks so calm like this, it’s hard to get a read on what he’s thinking. As Jimin speeds down the highway, the street lights illuminate his face in a strange way, and for once, he looks like a stranger. His steely expression makes you nervous, for some reason.

Eventually, he asks you a question you would never have expected. “And he just let you go?”

You pause. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Jimin huffs, irritated. “He just up and left without a fight? If I were him, I would have…” he trails off, his jaw clenching.

You don’t know where this Jimin came from. Under the moonlight, Jimin looks livid, but that can’t be right. Jimin, mad for you? Sure, you’ve seen his anger directed towards you, but this? Everything’s gotten so complicated, and you are just about ready to succumb to sleep and hope to wake from this nightmare.

The rest of the drive to your house is silent, save for the sounds coming from passing cars. Jimin pulls up to your apartment complex, his mysterious anger finally subsiding.

Just as you’re about to reach for the car door handle, Jimin places a hand on your shoulder. “Listen, Y/N. I’ll talk to management tomorrow morning. I know the manager well enough that I can probably convince him to do something about that ex of yours. He’s busking on private property, so it should be easy to get rid of him,” Jimin says, tone serious. He swallows, and for a moment you think he looks a little nervous. “If that’s what you want, I guess.”

His kindness scares you. You want to tease him, ask him where Mr. Bitchy and his $2000 Chelsea boots had gone. Anything to make this air of severe sincerity to abate. This new Jimin feels suffocating. But instead, you nod your head stiffly.

Jimin makes a pained expression for a moment, but it’s quickly replaced by his usual playful smirk. He slaps you upside the head, laughing heartily at your stunned face.

“Get some rest, babe. I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he chuckles, reaching over to open the door for you. You scramble out into the cold city air, taking one last look back at him through his window.

He rolls it down, leaning forward to flash a toothy grin at you. “Hey, stop with all the angst, pookie. Wouldn’t want my favorite toy to get sick from overthinking. Who else would I bother at work if not you?”

You snort, both endeared and irritated in equal measure. He’s right. Everything was going back to normal tomorrow, you’re sure of it. You flip him off with a cheeky grin before making your way to your apartment.

Everything is going to be okay. Jimin says he’ll do something about it, and for whatever reason, you feel like you can trust him on this. Surely good fortune was soon to be upon you.

xxx

Jimin had texted you while you were still sleeping:

Spoke to Manager Jeong about your little problem. He said he’ll deal with him.

You breathe a sigh of relief, your body feeling significantly lighter. Your sleep last night had been tumultuous and restless. You feel more tired than you did when you went to bed, but all your weariness fades once you read Jimin’s text.

Once you make it to work, you find that management has gotten rid of Jungkook somehow. Added with the fact that your landlord has promised to look into repairing your shower (no guarantees, but you want to stay optimistic), today has been significantly better compared to yesterday. You even catch yourself humming as you set up your workstation, a small smile gracing your lips.

Jimin has a later shift this evening, and you find that you are somewhat disappointed for once. Your overwhelming gratitude is surely the only reason, otherwise you would never admit to wanting to see him at any given time.

You are in the midst of texting Jimin about all the good news when your manager passes by your desk. You are quick to pocket your phone away from his prying eyes, ready to defend that you aren’t slacking off… but his demeanor does not reveal any ire. In fact, he looks rather pleased for once.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jeong. What’s up?” you ask, suspicious. You instinctively fold your hands behind your back; it is a subconscious effort on your part to keep your distance from him. Something about your manager always gives you a bad feeling when he looks a little too happy.

He grins widely. “Everything is going splendidly, Ms. Y/N. In fact, I think today might just be our lucky day!”

Never during your time working here has his and your luck ever coincided. “Our lucky day?” you echo.

“Why, yes! I spoke with your lovely friend and coworker Jimin this morning,” he starts, and immediately your alarm bells ring. You don’t even bother correcting him about the ‘friend’ part like you normally would. He continues, “He gave me a brilliant idea about the busker who had been performing in front of the restaurant the past two days.”

You nod slowly, not quite understanding. “Yes… The busker has been quite… the spectacle,” you say carefully. Somehow, you know calling Jungkook a ‘nuisance’ would have been the wrong choice in this instance.

Manager Jeong beams. “Exactly! You must have noticed the amount of people we served yesterday despite being a Monday. Additionally, almost all of those new customers requested outdoor seating no less!”

You feel the world tilt on its axis. What is he on abou—?

“What are you talking about?” you exhale.

“Don’t you think it would be even better for business if we got that busker to perform inside the restaurant? Why, it’s a brilliant idea and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it first! Our live band has always been missing something special, and perhaps a vocal accompaniment is the exact answer to our problem! Think about it, the atmosphere would be…”

Manager Jeong continues to prattle animatedly about his plans to your unhearing ears. There must be static or cotton plugging your head because you cannot possibly understand anything he is saying. Jungkook? Inside? Performing at your restaurant? But Jimin said he had spoken to the manager about getting Jungkook away from you! None of this makes sense.

“That makes no sense,” you verbalize, unknowingly cutting Manager Jeong from his monologue. He halts in surprise, as if now just realizing you were standing there (much less capable of interrupting or disagreeing with him). When he snaps out of it, you sense that familiarly sinister aura emerging from him in waves. You belatedly realize he must have mistaken your outburst as antagonistic.

“Well, Ms. Y/N. Whether it makes sense or not, we have hired Mr. Jeon to perform live at the bar stage for the next four weeknights. If, for some unknowable reason, I am incorrect,” he pauses to emphasize his words, “then his services will be promptly terminated. However, judging by his popularity from simply standing out in the cold and singing silly love songs, I am sure that worry is unwarranted.”

Behind you, the telltale sound of the main door swinging open catches you even more off guard. You do not even have the chance to turn to face the newcomer, only managing to register the gust of cold wind that accompanies their entry.

And so, you hear him before you see him.

“Hello?” Jeon Jungkook greets quietly.

Even without turning, you can imagine how he looks, how he stands, how he feels, how he tastes—

Manager Jeong claps his hands gleefully. “Splendid timing! Speak of the devil…” The older man nearly skips towards Jungkook like a youthful school girl, accompanied by his uncharacteristic squeals of excitement.

You can feel his gaze on you, almost tangibly. With nothing but your shreds of dignity left intact, you force yourself to face him.

He’s still so tall, is all your mind can helpfully supply as you stand feet away from your high school sweetheart for the first time in two years. He’s still wearing the same bucket hat from the night before, semi-shielding him from view. Despite that, you catch a small flash of white graze his bottom lip as he chews the soft flesh nervously.

“Hi, Y/N.” He addresses you directly, completely overlooking your manager without a single glance. Despite his hat, he still has his eyes lasered on you, as if not quite believing you were there. You hate how his attention makes you shiver all the same.

Even though he ignored your manager (which would have been a major dispute had you done the same), Jungkook still receives a friendly handshake in return. “Mr. Jeon! I’m surprised you know Ms. Y/N, though I’m sure you must have spoken with her when she was escorting guests to the outdoor seating the other day.”

You had actually gotten your co-hostess to seat all the outdoor seatings yesterday, but you weren’t going to mention that.

Manager Jeong claps him on the back, inadvertently causing Jungkook to stumble forward closer to you. He looks up at you then, eyes bugging out of their sockets like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. You stagger backwards in turn, barely concealing the anxiety on your face. Oh fucking hell.

Your manager is none the wiser, of course. “Well, this makes my job much easier! Since you’re both acquainted, I’ll let Y/N show you the ropes. The band doesn’t start their set until later in the evening, but you’re free to take a look at the stage and other parts of our facility in the meantime,” he says, chuffed. Meanwhile, Jungkook looks like he’s been shot by a freeze ray.

Then, your manager points a sharper gaze at you. “Ms. Y/N, treat our super star well. I know you won’t disappoint me.”

Fucking superstar… You can only nod in defeat. “Y-Yes, sir…” you whisper, clenching your uniform with your fists. It is the only way to keep them from shaking like a leaf. You watch as his figure disappears behind his office door, leaving you to fend for yourself. Powerless, you train your gaze to the floor, unwilling to meet Jungkook’s eyes.

But the nerves are taking control of your body, screaming at you to eject, eject, eject!

“Sorry, I have to go to the toilet,” you splutter quickly, almost tripping over yourself on the way to the restroom. You dimly wonder if Jungkook is going to think you’re leaving to throw up, but you can’t find any self-respect left to care. All you need is air and space to breathe—preferably away from him.

You slam open the stall, hardly checking to see if anyone else is around before locking the door shut. You sit on the toilet, plant your face between your knees, and scream.

Should you go home and use sickness as an excuse? But even if you did, you still had shifts every weeknight. You would have to see him eventually. You can pray all you want that Jungkook will be fired by the end of the week, but even your delusional mind can never fathom the idea that anyone would willingly want to send Jeon Jungkook away. Plus, you remember that the regular band that plays at the restaurant has been wanting to get a singer to accompany them for ages, and you know just how damn affable he can be. They are going to love him, and you hate him for that.

It is clear to you that there is no other option:

You pull out your phone to quickly open up Indeed on your browser, frantically hunting for any openings that might fit your measly qualifications. However, you have to pause in your search to deliberate. Wouldn’t it be better to move out of the country? You had been so naive to think that moving cities was enough distance between you and Jungkook—going across the ocean is the obvious answer. Should you start up your Duolingo lessons again and hope that you can somehow survive in a different continent with only a few dollars to your name?

You shut your phone in despair. Whether or not your plans of escape are feasible or not, in the short term, you are stuck with having to suck it up and just learn to ignore your ex-boyfriend’s presence. Surely you can force out a fake smile or two, especially with how much practice you’ve gotten after working with unbearably entitled customers.

Taking a step outside of the restroom stall, you head to the sink to splash some cold on your face. You stare at the mirror, confronted by a girl who looks two seconds away from having a Netflix Original-esque meltdown. You rake your fingers through your hair, doing your best to look like you aren’t about to rush into incoming traffic. To no one's surprise, it doesn't work.

“Okay, I got this. Just pretend like he’s just some guy, because at the end of the day, he is just some guy,” you mutter to your reflection. She looks back at you unconvinced. “He may have broken my heart into little bite size pieces, but who cares! HE’S JUST A GUY!” You repeat the phrase over and over again like a lunatic, in a desperate attempt to cognitively alter your brain chemistry.

At that moment, one of the other stalls in the restroom creaks open, and a girl you recognize who works as one of the dishwashers walks out. You both have a silent eye conversation as she quietly studies your crazed expression and crumpled work uniform.

Eventually, she awkwardly clears her throat, pointing to the only sink in the restroom. “Uh, sorry to hear about your, uh, guy problem. Could I use the sink please?”

You hastily back away, allowing her to take your spot. You don’t even have the energy to apologize for your spectacle, just bowing sheepishly to her before making your way back to the main hall. If she rats you out to the rest of your coworkers, then that gives you another reason to move out of the country. Maybe you should consider a name change while you’re at it.

When you exit the restroom, you half expect Jungkook to be waiting for you by the door, but find that he isn’t anywhere nearby. He isn’t by your hostess station either, and you thank your lucky stars for once. Even if your manager had asked you to show him around, you’re sure that Jungkook can find his way around just fine. Plus, the stage is at the corner of the restaurant and is sufficiently far enough that you wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him if you were careful.

You don’t know which greater entity has been messing with your sanity these past few days, but you hope that they can show you mercy just once—a brief reprieve, if anything.

You clasp your hands in prayer. I’ll eat more vegetables, I’ll remember to floss, I’ll call my parents from time to time… Just please let me survive tonight.

“Remember, Y/N… He’s just some guy,” you reiterate through gritted teeth. If a passing coworker happens to overhear your demented chanting, then you pay them no mind.

You walk towards the entrance, flipping the sign to open. You feel like a video game character when you glance at the clock, which signals the start of your shift. You can imagine the red bold text hovering above your head: 8 more hours until freedom.

This is just like playing Five Nights at Freddy’s, except you’ve only watched the movie and you suspect your life is probably worse than whatever Josh Hutcherson had to survive through.

You take a couple heaving breaths to brace yourself for what will be the longest eight hours of your life. You’ll show Jungkook just how well-adjusted and mature you’ve become. You are a professional, and not even a boy with angelic vocals will make you crumble. After all, what’s the worst he can do?

xxx

He could, in fact, do a lot worse than you thought.

“I have many regrets being born at all,” you mutter bleakly, three hours into your shift.

Jungkook had started singing only an hour ago, so you had been filled with false confidence at first when the restaurant was filled with nothing but ambient chatter and soothing jazz music. You felt more and more confident as the minutes ticked by and your anxiety slowly melted away. You even forgot that he was somewhere in the back, likely warming up or whatever it is that singers did before a performance.

However, your brief moment of courage shatters almost immediately when Jungkook finally takes the stage.

At first, you did your best to tune out his voice, but it’s especially hard when whoever was in charge of the sound system decided to crank his volume to an excruciating level. You wanted desperately to grab some napkins and shove them in your ears, but you suspected that your customers (and manager) would be unappreciative of that gesture. And so there you lay, forced to wallow in Jungkook’s melodious singing like a criminal strapped to an electric chair.

But how much more pleasant an electric chair would be! Why on earth was Jungkook so adamant to sing sad love songs the entire time? Why couldn’t he be like his other singing contemporaries, who loved to write songs about getting bitches and making money? At the very least, even if he wasn’t quite a platinum selling artist just yet, surely he was constantly sharing beds with anyone he pleases? Couldn’t he sing about that?!

(In the back of your mind, you wonder if it would be less painful to learn that Jungkook has slept with multiple people… Because then, it would mean that he had moved on while you stood alone on your island, stranded and yearning.)

You didn’t want to think too deeply about his lyrics. However, you're only human. So when your mind barrier failed and you caught snippets of his singing, you noticed a pattern. There was always a girl in his songs. She was omnipresent, and Jungkook was always pleading for her. Begging and aching and wanting. But most all… he was always repenting. In every song, he always whispered a pious apology.

You feared what would happen if you turned around in those moments of weakness. You were terrified of admitting something, of letting words spill that had been trapped in your throat for the better part of two years.

Lucky for you, salvation comes in the form of one Park Jimin. Though, can you even count him as your savior when he had also inadvertently caused your demise?

Jimin doesn’t even have a shift today, so you’re more than surprised when his bright blonde head stumbles through the restaurant doors. His expensive coat is askew and his signature designer shades are nowhere to be found. He is panic incarnate—an expression you have never seen on his face before.

“Holy fuck,” he greets, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. His profanity startles the elderly couple waiting to be seated, their glares menacingly sharp. To his credit, Jimin doesn’t even seem phased.

In lieu of an answer, you gesture vaguely behind you. You can imagine how dejected you must look. “Holy fuck indeed,” you sigh.

It takes a moment for Jimin to regain his bearings. He straightens up and pats down his coat, but his hair is still tousled by the wind. If not for the fact that he has a car, you might have thought he had run all the way here.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen,” he starts, genuinely remorseful. “I texted Manager Jeong this morning and he said he’d get your ex to leave, but I didn’t think he’d offer the damn bastard a job!”

“Mind your language, Park. I’m still at work,” you scold. You try your best to ignore the scrutinizing gaze of the elderly couple. You lower your voice. “And don’t apologize. I know you’re an asshole, but I doubt you’d actually prey on my downfall like this. I know you’re not into public humiliation.”

Jimin brightens slightly at your joke, but he still looks like a guilty puppy who'd been caught shitting on the carpet. “Yeah, well. I happen to enjoy tormenting you and I won’t let some upstart Charlie Puth wannabe ruin your life. That’s my job.”

You smile wryly at him. “Well, that’s too bad. Jungkook’s been singing for a few hours now and I’m pretty sure Manager Jeong is going to keep him long-term. He might have broken my heart, but damn does he have vocals. I'm sure you'll have plenty competition when it comes to 'who can make Y/N's life feel like hell.'”

Jimin doesn't smile back, but instead studies your face for a moment. Then:

“Do you think if I offer to suck Manager Jeong off, he’ll fire him?”

“What the fuck?” You nearly yell out in surprise, your jaw dropping to the floor. Judging by his serious scowl, you know he's actually considering it. By now, the elderly couple waiting to be seated have left the premises.

Jimin continues, unperturbed. “I know he secretly wants me, based on how his wife seems to have a personal vendetta against me. He definitely wants a taste of my bus—.”

“Stop, I get it!” You wave your hands to make him shut up, heat rising up your cheeks. “Never say that string of words to me ever again. You have just inflicted ten years of suffering onto my poor brain.”

“Hey, I’m just offering solutions here!” Jimin pouts.

You stare at him, unimpressed. “Save it. You tried solving my problems already, so let’s just accept the fact that there’s nothing else for me to do but to suck it up. It’s time for me to put on my big girl pants for a change.”

“I mean, I could do all the sucking instead, but you’re being a little bitch about it,” Jimin mumbles. He’s lucky you didn’t hear him this time, lest you give him something to really whine about.

“Anyway, I guess this is my life now. Nothing to do except hope that he never tries to interact with me or I can find another job,” you shrug.

Over your shoulder, Jimin fixes Jungkook with an icy glare that is cold enough to give you the shivers. For the first time that entire night, you hazard a glance back at the stage, finding that Jungkook is already looking back at you.

You whip your head back forward, perspiration forming down your back. For fuck’s sake, this guy.

“Well, let me know if he tries anything. I’ll beat that little freak into the floor if he tries so much as breathing the same air as you.” Jimin huffs, puffing up his chest with false bravado. You can’t help but laugh at his empty threat, knowing that Jungkook could probably bench press Jimin without breaking a sweat. Jimin's muscles are only for aesthetics, after all.

“Don’t worry, he hasn’t actually spoken to me actually. He can keep singing his sad little love songs, I really don’t mind,” you say, like a liar. Jimin snorts, wholly unconvinced.

“Well, if you need me, I’m heading to the bar to grab a drink so I can stare at your ex uncomfortably until he leaves. See you!” Jimin bids you farewell with a cheery grin as he skips a little too happily inside the restaurant.

Why'd you have to befriend the largest lunatic in the city? You massage your forehead with a groan, willing away your growing headache.

The rest of the night trickles away like molasses. Jungkook continues to sing his heart out, save for an hour intermission where he presumably takes a short break. In his absence, you hear Jimin guffaw loudly, his laughter too sharp to be considered happy. You faintly hear Jungkook shy stutters in response, and you momentarily consider running in to interrupt.

Why? Did you want to save Jungkook from Jimin’s unnecessary harassment? It’s not like Jimin is doing it out nowhere, he was just trying to be… a good friend?

You pause to ponder. As much as you hate to admit it, you know why you want to help Jungkook. But Jimin on the other hand? Why did he want to help you? Questions begin flowing through your head like a whirlwind, and your nausea increases. God, when was your next therapy appointment again?

You save those questions for another day. As you look at your watch, there are only thirty minutes left until two in the morning. You tap your foot impatiently, smiling curtly at departing customers as the restaurant slowly emptied. As they left, you overhear some of your regulars giggling amongst themselves, whispering about the cute new singer and his charming demeanor.

The last nail on your coffin has been hammered. Yeah, Jungkook isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

With the restaurant closing soon, it sounds like Jungkook is ready to end his set as well.

Throughout the night, Jungkook rarely made a point to speak. The only time he didn’t sing was when he quietly introduced the title of his next song and the band swiftly began the first opening notes. For his last song, however, Jungkook decided to give a little more backstory for his final song.

“Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for listening to me for the night,” Jungkook says with a soft voice, his tone awfully shy despite his powerful belting throughout the evening. The few customers left give him a warm round of applause, and you hear the familiar sound of his timid giggles spill from the restaurant speakers.

“This will be my final song for the night. Most of the songs I sang today were covers, but this one is an original. I…” He hesitates for a moment, and something pulls you to turn despite the alarm bells ringing in your ears. You face him, and just like earlier in the evening, he is already looking back at you.

This time, you don’t look away; he does. His eyes flit to the ceiling, and he licks his lips from nerves. “I… I wrote this song a long while ago. I’ve never sang it in public before and I never thought it would ever see the light of day. Until, well…”

He stops again. This time, he gestures to the guitarist in the band, silently asking to borrow it. With a guitar in hand, he smiles a little more confidently at the small crowd of people. He begins strumming the first few notes, and your heart stops. “I hope everyone had a pleasant evening. Get home safe and have a great rest of your week. My name is Jungkook, and this last song is called…”

Before he can sing the first line of his song, you make a break for it.

You slam the restaurant doors open, and the stinging cold air immediately pierces their fangs into your skin. Your coat is still inside, but you can’t bring yourself to reenter. You take a long breath, the chill barely registering in your mind with how loudly your heart is pounding in your ears.

Hearing the opening to that song was enough to bring you back in time, three years ago:

You are in his childhood bedroom, his walls littered with concert posters and his floor a mess with unfolded laundry and guitar picks. The afternoon sun is streaming through his windows, bathing him in gold. You have an exam the next day and he has cram school to go to, but you’ve both chucked your books somewhere on his desk, left forgotten.

He has his eyes closed, concentrated. You’re both on his small twin bed, squished together side by side and thighs touching. You have your head on his shoulder and he has his hands on his guitar. He strums a few chords experimentally and sings a melody that only the two of you know.

(Not anymore.)

“Are you writing a new song?” you ask, voice a little scratchy. Neither of you had spoken for the past few hours, just basking in the setting sun and Jungkook’s indistinct strumming. But now, his chords sound more sure, more certain of something.

“Yeah, I just thought of it,” he hums. He opens his eyes a smidge, a smitten smile on his lips. You mirror him.

“What’s it about this time?”

His brows furrow. “I’ve been trying to write about other stuff, you know? Namjoon-hyung tells me it’s important that songs have meaning and impact.” He pauses in his strumming, looking a little conflicted. “And I get what he means. Art is all about saying something, but… I can’t help that there’s only one thing I ever want to talk about. Is that so wrong?”

You chuckle, understanding what he means. You nudge your head against his cheek, grinning from ear to ear. The fluttering in your chest has become routine to you at this point, but he somehow always knows how to increase it tenfold. “God, you’re such a sweet talker. Really, Koo. There’s no need to serenade with love songs—I’m already yours.”

He looks back at you, brimming with tender affection. “I know,” he responds. Then, he takes a pen from his bedside table, and begins writing.

During those years of dating him, you always thought that If he was a waterfall, then you were a teaspoon. You desperately tried to be enough for him, but you’re barely able to fathom the depth of his devotion. Everything about him was excessive, and you could seldom understand how he managed to contain himself. He was born to share himself, to tear bits of his soul so that the world may understand him, love him. His songs were a testament that he was trying to do that, and you always felt so lucky to be able to receive him, wholly and fully.

How cruel was it that Jungkook uses that same song to rip open the barely healed scab on your heart, leaving you bare and stinging and raw all over again.

You have no idea how long you've stood there in the cold. It must have been barely a few minutes when Jimin finds his way to you. He wordlessly shrugs his coat off and places it on your shoulders, but you make no move to acknowledge him.

You hope your silence is enough for Jimin to infer that you are not in a conversational mood, but he’s nothing if not impatient. He forcibly pulls you to face him, his hands warm even through your clothing.

“Hey, you good? Did something happen?” He asks with barely concealed irritation, but it’s not directed at you. Still, you flinch at his scathing tone, shrinking in on yourself. In your daze, you vaguely notice his resemblance to an angry baby chick.

“It’s nothing. Go back inside, I’ll be right there,” you mumble lamely, weakly pushing him back towards the restaurant. Jimin does not budge, instead leveling you with a hard stare. This time, you’re sure his irritation is for you.

“You idiot, you literally ran out like someone was out to get you. Of course it’s not nothing,” he grouses.

You sigh tiredly, shaking your head at him. “We can talk later. It’s almost closing time and I just want to go home and sleep.”

Before Jimin can argue further, the door to the restaurant opens once more, but it isn’t a leaving customer.

“What the fuck? What are you doing out here?” Jimin all but shouts at Jungkook. He holds up an accusatory finger at him and uses his other hand to nudge you behind him as if to shield you.

Jungkook winces, instinctively stepping back. Despite being a few inches taller than Jimin, Jungkook’s timidness makes him look smaller. “I… I was just worried about her—”

“Don’t you have a song to finish in there? Talk about professional,” Jimin spits out. Jimin maneuvers you so that Jungkook can’t see you, but you manage to catch sight of how his gaze follows you unfailingly.

“I finished up my set. It’s closing time.” Jungkook responds coolly. He’s still a little quiet, but you can sense some of his natural composure rising to the surface. When he needs to be, Jungkook has been known to stand his ground—usually when it comes to matters involving you.

At this time of the night and after hours of mental torture, the last thing you need is to watch your two worst nightmares duke it out in front of your work establishment. You are beyond exhausted, and you hardly have the fortitude to withstand another minute of their voices ringing in your ears.

Your eyes well up with tears of frustration, causing the two boys to freeze up in panic. You don’t give them the chance to fuss over you; instead, you haphazardly wipe your cheeks before roughly pushing them back towards the restaurant.

“Get back to work, you idiots.” Your voice sounds warbled even to your own ears, but you push past your overwhelming emotions in favor of getting back inside to close up. Hell, you might even call in sick tomorrow, just so you can cry pathetically into your bowl of cereal in solitude.

“I’m not even on the clock today!” Jimin complains faintly, but you only push him harder.

When you all reenter, you walk back to your desk and pointedly ignore the two of them until they awkwardly float away from your orbit. Despite the distance they give you, their gazes are still fixed plainly on you and they feel like knives digging into your back.

Eventually, all the final customers of the day take their leave, and your remaining coworkers start dimming the lights and bidding their goodbyes. From the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook bowing respectfully to the band, who were giving him friendly pats on the back for a job well done. Jimin walks toward you, his car keys dangling from his left pinky.

“No thanks. I’ll take the bus home today,” you declare before he can offer a ride. Jimin opens his mouth like a goldfish, flapping his lips dumbly as he stares at you in shock. You have no idea why he’s so surprised, given how you’ve been making it obvious that you need some space.

He looks like he wants to argue again, but thinks better of it. A singular moment of restraint from Park Jimin, which is an act you once thought impossible. Maybe he does care about you more than you thought.

He stiffly nods at you, shoving his hands and keys into his pockets. He still has a frown on his face when he tells you to text him when you get home. You flip him off with a shaky smirk in response, a feeble attempt to bring some levity back to your now tense relationship. It works a little, and Jimin brightens up significantly. How simple-minded of him.

With a flippant wave, you leave work and head towards your bus stop. At this hour of the night, the streets are mostly dim, save for some street lamps and bars that stay open longer than your restaurant. There are always some people milling about, enough that you never feel too on edge about how late it is. Still, your bus stop is often empty, leaving you to mull over your thoughts in peace.

You are in the midst of jamming your earbuds into your ear when a presence makes itself known beside you.

Is it possible to go through the five stages of grief in under a second? You suppose not, but it’s hard to tell what sort of emotions swim through you when you come face to face with Jeon Jungkook again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath. You pause the song playing on your phone to glare at him with as much venom as you can muster.

Jungkook holds up his hands in surrender, doe eyes wide like prey. “I-I’m heading home too! I’m not following you, I swear!”

You groan internally. Figures that you and Jungkook take the same bus home. But hold on— “Don’t you have a car? I remember you were parked near the restaurant the other night,” you note, squinting at him.

Jungkook looks sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. That car was my hyung’s. He lets me borrow it sometimes, but he needed it tonight.”

“Sure…” You level him with a skeptical frown. You remember his hyung, but don’t recall him ever owning a car. You aren’t even sure that his Namjoon-hyung is allowed by the country to drive a car, much less own one.

He could be lying, but you don’t want to give him an excuse to continue any conversation. So, you busy yourself with your phone and keep your head bowed away from him.

When the bus arrives, Jungkook makes it a point to sit a few rows behind you. Thankfully, he has a better understanding of social cues than a certain Park that you know. He leaves you alone, but your entire body still feels like a rope pulled taut. You have to convince yourself not to look behind you, your morbid curiosity scratching your insides raw.

You are in the home stretch now, and it’ll only be a few more minutes before you get to your stop and make your way to your safe haven. Hell resumes the next day and the next, but at the very least you’ll have your home to yourself. No one could take that away from you.

Again, this is where you learn that tempting fate is never a good idea.

When you exit the bus at your stop, you can hear his footsteps following you. It’s hard not to notice, especially when his large and distracting boots make such a distinct racket that makes him so Jungkook.

You hasten your pace towards your apartment complex, your shoulders hunched and hands shoved into your coat pockets in an attempt to hinder the bile rising from your stomach. He had promised that he wasn’t following you, but that proclamation seems to be standing on feeble legs with how long he’s been on your tail now.

Your street is filled with rows of low-rise apartment buildings, so you hope that if anything happens, you can yell as loud as you can and alert some compassionate neighbor to come to your aid. (Not that you think he would ever physically harm you, but… You can’t say the same about your mental state.)

Your home is just two buildings away from where you are, but Jungkook still seems determined to follow you to the end. You all but skip the remaining feet to your apartment entrance, your breath coming out in puffs as you finally muster up the courage to face your supposed stalker and give him a piece of your mind.

“If this is some convoluted way for you to find out where I live, then you aren’t being very subtle about it,” you say, your chin held up high despite the growing urge to vomit pathetically in front of your ex-boyfriend. You have your hand rested on the doorknob, just a moment’s notice away from bolting into your house if the need for a quick getaway arises.

To your surprise, Jungkook wasn’t following you as closely as you expected. He had stopped trailing you about two buildings down, his own hand poised on the door with a look of genuine shock.

You both stand there, staring at each other as mutual understanding dawns on the two of you.

Everyday, the universe learns of more creative ways to be cruel.

“Oh…” Jungkook’s voice falters. He looks simultaneously frightened and amazed, as if he too finds this entire situation unbelievably harsh. He swallows thickly, looking at you and back to his door in quick succession. “Well… This is a strange coincidence,” he murmurs.

You want to believe that this was his entire fault, that Jungkook had somehow managed to track you down to haunt you for the rest of your days. You want to believe that he’s a crazed stalker who is willing to find where you work and live so that every hour of your wretched life is filled with nothing but reminders of what-could-have-beens. You just want someone to blame instead of just the cosmos—you want someone tangible to hate so that your suffering can be given some sort of identity. You want to give your mourning and hurt a name so that you can learn how to heal.

You want to believe all of that, but it’s hard to do so when Jungkook looks so incredibly uncomfortable, as if he’d rather melt into the shadows and never be seen again.

In all your memories, you have never seen Jungkook look so small.

You heave a big sigh, your fingers grasping the door knob so tightly that you half-expect it to be dented from the force. You linger for a moment, your mouth opening but nothing spills out.

What is there to say? What do you say to an ex-boyfriend that you haven’t seen in two years, who is suddenly so deeply entwined in your life once more? Do you tell him goodnight? Tell him to stay away? Tell him to come home with you?

Jungkook looks equally as conflicted. His lips are pursed tight with words left unsaid. You aren’t sure whether you want to punch the confession out of his mouth or seal them up forever. It feels like eons before he finally breaks the silence with a mirthless laugh.

“I… I just wanted to say—back at the restaurant. When I sang that last song,” Jungkook begins, and his voice feels loud because of how empty the streets are. For a moment, you are reminded of a cathedral you once visited during a vacation, how sacred silence can be. The world holds its breath, waiting for him to speak.

“I meant it all. Every word. Every lyric. I never stopped…”

He trails off, shrugging his shoulders. He stares at you helplessly, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t want to listen any more, but your feet are planted to the ground. You’re frozen like a deer in headlights, forced to brace against him as he crashes into you.

He continues, “And when we broke up back then… I never wanted that to happen. You broke it off before we could even try something—and I hated how I didn’t fight for you harder. I let you misunderstand me because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to stick around if I didn’t succeed. I convinced myself that I was holding you down, but I never gave you—us—a chance. I never stopped regretting it since.”

“Me? Break up with you?” You echo incredulously. That statement is enough to break you from your trance, the telltale signs of indignation rising up your chest. “How dare you suggest—Me? You were the one who broke up with me, asshole! You were the one who broke my heart and decided to up and leave to god knows where! Only to miraculously respawn right next to me, groveling at my feet with sad love songs as if that’s enough for me to forgive and forget? Fucking entitled bastard,” you seethe.

Somehow, Jungkook manages to shrink more, like a bunny with his tail tucked between his legs. “Yes, you’re right that I broke your heart but… When I told you I was moving away to try and become a singer, it was always with the intention of staying together. I know it would have been difficult, but I wanted you to be with me through thick and thin. But when you misunderstood and took it as a break up, I let you go because, well… I was scared that it would happen eventually. Who wants to date a broke busking fool anyway?”

He laughs, but it sounds watery. He sniffles, and you hope it's only because of the cold. “I tried looking for you, but you blocked me everywhere and no one from back home seemed to know where you went. So I just accepted that we’d never see each other again… Until a few days ago, that is.”

A misunderstanding? Is that what everything boils down to? Years of trying to build yourself back up again, relearning what it means to be happy—all the fallen domino pieces in your life trailing back to a single moment in time? All because Jungkook was scared that you didn't love him enough?

You’ve never felt angrier in your life. You fear what you might say if you continue to stand outside there, face to face with the singular person strong enough to whittle you down to the bone. Jeon Jungkook is all soft smiles and sweet songs, but how come he’s always able to knock you off your axis? Few people on this earth can stitch you up and break you down in equal measure, but somehow, Jungkook manages to do all that and more.

Then, comes the guilt. Had it been all your fault? That you hadn't returned his love in equal measure? Had you secretly given up on the hope of being on his level? Always looking down on yourself: unable to move past your insecurities. Were you terrified of being his side piece, his girlfriend, forever?

Who are you, even? And where do you stand?

(Beside him, is what you want to answer. You don't know if that's the right choice.)

You can’t bear to look at him, least of all answer him. Without another word, you shove your house key into the door before slamming it shut despite the late hour. If you awaken any neighbors, you’ll apologize later. For now, all you require is sleep and hope that this has been all a terrible nightmare.

xxx

Reality is a bitter pill to swallow.

Jeon Jungkook continues to sing at the restaurant, and after only two days of repeat stellar performances, your manager decides to promote him as the official vocalist for the band. It hurts to admit that you're not the least bit surprised; you might have a hard time looking at him, but you can never deny his talent.

His song list has added a larger variety of genres ever since his first performance. That is to say, he isn’t always singing about lost loves and tragic couples every night. Perhaps it is due to some requests from customers or his other bandmates, but it doesn’t stop him from sprinkling one or two love songs into the mix.

He doesn’t sing any original songs ever again. That, at least, is a small mercy. He doesn’t make any moves to speak with you either, despite the daily awkward trips back home after the end of your shifts. Whether that’s because he’s given up on you (again), or he’s waiting for you to make the first move, you don’t know. Frankly, you don’t think you have the energy (nor courage) to do anything about it.

It’s a few weeks after Jungkook’s first performance at the restaurant, and closing time is approaching. You appreciate Friday nights the most because it means you’ll have two consecutive days to relax and avoid your problems. It’s also the busiest night of the week, when white-collar workers decide to drink and eat for as long as the night allows them. Busier nights mean more distractions, and you’re willing to deal with twenty Karens over one Jungkook.

During nights like these, your manager occasionally asks you to fulfill some waitress duties when there aren’t enough hands on deck. Normally you’d hate it, but earning the extra tips is enough to keep your grumbling to a minimum To this day, your landlord has yet to do anything about your broken shower, and you’ve finally conceded to the fact that you’ll have to be the one to do something about it.

As you inform the customers in your area that the last call for orders is approaching, you sneak a glance at the bar to see Jimin dutifully performing his job. That is to say, he’s flirting up a storm, getting women and men alike to blush from head to toe as he serves their drinks with a salacious smirk.

What a swindler, you think to yourself, snorting when he makes eye contact with you. He gives you a cheeky salute, mouthing something as he gestures to the back door.

Despite the semi-fight the two of you had all those weeks ago, Jimin was never one to argue about the same topic two days in a row. When you saw him the next day after your confrontation with Jungkook, Jimin was back to all smiles. You still catch him sending death glares towards Jungkook on most nights, but he doesn’t bring up the matter with you anymore. For that reason, you’ve gratefully settled back into your weird, banterful friendship with him. Even if there’s still a lingering tension between the two of you that you refuse to acknowledge.

You nod thankfully back at him, excited to go to his house and take a much needed shower. At this point, going to his house has become second nature to you, and it gives you an excuse to not see Jungkook at your regular bus stop every day. You have half a mind to never fix your shower for that reason, but of course there is still the problem of having to deal with Jimin every time you need to bathe. You hardly consider yourself an impatient person, but Jimin likes to toe the line far more often than necessary.

You’re down to your last two tables before you can close up shop when your manager suddenly barrels right into your path. You nearly drop your tray of dirty dishes to the floor, holding in a loud yelp as your suspiciously stern-faced manager halts you in place.

“Ms. Y/N, may I have a word with you for a moment? It’s regarding your paycheck for the month,” he barks, lips downturned. He appears disgruntled about something, and it sends a worried shiver down your spine. And here you thought Fridays are meant to be fun. He doesn’t wait for you to reply before he stalks back to his office, an unspoken command for you to follow.

You unload your dishes in the kitchen before making your way to his office. The small, dark room is cramped with overflowing file folders and coupons from multiple take-out places. You accidentally step on a stack of papers, and upon further inspection, seem to be a pile of applications for new hires. You distinctly remember complaining to him months prior about being understaffed and him replying that no inquiries were coming in.

As you approach, your manager shuffles through your coworkers pay stubs, and you notice yours and Jungkook’s on top of the piles.

Manager Jeong clears his throat. “Well, Y/N. It seems to be your lucky day. As you know, we split the tips based on your hours and what sort of duties you fulfill. With the new hire we have as our in-house singer, we’ve had to split it one way more to accommodate his arrival. However, he has recently requested to me that his portion be reallocated… to you, Ms. Y/N.”

Your jaw drops immediately. “I-I don’t understand, Manager Jeong,” you sputter.

Manager Jeong snorts, bemused by your reaction. “Don’t understand? Well, I suppose you’ll have to ask Mr. Jeon if you want his reasoning. Regardless, since we normally deposit your salary straight to your bank account, would it be alright if I hand you his tips in cash for now? He only informed me about his request an hour ago, and the accountant has already clocked out for the week.”

All you can do is nod dumbly back at him. With a huff, your manager presses a white envelope into your hands before promptly ushering you out of his office. “Well, that's settled. Out you go! Have a good weekend, Ms. Y/N. Don’t forget to lock the register before you leave!” He calls out before slamming his door in your face.

It takes you a moment to reanimate back to life. You stare at the white envelope for a long while, unable to fathom the scribbled out name of Jeon Jungkook replaced with your own name. Then, you crumple it into your fist before stomping over to where Jungkook and the rest of the band are in the middle of packing it up for the night.

Jungkook looks up from his guitar case when he senses you fast approaching. For a fleeting second, a smile graces his handsome face before it’s smacked away by your crumpled envelope.

“Keep your fucking cash, Jungkook. What the hell is your problem?” You fume, cheeks heating from agitation. Jungkook splutters for a moment, prying the envelope away from his face and looking at it in bewilderment. When he sees it clearly, recognition dawns on his face, followed by guilt.

“It’s just… my way of saying sorry, I guess.” He answers you meekly, neck flushing red in embarrassment. Behind him, the rest of the band grow silent at the scene before them, and you debate on telling them to mind their own business when they quicken their pace to leave.

“Well, keep your apology to yourself. There’s nothing to apologize for,” you correct him with a frown. To offer an apology is to offer accountability. You aren’t sure if you’re ready to hear him say that.

“No, it’s a sorry for… using you, I suppose.”

“Using me?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “For what?”

Jungkook smiles wryly back at you. “For inspiration?” he clarifies. For being the reason I can sing? He leaves that part unsaid, but you can almost imagine him saying it.

You feel heat rising to your cheeks again, but this time you aren’t quite sure if it’s from embarrassment, anger… or something else.

Unable to conjure up a response to his simple confession, you stomp away from him with a pounding heart and shaking hands. You continue the rest of your closing shift routine instinctually, your body moving on autopilot as Jungkook’s words continue to ring inside your head. When all is said and done, Jimin makes his way to your station with a questioning stare, but you wave him off in favor of stomping ahead of him to the parking lot.

In his car, Jimin rattles off about his latest exploits and purchases, his grating voice a comfort for once. You hum noncommittally during his stories when appropriate, but you suppose your usual indifference feels different, even to Jimin's untrained ears.

At his house, you drift to his bathroom immediately. You already have a shirt button undone by the time you get a handle on the door when Jimin’s hand stops you in place. You can feel his warmth emanating against your back as he slowly pulls the bathroom door close. With a tired sigh, you reluctantly turn to face him and find him standing closer than you expected.

He has an arm resting above your head, effectively caging you. You feel your shoulders sag. Damn, here comes another confrontation. Why can’t everyone just leave you alone?!

“Talk to me,” he says. No, he demands.

You push him away weakly, but he hardly budges. “Nothing to talk about,” you lie. Had you no filter, you’d be word vomiting all over the place ages ago.

Jimin groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Enough with the emotional constipation. I’m here to listen, alright? No teasing or anything, I’m all ears and maybe a shoulder to cry on. Just don’t stain my Chanel top too bad,” he jokes.

You puff out a short breath—a sorry excuse for a laugh. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to talk about it, and that’s that.”

“It’ll make you feel a lot better, though,” he offers.

You scoff. “What makes you think that? What if I just want to ignore all my problems forever and never grow from it? Is that so bad?”

Jimin pushes himself away from you, raising his hands in mock defeat. “You’re so fucking annoying. Can you stop running away from your problems and talk to me? Hell, talk to Jungkook for all I care! Just stop being a doormat and speak your mind for once in your damn life!”

“What are you, my therapist?” You brush past him, shower all but forgotten. You begin toeing your shoes back on, ready to head home tired and smelly. At the very least, you won’t have to deal with this stupid annoying asshole any longer.

Jimin strides back towards you, but for once he doesn’t do anything to forcibly stop you. Jimin has always been gruff with you, not afraid to push and pull you in any which direction. It’s part of the reason why you can’t take him seriously, even though you’ve recently realized why he was always being such a prick towards you—

“Yeah, I’m not your therapist. But for better or for worse, I’m your friend and I—I fucking care about you, alright? And it sucks seeing that good-for-nothing stick his nose in your business and act like he can do anything without any repercussions.”

Is Jimin being for real right now? “With how often you look at yourself in the mirror, you’d think you’d be better at introspection,” is all you say to that. You shove your feet into your shoes, not caring that you’ve probably put them on wrong. Maybe it’s because it’s Friday and the fatigue from the week has finally settled deep in your bones, but you can’t help but leave one last scathing remark to drive the final nail in the coffin.

“You know, if you were a little nicer to me, maybe I would talk to you. Hell, maybe I’d like you back. But no, just keep being your domineering, asshole self and I’ll keep being the same fucking doormat bitch you know and love,” you spit, turning towards the door and away from his face. You’re not even curious to see how he reacts. “I don’t need protection, alright? When I tell you to stay out of my business, you stay out of it. So don’t try and pretend to be my knight in shining armor.”

There’s an ocean of silence, enough to hear a pin drop. The urge to apologize surges to the surface, but you stamp it down. He’s petty all the time, so now it’s your turn.

Okay, maybe that’s a little too mean on your part, but you’re exhausted. Perhaps it is true when they say you should never act on your anger when it’s past midnight. But can anyone blame you? You’re only a girl, and girls need to snap too.

When he responds, his voice sounds weak. Park Jimin, weak? It's almost unthinkable. "Why don't you trust me?"

Isn't it obvious? you want to say. But some mercy remains within you. You'll pick up the pieces another time. Instead, you rasp out, “Good night, Park. I’ll see you on Monday.”

The walk of shame back to your house is long and arduous. Your phone dings thrice, likely signaling texts from Jimin, but you turn it off without checking for sure. For once, the weight on your shoulders is slightly lighter. You huff out a dry laugh, realizing belatedly that maybe Jimin is right—maybe speaking your mind has its benefits.

There’s a small park in your neighborhood that you always pass by. You don’t remember the last time you spared it a second glance, but this time you notice a lone figure swinging back and forth, arching dangerously higher than what you would consider safe. From a distance, all you can make out are the person’s comically bright boots, and you have a sinking suspicion you know who it is without seeing their face.

Cosmos, or whoever it is that controls my life, why must you braid our strings of fate so tightly? You ask, but as always, it refuses to reply.

Against your better judgment, your feet bring you closer towards him. He has his back towards you, his feet pumping him higher and higher and you half expect him to swing in a perfect arc like a gymnast on parallel bars. You have to keep your distance a bit, lest you get the wind knocked out of you by his signature stompers.

You clear your throat, and the boy stops mid-swing and nearly catapults himself into the spongey, playground floor. Hunched over and wheezing, Jungkook directs his shocked eyes at you with a comical stare.

You raise a hand in greeting. A peace offering, maybe. “Hello—”

“I swear I’m not stalking you!” Jungkook interrupts as he scrambles to his feet. He bows deeply in remorse, the action so endearingly him. “S-sorry, I’ll make my way home now…”

“I don’t own the park, Jungkook. I was just saying hello…” You snort, wringing your hands uncomfortably. You grind your shoes into the ground, the sound of crunching leaves breaking the still air. “A-and… to say sorry, for earlier.”

“Sorry?” Jungkook repeats, confused. When he realizes what you mean, he waves his hands frantically. “No, no! Don’t be sorry! It was my fault for being so inconsiderate. I understand how you might misconstrue my actions, and I made things more awkward. I’ll consider your feelings more in the future…”

In the future… You cough, unwilling to meet his bright and honest gaze. If you stare too long, you fear you might go blind.

“I come here to the park often, when I feel too cramped inside my apartment,” Jungkook explains, frantic energy radiating off him in waves. He’s gesticulating too much, a clear sign that he’s trying to hide his nerves. You remember how he would do the same thing in high school, whenever he had to present his projects in front of the class.

You hold a hand up, a weak attempt to get him to calm down. “I’m not here to interrogate you. I just wanted to…” What is it that you wanted to do?

The two of you just stand awkwardly like that, similar to a few weeks ago when you discovered you were neighbors. You’re grasping at straws in your head, both conflicted for wanting to tell him something and running away. Even if you were to talk to him, what would you say? There’s a reason you told Jimin you didn’t want to talk—frankly, it’s mostly because you have no idea what to say or feel.

But you do know, the universe responds.

I ask you questions all the time, and this is how you respond?

Either that, or you’re going insane, the universe remarks.

Jungkook pulls out his phone, his fingers fumbling as he unlocks it. He takes a furtive step towards you, but thinks better of it. There’s a few feet of distance between you, but it feels like worlds apart. Close and yet so far. You recall how you’d easily pull him towards you in the past, how being together felt as natural as breathing.

“I know you absolutely hated it the last time I played my original song at the restaurant, so I refrained from performing any ever since that night. But that didn’t stop me from writing them. I was fine with keeping them locked in a vault forever, but…” He hesitates, searching you for any signs of discomfort. When he sees the carefully blank look on your face, he continues with trepidation.

“Can I try a song for you? You don’t have to say yes, and you’re free to tell me to fuck off and I’ll never even look at you ever again. Just…” He flails one last time, a choked sob making its escape from his throat.

Are you hopeless for wanting to say yes? Or were you reverting back to your old self who relied on him and believed in him so heavily? If you wanted him out of your life for good, you would have quit your job at the first sight of him. Maybe you were masochistic. Or maybe were you hopeful for a new start, a chance to rekindle a relationship that you’ve secretly always wanted to repair.

You have so much life ahead of you. Many more mistakes will be made and maybe they’ll haunt you when you’re older. But would it really be such a terrible gamble to take one more chance?

You nod, and seal your fate.

He presses play, and the soft strumming of a guitar fills the empty playground air.

Not for the first time, you wonder how it can be so easy for Jungkook to be so… honest. He spills his heart in every song that he writes, and you know he’s never been a great liar. He can’t help it, being genuine is in his DNA. This crashing waterfall, this boy with overflowing emotions—he sings what he thinks but feels terrified because of it. You might not understand his honesty, but you know that fear. You know it all too well.

He beholds himself to you—raw and unfiltered. A little battered and bruised, but still Jungkook. Behind everything, still the boy you’ve been yearning for.

Maybe this song is what will give you enough confidence to admit everything to him, too. As you stand there, listening to his mellow voice sing confessions to no one but you and the stars, you think you grow a little more courageous that day.

Maybe you won’t be able to tell him tonight. Maybe not tomorrow, nor next week either. But as you gaze back at his hopeful eyes, you know deep in your heart that you’ll find the words you’ve been looking for.

“I’ll keep waiting for you, if you let me.” Jungkook’s voice floats gently to you, and settles in your open palms. This time, you don’t let go

xxx

Months later, Jungkook stops working at the restaurant when an offer from a major record company arrives in his mail. Apparently, a big shot from the local radio station had pitched him to an employee at that company and they were all pleasantly surprised to find a hidden gem at a random bar and restaurant.

In your apartment, you stare outside your window and to where his home is—well, where it was. You wonder if he finished packing his things, ready to make the big move tomorrow. You stand up with a stretch, sparing a glance at your still broken shower. It would be nice to have one more shower at his place… And after that? Maybe you should start looking for a nicer apartment; somewhere far away might be nice.

Your phone rings, and you see his contact photo light up your screen. With a smile, you answer.

“Come over, if you want. I won’t make you,” Jungkook assures you.

You laugh lightly, already halfway out the door.

#bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #bts reader insert #bts fanfiction #bts imagines #bts fluff #bts angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jeon jungkook #jungkook #bangtan #bts #bts fanfic

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shotmrmiller · 5 months

Text

Submitting to his dominance— part III

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

TW: dubious-con???, light mentions of violence, tied up for a moment, biting, thigh riding, fingering, edging, unprotected p in v, creampie, this is just vulgar idk what to say.

WC: 3k

A/N: this is it. i didn't plan on using the small drabble of jealousy for this but it worked better for me in the end. this is totally self-indulgent gg yall

You’re on a call with a friend, excitedly discussing your upcoming date with Gaz. Telling her how the both of you are still getting to know each other, just dipping your toes in the water— but the chemistry you both felt was natural, and your friend was screaming on the other end of the line, excited for you.

Approaching your front door, you’re giggling at something they said when you turn your doorknob and push. It opens. Unlocked. You never leave your flat unlocked. After a moment, you let your friend know you’ll call her later and pivot, dialing the police. Just as you’re about to leave, a recognizable voice comes from the other side of the door.

“Get inside, pet.”

Ghost.

Resolutely shaking your head, you firmly say, “No. I blocked you for a reason. Stay here as long as you like, I’m going to Johnny’s.”

In a split second, you find yourself yanked back by a forceful hand clutching onto your hair, causing a jolt of pain as a few strands give way. The grip on your hair intensifies, and you're forcefully dragged into your apartment, confined within its walls with a slam of the door.

“Are you fucking—”, Ghost cuts you off with a rough palm over your mouth. Anger surges through your veins, nostrils flaring, and you lift your arm to strike him when he uses the hand covering your mouth to slam your head against the wall— not too hard but with just enough strength to remind you of the position you’re in. Who you’re in here with.

“Hands to yourself, girl. You’d be pickin’ a fight you couldn’t even dream of winnin’.”

Maybe he had a suspicion that you’d test him again because he swiftly rotated you and fastened your wrists with zip ties behind you— before turning you around once again to face him.

How fucking dare he. Oh, if looks could kill.

You give him the most hateful scowl you can muster, and he looks at you for just a second, almost mockingly. He lifts the mask to uncover his mouth and then tries to press his lips to your neck, but that’s not about to happen. You move your head and shoulder to prevent him from getting anywhere near, when he moves his hand to fist your hair and yanks. You don’t know what made your eyes tear up. If it’s the stinging ache of your scalp or the twinge in your neck from how hard he pulled. It was silly of you to think he wouldn’t just take what he wants— he’s done it so far.

Ghost has the nerve to chuckle as if he didn’t almost break your neck.

“Don’t be dramatic, pet. If I wanted y’dead, you wouldn’t have even seen me coming.”

Not realizing you spoke aloud, you’re about to purposefully speak your mind when his lips latch onto the delicate skin of your neck, sucking hard, to the point of pain. And he does it again, on the other side. The sting of his hickeys causes you to whimper, and you assume he likes the noise that involuntarily slips out of you because he grinds his clothed erection against your core while sucking a mark on the fluttering vein in your neck.

Ghost pulls back, fist still in your hair, and rubs his thumb across the throbbing bruises as if admiring his work. “Hey,” and moves his shirt to reveal his neck— showing you a half dozen blotchy marks that his other conquests put there, and with mirth says, “We match.”

You start thrashing at that, as best you can while being restrained, and the intense fury of why you even blocked him in the first place comes back to the forefront of your mind.

“Get the fuck off of me!” you scream. You raise your leg to kick him when he readily grabs it, effortlessly lifting you off the floor. He lets your one leg hang over the arm he has sturdily planted on the wall before grabbing the other to do the same— and pins you flat with his hips, bulge pressed firmly against your cunt. Your arms ache with pain as they are ruthlessly pinned behind you against the wall, pulling a hiss of agony from you.

“Now, now,” he taunts, “There’s no need to get pissy over me sleeping with someone else. Y’asked for a fuck, not a boyfriend, lovie.”

“Yeah,” you grit out, “You’ve made that clear enough, with your little flings Johnny told me about.”

“Aw, and tha’s got your knickers in a twist, does it?” he grinds his hips, “Would you believe me if I said tha’ you’re the prettiest?”

You snort. “Piss off— and actually piss the fuck off. You can go get your dick wet with someone else.”

“Why would I wanna do that when I got y’here spread open so willingly f’me?” and grinds his hips again.

You were about to retort about the ‘willingly’ being questionable when he latches onto your skin again but this time, he sinks his teeth into the meat of your shoulder. Your nails dig into your palms, eyes welling with tears at the sharp pain of the bite.

“Ah— stop, please stop” and it feels like he bites down even harder before finally relenting. His teeth come off your skin leaving behind a dark, angry purple imprint.

“You sound so pretty when you beg, pet.”

Ghost looks up from the bite to your eyes and notices them glassy with unshed tears— licking off the ones that did spill. He trails soft stubbly kisses from your jawline to the corner of your mouth almost to coax it open. You wish you were a stronger person to resist his allure, but his mystique pulled you into his orbit. His touch ignited the spark in you to a flame, and you cave.

His mouth caresses yours open, your body melting against his. You let out little, breathy moans, and when he sloppily licked into your mouth, you caught his tongue and sucked— pulling the raunchiest, cunt-clenching sound you’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing. You let go of his tongue with a pop.

He moves his hands off the wall to dig into your arse and walks to your couch, putting your back to the cushions as he pulls off your pants. With a firm grip on your hips, he pulls you towards him, making you straddle his muscular thigh while his hands wrap around your waist, reaching for your bound wrists.

“I’ma take this off. I wouldn’t try hittin’ me again.” You feel a snap, the tingle of your blood rushing through the mark left by the zip tie, and shrug— in an attempt to ease some of the aches in your shoulders from being forcefully positioned for so long.

You side-eye the military pocket knife he used to cut the ties, wondering when he took it out— where he even hid it. Ghost leans forward to shrug off his leather jacket, pulls off his shirt while keeping his mask over his mouth, and tosses them to the other side of the sofa. You knew he was fit but seeing just how much made you a tad insecure. The separation of the muscle from the round of his shoulders to the bulge of his bicep, with the vein running along the bicep was mouthwatering. Strong vascular forearms, only one of them with a half sleeve. You can see the muscle striation of his full-looking pecs, his abs clear cut, obliques you could count with your fingers. Ridiculously fit, unlike yourself. Soft tummy, thick meaty thighs, and fleshy hips. He brings you out of your musing with a hard slap to your arse.

“Out of your head and back here w’me, eh?” he says while soothing the sting with his calloused hand. “I can feel how warm your cunt is through my jeans. Go on,” and lifts his hand to rub a thumb over your mound, “ride my thigh.”

The feel of your clit against the rough fabric of his jeans and his thumb rubbing firm circles on it has your pussy growing wet, leaving a damp spot behind on him. One hand grips you to push you through the motions, and you continue to roll your hips— chasing the friction you need.

The circles he’s drawing turn slippery as the tension of your impending orgasm intensifies. Your legs start to shake as you stroke yourself on the length of his thigh and the steady roll of your clit under his thumb is about to make you break, your walls fluttering when Ghost pulls away— abruptly leaving you at the ledge, and it stings.

“Y’didn’t think I was gonna just let you come with how bratty you’ve been?” and you let out an angry whine. “Open your mouth,” he orders.

Your tongue unsticks from the roof of your mouth as you do, and he shoves two of his long fingers into it, and curls them over your tongue— and you close your throat to prevent your gag reflex.

“Atta girl, love,” the smirk he gives is so irrationally smug, that you want to bite him. He puts both of his thighs in between your legs to spread you, letting him get a good look at your swollen, dripping cunt.

He pulls his fingers out glossy with your spit to rub them through your folds, then presses one, and then the other. He pushes to half the length of his fingers and curls, pushing directly on the sensitive patch of nerves. Ghost repeatedly presses against it, and the noises you and your cunt start to make are lewd, sloppy.

Your pleasure starts to rise again, back to where he left you off with every precise drag of his fingers over your patch of nerves, your body feels like it’s radiating heat, your vision starting to go white when again, he leaves you hanging. Right at the fucking edge and you dry sob from how pleasurably painful it is.

Ghost grabs your neck with a firm, wet grip and pulls your face to his, lips hovering over yours, breath mingling.

“With me in you or none at all, pet,” and slaps your cheek, leaving behind a sticky residue.

Quickly divesting himself of his jeans, he picks you up and takes you to the bedroom, where he watches you bounce on your mattress. He’s about to crawl over to you when you put your foot flat against his chest.

“I’m not fucking you without a condom when you still have the evidence of your promiscuity on you.”

He grabs that ankle and wraps it around him, lifting its twin to do the same, then places himself between your thighs— resting some of his body weight on you.

“I never sleep with anyone without protection. You’d be the first in many years,” and you scoff at him. He grabs your jaw, cheeks squishing under his fingers, demanding eye contact.

“I’m many things but a liar isn’t one of ‘em. You’ve done so well f’me, been so obedient. You’re the only one I want to feel without any barriers. ”

This reminds you of how much of a bastard he is. Taking wheat and spinning it into gold, just to get what he wants.

“And how many times has that line worked for you?” whimpering at the feel of his heavy cock rubbing against your wet cunt.

“You’re the only one I wanna see my cum drip out of, pet. I swear it,” and he starts to push into you. Even being as drenched as you are, your cunt still struggles to take him. He gives one thrust and it reaches halfway before it stops— almost like it’s stuck. Ghost pulls out, cock slippery and creamy with your juices then pushes in again. It’s like a rock breaking the surface tension of still water— he sinks to the hilt.

It burns. It’s an ache and his length feels too large, too much, but hearing this typically silent behemoth of a man mumbling into your ear has you groaning at his depth.

“Fuck, baby, fuckin’ hell sweetheart—”, the salacious groan in your ear makes you clench your gummy walls around his invasion. He moves slowly, giving a series of unhurried, languid thrusts.

“I’m gonna make sure this tight cunt fits me and no one else,” and that has you thinking if he said that because of your upcoming date, but then with a soft slap to your cheek, he shifts— bringing himself to his knees. Ghost grabs the back of yours and pushes them to your ears. You’re bent in half, can barely breathe, and then he gives you a knowing smirk— with just one corner of his mouth lifted as the only warning before he pounds into you.

Viciously.

Unsparingly.

Every thrust of his has the tip of his head firmly pressing into your cervix with an obscene squelch. The deep pinch you feel against your womb brings tears to your eyes.

He’s merciless with how hard he fucks you, and you can’t do anything other than take it, thoroughly pinned under his body weight. Ghost then lets go of one leg to cover your mouth with his hand before angling his hips upwards— just a tad and the angle is so sharp he has you screaming. He must’ve known exactly what was gonna happen because he’s completely unfazed by how loud you’re being, just presses down on your mouth even harder.

“Keep taking it, pet, I know you can,” he growls out, but it feels like he’s actually rearranging your guts, so deep inside you can feel him in your throat. His rhythm is unrelenting, and the coil that Ghost has kept tightly wound all this time threatens to snap, and you’re sure it’s going to break you.

He hisses as he feels your cunt quivering around his cock, and he definitely knows what’s about to happen because he then slows his hips and cuts through your pleasure with his selfish demand.

“You tell Gaz that this weekend is cancelled and I’ll fuck you against that wall and let you come,” and you’re babbling out your surrender, jerky nods of your head. You’re okay with losing this battle because you’re winning this war unequivocally.

Ghost pulls out aggressively, pulls you to the edge of the bed to position your ankles at his shoulder, and lifts— walking to the wall, pinning you. He slaps your arse before sliding back in again.

“M’good girl has earned her reward, hasn’t she?” and with that, he lets spit dribble from his mouth to land on your clit.

“Lemme see you touch yourself,” and resumes his thrusts, this time pushing directly into your sweet spot, again and again. You rub circles in rhythm with his thrusting, your body starting to seize.

“Fuck, tha’s it, love, fuck me,” and he moans when the nails of your unoccupied hand dig into his shoulder. “Jesus, yeah, scratch me. Leave a mark— I wanna see you on me tomorrow,” and he starts to piston into you at a punishing pace, and he in combination with your fingers has you careening into one of the most, if not the most, overwhelming orgasm of your life.

You tense, and with no control, actually scream out your peak. Wave after wave of blindingly brutal pleasure, nothing but a ringing in your ears and your limbs that violently tremble— relieving the ache that has been in between your thighs for weeks, from Ghost’s ruthless edging.

The choking vice your cunt has on his cock sends him over, groaning out his climax. He’s grinding so deep in you that it just hurts, then thrusts himself into oversensitivity.

He backpedals, taking you with him in his arms, and falls back onto your bed with a grunt. You’re rubbing the marks your nails left on his shoulders— just an imprint. Good. Then, you shift yourself upwards, straddling his ribcage to touch the lovebites.

“You didn’t really think I’d leave a trophy for you to take home, did you?” and his dark eyes unblinkingly stare at you. Gazing right back, you say, “I won’t be a part of your collection.” But you’re not sure if you aren’t already, seeing as how it’s his cum dripping out of you and landing on his stomach.

“But an agreement is an agreement,” and get up to grab your phone. Sending Gaz a quick text, you then turn the screen towards Ghost.

Can’t see you this weekend, Gaz. Sorry:(

Oh, the belly laugh Ghost lets out at the response Gaz sent makes your face flush.

We talked about this, doll. Our date is next weekend.

“Now I,” you get up, leaving Ghost lying on your bed with his spend drying on his belly, “am gonna go shower, and you can let yourself out. I asked for a fuck, not a boyfriend.”

As you saunter to your bathroom, you turn your head to end it with, “Seeing as how I won’t be needing you anymore, delete my number.”

—

By the time you step out of your bathroom squeaky clean, your apartment is as if you didn’t get fucked within an inch of your life. Everything looked in order, bed comforter tucked with hospital corners— empty. Except your phone wasn’t where you left it. You walk over to pick it up and on the screen is a text from Ghost’s number. He unblocked himself and changed the name of his contact to Simon.

If you wanted exclusivity, all you had to do was ask, love. Tell Gaz to fuck off for good, I’ll see you soon.

You quickly run to your bathroom and slam the door closed. Squealing, you dial Gaz’s number.

“Hello, doll,” his voice is low, as if he was asleep.

“It worked! We did it! We—” and you cut yourself off, “Wait, did I wake you?”

He chuckles and you can hear another deep male voice in the background.

“OH! Oh. You weren’t sleeping! OK! Sorry! So sorry! I’m hanging up!” and press the end call button.

To beat the player, you must first learn how to play the game.

Taglist: @comeonatmebruh @channelsoph @imasimpl0l @hellshire-harlot @mesyakee @leeeenistop @kerst666 @no-oneelsebutnsu @thychuvaluswife

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #cod #cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley smut

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hypewinter · 8 months

Text

Hal bent down as the little girl approached him. Even then, he still managed to tower over her with how small she was.

"Hey there little lady," he said. "Anything I can help you with this fine evening?"

The little girl looked at him anxiously, fiddling with her hands. Ok so not a nervous fan. Hal immediately switched to serious mode, scanning the crowd for anyone who could be her parents. He didn't see anyone running up to the two of them or even so much as keeping a watchful eye from a distance.

"Is something the matter?" Hal questioned, making sure to keep his voice even and calm.

The girl continued fidgeting, her big blue eyes scanning from side to side. Finally she spoke. "You wiff da space po-eece yes? Not da am-ear-ree-ca one?"

Hal smiled at the girl. "Yes, I'm with the space police." Honestly that was oversimplifying the Corps a little but he had long since gotten to citizens calling him a space cop.

The girl offered up a small nervous smile of her own. "So you won't tell da gov-ment what I tell you wight?"

Hal was on high alert now. Just what was this little girl trying to tell him? "I won't tell. I promise," he said after a second.

The girl broke into a big smile at this. "Really? Dis way den." She started tugging Hal along and he began to follow.

"Where exactly are we going?" he asked.

"You see," was all she replied.

Hal was led down a couple different alleyways and was beginning to think he was walking into a trap when they reached an abandoned building. The girl dashed in and up the old rusted stairs, with Hal following closely behind her.

If this really is a trap, I'll never hear the end of it from Batman, he thought morbidly as he cleared the last step. Instead of finding himself facing an ambush however, he saw a boy curled up on an old mattress. The girl was already by his side as Hal approached.

"Don wowee Danny, I got help. Like I said I would," he caught the little girl whispering as he knelt down next to the boy. He had to have been older than the girl. Three years older maybe? Yet he was still so small. Hal took sight of his condition. He was in pain. That much was certain by his little face scrunched up in agony and his quiet moans. He was also sweating profusely. His raven black hair sticking to his forehead. Fever maybe?

Hal continued his observations as he scanned down the boy's body until he got to his stomach. The boy was clutching it and Hal could make out blood bleeding through from underneath. Oh no.

He quickly yet carefully removed the boy's arm to get a better look at the wound. The kid let out a groan as his arm was peeled away. Hal couldn't help but thank Oa for all his training that helped prevent him from letting out a gasp.

The boy's chest was covered in blood. Dark red mixed with flecks of green soaked through his shirt and there were bandages that had been amateurishly tied around the wound.

"How did this happen?" Hal asked, turning back to the girl. He did his best to keep his tone as gentle as possible.

Her smile was gone now, and her eyes welled up with tears. "He pwotected me," she said. "Dey wanted to huwrt us. Dey shot at us. Danny pwotected me."

Anger boiled within Hal. Who would shoot at these children? They were only little kids. If what the girl had said earlier was anything to go off of, the answer had something to do with the government. He would have to take care of that later though. For now, this boy needed medical attention.

"Let's get Danny to a hospital," Hal said resolutely, as he got up.

"No!" the little girl screeched. "No has-pee-tail. Too dan-er-us!"

"But he needs-" Hal started but then he met the girl's eyes. There was abject fear in them. As if going to the hospital would be a death sentence for both children. Where else were they supposed to go though? The boy- Danny needed medical attention stat. That much was certain.

Hal paused. There was one place. He sighed. Batman was going to kill him for this.

"Okay okay. No hospital. But what about space?"

"Space?" the girl repeated.

Hal nodded.

The little girl smiled. "Danny lobes space!"

"Well then. That's perfect."

Hal constructed a new bed for the boy, carefully easing him onto it before putting a protective dome around both children. The little girl giggled as he lifted them up. He then turned to the wall where he created a giant hammer to knock it down. Then they were off. Flying higher and higher, towards the atmosphere. As the Watchtower got closer in sight, Hal couldn't help but groan. Taking civilians to the Watchtower? Oh yeah, Batman was definitely going to kill him.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dpxdc #winter's tales #sorry if the baby speech is annoying #really wanted to emphasize that ellie is just a tiny tot is all #side note it was strange writing “thank oa”#because on one hand it's pretty much the equivalent of saying “thank earth”#but on the other hand i felt like a natural thing for him to say?#*it #though i guess there are some people who say “thank gaia”#which is just another name for earth #but that's probably in reference to the actual greek personification so....#idk #anyways i'm getting off into a random tangent #feel free to ignore this

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incognit0slut · 1 year

Text

Masterlist

KINKTOBER 2023 NSFW

One-shots based on songs

Lock your door NSFW Billie Eillish - Billie Bossa Nova >> All Reader wanted was for her coworker to pay attention to her. Spencer was more than happy to oblige.

Take it off Taylor Swift - Dress >> Spencer has a hard time keeping his hands to himself.

Buried in the pillow NSFW Chase Atlantic - Slow Down >> A night of restless sleep ends better than expected.

Body on mine NSFW Justin Sky - Collide >> Reader and Spencer find a way to spend the night together on a team retreat.

Lose Control part 1 of 3 NSFW Sickick - Mind Games >> Spencer finds himself locked in a room with his rival.

↳ The Last Laugh part 2 of 3 NSFW Sickick - Mind Games >> Spencer finds himself sharing a room with his rival.

↳ Better for you part 3 of 3 Spencer spends the change of year with a new resolution as he starts looking at his rival differently.

Dance with the devil NSFW Chase Atlantic - Swim >> Spencer reassures Reader that sex toys are his ally rather than his enemy.

All I need NSFW Daniel Caesar, Kali Uchis - Get you >> Spencer realizes how much he wants to spend the rest of his life with Reader. What better time is there to propose if not in the middle of making love?

Heaven to you NSFW Julia Michaels - Heaven >> Spencer couldn't wait to touch you after he's released from prison.

Play our fantasies NSFW Doja Cat - Streets >> The FBI agent visiting your workplace wants more from you than answers to his questions.

One-shot #Gifwriting

Pretty Boy NSFW Spencer was too pretty for you to resist.

Pretty when you sleep NSFW As newlyweds, Spencer couldn’t keep his hands off of you. Even when you were asleep.

Sweet agony NSFW After a tragic event, you believed you were unworthy of love. Spencer decided to prove you wrong.

Tempting the Cowboy NSFW The team has been trying to bring Spencer back to the BAU after he hung up his badge to live on his ranch peacefully. It’s a good thing you’ll do whatever it takes to persuade him, even if the rugged cowboy wants to bend you over in the barn.

Beyond the limit NSFW Spencer was hesitant when you asked him to be rough, but when he realized how much you enjoyed it, he wondered just how far he could push your limit.

↳ The breaking point NSFW Spencer realizes that being dominant doesn’t always require him to be rough, especially when he has complete control over your body.

Hypothetically Chronically single, you suggest a pact with your best friend to start a family together when you turn forty.

Stress Relief You convince your husband to take out his anger on you when he comes home very tense.

Series

Right Kind of Wrong

Genre: Romance, mystery, crime, suspense Warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content (MINORS DNI), graphic details of murders, mentions of suicide, mentions of SA status: complete

Reader never thought she would be involved in a murder investigation when she suddenly became a witness. She also never thought she’d encounter her one-night-stand again—the awkward stranger who isn’t exactly that good in bed… Or is he? Offended by the sentiment, Spencer is determined to prove her wrong. But the more he gets tangled with the beautiful stranger, the more he realizes there is more to her than what meets the eye.

Your requests

Love was a foreign concept until he met you.

You’re flabbergasted at how much your son resembles your husband.

Spencer thinks you’re too sweet for a damaged man like him.

Spencer forces you to give him a show when he discovers your secret.

Spencer gives you a ride on his horse to watch the sunset.

Your idea of showering together to save time doesn’t work out as you planned.

Spencer finally lets you go down on him after you convince him that you're ready.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid masterlist #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid x female reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencerreid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x you #Right Kind of Wrong

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freedomfireflies · 9 months

Text

Take Me*

Summary: An extra for Teach Me*

The one where you and your best friend, Harry, decide to move in together.

And christen every inch of the new apartment.

Word Count: 4.6k

*Contains Mature and Explicit content! Please only consume what you feel comfortable with!💞You are so much more important!*

“Harry, you can’t be serious—”

“I am. Sit.”

With a huff, you step closer to where he’s lying on the floor, those beautiful, big green eyes peering up at you. “We have a ton of work to do, okay? And the movers will be here any minute—”

“Don’t care.” He shifts a bit, back arching from the carpet as he smooths his shirt down, getting ready. “Sit.”

Your hands find your hips and you toss him an amused frown. “Harry—”

He grabs your ankles. Tugs until you lose your balance and go crashing to the ground. And he catches you, palms on your waist to make sure you’re steady before sliding them down to your thighs.

“Harry—”

“Shh. I’m busy.”

He pulls you to his face, fingers slipping around the crotch of your large cotton shorts until he can pull them aside. He smirks when he sees there’s nothing else underneath.

“Well, well, well,” he tsks, and you could smack the dimples off his face. “Seems you forgot something.”

You snort. “All of my underwear is packed, okay—”

“Sure.” He grins. “Yeah, no, I’m sure that’s it. I’m sure you definitely didn’t think to leave any out for today. Especially since we’re doing so much packing. And moving. And running around.”

Your expression gives you away. As does the subtle whine that rips free when he lets the tip of his nose ghost across the tender skin of your leg. “Harry…we can’t—”

“We can.” His voice is resolute as he trails his lips closer to your cunt. Tongue licking his bottom lip in anticipation. “This is our place, baby. We can do whatever we fucking want.”

Our place. It makes your heart as warm as your cheeks, and you can’t help but smile.

It’d taken a bit of convincing from Harry to get you to move in with him. But after some extensive apartment hunting, you both found the place you wanted to call home.

And now, here you are, in your new home. Surrounded by boxes and somewhat empty rooms as Harry insists on christening this new adventure with you by having you sit on his face.

In fact, you’d no sooner walked through the door and set some of your stuff down before he suggested it.

And proceeded to throw himself onto the ground in wait.

“Harry,” you try again. A desperate whimper that seems to urge him on.

“Darling,” he retorts, fingers curling around your skin as he plants you above his mouth. “Just let me have a taste, hm? Wanna remember today like this.”

And you’re barely able to reply with a fatigued nod before he yanks you down and sucks you between his lips.

He starts fast. Quick licks to your folds and clit. Just enjoying you. Enjoying how easily you fall apart. Your hands in his hair, scratching and pulling. The pain.

He loves the pain.

Teasing you is far too easy. Circling your hole, feeling you out, flicking the delicate nerves. But the sounds of his lapping at you like a dying man with a drink of fresh water is excruciating.

It echoes around the empty room and it’s so very loud. But it’s everything. And he’s beautiful. And he’s doing this to you purely for his own enjoyment. He loves to taste you. Loves to make you squirm on his face as you plead with him for mercy.

Everything is wet. So goddamn wet. Your pussy, his mouth, his face. He's not trying to remain poised. Not trying to keep clean. He wants all of it. Wants to share his saliva with your already soaked pussy and drink you down until there's nothing left. Let his tongue slip in, out, and through you until you can't breathe. Until he can't breathe.

His hand suddenly smacks your thigh. Once. Twice. Three times, and the sting makes you clench around the little bit of his tongue he’s taunting you with.

He grins. “Keep going, baby. Ride my tongue. Go.”

So, you do. Hands finding the floor beside his head as you roll your hips over his face. Over and over until you feel dizzy. Until his hold on your body is the only thing keeping you upright.

It’s sinfully sweet, but before you can really lose yourself in his lips, you hear the giant moving truck parking down below. Hear the men opening the large door as they begin unloading your furniture and carrying it inside.

However, Harry doesn’t seem to be stopping, and the idea that these men will hear you as they approach is mortifying. But just when you think it’s game over, he nips your clit with his teeth and pulls.

Dazed, you smack your palm over your mouth and cry out, the orgasm ripping through you. You feel weak, nearly wilting in his hold as he struggles to keep you up right. Smirking with endless amounts of satisfaction as your thighs squeeze his head.

The moment you’ve caught your breath, there’s a knock on the door, and Harry chuckles as he calls, “Just a minute.”

He gently pinches your leg and readjusts your shorts before he’s dragging you down for a kiss. Palm around the back of your neck as he slips his tongue in beside yours. Allowing you a taste and then some.

And you whimper through every second of it before he’s suddenly popping off your mouth with a gleeful hum and jumping onto his feet to answer the door.

Leaving you to sit on the apartment floor with your heart in your throat.

“Bee, shit…fuck, I can’t…I can’t—”

“You can. Know you can, baby. M’so close…just hold on a little longer for me, okay?”

Harry’s eyes roll back while his arms tug on the heavy rope keeping him tied to the headboard.

His expression is pained but blissfully fucked. Sweat collecting in his hairline as his swollen lips part for a desperate groan.

You figured this was the best way to break in the new bedding you’d purchased for the room. The beautiful king-sized mattress with a sturdy headboard.

And after seeing him flop down onto the freshly washed duvet, you knew what you wanted to christen next.

So, you’d grabbed the restraints and wrestled his wrists to the bars. Keeping him stuck as you begin yanking his pants down his legs.

He was intrigued, to say the least. And more than willing to put the control in your hands once you grabbed the cock ring.

But he had no idea what you really had in store.

“Bee,” he tries again, gasping the closer he gets to his orgasm. Watching as your tits bounce directly in his face. “Bee, please…please, lovie—”

“I know,” you coo, one hand scratching down his chest while the other squeezes your nipple between determined fingers. “Soon, I promise. Doing so fucking good—”

“Shit.” His head drops back as his hips buck up. Body wrecked with inescapable pleasure that he can’t seem to find.

You’ve kept him edged for almost an hour now. First by taking him into your mouth and sucking him right to the brink before leaving him there.

Then by fucking yourself with his cock, hard and with fervor only to pop off just when he was about to cum.

And finally, to really make sure he got the most of your torture, you’d slid on the vibrating cock ring, and began bouncing on him again.

He’s felt you cum around him twice already, and each time, it’s nearly killed him. Because it’s brought him that much closer before abandoning him there.

You have to admit, he’s doing incredibly well. Even when he had the chance to cum, he held back as best he could. Obeying your instructions as you got the most of his prolonged erection.

And he loves it. Loves when you use him as your own personal toy. Perhaps even more than you love it.

“Can’t…fuck, can’t hold it,” he pants, eyes pleading with you before he looks down at where your cunt is sliding down his incredibly hard cock. “Shit…shit, please. Bee, please. Do anything…anything, please—”

“Anything?” you hum, biting back a smile as you roll your hips forward just to hear him whimper.

He nods quickly. “Yes, anything. Fucking anything you want, swear…I swear…”

He sounds so depraved like this. A submissive tone of voice that breeds a certain yearning deep in your stomach.

You love this man. Love how beautiful he sounds when he’s begging. Love that you get to live with him and start a new chapter of your lives together.

You’ve never felt so lucky.

“Okay, baby,” you murmur, lifting yourself off as he whines quietly and glances down at the arousal you've left behind on his cock. “M’gonna take the ring off, okay? And I want you to tell me where you wanna cum—”

“In you,” he says before you can even finish the question. “Fucking please, Bee. Please let me cum in you. Please…be so good. Need…need to cum in you.”

You grin. “In me where, hm? You want my throat?”

His head shakes, lips pushed into a pout.

“No?” You slide the toy up the length of him, making him hiss through gritted teeth. “Do you wanna cum in my pussy, then, sweet boy?”

He makes another noise that nearly breaks your heart as you toss the ring to the other side of the bed and return to him. “Yes…shit, yes. Please…please—”

“So pretty when you’re polite, you know that?” you hum, reaching out to cup his cheek.

In turn, he nuzzles into your palm, seeming to settle gratefully. Looking at you like you paint the stars in the sky.

You take hold of him in your other hand and guide him back to your fluttering hole. “Okay, baby. Want you to cum for me, yeah? Give me all of it.”

He steels himself, attempting to straighten up despite the way he’s bound. Placing his feet flat on the mattress while your knees come down beside his hips.

It doesn’t take long for him to reach that inevitable end. Only a few thrusts up into you as you clench around him until he’s finishing. And you don’t even mind because he feels so good. Fucking love the way he spills inside of your cunt. The way it drips back out the minute you lift up. The way it looks, smearing across your thighs and the tip of his cock.

You both moan rather lewdly, surely horrifying your new neighbors, but you don’t mind. Because this is everything you’ve ever wanted.

Everything.

“Har? You awake?”

The perpetually sleepy man hums as he nuzzles his face further into your neck. One arm draped over your stomach while the other is tucked beneath your neck. “Yeah.”

You smirk. “Are you sure? You seem a little out of it. Do you wanna go to bed?”

His head shakes slowly as he takes another deep breath, lashes fluttering against your skin. “No, m’fine. Just comfortable.”

You reach out to brush your fingers through his curls, smiling when you hear him sigh contently. “We can finish the movie another time, H. Come on, let’s go to bed—”

His grip constricts around your hip as he keeps you planted to the sofa. “No,” he repeats, lips disappearing into your shoulder. “No, we spent all day getting the TV and speakers set up. Wanna sit here with you and enjoy it.”

“But you’re not enjoying it. You’re sleeping,” you insist playfully. “We can finish it tomorrow, really—”

“No,” he breathes. Unrelenting. “This couch is really comfy and if you move, I’ll cry.”

You grin a bit bigger. “Fine.”

“Thank you.”

The next couple of minutes are quiet. His face is still nestled just beneath your jaw. Happy. But he’s not watching a single thing that’s happening on the screen and you have to bite back a laugh.

You love a lot of things about Harry, but one of them is his inability to admit when he’s tired. He’ll keep himself awake all night before he’ll acknowledge how sleepy he really is. In fact, he could be mid-yawn and still insist he’s fine.

However, just when you think he’s begun to drift off, you feel the hand on your hip smooth down your stomach. Stopping near the band of your sweatpants—almost innocently—before quickly dipping inside.

Warm fingers dance beneath the lace of your underwear until they can find your folds. A mindless action. Stroking softly and without devious intent. Almost as if touching you just to touch you.

You press your cheek into the top of his head. “Whatcha doin’?” you whisper.

“Nothing,” he hums. “S’just comfortable.”

“Touching me is comfortable?”

He nods once and continues gently moving his digits up and down. “I like playing with you. Makes me feel relaxed.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Like a stress ball but better.”

You lightly scratch your nails down his scalp. “You’re cute.”

“And you’re soft,” he murmurs, taking a deep, content breath. “Always so soft, Bee. And warm. Have no idea how good you feel.”

“I mean, I have some idea,” you tease. “It’s not like I haven’t touched myself before.”

“Funny.” His movements are lazy. There’s no alternative motive, he simply wants to feel you. “M’very happy.”

Your heart leaps into your throat as you glance down. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He rolls his head back to meet your eye. “Wanna warm my fingers in you…can I?”

There’s a racing in your chest that can’t be contained as you nod and spread your left leg a little further. Allowing him the room he needs while he pulls his hand out and sticks two fingers into his mouth.

He sucks on them slowly, coating them just so before dipping back in and smoothing the soaking digits down to your hole.

You exhale shakily at the feel of him stretching you slowly. The way your body draws him in, bends to his intentions. Clenches around him and keeps him warm.

He makes a satisfied noise of approval before nuzzling his face back into your neck, seemingly oblivious to the way you’re beginning to squirm.

But after a moment, the ache begins to dull. And you feel happy to merely lay with him like this, one of his legs tucked over yours, his fingers sitting deep in your cunt.

It’s serene, this moment. Perfectly blissful and endlessly safe.

Here in his arms.

“Harry…if you don’t stop—”

“What?” His grin is cheeky as he aims the showerhead down at the tile floor, allowing the water to dance down the drain. “M’just helping you get clean.”

“No, you’re being a menace,” you correct with a smirk. “I told you, no funny business—”

“I’m not being funny.” His finger taps along the cord, almost as if readying himself. “I mean, what’s the point of having a handheld showerhead if you don’t use it?”

You can’t argue that he has a point. After all, this was one of the features that drew you to the apartment in the first place, but you also know that he’s deliberately trying to tease you. “Harry, we came in here to shower because we have to leave in thirty minutes—”

“So—”

“So we don’t have time,” you remind him, handing him the loofa. “Okay, so clean yourself off, and we can try it out another time.”

However, he doesn’t accept the sponge, instead stepping even closer to you as the stream of water begins to rise. “That was before I saw how pretty you look…all soaped up and wet.”

You shoot him an amused yet playful frown. “Har…”

“What?” His eyes travel down your dripping torso and toward your cunt, the stream seeming to follow his line of focus. “I’m just helping you rinse off. S’what you wanted, right?”

The warm water feels amazing against your skin, but the pressure feels…

Your lashes flutter as you reach back to press your hands against the shower wall, needing something to brace yourself with as he continues stepping closer. “Harry…”

“What?” he says again, but it’s soft. Dangerous. Keeping the water on your inner thighs before moving up to your clit. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

But you couldn’t tell him even if you wanted to. Because the sensation of the pointed stream hitting you just right is turning your muscles to jello. Your vision is hazy, and your head is spinning, and your body is trembling—

“Har,” you whimper, undone by the look of adoration on his face as he loops an arm around your lower back. Holding you steady as he angles the water a bit lower. “Please…”

“Please what?” His voice is a soft purr. Sexy and silky and you feel powerless to resist him. “What do you want, Bee, hm? Tell Daddy what you want.”

Your head falls back against the tile, needing some stability. You’re too far gone, too lost in his eyes. In his need to unravel you. Legs shaking as the water does everything you need it to.

Slowly, he begins to lower himself into a crouch. Now eye level with your pussy as he readjusts his grip on the showerhead. Studying you with purpose as he works you closer.

“Come on,” he coos, glancing up through wet lashes. “Come on, lovie. Let me take care of you, yeah? Just wanna make you feel good—”

Your fingers reach for his freshly washed curls, tugging hard on the soaked strands as you whine. “Don’t stop.”

He smirks. “Never.”

With that, he lowers the water, and surges forward. Lips wrapping around your clit until you gasp out his name and thrust your hips toward his mouth.

He rotates between using his tongue and the showerhead. Pushing and pulling you toward that sweet release as all other thoughts and cares melt away.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, one hand reaching back to knead your ass in his palm. Practically tugging you down before landing a firm spank to the wet skin.

The sound echoes around the small room, the sharp contact making your pussy clench as you nearly lose your balance.

“That’s my girl.” He massages the flesh before smacking it again, and your eyes nearly roll out of your head. “Gonna cum for me, Bee?”

You nod quickly, chest heaving as you settle into the steam rising around you. “M’so close, Har…please…”

“I know,” he says, dipping down to nudge his nose against your clit. “Can see your pretty little hole fluttering for me. Just so…fucking…empty.”

Two wet fingers slip inside you, and it’s nearly impossible to remain steady with the way he beckons the orgasm out of you.

The pressure of the water against your clit, the fingers in your cunt, the goddamn smirk on his face. It’s everything and everywhere and you lose your grip on reality as you’re dragged through such euphoric harmony.

He rides you through for a couple minutes more before he’s standing back up and pressing his body into yours. Chest to chest, wet and flushed. His lips effortlessly capturing your own as you whimper against his tongue and throw your arms around his neck.

And maybe being late isn’t the worst thing.

Harry is beautiful.

In every way. And it’s not just his face or his body. But his heart. The way he speaks to you. Speaks to others. The way he carries himself, carries you. Protects you, loves you, fights for you.

The way he betters himself for you.

And now, you get to wake up to this man every day. In this beautiful new room with large windows and sunshine and promise. A moment of tranquility reserved just for you as you count the faint freckles across his nose. As you press your finger into the dimple on his cheek. As you study the rogue, messy curls that are matted to his forehead.

You could watch him sleep for hours. Would happily lay beside him until morning turned into afternoon.

But today? You have other plans.

It doesn’t take long for him to realize, eyes shooting open as you take him further down your throat.

He chokes on a strangled breath before glancing down, mouth dropping open with the sound of your name.

You pop off long enough to smile and whisper, “Morning, baby,” before you’re dragging your tongue along his tip.

His head falls back into the fluffy pillows, too heavy to stay upright. Streams of golden light dance through the curtains and hit the side of his face in the most magical way you’ve ever seen. Setting that beautifully structured profile aglow in the warm hue as he sighs gratefully.

Your hands curl around his thighs, squeezing gently as you scoot closer. Getting comfortable while you bob your head up and down the length of him.

His stomach is beautiful. Muscles quivering and skin soft. Littered with a few tattoos. The same tattoos you love to run your hands down. Your lips. Your pussy.

You could stare at him for a lifetime. And your heart feels like it’s going to burst inside your chest as you suck the man you love further into your mouth.

You love waking him up like this. Granted, it’s a rare occurrence, but each time, it’s ceaselessly enchanting.

And it’s another kink the two of you have found you adore. After giving each other consent to use the other’s body as a wake-up call, you found that there was something…safe about the experience. About knowing you trusted each other enough to allow them to decide for you.

It might not happen often, but you’re grateful for the times it does. Like now. When you get to see him look at you with lust and appreciation.

“Bee,” he whispers, reaching out to brush his hand along your head. Cupping it gently and without force. Letting you choose how much of him you want to take. “God, m’so lucky.”

You hum around him, and he groans. “Taste so good, Daddy. Just had to have a taste.”

His thumb brushes along your cheek, feeling the way it swells with his cock. “Can have anything you want, baby girl,” he sighs. “You know that. I’m all yours. Can take whatever you want, whenever you want it.”

You’d smile if you could, instead squeezing his thighs three times to tell him you love him.

“There you go,” he grunts when you lean back to spit on him. “Fucking just like that…shit. So fucking good, baby—”

Your hand works the base of him while your lips and tongue focus on the tip. Spreading the extra lubrication around until the room fills with the sound of your pumps.

His hips are bucking up, but you can tell he’s resisting the urge to drive himself into your mouth. He wants to be gentle for you. Wants you to have the control, but he’s losing the battle quickly.

So, you shoot him a soft grin, and murmur, “Fuck my throat, Daddy. Just wanna feel good for you.”

Which is all he needs to hear in order to weave his fingers through your hair and tug.

“Is that right, hm?” he whispers deviously. “Then be a good girl…and fucking take me.”

So…you do.

The paper towel roll goes flying to the floor, along with a bag of coffee grounds and the mail.

Harry has you bent over the kitchen island, cock deep in your cunt while his hand tugs on your hair.

“That’s a good girl,” he groans, forcing your cheek into the marble. “Fucking take me, Bee. Just like that.”

Your tits are pressed to the cold counter as you whimper something that resembles his name. Followed by a very lascivious moan when he angles his thrusts up.

He’s been insatiable all afternoon. Starting with eating you out at the breakfast table, just to edge you with seconds to spare.

Then, the firm smacks to your ass every time he walked by. Along with sneaking up behind you to scatter hickies along your exposed neck.

And now this.

You’d been unpacking some of the kitchen utensils and newly bought groceries when the idea hit him. Wild eyes watching you closely as you sat atop the island and rummaged through a box.

He’d slipped his way between your dangling legs and began to kiss you. Hand dancing down to your shorts to feel you out. Toying with you until you realized what he really wanted.

Not long after, he had you down on the ground. Your panties shoved around your ankles as he took you from behind.

And you figured unpacking could wait.

“Har,” you whisper now, attempting to meet his rhythm with gentle rolls of your own. “Please…”

“What, baby girl?” he coos, feet kicking your legs further apart. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

And it is. It has been ever since he started eating you out on the newly built table. Warm and deliciously skilled mouth on your cunt as the dishes and plates rattled beside you.

You’d cursed him to hell for stopping before you could finish but you’re more than grateful for his remedy now. Because while his lips and tongue are divine, his cock is what you really crave.

He pulls out and lands a firm spank to your dripping and sensitive cunt. The sensation and the sound nearly making your knees buckle until he has to slip an arm around your stomach and keep you still.

Then, he does it again. And once more for good measure before he’s driving himself back in.

“Fucking hell,” he murmurs behind you, his palm still pressed to your head to keep you down. “S’fucking pretty. This sweet little hole just takes me so well, you know that? Gets me all nice and wet. Lets me fuck it the way I want. Fucking begs for me, doesn’t it?”

You nod beneath his hold, nails scraping down the counter in bliss.

“So fucking pretty.” His other hand comes back to your thigh to squeeze it harshly before moving for your ass. Spreading you even further so he can see the way he disappears into you. “God, just like that. So cute when you’re desperate. Know you aren’t gonna last much longer, are you, lovie?”

“No,” you whimper, gasping when his cock brushes the perfect spot. “Shit, no. Can’t…can’t hold it.”

“Then you better fucking ask, hm?” he taunts, quickly yanking on your hair to force you up. “Ask me to cum. Beg me to let you cum on my cock—”

“Please,” you obey without pause. Desolate and deranged. “Please, H, please—”

“Do better,” he hisses, spanking your ass in retaliation. “Know you can do better than that, Bee. So come on, let’s hear it—”

“Daddy, please,” you correct, tears in your eyes as you try to hold back the pleasure threatening to escape. “Please, I’m so close…can’t hold it—”

“No,” he grunts, landing another smack to your skin. “Again.”

You choke on a moan and work to find the right words. Or any words at all. “Please, Daddy. Please let me cum on your cock. Need it so bad, can’t…can’t fucking stand it. Just need you, Daddy. Need you, please…”

You feel him twitch inside you before he’s growling through a clenched jaw and murmuring, “Good fucking girl…go. Right now, Bee. Fucking cum—”

And you do. Only seconds before he inevitably follows, and the overwhelming rush nearly breaks you. The way he spills inside you, the way he holds you upright, the way he presses his fingers to your clit in order to drag you even further.

He ignores your whimpers and cries for mercy, tugging your squirming frame back into his chest until you go quiet. Lips nuzzled to your cheek as he whispers, “There you go, you’re all right. Deep breath, baby. You’re okay, just want one more—”

“Daddy—”

“Shh. Just one more.” His voice is gentle although his touch is anything but. Pressing and rubbing against the overused nerves until you’re actively arching in his hold. “One more, baby girl, you can give me one more. Know you can. Doing so good—”

It doesn’t take long for the second one to find you, and you feel him smile against your jaw as you come down from his fingers.

“There you go,” he praises quietly before taking his hand away and crouching down. The tip of his tongue ghosting up your inner thigh as you sigh.

You feel him smirk.

“Now…let's do something about this mess.”

Next Part:

~ Break Me*

Previous Part:

~ Guide Me*

~ Full Teach Me Masterlist

Amazing credit for the beautiful dividers to @firefly-graphics 💞

~ Other Harry Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince @onlystylesss28 @winterrays @jessitpwk @aslugforharry @allthelovehes @straightnogayhs @adoringhrry @harrysxcarolina @lillefroe @avasversion @littlelunamoon @harrysgf01 @lexiecamposv @spinningoutwaiting4ya @hs-tpwkrry @vyctorya @b-reads-things @thiyaabs @buckybarnessimpp @whoreforjamesbuckybarnes @cherryluvhobi @mybabyh @xellybellyx @reneemunson @juliatpwk @wolfmoonmusic @buckyssbestgirl @wandasbae616 @imavirginhoe @nuggetdean @chubby-cheek-calum @itsmytimetoodream

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tarjapearce · 7 months

Text

Strawberry Jam (Pt. 3 Finale)

Dad Best Friend! Miguel x reader

WARNING: FILTHYNESS UNDER CUT. P in v, unprotected sex, age gap implied, Dad Best Friend Miguel, breeding kink, wedding night sex, rough sex, manhandling, oral, m receiving, f receiving, reader is 21+ , pregnancy.

Summary: You've married Miguel. Celebration ensues.

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated 😊✨

If someone would have told you that you'd marry your dad best friend a few years back, you surely had believed them crazy.

Back then Miguel meant someone to stay away from, out of respect for your dad and the many years they shared as friends. But after that evening you had shared, with him buried deep inside you in the kitchen island, everything changed. And it went both ways.

It changed for good since there was no more restrictions and inhibitions. No moral code that prevented him for coming for you and sweeping off your feet. Your dad wasn't happy initially, and his anger lasted for a couple of months.

But slowly thawed when he saw Miguel also trying his best in being a good partner for you. His friendship was also put at stake and that took a while to fix as well.

Your dad was both disturbed yet relieved, to put it in words. Disturbed because one of his worst case scenarios had turned into a wicked reality. Something he had a hard time accepting, despite him telling you it was ok.

Being angry wouldn't make you both break up, and it only made his blood pressure to go up. But his role as a protective father had been long terminated ever since Miguel came to your life as your official partner.

He wouldn't have to worry for your wellbeing anymore. He knew you'd be more than fine with him.

It helped to soothe his nerves to see you close to Gabriella. Something that took you a while.

Gabi wasn't easily convinced, but seeing your unwavering and steadfast resolution to be with her precious Papa, and that you didn't want to steal him from her, made everything ten times better.

To starters, Miguel seemed happy that Gabi had accepted you, despite her initial doubts and complains. His relationship with Gabi was always a hundred percent honesty and trust. He could never hide something from his little girl.

Despite your age, and many people thinking you a gold digger, you remained on Miguel's side. Supporting him as he protected you from snide comments and jealousy from the people in Alchemax. While he got congratulated for finding such a lovely and delectable soon to be wife, you got the backlash from the women and upper boss' that either never had a chance with him, or were too much of a bunch of prudes to accept the fact you were marrying him.

He quit a couple of weeks later after you did. And no amount of money could convince him to get him back. It was simple.

"If you aren't comfortable working there, neither I am."

Of course he was tired of hearing things like 'I'll give them a year.' 'She just wants him for the money. Get him a richer dude and you'll see.' And 'She's so naive if she thinks he loves her. He's a perv old man.'

Only you knew how much Miguel loved you, and he knew you too well to pay attention to gossip and brickbats.

You both found a new job in a better place, even if that meant you'd move in definitely with Miguel.

You were concerned because no matter how many times he came inside, there was still no signs of a baby. To your relief, doctor explained that after many years of being in contraceptives your body would have an adjustment lapse for all the hormones to be flushed out of you. Pregnancy would come, eventually.

It was good and bad. Good cause Miguel fucked you dumb for hours almost everyday, and bad cause you couldn't wait to get a bigger family on your own.

Obviously you were excited and so was Miguel and Gabi.

But a new adventure laid ahead. Your wedding.

----

Miguel had invited a couple of his coworkers a woman named Jessica, and a couple of men named Peter and Ben. The only family worth inviting was Gabriel.

Gabi was the ring lady. It was a small and intimate reunion. Once you were delivered in the altar, Miguel held your hands. A sense of pride filled in his chest.

You looked absolutely gorgeous in that short silky dress. Like his own dream come true. And when the moment of saying 'I do' came, neither of you hesitated.

All the bad moments you both had gone through, quickly dissipated to be replaced with joy and love. He loved you.

Gabi loved you, and you couldn't be happier.

You were his queen after all.

----

After the private wedding you all went to celebrate to one of the most delicious and luxurious places in town.

"You better eat, mi amor. You'll need alot of energy."

He'd mumble in your ear as his hand caressed the suppleness of your inner thigh.

Gabi was left with uncle Gabriel, and with a final hug, your father let you go.

Your dad rolled his eyes and Miguel sniggered as you both went to his car.

"I'll take care of her."

"Shut up."

Miguel opened the door for you and kissed your cheek before letting his new wife to accommodate in his car. He then went to his seat and drove off.

"Bye dad!"

"Love you, cupcake!"

"We're married."

You giggled and he took your hand to kiss it.

The car stopped to a red light and he pulled your cheeks closer to give you a deep kiss. The kind of kiss that would mean he needed you. The kind of kiss that would turn into this raging ache for eachother that could be sated one way.

"Do you feel happy?"

"Obviously."

Your body shuddered upon the feeling of his dexterous fingers hovering your clothed pussy. Your legs spreaded for him to have more access.

"Can't wait to get to that hotel, preciosa."

Your hips humped softly his hand, earning a soft yet delicious friction.

"Pull that dress down, mi amor." He instructed as you quickly slid the straps of your silky white dress off your shoulders, spilling your breast for him. The idea of getting caught seemed even more thrilling when a group of people marched infront of your car. Of course they couldn't see what was going on inside.

His penchant for exhibitionism had rubbed hard on you. Just like his suck on one of your nipples. A wet patch filtered through your cotton panties.

Your hand wasted no time in squeezing his crotch. He gulped.

"I've always wanted to do this."

Your giggles increased as you unzipped his pants and peeled his cock our of his confinements.

"Are you hungry, cariño?" He heaved as you pumped him softly, earning a hiss and a low growl from him.

You kissed him once more before stuffing your mouth with his cock.

He threw an arm over your seat, relaxed as you sucked him.

"Fuuck- take deep breaths, Princesa" His eyes shut close for a moment, but the sudden mini concert of honks snapped his attention back to the road.

He drove carefully. Steady breaths huffed out of his mouth as you took him deeper. All that cock sucking training had been worth it.

"Jesucristo, hermosa"

His eyes drooped as your tongue focused on his tip. Wet sucking noises etched in his memory, and my God, he loved them.

"Lemme... lemme find a... Dios mío-" He choked as your hand pumped him faster as your lips busied themselves with his sac, "Lemme park. I can't-" He gasped when you took him whole once more, your throat shamelessly constricting against him.

"Yes~" He hissed as his hips bucked, trying to fuck your lips. You whimpered and let him go last minute. He took a fistful of your hair and pulled you to kiss him. Tasting himself in the process.

Smirking you went back to your seat after fixing his pants. Seeing him all rizzed and worked up made your boldness to spike. Your hips shimmied away from the cotton contraption, and you threw them in the back seat of the car.

"Miguel?"

His eyes immediately went between your spreading thighs. Your back rested against the passenger door and your fingers delved in between your slick folds.

His mouth gaped. His throat dried in dire need of a drink of you. A finger slid inside. The squelching sound it did sent shivers down his spine.

"Look at what you do to your poor wife, Miguel"

"That's so not fair, cariño. I'm driving"

He bit his lip at the sight. You were soaked and ready to be filled to the brim. Just the way he loved.

"Keep playing with it, though. Love hearing you cum"

Your soft moans and wet pussy made his insides tingle. All he had to do was wait to get to the hotel so he could actually get his revenge on you. And by God he would enjoy it.

"Wish it was you inside me" You whimpered as your fingers delved in deeper, tight hole melding at your finger's size.

"You'll have me, preciosa. Just wait."

Your soaked fingers toyed and curled on your insides, earning more coos and moans. His feet pressed the accelerator deeper as he drove through the streets.

"Faster, mi amor"

He instructed giving occasional glances at the mess you were creating between your legs. A mess he would love to stuff his face in right now. His cock twitched almost painfully at hearing you touching and toying with yourself next to him. He had ruined you in so many ways he couldn't help but feel pride. And now that you were his wife, none could tell him no.

A smirk stretched on his meaty lips when the hotel came into view

You quickly went through the motions, check in, people taking your luggage to your room and blah blah blah.

"Stop." You whined but complied. Your body could almost taste your orgasm. But seeing the hotel coming closer in your vision relaxed your aching cunt. You didn't care if he had to take you on the elevator, but he needed to do something, instead he took your fingers and licked them clean to then kiss you.

---

He locked the door after putting the 'Do not disturb' sign outside the door. A chill invaded you as his gaze fell on you. You ran with an excited squeal and he chased with a wolfish grin plastered on his face.

Graying strands bounced as he pounced on you. Hands took a hold of your dress and ripped it in half.

His lips mumbled desperately on yours as he removed his clothes. His hulking figure cornered you against one of the suit's pillars.

"Hey!"

"Cállate. Te voy a conseguir otro" (Shut up. I'll get you another one)

Hot and desperate mouth mapped your skin as one hand held you by the neck.

"Need you now, preciosa."

His tongue curled in your folds as his other hand kneaded your thigh, prying it open before he sunk his face in between them.

Your eyes clamped shut at the sensation of him prodding and tasting you. Spine arched against the column as he kneeled and ate you. His hunger grew urgent with every lick and lap he delivered to your quivering flesh.

You gasped as he placed you to sit ontop of your shoulders, your hand grabbing his hair to push him impossibly closer to your soaked and loved pussy.

One of his hands secured your lower back, as the other held tightly on your thigh, securing you in place as he hoisted you up. You rode his face eagerly, getting as much friction as you could from his lips and tongue. A firm slap on your ass encouraged you to ride faster. Your clit trembled with joy at every contact he did with his mouth. He groaned.

The low vibrations of his groans ignited the spark for your aching release. His slaps alternated between rough squeezes. Your thighs smothered his head, trapping him tightly. Lightheadnesss rushing through your brain, as your breaths turned shorts and shallow.

"I'm cumming!" You whimpered as your body went taut to then tremble. He drank from you, quenching his longing thirst. He placed you gently on the bed to then spread your legs.

The stretch his cock did inside felt deliciously painful. Legs wrapped around his narrow waist as he hoisted you once more against his chest to then hook your thighs on his forearms as his hands held you by your ass. Your arms went around his neck, holding onto him.

His hips rammed into you.

Your mouth went slack as your body trembled. Your insides kept constricting since you were still riding your high but he didn't care. He'd never get tired for the way your tight walls melted and shivered around him. It was addictive. Like the sheer and raw need for eachother you were basked in.

His hands guided your hips, a sweet and wet slap echoed into the room.

Your fingers sunk into his salt and pepper hair. His fangs pulling at your bottom lip. An iron grip squeeze and it was all he needed to rut in an air-knocking and jaw slacking pace.

Your head lolled to the sides, trying to grasp onto a coherent thought but none came. There was nothing but pleasure in your head. Each thrust reached deeper until his tip made out with your cervix. Nothing but the sounds of your drooling pussy taking everything he mustered at you and his low growls.

His pace increased into a faster tempo, and you curled into the crook of his neck, voice rasping and begging for him to not stop. The inside friction felt raw and hot, almost maddening at how well your walls welcomed him over and over. Inviting him to nest within them.

Sweat etched to his forehead and upper chest and back. Your meek attempts of marking him only added enough spice for his hips to keep wrecking your hole.

The feeling of your ass bouncing on his hands at every thrust he did and your breathless coos and begs, made him to grip tighter and fuck you rougher.

Mewlings turned into loud and choked wails as he drilled you through

"Give it to me, preciosa" He fisted your hair as he sheathed completely into you, and you creamed and gushed while your body convulsed.

"Such a fucking good girl,"

The contractions around his cock felt like a delicious kiss, just like the one he gave you.

He laughed softly at your state.

"You think we're done, Mi reina? How cute."

You panted like a fish out of water as he flipped you over on the bed and melded your body like putty.

His hand pushed your face deeper in the mattress as he planted his feet on each side of you.

"Levanta ese culo. Will fuck it like a husband should." (Raise that ass)

He slapped your quivering cheeks to lift your hips up himself. You were too high and cock drunk to listen to what he was saying. Your breast flattened against the bed, his feet planted on each side of your hips. One of his hands guided his tip inside you again to then hold at the metal headboard before him for leverage.

"M-Miguel!" You sobbed as he thrusted inside in a swift move.

"This is gonna be your treatment until you grow a fucking baby inside , sweetheart"

The relentless push had your eyes far far gone as he kept bullying his cock in such a brutal pace you'd thought he'd split you in two. He was so good at manhandling and stretching you open, and you were even better at taking it. Excelled even.

The constant slapping had you wheezing and your ass flushed. Your previous cum rolled down your inner thighs, it made easier for him to slid in an out.

And just when you thought he'd stop, he'd just slow down to unleash an onslaught of deep and merciless thrusts.

You clung to the sheets for dear life as meek and muffled sobs escaped you with effort. Your throat felt scrapped raw, he smirked at feeling your walls twitching again.

The bead and headboard creaked at his rutting. Your toes curled in and your jaw clenched at the force you crashed down. You soaked him, making a hot mess of your cunt. But that didn't stop him.

He pushed deeper a few more times before holding your hips in such a steely grip you were sure you'd get bruises and spilled into you. Hot and thick blobs of his cum painting your walls white.

He clawed at your skin as he panted and growled. One of his hands slicked his hair back and sighed with a satisfied yet wicked smile, but frowned upon watching his cum rolling down your clit.

"No no. it must stay inside." He grumbled as his fingers collected his cum to push it back inside and then slapped your ass. Earning another whimper of you.

His arms cradled you as his body smothered you. His lips showered your flushed face in kisses.

"Te ves tan preciosa así." (You look so beautiful like this)

You couldn't help but squeal while you hugged Miguel upon seeing the two parallel lines in the pregnancy test.

You scooted closer in his arms with the little energy you had left. Letting your shaken brain to finally take a rest, letting his hushed 'I love yous' and his gentle caresses on your hair lull you to sleep.

----

All the raw fucking had finally paid off. He cupped your cheeks and kissed you.

"Told you I'd make a mami out of you. preciosa"

You giggled as you texted your dad.

He chuckled and kissed you again.

"What are you doing?"

"Making my dad feel old and giving him the news."

He placed a hand on your lower belly and smiled.

"Wait til Gabi finds out."

"I hope it's a girl"

-------

"Are you happy?"

"More than happy, yes. I'm gonna be a mom!"

"A wonderful one, for sure."

Taglis

@um-well @capmedusa @migueloharaslxt @thbidkbutok @joestarbitch @angelarcheangel @ewan-tef @gejo333 @hyunrelics @topreice @luvstich@loonalockley @allysunny @punk-22 @jesterglitch @sc4rltwitch @roselove105 @spikedhe4rt @tallmanlover @elfwoodfae @miaasmf @lainekyuu @keiva1000

@nianawrites @leviathxn @tatatida @gabrielarose29 @pedr0swh0r3 @

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara smut #spiderman 2099 smut #dbf miguel #Dad best friend AU #Older! miguel o'hara #smut #atsv smut #miguel o'hara fluff #t writes✨

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mrsnancywheeler · 3 months

Text

let me down easy // finnick odair x f. reader

based off this blurb

summary: finnick pushed himself away, isolated himself, and you're slipping through his fingers like sand.

masterlist

3.8k words

warnings: angst, a tiny bit of fluff at the end, a little smutty but also very brief, mental illness, insecurity, paranoia, allusions to cheating (no one is actually cheating), slightly mean!finnick, self destructive behavior on all sides, more insecurities, arguments, feeling isolated, slight blood and injury, female rage things, male masturbation, unedited, no use of y/n, brief mentions of vomiting, girls girls all around, annie cresta my beloved being a girl girl, people pleaser reader

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Once every day had felt like it was full of sunlight, even if there were ups and downs you always had each other by the end of it. Now you weren't even sure if you had yourself, let alone Finnick. Worst of all you had no idea what you'd done wrong, at first you chalked it up to how he'd just returned from the Capitol. But usually his isolation was a day at the most before he'd succumb to your comfort. Instead it had been nearly a month of radio silence.

He stopped the way he'd pepper your face with kisses to wake you up and bring you to the kitchen where he'd have made breakfast, telling you mindless stories about his morning swim. Now if he did anything for you it felt robotic, out of necessity, there was no helping you with your hair, having fun picking out your outfits, he was barely around. Never would you have thought you could be such an outcast in your own home, your own relationship.

At first you'd thought you just weren't doing enough, that he needed some extra love to help him open up. Reluctantly you'd fully wake yourself up when you felt him rise for his swim, take up the position of making him breakfast instead. Busying yourself with his favorites until he returned and you put on your best smile when he did, hopeful it would be somewhat successful.

“Good morning!” You greeted and were met with a confused look, a nod. You'd always hated getting up this early yet here you were and he did nothing.

“I have to take a shower." He muttered and was up the stairs. It was a disappointing resolution, but then your hopes had still been high. So you kept making his favorites throughout the next few days, scattering gifts for him throughout the house, writing notes to hide where he might find them, desperate to show him how much you loved him.

“Where are you going?" Your voice startled him and he slowly turned his head towards you.

Finnick's voice was so dry, rigid, “Fishing."

“Oh, let me get my shoes on, I'll come with!" Bright smiles, you reminded yourself when it felt like wavering.

“I'd rather go alone."

“Right." It wanted to falter so bad, “How long are you gonna be gone? I could make you lunch to go or something."

“I'm okay."

You fidgeted with your fingers, “Yeah, okay, well, um, have fun." Then he was gone, without a kiss, even a hug goodbye. Come to think of it there hadn't been any at all for a while, not even in the morning which is something he'd always do. So after a few days failing with those attempts you'd convinced yourself of a different reason.

“Annie, be honest with me, do you think I'm pretty?" The two of you had been out in the garden of Victors Village and she seemed taken aback.

“Honey, of course you're pretty. You're beautiful, what brought this on?" She dropped what she was doing to look at you.

You darted around the specifics, “What about the way I dress, is it too frumpy?"

“No! There's nothing wrong with anything about you." Her voice was so soft and she felt like the only person you could talk to now that Finnick had pushed himself away from you. “What's going on?"

You felt yourself finally crying all the held back tears you'd hid for the moments alone, “What if he's found someone prettier and more exciting?” You sobbed out and Annie hugged you.

"Finnick worships the ground you walk on, he'd never do that.”

"He barely even talks to me anymore, Annie. It's like I don't exist.”

“He's just going through a rough patch, it's not your fault."

Regardless of what Annie said, you disagreed. He must have had someone else, but you couldn't confront him about it. No, if you did then it would become real and he'd leave you for them. There had to be someone else taking on his hardships and loving him the way he'd once let you. So you bought new makeup, new lingerie, new clothes, tried to feel more attractive, more desirable. Yet it didn't seem like he even noticed.

You'd waited for his return all day, he'd left so early you hadn't even seen him. You made dinner praying that he'd see the effort you made, and find you irresistible once again. Of course, this effort seemed to be in vain.

“Welcome home, Finn!" You greeted when he walked through the front door, pained by the sound of your own faux bubbly voice. You put a plate down in front of his usual seat.

“Thanks." He mumbled and you smiled cheerfully. Perhaps you'd been too solemn and he'd prefer someone who exuded more sunshine-like behavior. “How was your day?" His voice was sharp, curt, but it was a conversation nonetheless. Always better than nothing.

“It was good!" You lied through your teeth, there hadn't been a single moment where your brain hadn't been infested with the thought of him pushing you away, him with someone else. It was something you desiped, you preferred to be in the moment. When you had been confident in yours and Finnick's relationship you could immerse yourself in the company of others, enjoy menial tasks with humming and daydreams, but now the isolation haunted your mind. “Annie and I planted some new flowers and cut some that recently finished blooming. I finally changed our vases out." He didn't even glance around, just kept eating. Your Finnick had always made an effort to look around, praise you for anything you did, he took pride in you, now the only thing he took pride in was being able to avoid you.

He curtly nodded his head in response and you felt like you might snap. Especially as the silence persisted, nothing except the sounds of the house and his fork clinking on the plate. You chewed at your bottom lip, leg bouncing up and down waiting for the smallest bit of conversation, but nothing came. Eventually you shot out of your seat, grabbed your plate, which you were sure you wouldn't be able to stomach, and began cleaning up dinner. Hands gripping each dish so hard as if to contain all the rage you'd been repressing.

“I can clean up." Finnick murmured as he rose.

Being lazy was another thing you thought could be a reason. He did so much for you and whatever you had to offer must not have been enough. Yes, he'd always insisted that you should just be his pretty girl that he could look at when he did the tasks, but in secret he must have just wanted you to resist and do more. So you vehemently shook your head, “No, I've got it!" Your voice was strained and several pitches too high to sound natural.

“It's fine, I can do it.” How dare he have the gall to sound annoyed with you.

“I've got it Finnick, just go to bed!" Or whatever the fuck else is he does to be away from you. You regretted how snappy you were, he wanted someone easy going, not how uptight you were being. But god, hate that man for how he looked like a wounded puppy dog. “Sorry." You muttered, only partially genuine. Harshly grabbing a glass to clean, hands gripping around it, so harshly it seemed that when you went to put it to dry, it shattered in your hand. Your reaction was delayed as you stood there in disbelief, you hated your life, “Fuck.”

Then his hand was on your back and you involuntarily jerked at the contact you hadn't felt for so long. “You're bleeding." How the hell was his voice still so stony, a mystery you'd never know the answer too. It sent tingles up your spine the way his hand was on your back, you missed his touch. He led you to the bathroom where he carefully tended to the cuts in your hand. Carefully taking out the pieces of glass and although you occasionally winced, it was like your brain couldn't comprehend the pain over the buzzing about his hand touching yours. But once he bandaged it up the touch was gone and so was he with a, “I'll clean up."

Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him. But you hated being angry with him when he was probably going through something, he'd struggled so much and just needed help. Was it really excusable though when it was tearing you apart to be in all of this. You got up and without a second thought walked straight out the front door. Feet guiding you to the comfort of the beach. Of course it invoked memories of all the better times spent with Finnick, but out here at least you had the ocean. It has started to rain and you didn't care. Walking out into the sea, as far as you could touch, and letting the freedom of the waves surround you. And you screamed, at the sky, at the waters, into the night. Trying so desperately to let go of the aggression, so you could keep trying. Inhaling the salt air before you walked back inside, you could do this. Every relationship had trials and tribulations, but you could be stronger, stick together.

As you were walking back, Finnick was jogging towards you, “Are you okay?" There was actual emotion in his voice, you longed to be privileged to it more often.

“Yeah."

“I thought I… " He trailed off, hand running through his hair. The way he looked like he might cry sparked guilt in you, but also a sick pleasure that he actually cared. “You're gonna get sick." Just as quickly his tone returned to being straight-laced.

You didn't care, if you were sick maybe he would take care of you. So you walked inside and he said nothing. You showered and changed, you'd gotten a new nightgown that left little to the imagination. Maybe you could get a rise out of him, get him to touch you more. But he seemed to be fast asleep by the time you left the bathroom, so you slipped into bed beside him. In the past he'd always sleep with his arms around you, but now you slept beside each other rather than with one another. It left you cold, despite the blankets, which were barely there as he'd always been a blanket hog, which you used to tease him for, but was fine because you were attached to him. Now you laid there and felt yourself crying. You cursed yourself for it, not right now, but you couldn't stop. So you covered your mouth with a hand as you sobbed into it.

The next morning you felt him wake, but there was no energy to make breakfast. You were exhausted and it hadn't made him love you again anyways. So you drifted back off until the sound of floorboards creaking when he returned woke you up. You sat up in bed as he entered the bedroom. “Morning, Finn." The smile you worked hard to maintain was back.

“Morning." He mumbled and then his eyes faltered on you. That's when you remembered the nightgown, it was a relief for something to keep his eyes on you. ‘Love me, even if it's just for my body, love me in some way.’ Your brain begged to no avail. “Shower." He slowly said even though he'd very obviously grown hard.

You felt humiliated, completely embarrassed to be dressed the way you were and him to still not want you. It made you want to cry again, but you had to persist. Rising to get dressed until you heard your name. It took you a second to process that he was moaning it, you were right there and he was getting himself off to the thought of you when he could've just had the actual you. That had to be a new type of low. You hadn't even dared to touch yourself no matter how badly you wanted him because you knew nothing you did could match the things he'd made you feel. Yet here he was, so easily jerking off. There was nothing you could do except seethe as you got ready for your day. At least it was your name and not some other girls.

You were in the kitchen when he walked downstairs, “Going to the market." He announced and you got up from your chair.

“I'm coming too." It wasn't a question.

"No, it's okay. I've just got a couple things to grab.”

"So do I, so I'll just come along to grab them. You don't even have to stick by me, I'm just going.” You were exasperated. Honestly you hadn't left the confines of Victors Village for a while, besides when you tried to recall your look, and this would be a good opportunity to see if he was being honest. There was nothing you really had to get, but at least you'd somewhat had his company.

He said nothing but waited as you put on your sandals and then the two of you set off. The silence was deafening as you two walked, your Finnick would always hold your hand, would've taken you from booth to booth and ramble on endlessly, buy anything you glanced at with interest, but now he stood too far away for your hands to even brush by each other. The bustling of the market was a relief and for the first time in a long time you naturally smiled. Although it was jarring how quickly Finnick put on a smile, made conversation with all these people when he hadn't blessed you with the same thing. In fact, it instantly dampened your mood.

“Haven't seen you in so long, missed seeing that pretty smile!" All your favorite vendors gushed and you'd smile, make small talk. Even if everything made you think of Finnick. When was the last time he'd called you pretty? When was the last time he kissed you?

“You look a little sad, are you alright?" And you'd insist you were just feeling a little under the weather. You'd somewhat kept your distance from Finnick until you saw him laughing with a girl in the market. When was the last time he'd laughed with you? Is this what he did, found pretty girls in the market, charmed them, and went back home with them?

You'd slowly approached and showed fake interest in one of her necklaces. “They're real pearls." She said. She was so pretty, stunning. What did she have that you didn't? You hummed, smiling and without a word, Finnick was handing you money.

‘I don't want your money, I want you to pay attention to me.’ You thought and shook your head, “I don't need your money, Finn." The only thing you'd want from him was something he'd pick out because he wanted to give it to you, something he'd always done if you hadn't been there with him. Showing up at home with little treasures to show off to you. He looked at you quizzically, it wasn't like you had any money of your own on you.

“Is this your girlfriend?" The woman asked, her voice was sweet like sugar, you were too gruff, that's what you were missing.

Right now though, your voice was breathy, anxious. “Yeah." The woman must have been able to sense something off because she looked at you with pity. Finnick left the money on the counter by you regardless of what you said and walked off. You sighed.

“I'm sorry, I didn't know."

You gave a sad smile, “It's okay, not your fault." You picked the money up, ready to go find him.

“He's just a guy, even if he's Finnick Odair, don't let him dim your spark." It should've been encouraging, except you knew you loved him too much to ever leave him.

You found him, chatting and smiling as he bought produce. You missed his smile. “Here." You said quietly, handing him his money.

“Where's the necklace?"

“Didn't need it." You didn't care about needing it, you care that he would rather have you buy things for yourself then make you feel valued.

He huffed, like you were frustrating him, annoying him. “Okay, use it to find something else then. You said you weren't going to stick around me." You couldn't stop yourself from physically recoiling from his venom.

“I just came to tell you I was going home." You said weakly, staring at the ground. “Have fun." Your voice cracked slightly and you didn't even bother looking up as you walked home. Immediately settling yourself into bed where you refused to move. Eventually he came home, something clicked onto the dresser table, the sun went down and you stayed put. When he crawled into bed the most movement you made was flipping onto your side to have the protection of your back facing him.

For days it was a cycle of laying in bed, only rising once he left, usually to stand under the burning hot water in the shower until your skin felt raw. Then immediately returning back to bed. He'd return, put something on the dresser, and you'd stay still. Eventually one night he'd come home and sat at your feet, mattress dipping. “We need to talk."

Your hands clamped over your ears, this was it, he was done with you, all that effort for nothing. The anxiety knotted in your stomach, “I'm gonna be sick." You forced yourself up and found yourself throwing up in the toilet, Finnick holding your hair back.

“Hey, it's okay. It's okay, sweet girl." When you were done you said nothing as you brushed your teeth, praying he would leave and forget whatever bad news he was surely bearing. But he didn't, he waited and sat on the bed, waiting for you. Who exited, arms crossed, trying not to cry.

“Please don't break up with me." It was pathetic to beg for but he stood up, looking bewildered.

“No, no, no, I'm not gonna break up with you, sweet girl. I wouldn't even think of it." His hands cradled your face and you melted into them.

Finally you let the tears fall, "Then what are we talking about?”

"I've been so terrible to you, a terrible partner, a terrible person. I…” He took a deep breath in, "I had a rough time in the Capitol, I always do, especially last time though. And I knew you would be able to tell and try to help, but it was easier for me to just block you out so I didn't have to deal with it. Because it hurts to think about." He was crying and it made your heart ache. "And I took you for granted. I didn't try to be there for you, I was selfish and I can't make up for it enough. I will spend the rest of my life making up for it.”

You were both sobbing and he pressed his forehead to yours. His hands were so warm, his touch was so perfect. "I want to help you.”

"I know.” He pulled his forehead away, putting his hands on your shoulders. "I need you to tell me how you felt. Not the sweet way you usually explain things, be honest, so honest.

You shook your head, “No, it's okay. It was just miscommunication."

“No, I think I nearly broke you and everybody else noticed before I did. I need to know your raw feelings, so I can attempt to make it up to you.” He let go of your shoulders and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"I thought you were cheating on me.” You said quietly, anxiously playing with your fingers. He already looked hurt, "Like you found someone else because I wasn't, I don't know, fun enough, pretty enough, hardworking enough. And you didn't want me to do anything with you ever or notice anything I did for you." You took a deep breath, you could feel yourself getting angrily worked up and he could tell.

“If you're angry, be angry." He said and you obeyed.

“And I bought new clothes for you, changed my makeup routine, smiled more, made all your favorites, woke up earlier, tried to take on burdens and you said nothing. Do you know how lonely I was? How bad that made me feel about myself? One day you weren't letting me lift a finger, telling me you loved me, now pretty I was, and the next I thought I'd never hear any of that again, let alone have you touch me. No kisses, or hugs, you didn't even hold me when we slept! And you were so closed off and sometimes mean on top of that and all I wanted was your attention. Until finally I gave up because at least even if you weren't really with me, I still had you, and I didn't want you to leave me just because I found out there was someone else, which is so fucked. And then I thought, maybe at the very least, he’ll have me for my body, I had new lingerie, I tried and you didn't give a fuck. No, you got yourself off in the goddamn bathroom and I was right here!” Your voice had risen and your inhales were sharp between the ranting, "And everytime I hated what you were doing to me, I'd feel bad because what you've been through is so much worse and I should still try to be there for you. So I tried and then you'd be annoyed with me and it was like torture. And I swear to god, if you ever do that again, I'll leave.” A weight lifted off of your chest and he hugged you.

“I'm so sorry, I won't ever do it again, I love you so much, you're so pretty and kind and I need you in my life." You held onto him like he would slip away, kissing away your tears that were falling even though he was also crying. He held you until the sobbing had mostly subsided, “You know I bought you all these stupid gifts when you were laying there, thinking it would make you feel better, but I don't even think you noticed." He chuckled and you turned your head, not wanting to tear away from him. All you could see was the necklace from where you were standing. “Not that it would've done anything after all the time I spent letting the castle crumble around us.

"Thank you.” It was muttered and then he tried to pull out of the hug which made you whine. Trying to cling on forever.

His hand tilted your chin towards him, “You wanna put one of those sets on that you got for me so I can show you how pretty you are and how sorry I am for neglecting my sweet girl?"

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

sorry y'all angst is my default settings. thank you for reading, comments, likes, reblogs, feedbacks is all super appreciated. asks and requests are open, love you all, sorry again 💋

taglist: @wowzabowza69

#wanda 💋#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #finnick odair x y/n #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair angst #finnick odair x reader fluff #finnick odair x you #finnick odair x reader angst #finnick odair fanfic #finnick fanfic #finnick x you #finnick x reader #finnick odair smut #finnick odair imagine #finnick imagine #finnick odair x reader smut

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