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derinwrites · 1 month

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The Three Commandments

The thing about writing is this: you gotta start in medias res, to hook your readers with action immediately. But readers aren’t invested in people they know nothing about, so start with a framing scene that instead describes the characters and the stakes. But those scenes are boring, so cut straight to the action, after opening with a clever quip, but open in the style of the story, and try not to be too clever in the opener, it looks tacky. One shouldn’t use too many dialogue tags, it’s distracting; but you can use ‘said’ a lot, because ‘said’ is invisible, but don’t use ‘said’ too much because it’s boring and uninformative – make sure to vary your dialogue tags to be as descriptive as possible, except don’t do that because it’s distracting, and instead rely mostly on ‘said’ and only use others when you need them. But don’t use ‘said’ too often; you should avoid dialogue tags as much as you possibly can and indicate speakers through describing their reactions. But don’t do that, it’s distracting.

Having a viewpoint character describe themselves is amateurish, so avoid that. But also be sure to describe your viewpoint character so that the reader can picture them. And include a lot of introspection, so we can see their mindset, but don’t include too much introspection, because it’s boring and takes away from the action and really bogs down the story, but also remember to include plenty of introspection so your character doesn’t feel like a robot. And adverbs are great action descriptors; you should have a lot of them, but don’t use a lot of adverbs; they’re amateurish and bog down the story. And

The reason new writers are bombarded with so much outright contradictory writing advice is that these tips are conditional. It depends on your style, your genre, your audience, your level of skill, and what problems in your writing you’re trying to fix. Which is why, when I’m writing, I tend to focus on what I call my Three Commandments of Writing. These are the overall rules; before accepting any writing advice, I check whether it reinforces one of these rules or not. If not, I ditch it.

1: Thou Shalt Have Something To Say

What’s your book about?

I don’t mean, describe to me the plot. I mean, why should anybody read this? What’s its thesis? What’s its reason for existence, from the reader’s perspective? People write stories for all kinds of reasons, but things like ‘I just wanted to get it out of my head’ are meaningless from a reader perspective. The greatest piece of writing advice I ever received was you putting words on a page does not obligate anybody to read them. So why are the words there? What point are you trying to make?

The purpose of your story can vary wildly. Usually, you’ll be exploring some kind of thesis, especially if you write genre fiction. Curse Words, for example, is an exploration of self-perpetuating power structures and how aiming for short-term stability and safety can cause long-term problems, as well as the responsibilities of an agitator when seeking to do the necessary work of dismantling those power structures. Most of the things in Curse Words eventually fold back into exploring this question. Alternately, you might just have a really cool idea for a society or alien species or something and want to show it off (note: it can be VERY VERY HARD to carry a story on a ‘cool original concept’ by itself. You think your sky society where they fly above the clouds and have no rainfall and have to harvest water from the clouds below is a cool enough idea to carry a story: You’re almost certainly wrong. These cool concept stories work best when they are either very short, or working in conjunction with exploring a theme). You might be writing a mystery series where each story is a standalone mystery and the point is to present a puzzle and solve a fun mystery each book. Maybe you’re just here to make the reader laugh, and will throw in anything you can find that’ll act as framing for better jokes. In some genres, readers know exactly what they want and have gotten it a hundred times before and want that story again but with different character names – maybe you’re writing one of those. (These stories are popular in romance, pulp fantasy, some action genres, and rather a lot of types of fanfiction).

Whatever the main point of your story is, you should know it by the time you finish the first draft, because you simply cannot write the second draft if you don’t know what the point of the story is. (If you write web serials and are publishing the first draft, you’ll need to figure it out a lot faster.)

Once you know what the point of your story is, you can assess all writing decisions through this lens – does this help or hurt the point of my story?

2: Thou Shalt Respect Thy Reader’s Investment

Readers invest a lot in a story. Sometimes it’s money, if they bought your book, but even if your story is free, they invest time, attention, and emotional investment. The vast majority of your job is making that investment worth it. There are two factors to this – lowering the investment, and increasing the payoff. If you can lower your audience’s suspension of disbelief through consistent characterisation, realistic (for your genre – this may deviate from real realism) worldbuilding, and appropriately foreshadowing and forewarning any unexpected rules of your world. You can lower the amount of effort or attention your audience need to put into getting into your story by writing in a clear manner, using an entertaining tone, and relying on cultural touchpoints they understand already instead of pushing them in the deep end into a completely unfamiliar situation. The lower their initial investment, the easier it is to make the payoff worth it.

Two important notes here: one, not all audiences view investment in the same way. Your average reader views time as a major investment, but readers of long fiction (epic fantasies, web serials, et cetera) often view length as part of the payoff. Brandon Sanderson fans don’t grab his latest book and think “Uuuugh, why does it have to be so looong!” Similarly, some people like being thrown in the deep end and having to put a lot of work into figuring out what the fuck is going on with no onboarding. This is one of science fiction’s main tactics for forcibly immersing you in a future world. So the valuation of what counts as too much investment varies drastically between readers.

Two, it’s not always the best idea to minimise the necessary investment at all costs. Generally, engagement with art asks something of us, and that’s part of the appeal. Minimum-effort books do have their appeal and their place, in the same way that idle games or repetitive sitcoms have their appeal and their place, but the memorable stories, the ones that have staying power and provide real value, are the ones that ask something of the reader. If they’re not investing anything, they have no incentive to engage, and you’re just filling in time. This commandment does not exist to tell you to try to ask nothing of your audience – you should be asking something of your audience. It exists to tell you to respect that investment. Know what you’re asking of your audience, and make sure that the ask is less than the payoff.

The other way to respect the investment is of course to focus on a great payoff. Make those characters socially fascinating, make that sacrifice emotionally rending, make the answer to that mystery intellectually fulfilling. If you can make the investment worth it, they’ll enjoy your story. And if you consistently make their investment worth it, you build trust, and they’ll be willing to invest more next time, which means you can ask more of them and give them an even better payoff. Audience trust is a very precious currency and this is how you build it – be worth their time.

But how do you know what your audience does and doesn’t consider an onerous investment? And how do you know what kinds of payoff they’ll find rewarding? Easy – they self-sort. Part of your job is telling your audience what to expect from you as soon as you can, so that if it’s not for them, they’ll leave, and if it is, they’ll invest and appreciate the return. (“Oh but I want as many people reading my story as possible!” No, you don’t. If you want that, you can write paint-by-numbers common denominator mass appeal fic. What you want is the audience who will enjoy your story; everyone else is a waste of time, and is in fact, detrimental to your success, because if they don’t like your story then they’re likely to be bad marketing. You want these people to bounce off and leave before you disappoint them. Don’t try to trick them into staying around.) Your audience should know, very early on, what kind of an experience they’re in for, what the tone will be, the genre and character(s) they’re going to follow, that sort of thing. The first couple of chapters of Time to Orbit: Unknown, for example, are a micro-example of the sorts of mysteries that Aspen will be dealing with for most of the book, as well as a sample of their character voice, the way they approach problems, and enough of their background, world and behaviour for the reader to decide if this sort of story is for them. We also start the story with some mildly graphic medical stuff, enough physics for the reader to determine the ‘hardness’ of the scifi, and about the level of physical risk that Aspen will be putting themselves at for most of the book. This is all important information for a reader to have.

If you are mindful of the investment your readers are making, mindful of the value of the payoff, and honest with them about both from the start so that they can decide whether the story is for them, you can respect their investment and make sure they have a good time.

3: Thou Shalt Not Make Thy World Less Interesting

This one’s really about payoff, but it’s important enough to be its own commandment. It relates primarily to twists, reveals, worldbuilding, and killing off storylines or characters. One mistake that I see new writers make all the time is that they tank the engagement of their story by introducing a cool fun twist that seems so awesome in the moment and then… is a major letdown, because the implications make the world less interesting.

“It was all a dream” twists often fall into this trap. Contrary to popular opinion, I think these twists can be done extremely well. I’ve seen them done extremely well. The vast majority of the time, they’re very bad. They’re bad because they take an interesting world and make it boring. The same is true of poorly thought out, shocking character deaths – when you kill a character, you kill their potential, and if they’re a character worth killing in a high impact way then this is always a huge sacrifice on your part. Is it worth it? Will it make the story more interesting? Similarly, if your bad guy is going to get up and gloat ‘Aha, your quest was all planned by me, I was working in the shadows to get you to acquire the Mystery Object since I could not! You have fallen into my trap! Now give me the Mystery Object!’, is this a more interesting story than if the protagonist’s journey had actually been their own unmanipulated adventure? It makes your bad guy look clever and can be a cool twist, but does it mean that all those times your protagonist escaped the bad guy’s men by the skin of his teeth, he was being allowed to escape? Are they retroactively less interesting now?

Whether these twists work or not will depend on how you’ve constructed the rest of your story. Do they make your world more or less interesting?

If you have the audience’s trust, it’s permissible to make your world temporarily less interesting. You can kill off the cool guy with the awesome plan, or make it so that the Chosen One wasn’t actually the Chosen One, or even have the main character wake up and find out it was all a dream, and let the reader marinate in disappointment for a little while before you pick it up again and turn things around so that actually, that twist does lead to a more interesting story! But you have to pick it up again. Don’t leave them with the version that’s less interesting than the story you tanked for the twist. The general slop of interest must trend upward, and your sacrifices need to all lead into the more interesting world. Otherwise, your readers will be disappointed, and their experience will be tainted.

Whenever I’m looking at a new piece of writing advice, I view it through these three rules. Is this plot still delivering on the book’s purpose, or have I gone off the rails somewhere and just stared writing random stuff? Does making this character ‘more relateable’ help or hinder that goal? Does this argument with the protagonists’ mother tell the reader anything or lead to any useful payoff; is it respectful of their time? Will starting in medias res give the audience an accurate view of the story and help them decide whether to invest? Does this big twist that challenges all the assumptions we’ve made so far imply a world that is more or less interesting than the world previously implied?

Hopefully these can help you, too.

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helluvapoison · 4 months

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Lend A Helping Hand

Lucifer, Adam, Lute, Vaggie and Husk need help preening

warnings: possible innacurate bird knowledge, heaven headcanons (also probably innacurate) illusions to sexual behavior but it’s not

[ii]

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

˚✧₊⁎ Lucifer ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Lilith used help… when she was around. The thought of asking someone else, much less the act itself, scorched him with guilt

• Oh well. Lucifer did it before, Heaven had rules about it, so he can do it again! And of course he did! It doesn’t mean it’s not an excruciatingly long process he puts off as long as he can tolerate

• You walk in on him attempting to strain his arms in ways they certainly shouldn’t bend. “Need some help?”

• “Pfft, who me? No, no, no I—“ He pauses. It’s like the predicament he’s been caught in settles in slowly, his smile dropping and crimson irises widening to rival a puppy’s cuteness. “Yes.” He admits meekly

• Your fingers barely touch his feathers and Lucifer jolts. Like him, his wings are so sensative

• Don’t take it personally when he tries to back out after that, cheeks bright red from embarrassment. He has six wings and can barely tolerate your touch as is. This could take a while, he already feels bad

• After a teaspoon more of convincing and a gallon of reassurance later, Lucifer sits as still as he can (which isn’t very) while you gently break open the pin feathers

• You could tease if you wanted, make a joke to try and settle his nerves but something tells you his wings aren’t the only thing that’s sensitive

• Lucifer appreciates your assistance and tenderness more than words can describe, nothing seems like a big enough gift to reward your hard work

˚✧₊⁎ Adam ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Usually it’s Lute that would help him (and vice versa if he feels like it) but she’s nowhere to be found. He can’t casually ask anyone else. Heaven and its inhabitants can be weird about certain shit, preening is no exception— even though everyone has wings here!

• Walking past Adam’s office, you heard a crash and a lot of swearing. “Sir, are you—?”

“Unless you’re gonna help, fuck right off!” He growls from the ground, still reaching at an awkward angle for his wings

• He’s shocked when you sit on your knees beside him and swat his hand away. “If you make this weird, I will leave.” You warn. He doesn’t dare make even a single comment

• Adam shivers when your fingers glide into his feathers. You wave it off the first time but can’t stop a laugh when it happens again

Face first into the carpet, his loud voice is muffled, “Shut! Up!”

• You take pity on him and don’t drag the process longer than necessary. Awarding yourself a final pet of his oddly soft wings, you stand up, “There. All better?”

• Rising to his feet and giving his wings an experimental stretch, he shrugs nonchalantly, “Thanks. I guess.”

• The next day, you receive a basket from Goody-2-Shoes with various snacks. The card reads, ‘Let me know when I can return the favor. Wings don’t have to be included. ~ A’

˚✧₊⁎ Lute ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• You know she needs help when she’s more irritable than usual. Snapping at everyone, even Adam, and flinching when her wings move in the slightest

• Approaching the subject with her is harder than anyone. As aforementioned it’s unspokenly taboo but that isn’t what stops her. Lute’s deep rooted issues with intimacy and needing help will make her walls thicker than ever

• “This is inappropriate,” Lute whispers.

In the dead of night she’s finally allowed you to assist but keeps fidgeting and surveying the area like someone will catch you two.

“It is not,” You roll your eyes, “Get your mind out of the gutter and be still! I’ll have you’ll feeling better in no time.”

• She seriously, seriously doubts that. Anything she can’t do herself, amongst certain divine exceptions, no one could do for her

• …But she’s letting you help (and your adept fingers are doing a better job) So either she doesn’t fully believe that, or you miraculously raised her expectations

• Lute decides the latter is acceptable– and a compliment, especially since you prove her wrong. Triple checking her wings, she can’t find a flaw or deny how wonderful they feel now.

• “This is adequate.”

You snort, “You could just say thanks?”

“How can I repay you?”

“I just told you.”

• She narrows her eyes, shocked and suspicious that you wouldn’t want anything. Lute, again, decides that your endeavor deserves an equal act of goodwill. Don’t take it for granted when she says, “No. I owe you one. One.”

˚✧₊⁎ Vaggie ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• She genuinely forgets what’s wrong with her when she needs to preen. Even with her wings folded away, the irritable pricking can be felt. She’s itching the back of her neck, hand clawing under the crew of her shirt and dipping between her shoulder blades when you ask when’s the last time she checked for pin feathers

• Vaggie’s always been independent. Up in Heaven she was a bit cocky with the fact she never needed help to reach them. Now, she felt helpless and stupid. Her arms cramped up, her hair kept getting in the way and the itching only progressed

• “Can I–?”

“No.” Her ivory eyes go wide, surprised at the fury of her own voice. Sighing and avoiding your (what she assumed was a) pitiful gaze, she apologizes. “Sorry. I don’t know why I… I used to be able to do this alone.”

Pausing at how defeated Vaggie sounds, you do your best to keep a positive, neutral tone.

“Cut yourself some slack, you haven’t done this in years. And, y’know, you don’t have to do it alone now. Not if you don’t want.”

• Smiling at the offer hanging in the air but not quite accepting, she goes about her managerial duties only to knock on your door afterwards

• Vaggie’s so grateful you can’t see how dark her face becomes as you sort through her wings. They’re not sensitive, they never were– it’s something about your fingers delicately touching her that cracks her resolve. Now she starts to understand why this was seen as an intimate act upstairs

• “Thanks for…” Still blushing, she gestures to her wings before hiding them, “Thanks.”

You try to keep up with her indifference but can’t help the smile spreading across your face.

“No problem.”

• If you think she’s not replaying the moment over and over in her head for days afterwards, you’re wrong. Vaggie’s desperately waiting for the moment to be just as useful to you

˚✧₊⁎ Husk ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• He’s hardly a fan of Angel touching him the way he does so a solid relationship is required to unlock the level of trust needed for this activity

• The first time it happens when you’re in his life, he won’t ask but also doesn’t reject the offer. Just looks extremely hesitant and uncomfortable

• Carefully, you pinch the rough layer and eye Husk from over his shoulder

• He breathes out a laugh, “Gonna take more than that to hurt me, sugar. Go on, I’ll be fine.”

• His wings might be the least sensitive… but that could also be all that alcohol in his system

• Husk hums as you work. After he gives a big, cat-like stretch and thanks you with a tip of his hat

• The simple gesture means more than you know, he’ll never forget it

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ accidentally on purpose put them from most to least sensitive wings hehehe

big big big BIG thank you to @kottenox for the inspiration and letting me take this idea and run!

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel headcanon #platonic or romantic #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer morningstar headcanon #hazbin hotel adam headcanon #hazbin hotel adam x reader #lute headcanon #lute x reader #vaggie x reader #vaggie headcanon #husker x reader #husk headcanon

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doitforbangchan · 2 months

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Deity - H.H

Masterlist

Hyunjin x reader (afab)

Summary: You wanted to worship your boyfriend for his birthday, but it seems like he had other plans...

Requested by my dear friend @jehhskz who asked for birthday Jinnie :)

Warnings: Fem reader, Smut, unprotected p in v, established relationship, grinding, kissing, blindfolds, drinking (mentioned), lingerie, cursing, pet names, Hyunjin being a literal poet. Not proof read :)

WC:2.8k

“Is this really necessary? At this point it’s kind of a dead giveaway, my love.”

“Yes, it’s necessary!” You huffed, as you tugged the blindfold over Hyunjins eyes, fixing his hair as you did so. “ Don’t act all smart with me! Just cuz it’s your birthday doesn’t mean you know everything.” You both were just coming back from a dinner with his family, they elected to take him out to celebrate his 24th birthday.

He laughed at your teasing words, “So when we walk in, it’s not going to be a surprise party?”

”...... I cannot confirm nor deny any such accusations.”

You paused as you stuck the key in the door to your home, knowing the surprise was ruined. Well, one of them anyway.

“Just a heads up before we go in, don’t lose that blindfold.”

“Huh?”

You ignored his inquiry and opened the door, leading him inside and shutting the door. You held up three fingers, then two, and one. “Take it off, baby.”

Hyunjin ripped the blindfold off and was bombarded with a loud “SURPRISE HYUNJIN!”. He looked like a child with the way he was grinning from ear to ear, clapping in excitement at seeing all of his friends in one place.

The apartment was decorated floor to ceiling in streamers and banners of all colors. There was even a cardboard cut out of him and placed near a makeshift photo booth in the corner. Clearly a lot of work had gone into this party.

You took Hyunjins coat from his shoulders as he was pulled further into the home by Felix who immediately took him to get a drink. You watched as he mingled and laughed with his friends and loved ones. He had been working so hard lately and deserved to have some good genuine fun.

It was hours later, and most of the people at the party had left already. The only ones left in your living room other than you and Hyunjin were Han and Felix. Both the boys were drunk out of their minds. Felix was giggling to himself as rolled on the ground, and Jisung was laid on the couch cuddling with the cardboard Hyunjin, already asleep with drool seeping out of his mouth.

Hyunjin only had one drink during the party so he wasn’t drunk, having let the first drink fade away over the course of the night. You entered the room carrying blankets for the two drunk boys. There was no way they could make it home in this state and neither of you had a problem with them staying over.

“Here you are, guys. Blankets and pillows.” You handed some to Felix and went to give some to Jisung but instead just draped a blanket over his form. “Uhh I guess I’ll set this here for him if he wakes up.”

Felix yawned as he curled his small body into the blankets right there on the floor. “Nighty night.”

Hyunjin ruffled his hair in passing, chuckling “ night Lix.”

Hyunjin followed you down the hall into your shared bedroom, you were sitting on the bed as he closed the door. You had sultry eyes, eyeing him up and down as he stepped into the room. “Come er’ baby.” You curled your finger, drawing him closer. He humored you with a smirk as he came closer to you until he was right in front of you. You stood up as you gave him a gentle kiss. “Did you enjoy your party, Jinnie?”

“It was great, my love. The perfect way to end my birthday.” He smiled as he gave you another kiss, using his hand to tilt your face back.

“Mmm your birthday isn’t quite over yet though. I still haven't given you my present.” you purred, looking up at him through your lashes.

He bit his lip, eyes glimmering “Oh yeah sweet thing?”

“Mmhmm” you leaned on your toes and got close to his ear. “Now why don’t you be a good birthday boy and sit down on the bed for me.”

He raised his brows at your dominance and smirked in amusement, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “Whatever you say boss lady.” He gestured for you to continue.

You gathered your nerves, trying not to let him see just how shy you were. With a deep breath you locked eyes with him, having a mini staring contest before you slipped your dress down your shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

“Fuck, my love.” He let out a groan at the sight of you in the sheer black lingerie you wore under your dress. It was a bra and panty combo, coming with garters that hugged your thighs and hips perfectly. There were darker black flowers in the lace, almost as if to give off a more innocent look. Though to him, it was absolutely sinful.

You tutted when he reached out for you, backing away a few feet. “Nuh uh. No touching, yet.”

He whined and jutted out his signature pouty lip, “But it’s my birthday you can’t be mean to me!”

“I think I’m being anything but mean to you, Jinnie” you were giggling as you said it. “If you listen, it’ll make your present even better.” He let out a ‘hmph’ with his pout, but nodded his head anyway. “Still got that blindfold?” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the fabric blindfold. You took it from his hands, “Perfect, thank you very much. Now I want you to take your clothes off.”

He rolled his eyes playfully, “someones bossy today” even with his snark he complied, unbuttoning his shirt slowly while his dark eyes maintained contact with you. When it was fully unbuttoned he let it slide off his shoulders, giving you a view of his toned torso. Even though your boyfriend was on the skinnier side, he still had a good amount of muscle. Enough to toss you around at his leisure, at least.

Hyunjin watched as you bit your lip when his pants were the next thing to go, noticing how you were unable to stop your eyes from flickering to the bulge in his underwear. He loved how much you admired his body. It made him proud of the work he had been putting into it.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” He had a smug grin as he tugged his underwear off next, showing off his hardening cock. No matter how many times you’ve seen it- felt it inside you- it was still the most mouth watering sight to you.

“Pictures are your thing, Jinnie. My thing is telling you to lay down on the bed.” You pointed to the top of the bed with your pillows, and gave him a ‘get to it’ hand wave.

He shook with laughter as he scooted back on the bed. You had never even attempted to dom him before in the bedroom so it was unsurprising that he didn’t take you very seriously. Though, you were grateful he was at least following your directions.

Watching you tell him what to do, while you looked like a goddess, was the ultimate birthday gift. You were already the most radiant and beautiful woman he had ever seen but wearing this set, you could ask him to do literally anything and he would do it with a smile. Or maybe, almost anything.

You licked your bottom lip lightly and seductively made your way to the side of the best towards Hyunjin. The sway of your hips and the fire behind your fluttering stare made his mouth water. He was a man who eats with his eyes, afterall. “You’re the most alluring being on this planet, you know that? God, looking at you is having my cake and eating it too.I’ll never tire of looking at you, lover.”

When you gracefully approached him you leaned your face down real close to his ear, letting your breath hit the skin, and with a quiet amusement to your voice you whispered, “Put this on, lover.”

“What?”

He glanced down to your hand that was holding out the blindfold for him to take. Hyunjin shook his head in disbelief, his world suddenly crashing down.

“Are you being for real right now?” He gave you an incredulous eyebrow raise.

You hummed, “the realest. Put it on for me, Jinnie.” you batted your lashes at him and jutted out your lip. “Or do I have to do it for you?”

A low rumble came from his throat, the sex appeal of you compelling him to listen despite his inner turmoil screaming at him to not take his eyes off you. Hyunjin gently snatched the blindfold from you and he slipped it over his head, after giving you one more glance over as if to memorize your visage.

You hummed your appreciation as you leaned in and gave him a delicate kiss to his pout. He chased your lips as you pulled away, reaching for you but you backed up too far for him to reach. “Darling, come on.”

You stayed silent as you walked around to the other side of the bed, keeping your footsteps undetectable. This was exhilarating for you. You guys had a discussion a few months ago about maybe trying blindfolds, but it was assumed he would use them on you. What a twist to use it on him first.

“Love? Where did you g-oh!” You surprised him when you appeared on the opposite side of him and suddenly sat on his lap, straddling his hips just above his member.

“M’ right here Jinnie.” You raked your nails over his chest and collar bones. His skin turned red as you drew the lines, causing him to hiss quietly. You ran your tongue over the leftover marks, soothing the flesh. He sighed and put his hand on your hip but you smacked it away quickly. “I said no touching, Jinnie.”

“You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

You scooted back on him just a little, until you were grinding your hips on his length. Your panties were crotchless so he could tell just how wet you were for him, feeling the glide of your folds over his hardness. You whimpered when the head nudged into your clit.

He grunted at your sound, able to keenly hear every little sound that escaped you; the blindfold may have blocked his sight but it definitely heightened his other senses. His whole body felt like it was alight, skin pin prickly and tingly as you peppered wet kisses and tongue drags across his collarbones and you grind against him.

“My love, please, have mercy. Please put it in, you know I can make you feel so good.” He was panting, hands still at his side as he gripped the sheets.

You hummed, pretending to think about it, “I don’t know, Jinnie. You’re already making me feel so good.”

“But you know having my cock in you could make you feel even better. You love it when I'm inside, hitting your sweet spot that turns you into putty in my hands.” He was trying to seduce you through his whimpers, attempting to make you see reason.

“I’m the one who’s trying to make you putty in my hands, baby. It’s your birthday after all.”

“You’re right it is my birthday.” He panted, licking his lips. “And do you know what I want as my final birthday wish?”

“Do tell.” You moaned when he hit your clit again.

“I just want to worship you, like the masterpiece you are. Please my goddess, let me leave a sacred prayer at the altar between your thighs.”

Well, who were you to deny him when he spoke poetry like that?

“Ok, Jinnie. You can do whatever you want to me.” The words barely escaped your lips before his hands were on you. It was like a switch flipped in him as he went from this whimpering boy under you to a growling man, using his strength to flip you over so you were the one on your back.

You gasped at the sudden display of dominance, watching him rip the blindfold of his eyes. His pupils had grown twice as big in lust and he looked ravenous as he got reacquainted with your special outfit.

“My love, tomorrow I am absolutely painting you while you wear this for me. Gonna hang it in the entry way for all to see. I need to be in you. You’ve teased me long enough.” He ran the tip of his member into your core, collecting even more nectar from you, before her gently pushed in. “Fuck, so tight for me.”

“Ngghh Jinnie!” You squealed as he entered you. He always filled you perfectly, hitting your g spot on the first thrust everytime. It’s moments like this you forget why you would ever deny him (and yourself) this pleasure.

“My goddess, my own personal aphrodite. Always so pliant and warm and ripe for the taking.” Hyunjin always got mushy when he was buried inside of you, as if possessed by a long dead shakespearean poet whose only job in the afterlife is to make you drunk on his words. “ You truly are the greatest creation in all of the universe. My lover, my deity.”

“Fuck Jinnie, m’ all for you.” You cried out as he began to drill into you, going from letting you adjust straight into hard rutting. You were so warm, your walls enveloping him and begging to hold him hostage.

He was moaning into your mouth, biting on your lips and trying to get as close to you as possible. One of his hands was on your thigh and the other was slithering its way up to your chest. His long fingers found your nipple through the fabric of your bra and gave it a sensual pinch, not too hard, only enough to stimulate you further.

“My goddess is so good to me, making my special day so perfect. What a blessing you have given me.” He grunted the words as his thrusting increased, feeling his high coming quickly after all the tension and buildup. “Need you to bless me one more time. Need you to give me your nectar, please baby.”

“Oh my fucking god, Jinnie.” You moaned loudly when the hand that was on your thigh suddenly found the puffy bundle between your legs. You were already so stimulated from his words and thrusts, that the harsh circles he drew on your clit was all you needed. You felt the knot in your stomach explode as you came. “M’ cumming, fuck”

“Mmmm give it to me. Give me my last present, sweet girl.” He felt you clench on him as you shook from pleasure. “Nggggggggh ohmygod you’re squeezing me so tight, love.” His rutting got even more intense, and his drooling lips captured your own. He shoved his tongue into your mouth, tasting your mouth and growling into you. When you bit his tongue he suddenly lost control, and came with a loud groan against you.

His hips were bucking wildly as he chased his high, tears gathering on his lash line and hands gripping your body harshly. You could feel him spilling into you, the intense heat he always created being comforting and making you shiver. He ran his lips all over your face as he came down, just laying on you until his dick became too overstimulated and he had to remove himself from within you.

When Hyunjin pulled back from you, he had a tear rolling down his face. You reached up with a worried coo and wiped it away. “Are you ok, my love? Was it too much?”

He shook his head, “I’m ok. I just love you, so much. This has been a perfect birthday.” He sniffled as he fell into the spot next to you, pulling you into him.

“I love you too, Jinnie. You deserve the world. If I can give it to you for at least one day, then I’ll have done my job as your girlfriend. Happy birthday.” You snuggled into him, kissing his chest.

“You’re more than my girlfriend.” You hummed in puzzlement. “You're my goddess.”

The next morning when you both walked out of your room you found Felix and Jisung sat at your kitchen table, drinking coffee. With how drunk they were last night it was a surprise they weren’t still asleep.

“Morning, boys.” You yawned and waved.

They both looked at you with an evil glint in their eyes.

“UHHH OH MY GOD JINNIE.” Jisung faked moaning dramatically in a high pitched voice.

“NNNGG SO TIGHT, MY GODDESS FUCK” Felix imitated Hyunjn, lowering his tone and groaning.

They both burst into laughter at the horrified look on both of your faces.

“I thought you fuckers were dead asleep!” Hyunjin squeaked, his face red with embarrassment. You just buried your face in your hands and turned around going back to your room, the deafening laughter and teasing making you shake your head. Coffee could wait until they’ve calmed down or left. This is what you get for being a benevolent deity and letting them stay over.

A/N: I hope Hyunjin has the happiest of birthdays ever :) And that he never ever reads this -.-

Comments and reblogs are very much appreciated!

Lemme know what yall think I thrive off of feedback

Tagged- @ayejaii

©doitforbangchan

#stray kids #skz smut #stray kids x reader #skz #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin smut #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin #hyunjin is so cute #stray kids smut

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planetsano · 5 months

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fem reader. both reader and yuji get zero bitches. waxing.

I was having thoughts about Yuji getting his first wax at this really cute spa— its the new year so he’s really trying to make the effort of taking this whole “self care” thing he’s been seeing on TikTok seriously. He seems like the type to be pretty hairy down south anyway and in turn he trims it here and there but he never really upkeeps the maintenance. He wants to see what this waxing thing is all about.

So, he books the appointment and he gets you as his esthetician. He’s nervous! But also very excited! He booked a facial as well as the wax so you of course take very good care of him. The conversation is flowing beautifully and there’s a bit of chemistry there. He also thinks you’re drop dead gorgeous and when he walked into the studio, he tripped over his shoelace but that’s neither here or there.

When it’s finally time for the wax? You’re prepping everything all nice and instruct him to take off his pants and boxers— and Yuji immediately freezes. He’s all like “What do you mean?” so you look at him from over your shoulder because you think he’s being silly but the look of genuine confusion on his face lets you know he’s being deadass serious. You tell him, “Well, I can’t wax you with your pants on now can I, cutie?” as sweet as can be, its almost a little maternal too the way you say it.

Poor Yuji. He didn’t really think about any of this fully through. He mentally punches himself in the face because of course he would have to expose himself to the esthetician, that’s just how a Brazilian wax works! Yuji doesn’t want to make it awkward so he complies and takes off his pants and underwear before he lays back onto the table. God, he’s never felt so embarrassed in his life! Is the lamp really necessary..? The warmth of it did feel pretty nice. That’s beside the point anyway.

As he’s laying there while you dilly about with your back turned to him, his mind starts to wander. When was the last time he’s had a woman’s touch? It feels like ages because it kind of has. A year? Almost close to a year. He can’t really remember. Yuji thinks you’re pretty and a good time— you’re easy to talk to and if he didn’t know any better, he thinks he might have a tiny, little crush on you. He’s already been thinking about booking another service just so he can see you.

The thought is super cute, but what isn’t cute is Yuji fighting every single demon, every single thought— nearly trying to astral project so he won’t get hard. You didn’t give him a warning before wrapping your gloved hand around his shaft and he jumped, which did get a giggle and a little “Feeling jumpy today, are we?” out of you. He played it off with a bashful little “Sorry.” before relaxing again. You’re not really doing much but your job and that’s why he feels like such a pervert when all the blood from his skull has rushed to his cock.

For him, it’s like this huge elephant in the room but for you? You don’t mind, there’s always a possibility which is why you don’t take male clients but Yuji is the only exception because he’s cute and seems like a good boy. He probably thinks that he has a poker face but there’s a reason why you keep cooing at him because he’s definitely the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. It’s so desperately obvious that he’s trying to think about the most unpleasant and uncomfortable things but it’s not working.

As the service continues, Yuji is not longer trying to keep from stay hard but he’s now rather trying not to cum all over your hands and his chest. But it’s becoming increasingly difficult to do so. He peeks down every now and again to see the progress, he keeps telling himself “She’s almost done, she’s almost done.” that he needs to hold out for just a few minutes more then he can put his pants back on. But, unfortunately it doesn’t seem to work out like he would have hoped to plan.

Your hand slid up his cock with just enough pressure and friction to make him blow his, really fat load actually. He desperately tried to grab your wrist before it happened but it was already too late, the broken protest turned into a pitiful moan halfway, the panicked jerk of his body.. truth be told you thought it was sweet. You’ve also been going through a dry spell yourself. Your last ex made you want to do some healing but with that came with stepping out of the dating pool and no casual sex.

You, yourself felt like a bit of a pervert standing here with a man putty in your fingertips. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry” was all that left his lips as you cleaned him with with a Kleenex but all you could say in return was:

“Can I..? Have your number?”

#┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° bria writes!#yuji itadori #jujustu kaisen #yuji itadori x reader #yuji itadori smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk yuji x reader #jjk itadori #fem!reader #female reader

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burnthatbridge · 2 months

Text

if you love him let him go (if you love him let him know)

pre-buddie, bucktommy | T | 3k | angst, pining tommy needs to tell eddie something not on ao3 atm because i can't figure out if this is done or if i'm continuing it - please let me know your thoughts! now on ao3 because i hate not having all my fic in one place

“Can I get you another beer, man?”

Eddie checks his watch. It’s only a little after nine thirty. He’s kind of hoping to get home before Chris goes to sleep, but he’ll not be heading to bed any time soon, will likely stay up later than Eddie. Friday night means he disregards his supposed bedtime — not that he sticks to it that well on school nights, now he’s sixteen. “Sure, thanks.”

Tommy nods, disappears into the kitchen, returns a moment later with a can of IPA in one hand, a bottle of lager in the other. They’ve already finished the six-pack Eddie brought over, but trust Buck — well, Buck and Tommy — to have Eddie’s favorite beer in their fridge. Tommy hands over the can, already cracked open, and Eddie takes a sip as Tommy settles down at the opposite end of the couch. He doesn’t turn to face the TV, sits twisted towards Eddie instead, but he does pick up the remote and turn down the volume, the post-fight commentary rendered nearly unintelligible.

“I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Eddie twists towards Tommy himself, something not-quite-anxious-but-almost flaring in his chest. Over the years they have been friends, he and Tommy have spoken about lots of things, including those not so easy to discuss: their respective experiences in the army, Tommy’s tough childhood, Eddie’s difficult parents, the hard aspects of the job. But they’ve all been topics that have come up naturally, raised organically. Tommy has never led into anything with such a pointed opener before.

Eddie studies him. He has one knee pulled up on the couch cushion, foot poking out off the end, the other foot planted on the floor, nearly parallel to the base of the couch. One arm is up on the backrest, the other relaxed, beer bottle in that hand, resting on his thigh, dripping condensation painting a charcoal ring on his — probably Buck’s, in fact, given how tight the fabric is stretched over the muscle of his leg — grey sweats. He’s not tense, but he’s not smiling, and there’s something about his expression that Eddie can’t place. It’s not that he hasn’t seen this look before, because he’s pretty sure he has, witnessed it in flickers across numerous occasions over the years, there and then gone, present for but a heartbeat. But he’d never known what it meant any of those times and he certainly doesn’t now.

“'Course,” Eddie says, when Tommy doesn’t go on, seems to be waiting for some kind of sign. Then adds, feeling like it’s necessary given the gravity he can feel pulling this lightsome evening down to something more serious. “Anything.”

Tommy sighs, bites his lip like he doesn’t want to speak, even though he’s the one who said he wanted to talk, then shakes his head and takes a pull of his beer.

“Is everything okay?” Eddie’s starting to feel worried now. He mentally scans back over the past few weeks, trying to remember if Tommy has mentioned anything about work that could be a problem. He saw him at basketball last week, and nothing had seemed off. Plus, Buck hasn’t said anything. Not that he’d necessarily tell Eddie about an issue Tommy was having, not if Tommy wanted it kept private, but Eddie can usually tell when Buck’s concerned about someone, and he hasn’t picked up on anything, not at all.

But maybe this isn’t about a problem Tommy is having. Maybe this is a Buck problem, something Buck has kept from Eddie. It would make sense why Tommy would bring it up with him; sometimes a concerted, multi-person effort is the only way to get through to Buck. And Tommy’s more likely to bring in Eddie first, and then expand the team to include Maddie, Chim, more, as needed.

“Is Buck okay?” Eddie asks, something like panic constricting his throat, making the words come out a little strangled.

Tommy actually laughs at that, a small, choked thing, an exhale of sound and air. He shakes his head again, but not a no. More like an extension of the laugh, a motion to accompany it, to better convey the disbelief — not humor — contained in it. “He’s fine.”

It’s a relief to hear. Buck had seemed physically okay, when Eddie had seen him briefly before he left the house, since he’d maybe purposefully waited to order his Uber until Buck pulled up in his jeep outside, despite Christopher’s insistence he didn’t need to wait for Buck to arrive, despite the fact that his kid is more than old enough to be left in the house alone for the twenty minutes it would have taken Buck to drive over, while Eddie was ferried the opposite way. But there could still have been something, Buck could have been fighting through pain, much better at hiding any hurt of his body than he is at masking his emotional distress.

“But,” Tommy says, and that one word is enough to have Eddie’s muscles tightening once more, “It is Evan I wanted to talk about.”

Again, Tommy doesn’t follow it up with anything. Eddie has found, in their time as friends, that Tommy is not often a man lost for words. Quite the opposite, in fact. He usually says what he means, means what he says, and is an expert at listening and delivering sage advice. This reticence– it doesn’t feel like it bodes well, has the hair on the back of Eddie’s neck prickling.

“Alright,” Eddie says, a feeble prompt. “So, Buck?”

Tommy nods, like he’s gearing himself up for something, to face a challenge, to take a punch. Eddie is expecting something bad, so the words he says catch him even more off guard than they would have. “I want to ask Evan to marry me.”

Maybe if Tommy had seemed eager, excited, when he turned to him, Eddie could have anticipated the blow, could have felt a creeping suspicion this is where Tommy was headed, could have been provided with enough of a heads-up to brace himself. As it is, he doesn’t see the hit coming, takes it full force to the chest, so hard it steals his breath, knocks the wind from him. His mouth goes slack, and he feels his fingers slide against the slippery sides of his beer can, almost spills it over Tommy and Buck’s lounge carpet before he gets a hold on it, on himself. He forces himself to smile. “That’s– that’s great,” he makes himself say, only faintly aware that Tommy isn’t smiling back, like this moment should call for. “Did you–” he swallows around the bile climbing his esophagus, “Do you want help planning the proposal?” He wishes he could take the words back the second they’re out. Because this — just hearing that Tommy wants to ask Buck — is torture enough. To be involved with it, to help enable it, Eddie will be lucky if it doesn’t kill him. Maybe not his body, but certainly his soul.

“No.” Tommy shakes his head. “No, I want to ask him to marry me. But I’m not going to. At least, not now.”

Eddie squints at him. The news that Tommy wants to marry Buck might hurt Eddie, but it’s not exactly surprising. Eddie’s seen how much Tommy cares for him in the years they’ve been together, has seen the way he looks at him, the way they look at each other. Has felt the way it burns him, the scorching heat of flame, the searing cold of ice. He doesn’t understand what Tommy is saying, doesn’t understand why this proclamation seems not to be a happy one. “Why not?” Eddie asks, almost grateful for the opportunity to present confusion, curiosity, rather than forced pleasure at the thought of one of his closest friends and his– best friend marrying each other. “You guys are serious. I mean, you live together.”

Tommy huffs another laugh, still more disbelief than humor, really the opposite of humor. “His lease was up.”

“Right. But he chose not to renew it. He chose to move in with you,” Eddie says, slow, struggling to understand, the pounding of his pulse not helping him think clearly, see through the puzzle that is everything Tommy has said so far and the way he has said it.

“He was never going to renew it,” Tommy tells him.

And that’s– that’s something Eddie didn’t know. He hates it when he learns information about Buck from Tommy, always has, even though he fights with everything in him not to feel like that. Tommy is Buck’s boyfriend, of course he’s going to know things about him that Eddie doesn’t, know him in a way that Eddie doesn’t.

“We hadn’t spoken about living together,” Tommy says, eyes on Eddie. “But he’d said he thought the loft was too expensive and he was spending nearly every night at mine by that point. When he wasn’t on shift. Or at yours.” Eddie pulls his eyes away, takes a sip from his beer for something to do, even though the bitter taste is turning his stomach. “He said he wasn’t going to renew it, that he’d look for somewhere new, cheaper. But this was too close to the end of his lease to find a place before he had to move out. I asked where he was going to stay in the meantime.”

“And he said with you,” Eddie guesses, more a statement than a question.

But Tommy shakes his head. A smile curls his lips but his eyes– his eyes don’t match. “He said he’d crash on your couch, actually.”

Eddie takes another mouthful of beer, holds it there, on the back of his tongue. He didn’t know any of this. Buck would, of course, have been more than welcome. Likely why he hadn’t asked in advance, why he planned for it without seeking permission.

“I said he could stay with me, instead. That he’d be able to sleep in a bed here.” Eddie swallows, the beer somehow thick and cloying in a way that it shouldn’t be. “And then when he started making noises about looking for a new place, I told him he should stay.”

While it’s not how Eddie had, unwillingly, pictured it in his head — Tommy and Buck mutually agreeing that Buck shouldn’t renew his lease, deciding they wanted to live together — it still doesn’t explain what Tommy has said. “And he did stay,” Eddie says. “So, why aren’t– Does Buck not want to get married?” But that can’t be it, that can’t be right. Eddie is certain Buck does want to be married, only he’d tried hard not to think of Buck wanting that with Tommy, with anyone. Anyone else.

“No, he does,” Tommy confirms it. He leans over and deposits his beer on the coffee table. Then sits back, still turned to Eddie, but arms crossed over his chest, like a protection of himself. “We’ve spoken about it, discussed it. And he’s told me he’s always wanted that, to get married, to be part of a family.” Tommy pops one hand out of the fold of his arms to hold it up, out, quelling, like Eddie has protested. He hasn’t, but his heart is doing something approximating a riot at the idea of Tommy being Buck’s family. “And I know he has a family. He knows he does. In you and Chris, in Maddie and Jee, in the 118. But–” Tommy breaks off, tips his head to the side, gaze boring into Eddie’s face so strong that Eddie wishes he could turn away, duck and run. “You know how much he’s always wanted to belong somewhere.”

He does, Eddie thinks, the thought almost violent in its intensity. He belongs with me. Except, he doesn’t. Not really, not how Eddie wants, not the way he does with Tommy.

“And I want that for him,” Tommy goes on, tucking his hand back in, squeezing his arms tighter about himself. Eddie’s never seen him like this, hunched in on himself, curled small. Tommy is usually so open, larger than life. “I want to be the one to give that to him.”

Eddie wants to be the one to give that to him. Desires it desperately, a secret need he’s tucked as far inside himself as he can. He can feel it now, raging to be let out, to be set free. But he can’t, he won’t. Buck is with Tommy, he’s happy with Tommy. Tommy who is so warm and kind and good, Tommy who is better than Eddie in every conceivable way, who brings so much to Buck’s life, who gives all of himself to Buck. Who wants to give him even more. Wants to, but apparently won’t.

Eddie doesn’t understand. “Then, if you want to, why won’t you ask him?” he questions, trying to.

“If I ask him now, he’ll say no.” Tommy states it like indisputable fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world that Buck would refuse him.

Eddie shakes his head, understanding even less. “But he loves you.”

Tommy smiles again, then, larger than he had before, but as devoid of happiness, as empty of cheer. This smile hurts to see, reflects the way Eddie felt inside when Tommy had said I want to ask Evan to marry me. “I know he does.” Tommy’s tone is sure, but wistful. “But he loves you more.”

It’s like– It’s like nothing Eddie has ever felt. Or maybe it’s like everything he’s ever felt. The shock of a residual lightning bolt, the joy of being a part of the 118, the pain of a bullet ripping through his shoulder, the awe of holding his son for the first time. Eddie wants Tommy’s words to be true maybe more than he’s ever wanted anything. But he also cannot believe them, has no trust that they are true. Because they can’t be. Buck loves Tommy. Not Eddie.

“We’re friends. Best friends,” Eddie points out. “Of course, he– he loves me. But not more. Not like he loves you. He’s in love with you.”

Tommy sighs, arms uncrossing, palms coming to rest on his thighs, body taking on a posture Eddie is familiar with, the one he falls into when he’s talking someone through something, the one he adopted when Eddie came out to him some six months ago. “Eddie, he’s in love with you.”

Eddie shakes his head. It’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear, but coming from the wrong lips. Spoken by not by Buck himself but by Buck’s boyfriend, oh god. “He isn’t. Tommy, he can’t be.”

But Tommy is nodding, nodding like what he’s said is true, like he wants Eddie to believe it.

“He’s not,” Eddie says, hears the denial, the disbelief spill from him. Buck doesn’t love him. He doesn’t. But Eddie– Eddie loves– “I’m sorry,” Eddie says, almost a gasp. “Tommy, I’m sorry, I–”

“It’s not your fault,” Tommy cuts him off. “I knew what I was getting into. When I started seeing Evan, I knew there were going to be three people in this relationship. I just–” Tommy sighs again, scrubs his palms along his thighs. “I didn’t expect it to get this far. I thought we’d just be a fun, easy thing. Something to ease Evan into his sexuality, that new part of himself. I didn’t expect it to go like this. I didn’t expect to feel like this.” Tommy closes his eyes, lashes falling to his cheeks. He breaths in and out, while Eddie’s own breath is caught in his chest. When Tommy opens his eyes, he says, “But I don’t have to tell you how easy it is to love him.”

Fuck. Tommy knows. Because Eddie does. He loves Buck, loves him so endlessly he doesn’t know where the feeling starts and where it ends. Doesn’t know when it started; doesn’t think it will ever end. “I’m sorry,” Eddie whispers, needing to say the words again, needing Tommy — his friend — to hear them.

Tommy lifts one palm from his thigh, his wrist pressing into the muscle as he cuts his fingers to the side in a dismissal. “Don’t apologize for it. I’m certainly not going to. I’m never going to be sorry for loving him.” He drops his hand back down, pats his leg, emphasis of the point. “But it is a problem.” He smiles, rueful. “I thought I’d be able to break up with him, if he didn’t break up with me. I should have, ages ago. I certainly should have when you came out.”

Eddie, selfishly, had hoped Buck would break up with Tommy then. But it had seemed like a farfetched fantasy. He had told Buck he was queer after Buck had already moved in with Tommy. He’d admitted it to himself, to Frank, before that, but hadn’t told anyone else for weeks. In hindsight, sometimes he figures he’d left it too late, but most of the time he didn’t think it would have made a difference at all. But now, with what Tommy has told him, maybe it would have. It’s a knife sliding between Eddie’s ribs to think maybe. Maybe.

“But I didn’t.” Tommy looks resigned, shoulders drooping.

“Why are you telling me this?” Eddie needs to know. It seems like Tommy has known for years that Eddie has loved Buck. Loves Buck. I knew there were going to be three people in this relationship. So why is he only bringing it up now?

“Because I didn’t. Because I can’t. I can’t break up with him. But I want to move forward. And I want to do so with him, for us to further our life together. But if I ask him to marry me when he doesn’t know for sure that you’re not an option, he’ll say no.”

Fear freezes Eddie’s insides. “So, what– what are you asking me to do?” Because Tommy is asking something of Eddie, wants something. Something Eddie fears he will have to make himself give.

Tommy straightens up, shoulders rolling back. He’s serious, solemn but not demanding or pleading when he says it. A devastating request. “I’m asking you, as my friend, to let him go.”

Eddie could be sick, he thinks, could vomit up the three and a quarter beers and the half a dozen chicken wings he’s consumed since he got to Tommy and Buck’s place. Could spill the mess of his insides up all over himself, all over Tommy, all over their lives. Tommy is his friend, was his friend before he was ever Buck’s boyfriend. Eddie should do this thing for him. Should give Buck his blessing to marry Tommy, give Buck up, give him over, completely, to this man who has loved him so well for the past three years. Eddie should; in his gut he knows it would be the right thing to do. But his heart– his heart is in revolt. It’s Buck. He loves him. How can he ever let him go?

Tommy leans forward, places a hand on Eddie’s leg, squeezes his fingers around the ball of his kneecap, until Eddie lifts his gaze and meets his eyes. “Or,” he says, somehow even more serious, “I am telling you, as your friend, to go and get him.”

#do we need to see where this goes next?#or is it good as is?#these are the questions that haunt me #(also i am totally avoiding writing chapter 5 of my wip please don't kill me)#buddie #bucktommy #buddie fic #bucktommy fic #911 fic #911 #911 abc #myfic

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izvmimi · 25 days

Text

cw: yandere. female noun for reader used once.

“Baby, did you hear a word I just said?”

You look up from your phone with a start, realizing you’ve been distracted for the past minute. Izuku is uncommonly sensitive these days, and the edge in his voice is sharper than usual as his emerald eyes flit from your phone screen back to your face. There’s a dull shine to them, matching with the very faint bags circling his eyes, and he lets out a sigh as he sets his dinner utensils down and runs his right hand through his messy hair before shaking his head.

“I’m sorry,” you say reflexively. Ever since your last argument, there have been new rules imposed - you mean, agreed upon - and one of these includes avoiding using your cell phone at dinner. After all, dinnertime is sacred between two loved ones, it’s the only recourse you both have from the demands of the day where you are face to face and replenishing with the fruits of your own labor. Man works so that they can eat. Man shares food with the people they love.

Izuku’s meal is untouched. Yours has been picked at slightly, and your chopsticks are no longer neatly placed against your bowl but stuck nearly straight up in your rice. An affront, he’s already reminded you multiple times, but again you’re being careless, texting instead of talking to him, disregarding him, disregarding the sanctity of a meal, disregarding the fact that his jaw is clenched and he’s trying his best to remain calm, deep exhale through pursed lips.

He doesn’t tell you it’s okay, although you remember a time when you first started dating where every misstep you made could be assuaged by a mere pout and batting your eyelashes at him, because you were terribly cute to him no matter how much and often you disrespected him. Now, the corners of his lips perk up in a mirthless smile and he asks, tilting his head:

“Who’s that?”

You blink, and he exhales under his breath. “Who are you talking to?” he repeats, still smiling, trying very hard to be oh so patient with you, the corner of his lips hiked up higher than before.

You had perhaps smiled a little too much when receiving that text message. It was nothing really, just a group chat with your friends where you’d alerted them you’d be slow to reply, and the conversation still went on without you, with the intention for you to come back and get up to speed. A picture of a cat in a ridiculous situation of its own making had been posted and it’d drawn a chuckle out of you - even though you’re having dinner with your partner, the only person on this earth that should matter and does matter.

“My friend. You know her, remember?” you remind him. It shouldn’t be a big deal. Grabbing your chopsticks in your right hand again, you try to redirect him, indulging him in conversation.

“So as you were saying…-”

“Hey, can I see?”

Izuku has moved on from whatever he was trying to communicate and is already reaching his hand out in demand for you to give up your phone. He’s steady and stubborn like an ox, and you know he can stay in this position for as long as possible.

“It’s just a group chat, it’s not that interesting. Hold on, let me unlock it for you,” you start, but he insists.

“Just hand it over.”

The edge is sharper still, practically bleeding as though it were already pressed against the soft skin of your neck.

Your throat dries, but you hand it over hastily, practically slapping it into his palm.

“Good girl.”

Before you can guess what his next move is, he’s closed his fingers around the phone the wrong way around and it’s so small in his hand, just as vulnerable as you are.

It snaps.

Izuku doesn’t make a dramatic scene of it; he stares at you, unwaveringly, the entire time, as the glass and metal and whatever else of the phone crumples and gives way in his hand like wet toilet paper, and he looks practically bored doing it, as if he were doing a necessary chore like taking out the trash when his roommate forgot to do it. Once he’s done, it’s set aside, nonchalantly at the edge of the table, in an irregular, far too neat clump.

“Focus on your meal,” he says.

Bile rises in your throat quickly, then subsides as he picks up his chopsticks again.

“Yes.”

Three seconds pass, and he picks up speech again.

“So as I was saying, Kacchan’s been really struggling with making sure his paperwork is in on time and it’s causing stress for everyone else and-”

“They’ll ask, you know,” you pipe up, suddenly. It’s in a small voice, smaller than you want it to be, but it’s enough for him to know that he’s been interrupted and that you have something to say. Izuku’s eyes narrow as he looks at you for a moment, then picks up the metal ball that comprises the remains of your cell phone and rolls it in his other hand.

“Who’s they?” he asks, softly. His feigned ignorance seems to mock you.

“The phone company. That’s the fourth one this month, Izuku.”

He tilts his head, pondering for a moment. “Really?”

You prevent yourself from gritting your teeth, and reply sweetly, “Really.”

“They won’t ask. We can afford it.”

The word ‘we’ both aggravates and mollifies you. We means him and you, you and him. You are equals. You are not possessed, even if he could very much do so, own you, if he wanted to.

Allowing yourself to wrap yourself up tightly, safe and warm, in this understanding, you aim to take a bite of food in your chopsticks but decide instead to let your chopsticks dip over to his plate to pick a piece of roasted meat off of his plate before slipping it into your mouth coyly.

“If you say so,” you add between bites. He smiles, glad that despite all this hassle, you’re still very much, and inevitably so, his.

#izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #daydreams: bnha #cw yandere #mimi's notes

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seireitonin · 2 months

Note

Dating Toby?? Like is he clingy, jealous or protective of his partner??

(I don't know....this is my first time doing these things.....)

Toby brain rot :3 this is how I see Toby mixed with some canon information! (I’m gonna try to keep it realistic)

What would it be like dating Toby?

Toby’s life is filled with tragedy

Abuse, death, murder, mental illnesses, being a slave to Slenderman

It’s all bad

So when he finds you, someone that accepts him and loves him despite all that, he’s not letting you go

He’ll do anything for you

I mean to the point it’s unhealthy

Because hes obsessed with you

Like really obsessed with you

He’s super touchy, not only because he likes to feel close to you, but it keeps him grounded

That’s important to him because his disorders/ mental illnesses cause him to hallucinate or space out

He’s not gloomy he’s actually upbeat but when he remembers something from his past or the current state of his life he goes through episodes of depression and mood swings

They can get really intense and as you’re with him you’ll learn how to support him through it

Just laying with him, making sure he has water and reminding him you’re here for him will help lots and lots of physical affection

If his mood swings get violent he’ll isolate himself from you but it’s heartbreaking to hear his suffering

His swings can go from extreme anger to intense sadness to reckless happiness

Since he hasn’t had much kindness or interaction in his life he doesn’t have the best social skills

He’ll say whatever is on his mind with no filter and that includes you too

So he’ll say mean things unintentionally a lot because he doesn’t understand how what he says can be hurtful

And he might try to call you sensitive for it too

“Ugh you’re overreacting I didn’t even say anything that hurtful. It’s just what’s on my mind”

He literally doesn’t understand how it can make you feel because he’s a bit detached with emotions

It’s gonna take a while for him to understand but he loves you so he’ll try to understand for your sake and will work on apologizing

He can also just be rude or a jerk sometimes in general

Toby likes just spending time with you to the point where you’re connected at the hip

He won’t say he loves you with words but he says it with his actions

He brings you gifts, holds your hand, goes on walks with you, holds you and try’s to be better for you (even though it’s really hard because he’s set in his ways)

He talks a lot so sometimes you’ll just listen and smile

Since he can’t feel pain, when he gets back from missions you’ll have to help him check for injuries to make sure he’s okay

He doesn’t say it but he appreciates it

Sometimes he’ll just stare at you because he loves you so much, taking in your every detail

He notices everything about you, from your body language, how you tan in the summer and lighten in the winter, he even knows how many times you breathe in a minute

Toby eats a lot of instant ramen so be prepared to eat a lot of that at first but you start to cook for him because he needs to eat better

Toby never expected to have a girlfriend since he’s a lot to handle but he liked the way you handle him

He’s full of himself literally thinks he’s gods gift to earth so sometimes he puts himself before your relationship but he’s trying to change that

He’s really funny especially if you like dark humor

He’s a jealous man. You’re his no one else’s

If someone even looks at you romantically he’ll go crazy on them

Remember, Toby is still a murderer and enjoys murdering

Chasing them down and threatening them and if it escalated kill them with a smile

He does it all for you. Everything is for you.

“You know I love you, right?”

He looks at you covered in blood

Toby likes it when you wear his sweaters

He wants a family one day and hopes you can give that to him

He’s possessive over you but does it out of intense love and obsession

He wants to keep you safe by any means necessary because he’s so used to losing the people he loves and he really doesn’t wanna lose you

Toby drives a pickup truck and likes to drive you around in it

He likes to sit in the back of it with you and look at the stars in an open field

Since Toby’s older his tics have calmed down but they’re still there and he still has the occasional tic attack

You’ll have to help him through those because sometimes he can’t even talk when he’s having one

Stuff he can squeeze, ice pack on his forehead and making sure he doesn’t hurt himself

He’s happy you don’t see him as a burden like everyone else did

He’s never letting you go

He didn’t know he could feel love this intense

#creepypasta #creepypasta hcs #creepypasta characters #creepypasta fandom #creepypasta headcanon #crp #ticci toby headcanons #ticci toby #ticci toby hc #ticci toby hcs #ticci toby x reader #ticci toby creepypasta #creepypasta toby

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luveline · 8 months

Note

Hello Jade! I have a request for hotch if that’s okay, I was thinking something like he’s dating sunshine!reader who goes to a police precinct with the team and the sheriff/deputy insults Hotch in front of her (maybe she’s not part of the BAU so he doesn’t realise she knows Hotch?) and she snaps and punches him/pushes him to the ground and afterwards she’s really quiet and refusing to tell anyone what happened cause she doesn’t want Hotch to hear that people were bad mouthing him. Everyone is confused cause she’s usually so bubbly and it’s disconcerting to see her so stern but she has to protect her man damnit 😤

(Ps I’m the anon who got confused about rules n you’re right I was looking under guidelines not requests 🤦🏼‍♀️ sorry!)

hi babe, thank you for your request! (and no worries at all, no sorry necessary!!)

—hotch is dumbfounded when you slap a deputy sheriff, but you have your heartfelt reasons. fem, 2k

You're not specifically BAU, but when Hotch calls, you answer. You don't look BAU either in your skirt with your blue laptop carry case; twice you're asked what you're doing in the precinct and if you need assistance, but eventually you get to the centre of the action upstairs, meandering through the detective's desks toward a conference room with a sticky-taped sign that says to knock before entering.

"Hey, Spencer," you say, shouldering open the door. "They leave you behind?"

Spencer turns away from his white board. "I'm more useful here right now. Did you bring the ethernet cable for Garcia?"

You put your laptop case on the table and pull out her desired cable. "Where is she?" It's hard-pressed for Penelope to be found anywhere away from her computer during case times. You must get twenty or more rejection emails a month from your fellow tech analysist. Sorry, working a case :'(

"Bathroom. There's a kitchen if you need coffee. You have a badge?"

You flash your visitor's badge at him. "Get you one?"

"Four sugars. Thanks, L/N."

You flash him a smile. The kitchen is back the way you came and to the right. It's nowhere near big enough for the workforce, three tables and one microwave next to a sink full of mugs. You smile at anyone who looks at you and beeline for a coffee pot. No one questions you. They must be used to outsiders invading their space this week.

"Mean fucking guy."

You tilt your head to the side, hand paused in their cup cabinet above the sink. You shouldn't be nosy, but they're not being very quiet, either.

"He has to be mean, I guess. That's a tight ship to run," says a second voice.

"I'd understand it if I thought they were getting somewhere. It's been four days, and between the string bean and his pushpin map and that tech girl who won't shut up? They're doomed. The boss is either too stubborn or too damn stupid to realise."

You close the cabinet and turn around.

"I fucking hate this shit. Ties in their suit jackets coming into our investigation and chasing the wrong leads. We could've had Miller in cuffs two days ago if Hotchner hadn't shut us down, two days ago! And now another kid is dead, and there's not a drop of remorse on him. He doesn't care about doing his job, he–"

"He what?" you ask. Your heart is beating hard before you've so much as parted your lips, your hands trembling. You screw them into tight balls.

"Excuse me?"

Your opposition is a rough hewn man in a deputies badge, a cup of coffee held between two paws. He narrows thick salt and pepper brows at your question, his mouth screwed into a telling snarl.

"You think Agent Hotchner doesn't care about his job? So why is he here? Why did he agree to take the case?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

You shake your head in annoyance and take the FBI badge from your little cross body bag. You toss it on the table, your beaming face looking up at him a juxtaposition to the glare you wear now.

He stands up from his table. The lunch room hushes but the riot of precinct cacophony stays strong just outside of the door, a thrum that battles your roaring heart. You're so angry you can barely speak, and it'll only get worse.

"I'm sorry you have to hear it from me, darling, I am, but your boss out there? Agent Hotchner?" The deputy scoffs. "He's a fool running blind. He turned away from the real issue here. He's a prideful, narcissistic idiot who's let the power of his paycheck get to his head, and as far as I'm concerned? So long as he stops us from arresting Jaden Miller? He's a murderer, too. The blood is on his hands."

You know you're going to slap him from the moment he says 'murderer', but the knee to his crotch straight after is a surprise even to yourself. All you're thinking for one horrible white-hot moment is How can I hurt him? It's shameful, and you slam your knee up a second time anyhow.

—

"You can tell me what happened now or later, but it's going to be much easier on you if you tell me now."

Hotch hates this part. What he wouldn't give to have someone else here to reprimand you. He understands why Gideon left and he wouldn't want him back unwillingly, but Hotch thinks your nightly phone call may go over smoother tonight if it were Gideon standing in his place. Half the time Hotch finds he's uninterested in scolding you. It's why you stay firmly in your department and away from his bias in the BAU. He can't be optimal at his job while you're around.

It's not limited to telling you off, of course. When you're near, he wants to act like it. He wants to take your hand, hold your arm, rub a palm between your shoulders. He wants to pull you into his lap, or pinch the soft lobe of your ear between his fingers to watch you shiver, blow warm air at the back of your neck to hear your laugh. This cold silence is his worst nightmare, but he can't cross the line.

Well, he can't cross the line too much.

In the privacy of a cordoned, borrowed office, Hotch can sit beside you. The blinds are closed, and his intimidation act wasn't getting him anywhere anyways. More flies with honey than vinegar.

"I can't show favouritism here, do you understand? Especially when you're being physically violent against the deputy sheriff." Hotch watches the soft pillow of your bottom lip tremble in a private terror. "I know you wouldn't do this for no reason. I know. Give me a reason to take your side and I will."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Did he say something inappropriate?"

You don't answer.

"Did he?" Hotch can feel the anger he's been pushing down start to rise. When a woman like you, happy-go-lucky, pretty, and always smiling, turns to violence, it's not hard to picture why. He knows full well the horrible things a man can say to a woman. "Please, trust me to take care of this."

"Hotch, I really don't want to talk about this. You can reprimand me, send me home."

"No. Tell me what he said."

You glare at him. Hotch finds with a heart-skipping hurt that it's the first time he's been on the receiving end of your disdain. "No. I don't want to."

"And I don't want to send you home." He knows how he looks, stony-eyed and furrowed brow. He has to try hard to relax into a more neutral expression. "I won't. Not when I know you'd never hurt someone."

"Well, I did."

"We all do things we don't mean to in anger."

In the quiet, he can hear Emily asking loud questions about what happened, and her almost comedic gasp as someone informs her of the situation. Morgan couldn't find the words to tell Hotch over the phone what happened, just told him to hurry back, and it was doubly difficult to get the story out of Spencer, who'd been the one responsible for standing in your way.

"He called her a bitch," Spencer told him. "I didn't want to hold her back after that."

The sheriff deputy has a good hundred pounds on you, so no matter what he called you, Hotch is glad you were pulled away.

Hearing that you'd been called a bitch set his nerves aflame. When Spencer explained that this was said by a man on his knees after a swift jab to the crotch, Hotch was more confused.

He follows a whim. He's biassed for sure, but he knows you're the most beautiful woman in any room that you walk into. It doesn't shock him that a high-ranking authority figure would take advantage of his position to make a pass at you.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," he says softly. "Whatever he said to you, I– I'm not supposed to support violence, but I understand if it got too much. Sexual harassment is unjustifiable, and I'll stand with you and your actions completely."

"He didn't harass me, Aaron," you say, looking down at your knees. You're wearing dark stockings, pinching at the fabric distractedly.

"Did he touch you?"

"No, Aaron–" You sigh frustratedly. "I don't want to tell you what he said because it's not true."

"He insulted you?"

"He insulted you." You glance at him and then away. "I couldn't stand it."

If there weren't cameras in the room he'd bundle you into his arms and kiss the slope of your cheek, because how is he supposed to handle this? You're hitting people when they talk bad about him now?

Hotch doesn't need to ask to know it was bad. You're a well-meaning, well-adjusted person. You'd hardly hit somebody for calling Hotch a jerk. Something severe would've been said to have pushed you over the edge, but, to his detriment, Hotch has heard a thousand awful things about himself from a thousand different mouths, and he doesn't worry about what it was.

"Alright. Listen to me carefully." Your shoulders stiffen. "I don't want you hurting people over me. I don't need you to defend me. I don't want you to fight my battles for me, and I certainly don't want you assaulting people on my behalf."

Your lip again begins to tremble. "I'm sorry."

"No. Don't be sorry." He covers your knee in his hand gently, ducking his head to meet your glassy eyes. He's gone about this the wrong way, upsetting you unnecessarily. He rushes to correct it. "I love that you want to defend me, I love that you did, and it isn't lost on me how much it means to have you at my side, but… You could have been seriously injured. Honey, picking on someone your own size is a double-sided coin. What if the deputy hit you back?"

"I'm not afraid of getting hurt."

He leans down more, imploring, desperate to be heard. "I'm afraid of you getting hurt. Me. I'm worried someone's going to hurt you when I'm not around."

"He was saying all this stuff about you and it wasn't true–"

"It's okay," he says, shaking his head slowly from one side to another. "It doesn't matter. I know what people like him think of me, and he's not in an easy position." He drops his voice to a murmur for your ears alone. "I'm not saying you should agree with him, I can't tell you that I like him much."

You laugh weakly, the sound quickly melding to a sniffle. "I'm sorry, Aaron. I shouldn't have hit him. I don't know what came over me."

"We get angry for the people we care about."

He can't kiss you, really, not at work, but he can show you some heavy affection. It's a boundary crossed. Luckily, Hotch knows you won't report him.

"Thank you for defending me. You can stay on the case if you promise not to do it again," he says, squeezing your smaller hand in his, drawing a lopsided heart with his thumb into the back of it.

"I'll promise not to do it again if he promises to keep his stupid mouth closed," you mutter.

"Is it wrong of me to like this version of you?" he says.

You look him straight in the eye, your usual lightness restored, if dimmed just a touch. "I like all your versions, Agent Hotchner."

"Good. Remind the version that's your boyfriend to treat you accordingly tonight. Okay?"

You nod emphatically, both relieved and chastened. "Okay. Thanks, handsome."

You look tired. Tonight, he'll kiss you like he means it, maybe a touch too rough but apparently you're a hard ass now who can handle it, and he'll hold you close even if he can't give you the attention you deserve until the case is done. He'll make sure you know how much he appreciates your protection, rub your back for hours just the way you like it while sleep fails.

"You're welcome," he says. He has more to say but there's no more time to waste. There's still work to be done.

It'll come easier with you at his side, he's sure.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble

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saiidahyunie · 2 months

Text

fake and true

minatozaki sana x f!reader || pt.2 pt.3

synopsis: you think you struck gold with an offer that's impossible to ignore, and sana thinks she's hit the jackpot in matchmaking.

warnings: fluff ; cursing ; alcohol ; money talks ; reader is terrible at narrating ; sana is a few years older than reader ; tzuyu x shuhua pairing ; college student / tuition struggles ; jihyo mentioned but never appears ; not proofread

a/n: haven't wrote for sana in a HOT minute, also my first fic that actually uses a proper twice song?!?!

you first hear about it first from your best friend chou tzuyu.

“it’s an app,” she says while sitting on your couch, painting gloss on her nails with your little makeup box that you keep under the nightstand in your room. tzuyu then tosses the small bottle back into the box next to her with no care for it; she’s usually careless about most of the things in her life. “it’s just a way to make money.”

make money? you think, and ask, with an eyebrow peaked up. isn’t that technically–like sex work? but minus the onlyfans biz—

“don’t be so reductive,” tzuyu corrects sharply. “it’s being called a sugar baby. and sometimes it’s not even that bad. sometimes the girls on there don’t even want sex. just company. they’ll pay you for dinner and that’s it. it doesn’t have to be so exclusive or that involved.”

“have you ever done it for yourself?” you ask.

“me?” tzuyu snorts. “no, of course not. but it’s all online. a bunch of women have talked about it.” she looks up from her hand and gazes at you meaningfully. “i’m not saying that you should do it, but if you’re that desperate then why not? it’s really not that bad.”

it’s really not that bad, you think, and just days later, you’re reminded with the numbers of your bank statements.

you rent was due in a week.

you just paid for the internet, drawing cash from whatever was left from your recent loan. most of the tip money you scrapped together for the necessary utilities in the house alone. there was also the debate if it was really necessary to cover the light bill when you could just go to bath and body works and use that money for strategically placed candles around the apartment instead. the water bill was necessary, obviously. and cheap, thank god—you never used it more than you needed to— but rent. rent.

unfortunately, you can’t cut corners with that one.

you take another bracing swig of your wine, staring hard into your computer screen. you phone rests right beside your elbow, and you glance at it, considering. mina had told you that you can always ask—

but no. your cousin never had much money to spare, and you can’t expect her to throw hundreds and hundreds of dollars your way every time you find yourself wanting, not when she needs it, herself. not when she’s the one who gave you the warning of going to grad school in the first place, having anticipated this happening. you can’t do that to her and live with yourself.

but then again, you can’t pay your rent and live in general. you were already on your landlord’s ass for the last overdue payment as it is.

so you let out an exasperated sigh, with your face in your hands, borderline breaking a sob, before ruthlessly scratching your hair and inhale through your teeth. you don’t know what to do.

you had a good case for compartmentalization. since you were little, you know that some parts of your life were meant to be separate and not coincide with the other. stress from school should not bleed into your work. a bad grade from an exam doesn’t mean that you can spend your day wallowing in the corner of your room and crying. your one option, the only option really, was to get better, try harder, and don’t cry. find your own solutions. it’s what mina kept preaching for you all throughout college: “find your own solutions.”

find, you think again, distantly, and you look at the black screen of your phone. your own solutions.

“it’s really not that bad.”

you bite your lip hard, mind racing, pulse jumping beneath your throat. your adrenaline spikes as you reach for it, taping the screen and opening the app store. the thought in your brain rattles much like: i don’t want to, i don’t want to, but you have to, because you never have enough money, and you can’t afford to work a second job while being a full-time student, and even then it might not be enough. may never be enough. and you have to. the rent is due at the end of the day.

a fingertip taps on the screen of the light pink app, and it’s downloading. once you open it, you refuse to give the urge to throw your phone across the room and forget that you ever thought of trying this; that you smash it into pieces and toss it into the garbage disposal. but that would be just another expense added onto the list, and you already can’t afford the one you have.

with a deep breath and another sip of the expensive wine, you suck it up and make a profile.

when the matches start coming in, you’re getting nervous.

you drew the line of age range maxing it at just pushing 30 and above, you didn’t want to play with the idea of speaking to anyone older, even if it was just for dinner. most of the women you see are largely unappealing. most of their bios are either cookie cut with the similar story of their life or skevvy, worst comes to worst of the thought being that it wasn’t a viable solution for her money situation.

the reality sinks in, and you’re nearly brought to tears.

you’ve only ever had three semi-serious relationships. two of them were in high school, the last being with your ex-girlfriend when you were in your undergrad courses: elizabeth. she was kind to you, and sweet, and very patient. she had a predilection towards arrogance, having grown up with everything pretty much handed to her, but she was good, down to the marrow. it was because of you that the relationship broke; you had aspirations to go to school and elizabeth wanted to settle down, and you were unwilling to meet her in the middle, knowing that something was off. despite all of her vitreus and being aware, despite the fact that you loved her– truly, honestly— she wasn’t the one: she wasn’t the person that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.

and, you think wryly, staring down at your phone screen, at the new message notification. neither is park jihyo sadly.

but that doesn’t really matter, does it? you didn’t download the damn app to find a wife.

you click on her name. her profile is as spares as it was an hour ago: a brief descpirtion of her job—district attorney, head prosecutor– and three photos of herself, none of them were too grand, just her in a well fit dress or blazer. the photos all lend an air of importance, however. of severity. this is a woman who clearly knows what she wants and is used to getting it. you’re simply another play-thing she gets to choose. the thought chills you.

opening the message. it’s a matter of fact as you expected it to be:

do you like dinner?

hi! you type back, cringing with a stank face while your thumbs twiddle with the phone screen. of course i love dinner!

great. a few seconds pass before her icon pops up again, and your heart jumps to the hollow of your throat when you read: would you like to join me for dinner this weekend? and before you can ask, yes, you will be compensated for it.

the upper row of your teeth are latched to your bottom lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. the edges of your phone slide agaisnt your clammy palms. you can feel the pulse booming in her ears, like a rush of a tsunami. if you wanted to, this could be the last chance to say no, to delete the app and pretend you were never in this madness to begin with. maybe you can ask mina for money. what cost is your pride, anyway, when compared to this?

but you already had your mind set on what you were going to say before you could even type it out.

yes! i would love to. <3

it’s amazing for the bold courage you had to tell when you see her on campus, isolated in a corner of the library. tzuyu takes you completely by surprise when she shrieks in the quiet environment.

“you managed to get a fucking sugar mommy?!”

“shut up!” you hiss, looking around frantically. none of the other students nearby seemed to have noticed her outburst. “nothing is official. i only agreed to go out to dinner with her.”

“still,” tzuyu adds, leaning back in her chair, eyes appearing like she’s caught in a daze. “i didn’t expect you, of all people, to actually do it. you barely just lost your virginity.’

“that’s not true.”

“a vibrator doesn’t count.”

“i was talking about elizabeth!”

“who you broke up with two years ago. my point still stands,” tzuyu says. her bewilderment has melted from her face, leaving a begrudging amusement. “i still can’t believe you did it, though.”

“you’re the one who recommended it to me.”

“i know! but when the hell do you ever listen to me?” she retorts, setting her elbows on the table and cradles her chin with her palms, staring at you expectantly. “so? are you gonna show me pictures of her?”

“i wasn’t really planning on it,” you say wryly, but pull your phone out anyway. “it’s not like she’s a girl that i’m actually talking to.”

“oh, but she is,” tzuyu says, taking it. your attention shifts from her face to jihyo’s profile, flushing slightly when you notice the disappointed frown that tugs at her friends lips. “she’s cute, but i don’t know…”

“what makes you say that?”

“well….you know…”

you bristle, shaking your head, “you said it yourself, some women will pay you for the company. she said that i’d be compensated for dinner but didn’t mention anything after.”

“well, thank god,” tzuyu replies, scrolling through the messages now, pausing over the one selfie you sent to prove that you weren’t a catfish: her request to add by the way. “do you know what you’re gonna wear?”

“probably some cocktail dress. she said we’d be eating at a restaurant in a hotel. so, i’m not picturing anything that fancy.”

“i’ve looked through your closet, though. you don’t have any cocktail dresses.”

“yes, i do. the blue one. with the long sleeves.”

horror is drawn all over tzuyu’s face. “you mean the one you wore to your senior homecoming. when you were eighteen?”

“yeah, it’s nice.”

tzuyu takes your hand from across the table, giving you a look that makes your stomach clench form embarrassment; a look the precedes many of her statements about their different priorities, the vast gap between their socio-economic classes.

“no offense, y/n. you’re drop dead gorgeous. you’d look beautiful in a black plastic trash bag, but that dress? are you kidding? at–tell me about the restaurant again?”

“four seasons.”

tzuyu then slams her palm down flat on the table, earning a glare from the girl sitting behind her. “at the fucking four seasons? hell no. absolutely not. you’re not wearing that, especially if it looks like you got it from fucking windsor.”

to be fair, she was right about that one. although there’s no point in bringing it up now. “i mean, i don’t have anything else to fall back to.”

“i’ll let you borrow something. i have, like, a million cocktail dresses.”

“nothing you have will fit. i’m about your height but your waist is more snatched than mine.”

“that’s very true, but i’m sure it’ll fit!”

“should i ask shuhua for her input?”

“you can! her and i are similar in size so we can ask for her help too and i’m sure she’ll find something for you to borrow.”

you shift in your comfy chair, still uncomfortable. you’re not the kind of person to ask for anything. “are you sure? i think my dress would be fine.”

“trust me, it won’t be. and shuhua loves you and loves playing these kinds of games even more. she’d definitely say yes to helping.”

“if you say so.” you quip while leaning back, watching tzuyu pull up her other best friend’s contact, thumbs flying across the screen. a second passes before she whoops a little and shoves the phone in your face. you can see the clear—and predictable—dry text since she was at work and not with you guys: sure. i can give her the black one.

“do you know which black one she’s talking about?” tzuyu asks, brown eyes sparkling, unfairly dazzling under the muted fluorescent lights. “it’s this one i bought her. it’s a little tight and it has a sweetheart neckline. oh, t/n, you’re gonna look so hot.”

“i don’t need to look hot,” you retort, flustered, “it’s only—”

“dinner, i know.” she waves you off, texting again. “but trust me, you’re gonna want to make a good first impression. when is your date?”

you nick your eyebrow and your mouth winces at the word date, it sets an uneasy feeling in your stomach, a perverse malformation of what romance is supposed to be. “this friday.”

“perfect. i’ll come over with the dress and help you get ready. i’ll bring my makeup bag too, if you want?”

you blink at tzuyu, a flush rising beneath your cheeks. you don’t know how to say no. how to remind your friend that this isn’t a date but a transaction, and that there really shouldn’t be any excitement about this. however, before you can try, tzuyu grabs your hand again, grinning widely.

“this is gonna be so much fun!”

a week passes and friday rolls around frighteningly quick, giving you little to no reprieve or time to prepare, but tzuyu arrives just when she said she was going to. at 6:30 pm, right on the dot, smiling at your front door with a makeup bag in one hand and a garment bag in another. she waltzes in through the open door, gracefully, hair flaunting around, dressed like she was the one going out tonight.

she jostles the makeup bag on her shoulder. “where are we getting ready?”

you lead her to your room, crammed between her only bathroom and the small living room, directing her inside. tzuyu tosses the bag on your bed before walking towards the vanity and plopping down on the seat. she pulls the zipper of her pouch and starts pulling out miscellaneous products, an all-name brand: a small eyeshadow palette, a lipstick, bronzer. tom ford, chanel, MAC.

“so,” tzuyu says cherrily, hair up in a low ponytail swinging as she turns to look at you. “are you excited?”

“no.” the answer comes easier than you expected it to, especially out loud, but it’s true. you’re not excited, rather, you’re— “i’m scared.”

“what? why?”

“i don’t know this woman.” you walk toward your bed, slumping on the corner, shying away from the dress like it can burn you. “i’ve only talked to her a few times. she’s older and she’s important and she’s rich and—”

“and?” tzuyu asks, swiveling towards her. “you’ve met my dad and brother. both of them are equally important and granted, one is an esteemed businessman while the other is a professional formula one driver.”

“that’s different tzu. i’m not trying to be your dad’s sugar baby.”

“i see your point, but—”

“this is serious.” you snap, nerves fried, as they have been since you agreed to go on the fucking date. since you also realized that you were so dead broke that you had no other choice but that. “i’m going out with a stranger for money. i have no idea what’s going to happen and i’m scared.”

“i’m sorry,” tzuyu says, sobered, all wry humor wiped off from her face. “i’m being an ass.”

you look at the lingering wall, muttering your forgiveness, embarrassed at the outburst, but your friend stands up and makes her way over to you. she’s grabbing your shoulders, looking at you seriously.

“do you want to cancel?”

“what?”

“do you want to cancel?” she repeats. “if you’re uncomfortable then you can cancel. there’s no shame in that.”

“i don’t…” you glance at your feet, eyeing the glossy hardwood floor below you. you’ve been needing to sweep up the place for quite some time, but since your mind has been caught up with other priorities that shifted away from simple house care—

“i can’t. i can’t afford to.”

“there’s always other ways to make money. you can ask—”

“i’m not asking mina,” you say firmly. “i’d rather sleep with jihyo than ask mina for anything.”

tzuyu smirks and takes a step back with her palms up, held open in surrender. “it’s a good thing it’s just dinner than, right?”

“yeah. just dinner,” you say. it’s as much as a reminder to yourself, and does little to calm your nerves. but it’s the truth, that’s the good thing about it. if she expected anything more, she would’ve mentioned it by now.

“okay,” tzuyu beams, hands on her hips, grinning again. “let’s help you get ready.”

your uber—graciously paid by tzuyu—drops you off at the four seasons at exactly 8 o’clock; just when jihyo said she’d be there.

you mumble a thank you to your driver as you step out, pulling your coat tighter around you. the dress beneath was black, the hem would just be a few inches above your knees, and tight. tiger than you thought it would be, but should’ve expected given who the owner is. you had always been slim, but your hips and breasts are—full, is a word for it. you’ve blossomed at seventeen and had a history of finding bras your size since then.

tzuyu and shuhua, both tall and rail-thin, built like haute couture models. thus, the lent dress give to you would fit more snugly on you than you initially hoped, pulling tight across your hips, pushing your brasts up farther than you’re comfortable with. you feel like you’ve been put out on display, and the thought follows you as you steps inside the ritzy hotel, bundling up in the pit of her stomach like a coil: a woman who’s owned.

you want to vomit on the gleaming marble.

the nice lady behind the front desk directs you to the restaurant after asking. when you walk away, you wonder if she can sens the anxiety and desperation wafting off of you, the fear. and if she did notice, what does she think? are girls in her situation common? do they all look the way that you do, with their cheap shoes and expensive dresses, hand-me-downs from nicer women? are they older? younger? you can’t fathom it. something being younger and doing this.

when you walk into the restaurant, a sharply-dressed hostess in all black greets you with a smile. “hello, ma’am. are you meeting someone?”

“yes, i have a reservation,” you say. it comes out in a breathless rush. “park jihyo. she said to come at 8. she might be here already?”

“let’s see.” she walks behind the podium and picks up an ipad, tapping it. she scrolls down, brows furrowing, before looking at you. “oh okay. i do see a park jihyo here but she hasn’t checked in yet.”

“oh,” you breathe, trying to ignore the rush of overwhelming relief. “can i…do i wait for her at the table?”

she offers a sympathetic frown. “unfortunately, i can’t sit you until i get proof of ID from the person who made the reservation. it’s to prevent people from stealing other people’s tables.”

“oh. um, do i leave?”

“you can sit at the bar if you want?” she says, gesturing towards it. “i’m sure you’ll be waiting for just a few minutes anyway.”

you nod and send a tight smile in thanks, walking towards the bar, angleed against the other side of the restaurant. like everything else in the hotel, it’s disgustingly opulent. the counters are a dark, shiny marble, as black as onyx. the tall stools have golden legs, the cushions soft and leathery when you move to sit atop it. a beautiful woman smiles at you while you settle in. to your relief, there are very few patrons around you.

“hi. can i get you anything?”

you consider it for a moment. drinking wasn’t the plan. and you were always a lightweight, and you don’t want anything in your system that could impede her decision making. but…

“a lemon drop, please?”

she nods and moves towards the drinks, mixing with a quick, effortless efficiency that fascinates you, as eager for distraction as you were right now. the martini finds it’s place down in front of you, and you smile, fiddling with the straw. “i was a bartender for a little bit, you know?”

“were you?”

“yeah. i switched to waitressing, though.”

“oh, really?” her eyes dart down to her fancy dress, alight with curiosity. you try not to blush. “you came here for a nice date then?”

“um—”

just then, an older woman sitting a few chairs down snaps at her, calling for her attention. she sends you an apologetic smile before stepping away. you sigh and take a bracing sip of your lemon drop, trying to pace yourself.

you don’t.

half an hour later, you’re still sitting at the bar, your second lemon drop in front of you, and more than a litte woozy. the bartender—seulgi, your new friend—stands on the other side of you, drying a crystal cup with a rag, as much of a cliche as she is.

“do you want me to call a taxi?” she asks, concerned.

“i think my friend irene would like you,” you say, sitting forward; her question doesn’t register. “she’s got black hair, and a bit shorter compared to you–” you’re holding your hand out and waving it around, slightly above your own head- “she’s really cute.”

“i’m glad you think so,” she says dryly. “i don’t recall asking for a matchmaker, but—”

“a lot of us don’t ask for a lot of things, but we get them anyway.”

“that’s a bit of striking honesty.”

“well.” you swivel in your chair a little bit, resentful. “my cousin always says that i’m a gloomy brat with a big mouth.”

“and does your cousin live here? can he or she pick you up?”

“no,” you pout. “she lives, like, two hours away. i came here for school.”

“okay, what about your friend irene? can she pick you up?”

“she’s probably sleeping or studying,” you say, wiving her off. a thought strikes you then, and you smile. “you wanna meet her, don’t you? i can give you her instagram.”

she drops her elbows onto the counter and states at you. finally, seulgi shrugs. “yeah, let me see.”

your smile widens and you reach for your coat, now rumpled from when you carelessly tossed it onto the chair next to you after getting overheated. you pull out your phone and quickly scroll through your messages. nothing from jihyo yet, but you expected that, having long since gotten the feeling that you’ve been stood up; not that you really mind. you mourn the money more than anything else. it’s why you haven’t left.

“here,” you say, once you switched to instagram. “this is her username, renebaebae. you should message her.”

“i might,” seulgi says, winking at you, before turning over her head. she straightens up, once again slipping into a professional veneer. “hi, welcome. can i get you anything?”

curious, you turn over, blinking when you notice a woman sitting just a chair away from you. she’s thrown her suit jacket off and has her sleeves rolled up. her eyes follow the length of her toned forearm, lingering on her silver rolex, before moving up again, from the broad stretch of her back to the locks of brown hair. you only stop when you notice that she’s caught you, brown eyes twinkling, the flash of them almost fox-like.

she has a whiskey in front of her. they’re alone. seulgi had journeyed down the other end of the bar.

“do you need something?” she asks.

“no.” you take another sip of your lemon drop, just to keep from looking at her.

she doesn’t offer the same courtesy. “are you drunk?”

“no,” you sputter. “obviously not.”

she hums, disbelievingly and glances at the chair between you, as if in silent permission. you dip your chin and she moves into it, throwing her jacket onto the counter. if you inhale, you can smell her perfume: a rich, dark scent that settles into the pit of your stomach, slow-moving and warm. rich. her watch gleams beneath the golden lights, like her shiny oxford heels and the cuff-links she carelessly tossed into her pocket. she must feel at home here in the grotesque palace of wealth. you wonder if she can smell the fraud wafting off of you, thick as the victoria’s secret perfume you spritzed on just hours before.

“are you on a date?”

“no.” a wave of defensiveness rises up, bolstered by resentment, and the alcohol does little to dampen its sting. “and you? why are you here?”

“i’m drinking,” she says, and takes another swig. your eyes flicker down to the line of her throat as she swallows. when you look back up, her lips quirk. “i had a meeting.”

“a meeting? at the four seasons?” she really is rich.

“no, a meeting at the new york-presbyterian hospital and then dinner at the four season. my co-workers are a bunch of old men who fall asleep at 9:30 so i decided to get drunk instead of joining them.”

“you’re a doctor?”

“trama surgeon. you?”

“waitress,” you say dimly, ignoring the flush that warms your cheeks. you hastily add, “and i go to school here. finishing up my undergrad, actually.”

“nice.”

you lean into your palm, staring at her. “you look very young to be a doctor.”

“so everybody keeps telling me.”

“how old are you?”

brown eyes cut to you, sharp like a knife and mirthful in a way you can only describe as mean. “are you sure you’re not on a date?”

your flush spreads, hot beneath your skin, and you look away from her, taking another swig of the martini. you caught her meaning and you’re not sure if you actually like it, if she’s making fun of you.

after a beat of tense silence, she sighs and shifts closer, pressing her wrist lightly against her own.

“twenty-nine,” she says, “and my name is minatozaki sana.”

roughly about seven or eight years, you think. not that old or too old for that matter. “my name is y/n.”

“y/n.” and you never knew your name could feel like a caress in someone else’s mouth, but it does. “it’s nice to meet you.”

“you too.”

seulgi passes by you again, getting another whiskey for sana and a third lemon drop for you. you can sense that she’s reluctant to give it to you, and you know that you should be mindful of how expensive this tab can be, but you don’t care. after today, with the stress and fear and the adrenaline constantly pumping in your veins, you’ve lost the ability to; you’re numb.

and so you ignore it. “wanna take shots with me?”

“you’re really trying to get drunk, aren’t you?”

“aren’t you?”

“it usually takes a bit more than two whiskeys and a shot to do me in.”

“so no?”

“how much have you racked up on this tab y/n?” sana asks, and you visibly stifle a wince. “three lemon drop martinis. that’s probably over a hundred fucking dollars, knowing this place. why the hell would you go to the four seasons to get drunk anyway?”

the tone is definitely something you don’t like, the patronizing color to it. it makes you reckless. “i was invited.”

“by who?”

“someone that isn’t here.”

“so you are on a date.”

“no.”

“then who invited you here?”

“someone.”

“a man? woman? probably someone your age.”

you huff a bitter laugh and take another sip of the martini. “not my age exactly.”

“so older.” it’s not a question but a statement, and she leans back in her stool, eyes flat. “not a date, but you—some random, pretty-grad student—were invited to the four seasons by someone older than you. i’m assuming or man or woman?”

“mhm, a woman.”

“can i ask you a personal question?”

“you already have been.”

“why did you agree to come?”

why else? you’re pondering. “money.”

she stares at you for a few seconds. you keep waiting for the disgust to bleed in, or the judgment, or—if worse really happens let alone the unthinkable—the excitement for your perceived vulnerable, but she gives you none of that. instead, she curses softly under her breath and sits up, carding a hand through her brown hair. “that sucks,” she says, looking at you. the intensity of her sympathy startles you. “i’m sorry.”

“i-it’s okay.”

“she’s terrible for doing that, what a piece of shit. it’s rare these days how women act like that. even crazier that some can’t find real love on their own so they look for it in people like you. the ones that can’t say no.”

“i don’t think she wants love from me.”

her mouth thins, fist clenching atop the counter. “you mean sex?”

your eyes widen. “no, not sex.”

“then what is it?”

“company,” you say. “dinner. sometimes they’ll pay you for it. it’s all over the internet.”

“yeah, said by fucking liars. what woman is signing up to be a sugar mommy so that she can take a girl that looks like you out for just fucking dinner? how does that make any sense?”

you’re squirming in your seat, nearly cringing at the discomfort. sana’s saying everything that you’ve been trying to ignore for a week straight, and suddenly, you hate yourself for thinking that you could be so naive. that you have the privilege to be, like tzuyu.

“i—”

“did you drive here?”

“what?”

she stands up, reaching for her suit jacket. a pang of mourning shoots through you when you realize that she’s leaving. “did you drive here?”

“no. my friend ordered an uber for me.”

sana nods and looks over to seulgi, gesturing for her to come over. she whispers something to her, a request to her tab, probably, before looking back down on you.

“what time was your date?”

“eight o’clock.”

“i think you’ve been stood up.”

“i know.”

she shrugs the jacket on, fiddling with the cufflinks. she looks disheveled, but in a way that seems purposeful. enticing. seulgi hands her a black booklet, and sana pulls her wallet out. you glance away form her, always awkward around money.

“you probably shouldn’t talk to this girl again.”

“wasn’t planning on it.”

“you should also delete the…app—? she raises an eyebrow at you. you nod—”that you met her on. shit’s already sketchy as it is.”

“i know.”

sana steps back, and you bite your tongue, just in case.

"it's nice to meet you, y/n. maybe i'll see you around?"

unlikely but you’re entertaining with the idea, dipping your chin an acknowledgement because you’re still too afraid to speak. she turns on her heel, and you watch her, eyes following her back until she’s disappeared from sight. you’re hitting the one eighty to face seulgi, only to falter when you notices the black booklet in front of you. “am i cut off?”

“yup,” seulgi says, a smile playing on her lips.

you brace yourself as you slowly open the bill, cringing away from it like it can hurt her. however, it’s not the sight of an exorbitant price that greets you, but a wad of cash; hundreds of dollars. more than that.

and a series of numbers are written on the receipt, with a note on the bottom, penned in a somewhat elegant writing that shows a sliver of sharp intelligence.

“for subjecting you to an interrogation when you were trying to get drunk. good luck with school.— sana.”

“she left me a hefty tip too. for both of you,” she says, smirking at you. “you must’ve made a very lasting impression.”

a close of the hand slams the booklet, and your eyes were unseeing.

five hundred dollars.

you’re counting five hundred dollars.

five hundred. now 480 from the twenty you forked over to your uber driver on the way home. but five hundred dollars, given to you by a veritable stranger, along with—

the receipt is in your handbag, not messing with the thought of throwing it away. if not for her company, then for her generosity. and you really should call her; to thank her, send the money back, ask why the hell would she bother throwing that much money away on a poor, drunk woman wallowing away at a bar. jesus christ almi—

the trill of your phone startles you, ducking your head while you’re scrambling to the couch to yank it from your purse. tzuyu’s smile flashes at you from the screen, and you sigh deeply before bringing the phone to your ear. “hello?”

“hello,” she says, voice pitched in a lilting sing-song. “‘i’m with shuhua and you’re on speaker. say hi.”

“hi, shua.”

“sup, y/n.”

tzuyu chimes again, “so, how was it?”

“uh,” you glance down at your handbag again, at the wad of cash sticking up from the top of it. your pulse jumps. “it went alright.”

“was jihyo as scary as you thought she would be?”

she, well- uh– she never showed up.”

“what!?” you scrunch up your shoulders at the screech. “what do you mean she never showed up?”

“i got stood up.”

“oh, beb. i’m so sorry.”

“it’s fine.”

“so it ended up being all for nothing?” shuhua asks, appalled. “you got all dressed up and went down to one of the most expensive hotels in the city for fucking nothing? you’re still broke?”

tzuyu shrieks again, this time shushing in scolding, but you huff a laugh instead of getting offended, still reeling in disbelief.

“not for nothing.” you mumble out. and the line stays quiet on their end. “what did you say, honey?”

“not for nothing.” you repeat, louder. “i…i met someone, and she…”

“and she what?”

saying it out loud wouldn’t make it make sense, but you force the words out in vain hope. “she gave me five hundred bucks.”

the other end went silent again, clearly digesting this, seeing what they can make from it. that is, until shuhua barks out a mean laugh and asks, “don’t tell me you got on your knees for her or something?”

“shua!”

“it’s an honest question! what kind of old, rich woman gives a girl money for free unless she’s actually interested in?”

“i didn’t—” the lump in your throat rises while the heat flushes your cheeks. “nothing happened between us. we just talked. and she isn’t old.”

“...is she cute?”

you’re thinking of sana’s strong side profile, rolled up sleeves, and the low registered tone along with the bite of her tongue. “yes.”

“so if nothing happened, why did she give you money?” shuhua asks.

“i don’t know,” you reply softly, pulling up your knees to hug them. “i think…she just felt bad for me.”

“felt bad for you? what makes you say that?”

“i told her why i was there, pretty much. she seemed bothered by it.”

“if god was a woman,” tzuyu says, a smile in her voice, and despite her generosity, you don’t even know if you’d consider sana your saving grace; there was an intensity to her, to her kindness that belied normal human decency. you can’t even tell if she’d do it for anyone else.

but if that were the case, why you the? what did you do to earn that kind of attention?

“well, i think there’s something else happening that y/n is telling us,” shuhua says bluntly. “i don’t see why she’d be that nice otherwise.”

tzuyu hums along in agreement, considering. “what do you think, y/n?”

“i don’t know either, if i knew exactly the i would’ve told you.”

“maybe it’d be worth taking into account asking her then? let your curiosity get the best of you.”

you’re reaching for your handbag, pulling the crumpled receipt from it, smoothing your thumb over the fine printed calligraphy of sana’s name.

“maybe i will.” you whisper.

later after the call, you text her while you’re tucking yourself into bed, hoping that it’ll be late enough that she won’t immediately respond. the nervousness and confusion rumbling in your head to even go forward into speaking to sana. you toss your phone on the nightstand and turn over, willing not-so-tired body to sleep.

the hope diminsieses very quickly. phone vibrating for a few seconds to make you jump up, reaching over. you’re tapping at the unsaved contact and click on the text, trembling. your own message flashes at you innocently, and you just want to throw your phone into the toilet or damn fire: hi! this is y/n. the girl you met at the bar tonight. do you remember?

sn:

hey. and yeah i do.

y/n:

cool! your thumbs hover over the touchscreen. unfortunately, i think you might’ve accidentally left something with me.

sn:

it wasn’t an accident.

y/n:

oh, you think, typing away. i’im so sorry, and thank you so much for your kindness, but i can’t accept that.

sn:

why not?

y/n:

it’s too much money and you’re a stranger. i can’t ask that of you.

sn:

you don’t owe me anything.

a second passes before she adds: can i call you?

your heart skyrockets up to the opening in your throat while your adrenaline spikes. for a moment, you want to say no. you don’t know if you can handle it, hearing her voice after she’s done you such unnecessary kindness. but it’s the thought that loops around and convinces you: sana gave you five hundred dollars. the least that you can do is have a damn conversation about it.

yes.

your phone rings just seconds after you’ve pressed send, and you take a deep, steadying breath, willing your heart to slow it’s pace. you pick up. “hello?”

“hey.”

the low timbre of her voice makes your breath hitch. she sounds like she’s been sleeping. like she woke up for you.

“you wanted to talk?”

“well, you did. mostly.” you can hear a slight rustling on the other line. her shuffling in bed. “you said something about owing me.”

“i can’t,” you say firmly. “i’d have to repay you, and as you can guess, i’m not made of money right now—”

“i didn’t give you that because i though you would owe me something. to be honest, i didn’t know if i had a chance in hell of seeing you again. i was trying to be nice.”

“and i appreciate it, but i can’t accept it. five hundred dollars is a lot of money, and—”

“i’m a surgeon.”

“which is how i know you’ve worked hard for it. i’m sorry, sana, but i can’t accept it.”

“does anyone do nice things for you?”

you blink, “what?”

“you just seem to have a hard time accepting kindness.”

“i…i don’t…”

“fine,” she huffs. “i’m not gonna force you to keep anything you can’t accept.”

“can i give it back to you?”

“i was thinking more along the lines of: you could toss the cash in a fire if you want it—”

“no,” you say, horrified. “i want to give it back to you.”

silence lingers on sana’s end. your pulse roars in your eardrums and your fingers are gripping the sheets. you have this distinct feeling that you’re dangling over the precipice, waiting for the ball to be dropped.

“how about you meet me for lunch?”

“huh?”

“lunch. tomorrow afternoon at 2.”

“i…um…”

“or i can give you my mailing address and you can ship it back to me. whatever you want.”

“are you asking me out?”

her voice comes in lower, barely over a rumble over the crack of the speakers. deliberate. “if you’re okay with it.”

you remember sana at the bar, under the dim golden lights. how she leaned into you when you spoke, how she listened, the geunine sympathy in her eyes when you told her why you were there. the way you mourned the loss of her when she left, with an intensity to it that startled you.

answering in a breathless rush. “lunch. i-i’d like to go to lunch. with you.”

“cool.” you can hear her smile. “i’ll text you tomorrow?”

“yes.”

“okay. see you then.”

“see you.” you whisper, and drop your phone once she hung up. about two seconds pass before you pick it up frantically, dialing shuhua’s number.

she sounds annoyed, plus a giggle is heard in the background. she and tzuyu were definitely hooking up. “what?!”

“shua! i need another one of your dresses!”

half an hour before your date, sana texts you: “there’s been an emergency at work. i got called in.”

you, on the other hand, was in the middle of drawing a very sharp wing, not caring for the falling eyeliner when you reach for you phone, frowning.

y/n:

huh!? what happened?

sn:

one of the other surgeons had a heart attack this morning so i had to fill in for him

it’s been a shitty day.

y/n:

i’m sorry :(

a fleeting attempt to stave off the wave of disappointment that threatens to consume you, feeling ridiculous for it. childish.

but it’s not so childish however, to keep you from typing, “will you have to cancel? :(“

sn:

for lunch, yeah. but i was thinking we can reschedule for dinner?

y/n:

will you be able to get out by then?

sn:

my supervisor said i can expect to be out by 6. i can pick you up at 8:30 if you want?

you press a finger to your lips, smothering a smile.

y/n:

i’d love that.

sana’s reply comes a second later.

sn:

i’ll see you then.

#hyunie #sana x reader #twice x reader #kpop x reader #kpop imagines #twice sana #sana #minatozaki sana #minatozaki sana x reader #twice x you #sana imagines #sana minatozaki #twice fluff #sana twice

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xazse · 2 months

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Imagined getting fingerfucked by Kazuha till you pass out without even pounding his dick into your pussy 🥺🥺🥺🥺

Notes: HELLOO, I’ve been neglecting my people who aren’t that interested in Scaramouche and jjk so enjoy this!

Pairings: Fem!Reader x Kazuha Kaedehara

Tags: Overstimulation, fingering, passing out, our poor neglected Kazuha at the end, sensitive reader, NOT PROOFREAD

You’re such a sensitive thing, Kazuha knows this and uses it in his favor.

You two are somewhere on the crux hiding behind some boxes: he’s been trying to calm you down and tell you just small kisses and nothing more, but you’re such a greedy minx that tries to slip a little tongue in, tries to bite at his lips, you’re even going as far as to guide his hands towards your cunt.

Small pleas leave your wet lips, a pout decorating your face, his cock stirs at the desperate sight of you, he so badly wants to fuck you but he’s the one most in control and if he gets worked up like you are right now he isn’t gonna be able to perform his duties with Beidou.

“Kazuha… please… just a little” you press your nimble fingers on his cock, a hiss leaves his lips. In a matter of seconds he’s standing up and manhandling you onto one of the boxes. You’re bent over while he’s behind you pinning your arms behind your back. You make no move to tell him to stop or to let up a little. Confused and a little dazed at his quick movements you turn slightly at him.

A whispered yelp is let out when you feel a cold breeze hit your ass and pussy. He keeps pulling your shorts down till they hang around your ankles. Kazuha steps back a little to admire the view, your plush thighs squeezing together periodically to relieve some pressure building up. He doesn’t like handling you in such a mean way but it’s completely necessary.

He decides he’s had enough of the view and slides himself beside you, putting his face in the crook of your neck and a little bit of his weight on your back, but not fully ontop of you, just at an angle.

He guides his soft fingers down your back, to your exposed cunt. It’s already plenty wet but he traces the outline just a little to tease you, it’s not even a second before you’re whining for more. He pushes a finger inside your awaiting hole, needy little hole just accepts him, so he takes the incentive to add one more. Two slim fingers are scissoring you open. Wet slick sounds are resonating in the area, Kazuha is silently begging no one to come near.

Pretty sounds are leaving your throat, he can just picture how good you look, a bitten bruised lip, lusty ridden eyes, just the thought of how ruined you’re becoming makes his cock throb so badly, Kazuha isn’t one to be this worked up so easily but the urge to put his length deep within your swollen cunt is just too much to bare.

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t realize he’s sped up his ministrations, his fingers are entering and leaving your cunt so skillfully. Distraught but loving every moment of it you take to bouncing back on his fingers ever so slightly, but not disturbing his pace. he’s also so lost that he doesnt see the way you bring your own fingers to rub at your clit. It’s so slippery you have a hard time being precise with the directions and where you want the pleasure.

Kazuha doesn’t let up with abusing your sticky pussy. Soon enough you start to feel dizzy but so so good, your tummy clenching hurts with every push of his fingers inward, reaching back to tell him you feel weird like really weird is worthless: all that falls from your lips are moans.

Everything goes white and all you can feel is your pussy clenching and unclenching before darkness.

Kazuha is finally pulled out of his daze when you slump and stop moving, he immediately straightens up and checks you out, a breathless laugh escapes his lips at the sight your chest rising and falling. After a quick minute of him trying to get himself together he realizes how painfully hard he still is, as well a precum stain decorating his pants.

#genshin smut #zsworks #genshin x reader #fem reader #kazuha x reader #kazuha smut #kazuha x female reader #kazuha x you #kazuha kaedehara #kazuha kaedehara x reader

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sprout-fics · 11 months

Text

Breaking and Entering

(John Price x F! Reader)

(Call of Duty Masterlist)

Rating: M Wordcount: 4.2k Tags: Girl Dad Price, Wife Reader, Angst, Fluff, Feral John Price, Cuddling, Hurt/Comfort, TF141, (Unrealistic interpretations of UK gun laws) Warnings: Home invasions, Deadly use of firearms A/N: AKA the home invasion fic nobody asked for

When your number lights up his phone, Price knows it by heart.

There’s just one problem.

You aren’t supposed to call this one.

He’s in the middle of a briefing when it happens, discussing relevant intel ahead of a mission happening in the imminent future. Arms folded, beside the projector screen, voice taking on his gruff, clipped tone used only to convey orders, information, commands. It’s a late workday, but the intelligence that has just come in is valuable, extremely relevant to the team’s next hunt. As much as Price would like to be home, he can’t be. Duty comes first, and you’ve learned to accept that in him.

His phone rings in his pocket, and he catches Gaz’s face just in time to see the expression of ‘Really, Cap?’ Before he excuses himself, looks at the screen.

It’s you.

Normally he’d have his phone on silent for briefings, but now he’s glad he’s forgotten. He’s told you explicitly that this number is for emergencies, and emergencies only. Short of life or death scenarios, this number is exclusively off limits.

Which means when he sees the number, his heart sinks below his stomach.

He’s answering and moving before your voice even comes through, wordlessly striding from the briefing room and ignoring the questioning calls from his team after him. There’s no preamble to your conversation, and he tries to remove the anger, the fear from his voice when he speaks.

“Where are you?”

“In the bedroom.” You whisper back urgently, and he can hear the tremble in your voice, can practically feel you shaking through the phone. There’s a pause on the other end of the line as he shoves open the doors to the command center towards the direction of the parking lot.

“John.” You whisper again, voice very small, hushed and quiet. “John, there’s someone in the house.”

Price doesn’t freeze despite the cold wash of dread in his veins. There’s only motion under his feet, heart pumping full of adrenaline in his chest, where something fearful, furious, brutal coils in a low growl.

Before he can respond, however, there’s the sudden crash of something on the other line and you whimper.

“Where are the girls?” He demands as he waves off an officer who salutes him as he walks by, swinging his hand so hard the other man flinches.

“In the bathroom. I locked them in, they’re being quiet like their mummy told them.” You reply, and he can hear the growing sob in your throat. You’re terrified, beside yourself, but you don’t say it, don’t tell him how worried you are, how you want him to come home. You know he’s already on his way, you know to be brave, and for a moment Price’s heart swells with the tender affection of pride before it quells when there’s another clatter in the background.

“Hang up and call the police.” He tells you on no uncertain terms, pulling his keys from his jacket and all but racing towards his car.

“I already did. Told them where we are but-”

You pause then, release a low, shuddering exhale that crackles through the phone.

“John, I just wanted to say I love you.”

“Don’t.” He snaps before he can stop himself, gripping the steering wheel with a white-knuckle grip. “You are going to be fine, you understand me? You and the girls. I’m on my way, the police will get there before I do.”

And if they don’t, there will be hell to pay. He adds silently.

He can hear you suck in a breath to say something next, only to pause.

The stairs creak in the background.

Price floors the gas.

“Get the gun.” Price tells you gravely, flashing his credentials at the gate operator without looking at him. “Can you get to the safe?”

It had become necessary due to the nature of his work to ensure you had a certain level of self-defense for your safety when he wasn’t home. Price had more enemies than he could count, and while he had made every precaution to ensure nobody, not even his team, knew of your existence, he had placed a certain level of insurance with you just in case. The paperwork had been a nightmare to get through, but with the mention of his specific job description, the powers that be had allowed an exception to the laws on weapons, leaving you with a short revolver hidden in a safe in the bedroom.

You don’t answer his query, but Price can hear a rustle, the sound of you moving across the room to the top of the dresser.

Moments tick by, and Price doesn’t speak in the silence, not wanting to offer a single sound that may alert the intruder to where you are. You remain just as quiet, but Price can hear the low, slow click of the safe’s lock as you twist the code into place.

April 22nd. Your eldest’s birthday.

“I’ve got it.” You whisper, barely audible through the phone.

Price sighs in relief, the smoky breath of him curling across the dashboard as he weaves through traffic, speeding tickets be damned.

“Good girl.” He rumbles, trying to keep his voice low, even, reassuring. “Is the door locked?”

“...Yes. Yes.” You reply back, and he swears he can hear the sound of the gun shaking in your hand as you hold it.

“Loaded?” He asks again. There’s a click that is too loud when you open the chamber to check.

“Six bullets.” You murmur, voice a little more even, more level now in a way that makes his heart ease, makes the commanding, logical instinct of his military training activate.

“I want you by the door.” He orders you as if you’re one of his own. “Both hands on the gun, just as I showed you. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” You answer, and that alone, the wry humor you give him nearly has him smile, chuff with affectionate laughter. Yet whatever humor he possesses is terrifyingly absent in this scenario, the one that could very well end with both you and his daughters dead by the time he gets home.

Bloody fucking hell. Where are the bloody cops?

“John…” You whisper then, just a touch louder so he hears you better over the thrum of the engine. “I can’t hear him. I think he’s gone.”

Price allows his eyes to flutter shut for all of a moment, clamping down on the premature relief that rises in his chest.

“Are you sure?” He asks, softer, trying to ease your frayed, tender nerves.

He can hear you swallow over the line, trying to wet your dry throat. “I…I think so.” You tell him at last. “I don’t-”

BANG-!

The sound of the bedroom door being kicked in.

He can hear you scream from the other end of the line, voice rising sharply in panic and terror as another, deeper voice echoes in the background, rising even louder with words he can’t hear. The sound is garbled, unintelligible as your phone drops to the floor. Price can barely hear the sound of his own voice when he shouts for you, words cracking in his throat. The road around him blurs, and he looks to the display on the dashboard to gauge the time until his arrival.

Two minutes.

Two minutes for you to die, for his two beautiful daughters to be killed as they scream for you, two minutes for the undeserved happiness of his life to be stolen from him.

Price yells again, voice desperate, calling your name. There’s the sound of struggle in the background, and you curse at your attacker- feral, untamed, terrified. Like a wild, injured mother animal defending her young from a predator.

Yet before Price can call out for you again, there’s a crunch, another, and the line goes dead.

The world drops out from under him.

The tires of Price’s car screech as he takes the turn into the neighborhood far too quickly, leaning with the inertia of the vehicle as he races down the street towards the house where his whole life is falling apart.

The car lurches to a stop in the middle of the street, Price not bothering to park properly as he tumbles out of the driver’s side door and towards the front step of the townhouse.

BANG-!!

A gunshot.

Price sees the image of your smiling face in a beautiful white dress flash behind his eyes.

The house goes silent.

Price used to be a religious man. His father would drag him to church on Sundays, would insist on his boys dressing proper and maintaining the appearance of good, devout, obedient children. He tried very hard to make himself believe through his adulthood, but in the years spent toiling in the dusty, blood-soaked underbelly of the world, Price has long since convinced himself there is no God left for ruined men like him.

Even so, in this moment, he prays.

The front door is locked, latched tight. The burglar must have come through the back door into the garden. Price calls for you, and it’s a stupid move on his part, alerting the enemy to his position, perhaps startling them enough to give them an opportunity to escape. Yet the silence that greets him has his blood thrumming, deafening in his ears and he kicks, once, twice at the center of the door before the latch buckles and the thing swings open on its hinges.

There’s crying from the bedroom.

There’s no gun on him, too frantic to grab a side-arm before he sped off base. So instead Price reaches for a knife hidden in his pocket, holding it ready in front of him as he slowly ascends the stairs. The crying is louder now, and he can tell it’s younger voices. Whimpers, tearful whispers from his two beautiful girls still locked in the bathroom. Yet the bedroom where you are remains silent, and as Price reaches the top of the stairs he tries to remember whatever saint offers the blessing of protection, safety.

He rounds the corner, and instantly his toes bump against a limp, dead body sprawled on the floor of the bedroom. Price doesn’t look down immediately, trying to steady himself, preparing himself for the sight of his beautiful wife dead at his feet.

A dark hoodie. A surgical mask. A pool of red soaking into the carpet.

It isn’t you.

“John.”

Price looks up, and in the darkness of the bedroom he finds you with your back against the dresser, several drawers half open and spilling their contents onto the floor. You sit, holding the revolver, legs askew on the floor, hands trembling fiercely, shoulders shaking-

Alive.

Price collapses to his knees in front of you, and you whimper into him as he hauls you into his arms. You nearly push at him, still caught the shock of being ambushed, attacked, touched by a man that wasn’t him. When you squirm, Price merely holds you fast against his chest, murmuring low, raspy reassurances until you still.

“Shh, it’s me. It’s me, love. You’re safe. It’s over.”

With one hand, he tucks his blade into his jacket, with the other he slowly removes the weapon from your grip, clicks the safety on, and tucks it to the side, well out of the way. No doubt the presence of the weapon will be a nightmare to deal with when the police arrive, but that’s not his concern right now.

“Are you hurt?” He asks, turning you face up to him in his palms, and he can feel the wetness on your cheeks, can see the liquid stare of you in the darkness of the bedroom. You shake your head, lip trembling but trying not to cry, and it aches at him like nothing else. The hurt is only soothed by the taste of your lips, a desperate kiss, wet with the taste of your tears as you instinctively part for him, allowing a shuddering little gasp to break through. You whimper again, something that sounds like ‘John’, grasp at him a little harder until he tucks you back into his chest.

“T-the girls-” You try, voice cracking, and Price hushes you, rocking just a touch as you try to calm down.

“They’re in the bathroom.” He tells you quietly. “They’re safe.”

You hiccup at that, finally allowing a sob to break free as you cling to him, bury your face into his chest so his shirt stains with tears.

“I-I was so afraid.” You confess, and Price merely tucks you closer to him, hauls you into his arms with the promise of safety.

“I know, love. I know.” He tells you. “You’re safe. You’re alright. You did well, my brave girl.”

You cry a little harder at that, and at last Price hears the sound of sirens at the edge of the neighborhood, racing far too late to where the two of you sit in the darkened bedroom.

He hauls you up into his arms when they arrive, helps you down the stairs and presses you into the arms of a kindly police woman before returning into the house. An officer in a yellow jacket urges him to stay put, but Price snarls in his face, startles him so badly the man takes a step back and pales.

It’s easy to climb the stairs now, to come to the locked bathroom door that shelters his children from the horror they did not witness. As soon as he opens the door they spill into his arms, his two beautiful daughters, weeping against him in wordless blubbers of terror and relief. Yet the first question they ask isn’t about where he was, what has happened, why the police are there. Instead his eldest, at the age of six, her gorgeous eyes the same color as her mother's, stares tearfully up at him and asks: “Where’s mummy?”

“Outside.” He tells her with a gentleness he had forgotten he possessed, hauling her younger sister up into his embrace as she sniffles into his shoulder. “Let’s go see her.”

Yet before he steps back into the bedroom, he kneels down and stares at his brave, eldest girl and tells her: “We’re going downstairs. Don’t open your eyes until you’re outside, understand?”

She does, of course she does. He’s never given her a reason to doubt him, so the both of them squeeze their eyes shut, don’t open them even as Price lifts them over the dead man still laying oozing on the floor.

When they get outside they rush towards you, fresh bouts of tears in their eyes, asking about the blood splattered on your nightgown, staining it crimson. He can see you panic, nearly explaining the truth, before you shakily smile, hold them both in your arms and tell them: “It’s strawberry jam, my loves. Mummy is very silly and spilled jam all over herself.”

It takes the better part of an hour to explain to the police what has happened, to have you checked over by a paramedic, one who offers peppermints to your two girls as they balance at the back of the ambulance. Price entrusts you to them, discussing the situation in low, grave tones with the officers over why they were not as quick to respond as he had hoped. The officer from earlier is defensive at first, tries to puff his chest and explain to Price the logistics of the response, and Price levels him with a mere look of stony, violent anger that instead has the man fumbling for an apology.

It’s that alone that has the man dismiss any possible charges for you, takes one glance at the weapons permit and tips his hat at the captain with a small ‘Sir.’

At long last, after the crime scene tape has been rolled out and the house cordoned off, does Price return to you and the girls, who have calmed down considerably and now doze drowsily on either side of you, still dressed in their pajamas. You lean up into the tender kiss he bestows upon your forehead, murmurs another reassurance there before tilting you into his palms.

“We can’t stay here tonight.” He tells you gently, and you sag in relief.

“A hotel?” You ask, and Price only shakes his head at you, watching your brow wrinkle in confusion.

“I’m taking you to base.” He replies softly, firmly. “No place safer in the world than with me.”

You know it’s true, he can see it in your smile as you gaze up at him, adoring, with a trust he still struggles to tell himself he’s earned.

So you’re bundled into his car alongside your two young girls, the three of you in the backseat as he retraces his path back in the direction of the base. It’s only once you also begin to doze off in the back seat that he hazards a glance at his phone.

Five missed calls, three from Gaz alone, one from Soap, and one from Laswell that’s followed with a text saying “Call me. ASAP.”

He has a lot of explaining to do.

Somehow he manages to talk his way past the gate guard, who looks puzzled at the woman and two girls sleeping in his backseat. Yet he waves Price through, and eventually the four of you arrive at the officer’s quarters. Price manages to hold both of his daughters, one in each arm, with you clinging to his side, hiding your face in his sleeve as you pass the soldiers who pause with long, drawn out stares at the sight before them. It’s an unusual circumstance to say at best, and Price knows he’ll have to corner more than one man tomorrow to ensure their silence on the whole affair. All that matters right now is getting you and the girls to safety, to somewhere the three of you can bunk down and sleep this dreaded evening off.

What Price doesn’t expect to find, however, is three younger SAS agents awaiting him in front of his bunk, leaning against the wall and talking quietly amongst themselves. Gaz, Soap, and Ghost startle at the sight of their captain holding two young girls in their nighties, and a woman at his side with blood not entirely scrubbed from her nightgown.

“...Sir?” Gaz manages tightly after Price silently brushes him aside with little regard, unlocking his door. Yet when Gaz tries to assist the captain shoots him a look. The expression that flits across his sergeant’s face has him regretting it almost instantly, but apologies will have to wait as he ushers you inside. It takes a moment for Price to carefully deposit his sleeping daughters into the neatly made military cot, and when he does he catches your eyes just as you nod to the three men still hovering in the doorway.

It’s with a sigh that Price rubs the back of his neck and turns towards his concerned and puzzled team, clicking the door shut behind him so the conversation does not disturb his family.

“Introductions will have to wait until the morning.” He announces quietly, hearing the fatigue in his own voice. “They’ve had quite the night.”

“You never said you were married.” Soaps blurts out before he can stop himself, and at the look Price gives him in regards to his volume he mildly tacks on a little “...Sir.”

Price allows himself a moment to knead the bridge of his nose, huffing a suffering sigh as he decides what to say next.

“There’s a reason I haven’t told you boys.” He explains at last, looking up. “You know our work. You know the enemies we’ve made, myself more than the rest of you. You know they will exploit every opportunity of ours that they can.”

He levels his team with a severe, grim stare. “I will never allow my family to become one of those opportunities. Understood?”

The silent, unspoken words there ring loudly in the silence that follows.

This is a secret. For the four of us. Do not ever speak of it to anyone else.

He can see them trade glances, still confused, apprehensive, but at least agreeable to Price’s explanation.

“Copy.” Gaz offers quietly at last, and both Ghost and Soap nod as well. Price manages to catch his lieutenant’s stare for a moment, and Simon darts his gaze to the door behind his captain, and then to Price meaningfully, nodding.

Of course Simon would understand the gravity of secrecy that comes with this, Price thinks, and for a moment he regrets not telling his second in command sooner.

“Good.” Price announces summarily after a beat, and the clipped tone of him has the team straighten on instinct. “We can talk more in the morning. Dismissed.”

Ghost nods, about to stride away when he catches Soap about to make further comments, grabbing him by the back of the shirt and tugging him away. Price can hear the Scot grumble in irritation, but obediently follows behind his LT. Gaz stays a little longer, shifting uneasily on his feet.

“Sargeant?” Price asks, and the tone isn’t unkind, still regretting the venom he shot the man earlier.

“Sir.” Gaz begins, eyes cast down to his feet. “...Are they alright?”

It’s that question, the soft, uncertain concern of his sergeant that makes Price’s shoulder go lax, has his breath exit him in a soft, steady sigh. His broad, calloused palm settles on Gaz’s shoulder, making the man look up with a worried, grimaced expression.

“They’ll be fine.” Price tells him, voice dipping low as it does for his own daughters. “They’ve had a bit of a shock, lad. They need to sleep it off, know that they’re safe now. You can help me with that come morning. Understand?”

Gaz brightens at that, always wanting to be useful, to prove himself to the man who has taken him under his wing.

“Of course, Sir.” He offers, reassured, and Price nods.

“Good. Get some sleep. The girls will be a handful tomorrow, I have a feeling I’ll be needing assistance.”

Gaz nods, makes finally to leave, when Price calls him once more.

“Gaz?” He asks, making the man pause. “Call Laswell. Tell her I’ve got three VIPs I’m dealing with. She’ll understand.”

Gaz’s gaze brightens, and Price inwardly cringes, recognizing the error he’s committed. No doubt Gaz and Laswell will be having an extended conversation in his absence about the things he’s failed to mention. Yet Gaz chirps an affirmative and vanishes down the hall before Price can stop him.

When Price returns to his room, the door clicking behind him softly, he admires the sight before him. His two daughters splay across the bed, clinging to your form tucked between them as you hush a lullaby to ease their dreams. Thankfully, they both have managed to fall asleep quickly, likely exhausted by earlier events. The sight of his girls soft, sleepy, blessedly safe in his quarters is nearly enough to bring him to his knees.

You look up at him as he leans on the door, beckoning him into bed. It takes a moment to divest himself of all but his shirt and pants, but eventually Price manages to scoot his way into the narrow cot, hauling his youngest atop his chest to make room. She curls there with a whining, sleepy murmur before falling still once more. A hand settles in her hair, idly stroking as Price coaxes her further into dreams.

Against his side, you scoot so your head lays against his bicep, your eldest daughter now tucked safely between you. It’s a bit awkward, the four of you trying to scrunch together on such a narrow cot, and Price doesn’t doubt that by morning he’ll be sleeping in his desk chair. Yet now, in the soft lull of evening, in the absence of gunshots and dead phone lines, he allows himself to be at peace.

“I nearly lost you.” He finds himself rasping quietly, as if he can still barely understand the thought. You make a sound of dissatisfaction at that, nudging him in disapproval.

“None of that.” You scold quietly, and Price holds his tongue about the fears he wants to say, the pleas for forgiveness he wants to ask of you for not being there when you needed him the most.

“I love you.” He says instead, and despite not being an emotional man, he finds the hollow of his heart aching, empty with regret.

You’re silent for a moment, and there’s a part of him that wonders if you’ll return it, if you’ll suddenly realize how selfish he’s been in allowing himself to love you despite his duty.

Instead you turn, grasp at his hand, bring it to your lips in a firm, tender kiss.

“I love you too, Captain Johnathan Price.” You whisper, and Price’s eyes close, chest aching, the world quiet around him, and yet full. When he breathes, it releases as a sighed prayer to the heavens, a plea for mercy for your safety, for his own forgiveness, for the promise of another day, another hour with his family in his arms.

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@guyfieriii @zwiiicnziiix @writeforfandoms

#John price x reader #captain john price #captain john price x reader #price x reader #x reader #reader insert #female reader #oneshots #call of duty #call of duty mwii #cod mw2 #modern warfare 2 #mw2

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