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underthetree845 · 5 months

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Alrighty April, can you write a yandere! Chuuya x reader fanfic (hcs or oneshots whatevers easier) where reader is single (More of a hopeless romantic type thing) and she's talking and laughing with Dazai? Maybe Dazai will hold your hand or something and he snaps. Maybe he could like kidnap you, or kill dazai, or something? Idk, I'm just trying to give you ideas, do whatever you want with this request :)

Hey! I know this took me awhile to answer, I just had some other things I needed to push out of my drafts first, so I do apologize :') I'm going to tag you just to make sure you see this: @a-random-weeb And please let me know what you think!

(As previously stated) I have never written yandere content before, and I don't feel comfortable writing anything too dark, so I did my best with this. It might come off as a little more jealous/possessive, but I stuck to the prompt.

Dogs Are Better

Chuuya/Reader (oneshot request)

Cws: gn! reader, jealousy, yandere if you squint, reader is a dog person (it makes sense later I promise), dazai getting beat up (by chuuya), possessive! chuuya, unhealthy possessiveness, chuuya does genuinely care, implications of stalking, alcohol, drinking, slightly tipsy reader, reader gets a hangover, overly trusting reader, kind of kidnapping?

About 2.7k words

Summary: Chuuya is already overly protective of you, how would he react if someone threatened to take you away?

A/n: Please note, I did my best to altar their roles and limitations to fit the prompt, but this is not necessarily how I ultimately view Dazai and Chuuya as characters! Also- in case it's unclear- Dolcetto is a type of red wine.

Chuuya’s gloved hand grips his drink tighter. The bartender has been growing worried that it will just shatter under the pressure.

It’s been over an hour and you haven’t stopped encouraging Dazai with that stupid grin on your face. It’s nothing like the one you give him, the one he lives to protect.

You’ve got a heart that longs to be loved, one Chuuya wants to nurture. How can he make you understand that you don’t need to jump around from person to person to receive compliments and feel validated? Why can’t you see that he’d be more than enough?

With a slam of glass down on the polished wood, Chuuya slides off his barstool and makes his way around to where you and Dazai are seated.

It was a stormy day, but nonetheless, Chuuya decided to make a run to the little shop one block from his place. He was set on picking up some appetizers that would go well with the red Dolcetto sitting in his kitchen cabinet.

Leather shoes splashed in the puddles along the sidewalk, rain pittered against the black of his coat and umbrella. He held the plastic bag of gouda and roasted turkey slices with one hand, doubling up on the knot in hopes of preventing any water from leaking in. The shade of his hair was the only reason he didn’t blend into the bleary background. The city was a monotone watercolor painting; dozens of droplets falling from the sky, lights flickering on as afternoon turned into evening, the usual rush hour bustle muffled by the cold rain of the murky clouds above.

Anyone would’ve paused for a moment if they found a soaking figure crouched down on the sidewalk. Anyone would’ve tapped them with their foot to see if they needed help. Anyone’s heart would’ve melted a little when they laid eyes on the shivering puppy the person had been shielding from the rain. Anyone’s heart would’ve thumped a little harder making eye contact with you for the first time. Not just anyone deserved to.

When you refused to take the umbrella and leave Chuuya without one, a compromise was made that he would walk you home; somehow, that resulted with him sitting on your bathroom floor, caring for a wet puppy, and trying to ignore the way his heart skipped a beat with every laugh that spilled from your lips.

What kind of person halts everything, soaks themself to the bone for some random dog, and lets the first stranger to offer them an umbrella into their apartment? He began to question whether it was the puppy or you who needed more protection.

The redhead found himself wandering into your city block more often. He noticed your favorite coffee shop, and decided that it had to be added to his routine. Lovely little coincidences slowly allowed him to engrain himself into your everyday life. It was all for your own good, after all.

Someone getting a little too friendly on the metro? That same man’s body was found beaten half to death in an alleyway the next morning. No evidence, no fingerprints; the perpetrator used gloves.

Crying because of the things your friends say behind your back? Chuuya isn’t hesitating to accidentally stumble upon your hiding spot and offer his shoulder to lean on.

On a particularly windy day, his hat blew off, and you just happened to be nearby to catch it.

It had to be some form of fate. He was meant to find you and you were meant to be with him.

Such a precious creature you turned out to be; he found it sad that no one had ever bothered to get to know you properly. To understand you. Not like he had.

You were a drug to his mind every waking second and every night as he laid awake staring at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head.

Everything slid into place so naturally. He messaged you good morning and you followed through with a goodnight. On the best days, he walked back through his front door unable to wipe the lovesick grin from his face.

His presence gave you something solid to fall back on, it was nice.

He should’ve known it could only last for so long.

Some people are like parasites. They squirm around their miserable existence until they can find something lively to latch onto. They use it to fill their own void, draining the other being of its life and leaving it behind once they’ve had their fill.

“Oh, Chibi! Didn’t expect to see you here,~” the brunette chimes. Liar.

You spin around on your barstool and a smile lights your eyes up when your gaze lands on the redhead.

“Y/n-san and I were just sharing a drink. Do you two know each other?” Bastard.

“Chuu, it’s good to see you,” your voice melts in his ears. “Do you want to join us?”

“I don’t know why you didn’t introduce me sooner,” a grin spreads across Dazai’s face, “They’re an absolute treat.” He swirls the sake around in his cup before raising the glass to his lips. Parasite.

“Yeah, I’ll join you,” Chuuya replies politely, taking the seat to your right while Dazai is on your left.

“So how do you and Dazai know each other?” you question innocently. The two men make eye contact for a brief, unnoticeable moment.

“Work,” they both reply in unison. “We dealt a lot with trades between organizations,” Chuuya explains.

“Many jobs here and there,” Dazai adds. You nod your head in understanding.

“But enough about us!” a fox-like grin crawls up onto Dazai’s face, “I’ve barely gotten to know you yet.”

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about,” you reply with a humble smile.

Chuuya sighs and turns to the bartender to order another drink. If only he could make you understand.

“Nonsense!” Dazai rests his chin in the palm of his hand, “Why don’t we play a little game?”

“Okay,” you nod with interest. “It’s either or,” he continues with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “First question: Tall men or short men?” Chuuya chokes on his whisky. “Hmm,” you tap your chin in thought, “I don’t think height matters much to me.”

“Interesting,” Dazai folds his arms in front of his chest. Chuuya glares. You’re treading on thin ice, Mackerel.

“Next question: Do you think dark eyes or light eyes are prettier?” Dazai tilts his head, you stay silent. “Sorry, but I don’t think I want to be asked these types of questions,” you state politely, Chuuya has to hold back his smirk. “Ah, I see, I do apologize,” Dazai leans back, “I’ll change the topic. Cats or dogs?” He’s not worth starting a bar fight over, Chuuya internally screams, he's not worth it, he's not worth it, he’s not worth it.

“Well, that’s a tough one,” you hum, tracing your finger over the rim of your glass, “but I’d have to say dogs.” Chuuya’s ears perk up. “They’re so protective and loyal, and I’ve never met one that wanted to sink its teeth into me just because it can.” “I see,” Dazai smiles slyly, narrowing his eyes.

Chuuya sighs. You shouldn’t be wasting your breath on such a snake. Can’t you tell he’s done this a million times? The way his lips move, when his finger slips under his glass to set it down softly, how his eyes trace over your form like a wolf studying its prey.

“What about you, Chuu?” your voice breaks him out of his trance. He blinks at you a few times before raising his eyebrow, your giggle practically squeezes at his heart.

“Do you want to take some tequila shots with us?” you tilt your head. Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “Tequila? You don’t drink very often though,” he furrows his eyebrows in concern, “Tequila is pretty strong, you’ll end up with a shitty hangover.”

“Dazai says he can have a few shots without getting too tipsy though,” you reply. Dazai sits with a conceited smile.

Of course he can, that man’s alcohol tolerance is concerningly high.

“Fine, but just one,” Chuuya’s tone is stern, “two at most. You’ve already had three drinks.”

“I’m not even tipsy though,” you pout softly. Dazai chuckles as he raises his hand to call the bartender over.

It was clear from the start that you had no intention of heeding Chuuya’s advice. After two shots, you were giggling all over yourself and Chuuya had to keep a hand on your back to prevent you from falling off your barstool. “No, Y/n, give that back, hey! Dammit!” Chuuya attempts to swipe the glass away, but you’re just fast enough to steal his shot and throw another mouthful of tequila down the back of your throat.

“Mm!” you beam with satisfaction, “I told you Chuu, I’m fine.” The warm-toned lights of the bar seem to complement the hazy flush of your cheeks that bleeds into your smile. He adores the way you lean into him so trustingly. He’d probably have a smile similar to your own creeping up into his cheeks if it weren’t for the dark-eyed lynx sitting just to your left.

“They told you ‘Chuu,’ they’re fine,” Dazai’s lips form a smirk, one Chuuya wants so badly to smack off his face. He glares for a moment, but reminds himself of who his top priority is. He leads you to your feet by your forearms and catches you when you fail to hold yourself up. “Y/n, I’m going to take you home now, okay?” Chuuya’s voice is gentle, he slings your arm around his shoulder and turns to walk out the door. You look over at Chuuya and suddenly gasp, “We’re going somewhere? Where?”

“I’m taking you home, Y/n.” “Come on Chuuya, you’re really not willing to share?” Dazai calls loudly.

Chuuya pushes down the feeling boiling under his skin for your sake. You’re trusting him to get you home safely- admittedly your judgment may be a bit skewed at the moment- but still.

“What’s so special about them, huh?” Dazai prods and Chuuya’s grip on you tightens. You’ll never get to know. You don’t deserve to. That’s my right, this is my person. Who the hell do you think you are?

“I may just have to steal them away and find out for myself,~” Dazai smirks and Chuuya freezes. It’s only for a brief moment. He continues walking, but a dark cloud settles around his chest and in his mind.

“I’ll be right back,” Chuuya reassures you as he buckles you into the passenger seat of his car, “It’ll take two minutes, I promise.” “Where’re you going?” you look at him with a half-lidded stare, fingers still gripping the edge of his sleeve. “The bar has a bug problem,” he smiles deeply, “I’m going to go help them sort some things out.”

Dazai hadn't turned his head back after Chuuya’s fist came into contact with his cheek, the beginning of a bruise certainly beginning to form where he was hit. “Ouch,” Dazai keeps his voice steady, and his eyebrows lowered. He rests his hands in his pockets, ignoring the stinging pain in his back from being slammed against the wall in the alleyway out back of the bar. “I said, do you understand me, Dazai?” Chuuya grits his teeth, clenching his fist as he uses every drop of his remaining willpower to not crack Dazai’s head open like an egg. He takes one step closer.

“You really feel that threatened?” Dazai laughs lightly, “Aren’t I allowed to take an interest? They really are a very intriguing pers-!” Dazai grunts and his chest concaves as he feels the wind being knocked from his lungs. He looks up, back flat against the ground, Chuuya’s heel digging into his chest. “Something isn’t clicking in that brain of yours, so let me spell it out,” the mafioso glares, his frame silhouetted by the moon. “Y/n doesn’t need people like you in their life. The world doesn’t deserve them, I have to protect them from it. There’s no one else who can, don’t stick your nose where you don’t belong.” Chuuya takes a step back, allowing Dazai to sit up before turning on his heel to return to where you wait. Dazai’s scoff makes him freeze. “Shouldn’t that be something Y/n decides for themself?” Dazai’s voice echos, Chuuya doesn’t even need to turn around to see the haughty smirk on Dazai’s face.

In a split second, Chuuya’s heel comes into contact with Dazai’s other cheek, knocking the man roughly to the ground for a second time. “Tch, I don’t know why I even bother with you,” Chuuya snarls. Dazai stays low until his ex-partner walks around the corner and out of sight.

Dazai sits up and the corners of his mouth curl into a grin. He wipes blood from his bottom lip and chuckles deeply. “Damn, Chibi.”

Your mind keeps slipping you in and out of consciousness. One moment, you’re riding next to Chuuya in his car. He’s gripping the steering wheel tightly. The next, you’re in his arms, and he’s carrying you into a strange house. You accept whatever he puts in your mouth, swallowing it with the water he holds up to your lips.

You awake with a jolt, immediately laying back down when a sharp pain shoots through your head. You groan slightly, rubbing your eyes and trying to adjust to the morning sunlight. The first thing you notice is that you are still wearing your clothes from last night. The second thing you notice is that your shoes and jacket have been removed and placed on a chair next to the bed, and there’s a bottle of hangover medicine sitting on the nightstand to your left. The third thing you notice is that wherever you appear to have spent the night is definitely not your house. Ignoring the ache in your head, you throw the covers off and stand up cautiously. There’s something indistinctly familiar about the room’s scent, but you shake it off.

Creaking the door open, you observe the wood furnishings and step hesitantly into the hallway. Something in the next room smells heavenly- like a hearty broth. You can hear someone shuffling around. You tiptoe forward, but any apprehension churning in your stomach dissipates as soon as you lay eyes on the familiar head of red hair standing in the kitchen.

“Chuu?” you crinkle your expression in confusion. He smiles slightly and places a wooden spoon over the pot on the stove before looking up at you. “Y/n,” he turns down the heat and walks over to you, “How are you? Do you have much of a headache? I hope the medication helped.”

“Yeah, it’s not that bad…” you reply, scanning your eyes around the room, “is this your house?” “Mhm,” he replies, brushing his thumb over your cheek, “Well, our house now. You take a half step back. “What do you mean?” you question, “You know where I live, I have my own home.” Chuuya just shakes his head. “That isn’t going to work anymore,” he sighs, “I did a lot of thinking last night. Trust me, this is what’s best for you.” A shiver runs up your spine. The look in his eyes is so… impassive, nothing like the man you know. “What are you saying?” you shake your head slightly, “What, are you going to just keep me here against my will?” Chuuya steps forward again, his eyes boring into your own. “You won’t mind after a while,” he replies, taking one of your hands in his and brushing his thumb over your knuckles, “I’ll give you a good life, I promise.” You try to pull your hand away but Chuuya grips it tighter. You’re both silent for a moment, the air in the room seems to still. “Chuuya, you’re scaring me,” your voice wavers slightly.

An invisible force pulls you closer to the man, you stumble into his chest and he catches you by the waist, using his other hand to cup your cheek. A cold, thick sense of dread is present in the back of your mind, but you’re having trouble focusing on anything except his gaze. For a moment, his eyes soften. He looks at you tenderly, like the Chuuya you thought you knew. “Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you,” he speaks closely. You find yourself unable to move as he presses lips against your own, holding you close as if you could break at any moment.

A/n: I realized while writing this that this is actually the first time I've put a kiss into my writing! I am also open to feedback since I don't try to write this type of character/relationship very often. Thank you for reading!

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freetobeeyouandme · 6 months

Text

Like My Mirror Years Ago

Tags: Rated M, No Archive Warnings Apply, Bylerween 2023, Will Byers/Mike Wheeler, Supernatural Creatures, CW Blood, Vampire!Mike, Aged-Up Character(s)

Words: 5.2k

Summary:

It’s the man’s colors, that haunt him. The pale skin, so white it’s almost translucent, combined with the soft darkness of his hair, falling long past his face in such an antiquated manner. The delicate nose, the cheekbones…Will is an artist, he should know beauty, has set it down in charcoals, watercolors and oils over and over for the history of the future to admire, and yet he has never come across a face so delicate, so attractive. He could paint it a hundred times and never tire of it. He could only paint this man for the rest of eternity and his soul would know no greater joy. Even he, never skilled with the hammer and the chisel, wants to carve marble replica after marble replica, wants to be the Pgymalion to this Galatea. He is Helen and Will is all the suitors, already at war with himself at just the slightest glance. - Or, Bylerween Day 6: Supernatural Creatures

read on Ao3 or below; see whole collection

A/N:

Happy Halloween and to celebrate this most holy day, here's probably actually my favorite fic I've written for Bylerween 2023. Vampires are my favorite type of creature and so this was insanely fun. It was also cool to try out a more flowery writing style as I tried to channel gay irish fin de siècle writer with this. And accordingly it ended up being as horny as I dared to go considering the event limitations. Also a big shout out to this amazing art by @ekza-art, which basically inspired this entire thing. CW: Blood

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Will thinks, before he even enters the dining room, that this has been a mistake. He could have hired someone to bring the picture across town or insisted that Mr. Wheeler send someone to fetch it for him since it was so valuable to him. It meant nothing to Will. He hadn’t even meant to sell it, but then the man had insisted, and well, Will could use the money. He needs paints that haven’t already dried on a canvas decades before he was even born, and if Murray was still here he would have surely done the same thing. He is sure of it.

But here he is, having caught a handsome to personally deliver the painting to the nice townhouse on the other side of London, obligated, now, to have supper with this man he barely knows because he seems to cave like a house of cards whenever the man insists on anything.

He is Helen and Will is all the suitors, already at war with himself at just the slightest glance.

The face waits for him at the head of the table, a glass of red wine before it and nothing else. Mr. Wheeler smiles, brilliant white teeth flashing sharply at Will as he stretches out a hand to gesture to the chair at his right. “Mr. Byers. Please, sit. James will be out with your supper in but a minute.” Will inclines his head and takes the seat offered to him. He’s noticed this particularity of the man before. Your supper, your peers, you English, as if he is exempt from it all. A foreigner in looks and manners, except one would never know from his speech, his English, although at times old-fashioned, is free from even a hint of an accent. And his name, too, hints more that his family has been in this country for centuries, and if the house and his clothes are any indication has even done rather well for itself.

True to his words, the butler is out with Will’s supper just a minute after he has taken his seat. It’s just a simple plate of soup with a side of still warm bread, but Will hadn’t realized how famished he is until the smell of the onion and carrot hits his nose. He takes up his cutlery, then looks to his host, lost because James had only brought out one set of plates and Mr. Wheeler seems not in a hurry to correct his servants mistake.

“Will you not be eating?” Will dares to ask.

Mr. Wheeler smiles, long white fingers playing with the stem of his glass. “My apologies for this rather bare display of hospitality. I am not a man of…much appetite. I never sup, but I felt it would be prudent not to offer such comforts as I could to my guest, so please do start before your soup cools and do not worry yourself about me.”

Will nods and, feeling a little awkward at it anyway, starts to eat, glad at it after the first bite warms his stomach and gives him something to do while he figures out a polite way to start a conversation.

Luckily his host has a greater appetite for talking than he has for food, and so before Will can make a fool of himself, he says: “I don’t believe I ever properly extended my condolences to you for the passing of your mentor. My father only briefly met the man and I never, but one hears things and I have seen some of Mr. Bauman’s work. It is a shame he has gone from us already.”

“Thank you,” Will says warmly. “It truly is a tragedy that his heart gave out so relatively early in life, and this after he had just begun settling down a little. I am very grateful for all that he has done for me, from apprenticing me to now, even in death, looking out for me by making me his sole heir.”

“He had no family then?”

Will gives a quiet laugh at the idea of Murray with a wife and children, as if anyone could have dragged him from his studio or the gentleman’s club he frequented – or from the bottle he so admired. “No, nor do I think Mr. Bauman ever planned on marrying. He had a rather...strong character, and being an artists wife is no easy feat on top of that.”

Mr. Wheeler nods as if he can imagine that, then turns his wineglass as he ponders something. Eventually he says: “You speak from experience then? Has Ophelia complained?”

Will pauses with his spoon to his mouth, taken aback by the question and the implication, needing to take a moment to even figure out what outlandish conclusion Mr. Wheeler had come to. “No,” he says quietly. “Oh, no, not at all. I thought you would have recognized her, but perhaps Mr. Sinclair had no time to introduce you to her, after all Miss Mayfield has been rather preoccupied since the beginning of her mother’s illness. But, no, Ophelia is but a dear friend of mine, and will soon be Mrs. Lucas Sinclair.”

“So there is no family for you, either?” Mr. Wheeler shifts in his seat, leaning forward just a little, as if Will’s answer is important somehow even though Will cannot fathom why. He hopes it is not because he has heard some lady or other make a comment which he is eager to share with Will or because Mr. Wheeler has some lady friend he would like to introduce to Will at his convenience.

“My mother and brother live in London, not so far away from me, but I have no family of my own, no,” Will says, preparing to fend any advances off with his usual arguments about the plight of poor artists and the unwillingness to subject any wife to his ungrateful life.

But Mr. Wheeler says nothing. He blinks a few times and then averts his eyes from Will to stare at his glass with the same intense furrow between his eyes with which he had regarded Will.

When Mr. Wheeler says nothing else, clearly not just contemplating something but having finished with the subject, Will clears his throat and broaches the only polite topic he can think of: “The portrait of your great grandfather’s must have meant a great deal to you, to go to such lengths to acquire it.”

Mr. Wheeler smiles, shaken from his reverie. “He was a man that did a lot of traveling, but he left a lot of things in a lot of places, none of which were wise and none of which benefit his family, now.”

Will nods. “So the painting is to fill up an ancestral family gallery that he desperately tried to avoid in life.”

Mr. Wheeler chuckles. “Ancestral is perhaps too grand a word. But yes, it is meant to come with me to Silverlake Manor, which has been in the family’s possession since my great grandfather’s time and where it will likely find a place in the gallery.”

“And you’ll be returning there shortly?”

Mr. Wheeler blinks. “Have signs of my packing already made it into the parlor?”

Will ducks his head sheepishly as he places the cutlery back next to his now empty plate. “No, not in the slightest. My apologies, I did not mean to insinuate such unprofessional conduct of your staff. No, I simply inferred it by the fact that most people rarely come to London in the summer and you probably only planned to stay as long as it took you to conclude your business. After all, what use is a country house if one does not spend their time there in the summer, when there is lots of fresh air to be had, and sunshine.”

Mr. Wheeler laughs, loud and sudden, as if he had not meant to make a noise at all but could not contain himself. It’s a musical sound, altogether pleasant to the ear, and it seems precious, to Will, so that having evoked it sends his heart fluttering.

When he has composed himself again, his host says: “My apologies. It just reminded me of something a dear friend of mine once said to me.”

“No apologies necessary,” Will assures him. He moves his chair back to indicate that he is done and takes a long look at the darkness visible outside of the window just behind Mr. Wheeler.

His host is quick on the uptake. “I hope supper was to your liking. Should I ring for James to fetch you some more?”

“It was, thank you very much. But no, I think I have had enough. And I believe I should be off soon, too.”

Something flickers in Mr. Wheeler’s eyes, and his jaw clenches, barely perceptible. Before Will has time to wonder how he managed to offend the man, it is gone, replaced, again, by that unnerving smile. “Of course. You probably have a lot of appointments to take care of tomorrow? I heard all of London is abuzz about the prodigal apprentice of the late Mr. Bauman.”

“Thank you, but no, not that I know of, no. It’s possible that I will arrive to a number of calling cards having been left with my housekeeper and there will probably be inquiries enough tomorrow morning. But at the moment I have no clients and my only work is finishing my Ophelias.”

Mr Wheeler is quiet longer than Will would assume it would take to form a response to that statement, but considering how intently Mr. Wheeler stares at his glass of wine Will also feels apprehensive of simply continuing talking. When he finally speaks, the amused aloofness seems to have fled the man completely: “Please do not take my saying so the wrong way, but I believe that should be considered a blessing. Talent like yours should not be squandered on portraits and miniatures.”

Will laughs, surprised: “That is kind of you to say. The Ophelias have let me transition from my old workshop to Murray’s without hurry and with relative ease, but ever artist must earn his keep, I am afraid.”

“What would you draw if you did not have to?”

The question takes Will aback. He bites his tongue to keep that first, instinctual reply inside of his mouth: You. But Mr. Wheeler does not need to know of the pages of Will’s sketchbook that his countenance already fills, and he must even less know of the way Will will render this evening in sharp contrasts until his fingers are stained as black as the bags under his eyes from drawing all night.

He pretends to consider his glass of wine, then answers slowly: “I would perhaps compliment the Ophelia series. There are a...few scenes from Hamlet that I would still like to render, set her warmth apart from the prince with cold tones and deep contrasts. I might also- I think I would render more tragic ladies. If I am to find myself a Clytemnestra, a Desdemona , an Antigone one day. But I have no plans.”

“Mr. Sinclair as Hamlet, perhaps?”

Will laughs. “I have sketched him as Othello, once, but perhaps a Hamlet, sure. Although I think a paler model would work better with the cold tones I envision. But I have no time as it stands, so I do not think this is a serious consideration.”

Again Mr. Wheeler is quiet for a long moment, again Will stills, unwilling to interrupt him. It gives him time to study him, to commit to memory the features he is sure he will not see again for a long time. Perhaps he will need no model for Hamlet. Perhaps, also, he will keep Hamlet to himself, to worship in private.

When Mr. Wheeler speaks next, Will is ill prepared for his suggestion. Leaning forward, his host begins: “William – may I call you that? May we be William and Michael to one another?” He smiles, a small, much more delicate thing than the ones before, when Will nods his agreement. “William,” he says, seeming to find joy in the name. “What would you say about accompanying me to Silverlake Manor? You’d have plenty of time to draw then, and the quiet to do excellent work – I promise, I myself will not be taking up your time and neither will there be many visitors aside from Miss Hopper, who I can also vouch for will not bother you too much, although she might ask you to teach her a thing or two. She renders an excellent still life, but her people are still rather abstract creatures.”

Will swallows, again, and averts his eyes, playing with his glass of wine. The idea is spontaneous but not unwelcome: At Silverlake he would be free to do as he pleases without having many expenses, living at the cost of Mr. Wheeler’s hospitality. He sure that whatever companionship he would have to offer in return for such would not detract too greatly from his time, at the very least less so than commissions for portraits would. And perhaps he might convince Mr. Wheeler to play his Hamlet, at least for one work, even if it will never leave Silverlake – the sudden need to paint him like this, to put to canvas the vision his earlier question had inspired, has his fingertips itching. He already knows which blues he wants to use, what scene he wants to paint.

He’ll need to finish one of his Ophelias, leave it for Dustin to sell, and take the others with him to make sure there will be enough income to keep the atelier and the apartment above it. But he should be able to make this work.

And he wants to make it work. It’s a dangerous desire but he wants more chances to study this face, wants to get to know this strange man better, thinks that with time perhaps they could become friends, and while Will’s heart warns him of becoming friends with such a man, lest his infatuations turn to worse and he leaves Silverlake with shattered hopes and worse prospects than he had arrived, he cannot help but want.

“That would-” he starts, then clears his throat to buy himself a moment to find more appropriate phrasing. “I would be honored to be your guest and meet Miss Hopper – and to teach her, if she so desires. I believe if she is anything like you, her friend, she would make wonderful company and Silverlake should make for an excellent environment to work in.”

Mr. Wheeler – Michael – rises with a small, happy smile, but pauses with his hand already on the bell on the table behind him, some thought, some reservation, perhaps, making him delay with a frown. “You never commented on it. You have a keen eye, and people with less talent or tact certainly have noticed, and they will not shut up about what a gift inheriting my great-grandfather’s features must be for me.”

“I did not see the need to repeat merely what everyone else has already said. The resemblance is close and it certainly must be a gift, but I did not get the impression you required such shallow flattery.”

Michael laughs again, happily, and Will’s heart issues another warning at the way he feels his cheeks heat at the joy of having given the right answer, at being the cause for such happiness: Already he teeters on the edge of infatuation and something else, a boundary he should not cross. But Michael rings the bell, summoning his servant, and Will forgets caution as a summer in the country beckons.

“James, Mr. Byers has just agreed to accompany me to Silverlake. He’ll be leaving with me in the morning, ask his housekeeper to pack for him and then make sure you have his paints and paintings sent after us. We don’t want to separate the artist from his tools, after all.” Will freezes at the quickness of these plans and the predatory precision with which Michael steps away from the bell, back towards the table, back to where Will is sitting, without even so much as glancing at him. “Also send word to Jane that we will have company. And prepare a bed for Mr. Byers, upstairs, please. I have decided to take a little supper after all.”

James’s mouth twitches darkly, but he bows and takes his leave to do as he is bidden.

Will swallows hard as Michael reaches him, and extending his long white fingers, traces the line from his temple down across his cheek and to the point of his chin. Up until then the two of them had never touched beyond shaking hands, and Will feels a shiver run down his spine, settling coldly at the base of it, at the cool touch. His heart screams out a loud warning, but his body, treacherous and needy, is torn on whether to obey.

“Your heartbeat is racing,” Michael observes, tone matter of fact.

Will tries to wet his tongue to answer, finding his mouth dry out as his heart jumps up to start beating in his throat, and wonders how loud it must be that the man standing next to him can hear it.

Michael smiles apologetically. “If I have overwhelmed you, I apologize. I know this is…quite spontaneous, but I am afraid I cannot delay my return much longer and there is a certain…procedure for things.”

Will opens his mouth to start formulating the objection: He could have simply followed behind a day or two, gotten his affairs in order on his own and not interfere with whatever particularities Michael is so intent on. But then Michael’s hand finds his shoulder, settling on it heavy and as if they have done this a million times before, and all Will can do is keep breathing.

“Are you scared?” Michael asks, letting go of him only to pull his chair around the table to take a seat right next to Will and then encircling his wrist with icy fingers. With his other hand he begins rolling up Will’s sleeve.

For a moment Will can’t move, neither to nod or shake his head, too preoccupied with the way his stomach tenses at Michael’s advances and his body decides to smother his heart’s final warnings: He had not been aware that this would be part of the deal, that the invitation to join him at Silverlake must have been as much Michael reflecting Will’s own infatuation and desire as it had been his idealism about Will’s art, and suddenly the situation is much more delicate. He can say no, of course, but if he nods now, says that he is scared, even if it would be the truth, the retreat will be final and complete; There will be no Silverlake for Will, nor will he see Michael again.

So, he shakes his head.

When Michael smiles it’s an open mouthed, wide thing, showing off his teeth – baring his teeth, especially the set of long and sharp canines that Will swears had not been there before. Michael pulls Will’s empty plate in front of him and then holds Will’s bared arm above it.

The last objection Will might have had, that James is sure to return with Micheal’s supper any second and they should perhaps take care not to let his servant see, dies in his throat as he realizes what Michael had meant with supper.

“You’re lying,” Michael says and then presses his cold lips to the inside of Will’s arm. His teeth graze the skin that feels suddenly delicate and precious, only more so when his hand finds Will’s and folds it into a fist.

He pulls back a little, eyes meeting Will’s intensely, wordlessly conveying all that will happen unless Will objects now, his last chance to retreat. But Will doesn’t want to object, cannot object, can do nothing but watch, breathless, his stomach tight with apprehension, wondering stupidly how much of a boundary he’d cross if he reached out and petted Michael’s hair as he leans down to press a delicate kiss to Will’s wrist.

And then Michael bites him.

Will understands, then, why it had mattered that he had said nothing about the painting. He understands, too, why his master’s master had been so enamored with it, why it had been displayed so lovingly in his studio without offering it up to the public. Understands the burden of the secret he is swearing, with his blood, to keep: It had never been Michael’s great-grandfather, for such a man had been dead for centuries, if not millennia. No, the portrait had been his own, a picture of a man from that dark species whose existence Will had only believed in as part of that same superstitious belief that people who believed in fortune telling and telepathy peddled; and now here he sat, his arm offered up, voluntarily and reverentially, to a vampire.

Will gasps when Michael bites him, and it’s only on the second deep breath he takes around the pain in his arm that he realizes it’s not all pain. It’s a sweet sensation, relief of the tightness in his stomach, relief of the tension between the two of them. There’s pleasure in the bite, the likes of which Will only knows from a few glasses of wine too many or the cheap whiskey Lucas is fond of bringing with him when he comes to visit. He’s spellbound by the way Michael’s jaw moves as he sucks on Will’s arm, lips ruby with the blood he’s taking, that gift Will is offering up and so he can only think of running his hands through Michael’s hair, encouraging him as he feeds.

He thinks, too, of those poor souls in the East End, caught in fever dreams inside of their opium dens, slaves to an addiction most of them had not started willingly, the rest of their lives given over to the drug, burning out at a rapid pace as their souls are consumed by want, want, want.

And he knows that this is his own personal Whitechapel.

Michael’s teeth settle against Will’s tender skin as he continues to drink from the small wounds they have made. It’s a strange sensation to feel his blood pumping through his veins, to feel every heavy heartbeat as his body tries to account for the life leaving him, tries to balance out the bleeding even as it can’t stop it because Michael keeps drawing it out. Will thinks he likes it.

It’s over too soon, Michael pulling away with a desperate gasp before licking the wound and his arm clean. Blood wells up in the wake of his tongue anyway, circling Will’s wrist like a glittering armband and dripping onto the table, only reluctantly closing up until Michael draws blood from his own thumb with his teeth and paints it over the bite mark. Will’s skin goes cold and numb for a moment, then sensation returns with a sharp heat as the vampire’s superior healing powers mingle for a few seconds with his blood and the puncture wounds close up. Michael uses Will’s napkin to clean his arm, until no trace of the last few minutes remains at all.

Will wants to tell him to stop.

If he had a voice, still, he might have. He’d tell him he wants the marks, wants to have physical proof of tonight, of the bite and the heady feeling that accompanied it. Because inside of him there will be a scar, this memory forever burned into his soul, even as his skin smooths out and what used to be angry red turns pale white.

Michael looks at him from under long dark eyelashes, and Will understands now why he’s wearing red in the painting, understands the thing that had unnerved him in the beginning, the color that had been missing: it’s there in his lips, on his lips, his chin, his teeth. It reflects in the deep brown of his eyes, looking fully now, no longer half lidded, shy, but intense and predatory, no longer needing to hide his intentions.

He will later say that it was the blood loss that has made him careless and lightheaded. It might be a lie, but he knows, that Michael will never ask, that it doesn’t matter. Reaching up with his still healing arm he cups Michael’s face, swipes at the blood on his chin, and then kisses him.

Michael’s lips are no longer as cold as they had been against his wrist, warmed by Will’s blood, and he tastes of it, metallic and a little bitter. Will has tasted his own blood before, suckling on cuts on his fingers to quell the bleeding, but this is different, this is more intense and more intimate. It’s the only taste in his mouth now, no sweat, no skin, just the cold taste of wet copper on his lips, his tongue, and, when he swallows, his throat.

Michael opens his mouth, gasping into this kiss, and then Will is drowning in his own blood, in the heat of hungry lips on his. And still he cannot pull away, cannot stop himself. Michael’s hands are in his hair, tugging him closer, greedy. His canines, still long and sharp, brush against Will’s lip and he half expects him to bite down and ask for more because he’s starving just as much as Will.

Will wants him to bite down, to drink until there’s nothing left, gladly accepting death if it meant satiating a fraction of that bottomless, hungry pit in his stomach that he knows, now, exists in Michael too.

But Michael, unlike him, has been fed, and so he can drag himself away. He presses his forehead against Will’s and breathes him in with sharp, greedy breaths, then uses his grip on Will’s hair to push him down, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, when Will tries to chase after him.

“Enough, love,” he says, and with that one word he has Will in the palm of his hand, ready to do whatever he asks of him as long as he will hear it again. “I will have you bloodied, yet, but not tonight.”

It’s this promise that keeps Will where he is as Michael pulls back properly, his fingers slowly uncurling from his hair, his breathing still ragged. Dark strands of hair hang in his face and with blood smeared around his mouth, he looks like a wild thing, looks as shaken by the kiss as Will feels, and somehow that steadies him, to know this thing of the night shares his feelings.

He watches Will swallow with wide, wondrous eyes. “Will,” he says softly. “My love, Will.”

“Mike,” Will whispers, finding his voice far more gone than he anticipated but needing to stake his claim with a name as well. “Darling, Mike.”

Michael’s face lights up when Will says his name like that, as if it’s something special, as if Will’s petty human claim means anything at all to someone so ancient. His smile, sharp teethed and bloody as it is, is the warmest, most genuine one he has given Will all evening. And it feels special.

Mike uses his thumb to wipe away the blood around Will’s mouth, the soft pad of it brushing his lips, and Will can only watch him, stilled. The urge to take it into his mouth, to bite down, bite Mike back, settles unacted upon in his jaw: He will have him bloodied, yet, but not tonight.

“Are you alright?” Mike asks, his hand cupping Will’s face lightly, but the fingers pressing against his skin warn him not to turn away, not to lie.

He swallows and replies with still uneven voice: “Yes.”

His heart beats hard in his chest, but Mike doesn’t call him out on being a liar, and Will, too, doesn’t think he did lie: It doesn’t feel wrong, the blood, the man in front of him, the hunger.

He turns his face into the palm holding it and presses his lips to the fingers. Then he runs his tongue along the bloodied digits. Licks himself off them.

Mike gasps, then pulls his fingers away from Will’s hungry mouth. He brushes a shaking hand through Will’s hair, as if tying to undo the damage he had done to it during the kiss, then gives up and sits back in his chair, removing himself from Will’s reach. His eyes never leave Will’s face, though, tracking him with renewed intensity and doing nothing to calm Will’s heart racing in his chest.

Then Mike says: “You should head to bed. Make the most of the night while it still belongs to you. We keep a different schedule at Silverlake.” Will doesn’t want to rise to his feet, but there is something in Mike’s tone that has his body obeying regardless. Those that believed in the undead sometimes believed they had the power to force others to do their bidding, and Will idly wonders if that is true or if he simply rises because of Mike’s natural charms and his own exhaustion. His body knows better than his heart, which now that it had gotten a taste, wants nothing but to bleed out onto the dining room floor.

Still, even as he crosses the room, taking slow steps as the blood loss leaves him lightheaded, he can’t stop himself from looking back, Orpheus losing Eurydice over and over again except if he is Orpheus then rather than leading his muse out of the underworld Will is going to join her in the eternal dark. And with every glance he finds Eurydice looking back, beckoning him to join her.

The last time their eyes meet that evening, Mike runs his finger along the edge of the plate, where some of Will’s blood has fallen. When he sees that he is caught, Mike takes his time licking his finger clean and Will’s stomach tenses in response with only the desperate yearning of his head for a pillow keeping him standing where he is instead of running back for more.

And he’s hit with the sudden, giddy realization that there’s a chance he won’t make it out of this summer alive.

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written for @bylerween2023

#bylerween2023 #day 6 #Supernatural Creatures #byler #mike wheeler #will byers #cw Blood #Dark Byler #my fic

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untaemedqueen · 2 years

Text

The Deal

Drug Lord!Yoongi x Coffee Shop Owner!Reader

Genre: Strangers to Lovers!AU, Angst, Fluff, Smut

Chapter 21.

Series Warnings (Will Be Updated): Mentions of Drugs and Drug Deals, Blood, Smut, Emotional Damage, Love

Warnings For This Chapter: Leverage, Fluff

Silk sheets and your touch is the only way Min Yoongi can wake up in a good mood these days. He stakes his life on it.

But for once, he woke up before you. It's not a normal thing that happens but he equates it to excitement.

He is so fucking excited for today.

He's never once thought about a woman having his tiger and now that he has you -- he wants nothing more than to see it on your skin.

You wanting this tattoo, this bond, he feels like he's died and gone to heaven.

So he left the bed a little bit early to let you get your rest. Yoongi hasn't seen the sun rise for a very long time and more than that, he's never appreciated the colors that dance across the sky like a pretty watercolor painting.

He looks down at his lit cigarette, watching the way the cherry shines brighter with each passing of wind that flows through the forest.

He can remember how much you hated the smell when he first met you. That feeling probably hasn't gone away but you just care for him too much to say anything now.

Dropping the cigarette from between his fingers, he stomps it out. And with one incredibly smooth motion, he tosses the rest of his cigarette pack into the garbage beside the gazebo.

You'll get everything you want, whether you ask for it or not.

He continues his stroll through the lush backyard, minding some piles of dog shit that haven't been cleaned up yet.

It's calm back here, transcendent almost.

He can make out the other's houses in the distance and there's movement that catches his eye immediately.

His hand reaches for his gun and he narrows his eyes at the view before him. It's distant but so clear before his eyes that he presses his lips into a thin line. He continues to get closer as the seconds tick on.

Jeongguk and Hanna slowly sneak out of Jimin's house and Yoongi watches on with rapt fascination.

"You little shit bag," he quips, walking closer.

The drug lord watches them kiss. It's slow and then so blindingly passionate that he averts his eyes out of courtesy.

Jeongguk doesn't want Hanna to leave that much is clear, they way he's trying to pull her clothes off in the morning sunlight.

Your boyfriend raises his eyebrows when the small woman beats her fists to his chest out of embarrassment.

"I'm gonna miss you, baby," Jeongguk murmurs, biting his bottom lip.

"Not as much as I'll miss you." she quips, giving him one final kiss.

Yoongi smirks.

This is such pure, untouched gold... that he'll be able to hold over your brother forever.

When Hanna finally gets into her car and drives away, Yoongi whistles loudly.

The noise makes Guk jump and the second he sees his boss he becomes like a scared child.

"Oh God!" he gasps, gripping onto Jimin's front railing.

"So you're with Hanna," Yoongi muses, resting his head against the tree beside him.

"Hyung, please, please, please don't tell my sister! Please!" Jeongguk begs, descending the stairs quickly.

Yoongi looks down at his shoes, raising an eyebrow at the tone of your younger brother's voice.

"That's gonna cost you, Gukkie." Yoongi sings, crossing his arms.

Your brother falls to his knees, grabbing at the scarred man's shirt. With a grimace, your boyfriend pushes his hands away.

"Anything! I'll do anything! My sister can't know about it! She'll kill me! Hanna works for her, she'll murder me!" Guk cries out, letting his head loll back.

"Well you should have thought about it before you canoodled with the barista," Yoongi quips, carding his fingers through his hair.

"I'll do anything!" Jeongguk pleads, making a prayer-like symbol with his hands and rubbing them together.

"Anything?" Yoongi inquires.

Oh, yes. This is just perfect.

"Yoongi?!" you call out from the back of the kitchen.

Even better.

Your boyfriend smiles widely down at the younger man. "Yeah, baby! Over here!"

"Hyung!" Jeongguk croaks, standing back up.

They both watch as you start your walk over and Jeongguk whines nervously.

"Anything! I promise! I swear on the tiger!" Jeongguk begs, pulling at Yoongi's sleeve like a kid.

"Get… off! Jesus! Fine. I'll take your pleading as a sign that you really want to keep this a secret. So let me make this perfectly clear to you, today your sister is getting my tiger on her chest and I don't want to hear you bitching about it for a single second. You hear me, Jeon? You keep your sister and I's relationship out of your mouth or I'll tell her all about you and little Hanna hookin' it up over the espresso powder."

Guk drops his mouth in horror at the older man's statement.

"Your tiger?! Are you craz-" your brother looks over at you, how close you are to them and he has an internal struggle for a minute before he groans loudly.

"Fuck! Fine! Goddammit!" he seethes through his teeth, bunching his hands in his hair into fists.

"You promise?" Yoongi teases, looking back at you with a large smile.

"Yes! I promise!" Guk grinds out, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Good little rat," the scarred man coos.

Finally, you step beside the drug lord, smiling up at him when he wraps his arm around your waist.

"What's going on over here?" you quip, laying your head against your boyfriend's chest.

"Oh, nothing. I was just telling Guk how you're getting the tiger today and he's so excited about it. Isn't that right, Jeongguk?"

You quip an eyebrow, expecting an explosion from your brother.

The younger man stares at his boss, eyes hard and unwavering.

They continue their staring contest for ten seconds too long before your brother blinks first.

"Ye-Yes. I'm just so happy you're going to be chained to Yoongi until the day you die." your sibling says forcibly, giving you a small smile.

"Really?" you chirp, looking up at Yoongi.

He winks down at you, drifting his thumb over your cheek softly.

"Oh yes. I can't wait to see you become a real, true mob wife. I'm just so over the moon that you'll be his old lady." Guk murmurs, looking down at the grass beneath his feet.

"Wow. Good. Okay! I thought you were going to throw me in the trunk and send me off to live at a nunnery or something," you breathe happily.

"Don't tempt me," he chuckles, narrowing his eyes at your boyfriend.

"He would never dream of it, baby doll," Yoongi smiles, narrowing his eyes back.

"Oh great! Thank you Gukkie! I'm so glad you're being supportive!" you beam, jumping into his arms and hugging him.

He shakes his head, baring his teeth at his boss.

"I have your coffee ready for you," you tell your boyfriend.

His eyes widen happily at the news and he holds his hand out for yours with a wink.

You take it with a smile, lacing your fingers with his.

As you start to walk away, Yoongi trails behind only to slap your brother upside the head with a chuckle.

The slow pulsing of Yoongi's hand in yours as he clenches and unclenches his fingers makes your mind go completely blank.

Today is the equivalent to getting married in your boyfriend's world.

He said it himself.

And it might be dumb to some, it might be ridiculously naive to believe that your first boyfriend, your only boyfriend, will be the forever love of your life. But you're okay with that.

While you stroll hand in hand towards the glass mansion, you let all of your worries and qualms just float away.

You love this man.

You love this stubborn, strong, lonely man.

And you've probably loved him since the second he helped you off the floor of your coffee shop the first day you both met.

All this push and pull of emotions, the strong desire to take care of the scarred man, the need to heal him -- that's all love.

It's unyielding, it's resilient, it thrums through your veins like a goddamn drug.

And you love that you love this man.

You love that he's yours.

You love that he's not going anywhere.

But like always you'll follow Yoongi's lead.

When he's comfortable with expressing himself in such a way, you will too.

"What're you holding over my brother that you got him to behave like that?" you inquire, dragging your nails over his tan, bare arm.

Your boyfriend smiles coyly, running his tongue over his teeth knowing he's been caught. "You tell me, Sherlock."

"Well if it was about him and Hanna, he's a moron. I know they've liked each other for years now...And the storage room has cameras, I have hundreds of dollars worth of coffee beans in there that need protecting." you quip, opening up the kitchen door.

Yoongi laughs loudly.

You make his heart bleed in so many ways with so few words, it's always a joy.

Picking you up easily, he holds you until he can set you down above him on the island counter. Your legs spread to accommodate him and he pulls down the strap of your nightgown slowly.

His fingertips run over the bare ink-free skin over your chest and goosebumps coat your skin accordingly.

"Feel free to hold it over Guk for as long as you like… I like it when he leaves us alone." you murmur, closing your eyes.

"I'll take you up on that, sweetheart," the drug lord coos, drifting his lips over your shoulder.

His kisses are slow and sensual, the petals of his lips move in time with your heartbeat, coating every centimeter of your skin as his own.

His kisses cease above your heart but his lips stay glued to your skin. His eyes flutter shut and he just stays silent. He's listening to everything -- the birds singing, the wind whipping through the trees, the inhales and exhales from you.

"I'm the luckiest man in the universe." he breathes, letting his forehead replace his mouth on your chest.

Running your fingers over the dragon tattoos of his scalp, you tilt your head.

"You turned me from a monster, from a hard shelled prick, into a man of devotion, into a man with a growing heart. This is all yours, sweetheart. Everything. Anything. I want you to know that."

"I just want you," you sing, tilting his face up.

His eyes are alight with care and earnestness.

"All I need is you," you whisper, coasting your thumb over his scar.

"You got me." he breathes, wrapping his arms around you.

You're surprised to see the tattoo equipment just stacked up in the living room. You expected to be going to a dark, goth decorated tattoo parlor where the artists have so many piercings in their lips that they look like some sort of metallic man.

"This is special and private. They come to us." Yoongi announces, watching you drift your hands over the multitude of machines.

You've thought about getting tattoos several times, especially when Guk would come home every day with a new piece of ink.

Nothing has ever stood out to you though, not until now. You could never make up your mind about what you wanted on your body forever.

This new ink won't be just a regular old tattoo. This means something.

It means something so prolific and so wondrous that everything in the future might just fall short.

"Is it going to hurt?" you inquire, watching the tattoo artist enter the house without a word.

It wasn't long ago that Namjoon had taken the blindfold off this man. You know that Yoongi is private but to hide the sight of how to get to his house only makes it that much more obvious that you have so much to learn.

"It's the good kind of pain," your boyfriend promises.

His arms wrap around you as the tattoo artist begins to set up.

You watch on with rapt fascination, seeing how easy it is for the man to connect all the jumbled wires quickly with precision.

"You don't have to get this right now if you're unsure or nervous." the drug lord reminds you.

You can hear the sadness in his voice but you pick up on something else as well -- understanding.

Turning around to the man you adore, you wrap your arms around his neck.

"I want this. I want you. I've never been so sure about anything else except wanting a coffee shop." you avow.

Yoongi lets out a low whistle, pressing his forehead to yours. "You're a smooth talker. You can turn my insides to dust in a second if you keep talking like that."

Giggling, you stand on the tips of your toes.

"Boss?"

"Yeah, Ming?" Yoongi replies, hugging you tightly to him.

"The gold, please."

The drug lord hums in agreement. He pulls away to dig into his suit jacket. The bottle that he pulls out looks so incredibly expensive, it has diamonds along the entire base and smaller stones of rubies and sapphires.

He tosses the bottle with little caution and you jump nervously, widening your eyes.

Ming catches it easily, shaking the bottle with smooth motions.

"Looks expensive," you muse, turning back to Yoongi.

"It's real body safe gold. It goes for a pretty penny." he breathes, running his thumb over your cheek.

"Oh… I just assumed that the gold outline would just be a deep yellow or something."

"Not in our world." he quips, pulling away to grab a glass of liquor.

Our world.

Those two words have your stomach flipping intensely.

You're really his.

You're really doing this.

As your heart begins to feel lighter and lighter, almost to the point of you feeling like you can fly when the kitchen door bursts open.

"Yoongi," Jin hisses, dabbing the sweat on his sideburns.

Your boyfriend's head turns slowly, taking in the disheveled older man. He lets out a loud exhale, running his hands over his face as if he's becoming irritated.

"This is the most important day of my life, I told you I didn't want to be interrupted," the scarred man sighs, narrowing his eyes at Seokjin.

"Yeah… no… I know, I'm sorry but I need to talk to you," the oldest murmurs, looking over at you apologetically.

Your boyfriend shakes his head, gulping down the liquor with a quickness.

"Say what you gotta say," he urges, turning his attention to Ming who's almost done setting up. "Quickly."

Jin looks at you for a moment before humming uneasily.

"She's about to become my old lady. Anything you know, she will know. So just make this easy for me and hurry up," Yoongi breathes, pulling his gun out and putting it on the dining room table.

The drug lord sits down beside the chaise lounge and he motions for you to lay back for Ming.

You do as told, watching the oldest pick at skin around his nails nervously.

"I'm waiting," your boyfriend insists, spinning his gun on the table with his index finger.

Seokjin takes a deep breath, already cringing at the words that flow past his lips. "Someone stole half of our shipment of cocaine at the docks."

Your eyes immediately snap to Yoongi and his jaw tightens in an instant. His fingers flex and he grips the handle of his gun so tightly you're sure that he's going to crush it in his hands.

Without a word, you grab onto his hand. Your thumb strokes against his smooth skin and his eyes squeeze shut.

There's silence for a long time. Just the sounds of your boyfriend breathing heavily, the snap of latex gloves going onto hands and Jin nervously clearing his throat rings through the stagnant air.

"This is the equivalent of you spitting on my face on my wedding day. Do you realize that?" Yoongi seethes through his teeth.

"Yes, I know. But I needed to tell you. We just found out about it."

Your boyfriend gives a laugh, one devoid of any humor. "Do we know who?"

Jin looks down at his feet, dragging his hands over his sweaty face. "No… they killed all the cameras and took down all the guards."

Yoongi squeezes your hand so impossibly tight that you squeak at the sudden sharp pain.

He realizes his mistake immediately, checking on you in an instant. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm sorry," he coos, kissing you gently.

"I'm ready," Ming notifies the drug lord.

Disregarding Jin in the doorway, Yoongi looks at you. "You're sure you're ready for this?"

"Yes," you reply, squeezing his hand softly.

He smiles before turning his attention back to the oldest. "We'll deal with it later. This is more important."

Seokjin gives a strict nod, watching the tattoo artist pour out the gold ink into a small paper cup.

"Do you have a cigarette?" Jin inquires to the boss, patting down his own pockets.

Your boyfriend shakes his head, drifting his lips over the back of your hand. "Tryin' to quit."

Well that's news to you.

"A beautiful, headstrong, stubborn queen once told me she hated the smell," Yoongi quips, nodding to Ming to begin.

You find your neck and ears heating up at his words.

The thin transferable paper is pressed to your chest and when it's peeled away you exhale a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

"This means forever," your boyfriend whispers, holding up the mirror for you to see it.

Even in purple ink it's so much more beautiful than you could have imagined. It's larger than all the ones you've seen before and to your surprise you love that. It's the same exact fierce tiger that sits prettily on Yoongi's neck but the paws are more feminine and the tail is longer, ending just below your collarbone where it curls sweetly at the end.

It looks made for you.

"Forever," you promise.

The sound of the tattoo gun turning on sends shivers up your spine and you turn your head to look at your boyfriend for solace. His eyes are glassy, eyebrows knit together.

When the needle enters your skin, he lets out a shaky breath of relief.

You're so much more than perfection for him.

You're his family.

His life.

His home.

"Goddammit," he hisses, pressing his forehead to your knuckles.

When you whimper at the hot, dragging pain, he kisses over your hand to comfort you.

"My baby girl," he whispers fondly.

He's known it for a while now, even if he didn't want to admit it or rush into anything due to his prior failure at romance.

He's so in love with you that it takes up every cell in his entire body.

"My queen," he breathes, watching the tattoo come to life before his eyes.

You're such a huge part of this scarred man that there is no one else in the world that could make his heart bleed like this.

And he wouldn't change that for anything in the world.

Because this day, the day you got this new tiger tattoo, is the day your life changed forever.

This day was the day you were accepted into an empire that Yoongi had built for years.

And what comes next… Well, every queen gets a crown.

<------ Last Chapter Next Chapter ---->

The Deal taglist – @jeon-junggoop, @btsarmy9593, @slothykrueger, @jcsmae, @milesjeon11, @cloudyblisss, @borahae-reads, @secretlycrazyhummingbird, @rjsmochii, @sugas-bbygirl, @ggukkieland, @hyungieyoongi, @chxmachxps, @dvalitaes, @vintageroses10, @maerawrrr, @flowerblu00, @veronawrites, @seoqity, @wozwaid, @hisbutton-nose, @sweetempathprunetree, @jinsearthh, @codeinebelle, @serious-addiction, @bt21chim, @rosquilleta, @dunixxd, @rkchmestizangmaldita, @openup-yourmind, @shesaysweirdthings, @marslena, @deathkat657, @yoonlattesworld, @that-funny-alien-28, @clutterfied, @belladaises, @silentkei, @btsnina, @shydestinyyouth, @thefreddieman, @kkklaudiaaa17, @moonchild1

#the deal #btswritingcafe #thebtswritersclub #yoongi #min yoongi #yoongi x you #yoongi x reader #drug dealer!yoongi #drug lord!yoongi #yoongi smut #bts fic #bts fics

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asimperingswannsong · 1 year

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A Very Fluffer Fluffy Larissa Fic:

Part 2

Characters: Larissa Weems, Ceto Lawerence - Original Female Character, Background Ephemera

Summary: Ceto provides a welcome diversion for Larissa.

Author’s Note: 25 bonus points to me for following through on a follow up.

Larissa pushed her chair back slightly from her desk and stretched, rolling her shoulders back, and taking stock. Her lower back hurt, her shoulders were tight and sore, and she had developed a tension headache from staring at the screen of her laptop for too long. Her stomach growled and she realized she’d skipped breakfast and lunch. She also realized with a pang that she hadn’t checked on Ceto for a few days now and she’d hadn’t seen her on her normal lakeside stroll recently either.

She reasoned with all of the goings on lately that it was understandable she wouldn’t be able to be with Ceto as frequently as perhaps the girl had hoped. After all, that stack of bodies was becoming alarmingly large and then there was that little stunt the sheriff had to play of arresting Gomez in the most public way imaginable on her campus (not that it wasn’t satisfying watching Gomez squirm). Oh, and who can forget Wednesday following it all up with grave robbing! This family was going to be the death of her.

A sudden knock on her chamber door brought Larissa out of her spiraling thoughts. “Come in.” It was Ms. Briggs the languages teacher. “Sorry to interrupt Ms. Weems.” “Oh no, it’s no trouble Ms. Briggs. Come in. Have a seat. What’s on your mind?” “Well I was concerned about one of my students.” Oh, who?” “Ceto Lawrence.” “What’s going on with her? Is she doing okay still academically? I think we’re well on the way to getting her emancipated from her mother but I have been busier than usual lately and I haven’t been to check on her in person.” “Well I’m becoming pretty concerned. She missed the watercolors meeting of the painting club this week and she loves watercolors. Plus, we were painting the water lilies down by the lake.” “I know she loves to go for walks down there. I’ve seen her multiple times.” “Yes, it was very odd, but also today she made a B on her Spanish quiz. Ms. Lawrence’s grades have always been exceptional. It was very out of character for her.” “Well that settles it. I’ll make it a point of going to see her this evening to check on her. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

Larissa knocked gently at Ceto’s door and was greeted by a low, “Come in.” She pushed open the door to find Ceto sitting on her bed. It was obvious to Larissa immediately that she’d been crying. She’d dried her tears but the redness and the puffiness around her eyes remained. “Good evening Ceto, I just thought I’d stop by to check in on you. I know the last few days have likely been stressful.” Larissa walked over to the bed and gestured asking permission to sit with her. Ceto nodded.

Larissa sat down next to her on the bed. “I apologize for not stopping in sooner. I’ve been tied up with some unpleasantness lately. Are you alright? Is there anything you need?” “I’m fine,” she shrugged and turned her head to avoid eye contact. Larissa reached out and put an arm around her, pulling her towards her body. “Are you sure? You seem a little sad. It’s okay to feel a little overwhelmed with the changes in your relationship with your mother. Do you think you might like to speak to a counselor? I could…” “No!” Ceto surprised herself by being more forceful than she had intended.

Larissa raised her eyebrows in inquiry. “I don’t like the idea of counseling.” “Alright then. I won’t force you. I just thought it might help. Is there anything I can do for you?” “No, I’m okay really.” Larissa thought quickly of a way to side step Ceto’s attempt to close her out. “I was thinking. How do you feel about stopping by my rooms for dinner sometime?” Ceto’s turn to raise her eyebrows in inquiry. “It’d be a nice diversion for both of us I think. It would give me a reason to not stay at my desk all evening doing paperwork and an excuse to cook. I can’t remember the last time I cooked a full meal.”

“It sounds nice.” “Really?” Larissa asked with a big smile. She managed to get past that wall Ceto was trying to put up. “How about tomorrow evening? Six o’clock?” “Okay. Do you want me to help cook?” “Not this time. It’ll be my treat.” Larissa gave her a quick squeeze. Ceto liked the sound of “this time.” She hoped it meant she’d be getting to spend more time with Principal Weems. She had a warmth and affection that Ceto was craving and every time they talked she felt immediately better but Ceto was worried about seeming too clingy.

“Do you have any specific requests, diet preferences, or food allergies?” “No, I’m pretty open. Surprise me!” “Sounds fun.” Larissa reached over and placed a peck on Ceto’s head which earned her a smile that she was pleased to see. She stood and made her way over to the door. “It’s a date! See you then.” And she pulled the door to behind her, leaving Ceto to examine the feeling of butterflies in her stomach at Principal Weems’ use of the word date.

#larissa weems #principal weems #wendesday addams #fluff #my fic #original female character

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mikauzoran · 2 years

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Art Update

Hi, guys! I haven’t blogged about my art journey all month, so I wanted to give you guys an update. I feel like I’ve sort of been in a funk, but, at the same time, I’ve gotten better? Anyway. Here are some highlights from the past month. (Confession: I’m only showing you the ones I’m happy with. I’ve actually made a lot of art that was rubbish too. XD Oh well. All part of the process, right?)

Above is a watercolor landscape that I did along with an instruction video series. I’m happy with the puffy cloud in the center. I also like the colors of the grass in the foreground and the mountains in the distance. In the video, the instructor said they were supposed to be a line of trees, but mine are mountains because I said so. I think mountains look better at the end of a vast grassland.

I also started doing acrylic. I think I’m kind of getting the hang of watercolor, but acrylic makes more sense in my head with putting the darker colors down first and adding the lights and highlights on top of that, so I’m giving it a try.

I have a video series for acrylic painting too, so in one of the lectures we painted an egg in black and white. For my first acrylic painting and not knowing what the heck I was doing, I think this turned out really well. I really like the shadows.

I’ve also been doing a lot of drawing. Below are two pumpkins. They make me happy. The real ones are sitting on our dinning room table now looking all festive for the autumn season.

So, the below was actually a picture in a book I got from the library on drawing techniques. It’s three different ceramic kitchen jars and a coffee mug. It was featured in the lesson on hatching and crosshatching. I thought it looked cool, so I tried drawing it. It turned out really well! The image in the book is probably copyrighted, so I can’t show you a reference photo. You’ll just have to take my word for it that I did a good job with my reproduction.

It’s funny. It doesn’t look like I drew it. I feel like it’s too early for me to have a distinctive “style”, but when I look at the below, it’s obvious that this image didn’t come out of my head. So I must have some sort of basic, cohesive elements that characterize my work. I have no clue what those could possibly be. XD

So, I’ve heard about this thing called “gesture drawing”, but I’ve never learned how one goes about doing it. ^.^; Below is a quick “gesture drawing” I did of my daughter Eiko as she was lying out in the yard. (Yes, she does lie with her leg sticking out in back like that. She also only eats lying down. She’s a strange, beautiful creature, and I love her.)

I tried to do one of my son Noiz too, but he didn’t stay still long enough for me to complete anything. XD

Lastly, here is the final project I did for my drawing class that just wrapped up. It’s my ocarina (dark blue), a tea mug (a slightly darker shade of blue), and a blue and white porcelain bowl containing three clementines. The colors are really pretty together. It doesn’t come across in my greyscale drawing, but know that I thought about the colors when making the composition.

The drawing turned out pretty okay. It’s a lot bigger than I usually work, so the size was a challenge. Looking at it after the fact, there are a lot of little things that I would finesse some more, but I kind of just worked on it for a few hours, got tired, and said, “Good enough. I’m going to bed now”.

There are things that I’m really happy with about this too. The mouthpiece of the ocarina looks really good in person. I also like the way the top of the tea mug turned out as well as the handle. The reflection of the bowl of clementines in the mug also looks pretty good. I think the right-most clementine turned out well. I had a little trouble with shading. It’s so hard for me to shade light, but I think the right-most clementine turned out well.

At the moment, I’m actually taking a portrait painting class. XD I’m super new to acrylic AND portraits, so I’m way out of my depth, but the instructor is very nice and supportive. (She’s the same one who did my drawing class.) All of the other students are way more advanced than I am, but that’s okay. We’ve only had one class, and I’ve already learned a lot. Maybe I’ll share my portrait with you guys at the end of the class. If it’s not too embarrassing. XD

Thanks for reading! <3

#Drawing #Graphite #Watercolor #Watercolor Painting #Watercolor Art #Acrylic #Acrylic Painting #Acrylic Art #Mikau's Art #Still Life #Landscape #Gesture Drawing

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md3artjournal · 1 year

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Been trying to get back into watercolors.

Even though I don't really have watercolor paper. LOL Actually, I think I have a pad of watercolor paper, but I'm not sure where to dig around in my room for it. Or maybe it's in storage; not sure. But either way, I've always been too anxious to be anything less than stingy with art materials. It was a real problem in painting class, when everyone kept telling me that I don't mix enough of the paint colors that I need. But I just couldn't stand the idea of throwing it out at the end of class. And even though I've switched to alcohol markers, I'm still too nervous to use expensive paper like watercolor paper. When I'm too afraid to mess up with expensive supplies, I end up drawing nothing, for months and years. Though, it is strange that I have no problem using Copic markers and other artist markers, though on cheaper paper. Maybe it's because I almost always get my markers on sale at anime/comic book conventions. Never pay $8 for one Copic marker, when convention booths will usually have them for $5 each.

Been making some notes during these past few days, while experimenting with getting back into watercolor painting:

5/12/2023. Tried to make intentionally messy, to differentiate from marker coloring. I wanted this to be obviously watercolors, to make switching from my usual markers medium, worthwhile.

5/12/2023. Still practicing watercolors, so tried doing my final linework as only pencil. Sometimes I wonder if the softness of pencil fits better with watercolors. I still want to differentiate my watercolors from my marker/ink drawings. So I tried some wet-on-wet techniques and allowed a lot of messy imperfections.

5/14/2023. I know I should have stuck to my usual Copic markers, since I was short on time. But it’s been a long time since I’ve done referential drawing, and I wanted the pencil’s ability to erase mistakes. Also, I’ve recently been experimenting with trying watercolors again. Back before markers, I primarily used watercolors. (Then again, back then I also had sketchbook paper thick enough to handle watercolors, and that’s not really the case anymore.) I may be comfortable with alcohol markers and ink pens now, but I keep wondering if something good might come of me returning to watercolor painting. Maybe it would look nice to color more organically, and allow some loose messiness, the way watercolors are often afforded. Maybe that type of style could really work for me. So I’m trying watercolors again. Today reminded me how much I love drybrush, when I use brush pens—even though I haven’t gotten the hang of setting up that technique with a paintbrush yet. So I might practice more drybrush with watercolor paintbrushes.

5/18/2023. My last watercolor drawing reminded me that I could use drybrush with watercolors, to mimic the feeling of using brushpens, which I love. So I did a lot of hatchlines, like I would do with my usual pen/ink drawings. I actually wanted to do more sharp detail, but needing lighter colors for those details necessitated more water, which made the brush tip less tapered, so those smaller details I wanted, ended up broader and messier. But didn't I recently get back into watercolors, wanting to differentiate them from my pen/ink drawings? And I determined that allowing watercolors to be messy and looser (since people usually afford/expect that from watercolors) would be how I would differentiate my watercolors from my marker drawings? Then again, I had been wanting for a long time to find a way to break out of my hyperfocus on one medium at a time. If I could switch to dip pen in the middle of a watercolor painting, maybe that will bring me closer to mixing color pencils on top of marker drawings, or mixing pastels on top of marker ink, and just mixing more mediums. I want to be able to use the mediums to achieve the effects I need in each case, but I keep unconsciously locking myself in to only one medium at a time. But if dip pens make my watercolors too precise and erases that lovely, organic, messy looseness, then what's the point of me going back to watercolors from alcohol markers? Hmmm….We'll see what happens.

#watercolors #drawing practice #art mediums #processing thoughts #confused with myself #progression

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kifu · 1 year

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Heya thank you so much for the art advice earlier! I was wondering if you had any specific suggestions for programs and/or brushes (you know specifically for someone whose only fine art experience has been in pencil and charcoal 😭) .

I’m currently using iArtbook because it’s free. I know Procreate is probably the most popular program but I’m literally -$300+ in my bank account right now, so that isn’t a current option 😅.

However I do believe you can upload brushes to the iArtBook app, honestly I’m not sure, I haven’t tried but you can edit the brushes in a very similar fashion to Adobe Photoshop. So I’m assuming you can also download and upload brushes. I actually really like this program because it has a similar feel to Adobe programs and as a Photographer I’m very experienced with Adobe (I have an Adobe Cloud Account).

In all honesty I’ve never been a good illustrator (since my main focus in my fine arts education was always photography) , but I find the activity meditative and I’m ALWAYS looking to improve.

(Also I was gonna DM you but cant so sorry for the long question 😅)

Yo, it's all good. No apology necessary.

I can only suggest what I know. I've never used Procreate, and I've never even heard of iArtbook. I'm also one of those that absolutely will torrent my art program of choice. And have.

A long, long time ago (like probably thirteen years), I got a copy of Corel (Coral? Idek anymore) free with the purchase of my Wacom bamboo tablet. I didn't know what I was doing yet and I hated it. My laptop hated it. It was very heavy and lagged big time.

I switch to Gimp, which is legally free and open source. I used Gimp for years with zero problems. You can import a lot of Photoshop brushes into Gimp without issue. Compared to Photoshop and Paint Studio, it's incredibly underpowered. Looking back at the art I made, however, I was not poorly off.

From Gimp, wanting more, I then switched to Photoshop CS5. It was incredibly easy to find and install. Personally, I say screw Adobe, since their current model is subscription based. I hate that. I used PS for yearsssssss, up until last year, I believe. It wasn't too heavy for my laptop to handle unless I used too big of a brush. It allowed me to expand my knowledge of digital art programs. It has way more to offer than I'll ever use. But as i mentioned before, the natural art brushes are ... okay, and the blending tool is awful. I learned to NOT ever use the blending tool because of PS.

Throughout time in my PS years, I switched from a Wacom Bamboo tablet to a Huion pen tablet (three different ones) to a Huion Kamvas 16 Pro tablet. With my family's help, I put money towards improving my art by way of hardware, and each tablet became significantly better. A good tablet will help TREMENDOUSLY, but by no means does anyone *need* to splurge on a screen tablet like the Kamvas series. I recommend Huion. It's hard to go wrong with them. In case that ever tickles your fancy.

Like, I'm pulling examples of art I've done with these programs and tablets, specifically unshaded pieces, to show that the software and hardware doesn't necessarily make the piece.

Now, I'm using Clip Studio Paint because it comes with so many native traditional brushes. Again, the company switched or threatened to switch to a subscription pay, so I have no qualms in resorting to circumventing their purchase page.

I will say, I think I love Clip Studio more than I ever did Photoshop. The brushes are just ... perfect.

Like this. This isn't pencil and paper! It's the pencil brush that comes with Clip Studio. It draws JUST like a pencil and I feel like I'm in my natural element when I get to use it.

If you do decide to use PS, or a program that is PS brush compatible, I'll have to find that set of brushes that works similarly to these.

These pictures both used one of the pencil brushes from that set in PS. The horse was painted with a watercolor wash brush; the human with a chalk brush. It's nowhere near as versatile as what can be used in Clip, though.

But I'm sure you could find many brushes through dA and gumroad to use until you find the one that works for you, too!

#lostgirl1428

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hegeso · 2 days

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28.4.24

woke up early, my circadian rhythm has returned to something kind of fucked up since i’ve been off of my adhd medication for so long. i don’t sleep long at night and wake up whenever the sun comes up. gave basil his medicine, felt like i was in a dream all morning. i hardly remember the last two hours i’ve been awake. i went outside and smoked 1/4th of a cigarette; it tasted awful and made me feel sick, so i tossed it in the bin and went inside to crawl back in bed. if i could sleep for any longer, i would. i’m sure i’m about to be lying in bed, sleepless, for another hour or two, and i’m going to feel exhausted for the rest of the day.

i haven’t watched television in a month, i’ve just been reading. feel restless and anxious to pick out a new book, something i’ve never read before, but nothing is calling out to me. have been very grateful for n— reading to me in the evenings. such a treat. i’ve never had anyone just read to me before like this, and i’m becoming so very greedy. i would love nothing more than to lie around all day reading to one another. i feel guilty for keeping him up so late, but obviously my guilt does not outweigh the pleasure i derive from our sleepy calls and quiet conversation, since i keep enabling him to stay up with me.

i’m also anxious to give him space, as in, i’ve been a bit selfish with his time and feel the need to eliminate myself as a distraction from his writing, which is something that he’s said that he wants to be doing.

when i closed my eyes again for a nap, i was able to sleep and had a really cute dream about friendship and letting go. i’m not used to having these sort of narrative dreams, with semblances of plot—wonder why i’m suddenly getting them? in the dream, i got to spend time with friends who have left me behind in the past, and everything was good. it felt healing, and i felt refreshed upon waking. i had my own bakery/cafe and got to fill people up with cute desserts, wholesome soups, tasty sandwiches. we sat and talked until late, hugged, and parted ways. no current or enduring friends were present.

today i read neruda, then ibsen.

the heights of macchu picchu. from the first page i was unsuspecting and caught off guard, became still, cold, sick with unnamed feelings.

my lunch took a lot out of me, and i required a long nap afterwards to recover from the shock of having too high a concentration of an allergen in my system. i feel hungover, hot, flushed.

thinking……….a nice thing for the summer, to strip down to my underwear, get covered in bug spray, and spend several afternoons lying on the quiet lake shore…swimming a bit, eating sandwiches and fruit for lunch. taking a break to walk through the woods, looking for salamanders and snakes and wildflowers. maybe fishing for awhile. portable cd player. watercolor paper and a tin of gouache paints. my model: s.r., or n—, maybe even my sister e—. wrapped tight in a blanket as the sun starts to go down. legs cool and damp since the sun never fully dried them. touching heads and shoulders as we sleepily converse at the end of a long, warm day. what if we went to see the fireflies light up in the valley? tens of thousands of them blinking in the sky.

i’m going to let myself daydream again, until dream is indistinguishable from memory. need something to look forward to as i wave farewell to my old places

#sr #n #e #dream

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darkandstormydolls · 1 month

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I woke up this morning and I decided to swing

I haven’t in far too long

Not since I was small

I do wish often that I could be small again

It was quite freeing

But I can’t

So I do what I can

And I wake up at Dawn and I walk

I walk to the park

It’s not close, but it’s not far

It’s empty

So quiet this early

The whole world is quiet this early

Spring’s coming

Well, it’s already here

In a way

A gentle, little way

Just a foot in the door

It’s pretty

The trees are covered in flowers

All pink and white, an Easter dream

I get to the park

And I sit on the swings

The floor underneath is worn down

Years and years of little feet

And big feet, now

I forgotten how easy it was, at first

Little me was right, I suppose

It wasn’t just rose-tinged memory

It did feel like flying at first

I was scared to close my eyes, and a strange way

As if I was worried that I’d lose where I was

And the world would fall away

And it would just be me, in the abyss, forever, moving

So quiet

The sun is hardly up

Clouds are painted pink and purple with watercolors

And so I swing

In an empty playground

In an empty park

In the silent morning

There’s sirens on the street

A firetruck drives by

I wonder what it is

It doesn’t matter to me right now

People come by

I’m tired

There’s two of them

An adult and a child

And a dog

I want to stop, but I can’t

My legs are shaking, and my hands hurt from rubbing against the chains

I tell myself I’ll stop when they’re gone

The dog keeps stopping to look at things

I resent it

So much more strongly than I perhaps should

But I keep swinging

Until they’re out of sight

And then I stop

And let myself drift down to stillness

I’m tired

The swing took more from me than I expected to give

I don’t mind though

It was nice

To feel a little again

My stomach‘s twisting and my hips hurt from being pinched by the too small seat

But it was worth it

I check the time

Six minutes?

That was all it was, since before the people came?

It felt like forever

I walk home

I see more people

I keep my head down and avoid the pleasant morning greetings

I do not feel pleasant

I feel good

But it’s a poetic kind of good

The source that makes you wish you could wander through the windswept heath

Rather than the cracked sidewalk of the suburbs

The sun is up

Has it been an hour since I left?

Felt like I left home five minutes ago, and also an eternity ago

The birds are still singing, though

And the morning is still early

More people are out, but still not many

Three squirrels run up a tree

I stop, and I watch them

They run and jump and chase each other

I suppose they never forgot how to be little

Would it be fun to be a squirrel?

Not forever, sure, but for a little while

I watched them until I must leave to avoid another round of morning greetings

One of the squirrels runs through a slotted fence

I couldn’t do that

I’m too big

Too human shaped

I walk past a tree

Did I climb that tree when I was little?

I think I did

Could I climb it now?

I rest a foot on a lower part of the trunk

It slips

The trees for little girls, I suppose

It doesn’t want me anymore

The morning is still early, but I am different

I have changed

#poetry I guess #I don’t know how I was feeling #But I needed to say this somehow #so here it is

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mmelsewhere · 2 months

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Lady Slipper Orchid | Feb 18 2024

I love metallic watercolor and I haven’t rly painted in more than a year. I always forget how it makes my brain quiet , my hand steady, my body poised. I love watching the metallic paint shimmer and glisten in the lamplight. I could watch the colors shift into each other for hours.

I always say that painting is messy, it takes too long, it makes my hand hurt… any excuse to avoid it. But it reminds me of the summer I broke up with my gf and tore my meniscus, making it hard to walk around the city like normal. I didn’t have many friends, so I shut myself inside and devoted myself to watercolor painting. It healed me in a time when I didn’t have someone to depend on.

All this to say, if you have a medium that you used to work with, but you’ve lost touch with it, give it a shot. May it bring you peace and joy ✨

#elsewherecore #personal #orchids #lady slipper orchid #plantcore #plants #plantblr #watercolor #metallic watercolor #painting #musings

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aquiescentraconteur · 8 months

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My darling girl,

I hope you haven’t gotten tired of listening to me by now. I wanna tell you about a recent discovery I made (as recent as last night)! I’ve had a long time to think these last few days, I just started painting watercolors and honestly it’s so freacking relaxing… I got to think about guys, but mostly about myself and guys. The main question I’ve faced my whole life is: what is it that systematically makes me fall in love only with idiots? Why do I constantly only fall for the wrong guy? I realized there are a few similarities I fall for, there are idyossincrassies everytime they make my heart rush: a good heart, a thoughtful mind, and a (not) so peaceful spirit. I’m the girl who has always looked up at good people, at honest, empathic and loving people.

I fall for weakenesses and I rejoice on helping people overcome them. It makes me feel valuable, I realize now. (That’s also the reason why it hurts so much when they leave. It’s the most utilitarian point of view I’ve ever found, it’s hurts like a bitch). I guess I always saw myself as a “service”, and if I’m being honest, being a psychologist didn’t help diminish this tendency. I’ve fallen in love with guys who show me they care, attentive, shy, quiet. I guess that’s the problem, maybe I need someone who’s not silent about it, I need someone who’s very clear on where we stand. I need a guy who’s certain. Someone who does not need me, but wants me. I’m not really sure if I’ll ever fall in love again, I feel like my heart has been broken one too many times. I feel as if I don’t have that ability anymore, to fall in love with details all over again. Like, you know when you love to listen someone ramble? As if it’s only natural to stand and listen to them? Or when you get those two seconds of eye contact and it’s like you can read each others mind? Or those little touches, small intimacy? Lately, I feel as if my heart has lost the ability to be itself, and I have no ideia on how to get it back. My lovely girl, I’m writing this under the most starry night I’ve ever seen, and all I can think about is how sad this letter is. It’s so unfair, the most beautiful moments happen at the worst times. I’ve been feeling very lonely lately, I’m readjusting to loss, rejection, whatever you wanna call it. I’m still deciphering everything If I’m honest. Abandonment has shown me that you shouldn’t trust at first sight, you should keep your guard up and not fix broken people. There are therapists for that. Specially if all someone is, is a burning house. My love, if I ever get to meet you, it means I’ve done good. But right now? All I want to do is leave this fucking mess I’m in. Love,

Mom, August 24th

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teachandwrite-blog · 2 years

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Hilcias studied the yellowing eye chart on the back of the closed door in the examination room at the Barrier Island Free Medical Clinic.

He practiced thinking the letters in his mind, fromEnglish to Spanish, from Spanish back to English, until he could think them in a seamless line.

His mamí flipped through the pictures of an old Life Magazine.

There was a photograph of an immigrant mother cradling her child on the cover.

His abuelo stared at a watercolor painting of a heavy laden peach tree on the wall.

The colors of the ripe peaches glowed brightly on the white walls of the room.

He clasped his hands in his lap as if he was at prayer and looked thoughtfully into them as if he were looking into the deepest parts of the earth.

“Tap, tap, tap,” came a sound from the door.

A young doctor opened the door and stepped into the room.

“Buenos Dias amigos de mi corazón,” she said. “Me llamo Maria. Como estas ustedes?”

Her eyes were like the eyes of his his abuelo,, earthy brown and deeply kind.

She wore a white doctor’s coat, faded blue jeans and a battered pair of high top Chuck Taylor tennis shoes.

“Well,” she began, “Let’s talk about Hilcias.

We looked over his brain scans and studied them carefully.

We couldn’t find an organic reason as to why he doesn’t talk.

The tests on his ears, nose and throat came back normal, too.

So all of the parts that work together to help people speak are well and good in him.”

His mamí placed her arm around his shoulder.

She held him close to her, and breathed a long, quiet sigh of relief.

“We still haven’t answered the gran pregunta, though,” continued Dr. Maria. “Why doesn’t Hilcias talk?”

She pulled up a chair in front of him, sat down in it, and leaned her face close to his face until her nose gently touched his nose.

“So we need to walk together down a path to places we don’t know,” she smiled.

“The only person who can lead us down that path is Hilcias.

The only person who can tell us why he’s not talking…is not talking.”

Hilcias smiled back at her and looked away from her eyes and down at her feet.

Then, in the silence of the room, he whistled the most beautiful notes Dr. Maria had ever heard in her life.

They reminded her of the joy she felt as a little girl standing in the farms and fields with her family in the countryside of El Salvador.

At the same time, they reminded her of the sadness she felt as she looked into the eyes of a sea of faces of people who worked so hard to make una vida mejor as migrant workers on James Island.

The music brought a stillness to the room.

After a long moment, the abuelo spoke.

“Maybe he is talking,” he said, “But not many people are listening.”

And it was true.

#immigrants #immigration #migrant workers #kindness

0 notes

xjoonchildx · 2 years

Text

close call | myg x reader

🎵 summary: burying your head in the sand won't change the fact that the man you love walks a thin line between life and death. and sometimes you can't outrun your worst fears.

🎵 pairing: reader x mafia!yoongi

🎵 rating: mature, 18+, a wee bit self-indulgent

🎵 genre: smut, mafia AU, guarded AU drabble though it can be read as a standalone story

🎵 warnings: smut with feelings (of course) angst, a lot of angst, super angsty you have been warned this is a veritable angst buffet

🎵 word count: 4.5K

🎵 notes: so, uh...long time no see? phew fam, these past 4-5 months have been really tough for me from a writing standpoint. i've probably written and deleted hundreds of thousands of words and just felt really out of touch with my writing voice. why am i telling you this? because therapy is expensive and because even though i struggled, i did manage to push through it and that makes me feel really hopeful about a light at the end of the tunnel where this writing block is concerned. i'd love to hear from you if you like this and thank you guys always for hanging with me 💕

i borrowed these people's beautiful eyeballs and brains on this fic and i owe them all a debt of gratitude: @hobi-gif @thatlongspringnight @illneverrecover @miscelunaaa thank you all for being rad people and writers.

You hear music the moment you step off the elevator.

The sound drifts down the long stretch of hallway before you, echoing off the walls and then diffusing into the soft carpet beneath your feet. It gets louder with each step you take towards the apartment, swelling higher as you near the heavy steel door.

The sound makes you frown.

It’s dark and melancholic. The cadence is sloppy and the notes bleed into one another like muddled watercolor paints. There is no real melody to speak of, no cohesive thought binding the chords together. They hang in the air overhead like a line of mismatched laundry.

It doesn’t sound anything like the beautiful music Yoongi makes when he sits down at his piano. The lovely, lilting melodies he pulls from the instrument after you’ve both slept in and made love on Sunday afternoons.

That observation alone is enough to give you pause about what awaits you on the other side of that steel door. Never mind that it’s three o’clock in the fucking morning.

You take a deep breath and slide your key into the lock.

Behind the heavy door, your apartment is shrouded in blackness.

In the dark, the couches and lamps and artwork are reduced to rudimentary shapes and outlines. You drop your bag and coat on the table in the foyer, peering into nothingness until your eyes slowly adjust.

Until the man you love finally takes shape.

Yoongi is hunched over his piano, dark hair falling into his face as one hand pounds carelessly away at the keys. The instrument produces a series of sounds so mournful they make goosebumps bloom up the line of your back. Slivers of moonlight slip between the gaps in the curtains, casting shadows across his silhouette.

You take a few cautious steps closer and the finer details start to come into focus.

The rocks glass gripped tight in his free hand. The papers strewn haphazardly across the piano’s lid. All around him the air seems unsettled, crackling with a dangerous energy that makes the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end.

Then music comes to an abrupt stop.

“I waited up for you.”

He speaks without so much as a glance in your direction, the sound of his voice strangely foreign. There’s a hollow quality to it you haven’t heard before, some peculiar disconnect between the words and the man speaking them.

“I see that,” you say slowly, stepping closer. “Did you want the neighbors to wait up for me, too?”

Yoongi doesn’t laugh at your jab. Doesn’t do or say anything at all, just continues staring down at the keys.

Your heart starts to pound a bit faster.

You close the distance that remains and slide into the empty space beside him, close enough now to breathe him in. Close enough to make out the scent of his damp hair, the spice of the aftershave clinging to his skin. Close enough to smell the whiskey he exhales with every heavy breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Guess I’m a little fucked up.”

Guess so. You could count the number of times you’ve seen Yoongi drunk on one hand and you’ve never seen him drunk like this. Like he’s trying to drink himself numb. Like he’s trying to drink himself to blackout.

“It’s okay,” you lie, as if anything about this scene you’ve walked into is okay. “Happens to the best of us sometimes.” You reach a hand out to brush the hair away from his eyes, breath catching in your throat when he turns to face you.

He looks like he’s been to hell and back tonight.

Eyes haunted and skin pallid but for the ruddy whiskey flush across his nose and cheeks. He holds your gaze for only a few heartbeats before looking away. Like he’s embarrassed to be in this state. Like he’s embarrassed for you to see him this way.

Worry immediately climbs up your throat and threatens to claw its way out of your mouth, but you take a deep breath and force it back down. You stroke your fingers across Yoongi’s brow, sweep them over the curve of his jaw. He leans into the touch and catches your hand with his, turning his face to press a soft kiss to your fingertips.

“Yoongi, did – did something happen to you tonight?”

Your stomach twists at the pained expression that comes over him, at the way his eyes fall shut like he’s trying to push away a terrible thought. His grip on your hand tightens and so does your chest.

“Yoongi?”

“Listen, Doc,” he breathes, “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

That awful twisting in your stomach sharpens. If you hadn’t known something was wrong – horribly wrong – before this very moment, you certainly know it now. You watch with your heart in your throat as Yoongi sets his whiskey down to reach for the papers strewn across the top of the piano. He presses them into your hands and you stare down at them, afraid to look too closely at the fine print.

“Look at me,” he commands quietly, and you immediately snap your eyes up to meet his. “This is important. This is everything. My accounts, the investments. This apartment and two properties in Daegu. It’s all here.”

The room goes quiet as Yoongi gives you a moment to absorb his words. As the meaning in them slowly begins to crystallize inside your brain. He watches the realization wash over you with a troubling calm, completely composed as you begin to stare back at him in wide-eyed horror.

“If anything happens to me, you take this money and you get the hell out of Seoul,” he continues evenly, as though the two of you are discussing dinner plans or something equally as innocuous. “You buy a house on Jeju and you spend the rest of your life working on your tan. Do whatever you want with it. But it’s all yours.”

Now you think you might be sick.

“Tell me what is going on.” Your voice comes out brittle as spun sugar, barely audible over the heartbeat now pounding violently in your ears. “You can’t just come home and say – ”

“The first thing you do is go to Namjoon. He can walk you through everything. He has copies of –”

“Yoongi, please –”

“Hoseok has copies, too. Just as a backup,” he keeps talking like he can’t hear you at all, undeterred by your rising panic. “They can have cash to you that same day if you’re strapped. Plus the rentals in Daegu have –”

“Yoongi, listen to me – ”

“So it’s not like it’s a finite amount of money. There will be more coming in every –”

“Stop!” You’re shouting now, barely able to think around the noise in your head. “What – what the hell is wrong with you?”

You stare at him in utter disbelief at how easily these words seem to come to him. By how unaffected he seems to be while speaking your worst fears out loud. It has to be the whiskey that’s making him like this. It has to be the reason he can sit here and calmly lay out a blueprint for his death while you’re falling apart in slow-motion.

But he’s not calm anymore, is he? Not now. Not if the spark of anger that lights behind his eyes is any indication. Your outburst seems to have jarred Yoongi out of whatever bizarre state you found him in. Now the set of his jaw is hard. Now his dark eyes bore into yours, the intensity in them unnerving.

“Let’s just talk about this in the morning.” You swallow thickly and add,“You’re drunk and I’m exhausted and – ”

“We’re going to talk about this now,” Yoongi interrupts, in a tone so cold and flat it makes you shiver. “We’re done tiptoeing around the shit that makes us uncomfortable, Doc. We’re not doing that anymore.”

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes.

“I’m done letting you pretend that this situation is normal. Because it isn’t. You need to get it through your head that every single time I walk out that door there’s a good chance I might not come back.”

He could have slapped you and it would hurt less.

It doesn’t matter that he’s right – about the way you lie to yourself about the risks he’s taking. About the way you don’t allow your mind to dwell on what he’s doing when you wake up and he’s not there. It doesn’t matter that he’s right about the hundreds of ways you’ve come up with to avoid the uncomfortable truth. It still hurts like hell to hear him spell it out so plainly.

“This money – ” Yoongi pauses to drag a hand over his face, “ – This money is the one fucking thing I can do for you if I’m not here, Doc.”

You let your eyes fall to the papers in your hands, the fine print you’d barely been able to see just a few minutes before now painfully clear. Line after line after line of numbers – numbers so long you’re afraid to acknowledge where they begin and where they end. Numbers so long they seem ludicrous. You don’t even know where to begin wrapping your mind around this kind of wealth.

And it means nothing to you. Not without him.

Tears start to fall against your will. Angry tears you try to hide but Yoongi sees them anyway. He reaches for you, tipping your chin up with his fingers and swiping at your cheeks with one calloused thumb.

You sit there with watery eyes and a battered heart and watch as the change comes over him. As the fire in him dies out and the frustration slowly drains from his features. He strokes your face until the storm behind his eyes ebbs away completely, leaving only remorse. Regret.

“God, I’m sorry, Doc,” he breathes, leaning his forehead against yours. “I’m so, so sorry.” He presses kisses to the bridge of your nose, your wet lashes, your hair. “I’m such an asshole, God, I’m so sorry.”

You don’t say anything. Not until you’re sure you’re not crying anymore, not trembling anymore. You wait until you feel strong enough to use your voice without falling apart all over again and then pull away to look him in the eye.

“Why are you so angry, Yoongi?” You dab at your damp cheeks with one sleeve and straighten your spine, lift your chin. “Why are you so angry with me?”

Yoongi exhales deeply as he takes the papers out of your hands and wraps his arms around you. He pulls you in close, close enough to feel the way his heart is hammering inside his chest. Close enough to feel the way his throat works as he swallows over and over and over again before he speaks.

“I’m not angry, Doc,” he says after a while, voice thick with emotion. “I’m afraid.”

He’s passed out by the time you get out of the shower, face pressed deep into his pillow.

You dig in his drawer until you find his oldest, softest t-shirt – the one with the hole in the neck – and then you slip it on. You slide beneath the covers and press yourself to him; bury your face into his back. He doesn’t stir.

I’m afraid.

Yoongi’s words echo in your mind as you lie there in the dark praying for sleep to take you. You think about all of the horrible shit he’s confessed to you after a hard night, all the truly terrifying shit you’d only gotten wind of after a night of beers with one of the loose-lipped maknaes. Not once has Yoongi ever uttered those words to you.

Not once has he ever admitted to being afraid.

You lie there in the dark and try not to think about what that means. Try not to run down the list of terrible possibilities, one by one. You lie there for what feels like forever, certain that sleep will never come.

But eventually, it does.

You wake to the sound of the shower running.

A quick pass of your palm over the sheets beside you finds them still warm, so you slide over a bit – burrowing into that part of the bed that still smells like him. You lie there and listen to the water fall until you can finally summon the will to move.

Your hair is wild this morning on account of sleeping on it wet. It mocks you from the mirror as you brush your teeth, as you comb through it with your fingers, trying to tame the flyaway strands. Yoongi’s worn t-shirt skims the tops of your legs, the soft, tattered edges brushing against your thighs.

This is how he finds you when he opens the bathroom door – dressed in his ragged hand-me-downs, hair chaotic, a mouthful of fluoride foam. He stops to lean in the threshold and your eyes rake over the beads of water still clinging to his skin, the towel slung perilously low on his lean hips.

“Hey.”

Steam billows out from the open bathroom door and Yoongi shoves a hand into his wet hair, brushing back the curtain of dark strands that fall into his eyes. They tumble right back into place, disobedient. You spit and rinse.

“Hey yourself,” you reply slowly, unsure of where he’s landed this morning after all the emotion of last night. Probably a bit unsure of where you’ve landed, too. “How are you feeling?”

“Not as bad as I probably should,” he admits, rubbing at the back of his neck.

He steps closer and you force yourself not to look down, not to be distracted in any way by the dusting of hair that starts low on his abdomen and disappears beneath the terry cloth knot. You can feel the heat radiating off his skin, but fight the instinct to curl into it.

“I’m sorry about last night, Doc,” he says quietly. His eyes are clearer this morning, but the sadness still lingers. “I was way out of line.”

You shrug, toeing at a non-existent spot on the gleaming marble. “Yeah.”

“I shouldn’t have ambushed you like that,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a long time and – I think I just kind of lost my shit. I should have done better.”

He cups your face in his hand and tilts your chin up, compelling you to look him in the eye.You find his gaze turbulent – some strange mix of contrition, arousal. Fear.

“Last night – ” he stops to blow out a heavy breath, “ – Was a shitshow, Doc. Hoseok was two steps away from taking a slug straight to the head. Everyone was shooting. It was fucking chaos.”

Suddenly it feels as though you’ve swallowed a spoonful of sand.

“But he’s, okay? Right? He’s not – ”

“No, he’s not,” Yoongi breaks in, saving you from having to voice the rest of that thought out loud. He drags the rough pad of his thumb over your bottom lip. “He’s okay.”

“What about the others?”

“They’re okay, too.”

“What about you?”

Yoongi’s entire body tenses at that question. His hand drops away from your face and the muscles in his shoulders and arms stiffen as he takes a half-step back. He sucks in a breath so sharp you nearly hold your own in response.

“I’m not going to push you,” you explain, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind your ear. “If you’re not ready to talk about it, you’re not ready. But if you tell me you’re afraid, then I’m going to ask you why, Yoongi. You have to know that.”

Yoongi drags a hand down his face, the tips of his ears pinking as a flush branches across his chest, his neck. You can’t help but feel like you’ve embarrassed him and the guilt is instantaneous, sinking in your stomach like a stone.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Really. We don’t have to do this right now. I can give you some space.”

You turn to make good on your promise, but you don’t get far. Yoongi catches your wrist with one hand, pulling you back to him with a firm grasp. “Don’t go,” he insists, dark eyes pleading.

“Then I won’t,” you promise. “Tell me what you need and I will do it, Yoongi. I swear it.”

He nods slowly, chest rising and falling with the series of steadying breaths he takes before he speaks.

“I went a really long time without anything to lose,” he starts. “It never mattered if I was out in the streets taking stupid risks every night because the only person who ever counted on me is me. Now all I can think about is you. What’s going to happen to you if I fuck up out there and get myself killed.”

“Then don’t get yourself killed.”

The words come out strained, despite your best attempt to make them sound lighthearted.

“It’s more than just that, Doc,” he persists, tongue slipping out to wet his lips. “Sometimes I worry that there will come a day when you wake up and decide this is too much for you. That it’s not what you signed up for.”

Your heart seizes painfully inside your chest. “No.” You shake your head vehemently, rejecting the notion with your entire body. “I won’t. I couldn’t.”

“The truth is that I can’t remember how I used to process all this bullshit before you. Now I think I have no idea how to do it without you. And that’s – ” He trails off, letting the thought hang in the air.

“Scary,” you murmur.

“Terrifying,” he corrects.

“Look at me, Yoongi,” you insist, stopping to swallow past the tightness in your throat. “I know what I signed up for. I know who you are. And I don’t want anyone or anything else. I’m not going anywhere.”

He takes you off balance with his kiss. It’s frantic, frenzied – tongue in your mouth, lips at your ear, teeth at your pulse point. You gasp when he crushes his towel-clad hips to yours, the swollen outline of his cock already growing against your belly.

“I love you so fucking much, Doc.”

Yoongi growls the words into your mouth, blunt fingertips digging into the rounded curves of your ass. You free your hands long enough to tug at the towel around his hips until it falls away, snaking your fingers between your bodies to seek him out. Yoongi hisses when you wrap your warm palm around his cock, grip tight as you stroke him from base to tip.

“I need you, Yoongi. Right now.” You whisper the admission against the corner of his mouth, one hand guiding his cock to the juncture of your thighs. He shudders when he realizes you’re bare beneath his old, thin t-shirt, as you slide the length of him against the slippery heat that’s already pooling between your legs.

“So fucking wet already,” he gasps, the muscles of his stomach straining when you rock against him, slicking him with the moisture between your thighs. He shoves impatiently at the hem of your t-shirt, swearing under his breath as he tears it over your head without a single care for its fragile state. Then he tongues at both your nipples, gets them messy and wet before taking one of them between his teeth.

You whine at the drag of his tongue, at the rough way he toys with it until the peak is stiff and throbbing in his mouth. His hips rock faster against yours, cock now gliding easily through your wetness. Your inner thighs are slick with it and when Yoongi takes your other nipple into his mouth you can feel yourself grow even wetter.

You dig your hands into his damp hair.

“Yoongi, oh god, yes – ” you gasp, when he adjusts the angle of his slide so that he’s stroking against your clit. He likes the praise, he always has – and he drives closer, harder, just to hear you gasp again.

“I gotta get inside of you,” he mutters, cock twitching when your hands find and squeeze the muscles of his lean ass. “Right now, before I come like this.”

You release him from the vice grip of your thighs and turn around for him, pressing your palms flat to the counter. In the mirror, you watch as he runs one appreciative hand down the slope of your back. His fingers linger on the curve of your ass for a moment before he slides them lower, slipping two fingers inside of you.

Your hips jolt at the friction and Yoongi swears under his breath again.

In front of you, Yoongi’s reflection looks serious, brows knit in concentration as he slowly fucks you with his fingers. A flush spreads across his chest and up his neck as he works you, one hand pressed into the small of your back while his other hand stays buried inside your cunt.

“Yoongi,” you beg, arching your back to push harder against the heel of his hand, “Please just fuck me already.”

He chuckles darkly, slipping his fingers out of you. Then the slick sounds begin. You watch him in the mirror as he strokes his cock, jerking roughly at the blunt head before he’s pressing it to your entrance.

Then he’s pushing forward, sinking that first thick inch and your body gives way with little resistance. You’re so wet he buries himself to the hilt with one fluid thrust.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, pulling out all the way to the tip and burying himself again. “Shit, that’s so fucking good.”

He experiments with that same stroke a few times, reveling in the way your whimper each time he bottoms out. But he needs more, you need more, and after a while he abandons the slow, torturous pace and sets to fucking you with determination.

Your fingertips go as white as the bathroom counter.

He knows your body well by now, can bring you to the brink and back with just a few expert touches. The force of his thrusts makes you fold over and he uses the angle to his advantage, one hand gripping your ass tight as he fucks you and the other reaching for your clit. The combination of both touches has your legs shaking, the sound of his ragged panting sending a sharp spike of arousal directly to your core.

“Come for me,” he says from between clenched teeth. “You’re right there. I can feel it.”

He bends down to scrape his teeth against the back of your neck, his strokes becoming more erratic with each thrust. And you arch harder into the press of his fingers. Then you are coming, so damn hard your arms give out and you collapse against the counter, body pliant and weak.

Yoongi rides out his own release only a heartbeat later. Between his heavy breaths, you hear him say your name.

Your real name.

The human body is a remarkable thing.

It’s incredibly resilient; capable of withstanding terrible trauma. Designed to mend muscle, seal skin and fuse bone.

The scar that sits just below Yoongi’s clavicle is well-healed by now, barely visible at a distance. But you can feel it – what little evidence remains of both crisis and cure. You run a fingertip over the raised skin and marvel at the tiny dips and dents that live just above and just below the surface. Perfect in its imperfection.

Yoongi cracks one eye open to steal a look at you, quiet as he watches you absentmindedly map the faint line of his scar. The shower steam has evaporated now, leaving a chill lingering in the air. He draws the sheets draped around you both a bit tighter.

“This give you any trouble lately?” you ask.

“Nah. I noticed it a bit last week when it rained, but it hasn’t bothered me much since then.”

That’s another thing about the body. It forgives, but it doesn’t always forget. Pain can simmer just beneath the surface for a lifetime following an injury and some people even feel pain in limbs they no longer have. All it takes is the right trigger and all that hurt can feel fresh again.

Perhaps that’s true for more than just the body.

“You were right last night,” you admit, burying your face into the crook of his arm. “Sometimes it scares me so much to think about what you’re up against out there that it’s just easier to pretend it’s not real.”

Yoongi pulls you a bit tighter into his side, turns his head to press a kiss to the wild mass of your hair.

“Right or not, it was still a pretty fucked up way to go about talking to you about it,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you walking around every day waiting to get a call. That’s no way to live.”

Sometimes you don’t know how he does it. How he can leave this bubble of contentment the two of you have created together to go out there and walk a thin line between life and death. Sometimes you don’t know how he manages to keep one foot in that world and one foot in yours without fracturing in two.

The comfortable space you’ve settled into against him shifts as he takes a deep breath.

“You’re not going to fight me on this thing with the money, right?”

“No,” you sigh. “I’m not going to fight you about the money. I know why you did what you did.”

“Good.”

“But if I’d known you were sitting on that much money, we would have had that argument on a yacht instead of in this apartment.”

Your smart mouth earns you a pinch to the side and you yelp, pinned in place by Yoongi’s iron grip.

“That hurt.”

“It was supposed to hurt.”

Yoongi’s mouth curves into a lazy grin as you glare at him.

“Funny. Anyway if I were you, I’d be sleeping with one eye open, Min. I might off you myself and get a beach house and a pool boy.”

“I would haunt that motherfucker.”

The two of you share a laugh at that – a good one, the kind of laugh you feel from your scalp all the way to the tips of your toes. But after a while the laughter subsides. The humor slowly seeps out of Yoongi’s face. His dark eyes go serious.

“Hey,” he whispers, cupping your face in one hand. He looks down at you with such sincerity that your heart trips inside your chest. “I’m not going anywhere. You know that right?”

It’s not a lie. Not really. He means it when he says it, though both of you know it’s a promise he’s not in any position to make. But you’ll believe it, for him. For you, too.

You close your eyes and press your cheek to his chest; allow yourself to savor the feel of his solid warmth.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I know.”

hi i actually wrote something and i'm feeling very happy about this. thank you for reading i hope you find an extra $20 in your pocket 💕

#yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #yoongi mafia au #bts mafia au #network bangtan #ksmutclub #thebtswritersclub #bangtanarmynet

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mjolnir-steve · 3 years

Text

Foolish

Frank Adler x fem!Reader

Word count: 5027 (oop)

Warnings: light drinking, very brief mention of suicide, some cursing, smut (18+ ONLY!!!), unprotected sex (m/f) ... Please let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: Hi, y’all! Here’s my entry for @stargazingfangirl18 and @navybrat817’s Shameless Hoes for Chris Challenge!!!! I haven’t written smut in a LONG time, so please be gentle with me LOL. Here’s what I got:

Frank Adler

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

Breeding / mutual pining 🥴

I’d like to dedicate this to @rodrikstark for always sharing the Frank Adler feels and @sparkledfirecracker for bullying me (with love) into finishing this. ❤️

If you like this fic, please comment and reblog!!! I hope you enjoy. :)

Fridays never seemed to come soon enough. You looked forward to the beginning of the weekend as much as the next person, but over the last few months, Friday nights took on new meaning for you. You moved to the trailer park a little less than a year ago, wanting to buy a small place of your own and start making a home for yourself. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t expensive, and it was only a ten-minute drive from your office where you’d just secured a promotion. Roberta, the manager, helped you make it feel like home right away, insisting on going with you to pick out paint samples and providing copies of menus for the best take-out in the area.

Before long, Roberta introduced you to the trailer park’s resident certified genius, Mary Adler. Mary and Roberta spent Saturday mornings with you when you were free, which unfortunately, was pretty much all the time. You played games, sang karaoke, and even let Mary’s one-eyed cat Fred come over. He took a liking to your swinging chair in the living room, and if Mary couldn’t find him at home, odds were he somehow squeezed through your window and ended up in that chair.

Another two months had passed, though, before you met Mary’s uncle and guardian, Frank. You came to learn that Mary stayed with Roberta every Friday night because “Frank needs time to be an adult” and she was not allowed to come back to the house until noon on Saturdays. This information made you feel like Frank must be some kind of sad, perpetual fuckboy. You were right about the sad part, not so much about the latter. One morning while Mary played with your watercolors, Roberta let slip - ironically over a cup of tea - that Frank did have the occasional hookup, but usually, he drank himself sleepy on Friday nights and just needed the time to himself. He worked himself to the bone as a boat mechanic, often late into the night because it was too hot to do some jobs during the day. Frank took Mary in when she was just a baby after his sister, her mother, tragically committed suicide. He spent the majority of his scarce free time with Mary, so when Mary was still a toddler, Roberta offered the Friday night deal. Frank countered that he would do any repairs in the trailer park for free, but she refused to let him do that work without pay, saying he deserved to have a life, too.

She also informed you that Frank was a former philosophy professor, single, and very attractive, especially if you were into the rugged thing. You rolled your eyes with an amused exhale and took another sip of your tea. You’d be lying if you said your interest wasn’t piqued. Mary then shouted over her shoulder, confirming that she’d been listening to your entire conversation, “Frank is great, but he’s a grump. Good luck cracking that egg.” You snorted, nearly spitting out your tea, and she went back to reading your color theory book to Fred.

With that, you heard a sharp rap at the door. You set your tea down on the kitchen table, curious who your visitor might be. You didn’t know anyone else in the trailer park, or in town, really. You opened the door, taking in the sight of possibly - no, definitely - the most handsome man you’d ever seen. You quickly guessed it was Frank, judging by the grease smeared on his quite large hands. His eyes, though tired, had the same bright look as Mary’s, and he had the most perfectly imperfect fluffy hair and overgrown stubble.

“Good morning,” he said with a sweet, closed-mouthed smile. “Is Mary here?”

You had to remind yourself to breathe. Stammering, you opened the door wider, gesturing inside. “Hi, y-yes. She is!” Why am I like this? “She’s just painting with Fred. Please, come in.” You moved aside so he could fit his broad shoulders through the doorframe and then held out your hand. “You must be Frank. I’m Y/N. Mary is just wonderful.” You smiled at him, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks.

He took your hand in both of his, gentler than you’d expected. “I’m sorry. Yes, I’m Frank. It’s great to meet you, finally.” He smiled wide for the first time and you were certain you’d pass out. Who LOOKS like this? “And thank you, she really is wonderful. I couldn’t do it without Roberta. She’s family.” He smiled and waved at Roberta, who was looking at you over the lip of her mug.

Mary didn’t even bother to turn around and face Frank. “What are you doing here, Frank? It’s only 11. I have a whole ‘nother hour with my friends.” You tried to keep your laugh quiet, covering your mouth with your hand and shaking your head.

“Well, excuse me for thinking you might like to go out on the boat with me this morning. I guess I’ll go by myself.”

Mary jumped up from the floor, scrambling to clean up your paints and books. “Can Y/N and Roberta come?”

Frank crouched down to meet Mary’s eyes. “Of course they can, if they’d like.” He looked back at you over his shoulder, trying to gauge your interest, then turning back to his niece. “But do you remember what I told you?”

You could see that Mary was making a conscious effort not to roll her eyes. “You told me that my adult friends have adult lives that include adult responsibilities, and they might not always be available to spend time with me.”

“And?” he looked at her expectantly.

“And I need to invite them to do things without assuming they will do them.” She couldn’t hold back her eye roll any longer, but she made sure not to let Frank see. “Roberta, Y/N, would you both like to join us on the boat today?”

You were amazed by the exchange taking place in front of you, able to see where some of Mary’s brains and tenacity came from. The conversation between the two flowed so easily, playful yet intelligent. It was clear that Frank treated Mary not as a child, but as a person, and you chided yourself internally for thinking that was kinda hot.

Shaking yourself out of your mildly inappropriate thoughts, you responded. “I’d love to come, Mary.” You smiled at her, bending over to help her pick up the last of the paints from the floor. “Roberta?”

Roberta gave you a look and you just knew she planned this somehow. “I actually do have some of those adult responsibilities to handle today, but thank you for inviting me.” You sent a glare in her direction, quick but no less scathing. “Maybe next time.” She winked at you before washing out her mug and saying her goodbyes.

You spent the whole rest of the day and night with Frank and Mary, doing everything from building sandcastles to cooking dinner together. Mary eventually fell asleep in your lap as you were watching Oliver & Company, Frank’s favorite Disney film that had become Mary’s, too. “An underrated classic,” they told you in unison.

You helped Frank put Mary to bed, a task made easier after such a tiring day. “I guess I should get going.” You stood awkwardly in the small kitchen, unsure of yourself and painfully aware of how close your hand was to Frank’s resting on the counter.

“Yeah, I have a job early in the morning.” He looked down at his shoes, unable to look you in the eye, and you wondered if he hadn’t found your company as enjoyable as you’d found his.

“Listen, I don’t know if you’ve been to Ferg’s? The little bar down the road? I go every Friday night just to relax and have a few beers. Maybe you’d like to come with me next weekend?”

Is he asking me on a date? You could feel your heartbeat racing. The look on your face must not have matched the excitement you felt at the prospect of spending time alone with the dreamy, kind, sarcastic man in front of you.

He felt like an idiot when you hesitated to answer. He clearly read everything wrong. He had to fix this. “It’s a good place to meet people, you know? I know you’re fairly new to the area, so if you’re looking for more local friends, it’s a good place to start.” He winced, hoping you couldn’t sense his embarrassment at thinking that you would want to go on a date with him.

You swallowed, trying not to let your disappointment show outwardly. Of course he’s not interested in me. Stupid. “Oh, yeah! That would be great, Frank. What time?”

Frank let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, relieved that you didn’t seem offended by his offer. “How’s 7? I’ll pick you up? We can walk over together.”

And that’s how Fridays came to mean so much to you. Almost every Friday for the last six months, Frank met you at your door and you walked to Ferg’s together. Frank told you it would be a good place to make new friends, but you paid no mind to the other patrons. You only had eyes for each other, yet neither of you could see it, even though Roberta pointed out (repeatedly) that neither of you had taken anyone else home in all that time.

The more time you spent with Frank, the more certain you were that God was real and your life was His favorite trainwreck reality TV series. Even if you could have customized a dream man Build-A-Bear style, Frank still would blow your creation out of the water. He was smart and funny, not to mention an adoring parent to Mary, to whom you grew more attached each day. He was kind and thoughtful, talented and hard-working. Although he was a grouch, as Mary would say, he always was sweet to you. He took a genuine interest in anything you had to say, whether you were venting about work or filling him on the latest episode of whatever show you were binging. He was ridiculously sexy without even trying. All those hours he spent doing manual labor in the sun did wonders for his physique. You’d only seen him completely shirtless on one occasion, and the image of him with sweat dripping down his chest was burned into your memory, fueling your late-night thots and causing you to break out your vibrator on what was now a regular basis.

Six months had come and gone in the blink of an eye, and you’d begun to accept that Frank didn’t want to be anything more than friends with you. You decided tonight was as good a night as any to talk to someone new, to start letting go of your unrequited feelings.

You swapped out your usual jeans for a sundress, t-shirt bra for a push-up, and lip balm for lipstick. Putting your phone and some cash in a wristlet, you considered wearing your new strappy sandals. The walk to Ferg’s was about five minutes each way down a sandy road, though, and memories of the sticky floor inside aided your preferred pair of Converse in their victory for the night.

Just as you finished tying your shoes, you heard a knock at the door. You adjusted your cleavage and fluffed your hair a final time with one last look in the mirror. Here goes.

Frank felt like he had the wind knocked out of him in the best possible way. He suddenly felt entirely underdressed in his aloha shirt, even though it was his go-to for nights out of the house. He’d never seen you dressed so nicely when you weren’t going to work.

You were the kind of beautiful that didn’t require makeup. Your natural hair always framed your face perfectly, even if you didn’t think so. He thought you were adorable when you were concentrating on something, blowing your hair out of your face with a huff. Visions of your soft curves made their way into Frank’s dreams on more than one occasion. He had seen you in your swimsuit several times, sunbathing with Roberta and swimming with Mary at the beach. It wasn’t even all that revealing, but it accentuated your figure in ways that forced Frank into needing a cold shower or two. Above all, though, he admired your heart. You’d allowed Mary into your life without hesitation, spending time with her because you wanted to and allowing her to ask all those questions that Frank just wouldn’t be able to answer. It killed him that you didn’t see him the way he saw you, a perfect partner for him and a worthy maternal figure for Mary.

“Frank? You okay?” Your concerned voice shook him out of his thoughts, prompting him to close his mouth which apparently had opened wide in astonishment when you stood in the doorway.

“Yeah, um... You look…” He looked a little confused, his brow furrowed and lips pursed. “Why are you all dolled up? It’s only Ferg’s.” He wished he could’ve kicked himself in the teeth when your face fell at his question. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Shit. Let me try that again,” he nearly begged, running up to you to stop you from going back inside. “You look really nice, honey.” He ran his calloused hand up your forearm, but quickly returned it to his side when he realized what he’d done. “Is it a special occasion, though? Should I change?”

You gave him a watery smile, given that you were three seconds from slamming the door in his face and crying. “That’s better. Thank you.” You lightly pushed at his shoulder, trying and failing to ignore the electricity you felt at the contact. “No occasion, though. Just thought maybe it was about time I actually introduced myself to someone new.”

You couldn’t quite read his reaction. Little did you know he was certain he just felt his heart physically crack in his chest. “What do you mean?”

The two of you started walking, the tension between you thickening the very air you breathed. “Well, when you first invited me to Ferg’s, you said maybe I’d get to know some other people in the area, right? But we’re always with each other. I’m sure you’re itching to talk to someone other than me. I don’t want to hold you back.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” Frank abruptly reverted to the quiet, distant state he usually occupied before he met you. He sped up a bit, walking ahead of you and desperately attempting to school his features before you caught up with him.

Frank practically ran to the restroom, not slowing down even to hold the door open for you. You took a deep breath and rolled your shoulders, relaxing before entering the bar. Normally, whoever made it first would order drinks for you both, but Frank made it painfully clear that he had no desire to be in your company tonight. You ordered your usual, an Angry Orchard with a shot of Fireball in a tall glass. The combination tasted like apple cider, but the burn in your throat was caused by liquor rather than heat. It was strong enough to get you buzzed, but not so strong that you’d be stumbling home. You swallowed half the glass in one gulp, wanting to feel the warmth in your veins boosting your confidence as quickly as possible.

“Y/N? How are you?” You turned around, eyes meeting those of Jamie, your coworker. He leaned in for a hug and you accepted somewhat reluctantly, having interacted with him only in passing.

“Hey! I’m all right. What’s up?” You smiled at him, taking another sip of your drink. Jamie was not very subtly staring at your chest. You weren’t crazy about him, but the attention felt nice, so you allowed it.

“Not much. Just happy it’s Friday, ya know?” He looked around for a moment before returning his attention to you. “You’re usually here with that mechanic dude, right?”

You stifled a laugh thinking about how Frank would react if he heard himself referred to as “dude” by this prick. “Yeah, he’s around somewhere. We’re just-“

“-Just friends?” he finished for you with a hopeful look.

You nodded in response, looking him up and down. He was no Frank, but you couldn’t deny he was handsome. It had been so long since you’d even been kissed, and though you hated to admit it, you were touch-starved. One night couldn’t hurt, could it?

Meanwhile, Frank was splashing his face with cool water. He couldn’t believe he’d fucked up so royally. He was sure you didn’t want him how he wanted you, and now he was sure it was too late to tell you how he really felt.

He knew from the moment he saw you that he’d never get you out of his head. Roberta had been talking you up to Frank for weeks, but he wanted no part of it, mumbling something about there being “a reason why no one used matchmakers anymore.” He had no choice but to make your acquaintance when he was looking for Mary, and he’d never been so happy that Roberta could say she told him so.

Later that day at the beach, Mary approached him while you were dozing on a towel in the sand. She sat on his lap and reached for his face, using her pointer fingers to turn the straight line of his mouth up into a smile. “Roberta says you have a ‘charming’ smile, Frank. We think you should use it more.” He chuckled quietly, careful not to disturb you, and pulled Mary in close, planting a wet kiss on her cheek. She grimaced at the feeling, dramatically wiping at her face until he let her go back to reading with Fred.

The sound of the jukebox starting up cut short his reverie. He had to get out there and explain himself. Frank dried his face and hands with a paper towel before smacking his cheeks and stretching his neck back and forth to each shoulder.

Frank exited the restroom only to find some douchebag staring at your ass as you leaned over toward the bar. He saw red when the piece of shit held out his hand behind his back while his friend slipped a twenty-dollar bill into it, seemingly winning some sort of bet.

Jamie didn’t stand a chance when Frank stormed in between the two of you. “That’s IT,” he yelled, so intense he borderline bellowed. He threw whatever cash he had in his pocket on the bar to pay for your drinks before he pulled you outside, almost getting to your door while you fought against his grip. He only stopped when you spun your body around like something out of Dancing with the Stars and jumped in front of him, forcing him to catch you.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N, what are y-”

“-What are YOU doing, Frank? What the fuck was that?” You put your feet back down on the ground but remained facing him, arms crossed over your chest.

He groaned in frustration, suddenly realizing he actually had no clue how to respond. “Fuck.”

You looked at him, tapping your foot in anticipation.

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.” He rubbed at his temples in the way he did when he felt a headache coming on.

“And how was he looking at me, Frank? What does it matter to you?”

“He was looking at you like you were a piece of meat and I… FUCK!”

You both turned when your neighbor opened his window. “Can you kids keep it down out here?”

You waved bashfully at the old man. “Sorry, Mr. Parker,” you said in unison.

“Come inside, Frankie.” The nickname that typically made him roll his eyes at you never had sounded sweeter, now that its use confirmed you didn’t hate him for the scene he made. You both toed off your shoes at the door before you made your way into the living room, motioning for him to sit next to you on the couch when he tried to sit in the armchair across the room.

You leaned forward, pinching his chin between your thumb and forefinger. “Now what’s going on in that sun-damaged brain of yours?”

He let out a laugh so soft you almost missed it, but you were glad you didn’t. Sitting back against the arm of the couch, you pulled a pillow into your lap and hugged it, giving Frank your full attention.

Frank cleared his throat, doing his best to accept that it was now or never. “That guy was leering at you, and it pissed me off. You deserve better, Y/N.” He pried your fingers from where they were locked around the pillow to hold your hands in his.

“If you want to meet new people, that’s great. If you don’t want to be with me, that’s a little less great, but I’d understand. He didn’t even pay for your drinks. And I th-”

You covered his mouth with one of your hands, and he knitted his brows in confusion. “You’re making it sound like it’s an option to be with you.” You were in disbelief, side-eyeing him, waiting for Ashton Kutcher to announce that you were, in fact, being Punk’d.

The corners of his mouth lifted into the soft smile he reserved for you. It was the same one he gave you whether you were on a tangent about how “Obsessed” by Mariah Carey is “the single greatest diss track of all time” or you were helping Mary put a harness and leash on Fred “just to see how he’d do” on a walk.

“For a distinguished professor, you’re kind of a dummy, Frank.” You took his face in your hands, thrilled to be feeling his stubble against your palms. Before he could talk back to you, you kissed him, unsure how you denied yourselves such a simple yet extraordinary pleasure for so long. It only took a moment for him to relax into it, his hands removing the pillow between you before finding your waist and pulling you almost into his lap.

You deepened the kiss, threading your fingers through his hair. He pulled away first, pressing his forehead to yours. “Seems like we’re both dummies, huh?”

You were going to ask why pulled away until you looked down to see a considerable tent forming in the front of his jeans. You laughed as he pulled you into a tight hug, one arm wrapped around you while the other hand held your face against his neck.

You kissed the side of his neck softly before leaning back to look at him. “All this time? I thought you didn’t see me this way.” You held his face, stroking his cheeks with your thumbs. “You asked me to go to Ferg’s and then said I could meet other people, so I thought that was it, you know?”

He covered your hands with his and pecked your lips softly. “Honey, I thought it was the other way around. I was trying to ask you out and you looked like you’d seen a ghost.” You giggled, spluttering a bit because tears had started falling at some point. He wiped your tears away before swiping his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down a bit. “We’re fools, aren’t we?”

You nodded slowly and Frank saw something wicked flash in your eyes before you took his thumb in your mouth, sucking lightly. “Jesus, honey.” His length hardened underneath you and you could feel the wetness beginning to pool in your panties, prompting you to grind down into his lap.

You released his thumb from your mouth, pressing your chest into his before kissing him again. “I think we’re only fools if we don’t take advantage of the rest of your adult time.” You removed your dress easily, returning your hands to Frank’s shoulders to push off his shirt.

He surged forward to kiss you again, working magic with his tongue against yours. You wrapped your legs around his waist and he picked you up, walking you into the bedroom. Placing you on the bed carefully, he removed your bra and panties before pulling off his boxers and jeans in one go. You thought you wanted him before, but now that you could see everything he’d been hiding under his baggy clothes, you didn’t see how you could ever let him leave your bedroom.

The next few minutes were spent exploring each other’s mouths while Frank stretched you with his fingers. You didn’t think you’d ever been so wet in your life and thought you might pass out if you didn’t feel him inside you immediately. You gave his cock a few strokes before sliding his head through your folds, coating him in your slick.

“Waitwaitwait, honey. Do you have a condom?”

“You don’t need one if you don’t want one. It’s okay.”

He looked like you just gave him tomorrow’s winning lotto numbers, taking a deep breath to steady himself before he looked at you again. “Oh, God. Are you sure?”

“Mhm. I wanna feel you. Make me yours?”

“Anything you want, honey, but if you change your mind, just tell me, okay?” He lined himself up, seconds shy of entering you for the first time.

“I figured if you were gonna be possessive of me tonight, you might as well take it the whole nine, Frankie.” You laughed as he let out an exasperated sigh. “Seriously, though, I’m clean, I’m on the pill, and I’ve wanted you for a long time.” You reached up to scratch lightly through his chest hair.

“The only thing I wanna hear right now is you moaning for me.” He drove into you harshly, but waited a moment for you to adjust once he was seated to the hilt. “So damn wet and tight for me, honey. You’re so perfect, so beautiful.” He kissed you again before he began to move, slowly but surely making you lose your mind.

He dipped his head down to take one nipple in his mouth, then the other, effectively shutting you up and emptying all thoughts from your head. He nipped at the swell of your breast, soothing the bite with his tongue. “Fuck, Frank, please!”

“Please what, honey?” He picked up his pace, fucking into you so vigorously you moved up the bed. “Tell me what you need.”

“Make me cum, Frank. Please, baby, I need it. Need you,” you cried, leaning up to bite into his shoulder, stifling your moans.

“I wanna hear you, Y/N. I wanna hear those pretty moans while I’m making this perfect pussy cum for me.” The combination of his filthy words and the sight of him sucking on his own fingers before rubbing at your clit sent you over the edge, making you scream his name over and over again for what felt like forever and not long enough.

You could tell he was close, his hips stuttering and losing their rhythm. He began to pull out, unsure if you were willing to let him finish inside you, but knowing he was too close to wait for an answer.

You hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him close, pushing him back into you. “Fill me up, Frank. I wanna feel all of you. Please give it to me,” you whimpered. His release triggered another for you, chanting each other’s names surely loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

He stayed inside you as you both came down from your shared high, gingerly flipping you over so he laid on his back with you on his chest. He kissed the top of your head, fingers fluttering up and down your sides.

“What’s on your mind now, Frankie?” You looked up at him through your lashes, mildly terrified of the answer.

He looked down at you with the most adoration you’d ever seen, lifting your chin so your eyes met his in the moonlight. “That wasn’t too soon, was it? You mean so much to me and to Mary. I don’t wanna mess this up. I don’t ever wanna hurt you. You’re the best thing in my life besides Mary, you know that?”

You kissed his chest before looking back up at him, smiling. “First of all, I would argue that wasn’t soon enough.” He hissed as you clenched around his still softening cock inside you.

“You’re evil.”

Winking at him, you continued tracing patterns on his chest with your fingers. “Second, that all kinda sounds like you might be in love with me, Frank Adler.”

His hands stopped moving for a second before he responded. “Would you run away if I said I am?”

“Well, I wouldn’t run away. This is my house.” You thought your heart might explode in your chest.

“I didn’t even say it, but I take it back,” he huffed, throwing his arm over his eyes.

“What if I told you I felt the same way?”

He grinned, sitting up to kiss you feverishly on your cheeks, the tip of your nose, and finally your lips. You could feel him starting to harden again inside you, leading to round two of… well, you lost count.

You ate breakfast and showered together in time for Frank to return home before Mary did, agreeing to talk more later and to hold out on Roberta for a while.

Frank stood on your doorstep, leaning in to kiss you once more. All of a sudden, you heard a familiar meow and thanked God you were dressed and not in your robe.

“Frank, what are you doing here? I thought I’d come see Y/N since I’m not supposed to come home until noon.”

You bit your tongue to keep from cackling. Frank ran a hand over his face, his blissful bubble burst. He was getting you a hotel room next weekend.

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