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macfrog · 9 months

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rack 'em

the girlies watched triple frontier last week and it was the single most inspiring thing i have ever seen so here’s a lil frankie fic to cleanse my mind. dedicated to my babies @gracieispunk (who put this concept in my head for the wee laddies), @hellishjoel & @strang3lov3 🤍

pairing: bbf!frankie morales x f!reader

summary: when your parents ask you to housesit for them, you take the opportunity to spend some quality time back in your hometown, hanging with your older brother and...getting reacquainted with his best friend

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) reader is santiago's younger sister, she and frankie do not get along, teasing & touching, dubcon (reader is a little drunk, frankie is not), oral sex (f receiving), alcohol consumption, quick mention of dr*gs, cursing, frankie's a bit of a dick but reader gives as good as she gets

word count: 6.1k (cause apparently i don’t know how to write short fics 🤪)

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When you were four, a new family moved in across the street. Nobody knew them – your mom spent two straight days trying to scoop for information. Who they were, where they’d moved from, what was with the banged-up Ford pickup they drove. Nobody knew a thing.

You didn’t take much interest, being four years old – two months shy of your fifth birthday, by the way – and too invested in whatever politics a woman of your age finds herself wrapped up in, but you noticed one key thing about them.

The mom had tattoos.

Two full sleeves. Colorful ones, too. A bright red heart on her shoulder, a green snake wrapped around her forearm – among others. It was fucking cool, alright? No matter how much your mom whispered to Ms. Teller over the fence about them.

One night, when you were supposed to be in bed, you snuck out of your room and crossed the landing to your brother’s. Santiago and his friends were all staying at Tom’s, and you knew that in his desk he had permanent markers. You clicked the door open, as quiet as you could, and crept over his matted carpet to the drawer. You took one Sharpie, and spent the night adding snakes and hearts and whatever else came to mind to your Barbies’ arms, legs, faces, necks.

They looked fucking awesome. Just like that mom across the street.

But somehow or other – and I’m not blaming anyone – the next morning, a drawing appeared on the bathroom wall. In Sharpie. Your mom hit the roof.

As soon as Santi got home, she dragged him by the ear into the bathroom and pointed a trembling finger at the drawing. You forget what it was – it’s been years, and you were never much of an artist.

His plea of innocence helped him none; she knew he owned Sharpies, knew he sucked just as bad as you did at drawing, and he was grounded for three whole weeks. No soccer practice, no TV, no PlayStation. Which, at thirteen, is basically a stint in Rikers.

Your brother, though…he was always better than your mom at reading your mind. He saw the guilt on your face plain as the black marker behind the toilet tank. He cornered you in your bedroom as soon as she went back downstairs, and established three key rules going forward.

One: do not enter his room ever again.

Two: no touching his stuff.

And three: anytime he took the fall for you, you owed him. Big time.

You’ve followed the rules ever since. You barely knew what the inside of his room looked like, growing up. But it worked, ‘cause ever since the Sharpie incident of ’99, you two remained closer than most siblings with an eight-year age gap.

So, now, two days into a two-week stay back in your hometown to housesit while your parents head off on a cruise to celebrate their anniversary, you’re in the car with him. Listening to music, bitching about your mom, arguing over the best Cola flavor.

It’s like old times.

“She said, How’s my baby girl?” you yell over Stevie Nicks’s voice, reading from your phone.“And when I said I’m fine, she said, No, I meant the dog. Is she fucking serious?”

Santiago’s head tilts back with laughter, dark curls nudging against the headrest. He’s driving you to Lucky’s, a local sports bar he and his buddies frequent. He promised when he picked you up at the airport he’d take you out, get you drunk, and he was holding to it.

You pull your legs down off the dash as he turns into the parking lot, pulling in right under the white fluorescent sign, four-leaf clover flashing under it.

“She’s looking forward to seeing you when they get back,” he tells you, switching the engine off.

“Oh, yeah? That why she didn’t even hang around to see me before they left?”

He hands you a smug grin, shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t have it all, big shot. You move a thousand miles away, you forfeit your chance of being the favorite.”

You swing your door open and hop out, chasing him around the car to follow him inside. “You say that like I was ever in the fucking running.”

He snorts, pushing the door open, and a loud cheer roars through the bar. You blush as you follow your brother across the room to two tables full of familiar faces.

“Hey, baby.” Your best friend’s arms pull you in, her gold hoop earrings cold against your cheek. She smells like rose and cedarwood.

“Mal,” you hum, smiling as she pulls away.

“My mom said your parents only just made it on board,” she says, detaching strands of her long, black hair from the cuff of your jacket. “Said they had a flat tire and had to race to get to the boat.”

Your head jerks back. “She never told me any of that. Just asked how Ange was.”

Mal snorts.

“Hey, lil Santi!”

You glance over your shoulder to watch as Benny Miller stalks over, almost shoving some old guy off his feet, arms wide open, wide grin spread across his lips. His brother, Will, follows behind, and gives your shoulder a loving slap when Benny pulls you in for a hug.

“How’s Boston treatin’ ya?”

“Good,” you reply. “How’s…MMA treating you?”

“Good!” he echoes, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline.

It’s kinda part of the deal that your older brother’s friends become brothers in their own right to you, especially when you’re as young and easily-influenced as you were. They used to use you in their elaborate plans – send you in as a distraction while they filled their pockets with food at parties, or use your smaller stature to their advantage when attempting to break into places they shouldn’t.

By the time you were old enough to follow their orders, they were well into their teens. Which is basically grown-up, as far as six-year-old you was concerned. They were always allowed to do things you’re still not sure your mom would permit you to do at twenty-eight, like disappear all day without checking in, or come home black and blue after an organized street brawl with the boys from the other side of the neighborhood.

But there was no denying they cared about you. Will, Benny, and Tom, at least. They showed their affection by ruffling your hair as they passed, or sneaking you candy under the table even after your mom had told you you’d had enough. They’d christened you ‘lil Santi’, a name that – despite the embarrassment it always casts over you anytime you hear it – still sticks to this day.

Your brother’s friends were family to him, and, by extension, family to you.

Well. All but one.

Frankie Morales – nickname Catfish: long-time best buddy of your big brother, and long-time fucking asshole. There isn’t one thing on Earth that you two see eye to eye on, except for that very fact: he hates you almost as much as you hate him.

Always have, always will.

He’s in trouble almost regularly for drug-related stuff you don’t bother asking Santiago about. You don’t need to hear details to know he’s a pain in the ass. He’s been antagonizing you for as long as you’ve known him – where the others ruffled your hair, he’d shove into your shoulder as he passed, sending you – and whatever you were holding – flying. Any attempt you made at conversation with any one of them resulted in an argument between you and Frankie.

You hated him. Fucking hated him.

And tonight, you almost think yourself lucky. Almost go over to thank Santi for not inviting him, when you notice the silhouette of his baseball cap and that denim button up hunched over in a bar stool, and your eyes narrow.

You can’t help yourself. It’s been a years-long feud. And you’re old enough to take him on now. So, you stride over.

“You here to poison my drink?”

“What?” he asks, shaking his head. Already exasperated just by the sight of you.

“I bet you cheered the loudest when I walked in.”

He shrugs. “Cheered when your brother gave me fifty bucks to show face.”

Your upper lip curls. When the bartender notices you standing, elbows propped on the bar, he leans over.

“Beer, please.” Your smile twists into a grimace when you catch Frankie watching you. “What are you doing here? You have to be the person least excited to see me home.”

“I told you,” he says, lifting the bottle to his lips, “I’m bein’ paid.”

“Alright, so what do I gotta pay you to make you leave?”

Frankie scoffs, opens his mouth to answer what you’re sure is a comment laced with just as much venom, when Will’s strong arms slap down on each of your shoulders.

“We buyin’ our favorite veterinary nurse a drink, Francisco?”

You take your beer from Nick’s outstretched hand, sliding him the cash in return, and hold it up to Will in reply. “I’m good, thanks. Wouldn’t wanna eat into that fifty bucks, Catfish,” you mutter, turning to wander off.

You weave in and out of bodies, making your way to the opposite side of the bar where the pool tables sit. Doused in the warm strip light over the green felt, Santi chalks his cue ready to play against Mal, who’s already lining up her shot.

You hop up on a stool right next to the table, glancing back over to the bar where Frankie sits, now turned to face your direction. His elbow sits on the wooden surface, head turns from the football game showing behind the bar, over to you. And when he sees you looking, turns back to the TV screen, cool expression never changing.

“You done?” Mal asks Santiago, feeding the cue through her ring-decorated fingers.

He nods, tossing the chalk back over to you. “Better get your purse out, Bennett. Lotta sober people in here, all gonna want a free drink once you lose.”

“As if,” she breathes, and breaks the rack.

Somewhere throughout the game – a grueling and controversial one, by all accounts – Frankie makes his way over, following Will. You’re thankful when he plants himself on the other side of the table, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other around a bottle of beer. Though the light only comes up to his chest, right where the last button is done up, you notice him looking. Every fucking glance.

It pisses you off. Not the glancing. The way it makes you feel having him watch you. Wherever it comes from, you swallow it down with one big gulp of alcohol.

The game ends in a questionable loss. This side of the table swears the white skimmed off of Mal’s final solid when Santi hit it, right before it potted the black. The other side objected, claimed it was a clean shot ‘n you all know it. A winner wasn’t officially announced, but, being that Mallory Bennett is a force of nature where her competitive nature is concerned, Santiago was forced to buy the loser’s round.

She saunters up to you with her free whiskey in her hand, silver jewelry clinking off of the cold glass.

“Proud of yourself?” you ask, smirking.

She hands you your third beer of the night, sweeping her silky hair out of her face. “It hit it, alright? I saw it move.”

“Was that before or after you nudged the table?”

Mal holds a finger to her lips. You swat her hand away and the pair of you giggle, leaning into each other like schoolgirls whispering secrets in the playground.

“You know something,” Santiago materializes over Mal’s shoulder, shaking his head, “if you gotta cheat to beat me, I’ll give you the win.”

“Oh, get out,” you throw back. “Don’t blame her for your bad aim. Ms. Teller could’ve hit that shot and she’s got cataracts in both eyes.”

Your brother nods at you, tongue in his cheek. “Alright, smartass. Grab a cue.”

You scoff. Look around the room, shaking your head. The crowd has dispersed a little, folks have turned back to the TV screens, shifted focus back to the alcohol in their glasses. And then you look back to Santiago, holding his arms out.

“Alright. Fuck it.”

You hop down and snatch the second cue, wandering around the table while he racks the balls. He lifts the triangle, rolls the white over to you, and tells you to break.

The multicolored balls scatter in a fleet, two stripes tumble into pockets, and you stand back to survey your options. There’s a third stripe close to a pocket on the right, so you wander around to your left and turn.

“’scuse me,” you mutter, nudging Frankie’s stomach with the bottom of your cue.

He shoots you a dead-eyed stare, and takes one step back. And then his eyes drop, and you feel like you could slap him.

But you’re three – almost four – beers deep, and there are heads turning to watch how this plays out, and you can feel the bassline of the music rippling up from the soles of your feet all through your body, and you can feel the heat of his stare on the backs of your thighs, right where the hem of your dress sits.

Suddenly, slapping isn’t what you want to do to him.

Your head turns back to the pool table and you bend over, drawing the cue back between almost shaking fingers, and slam it into the white. It fires into the red striped ball, which hits the corner of the cushion, millimeters away from falling into the pocket.

You sigh, straightening up and waiting for your brother to begin his taunting, but it never comes. Instead, he fishes into his pocket for his phone, tapping the screen and holding it to his ear.

“Yep?” There’s a pause, Santiago’s face sours, and then he glances around the bar. “Right now? Really? No, it’s just…” He sighs. “Alright. I’ll be there. Just…I’m coming. I’m coming.”

He hangs up the phone and curses under his breath, then turns back to you, answering the question on your expression with: “One of our informants just got himself killed. I gotta go.”

“You haven’t even taken a shot yet,” you huff, taking his cue when he holds it out.

“I’ll make it up to you, hermana, promise. How are you gonna get home?”

You shrug. Mumble an, “I dunno.”

His eyes scan the room, passing over Will – already worse for wear, leaning shakily against a nearby table slurring to a group of strangers, then to Benny – stumbling out of the bar door with some girl on his arm, and finally land on the figure behind you, sliding a bowl of peanuts across the table to himself.

“Morales,” Santiago calls, and you throw the cues down on the felt.

“No, no way,” but your brother is already pushing past you to get to his friend. “Pope, no fucking w–”

Frankie turns, handful of nuts, cheek full and chewing.

“I gotta go, trouble at work. Can you do me a favor, man, ‘n make sure she gets home alright?”

“No,” you repeat. “He is not taking me home.”

“Baby,” Santi pleads, “just go with him, please?”

“I’ll walk. It’s, like, a twenty-minute walk.”

“No way. Mom would kill me.”

“Well, then, we just don’t tell her. Pope, please.”

He ignores you. “You are not walking home after dark. No.”

“Probably be safer than in the truck with him.”

Frankie’s head stops flitting between the two of you and his glare settles on yours. “Fuck you,” he spits, shaking his head.

“Right back at you,” you reply, insincere smile on your lips.

Santiago puts his palms together and holds them out to you. “Look, just – please. Just this once. I’ll owe you one.”

He doesn’t owe you one often. Makes a point of deliberately trying not to owe you one. This is an interesting offer. You sigh, and roll your eyes.

“Fine. You better fucking pay me back, though!”

“You got it,” he says, patting your shoulder. “Thanks, man,” he whispers to Frankie as he passes, slipping through the crowd toward the exit.

You and Frankie are left, two feet apart, filled with silence and resentment.

“You looking for someone else to hand your ass to you, lil Santi?” he asks, tossing another handful of peanuts into his mouth.

“You’re funny.” You hand him a smile, which drops the second he looks at it.

But when you turn back to the table and lift the cues, you hand one to him. Push it into his chest, shoot him a narrow-eyed glance.

“One game. And only ‘cause I need a sub.”

He dusts his hands together, shrugs. “Shouldn’t take me too long.”

You stalk back over to Mal, who’s giggling into her glass. “You two are unbelievable.”

“Don’t.” You hold your hand up, taking another swig of beer as Frankie lines up.

On his first shot, he pots that same red you were trying to hit before. His eyes lift only for a second, but you catch the cocky look he throws you and screw your face up.

“Fucking…ass,” you whisper.

Frankie’s shoulders jump, his teeth take his bottom lip. He’s laughing to himself when he takes his next shot, and pots another stripe. And then he stands up straight, holds his hands out.

“Just tell me when.”

“When what?”

“To start going easy on you.”

Fuck off. Fuck off, fuck you, fuck this. Fuck!

One more ball potted and finally, fucking finally, he misses a shot. It’s an impossible shot, anyway, there’s no way in hell he was gonna make it, but that’s not what matters. What matters is the way you twirl your cue in your fingers, then lift it and wander around the table, squeezing between Frankie and the wooden edge to get to your shot.

Your ass brushes past his jeans, and when you turn your head to whisper a sarcastic Sorry, he fucking growls. Low, almost inaudible. But just enough for you to notice, and enough for you to keep pissing him off.

The buzz you’re getting from antagonizing him this much must awaken some sort of billiards skillset you never knew you fucking had, because you pocket four balls in quick succession. Red, then green, then blue, and purple. There’s one ball between you when Frankie rounds the table, eyes scanning the felt for the next best shot he can take.

“Hurry the fuck up,” you mutter as he passes by you, on his third lap of the table.

He tsks. “Impatient,” he replies, shoulder brushing yours heavily. You feel the rough denim of his jeans graze your thighs, the weight of him against your backside for the second time. You push back, leaning into him as he moves past, then leans over, slinks his cue between his fingers, and takes his shot.

The yellow sails into the nearest pocket like there’s a magnet pulling it. The purple does the exact same – he barely has to tap it with the tip of the cue and it’s dropping in atop its predecessor.

Frankie turns, shimmying a little up the table, hip nudging yours out of the way. “Move,” he mumbles, shutting one eye to aim for the black. “Come on…” he breathes, and then shoots.

It bounces off of the opposite side of the table, thudding off of the cushion before it’s rolling toward the pocket and dropping in with a plunk.

He stands, fixing his baseball cap, and leans the cue against the table. “Good game, loser,” he says, ruffling your hair as he passes you.

“What age are you?” you sneer as he wanders back off to his beer, waiting for him on the table next to his bowl of peanuts.

Will wraps an unsteady arm around your shoulder as Frankie tips his bottle against his lips. He’s swaying, dragging you left and right with him as if you’re on a boat.

“He’s…he’s always been the best outta us all,” Will slurs, using his bottle to point at Frankie. “’s why he’s such a good pilot. Good aim.”

You sigh, pushing his heavy arm off yourself and slip back over to Mal, who hands you a sad smile and fixes your hair.

“It was a good attempt,” she says.

“Oh, shut up,” you reply, tossing your bottle up and draining the last of it onto your tongue. “I need another drink.”

You cross the room, suddenly less blurry and tilted, more boring and flat, and lean over the bar. “Nick,” you call, and he twists around, “grab me another–”

“It’s alright, Nick,” a voice yells over your shoulder, “I think she’s good.”

You spin around and it’s that stupid fucking baseball cap and the stupid denim button up again.

“What, I’m not allowed to drink now?”

Frankie’s head cocks. “You don’t think you’ve had enough?”

“I’ve had three. Three beers. The fuck is your problem?”

He tuts, glances left and right, and then back to you. “I think I should get you home.”

“I think you should mind your business.”

“Are you this fucking difficult with everyone when you’re drunk?”

“Nope,” you beam at him, “just you.”

He lets go of the grip he has on your arm and starts backing away. “I’m leaving, baby,” he tells you, nodding goodbye to Nick. “You’re either coming, or Pope’s gonna hear all about it.”

You ball your fists, watching the door swing closed behind him. Your feet stay rooted to the ground, eyes flitting from the parking lot over to Mal, who lifts her arms in a question. You shake your head in response, and her shoulders drop.

Sorry, you mouth, beginning to walk off in Frankie’s footsteps.

Mal blows you a kiss, winks once, and then salutes you goodbye. You shoulder out of the bar.

The ride back to your parents’ place is silent, except for the dull drone of whatever fucking music Frankie has choking out of his radio. You watch your hometown pass by, never taking your eyes off of the blurry streetlights or passing mailboxes, refusing to turn your head further than the middle of the windscreen at him.

He’s humming along to the song, jaw swinging as he chews on gum, arm hanging out of his open window. Everything he does is so fucking irritating, like a constant buzzing in your ear, an eyelash stuck in your eye, the feeling of stepping on a wet floor in socks.

So why, every time you do sneak a glance of him out of your peripheral, does the sight of those focused brown eyes, the strands of gray in his beard, the way his curls flick under the brim of his cap – why does it all stir something inside of you?

Frankie pulls up across the street from your house, white wood a milky blue in the moonlight. You unbuckle your seatbelt and let the strap whip off of your body, rattling against the interior of the truck. The most you’re willing to offer him is a nod of the head in thanks, which he returns, and your fingers hook around the door latch.

“Hey, mind if I come in ‘n use your bathroom?” he asks.

You pause. “Uh, yeah. I mind. No.”

“Come on, baby, I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

You scoff, ignoring him and slip down out of the truck. The door slams closed and you wander over to your parents’ drive, hearing a second slam as you cross the street.

“Uh, where do you think you’re going?”

“If your mom knew you weren’t letting me use her bathroom, she’d kill you, ‘n you know it.”

“My mom doesn’t know you like I know you, asshole,” you retort, but he’s still following you to the front door. “Just – alright. Do me a favor and disinfect it once you’re done. I don’t need them coming home to piss all over the floor.”

“You think my aim’s that bad? Just schooled you in a game of pool.”

You sigh, refusing to rise, and open the door. There’s the gentle scuffing of claws on the wooden flooring, trotting nearer and nearer in the dark hallway, and then the weight of your childhood dog shoves into your body.

“Hi, Angie. Hi, girl,” you whisper, scratching the dog’s white fur, her front paws against your tummy.

She jumps down when Frankie slips in behind you, wandering over with her tail swinging back and forth. He crouches down and holds his hand out, cooing, “Hi, baby,” as she nuzzles against his palm.

“She likes most folks who come by,” you utter, hanging your coat over the banister. “Don’t think you’re special.”

“She always loved me most,” he says, still fussing over the pup, “didn’t you, girl? Yeah, yeah you did.”

You roll your eyes and wander upstairs, leaving Frankie to find the bathroom, use it, and fuck off on his own.

It’s been almost eight years since you last lived here, but your room still looks oddly similar. Same bedframe, different sheets. Same wallpaper, only not covered in posters of your favorite bands. Same shelves, too, just that they hold stuff like vases and seashells and other random ornaments your mom’s picked up, rather than a collection of your favorite movies or framed photos of you and your friends.

You pull your dress over your shoulders and kick your boots off, grabbing a tee from your bag to sleep in. The Nirvana logo lies loose across your chest, the hem dancing along the line of your panties.

As you kneel on the mattress, tossing the million and one fucking pillows your mom has stacked down to the foot of the bed, you hear the door creak open.

“Damn,” Frankie mutters, glancing around the room, “haven’t been in here since I was, what, seventeen?”

“Weren’t welcome then, still not welcome now.”

“You still got that Black Eyed Peas poster rolled up somewhere?” He’s walking in, boots scuffing along the wooden floor.

“Are you lost?”

He looks over to you, stood by the bed, t-shirt barely reaching your thighs. “You know something, you ‘n your brother are so fucking different, it amazes me you’re related.”

“I imagine there’s a lot that amazes you, dumbass.”

He scoffs. There’s a hint of genuine humor in it. Like he’s impressed. And then his eyes scan down your body, lingering on the bare skin of your legs, shifting up to the pink cotton of your panties. They shoot back up when you speak again.

“Seriously, dude. What are you still doing here?”

Frankie turns to the dresser by the window, adorned with framed pictures of you and Santi as kids. “Making sure you get home alright, like Pope told me to.”

“Well,” you shrug, “I’m home, ‘n I’m alright. So…”

He picks up a silver frame; inside, faded by the sun and years that have passed, lives a photograph of you and your brother. He’s on his BMX bike, wide, toothless grin, and you’re behind him, standing on the pegs and gripping onto his t-shirt sleeves as you battle not to fall off.

Frankie laughs a little, turning the frame to show you. “You were always so fuckin’ annoying, you know that?” And then, with a shake of his head as he sets the frame back down, “Still are.”

You cock your head, throwing your hands up with an infuriated sigh. “If I’m so annoying, then why are you still here?”

The look he gives when he turns back around answers that question for you, in a way that his words never could. Never would, to be honest. He’d never admit the thoughts running through his head right now, same as you won’t admit that, likewise, they’re running through yours.

It’d be fucking weird. It’d be wrong, hooking up with his best friend’s little sister. Santi only asked him to get you home safe, not follow you inside, walk straight into your bedroom, look at you the way he’s looking at you right now, silhouetted by the streetlight shining through your still-open shades.

So then, why can’t he walk away?

You make to step forward, and Frankie’s already moving. He meets you halfway, stood on some fancy-looking rug your mom probably spent too much money on, his arms instantly finding your waist underneath your short tee.

“You fuckin’ piss me off, you know that?”

“I know,” you breathe, bottom lip brushing against his, “I know.”

He pushes you backward, sends you stumbling across the floor on your toes until the back of your calves hit the mattress and you fall, dragging him down on top of you. You knock the baseball cap from his head and run your hands through his brown curls, pulling him nearer as his hands begin to move north under the worn cotton of your shirt.

His rough hands cup your breasts, kneading and pinching your nipples as his lips fall to your neck, sucking a bruise into your soft skin.

“Frankie,” you breathe, “what the fuck are we–?”

“Shut up,” he whispers back, teeth grazing over your collarbone. He’s moving down, kissing over your tee as he goes, until he’s kneeling on the floor, your legs dangling off the bed either side of his body.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, watching him as he presses fleeting kisses to the insides of your thighs, making his way closer and closer to your center, covering ground painfully slow.

“Would you – just – fucking – get there?” you ask, head tilting back with a groan.

“Always so fucking impatient,” he mutters, pulling your legs further apart. “Makes sense, though,” he whispers, finger hooking around your underwear, “already so wet.”

“Dick,” you hiss, laying back flat on the bed.

Frankie holds the lace off of your core and then dips his jaw, lips lightly ghosting across your folds. You hum with a mixture of pleasure and annoyance, ready to buck your hips up to him if it’ll just make him move faster.

But you don’t have to wait a second longer. He licks one broad stripe up your center, pressing one chaste kiss to your clit before his tongue dips where you need him most. Your legs go to clamp shut, stopped by his shoulders.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you moan, hand coming down to knot your fingers in his hair.

He hums against your pussy, tongue lapping inside you, nose at the perfect angle for you to rut your clit against.

“Fuck…” you repeat, and he fucking laughs against you. “Quit it,” you hiss, and he lifts his head.

Your eyes shoot open, finding his. Alarmed meeting cool.

“Fine,” he says, smirking. “I’ll quit it.”

“Don’t you fucking– Frankie.”

“Your words, baby.” He shrugs, eyes flitting down to your cunt, soaked under his touch.

“I didn’t mean it,” you moan. “Why are you such a fucking asshole?”

He looks back up. The corners of his mouth pull his smirk into a grin. Some devilish grin, thick with arrogance.

“I’m an asshole,” he echoes, elastic of your panties shifting up to his knuckles.

He watches your cunt as he does it. Runs two fingers between your folds, coating them in your arousal, dipping them deeper until they’re at your entrance.

Your head hits the bed heavily, your body writhing over the white sheets as he pushes closer and closer. His free hand comes up and pushes down on your tummy, holding you steady to the mattress, then –

“I’m the asshole.”

He inserts his fingers, curled, thick, stretching you out over his hand as he pushes in deep. A gasp passes through your lips, exchanging itself for a throaty moan when Frankie begins fucking you on his hand, lowering his lips to your clit again.

His wrist pumps in and out, tongue swirling over the swollen bud, palm pushing harder into your stomach to keep you from upsetting his rhythm with how badly you want to move around.

Your fingers lock a vice grip around his hair, your hips the only part of your body he’ll let you move. You establish a pace of your own, fucking up to meet his fingers, grinding yourself on his wet tongue.

“I’m close,” you pant, Nirvana logo distorted in ruffles at the base of your neck. “So fucking close, Frankie.”

And he can feel it. Feel you tightening around his hand, feel the rhythm of your hips start to miss beats, move clockwise instead of up and down. He can hear as your mouth stops rounding the words, fading into slurs and breaths and moans instead of coherent language.

“F-Frankie,” you cry out, and it’s like music to his ears. “’m there, I’m–”

“On my mouth, baby,” he mutters, withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with his lips again, tongue pushing inside you as you fall apart all over him.

Your back lifts from the bed, fists ball around his hair, pushing his face even harder against your cunt as you ride out your high. You’re moaning his name over and over, echoing off the walls of your little room, escaping out the door and swirling around the hallway.

If you could hear yourself, or cared enough to try, you’d feel fucking embarrassed at what you’re doing – coming apart under Frankie’s touch. It’s Frankie.

The same Frankie you started an argument with one Fourth of July over which was better: ketchup or mustard; the two of you spitting insults over the striped tablecloth, obscene hand gestures being thrown up over plates of burgers.

The same Frankie who’d found out it was you who drew on the wall, and from that day on used it as leverage anytime you set a foot out of line. Used it to shut you up, anytime you so much as thought about talking back, or ratting on the boys.

You’re supposed to hate him. Ask anyone – Santi, Mal, your parents. They’ll all say the same. Like cat and dog.

And yet, here you are. Begging him not to stop, keep his hands and his mouth on you; gasping for breath when he eventually lifts away from you and you collapse back into the bed.

You glance down from under heavy lids, watching as he kisses your thighs again, slowly bringing you back to the room. His chin’s glistening, covered in your cum, beard soaked in you.

You slowly sit up, holding yourself steady with two palms pushed into the mattress. Frankie readjusts your underwear and sits back on his heels, running a hand down his chin and wiping himself clean.

“That was…” you pant, waiting for him to finish the sentence.

He just nods, breathing heavy himself. “Yeah.”

“I gotta…I gotta let…Ange out,” you say, words swaddled by your breath.

Frankie nods again. “I should go.”

You stand at the same time, straightening up face to face. His right side is lit warmly by your bedside lamp, the brown of his eye reflecting a tiny yellow orb back at you; the left side is darker, flecks of hair lit in the pale light from the street, face dark and unreadable. Like he’s two different people, split down the middle now, a before and after.

You’re staring at one another, mapping every inch of the other’s face. Learning it, like it’s new. Like you’ve never really seen each other until right now.

And then he’s turning, picking his hat up from the floor in one swooping motion, and walking out of your bedroom. A deep sigh passes your lips as he goes, relief mixed with satisfaction. And then you follow.

Angie circles him when his boots thud down from the bottom step. He bends to give her more attention, waiting for you to softly pad down alongside him. The dog trots off toward the kitchen, and he turns to you.

He’s back to his unphased self, jaw circling around the gum that he’s still fucking chewing. “Two drinks you owe me, now, lil Santi.”

You cock your head. “Hm?”

“One for showing your ass at pool, ‘n another for that.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, Morales.”

He snorts, wandering off down the hall. You spin on your heel and follow the sound of Ange scraping the back door, throwing a glance over your shoulder.

Frankie meets your eye, and like a reflex, the pair of you toss the finger to one another. He laughs, stepping out onto the porch.

“Anytime you feel like losing again, you know where I am, baby.”

----------

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roosterr · 1 year

Text

murphy's law

a/n: ive had this idea in my head for a while so i decided to dump it out of my brain for all of you to enjoy. somewhat inspired by lunarvicar's amazing wonderful fic to the flame i really love her writing so check it out yo also i haven't written anything in years so cut me some slack :')

pairing: captain john price x gn!reader

summary: when a simple mission goes south, you get left behind in the confusion. you just can't seem to catch a break.

no use of y/n, callsign is 'vantage'

no physical description, but reader is (very) vaguely implied to be shorter than price

warnings: descriptions of injury (nothing too graphic), canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, minor character death, i don't know how the military works lmao, lots of swearing bc i can't help myself

word count: 8.6k

read it on ao3 here

✹✹✹

it was a straightforward mission; in and out, grab what you need, and you'd be home in time for dinner. nothing you hadn't handled before.

ghost and price were on overwatch; the lieutenant was positioned with his rifle on a rooftop across the street, whilst the captain stayed in the suv with a laptop to keep an eye on the surveillance cameras around the exterior of the building.

you'd had your eyes on this intel for months now, biding your time and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. your opening had finally arrived, and with all that time spent planning, it was going so well.

that should have been the first red flag.

the second, more apparent, warning sign was that anything you found as you, gaz, and soap swept the building was either something you already knew, or irrelevant. how was that possible? the location of this facility was a heavily guarded secret, you'd fought tooth and nail to find it; why spend so much effort hiding something which had such little value?

you'd ventured to the second floor, up the damp stairwell and further into the eerily quiet building. there must be something worth hiding here, you just had to find it. you certainly weren't planning on going home empty handed.

you paused your movement into the dark, staring down the empty corridor through the sights of your gun. you felt your stomach turn, and swallow down the sick taste of bile in your throat. for everything you'd done to get here…

it was going so… well.

bringing your hand to the radio on your chest, you don't bother to calm the shake in your voice before speaking.

"does this feel off to anyone–"

you're cut off by price's shouting, a twinge of panic in his voice you aren't used to hearing from him.

"fuck– it's an ambush! get out of there, now!"

you're about to respond, when you hear gunshots from below you. soap and gaz were downstairs, where the hostiles were pouring into the building, and you were on your own upstairs.

the shots from ghost's rifle make your ears ring, even from across the street.

"vantage, get yer arse down here, there's too many of 'em!" soap's yelling brings you out of your haze, and you can't find the energy to respond as you take off running, back to the stairs you came up. "shit– man down! gaz is hit! they're coming up, vantage!"

you just about register what he said when the door to the stairway bursts open only a few metres ahead of you. diving into the nearest open room, you narrowly avoid a bullet to the gut, and slam the door shut behind you.

shit. fuck. fucking shit.

you counted at least four hostiles up here, and with gaz injured, soap would most likely be dragging him back to the suv you all arrived in, where price was waiting, which meant…

you really were alone.

well, ghost was out there, but he was a man of self preservation. he wouldn't risk coming in here to save you. not when you were this fucked.

your chest felt tight, now, and you could hear the enemies shouting on the other side of the wall. come on, you plead with yourself, do something!

snapping your head to look around the room you'd trapped yourself in, your eyes linger on the filing cabinets lining the wall next to you. you can drag them over here, barricade the door.

prolong your survival, or delay the inevitable.

you hadn't noticed how hard your nails were digging into your palms until you went to grip the cabinet. the half-moon divots stung against the cool metal as you heaved it in front of the door.

now the hostiles are outside, rattling the wall with their attempts to kick the door down.

you drag another one, for safe measure. you pray they'll be heavy enough.

through the blood rushing in your ears, you can just about make out price's voice.

"vantage, answer me dammit! what is your bloody status!"

"i'm good– i'm good," you manage to get out between pants, never once taking your eyes off the door. willing your heartbeat to slow down. "not injured, just– stuck in a room upstairs."

"that doesn't sound good to me."

it all went quiet when he spoke to you. at first you thought it was just because your focus had shifted– because it was him– but it really was quiet now.

"yeah, i… they're– wait, they're not at the door anymore, they…"

hold on.

what?

"ghost, you got eyes? what's happenin' over there?" there's a sense of urgency to your captain's voice, and for a single selfish moment, you think he might be worried for you beyond that of a just soldier. your frenzied mind lingers on that thought.

the gruff voice of ghost brings you back to reality,

"they're setting charges– vantage, you need to find a way out."

charges. explosives.

all you can muster is a half-hearted, "shit…"

deep down, you know that isn't going to happen. you wouldn't have time to run down the stairs, and even if you did you'd only be walking right into their bullets. there's nothing they can do to help. and you think, deep down, they know that too.

this is it, then, you think to yourself, am i really going to die like this?

and for another fleeting moment, you're filled with regret that you would never get to see john's face again. all the stolen glances, lingering touches, inside jokes; none of it would ever amount to anything. would he remember you? would he even come back for your dog tags?

the tightness is back in your heart, but it's different this time.

your eyes still don't leave the door as your back hits the wall. the faint moonlight gives the room a soft glow, serene, and your heart sinks further into your stomach.

the moonlight;

the window, the outside.

not an ideal escape route, but these were hardly ideal circumstances.

you didn't waste a second with hesitation and backed up for a running start. you thank every deity you can think of that you always insisted on wearing a helmet.

this was going to hurt, but it was better than the alternative.

"van, you have to get out, please!" you're not even sure who's talking in your ear anymore, but you know who you want it to be.

for him, you think to yourself, i have to make it back to him.

with a deep breath, you take off into a sprint, tucking your head into your elbow and diving shoulder first through the glass.

as you free fall out the second storey window, you think you hear john calling your name, your real name, and you think you feel a flutter in your chest. it was almost peaceful.

and then you hit the ground.

with a thump and a sickening crack, you rolled unceremoniously and ended up on your side, in the snowy alleyway behind the building you were just trapped in; the building that was about to be demolished. your elbow muffled your pained cry.

right, explosives, the reason you jumped to begin with.

your teammates are still going berserk in your ear, yelling at each other or you or both, but you can't bring yourself to respond. you could answer them once you were a safe distance away– and when you could breathe without heaving. as you stand, swaying on your feet, you feel your ribs shift in a way they definitely aren't supposed to, filling you once again with the innate urge to vomit.

but you swallow that down; it'll have to wait, you need to get as far away as possible, now.

your hands braced your broken ribs– and you notice, then, that your shoulder is killing you too– as you stumble down another alley, leading away from the building. you slip and almost fall on the untouched snow, but somehow manage to catch yourself. in the back of your mind, you notice you lost your rifle at some point. you'd have to survive with just your pistol.

for a moment, you almost felt that you'd gotten away, that you'd made the perfect escape.

of course, it was too perfect.

the charges finally went off. you were thrown forward, and despite your helmet, everything went black.

✹✹✹

your ribs flared with agony at the ragged breath you took, blinking your eyes open as consciousness returned to you. darkness swarmed your vision, contrasting the pure white of the snow that was slowly freezing your extremities, and you fought with every bit of self-restraint you had not to cry. your eyes stung anyway.

how long were you out? you were still in the alley, and you hadn't been found by anyone yet, so it couldn't have been long. i need to move, is the only thought swirling in your head. with what little strength you could muster, you rolled yourself onto your back to look at the ruins behind you.

dust filled the air and coated everything in sight, obscuring your vision almost fully; but what you could make out, was the lights from your enemy's guns as they swept the rubble.

looking for you, presumably.

shit shit shit.

you had god knows how many broken ribs, your shoulder was fucked, and now your vision was swimming, and to top it all off you could barely hear yourself think over the violent ringing in your ears. this night just kept getting better and better.

it took everything in you not to scream at the agony as you dragged yourself behind a fallen dumpster, sitting up against the cold brick of the building behind you in an attempt to catch your breath.

in. out. in. out.

in.

out.

every move had your bones creaking in protest, the longer you sat here the more you felt every little cut and bruise and shard of glass littering your body. the dust in the air tickled your throat and threatened to make you cough up a lung, spots in your vision danced like fireflies, luring you back into the clutches of sleep.

no… i can't rest yet, you urged yourself to fight your drooping eyelids, i have to get back to the suv… they're waiting… for me…

the crunch of debris under heavy boots snaps you back to the present.

someone was approaching.

the optimist in you wanted to believe it was price, coming to rescue you. but you couldn't take that chance. your hand grips the pistol on your hip, drawing it out slowly to make as little noise as possible.

the shadowed figure came stumbling into view. your arm straightened to aim at their unprotected head, eyes wide and breathing laboured.

the man– the boy– locked eyes with you, flinging himself backwards to the wall opposite you with his hands held high.

your expression hardened. he was your enemy. his uniform made that clear. for a moment, neither of you moved, you weren't even sure if he was breathing anymore. like two wild animals, locked in a staredown, each of you waiting for the other to make the first move. which one of you was the hunter, and which one was the prey?

shooting him will draw his comrades over here. sparing him means he can call them over himself. a lose-lose.

lost in your internal debate as you stare at him, you vaguely notice his hand lowering to his belt, and in a moment of panic, your heart clenches in time with your finger to deliver a shot right between his eyes.

his body slid down the wall, a perfect mirror of your own as the life fades from his expression.

shit. again.

his friends must’ve heard that. with renewed, adrenaline fueled vigour, you scramble across the alley, and begin rifling through the packs on his chest and belt.

a twinge of guilt fills you as you notice his empty holsters. he wasn't even armed.

shaking your head, you find what you're looking for; a morphine shot. at least, that's what it looked like, the words on the label were swimming with the concussion you surely had. it would have to do.

you take the syringe carefully, and stick the end into the muscle of your thigh, through a rip in your pants you hadn't noticed before, and inject the solution. it would take a minute to kick in, but hopefully the painkiller would help you at least make it back to the suv where your team was waiting.

where price was waiting. god you hoped they were okay, him especially, though he was probably in the least danger of you all. what you wouldn't give to have stayed in the car with him.

pocketing the empty syringe, you spare another glance at the boy's face. his wide, lifeless eyes. the pack he was reaching for. the same one you found the morphine in.

he… was going to help you. and you'd killed him.

oh god. the realisation has your stomach turning for the third time that day.

you pressed his eyes shut and pushed yourself to stand. as you trudge your way to the far end of the alley, you keep your eyes forward. there wasn't time to linger.

with a deep breath, you steel yourself and begin to make your way through the cold, abandoned streets of the small town. the suv wasn't far, only a couple blocks away. it wouldn't take you long to get there, even with your injuries.

somewhere in the distance, you could hear terrified screaming, presumably the residents who were forced awake by the sound of the explosion.

now that the ringing had died down, you realise that you hadn't heard your teammates in a while. absent-mindedly, you bring a hand up to press the comms, and you almost start talking before you feel the plastic crunch under your fingers.

"oh for fucks sake."

of fucking course your radio was broken. it must have been crushed when you were flung forward by the explosion.

brilliant.

whatever, the suv would be in your sight soon anyway, you don't need it.

the cover of night made it significantly easier to hobble through the streets unseen, thanks to your all black gear. the enemy were still hovering around the destroyed building, but at least that meant they thought you were buried under there. hopefully they would stay distracted long enough for you to make it back.

god, fuck, you really couldn't wait to get back to base. you desperately needed a shower hot enough to melt your skin to scrub off all the dirt and blood from your body. the morphine had started to kick in now, but you still felt your ribs shift unnaturally with every heavy step. you'd definitely need a few weeks off to recover from this one, and you’d probably get an earful from the captain. you’d kill to hear his voice right now, even if he was yelling at you for being an idiot.

only a little further. then you’d be back with the safety of your team, with this godforsaken place in the rear view mirror. with the promise of being able to rest, your limbs seemed to grow heavier as the exhaustion finally made its way into your bones.

except, when you turn the final corner, you freeze, an ice-cold dread sweeping through your veins.

the car was gone.

it wasn’t there.

they weren’t there.

there was a stretch of tarmac that fresh snow just beginning to fall had yet to cover, tire-tracks that showed the u-turn the suv had done, blood on the snow from– you assume– gaz, empty bullet casings from the fight they put up.

but no suv.

no teammates.

no john.

no. no, no no no. they couldn’t have left you. that wasn’t how you did things in the 141. it was no man left behind, you knew that. maybe they’re just circling the area, you rationalised, desperately trying to calm your ragged breathing, yeah, they went to look for me. they wouldn’t leave me behind.

but they weren't here.

and as you followed the tire-tracks down the street, they didn’t go back into the town. they made a straight line, directly to the dirt track leading into the wilderness, clear as day in the snow. back the way you had all gotten here earlier that night.

your knees dampen from the snow, the painkiller in your system keeping you from feeling the impact. when did you fall over? there was no attempt to stop the searing hot tears this time as they ran through the dirt caked to your face. your throat constricted, lifting a hand to your mouth to muffle your hyperventilating.

they were gone.

long gone, without you.

they really had left you behind.

a mumble from somewhere to your left interrupts your breakdown. grief morphs into blinding rage for a split second; can i get a fucking break? you swing your arm still holding the pistol to point at whoever was watching you, twisting your abdomen in a way that has you gritting your teeth.

a woman, clutching her young son, shielding his eyes and ears from you.

you lower your gun. that’s not a mistake you’ll make twice. catching her eyes, you gesture for her to be quiet, which is quickly met with her frantic nodding.

it reminds you, you’re still not safe here. you were supposed to be, but hey, it looks like plans change. no man left behind– what a load of horseshit. you push yourself onto shaky legs, you only had a few hours until the morphine wore off, and you needed to be out of here before that happened. as fast as you could possibly muster, you begin to stumble towards the dirt track that disappears into the treeline, following the slowly disappearing tire-tracks.

✹✹✹

you managed to make it into the woods faster than you expected, and you found a fallen tree slightly off the path to take shelter behind while you licked your wounds. literal and metaphorical.

this was unbelievable. how could they leave you like that? if they’d only taken the time to do a quick lap of the building, they would’ve found you laying face down in the snow, and this whole mess could have been avoided. where were they off to in such a hurry anyway? it’s not like you guys had found anything sensitive.

oh, wait. gaz was shot. that had briefly slipped your mind. perhaps you were being a little selfish by getting so worked up by this, but then again, for all they knew you could have been in the same condition– or worse. they…

your breath hitched. and not from your injuries.

they thought you were dead. that would make sense, in the chaos of everything, and amidst your panic, you didn’t really do a good job keeping up with answering your comms. still though, you were definitely going to rip them all a new one when you got back; or maybe it would be the other way around.

either way, you couldn’t sit here and dwell on it all night. you needed to make it to the safehouse before they flew back to base. if you missed them this time, you really were well and truly fucked.

✹✹✹

"i've gotta be at least half-way by now," you lament, flopping down against another tree with a grunt in an attempt to calm the burning in your legs and chest. the morphine had worn off about a few hours ago, and you were finally feeling all the bleeding wounds you'd ignored before. nothing lethal, you hoped, aside from your shoulder, ribs, and splitting headache, it was mostly just a lot of glass in your skin.

when you left the town, it must have been just past midnight, and at this pace it would be well after morning before you made it back. you could just about see the first signs of dawn poking through the cloud layer.

the snow had gotten heavier, casting a haze over the horizon, but it hadn't escalated into a storm yet. even under all your gear, the cold was starting to bite at your limbs. your lack of gloves was a decision you were coming to regret; if you lost any fingers because of this you really were going to kill price.

"fuck, he thinks i'm dead…" you groan as you stare up at the sky. snowflakes catch in your eyelashes and threaten to freeze the tears as they well up in your eyes. was he as distraught as you currently were, you wonder? was he even moved at all, or were you just another soldier, just more paperwork he had to fill out?

being in love with your captain was so, so difficult. a mistake, most would say, and you used to tell yourself the same thing. but after knowing him, seeing the vulnerable parts of him he keeps closely guarded, you can't bring yourself to care. seeing his expression when you gifted him the cigars you bought for him, learning his favourite drink when you all went out after missions, trading stories over paperwork in his office late at night. even after everything you've been through together, you know, in your heart, he doesn't feel the same; he's your superior, you're his sergeant, and he is nothing if not an honest man. it can never work between you two. but despite it all, the only regret you have as you sit bleeding in the snow, is that you never told him how you felt.

please, don't leave me here…

in the back of your mind, you know they wouldn't go home without at least id-ing your body, but you were so shaken by the ongoing near death experience that your train of thought wasn't making much sense anymore.

the distant whirr of a helicopter snapped you back to reality. maybe it was… no, the 141 didn't have a helicopter here, which could only mean it was a hostile one. fucking fantastic. where you were slumped was right at the edge of the road, with very little cover from above. you needed to move further off the path, under the protection of the forest canopy.

with a laboured grunt, you pulled yourself back onto your feet, using the tree behind you as a crutch until you could catch your breath again. the helicopter was getting nearer now, close enough that you could almost make out the spotlight through the falling snow.

a brief jog was all you could manage to get away from the road. the snow wasn't deep enough to leave tracks that would be noticeable from the air, not through the shade of darkness. you still as the helicopter passes overhead. there's no change in its course, and you huff a breath of relief. at least you wouldn't have to try and outrun a chopper.

you watch the helicopter's silhouette fade into the night sky. there was nothing to do but carry on. you needed to get to the safehouse.

this was going to be a long night.

✹✹✹

hours, it had been hours since you first set off, so long in fact that it was essentially daytime. the sun hadn't fully risen, casting the world in a dim light that was just dark enough to keep you tripping over roots and holes in the ground.

the snow had let up a while ago, but the overcast clouds had stayed, the perfect match to your steadily declining mood. you thought you felt like shit earlier? if only you could have predicted how much worse it would get. you were acclimated to the pain by now, it reduced to a constant throbbing where your bones were broken. perhaps the icy temperature around you was numbing your injuries; it was either that or the shock.

ahead, you recognised a set of worn tire-tracks making a hard turn through a gap in the forest. there was no way of knowing it was the right way, but a spark of optimism ignites in your chest. maybe you were finally getting close. you just had to pray that your sense of direction was good enough to be leading you in the right direction.

you were right on top of the tracks now, and upon closer inspection, the pattern of the treads might just match the ones on the suv; you've had to fix that damn car so many times you'd know it in your sleep. they were messy, the snow making it hard to pick out, but you needed the hope right now.

this had to be them.

you go to continue down the clear path, to follow where your team had gone, but your luck just doesn't improve.

the mud slides under your foot, catching your ankle and toppling you in your attempt to struggle through. the breath is forced from your lungs as you impact the ground. you cry out through gritted teeth, feeling the strain of your muscles twisting far further than they're supposed to.

pain strikes through your ankle like lightning. drawing a breath is almost impossible from the pressure of your ribs. as you fight to sit up, the mud fights to drag you back down like quicksand.

fuck. another injury to slow you down.

muddy snow covers you from head to toe, the stabbing pain in your shoulder coming back in full force.

was that a car? the low rumbling from the direction you came from drew your attention, and you faintly see beams of headlights through the darkness. you momentarily forgot about your injuries, a frenzied panic making your blood run cold. another patrol. i need to go.

then, as you struggle to get up and out of sight, you feel a concerning pop from your kneecap, and you don't even have to look to know it's dislocated.

but there was no time to check the damage, you had to hide, now, or the truck would reach you and you'd have a lot more problems on your hands. you scramble onto your hands and knees, and yank your ankle free of the wet mud, practically throwing yourself behind the undergrowth just in time for the truck to round the bend.

your ribs are displaced again, injecting fresh pain into the shuddering breath you took, on top of your newly twisted ankle and dislocated kneecap bent uncomfortably beneath you.

it's a miracle you were able to keep quiet as the vehicle passed by.

by some stroke of luck, or just divine stupidity, your enemies drive straight past the space in the trees and your hiding spot. the headlights cast ominous shadows as they cruise by, but they didn't see you.

struggling to your feet once again, this time you give the muddy path a wide berth as you make your way deeper into the forest.

✹✹✹

one foot in front of the other. dragging your injured leg behind you. cradling your broken ribs.

just keep going.

limping through the mud took every resource your body had left, the effort of keeping upright was almost more than you could take.

how much longer could you possibly go, before you can't get back up again?

you couldn't lose hope.

ahead of you, a break in the sea of trees.

just one foot in front of the other. that's all you need. it's all you can do.

closer, stepping out into the open, squinting against the sun.

against the pale light of the morning sky, you see a dark shape. a building? you couldn't tell, you could only pray it was the warehouse you'd been longing for.

one foot in front of the other.

closer still, despite the bone-deep exhaustion in every limb. you could make it out now, the rusted metal siding and fresh tire-tracks in the mud. you were right there.

you taste the salt before you realise you're crying.

almost,

somewhere between the agony, you hear yourself think,

still too early to celebrate.

your heart stutters. they were here, they had to be.

they had to be.

one foot in front of the other.

closer again, you focus on the keypad beside the door. your ankle twists uncomfortably as it drags along the gravel.

the handle became your crutch as you mustered the energy to lift your arm to enter the code.

seeing double, vision swaying as the edges fade.

a distant beep. a red light turning to green.

the handle turns under your weight, and the door swings open.

you find the floor coming up fast.

voices are all around you.

you give in to unconsciousness.

✹✹✹

the distinct hospital smell is what rouses you from your deep, dreamless sleep. hands prod at your busted ribs, drawing a scratchy groan from your dry throat. you grab the wrist of whoever is there as you fight to open your eyes.

"sergeant vantage?" they call out to you, and you realise with a disappointed sigh that it's the medic and not your captain. you open your eyes fully and see her standing above you with a clipboard in one hand. apart from her, you're alone in the medical wing. she notices you looking around, and looks down at the clipboard as she continues, "glad to see you finally awake. your teammate gaz got off pretty lucky, the bullet went clean through his leg. you on the other hand, i'm impressed you made it back at all."

your ankle is in a boot and elevated on some pillows, and you can feel your knee is tightly bandaged under the blankets. an ache starts to form in your shoulder at the effort of holding your arm up.

"vantage, i need you to let go of my wrist." she says, and after an awkward pause you free her from your hold.

"sorry doc…" you mumble, bringing both hands up to your face and observing the tiny cuts littering your skin. you let them flop down to your sides again, but the aching doesn't subside.

"how are you feeling?" she breaks the momentary quiet, setting her clipboard down on the table next to your bed, "want me to get you anything?"

"i'd kill for some water…" you wheeze, the dehydration was catching up to you.

"alright, i'll be right back," the doctor affirms, making her way to the door. she turns back to look you in the eyes with a stern expression before she leaves, "please don't go anywhere."

and with that, the door clicks shut and you're left truly alone with your thoughts again.

your bones creak as you push yourself to sit up, your movements sluggish still with exhaustion, and you're reminded of just how badly you were hurt. everything aches, and it feels as though you'd been asleep for years.

gaz was okay, that's a relief. a little insulting that he got shot and was still in better condition than you, but whatever.

you look around the room for something, anything, to take your mind off the pain, and your eyes eventually land on the table beside you. a few cards sat on top, all with some variation of get well soon on the front, along with a small vase of flowers. you pick up the card closest to you and open it to read the scratchy handwriting inside.

'i swear you could survive a nuke, you're like a cockroach! get better soon, lots of love, soap! xxxxx'

what a charmer soap was. you chuckle at his lighthearted message, he always did try to keep your spirits up in times like these. as you place the card back where it was, your gaze is drawn to the empty chair next to your bed. there was a thin blanket folded over the back, probably left by whoever was last sitting there.

your mind begins to wander; how long were you out? your teammates clearly visited, does that mean price did too? you feel your stomach flutter at the thought of him worrying for you, watching over you as you recover. and if he fell asleep at your bedside? the heart monitor might call the doctor back if this train of thought continues. but then again, you doubted he'd be that forward, he would most likely be buried in paperwork like he usually is after a mission. and the mission you just came back from would require more paperwork than most.

because they… left you behind. that's right. you had to walk yourself back to the safehouse on all your injuries. who knows how long you were walking for but it must have been at least ten hours, considering the sun had risen by the time you got there. the butterflies were swiftly melted by the hot anger rising within you.

you were going to give him a piece of your mind, just like you promised.

all thoughts of the pain you were feeling are out of your head as you fling the blanket off your lower body. you grip your injured leg and lift it over the edge of the bed, swinging your other leg to plant both feet on the floor.

just as you were about to pull yourself up to stand, the door opens again and the medic walks in with your water bottle in her hand. she stops, an icy look in her eyes as she observes what you're doing.

you look back at her, debating whether you should give it up and lay back down, but your anger quickly wins over. the heart monitor picks up again as you work yourself up.

"i swear to god, if you don't sit back down right now," she makes her way over, setting the water down on the table you were using as a crutch. you meet her eyes indignantly, and go to step around her anyway. "no! you need to rest!" the doc puts her hands on your shoulders, and she stops your movement embarrassingly easily.

"fuck that," you croak, your voice still hoarse, "where's captain shithead? i need a word."

she maneuvers you back into sitting on the edge of the bed, and hands you the water. you keep your sour expression, but still drink half the bottle in one go.

"i assume you mean captain price? he's in his office, hasn't come out since you all got back." she takes the bottle from you when you're done, setting it down again, before moving to take the iv out of your arm. if she feels your glare, she doesn't acknowledge it. "whatever it is, it can wait."

"yeah right, i got a few strong words for him, and he is gonna hear 'em."

the doc hesitates as she works.

"i don't know exactly what happened out there, but i think you should know… that he hasn't visited you," she speaks softly, watching your angry expression fall. "your other teammates did, i even saw ghost sneaking out of here one night, but you didn't hear that from me."

silence overcame the small room again as her words sunk in. he left you for dead, and now he was avoiding you? even ghost visited you, and you'd barely had a single conversation with him. your heart feels tight again, the same way it did when you were trapped in that building.

"how long was i out?" your voice is low, almost a whisper.

"two days."

you should have listened to all the people who told you loving him was a bad idea. you'd almost died, and he still didn't visit you? that stung. god, you haven't even been awake an hour and you already want to throw up.

i guess i really don't mean that much to him, huh?

you think back to the night before the mission, when you'd sat with john while he did paperwork. at first, he tried to convince you to get some sleep,

"you wanna be well rested, love."

but you stayed anyway, saying that you'd just sleep on the flight. you would rather spend your nights of insomnia with him anyway.

the two of you had talked for hours that night, about anything that came to mind. it was the early hours of the morning when you finally retreated back to your own quarters. he'd insisted on seeing you back, despite the fact that it was the middle of the night and your room was in the next building over. the way he'd lingered by your door as you said goodnight, you really thought he was going to kiss you then. but he didn't, and you went to sleep with a heavy feeling of disappointment that persevered into the next day.

"i'm sorry vantage." the medic sets something down on the end of the bed, and you turn to look. a pile of your clothes. "i know how you soldiers are, you're gonna get up as soon as i leave no matter what i say, so i'd rather you not walk around in a hospital gown."

she was right.

"...thanks, doc."

despite the overwhelming pain in your heart, you were still about to rip into price.

✹✹✹

you limp out of the infirmary after dressing yourself as quickly as your injuries would allow, which is to say, not very fast. thankfully there weren't any stairs between here and your captain's office, you definitely wouldn't be able to make it up them with your crutch.

the sun was already setting, a pink hue filling the sky as you pushed open the doors of the medical wing. you tried to think as little as possible as you made your way steadily across the courtyard. it would only upset you, and you desperately wanted to be pissed at him. you wouldn't– couldn't– let price see how hurt you were, he probably didn't care anyway. he was just your captain, after all, realistically there was no reason for you to be this upset.

but you were, and the few people you encountered in the corridors could see it written on your face, staying well out of your way as you shuffled past them.

as you stared at the closed door of john's office, your anger wavered. despite the ache in your heart, you considered for a moment that perhaps you were being dramatic. he was your captain, you were just one of his soldiers. it made perfect sense that he'd prioritise the lives of three others over yours alone.

it was his job, and he did it well.

you love john, of course you do, and that's why you're so affected by that fact. maybe you were letting your selfishness get the better of you. honestly, you didn't have a real reason to believe he felt the same way about you. everyone on task force 141 was close, that's the way things are, you couldn't confidently say he treated you differently.

but he was smart. he had to know how you felt, had at least had to know that you don't go out of your way for your other teammates as much as you do for him.

then again, even ghost had visited you while you were out, and you considered yourself much closer to price than him. so maybe he hated you now, he'd finally gotten tired of your poor decision making skills. it was the reason you were in this situation to begin with.

you were just about to abandon the idea of laying into him when price's voice sounded through the door.

"whoever's standin' out there, hurry up and come in, or piss off." he sounded exhausted, his tone blunt with annoyance. it wasn't unusual for him to get like that, especially whilst buried in mind-numbingly boring paperwork, but you could feel something else under the surface of his sharp tone.

well, there goes your last chance to run. you took a moment to steel yourself, to remember that you were in fact angry at him, and open the door with the harshest look you can muster.

he didn't look up as you let the door close behind you, keeping his nose buried in whatever report he was currently scribbling on. his hat was discarded on the desk next to him, and the hand in his hair was keeping it the messiest you'd ever seen it. you breathe in deeply through your nose.

"oh you'd love to get rid of me that easily, wouldn't you?" you spit, coming to stand in the middle of the room.

john's head snaps forward at the sound of your voice, the hand in his hair dropping to his desk, allowing you to finally get a good look at him. his eyes were wide and tired, you could tell the bags under them were darker than the last time you'd looked him in the face.

"vantage…" he spoke with something almost like disbelief, like he couldn't fathom that you were really in front of him. the hard lines of his face soften as his eyes meet yours, and then even further when his gaze falls to your crutch and boot.

fuck, how were you supposed to stay mad at him when he looks at you like that? you channel every ounce of bottled up frustration you have before his blue eyes consume you.

"well unfortunately, i am still alive. not that you give a shit; you got a restraining order on the infirmary or something?"

he murmurs your name– your real name, and as he rises to stand, his eyes don't leave yours for a second.

fuuuuuck.

"what? you leave me for dead, now the cats got your tongue?" you hiss at him, but you can feel the venom leaving your words with every second. the way his expression falls ever so slightly has you regretting what you were saying. you came in here needing to hurt him the way he hurt you, but you were quickly losing your nerve.

"don't do that…" he was almost pleading, as he made his way around his desk to stand in front of you, his piles of paperwork long forgotten. he goes to grasp your elbow, but you pull back before he can touch you.

"sorry if you've already filled out my death certificate, i'd hate to cause you any more headaches." there was little fight left in your voice now, as you stared each other down in the middle of his office.

in the pause, john screws his eyes shut, turning his head to the side, before fixing you with a hard stare.

"don't. you know i would never've left you if i had any other choice!" it's not anger when he raises his voice, it's desperation; trying to convince himself as well as you. he takes another step towards you, toe to toe now as you lock eyes.

"do i know that? because from where i'm standing, it looks like you couldn't get far enough away from me," you can't help the way your voice cracks, nor can you disguise the hurt when you continue, "even fucking ghost visited me, but not you…"

another beat of silence.

"i couldn't…" john mumbled, eyes showing his mind was somewhere else. your chest tightened; every trace of anger was gone, replaced with the heartache you'd gotten so familiar with when it came to him.

"correct me if i'm wrong, but i really thought you cared." you try to take a step back, put some distance between the two of you, but he grabs your upper arm– successfully this time– to stop you going anywhere. it takes an impressive amount of restraint not to melt at his touch.

"of course i fuckin' care!" he growls, tugging you marginally closer.

your eyes hardened again; of course he did, just not in the way you wanted him to.

you jab your finger into his chest as you speak, your expression sour. "well you could've fooled–"

he grabs your hand as he cuts you off, and you can see the muscles in his jaw clenching, his face turning sharp again.

"bloody hell, just shut up! it killed me to leave without you, y'know that? if it weren't for simon i would've sent 'em back without me! i waited, as long as i could," he wasn't shouting, but you went quiet as if he was, any retaliation you thought of dying on your tongue. john let out a heavy sigh before he continued, "but you didn't come. you were stuck in that building, and then when it went up in fuckin' smoke, what was i supposed to think? i– we called out to you so many times, but you never responded."

the silence between you was heavy. deep down, you had already assumed everything he was telling you, but to actually hear it from his mouth had you choking up in his grasp.

"i…" you tried to say something, anything, but the words just wouldn't come. despite your best efforts, the tears welling up in your eyes were close to spilling over as your gaze fell to the floor.

john sighed again, softer this time, and using the hand on your arm he brought you into his chest, letting go of your hand with his other and wrapping it securely around your back.

you rest your cheek against his chest, bringing your own arms up around his torso, and revelled in the feeling of his embrace. listening to his elevated heartbeat, you wondered if he could feel just how hard yours was beating too.

"when you came crashin' through that door the next mornin', alive, i swear i've never been so relieved. but then you wouldn't wake up, and you were covered in so much blood… i…" his voice breaks, actually breaks, and you try to lift your head to look at him, but his hand on your arm moves up and presses into the back of your head, holding you tight against him. "...i was fuckin' terrified, love." he whispered.

"... why didn't you visit me?" the question you'd been meaning to ask all along, the real reason you had been upset at him.

you feel him press his lips into the top of your head, gently rocking you both where you stand. the crutch falls from your arm, but neither of you make any move to retrieve it.

"i couldn't. i couldn't face you, layin' in that hospital bed, hooked up to all them machines… knowin' it was my fault…"

"Hey, you know it wasn’t…" you murmur with disapproval; as much as you hate to admit it, you dug yourself into that hole.

"fuck, i'm– so fucking sorry love,"

"don't apologise… please, you did what you had to," you lift your head, and you can look him in the face again. his eyes were slightly red; if your heartstrings were pulled anymore they'd surely break. "plus, i was never really mad at you anyway."

he huffs out a small chuckle, his breath fanning over your face, the crease in his brow melting away as your eyes meet, "well ain't that a relief?"

"i thought you were pissed at me, and that's why you didn't visit…" you clear your throat and avoid his gaze, "i mean, i did lock myself in a building full of hostiles… not my finest moment,"

"no. as stupid as you are sometimes, i could never be angry at you."

"that is a relief."

a quiet overcomes the two of you, standing in eachothers arms as the evening sun casts the room in an orange glow. you wanted to stay like this for the rest of time, but it was getting increasingly difficult to ignore the voice in the back of your head that said this was inappropriate. the way he was talking, holding you, had your hopes high, just like that night before the mission. the one where you went to bed disappointed. it didn't help that you were expecting the let-down now, if anything it only made your heart sink even lower.

you notice that, exactly like you, john was staring at you with an unreadable expression on his face. you tilt your head, wordlessly urging him to tell you what's going on. he sighs, scanning the multitude of cuts and scrapes that litter your face, "i promise you, i will never let anything like that happen again, alright?"

"i believe you." you smile softly, and you do; of course you do, you'd trust him with your life. it wasn't something you'd admit out loud, but you would do just about anything if he asked you to.

"i swear, i'm not lettin' you outta my sight." the look on his face has you squirming is his grasp, under the intense gaze he pinned you with.

"alright, i get it," you chuckle, your face heating up at the implication. this was doing nothing for the enormous crush you were harbouring. shuffling backwards slightly, you put enough space between you that you can comfortably rest your hands on his chest.

"i don't think you do, love," you feel his chest rumble as he speaks, and his gaze becomes serious, "i coulda' lost you. i thought i did. fuck, when soap and gaz came outta there without you? i thought my heart'd stopped… i just– i…"

it was rare to see your captain so lost for words. you feel his heart beat faster under your fingertips, the distant look in his eyes giving away the internal debate he was surely having.

"john?"

"if i'm out of order, say the word and we can forget all about this, but vantage…" his voice was low, and you felt your cheeks heat up to a boiling point as he cradled your face with one hand and leaned in closer, chest to chest again. the anticipation and the proximity might just make you sick. "you mean the world to me, i don't know what i'd do with myself if i lost you."

was that… what you thought it was? it sounded an awful lot like a confession, and you really really wanted it to be, but… was it too good to be true?

the lack of a response from you had john pulling back with an uncharacteristic cough that radiated embarrassment. he let go of your face, hovering next to your cheek as if he couldn't bear to let go, and you frown at the absence of his warmth.

"just ignore me, i shouldn't've–" he begins to back-pedel, going to move away from you before you cut him off.

"no!" you exclaim, with a bit more panic than you intended, and grasp his shirt in your fists to keep him close. "i get it, i really do. i- i care about you too, probably a lot more than a teammate should." your face heats up at the admission, and he lights up with surprise. "i think i always have."

slowly, he moves his hand back to its place cupping your jaw, searching your eyes for any signs that he was misinterpreting your response. when he found none, he smiled at you so genuinely you doubted anyone had ever been so sincere towards you.

"yeah?" he murmurs, the slight disbelief gone from his expression but still present in his voice.

"yes, john," you mirror his tone, bringing a hand up to hold the back of his neck. his skin burned hot under your touch.

"well thank god for that," his voice is barely a whisper now, as he draws your lips closer to his. the air separating you felt thick enough to be cut.

you let your eyes fall closed, and with a small burst of confidence, you lean forward and close the final distance between the two of you. he kisses you so tenderly, with so much emotion, it makes your head spin. you sigh into him, tilting your head and pressing yourself impossibly closer, revelling in the feeling of being in his arms at last. all your many months of pining had led up to this moment, and you felt like your heart might just burst. regretfully, you find yourself needing to break away for air, and to your delight he follows your lips as you pull back.

"maybe i should get injured more often, if this is what i get," you breathe, a dazed smile on your face as both your eyes flutter open, and his chest rumbles under your hand with a deep chuckle.

"you better not; i'll have your head if you do, love."

✹✹✹

#john price x reader #captain price #captain john price #john price #captain john price x reader #captain price x reader #call of duty #cod mw2 #price fic #mw2 x reader #price x reader #141 x reader #first fic ive ever posted im scared #dont break my heart pls <3 #roosterr writes

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sweatervest-obsessed · 9 months

Text

Dedicated To New Lovers

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (she/her pronouns)

WC: ~5.5k

TW: Murder, Angst, Character Death, guns, violence, blood, swearing, depression, mentions of disordered eating, mentions of insomnia, self-deprecating thoughts, loneliness, heartbreak, Mentions of Emily's death, the grieving process, drinking, screaming, crying, sobbing, throwing up, being under pressure

A/N: This is based on s8 ep12, Zugzwang. It deviates slightly but still makes Spencer sob so it could basically be canon. Obviously, or maybe not to some people, this fic is based off of Night Shift by Lucy Dacus. It's been my obsession for the past couple weeks and I simply just had to write something for it. Now my one issue is, besides me ignoring editing it, is that I hate when things don't end happily, but I'm breaking out of the mold of everything ending with a nice neat little bow, so please enjoy! (well as much as you can for such a depressing fic lmao).

"Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life alone ---We find it with another." ~Thomas Merton.

“Thank you for such a wonderful night.” You murmured, pulling away from the kiss, hands on their chest. “I really enjoyed it Spe—”, you coughed and blinked a couple of times, catching yourself. “Especially,” You clutched your chest, smiling up at them, “Sorry I don’t know where that just came from.”

The lips you had just kissed had shifted into a concerned smile, but was none the wiser.

“Especially dessert. I loved the pie place, you were so right! The apple was just perfectly seasoned, and the crust was still crumbly.” You leaned up and kissed their cheek again.

“I’ll see you again, yeah?” You whispered, before turning around and heading into your apartment building, not waiting for a response, smile falling the second you weren’t looking at them. You buzzed yourself in and quickly walked up the four flights of stairs towards your door.

You fucking hated pie. Well that wasn’t true, but you didn’t really want to spend your evening going and getting pie with someone you really weren’t that into.

You couldn’t help but wonder why everything was wrong. They were kind, and sweet, and cared so much for you, but it just wasn’t the same. Your heart was just not in the place, and not a single butterfly fluttered around in your stomach, you couldn’t figure out what was wrong with you.

Well that was a lie too. You knew exactly what was wrong.

“I’m fine, it’s fine.” You mumbled, getting your keys out and unlocking your front door, grabbing the mail off of the mat, and closing the door behind you.

The boxes stacked precariously around your place just left you feeling more and more destitute on this island of loneliness. God you were so fucking dramatic. You dumped the roses they had given you, and your purse onto the kitchen counter, and went straight for the fridge, grabbing the bottle of Prosecco. The cork popped, and you took a swig straight from the bottle.

Your phone rang, and you pulled it out of your pocket, sighing and answering it.

“Hey Em.”

“Wow, was it that bad of a date?” Emily laughed a little. She had been concerned about you, the whole team had been concerned about you. Her death had hit you and Spencer the hardest. You had become fast friends with Emily, regardless of the fact that when she joined, you were the youngest, and newest on the team as well. The two of you had become fast friends, and even faster sisters. She was your everything. She was there for your father’s death, the start of your relationship with Spencer, the harder cases, the bitching, the girls nights, the everything. But you had run into the warehouse, and saw Derek cradling her hand, screaming for a medic, and you just lost it. Your brain went into overdrive, rendering you useless. When JJ walked into the waiting room and told all of you the news, you sat there, shocked. Spencer had tried to go see her, but you had just excused yourself and walked out to the parking lot. It was devastating. You were allowed back from leave a week later than everyone else because Hotch knew you needed more time. So when she walked back into the round room, alive and well, your barely pieced together mind completely shattered all over again.

You watched for seven months as Spencer let you grieve alone while running off to JJ’s house for comfort. You had sat alone in your shared apartment becoming more and more of a shell of a person, not really eating, sleeping, or even drinking water; you were barely existing. Five years of a relationship washed away because that first night, instead of comforting each other, Spencer had abandoned you at the hospital, forgetting to even drive you home. Then, when his headaches got, he pulled even further away, only hearing snippets of how he was doing from those on the team who didn’t even live with him.

The team could only watch as you slowly became a ghost of yourself, while Spencer couldn’t even give a shit to notice.

The first time he mentioned Maeve to you, it was like a stake in your chest. You had caught him talking to her when you had come back early from the therapy Hotch had almost threatened you at gunpoint to go to. He quickly hung up the phone and mentioned that she was his doctor, helping him with his headaches. But you knew better. You had heard him laughing before you walked into the apartment. You hadn’t heard him laugh since before Emily had “died”.

Then, one night, he told you it was over. I don’t love you anymore.

You just sat there, chest caving in on yourself.

Since this was my place first, uh…I can give you a couple of weeks to find a place, and I’ll even sleep on the couch…

His words bounced around in your head before Emily said your name. “You disappeared on me.”

“Shit-uh, shit. Sorry Em.” You shook your head, and pinched your brow. “They were really lovely Em, just the best. But I’m just not ready.”

Emily sighed, “I know it’s only been four months but I’m proud of you, I really am. For even going out in the first place. Want me to come over, bring a new bottle of prosecco.”

You laughed, but it had no substance. “How’d you know I was almost out of Prosecco.”

Emily sighed. “I know you’re a grown woman who can handle living alone, but Sergio and I wouldn’t have minded if you stayed with us for a couple more weeks.”

“And I know that, and I love you so much for it, but the only way I’m ever going to be able to…” the words got stuck in your throat. “I, um. I had to.”

Emily sighed, but understood. “Okay, well, if you need anything, I’m a phone call away, or a block away, whichever is faster for you.”

“Thanks Emily. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that you hung up the phone, not wanting to prolong the conversation any more than it had.

“Fucking Maeve.” You grumbled to the living room before taking another swig from the bottle. You barely slept these days. Your date this past night? The first time you had eaten a full meal in over two weeks. Your skin was a little more gaunt, and the concealer you were using was working overtime to hide the bags under your eyes. You were once someone filled with so much joy, and so much love to give. Everyone knew you were a touchy person, always giving hugs, touching people’s arms, squeezing their hands; if someone tried to touch you now, your whole body would tense up, your stomach would flip. Eventually, after finishing off the bottle, you fell into a restless sleep on the couch of your apartment, since you didn’t want to sleep alone in your own mattress, dreaming about the fact that someone else was probably in the one you bought with Spencer all those years ago when he asked you to live with him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The office went silent as you walked into work the next morning. You were always one to arrive early, make your coffee, visit Penelope in the Bat Cave, stop by Hotch and Rossi’s offices and wish them a good morning. But these days you walked through those glass doors exactly at 9 am, unless you were called in.

It was masochistic to still work at the BAU, but it was one dream you weren’t going to let Spencer take away from you. But as you walked into the bullpen, and all heads turned towards you with such pitiful looks, you doubted whether you belonged here anymore.

Before you could place your bag down, Aaron walked over to you and quietly asked if you would come into his office. You obliged, a sinking feeling in your gut, as you followed Hotch, while the eyes of everyone else followed you.

As Hotch opened the door, you froze. Spencer was sitting on the couch, trying to wipe away the tears in his eyes. He clearly also hadn’t been sleeping, but you knew those tears weren’t for you. You stayed in the doorway until Hotch gestured to one of the chairs along the side of his office. You moved away from the door, but stayed standing, refusing to sit down. Hotch closed the door, trapping you in his office with someone you hadn’t spoken more than necessary to in over four months.

“Do you want to tell me why I'm here.” You asked calmly, trying to ignore the desperate man on the couch, who was just staring down at his feet.

“I am going to ask you to sit out this case.” Hotch looked at you, not sitting down either, ready to calm down whatever fight you’re about to put up.

Your eyes narrowed at your section chief and you scoffed. “You better have a seriously good explanation Hotch because as I’ve told you many times before, I’m doing fine. I don’t know what has been said, but I’m perfectly capable at—”

“I asked him if you could sit out.” Spencer’s voice was hoarse, but solid as he looked at you.

You closed your eyes and flexed one of your hands, resisting the urge to punch him in the teeth.

“Since when do you know what’s best for me, Doctor Reid.” It took all of your control to stay civil and not curse him out in front of your boss.

“That’s not it.” Spencer licked his lips but he quickly averted his gaze. “T-The case. It’s um. It’s about Maeve and I–”

Your heart dropped. Bile started to rise in your throat. “oh.” You had never felt so small in your life. Tears were forming in your eyes. “I’ll be right…I—”

You barely even finished the thought before you opened the door, and quickly walked out of Hotch’s office. No one even tried to pretend that they weren’t watching Hotch’s office. Emily and Derek shot up off of their desks and immediately went to follow you as you sped down the stairs and through the bullpen. Hotch just looked down at his feet while Reid just rubbed his hands over his eyes.

You shoved through the doors, accidentally bumping into Penelope on the way out, causing her to drop the files and coffee mug in her hand. It shattered on the ground, but you couldn’t stop to apologize. You needed to be in the bathroom before you became the agent who threw up all over the halls because of some stupid broken heart.

Emily had quickly helped Penelope pick things up, the two exchanging hushed whispers and looks. Derek had apologized to Penelope while he ran past, catching up to you with every stride. You shoved open the door to one of the woman’s rooms, Derek right behind you.

Luckily for you, it was empty, so you could continue running to the biggest stall, before dropping to your knees and throwing up. It burned your throat and your eyes, stinging every inch of skin as it rose up your throat and into the toilet in front of you.

Derek had pulled back your hair, and was now sitting down next to you as you dry heaved into the toilet. You only threw up actual substance one more time, but it was just that stupid fucking apple pie and the Prosecco from the night before. There was nothing else in your stomach to throw up, so your body settled for making you gag continuously.

“Fuck.” You cried into the toilet, letting yourself fully devolve into the mess you were destined to become this morning.

Derek just rubbed your back, “It’s okay pretty girl, let it all out.”

“Derek Morgan I think I am the ugliest son of a bitch right now.” You mumbled, reaching up and flushing the contents down the drain, tears still racing down your face. “I can’t fucking—” You tried to breathe in but your body was shutting down. That’s all it seemed to do these days. It felt like the only way to protect yourself anymore. “He–”

“I know.” He whispered softly, offering you some toilet paper to let you wipe off your face, as you leaned back, away from the toilet.

That’s when the first sob wracked your body. Maybe you weren’t meant to be on this team anymore. Spencer had been here longer. You were only an asset to the team because of your positive attitude which left your body the second Emily Prentiss was pronounced dead in that waiting room. You were the definition of useless. I mean, Derek and Emily were partners, Hotch and Rossi had everything down pat, and Spencer, even when you were dating, was truly partnered with JJ most of the time. You were the odd man out, and you were fucking useless.

Derek had pulled you into his chest, hugging you as the sobs continued. His heart was breaking for you. No one on the team really knew what had happened that night, all they knew was that you didn’t come in one day, and then when you did the next, you looked like shit. All while Spencer seemed fine. Then, when your desk was moved to the opposite side of the bullpen, it confirmed any and all guesses the profilers had been making. You were never paired with him on cases anymore, and if you were, there was always a third person. You barely looked at one another. Spencer’s scarf had reappeared on his desk one morning, and suddenly you were no longer staying in the same hotel rooms. Derek just kissed your head as you let your body give up.

He wasn’t stupid. Like everyone else, he had noticed the way you had been losing weight. He had noticed the amount of makeup you had started to wear. He even realized that he hadn’t seen you eat any meals with them in the past couple months while they were out on cases. But what he hadn’t fully realized was the fact that you were dead, inside and out. There was nothing left of you but the barely alive body he was holding.

Spencer had really gotten a good look at you for the first time in a very long time. He had already felt guilty about the fact that he had Maeve, and that you had broken up he had broken your heart. But what he had failed to realize was the same thing Derek had–You were someone entirely different, a ghost of yourself. The guilt was gnawing through his stomach when he told Hotch what was going on, and he had begged Hotch to let you sit out, trying to save you from this, but clearly Spencer couldn’t do anything right for you anymore, he hadn’t been able to in a very long time. Hotch had cleared his throat while Spencer shook his head. “I-I tried Hotch, I really didn’t want…”

He just nodded at Spencer. “I know Reid, but you must have known there was no way this conversation was going to go any better than that.”

Reid just nodded, and stood up, going out into the bullpen, not missing the way all of their eyes snapped to him, as Penelope dumped her broken mug into the trash.

Before anyone could say anything, Hotch walked out of his office and looked at everyone. “As you all could have guessed, Agent Y/L/N will not be joining us on this case. I expect everyone in the conference room in ten.” and with that, Hotch walked past Reid, and down the stairs, out towards where he had assumed you had run off too.

Spencer just stood on the stairs, watching Hotch walk to you, wishing it could be him to hold you in his arms.

Hotch opened the door to the women’s bathroom, and saw Derek cradling you. As you heard the door open, your body had tensed up and all of your tears had stopped. Derek and Hotch shared a look before Hotch kneeled down.

“Sorry Aaron.” You mumbled, trying to wipe away the remaining tears on your face.

“Don't apologize. Take the next couple of days off. Penelope might call and ask you a question or two, if she manages to forgive you for breaking her third favorite coffee mug…”

You laughed slightly at his joke, trying not to let it cause you to cry even more, wiping away more tears.

“But I expect you don’t need me to tell you this is an order.”

You nodded at Hotch while you stood up, Derek quickly following suit. “We’re meeting in ten.” He nodded at Derek, who took the hint. He squeezed your arm, and kissed your head, whispering to call him if you needed anything, before leaving just you and Hotch alone in the bathroom. He held up your purse and gave you a sympathetic smile.

“I am only a phone call away Y/n. If anything happens, I want to be the first to know.” He nodded at you, only for you to pull him into a hug. Hotch smiled slightly, because you hadn’t really hugged anyone for a while, so he quickly reciprocated before pulling away. “Hotch, can I ask you one more favor?”

“Anything,” He said softly.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once he had left, You grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and tried to wipe as much of the mascara track marks off. You eventually just wiped off your whole face of makeup. You stared at yourself, realizing just how fucked you were. Eventually, you had made your way out of the bathroom, and past the bullpen. Everyone was piling into the conference room, but Spencer had stopped to watch you enter the elevator, really looking at you. You made eye contact right as the doors started to close. Spencer’s gut twisted at the forlorn look on your face. But before he could do anything, the doors were closed, you were gone, and his name was called by Hotch. -------------------------------------------------------------------------

According to the updates from Emily and Derek, the case was not going well. You knew very little about it, and you wanted to keep it this way, but you knew this case wasn’t going to end well. You could just tell.

You had been existing in your own apartment, making frequent trips to Emily’s to keep your favorite cat company. You would go on long walks as the sun set, nowhere truly in mind, just wandering around trying to think about anything else. You would listen to your music, trying to take your mind off of the man who you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since you first joined the team. It could have been yesterday based on how well you remembered it.

But instead of wallowing, you tried to at least wallow in public, resolving to minimize the sheer amount of pity parties you had been throwing yourself.

Three days later, you had been walking around aimlessly, just trying to hit your new goal of 10,000 steps a day to start being active again, when your phone rang. You had answered it without a thought in the world since usually it was Derek, Hotch, and Emily on the other end.

But this time, it was none of them.

“Hello?” Spencer’s entire body froze once he heard your voice, once he knew that Diane knew who you were.

“I just want her to see one more thing.”

“Hello?” You asked again, just about to hang up, thinking it was some sort of prank call when a woman spoke to you.

“Is this Doctor Y/N Y/L/N?” Maeve looked over at Spencer, confusion and horror in her eyes, while Spencer just stared at the phone, willing for you to hang up.

“Um, yes? May I ask who this is…”

“My name is Diane.”

“Um, okay, Diane. Can I ask why you’re calling me.” You had just walked into your apartment, Spencer could hear the unfamiliar creek of the door as it slammed shut.

“What do you know about Doctor Maeve Donovan.”

Your whole body froze. “What?” barely even whispering out your response.

“What do you know about Maeve.” Her temper exploded, and you just sat there trying to breathe.

“Wh-what do you want to know about her?” You had taken several courses in negotiation, taught by David Rossi himself, so your training started to kick in, but your panic was fighting strongly against it. You just couldn't bring yourself to say her name.

The team was outside of the building, when Garcia had called and tapped them into the phone call Diane was making. When they heard your voice, all of them froze. This was not what she was supposed to do. How the hell did she even know about you?

“I want you to tell me about how she ruined your life.”

Spencer tried to speak but Diane pointed the gun at Maeve, making him go silent. Maeve had started silently crying, unable to believe this is what her life had become.

“I–, You want me to tell you about some woman I have never met?”

“Yes yes yes. Why won’t any of you fucking listen.” You recieved a text on your watch, from Hotch, briefing you on the fact that Diane had both Spencer and Maeve hostage in the warehouse she was calling from.

You took a shaky inhale before biting your lips. “I want to know that they’re both okay Diane. I need to hear both Spencer and M..Maeve speak.” God this was so fucking hard, it hurt so fucking badly.

Diane rolled her eyes before nodding at Maeve. “H-hi.” She whispered. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t—” she was cut off but the barrel of the gun pushed against her head.

All you could do was clutch your fist while she spoke, because you realized you couldn’t be angry at her for falling in love with Spencer, because you had too.

“And Spencer?” Your voice cracked out, desperate to hear his voice.

“Go on Spencer. Tell her you’ve been okay without her.”

Spencer winced and spoke up, dying for you to just hang up the phone. “I’m here Y/N.”

The way he said your name made you want to curl up into a ball and die, but it wasn’t good enough for Diane.

“Not good enough Spencer. Tell her how you ruined her life. She deserves to hear it from you since you broke her just like you broke me for loving the ONE WOMAN I DESERVED TO BE LOVED BY.”

Spencer heard the sharp intake of your breath. He could hear you trying not to cry. After everything, he never wanted to hurt you, but clearly he had fucked himself over and over with every single decision he made. He knew you knew he was playing along with her fantasy, but he knew that you hearing these words would ruin your life more than any gunshot would.

“Tell me Spencer.” You breathed out, knowing if he continued to play along, maybe he could make it out of this alive, regardless of everything that had gone on between the two of you.

“Please.” Spencer turned to Diane. “She has nothing to do with this, let her hang up the ph–”

“If she hangs up, I shoot Maeve and let you watch as she dies.”

And there it was. There was a small, awful part of you that wanted to hang up the phone right then and there. Let him suffer and feel the pain you had been feeling for months and months. Your silence was enough to let Spencer know you were struggling, which hurt him even more because that same small part of him knew he deserved it, forgiveness for you and all.

The team listened to the silence, some of them waiting for the dial tone, others grieving the shit you put yourself through just for someone who didn't love you anymore.

“Would you rather I tell you how he ruined my life, just like he did yours?” You breathed out, finally saying something. The entire SWAT team, along with your team was listening in, everyone was waiting with bated breath to hear--everyone wanted to know.

Prentiss looked over at Hotch. “Hotch we can’t let her do this. It…”

But Hotch just shook his head. “If we hang up the phone, Maeve dies, and if nobody complies with Diana, both Spencer and Maeve die.”

Rossi spoke up. “You have to trust her, she’s negotiating. She’s buying us time. Whether or not we should be listening to this is the real question.”

All of them went silent after that, a decision had been made.

Diane’s face twisted into a smile. “I’d love too.”

You closed your eyes and let out a shaky breath. “D-Do you know what it’s like, Diane, to walk into work every morning and have every single person who promises you they care about you over and over and over again just stare at you like you're some sort of wounded puppy? Watching as they handle you like a glass figurine that they all feel responsible for breaking, and yet the one person who threw you against the wall doesn’t even notice.”

Diane huffed, but she nodded. ”Keep going.”

“Do you know how long we were together?”

Spencer couldn’t decide who the question was for.

“Tell me Spencer. Tell me how many days of her life you threw away just to love someone who you’ve never met before..”

He couldn’t look at Maeve. He couldn’t look at Diane. Your heart had given out right then and there, they had never even met in person. He had fallen in love with a woman he'd never seen before.

“Tell her Spencer.” You voice came out harsher than intended, your resolve was gone, but it made Diane smile even more, becoming comfortable with the taste of venom in your mouth.

His voice wavered. “Five years, two months, nine days, and three hours.”

You let out something resembling a controlled sob, which had Diane’s smile growing by the second. Maeve just stared at him, and Spencer couldn’t tell if she was horrified or upset or just sad.

“You threw away over five years worth of love, to ruin my relationship?”

“Diane.” You said suddenly, trying to get her attention back off of the two people she was holding hostage.

“What.” She was starting to become irritated, ancy, waving the gun around more.

“Want to know the worst part about it.”

“If you tell it to me quickly because I’m running out of patience Y/N.”

“He’s making me transfer departments.”

Your big secret was out.

“What.” Spencer breathed out, the shock spread across his face. He couldn’t imagine the bullpen without you, and when he wasn't on the phone with Maeve, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. The days where you weren’t near him went by torturously slow, and all he could do was hope that you might look at him again, let him apologize, let him fix this. Diane watched as the pain flashed across Spencer's face, enjoying it.

The team all turned to Hotch, hoping that she was bluffing. But Hotch just looked down at the ground, confirming the awful truth.

“I just finished putting in my transfer today.” You didn't know who you were explaining it to–the team, to Diane, or to Spencer, maybe all of them.

“Being around him, knowing he doesn’t lo—” You went silent for a second before switching gears. “This was my dream.” Your lips started talking, and everyone listened intensely. “I trained specifically for the BAU. I got three Bachelors in worthless shit so that the FBI would spike its interest in me so that I could get into the academy and prove myself to Agent Hotchner. Prove myself to Jason Gideon. Then I went and got a PhD in Psychology with focuses in Trauma and Forensic Sciences. And I fucking loved it. I had finally proven to myself that maybe, just maybe, I was good enough. I finally found a place I belonged, with the people I belonged with. And I was so fucking good at my job Diane. You wouldn’t even comprehend it. But he took all of it from me. Every last bit of joy was sucked out of my body the minute he told me he didn’t love me anymore. The minute he didn’t even apologize for breaking my heart and ruining everything I worked so hard for. And then he still expected me to be at my best, getting pissed when I would be distracted, disrespecting me and my intelligence in front of our peers, our friends. He neglected our relationship, abandoning me when I needed him the most, and then expected me to love him all the same. The audacity is through the fucking roof.”

Spencer was just staring at the phone, heart beating loudly in his chest. “And the honest to god truth Diane, the worst part of it all, I would forgive him in a heartbeat. I don’t even know why I would, I feel no fucking reason to forgive him, but I might as well. If he asked me to greet him on the tarmac and kiss him once this case is over and he survives, I might, just so I can remember how it felt to be loved. He barely noticed that I had stopped eating, or didn’t care enough to say anything. He didn't do shit when I would show up half an hour late to the jet because I was so exhausted that I fell asleep at my desk, because I haven’t slept in months. He just doesn’t care anymore and I’d rather die than step foot into Quantico again because losing him was already too much to fucking bare. I’d rather never see him ever again, if I can help it.”

You exhaled, feeling the slightest weight off of your chest, but your words were calculated. The end of your rant held some truth to it, both you and Spencer knew that, but something about the last line of what you had said was bugging Emily.

She turned to Hotch. “Rossi is right, she’s stalling.”

“But?” JJ asked her, looking at the building, before looking back at Emily.

“She’s trying to get Diane to shoot Spencer to save Maeve.”

Just as the entire team realized this, they heard Spencer’s voice, steady and unwavering. “I told her not to come on this case because I knew she would have slowed us down.”

Your brain shortcircuited as a hand came up to cover up your sob. Not because what he said was the truth but because Spencer knew what you were doing, and he was trying to do the same thing.

“She’s been useless ever since our friend was killed during a case almost two years ago. She’s barely intelligent, and all she does for this team, truly, is parade around with a positive attitude that gets on on everyone else's nerves because she could never put as much effort into anything as you clearly have.”

Diane walked over to him, squatting down in front of him. “I want to hear you say it to her Spencer.”

Your mouth betrayed you as a soft whimper came through the phone. Spencer didn't mean all of this, he couldn't have, but hearing the words still burned you alive.

“I-I…You slow this team down, and I have always thought you were a waste of space. I never loved you…” And if it wasn't for the slight change in pitch right as he said never, Diane would have believed him, but she pulled away glaring at Spencer.

“Liar.” She hissed at him. “Liar, Liar, LIAR.”

All you could hear through the phone was a muffled struggle before a shot rang out. You heard a second one and heard Spencer land near the phone. You couldn’t make a single sound, conjuring up the worst scenarios in your head. You could hear him trying to negotiate with Diane. You could hear Maeve struggling to breathe. You heard him begging to take her place, you heard Diane screaming about Thomas Merton.

You heard Spencer scream out wait before a gun shot rang out through the warehouse. Everyone was silent, for all you knew Spencer was dead. He had been shot agasin and killed, and the last thing you would have ever said to him was that you never wanted to see him again. But then, you heard Spencer start sobbing. The small twisted part of you came back and was so relieved that he was okay, that he was alive. But listening to the man you would die for cry over another woman’s body made your skin turn inside out. You had out your phone on speaker for your rant, leaving it on the counter. You reached for it, ready to hang up. But that’s when you heard your name.

Spencer had sobbed your name.

He scrambled over to the phone and frantically repeated your name over and over until you interrupted him.

“Spencer.”

“I’m so fucking sorry.” He whispered, sitting against the wall unable to look at the bodies on the floor. "I didn't...I didn't mean any of it, I swear."

“Spencer. I–” You inhaled sharply. “It’s selfish but I’m glad you’re still alive.” You whispered out, causing Spencer to let out another sob.

"Y/N I-I'm so sorry. I-Can you..."

“I-I can’t do this Spence. I’m so sorry.” You whispered, your heart shattering all over again. “I can’t….I’m sorry.” And with that, you hung up, leaving Spencer on the floor, heartbroken and sobbing, truly losing both women he had ever loved in the matter of seconds.

"You will never know true pain until you look into the eyes of someone you love, and they look away." ~ Anonymous

Next Part

#x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #Spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #Spencer reid fanfic #Spencer reid angst #Spencer reid x reader angst #criminal minds #Spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x reader fluff #criminal minds fanfiction

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simphornies · 2 months

Text

A/N: The final part! This was definitely a ride. I hope you all enjoy! Who knows...Maybe I'll write an epilogue <3

Word count: 3k (3,038) Warnings: violence, reader goes kinda crazy for a little bit, nifty behavior

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

Deal Breaker [ Vox x Angel!Reader ] FINALE

“Alastor!”

The voice was all too familiar. Vox opened his eyes to see your silhouette in the dust and smoke. Your hands were stretched out to your side, blocking any attack from landing on him. He didn’t want to believe it but you were really there. In front of him. He was speechless.

“Alastor stand down!” You screamed. “He’s had enough. He won’t be another voice in your broadcast. I cannot allow it.”

Alastor shrunk down to his regular form, disappointed but compliant. His ears lay flat on his head showing his discontent but it quickly faded away as soon as he saw your wings weren’t lifted. They were dragging behind you. “Y/N, my dear, your wings…” Worry laced his voice, something nobody had ever expected.

“I’m fine. I need to tend to everyone else. But first-” You turned your body to face Vox, “I need to deal with the Vees.” You looked him in the eye and Vox broke at the sight of seeing you in that state in front of him. Only four of your wings were up while two were down, golden blood covering them. Your eyes were puffy and filled with tears but you didn’t look sad. He opened his mouth to speak but the pain caught up to him. He coughed out blood and clutched the crack across his screen before powering down.

You caught him before he hit the floor and carried him in your arms. “Bring them all inside. Lucifer, we’ll fix the damages as soon as I deal with this bullshit.” He simply nodded and made the two Vees float on in while you carried Vox inside. You were gentle when you set Vox down on the couch while Lucifer dropped the other two, making them exclaim out in pain.

“Did you have to drop me on my face?” Valentino complained. Lucifer shrugged and gave him a smug look, “Whoops!” He laughed, making Valentino growl.

“Watch it, moth.” You hissed. You stood up tall and loomed over them, your wings fully spread out with the exception of two. Your heavenly glow made them squint in response. Maybe it was the adrenaline but you felt no pain. “I must applaud the audacity the two of you had.” You knelt down and grabbed their faces harshly. “To no avail, of course. But the attempt was there, though not something to take pride in.” You pushed their faces away in disgust, wiping your hands off as if they were the filthiest things you’ve ever touched. You began to pace around them with your hands behind your back. “Tell me, demons. Do you value your lives now? Do you value your power? Your status? Your money?” You asked. They didn’t respond.

Your hair and wings were covered with eyes as you flared up at them, “I asked a question.” You stabbed each of their legs with two angelic daggers, “Please. Do answer.”

“Yes.” They said in unison, breathing unevenly due to the pain.

The hotel staff felt fear watching you lose composure. It was a rare sight and nobody dared to speak up. Besides Lucifer. “Yeah you tell ‘em, bitch!” He cheered you on, making Charlie face palm at the comment.

“I suspected so.” You smiled sweetly at them, the same smile you give every sinner you’ve met. But this smile was a facade for you felt pure unbridled rage at the fact that they thought they could bring this tower down with meager attempts. You pulled the daggers out, making them scream.

“How about we make a deal?” You offered, hand held out knowing they wouldn’t even be able to shake it.

“What do you want?” Velvette asked, voice shaking.

“Nothing much. I just want you both to never fuck with us again and never even think about doing so. And…” You trailed off.

“And?” Valentino’s voice was shaky too. Angel Dust found pleasure at the sight, sneaking in a photo.

“And your souls, of course!” You happily exclaimed, folding your hands together. Their eyes widened before glaring at you.

“And what if we say no?” Velvette contested.

“Well…That certainly is an option. Of course, you can say no.” You hummed, pacing around them once again. “But know that once you do…The power, the status, the money, your businesses…Well. They will simply no longer exist!” You smiled.

“Wh-what?” Valentino’s voice was small. He was terrified.

“You fucking bitch you can’t do that!” Velvette screamed and tried to jump at you. You flicked her away effortlessly with your wing, sending her back down with Valentino.

“Ah but I can, my sweet sinner!” You smiled at her, “The King of Hell can make that entire building disappear with a snap of a finger! Isn’t that right, Luci?”

Lucifer nodded and stood with pride, his hands on his hips, “Sure can! Effortless too.” He grinned.

“And without this deal in place, Alastor will be free to do whatever his morbid little heart desires with you two!” You spin around happily, “Why, that would make a fantastic broadcast, don’t you think so, Alastor?”

“It would be one of my best ones!” He grinned, his aura darkening.

“Fine! Fine.” Velvette gave up, “We’ll make the fucking deal.”

“Wonderful choice!” You clapped, “Nifty, dear! Come here please.”

Nifty came running to your side, laughing maniacally.

“Oh fuck why is she here?” Valentino tried his best to squirm away from the little demon child, fearing his life.

“Because! You’ll be giving her your souls.” You gave them an innocent look.

“WHAT?” Everyone, with the exclusion of Lucifer, Alastor and Nifty, screamed in unison.

“Who would own you better than this one here? She hardly cares for such things and I do believe that it would be such a wonderful gift for her. She’s done so much for the hotel and I think I should award her with something more…hellish!” You placed your hands on Nifty’s shoulder, “Do you want to own your own souls, Nifty?”

She nodded excitedly, “Ready!” She cackled. “I want my own souls.”

Velvette and Valentino were sweating in fear, a little bit terrified of the tiny one-eyed demon. “Ah but of course, if you try to do anything to her. Well…Let’s just say you’ll get what you give!” You pushed Nifty closer. With a snap of your fingers a written contract appeared in front of the two Vees and they were allowed to hold the pen that came with it.

“Sign right there on the line stating that your soul is now ours combined. There’s quite a couple of fine prints in there though I don’t think you’d need to read it considering you will never harm this hotel, its staff and whoever they’re involved with ever again.”

Velvette and Valentino signed their souls away, their scleras turning black. Lucifer released them from their binds and you shook their hands. “Wonderful doing business with you two!” Your smile quickly dropped to a glare. You wiped your hands as soon as you let go of them. “Now go home.”

Velvette and Valentino wasted no time leaving the hotel, almost tripping over the mess they created on their way out. For a moment, it was silent. Alastor stood by, impressed at your devilish behavior. Angel Dust was relishing in the fact that you kicked Valentino’s ass, showing off the photo he took to Husk. Nifty just went straight to sweeping. Charlie and Vaggie ran to you, giving you a tight but careful hug.

“Y/N…I thought we lost you.” Charlie sobbed. You hugged the two back, your healthy wings wrapping around them.

“It’s going to take a lot more than that to get rid of me. I wouldn’t have made it out okay without you guys.” You smiled. You pulled away and wiped the tears in Charlie’s eyes, “It’s okay, Charlie. I’ll be fine.”

Lucifer claps his hands together, “So…” He smiles, “Should we get to fixing or…”

You laughed at him, “Yes. I’ll catch up with everyone. I have one more person to deal with.” You looked at Vox, your heart heavy. His screen was off, sparks still flying out of his screen. “Before you all leave though, do we still have Sir Pentious’ tools and manuals?”

Vox powered back up. He winced as his body still remembered the pain from the earlier fight. He looked around the unfamiliar room on an unfamiliar bed. He sat up slowly and as he did, he caught a glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror. His screen was fixed, not up to his standards, but he didn’t have the crack across his screen anymore. His screen was completely replaced. His ears finally caught on to the sounds of construction outside.

You opened the door to your room with some books on how to fix screens. Upon seeing Vox awake, you dropped them and ran to his side. “Vox! You’re awake. How’s your screen? Does it feel okay? Despite my lack of knowledge on fixing technology, I did my absolute best to fix the crack. The wiring-”

Vox cut your rumbling off by pulling you into a tight hug. He held you with fear that he might never get this chance again. He was afraid that if he let go, that’ll be the last he’ll ever see of you. It wasn’t until he felt you hug him back that he relaxed and sobbed into your shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” Was all he could muster in between his cries.

You let him ride his emotions out, not letting go until he calmed down and stopped glitching. When he did you pulled away from him. “Vox…”

“I know! I lied. I lied about a lot and…And I let my pride stop me from coming sooner.” He started, “Even if you don’t believe me, please give me a second chance and your trust when I say that I am so fucking sorry. You opened my eyes a lot and I’m sorry.” He looked down with shame, unable to look you in the eye.

“Vox. I know. I get it.” You sat on the bed next to him, “I’ll admit that it pained me when I found out you lied about Alastor. I was shattered. I was stuck between choosing my dear friend and, well, you. If I’m being completely honest, trusting you again after that…that elaborate and evil plan is difficult.”

He sighed, guilt engulfing him.

“But, if there’s one thing I learned here that I didn’t in Heaven is that everybody deserves a second chance.” You said softly. He finally looked up at you. You weren’t looking at him but instead you looked at the group picture that everyone took together when you first arrived. “I’m going to need an explanation, a detailed one and then…” You turned to face him, “And then we’ll make that deal.”

He looked at you dumbfounded. He didn’t understand why you’d give him another chance let alone reconsider the thing that started this all to begin with. “Y/N, I don’t care for that deal anymore. I want to make it up to you. For everything.”

“Let’s change that first one then.” You phased in the original contract you two had created when you first met and ripped the unsigned contract in half. “Promise me you won’t ever lie to me again and in return, I shall do the same.” You held out your hand to which he gladly shook.

“You have my word.” The deal was sealed as he shook your glowing hand. “Now…Let’s start from the beginning.”

It took a while for him to cover everything from the initial plan to how it ended up like this. He covered the first half quickly but slowed down at a certain point.

“And then when we came back from the hotel and you stayed in my building with me…” He trailed off. “Well I…”

You tilted your head to the side, “You…?”

“I came to the realization that I truly fell in love with you.” He confessed. Your face flushed in response.

“Me?” You gasped out, “No. You couldn’t have.” You awkwardly laughed, “What is there to love about me?”

“Look at your friends, Y/N! They truly admire you and trust you. You’re a being worthy of trust and love. You protected this hotel and left your home behind for sinners.” He began, “Your heart is a blessing. You’ve saved them outside of battle. You became their deal breaker, freeing them from their chains. Even when you’re hurt, you always do the right thing. You’re forgiving. Your beauty goes past your brain and your looks. Your entirety, your soul. It’s all beautiful. And anyone that can’t be changed by that is fucking stupid.”

You blush at his flattery, your heart pounding out of your chest. But he didn’t stop.

“And me? I didn’t fall in love with you for your power or for how pretty you look. Even if it did kickstart this whole thing,” He laughed, “You’re kind. You find joy in everything even in the worst places. You’re strong and resilient and your heart is in the right place. The look in your eyes when you saved me, it…it broke me in a way that I’ve never felt. I don’t want you to ever feel that pain again. And I don’t want somebody to try and pull the same shit I did to you. Allow me by your side, forever and always.” He held your hand, giving you a soft kiss on your knuckles, “And let me be yours as I want you to be mine. No bullshit attached.”

“Vox…” You smiled sweetly, tears in your eyes. “You speak such nonsense at times.” You laughed.

“It’s true, angel. I don’t know if it’s some magic of yours but, I’ll leave it all behind. You are my pride.”

“Vox. I adore you. I do. I fell in love with you with your acts of service, your gift giving. You truly spoiled me. As much as I absolutely want to kiss you right now, words are nothing but words. Actions are what truly matters.” You responded.

“I’ll do anything Y/N! I’ll lea-Did you just say you’d kiss me right now?” He paused, his screen warming up.

“Yes! I absolutely do. But you just…You hurt me Vox. You absolutely shattered me.” You got up and flared your wings at him. At that moment, he saw your injured wings. They were wrapped up with sticks holding them in one position to heal. “I thought you were going to die from all of that. And to think!” You started to cry in front of him, “To think my last thought of you would have been betrayal! Do you understand how badly that hurt me? You could have died and I would have been left wondering if you truly meant everything. If you truly did love me! And when I couldn’t reach you with this watch, I thought you were dead!” You were hysterical.

Vox got up, ignoring his pain and cupped your face in his hands. “I can’t tell you how much I want to stab myself right now seeing you cry over me.” He wiped your tears away and you’ve never seen such sadness in his eyes before.

You kissed Vox in the heat of the moment, your arms wrapping around him. He shut his eyes and kissed you back and for once it wasn’t filled with lust. He felt different. He felt love. Your crying ceased and you just held him close, not wanting to part with him.

“Help me trust you again. And then you’ll be mine as I’ll be yours, forever and always.” You smiled, wiping the remnants of your tears from the corners of your eyes away, “But can you please tell me how to properly fix you. I fear that my lack of skill with wiring affected you.”

He laughed and hugged you. “Is that really something you’re worried about right now?”

“Yes! I don’t know how much my heart can take if you catch on fire! And lay back down! You’re in no condition to be up at this moment.” You forced him back down, basically tucking him in. You held his hand in yours, this time you gave him a kiss on his knuckles.

Charlie came in to check in on you two and excitedly gasped at the sight of you two making up. She hugged you two a bit too tightly, making Vox groan in pain. “Oops! Sorry! I’m just so glad you two made up!” She exclaimed.

“Oh…Vox I may have forgotten one thing…” You trail off.

“What?”

“Well! Since the two other Vees kinda maybe sort of ruined our new building a little bit, I proposed to Y/N that you stay here at the hotel to make up for it!” She grinned.

Vox blinked and stared at her, and then to you, and back at her. “With…Alastor?”

As if on cue, Alastor teleported next to Vox on the bed. “Yes!” He grinned, a bit too menacingly for the situation. He screamed in response and almost fell off the bed. Alastor played a laugh track as soon as he heard the thump on the floor.

“Alastor!” You said with a scolding tone.

“Ah don’t fret, Y/N! I’m just having a little bit of fun!” He flipped on his stomach and started to kick his legs in the air, “I do just revel in watching others suffer! Haha!”

“Even if you’re not trying to get into Heaven, I think having you here will be a good start to becoming a better person!” Charlie smiled, “Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!”

Vox sighs, “Alright alright, I guess I’ll give this shit a shot for real this time.” He got up and rubbed the spot he landed on, “But seriously do not put me next to Alastor!”

You took his hand in yours, “You need not worry about that, Vox. You’ll be staying with me.” You smiled. “Oh and I own Val and Velvette’s souls now.” Vox didn’t know whether he should be shocked about staying in your room or the fact that his overlord friends lost so badly that they no longer own their own souls.

“...What.”

Taglist!: @emekeneme @ghostdoodlen @chewbrry @dawko-fanpage @lofasofabread @hxzbinwrites @rapunzelbro @elsihiaweee @blackrose8425 @dickmastersworld @lofasofabread @rosiethevoxobesser @themetalbabygirl @markster666 @riskyraiker @fadingflowers-world (it still won't let me tag the two of you)

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #vox x reader #hazbin hotel vees #vox hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel velvette #hazbin hotel vox #slow burn #hazbin hotel valentino #hazbin hotel fanfiction

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97-liners · 1 year

Text

out of the frying pan and into your heart

jeon wonwoo x female reader

tags: college au, fraternities, fake dating, misunderstandings, childhood friends to lovers, this all could have been resolved with some proper communication, lots of pining specifically for em, fluff, rom com, best friend minghao, y/n is oblivious!!!

warnings: alcohol, weed, frats, american college setting

words: 9.3k

synopsis:

it starts, as it always does with this particular collection of friends, with shenanigans and cahoots.

well, more specifically, for wonwoo it starts with shenanigans, when soonyoung and junhui somehow manage to collide brain cells and write in to the school newspaper's love advice columnist about his crush on his childhood best friend.

and for you, the aforementioned childhood best friend and, in secret, also the aforementioned love advice columnist, it starts with cahoots when kim mingyu manages to convince you to fake date him so he can win some popularity contest for his frat.

for @notesof-mh

It starts, as it always does with this particular collection of friends, with shenanigans and cahoots.

Well, more specifically, for Wonwoo it starts with shenanigans, when Soonyoung and Junhui somehow manage to collide brain cells.

He had barely been awake for 15 seconds when they had barged into his room, laptop in hands, just to show him the text in a pink-colored submission box surrounded by heart emojis. Wonwoo squints, the blurry words coming into just enough focus for him to make out what they say. “Dear Cherry, I’m a third year computer science student and I’m in love with my best friend, except I’m— what the hell is this?”

He glares at Soonyoung who grins cheerfully and points again at the screen. “Read the rest, Wonwoo!”

Wonwoo sighs and continues reading. “Except I’m a huge awkward loser and she’s so cool and pretty, and I don’t know how to tell her I like her. What should I do?”

“Alright, hit send,” Junhui instructs, tilting the laptop away and laughing maniacally.

Wonwoo pushes his hand across his face, trying his best to wipe away the last vestiges of sleep-addled confusion, and then he realizes what’s happening.

“Wait, you can’t do that,” he tries to protest, but Soonyoung giggles and clicks a button.

“No, this will be good,” Junhui says, plopping down on the edge of Wonwoo’s bed. “Minghao told me that whoever runs the advice column in the school paper is, like, a love guru, and she has four thousand followers on instagram. And she’s never shown her face, but she’s probably also really pretty.”

Wonwoo groans. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Just trust us,” Soonyoung pats Wonwoo’s knee through the blanket, “this is a good idea.”

And for you, it starts with kahoots, when your chemistry lab partner, Mingyu, pulls your stool closer to his side and whispers a proposition to you.

“Do you want to be my fake girlfriend?”

You narrow your eyes at him through your fogged up department-issued safety goggles. “Are you insane? What kind of fumes are you on?”

“None,” Mingyu replies. “I’m Sigma’s nominee for the Greek God award at the inter-fraternity tournament this year and I’m the only nominee who’s single.”

“And so I’m your pick,” you respond flatly.

Mingyu nods eagerly. His safety glasses slide down his nose, and he has to push them back up. “Yeah, you’re so pretty and cool, I think it’d be really impressive if I somehow managed to pull you.”

“Huh.”

“And,” he adds on, lowering his voice even more, “Jeonghan thinks my only real competition this year is going to be Jung Jaehyun from Nu Kappa Tau, and rumor has it you rejected him in high school. Twice. So I think it’d be pretty funny if we ended up together.”

You scoff and turn back toward the titration in front of you. “You can’t go up to people and ask for things like this.”

“C’mon, you know the winner gets free parking for an entire semester,” he whines. “Ok, how’s this? If you’ll pretend to be my girlfriend for the Greek God award, I’ll write our lab reports for the rest of the semester.”

His offer makes you pause, and he jumps on that pause, wedging his way in there.

“I’ll give you executive editing power, but I’ll do all the work,” he wheedles, “and I’ll give you a perfect peer eval at the end of the semester. I promise,” he puts a big meaty hand on your lab notebook and smears the ink under his fingers. “Kim Mingyu isn’t a liar.”

“I’ll conveniently ignore the fact that you’re lying about having a girlfriend to win this award, then,” you roll your eyes.

“That’s different, though,” he protests, “the award is dumb and meaningless and I really want it. But a promise made between buddies is important.”

He looks earnest, so you decide to lay off on him just a little. “When we’re fake-dating,” you sigh, “you can’t call us buddies anymore.”

“So that’s a…”

You groan, hating yourself for being so indulgent. “Yes. That’s a yes.”

“Hold on Y/N, have you seen this?”

“Seen what?” You look over the top of your laptop screen, where you’re halfway through a paper on the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Minghao, your co-admin of the school newspaper’s (infamous) advice column turns his screen towards you. “Someone wrote in calling themselves a huge awkward loser.”

“Huh,” you grin to yourself as you read over the message quickly. “That’s kind of cute, actually.”

“Of course you think it’s cute,” Minghao rolls his eyes. “I’m going to assign this one over to you.”

“Yeah, sure, but please,” you mutter, “can you be a bit more discreet about it?”

Minghao looks at you over the top of his glasses. “What, about us being Ask Cherry? It’s not as embarrassing as you make it out to be.”

“Be quiet,” you hiss, looking around, “someone could overhear!” You frown, and then quietly, you add on, “and it is embarrassing. I’m supposed to be a journalism major, and I’m here making up horoscopes and giving fake relationship advice three days a week.”

This is an overstatement, and Minghao rolls his eyes. You only make up horoscopes and give fake relationship advice one day a week (Mondays are for Matters Of The Heart, your schedule says). There’s also Am I The Asshole Wednesdays, a campus favorite, and Friday Free-for-alls, when you field confessions of all types. Dear Cherry, I need to get this off my chest. I’ve been using my roommate’s shampoo this whole semester, and today I found out that our two other roommates have also been using this roommate’s shampoo. He doesn’t suspect a thing.

You hadn’t meant to end up in this position. You write serious pieces for the school newspaper too, reporting on the Student Government’s legislative sessions and the university’s semesterly budget for grants to culturally-centered student organizations. Those articles, you have your name attached to. But at the end of last year, the new editor-in-chief Jeonghan had approached you and convinced (strong-armed) you into becoming the new writer for the infamous advice column, Ask Cherry, since Cherry himself was quitting to make more time for other priorities.

(“And the kicker is,” you had complained to Minghao, “nobody will ever believe me.” Choi Seungcheol, fraternity president, football player, gym rat, jock, fuckboy extraordinaire— relationship advice columnist? No, it’s simply not realistic.

“I’m sitting on the juiciest piece of gossip to cross my path in my entire life, and I can’t do anything about it,” you say dejectedly.

“Hmm.” Minghao doesn’t even pretend to be interested.)

But, despite your disastrous real-world love life, your clumsily dispensed life advice, and the completely made up horoscopes, Ask Cherry readership skyrocketed under your intrepid watch. Once, you told a reader that the albino squirrel that lives in the tree next to the physics building was a good omen, and the next day, rumor spread that an albino squirrel sighting would grant you an A on your next exam. For weeks after, people would scatter peanuts and pieces of toast by the base of the tree next to the physics building, until campus facilities had to fence the area off because raccoons were starting to show up instead.

Minghao finding out had been a complete accident, after you had lent him your laptop to print out a paper that was due the next hour, but you had forgotten to minimize the window with your Ask Chrery submissions. Minghao, being someone who loves giving advice, both solicited and unsolicited, naturally joined in on this scheme of yours.

“Anyways,” you shrug. You look up as Junhui steps into the public study area of the library and scans the tables twice before making eye contact with you, and then waving. “Minghao, did you invite the others over to study with us?”

“Yeah,” Minghao responds, raising an eyebrow at you. “You got a problem with that?”

“No, it’s just—“ you’re about to complain about never being able to focus on your work with the rest of them around, but the words die on your lips when you spot Wonwoo trailing behind Junhui with a bemused expression on his face and a cardboard tray holding bubble teas in his hands. You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. “Hey guys,” you wave over to them, clearing off the table space next to you to make room for them.

“I brought you a taro milk tea,” Junhui announces, gesturing behind him, “and a Wonwoo to boot.”

“He made me walk with him because he didn’t know your favorite drink,” Wonwoo explains quietly as he slides the drinks onto the table and takes his seat next to you. “Are you working on that international relations paper?”

“Yeah.” You take your taro milk tea. No ice, 50% sweet, tapioca pearls and grass jelly, just the way you like it.

“Do you think you’ll be done by Friday?”

“I will be free by then,” you promise him, punctuating your statement by stabbing your boba straw through the film covering the cup. You’d rather suffer through an all nighter on Sunday than miss your regular Friday night gaming sessions with Wonwoo, a tradition the two of you have kept up since both of you were in middle school and still playing Starcraft.

“Anyway,” Junhui leans over the table, resting his chin on top of his interlaced fingers. “I have a funny story.”

You tear your gaze away from Wonwoo. “Hm?”

“So, you know that advice columnist for the school paper? Wonwoo submitted a question the other day. Well, Soonyoung and I did, but for Wonwoo.”

You feel your blood run cold. It’s not that you’re ashamed of running a love advice column, but it’s more that you’re… embarrassed. And you’ve been running it in secret for so long that at this point, you can’t even fathom anyone outside of Minghao knowing. Maybe when you graduate, you’ll do an identity reveal, but you’re not quite there now.

“Can we talk about literally anything else,” Wonwoo grouses, somewhat to your relief. he glares at Junhui, but the effect is somewhat dampened when he lifts his bubble tea to his mouth and loudly slurps up some tapioca pearls.

“Yeah,” you quickly agree, not eager to have your secret identity exposed.

Junhui steamrolls on ahead, however. “So. If you’re reading the column and there’s a question from someone who has a big stupid crush, you know who it’s from.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Wonwoo? A crush?

“Junhui,” Wonwoo groans, digging his fingers into the bridge of his nose, brows furrowed in an expression of exquisite pain.

Minghao, however, leans forward and lets his glasses slide down his nose. He laces his fingers together. “A crush? On who?”

Junhui and Minghao both turn to stare at Wonwoo, who flushes beet red.

“Oh, hey guys!”

You feel a heavy arm around your shoulder and turn to see, to your abject horror, Mingyu, who scoots his way onto the bench to squeeze in next to you. “What are you doing here,” you hiss at your oversized interloper, but Mingyu just glances pointedly at the spot two tables down where a bunch of upperclassmen are sitting and chatting. You recognize Choi Seungcheol, the president of Mingyu’s frat, and you sigh and deflate. Fine. A promise is a promise.

You smile weakly at the other three guys sitting at your table. “Surprise,” you say flatly,” Mingyu is my boyfriend now.”

You’re momentarily distracted by a loud honking noise as Junhui narrowly avoids choking on his bubble tea and spraying the table through his nose.

“Mingyu?!” Minghao sounds simultaneously dismayed and slightly judgemental.

“C’mon, dude,” Mingyu whines, slumping like a kicked puppy. You pat his bicep soothingly. “You don’t have to make it sound that bad.”

Minghao and Junhui share a conspicuous glance. Mingyu isn’t the type of guy you’d usually go for, but you think this reaction is a bit uncalled for. “He’s not that bad,” you find yourself defending your fake boyfriend. “Mingyu is nice, and he’s really tall.”

You blink. Mingyu turns his pout on you now. “Nice and really tall? Are you for real?”

“It’s true,” you scowl at him. “Are you here to study, or did you just come by to get on my nerves?”

“Okay, well,” Junhui interjects sharply, “Wonwoo and I should get going.”

“Wait, but you two just got here,” you attempt to protest, but Wonwoo, who had been quiet this whole time, stands up and slings his backpack over his shoulder.

“I’ll see you later, Y/N,” he says to you, before leaving along with Junhui.

(It’s not until later, when you’re lounging with Minghao in the living room of your shared apartment, that it hits you, again, but this time with its full weight.

“Wonwoo likes someone,” you say out loud. It’s not a question.

Minghao glances up form his book at you with a frown plastered across his face, his brows creased with irritation. He evaluates you carefully over the silver rims of his glasses, which you know aren’t prescription but are mainly there to make him look elegant and intellectual.

“...yes,” he finally acknowledges.

You frown despite yourself. “I wonder who it is.”

“What does it matter to you,” Minghao scoffs, “you’re dating Mingyu, remember?”

“You can pretend to hate Gyu, but I know you like him better than any of the rest of us.” You really hadn’t been expecting to defend Mingyu twice in a day, but you suppose that’s life as Kim Mingyu’s girlfriend. “And anyways, Wonwoo and I have been friends since we were kids. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me earlier.”

“Yeah, he probably can’t believe it either,” Minghao mutters under his breath so quietly, you almost miss it. Then, in a louder voice, he chides, “don’t think too much about it, yeah? You still have to reply professionally to his advice request. His anonymous advice request.”

“Right,” you sigh dejectedly, frowning at your laptop balanced across your knees. “How do I tell him that he’s not a nerd and a loser without giving away that I know who he is?”

Minghao shrugs. “Maybe tell him to be patient. Or maybe tell him to try to start getting over his crush.”

You consider his suggestion for a moment. It’s appealing, but then the thought of Wonwoo wasting away in his dark bedroom, sighing as he pines over his unrequited love, flashes across your mind. “I just don’t want him to be sad.”)

“C’mon, he was right on top of you,” Wonwoo complains. You can hear the creaking of his gaming chair in the background, undoubtedly as he rises from his reclined position to gulp down more of whatever energy drink he has in his mini fridge this week. You groan and dig your fingers into the junction between your neck and shoulder, trying with little success to work out the knot that’s developed over this last round of PUBG.

“Wonwoo, that’s the problem, I suck at close range,” you huff in response, “you know I get panicky and forget to turn off auto-fire.”

It’s game night, and you and Wonwoo have been at it for the past two hours. Your paper isn’t done yet, but it can wait. It’s been over a decade since the years when the two of you would spend your summers together playing video games and walking aimlessly around the neighborhood with half-melted popsicles, talking for hours. But even as your social circles diverted from his, it’s always been something of an unspoken agreement that for this, you’d always make time for Wonwoo, and he’d always make time for you.

“Another round?” You and Wonwoo both ask the question at the same time. There’s a pause, and then you’re both laughing. Even over the headset mic, Wonwoo’s laugh is loud and unrestrained. It feels like a secret, a side of Wonwoo that he saves just for you and for Friday nights spent on opposite sides of the monitor.

“So.” You’re still waiting for the next match to start when Wonwoo breaks the comfortable silence. “Mingyu?”

You fidget at the ties of your hoodie. It’s stolen from Wonwoo, and you’ve had it since middle school at least. “Yeah?”

“Interesting choice.”

“What does that mean?”

He makes a casual, noncommittal noise. “I’m just surprised. I didn’t see it coming, and you didn’t tell me about it.”

You open your mouth to tell him that it’s actually all a ruse, to explain the whole situation, but the hard, petulant edge to his voice makes you pause. Wonwoo sounds… upset. But not quite upset. Jealous?

“Wonwoo,” you laugh. Onscreen, the timer counting down to the start of the match appears, and you jam on the space bar to make your character jump over his character’s prone body. “Wonwoo, are you jealous?”

Over your headphones, you hear the sound of his gaming chair squeaking. “I’m not jealous,” he says, in a tone of voice that sounds exactly like Wonwoo when he’s jealous.

“You are. Where are we landing?” You toggle to the map in the game and zoom in on the path that the plane is taking. The player count in the bottom starts dropping as other players jump out.

“Blue marker, does that look good to you? There’s a few houses we can loot, and it’s not close to the flight path. If we get bad circle placement, you can shoot me in the foot, if you want. As a treat.”

“Yeah, fine. Lead the way, boss. Anyways, why are you jealous?” You suppress the flutter in your chest. There’s no reason for you to get your hopes up.

“You’re my friend,” Wonwoo says simply. It feels like a heavy towel being thrown over you. “You used to tell me everything. Mingyu is… fine,” he admits reluctantly. “He’s a good guy. I’m happy for you.”

Your heart clenches. You want to say something soft and sincere, but instead, you return with a jab. “You can’t be upset at me for keeping secrets, Wonwoo. What was Junhui saying about you liking someone?”

“Junhui just says stuff sometimes,” he replies curtly.

You frown. “Junhui isn’t a liar, though. Who is it?” You ask, despite everything in you telling yourself that you don’t want to know the answer. “Who are they? Maybe I can talk to them for you.”

He laughs humorlessly. “It doesn’t matter. She’s in a relationship with someone else.”

You almost sigh in relief, but you stop yourself just in time. Why are you relieved? “Oh, Wonwoo. That sucks. She doesn’t know what she’s missing out on.”

Wonwoo makes a noise that tells you he’s shrugging. “She deserves better than me.”

“Hey!” You sit up, straightening your spine in indignation. “Don’t say that. You’re great, Wonwoo. You’re criminally underappreciated. You’re smart and you’re so sincere and kind, and maybe other people don’t acknowledge it, but you’re really funny and interesting.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and the only thing you hear is the game audio as your character collects supplies and clears the building the two of you are in. “Let me know if you find any gun that’s not a pistol, by the way. I have a 2x scope on me.”

“Thank you,” Wonwoo replies. You know he’s not talking about the scope.

Even though the two of you are gaming individually in your own rooms, you want nothing more than to tug off your headphones and go down the two flights of stairs to Wonwoo’s apartment and give him a hug.

“I have an AKM and a bunch of healing items on me,” Wonwoo says, “come to me and you can have whatever you want.”

It would have been much less embarrassing if you had realized it last week when you were walking to class and Wonwoo had stopped you in the middle of the sidewalk to pluck a fallen leaf from your hair with that stupidly fond expression plastered on his face; or maybe when you accidentally fell asleep in his bed during an afternoon study session and woke up later with your head on his shoulder, legs tangled together, the sound of his soft snoring puffing in your ear, his hand held loosely in yours. Maybe in another life, it would have been one of those soft, romantic moments, like something out of a coming of age anime. But no, because you’re you and your life is the way it is, the moment you realize you’re in love with Wonwoo goes like this:

It’s Sunday, noon already, and you’re in Wonwoo’s shared apartment. Junhui had let you in earlier when you had knocked at their door until your knuckles were sore. When you burst unceremoniously into Wonwoo’s bedroom, he’s still asleep with his glasses on, smudged and crooked, and his phone on his chest. You frown. “Wake up, Wonwoo. Did you fall asleep while watching dramas again?”

Wonwoo jumps slightly and lifts his head, brows furrowing. “Huh?”

“You said you’d go to lunch with me.” You extend your arms and spin to show off your cute, perfectly coordinated outfit, picked out specifically to match the instagram trap you’re going to. You even broke out the eyeliner and glitter eyeshadow to match the cute knit cardigan and wool miniskirt you put on. “What hat should I wear? The fuzzy bucket hat,” you hold up option one, “or the beret,” you hold up option two, looking down at Wonwoo expectantly.

Your best friend groans and collapses back onto the bed, eyes sliding shut. “Um. The beret.”

“Okay great, now get out of bed. Our reservation is soon and you still need to wash your face and get dressed.” You poke at his cheek, which is greasy from sleep and still bears the imprint of his pillow.

“Can you get Minghao to go with you instead?” He doesn’t bother opening his eyes.

“Nope,” you respond, popping the ‘p’, “he has dance practice.”

“Mingyu?”

“He said he had a textile arts club meeting?” You frown. “I’m not sure what it is, but he’s been crocheting like crazy for it this week.”

“Um,” Wonwoo smacks his hand over his face, clearly trying to think of other options. He forgets, however, that he fell asleep with his glasses on, and ends up jamming the frames against this cheek. “Ow. Ok, what about, uh, Seokmin?”

You pout at him even though he can’t see it. “Wonu,” you whine, sitting down on his bed, “I want to go to lunch with you, though.”

At that, he finally cracks his eyes open. “Why?”

Because, you want to say, I don’t want to do this with anybody other than you. You briefly try to imagine doing this whole thing– dressing up, making a reservation, taking pictures and walking around town, huddling together in a cafe in the afternoon to watch the latest Nintendo Direct together– with anybody else, but you just quite settle on it comfortably. No. It has to be Wonwoo. Because Wonwoo is your best friend, because Wonwoo has always been there for you, because Wonwoo just gets you, better than anybody ever has, and every moment you spend with Wonwoo, you feel your mood lifting and relaxing. Because you trust Wonwoo and he trusts you, and because you know him, and you love him–

You love him.

Oh.

You’ll have to process that later. “Because you have a car and you can drive me,” you tell Wonwoo instead, shoving the revelation down to the back of your mind and putting it in a box labeled problems for future me.

“Fine,” Wonwoo acquiesces, sitting up with enormous effort. His hair is still sticking up in all directions, making him look like a big dark dandelion. A part of you expects to see him in a different light, now that you think you love him, like there’s supposed to be cherubs singing and starlight in his eyes or something, but instead, you just see regular old Wonwoo. Your best friend. He doesn’t suddenly look like a vision sent from heaven, he just looks sleepy and crusty and a little greasy.

“Hurry up and brush your teeth,” you tell him, slapping him lightly on his belly and laughing at the resulting ouuff that jerks out of him, “you have morning breath and I can smell it from here.”

From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Re: advice

Dear Cherry, my friend is in love with his childhood friend but she doesn’t love him back :( how do we make her fall in love with him? from anonymous

“Hm,” you sigh out loud, “I wonder if Soonyoung knows that the anonymous signoff is made moot by the fact that he emailed this one in instead of using the anonymous submission box.” You’re draped on the couch with your legs propped all the way up and your laptop on your chest as you scroll through this week’s Am I The Asshole Wednesday submissions.

“You can ignore him,” Minghao says, passing by with a full bottle of wine in each hand on his way to put them away in the kitchen. “I don’t think you should be giving any love advice when your own love life is a mess,” he sniffs.

“You’re the asshole,” you announce, not looking up from your screen. “That was for you, Minghao.” Clearly, he’s still mad at you after you had revealed the whole Mingyu situation to him a few nights ago. You still remember the blistering look that Minghao had thrown at you, like you’re the dumbest human he’s ever had the supreme displeasure of knowing.

“I guess you don’t want to go to the dance team party with me, then,” your roommate responds smoothly, returning from the kitchen. It’s only 6pm, but Minghao is already dressed in a silk pajama set with a matching robe, lenseless glasses frames perched on the tip of his nose, smelling of strawberry-scented lotion as he pours himself a glass of wine.

You scowl at him. “Fine. I don’t care.” Turning back to your laptop, you scroll past a few more boring submissions on your hunt for the truly salacious stuff your classmates get up to. “I wonder what Soonyoung is even talking about, though,” you mumble, half to yourself, as you click on the next interesting subject line.

In retrospect, Mingyu was definitely going to win that Greek God competition, even if Jaehyun from Nu Kapp put up a good fight.

Mingyu’s physique is certainly impressive, and the audience erupted when he won the (shirtless and oiled-up, for some reason) pushup contest, but his clumsiness eventually led him to lose at every other physical challenge. It was his overwhelming victory in the popularity vote and personality contest that got him to first place. It’s probably all because of his unwavering friendliness and his constant need for affirmation manifesting into an overwhelming desire to be helpful, but you like to think that maybe you helped too.

That’s why you’re here, in the kitchen of the Sigma house, absolutely wasted at the celebration party the frat is throwing in honor of Mingyu being crowned the best frat star on campus. Between the blunt that you, Mingyu, Minghao, and Seokmin, another friend in your year, had passed around upstairs, and all the shots that Mingyu had plied you with, you’re feeling weirdly bouncy and giggly and not entirely sure if you’ll remember this the next morning.

“Okay, so,” Mingyu mumbles, pulling you closer as the two of you nestle in a corner, away from whatever is going on at the beer pong table, “we should stage a breakup, right?”

You giggle against the hollow of his throat, arms looped over his shoulders. “Can we make it your fault?”

He whines like a kicked puppy. “Why can’t we make it mutual? Jeonghan would kick my ass.”

“Fine, fine,” you huff, not at all reluctant. “We should give it some time so it’s not suspicious, right?”

“Yeah.” Mingyu nods, accidentally knocking his chin against your forehead. “You’re so smart.”

“Which means I’m still on girlfriend duty tonight,” you conclude.

“Oh, come on.” Mingyu’s hands come down to rest at your waist, his fingertips skimming along the waistband of your skirt, eliciting a shiver from you when you feel his rough, warm skin against yours. “You make it sound like a chore.”

You sigh. Oh well, you could do much worse than Mingyu.

You’re not sure if it’s the weed or the alcohol, or maybe just jealousy at this fake version of yourself that’s happy with a boyfriend and not moping over an unrequited crush on your childhood best friend, but you find it strangely easy to lean up and attach your lips to Mingyu’s, feel the wet heat of his tongue in your mouth. and Mingyu, pliant under your grip as always, kisses you back, going along with it without a second thought.

“No offense,” he pants as he parts from you, “but I don’t think I want to hook up with you.”

You blink at him. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No, no,” he clarifies quickly, “you’re a good kisser, I just don’t want things to be weird between us, which I think might happen if we hook up.”

“If fake dating didn’t make things weird, I’m not sure that hooking up would,” you laugh, more of a giggle than anything. You attach your lips to his jaw, pulling him down towards you so you don’t have to crane your neck.

“And also,” he nudges at the hair behind your ear with his nose, “you’re like, totally wasted right now.”

“You’re not sober either,” you shoot back, accusatory.

“More sober than you,” he shoots back. He’s right, though. His large stature means that he can hold his liquor much better than you. “It wouldn’t be fair,” he pouts, stubborn, “and I’m not a creep.”

“Fine.” You tug lightly at the short hairs on the back of his head.

“Are… are you okay?”

Mingyu’s question makes you hesitate for a moment. You lean your flushed cheek against the jut of his collarbone. “I’m drunk,” you respond flatly.

“No, not that, you’re just usually not this…” you feel Mingyu gulp, “clingy.”

You wonder if you should tell him about Wonwoo and your stupid pointless crush that’s starting to feel less like a crush every time you’re with him and more like… something deeper. Something frightening, like a yawning chasm, just waiting for you to fall in.

You’re saved the effort of further deliberation, however, when Mingyu suddenly raises his head and interrupts your thoughts. “Hey, isn’t that Wonwoo?”

You lift yourself off of Mingyu’s chest and look behind you. True to his word, it really is Wonwoo, standing by the door, jacket on, looking at you like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Huh, he doesn’t usually come to these,” Mingyu observes, tugging idly at the bottom of your shirt. “I wonder why he’s here.”

You think you know why he’s here, though. Earlier, back upstairs, you had excused yourself to the bathroom to take a quick breather. Through an alcohol and weed induced haze, you had belatedly realized that it’s Friday night, and you’re late.

you: cn you come pick me u you: at sigma wonu: are you ok? i’ll be there in a few you: sry im drunk you: wanna go home w u

Now, staring Wonwoo dead in the eyes, you realize with a jolt that you had never told him why you asked him to pick you up. You peel yourself off your fake boyfriend and stumble, clumsily, towards Wonwoo, trying your best to ignore the way the room spins around you.

“Wonu,” you whine reaching out to him.

He frowns. “Are you okay? What’s happening?”

“I’m drunk,” you tell him.

“I know.” He extends his arm and lets you cling on to him as you stumble into his torso.

“And it’s Friday night,” you look up at him.

“Yes.”

“We’re supposed to be playing Overwatch together.” You give him the best puppy eyes you can muster, and he blinks at you, looking flustered.

“Huh?”

“Overwatch,” you insist, tugging him towards the door. “Friday night. It’s Wonwoo and Y/N night.”

“Is… is this what you called me over here for?”

You nod and begin dragging Wonwoo out by the wrist.

The cool air outside hits your flushed skin like a wave, like you’re jumping into a pool. Wonwoo is silent and lets you continue to cling onto him as he walks you to where he had parked on the side of the street, directly under a streetlight.

You slide into the passenger seat. Wonwoo hands you a bottle of water, cap already removed for you. “Hydrate,” he orders.

“Sorry,” you whimper, somewhat pathetically.

He frowns. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I must be so annoying,” you mumble, feeling tears welling up in your eyes.

“No,” Wonwoo reaches out and takes your hand over the center console. “You’re not annoying.”

You watch him as he drives. He’s so handsome, your alcohol-addled mind supplies.

“You don’t think I’m annoying?”

“Never.”

Wonwoo says it like a promise.

Silence falls over the two of you as he drives through campus, all the way back to the student housing unit that both of you live in. He turns off the engine, leaving a silence that feels even more all-encompassing. He looks over at you, face half hidden in the shadows and half illuminated by the orange lamplight outside. “Is Minghao home?”

“N…no, he’s back at the party.”

“Okay, we’re going back to my apartment, then,” he decides.

You blink. “Huh?” But you’re already stumbling out of his car and spilling onto the sidewalk, all wobbly legs and loose limbs.

“I’m taking you back to my place,” Wonwoo repeats. “You need someone to watch you and make sure you don’t wander off and get lost in the city,” he explains drily.

“‘M okay,” you whine futilely. It’s especially unconvincing, since you’re still stumbling over your own feet and leaning against him.

Wonwoo lets you rest your cheek on his shoulder and cling onto him as he lets you into his apartment, gets you a glass of water, and digs up a pack of makeup wipes from out of nowhere and sits you on his bed and starts to get to work.

A small (very drunk) part of you bristles at the appearance of the makeup wipes, and you try to scowl, even as Wonwoo gently wipes at your smudged eyeliner. “Whose are these? Do you have a lot of girls over here or something?”

“They’re Junhui’s, he uses them,” Wonwoo explains. He dabs at one last spot in the corner of your right eye, then announces, “there, you’re all done.”

You open your eyes to see Wonwoo grinning dopily at you. “You’re cute,” you poke at his cheek, and he laughs quietly. Seokmin used to be afraid of him, he had confessed to you, and you wonder why, because the Wonwoo you know is so soft, so loveable, so goofy and cute.

The Wonwoo you know is shy and awkward and doesn’t quite know how to fit himself into social situations. He’s clumsy and absentminded and needs someone to take care of him, to dote on him and give him attention.

The Wonwoo that you know, you’ve known since you were in second grade, standing over the boy you had knocked over with a rubber kickball, staring at him as he sniffled on the woodchips and glared at you through big watery eyes. That day, you decided right then and there that this boy would be yours, and now…

“Wonwoo,” you blurt out without thinking, “I’m in love with you.”

His breath catches. Wonwoo pauses, digesting your clumsily delivered confession, and then he makes the most awful expression you have ever seen on him.

It’s raw hurt, sharp, painful. His mouth twists and his brows furrow and he looks at you like you’re something to be afraid of. You hate it. You hate that you’re the cause of it, that he’s feeling this, whatever it is, because of you, even though you’re not sure why.

“Really,” you insist. You reach out to grab his hand, but he pulls away from you. “It’s true. I’m in love with you.”

You hear a sharp intake of breath. “You’re not,” he says. “You’re in love with Mingyu. You’re happy with him.”

“I’m not… I’m not in love with him,” you try to explain, but your liquor-numbed lips are clumsy and you trip over your words. You lean towards him, slanting your face up, because you want to kiss him so badly it’s all you can think of. Wonwoo shoves you back, hard.

“Don’t,” he bites, voice sharp and tense.

“I’m in love with you,” you repeat, reaching out to him, but he pushes your hand back and steps away. Like he’s afraid of you.

“Don’t do it. You’re drunk.” His voice wavers slightly. “Don’t do something you’ll regret tomorrow.”

You shake your head, but Wonwoo looks at you with so much hurt and confusion in his eyes, you can’t bring yourself to argue. “Wonu,” you whisper, reaching out to rest your fingertips on his wrist, “please don’t cry.”

He takes a long, shuddering breath, eyes closed, and then when he exhales and opens his eyes again, his expression is impassive. Unreadable.

“Go to sleep,” he says flatly. “Tomorrow you’ll wake up and go back to your boyfriend, and you’ll be happy that nothing happened tonight.”

He closes the door to his bedroom, leaving you in the darkness.

(Wonwoo is cold.

He’s always a little cold, but in his haste to escape earlier, he hadn’t gotten a blanket or even changed into sweats before closing the door behind him, and now Wonwoo lays on the couch, his feet hanging over the armrest, staring at the ceiling.

I’m in love with you, your voice rings in his head. Wonwoo’s cheek still burns where you had gently rested your hand earlier. If he hadn’t known any better, Wonwoo might have believed you and given in to his most guilty, far-off fantasy, the one where you love him back.

But Wonwoo does know better. He saw the way you were draped all over Mingyu at the party, the way you giggled into his neck when Mingyu slipped his fingertips under the him of your shirt. Mingyu is good for you, Wonwoo decides. Like you, Mingyu is bright and out-going, popular, well-liked, good at receiving love and gives it readily in return.

Wonwoo closes his eyes, tries to push away the memory of your body curled into his, and wills his mind into silence so that maybe he can get some sleep tonight.)

You wake up, nauseous and hung over and feeling not at all rested, in Wonwoo’s bed.

Groaning, you swipe at your face, expecting to see a gloopy mess on your fingers, but your makeup has already been removed. You squint at the dim sunlight streaming in through the closed blinds, and you reach around blindly until your fingers close around your phone.

There’s a smattering of random social media notifications and updates from group chats, but one notification in particular catches your eye.

wonu: i’m outside wonu: where are you? are you ok? wonu: i’m gonna head inside to look for you

You feel your cheeks flush as the memories come trickling back– your drunk texts, insisting that your best friend picks you up, kissing Mingyu, leaving the party with Wonwoo, clinging on to him like a koala…

Gathering your courage and steeling your woozy stomach, you stumble out of bed and throw open the door, poking your head out. Wonwoo is sprawled across the couch, undoubtedly playing some kind of mobile game, when he looks up at you. His hair is sticking up in every possible direction and his shirt is crumpled. “Hi,” he says, expression impossibly neutral.

“Hi,” you grin, waving lamely. “I feel like shit. I didn’t say anything weird or embarrassing last night, did I?”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “You don’t remember?”

You shake your head. “I remember you picking me up from the frat, I think.”

For a split second, he looks relieved. Then, he puts his phone down and laughs at you. “You didn’t do anything embarrassing,” he grins, “except for abandoning your boyfriend at the party because you wanted to play Overwatch with me. C’mon, do you want to get brunch?”

You press your palms against your throbbing forehead. Your brain hurts, and you’re almost sure you half-remember telling Wonwoo that you’re in love with him, but Wonwoo is looking at you expectantly and you’d like nothing more than some french toast and a hot coffee right now, so you shrug. “Sure, lemme wash up and get changed in my apartment first.”

“Dear Cherry, my friend is hopelessly in love with his childhood best friend, who is currently dating a hot frat dude. Should he just give up? The moping is starting to bum me out and I’m worried my hair is going to fall out. Love, Wen Junhui.”

You wrinkle your nose at the message. “And has anybody ever told Junhui that the whole point of anonymous submissions is defeated when he signs his messages with his full name?”

Minghao looks up from the canvas he’s busy splattering paint on. It’s his semester final project, and you had promised to accompany him in the basement of the fine arts building as he works.

Instead of answering, he looks at you like you’re the densest human he’s ever had the misfortune of meeting. “Maybe he’s not trying to be anonymous. Maybe he’s trying to complain about someone we know.”

You squint at your laptop screen. “Who is this supposed to be about, anyways?”

This time, Minghao actually rolls his eyes at you. “Whatever. Have you broken up with Mingyu yet?”

“Yeah, we broke up two days ago. It was mutual, because Mingyu was genuinely afraid that Jeonghan would kick his ass if we said we broke up with me.”

The two of you had made a whole show of deleting all your carefully staged couple photos off your social media accounts, and then unfollowing and refollowing each other within the span of two days, because as the story goes, you and Mingyu had talked it over and are better as friends than as a couple.

“That’s nice,” Minghao says. He unscrews a jar of turpentine and starts to clean off his brushes. “Maybe you should respond to Junhui’s advice submission.”

You groan. “I’ll just tell him to tell his friend to get over it,” you scowl.

“By the way, what’s wrong with Wonwoo?”

“What do you mean?” You look up. Minghao is now attacking the canvas with a palette knife, carving some dramatic impasto into the paint.

“The last two times all of us hung out together, he’s been all…weird.” Minghao wrinkles his nose. “It’s like he’s some kind of guilty dog. He stares at you when you’re not looking, and then he looks away when you are.”

You chew on your lip, work now long forgotten on your idle laptop. Minghao is right. Wonwoo has been different, but not… different. He’s as unwaveringly weird as always, and he’s been texting you links to youtube cat videos and starting arguments on video game theories as always, but it feels like Wonwoo has been aggressively normal. Like how best friends are supposed to be. Light and easy.

“I don’t know. I feel like he’s been acting weird these days too, but I can’t figure out how.”

“You should talk to him,” Minghao says, like talking to Wonwoo about his feelings is easy or something. Or like talking about your own feelings is easy.

“Or maybe I shouldn’t,” you sigh. Whatever is going on with Wonwoo, you’re just glad he still wants to hang out with you. You’re not entirely sure what you even did wrong, but you’d be willing to beg on your hands and knees for him to forgive you and to stick by your side. “Whatever. We’re gaming together this Friday, I’ll think about it then, I guess.”

“Wonu, I’m scared,” you whine into the mic. It’s another Friday night and the two of you are playing PUBG again. You’re in the endgame now– the original 100 has been whittled down to just 5 players remaining, including you but not including Wonwoo, who had been killed earlier and is now spectating you in-game like some sort of ghost.

“Just sit tight,” he instructs. In your mind’s eye, he’s leaning back in his gaming chair, arms crossed as he observes your gameplay.

“There’s gunshots,” you complain, “North? I think they’re hiding by those rocks. It sounds like they’ve got a good sniper rifle, too.”

“They don’t know you’re there. Just let the other teams fight it out. You have enough ammo?”

You huff. “I have like, twelve shotgun shells.”

“And you have the location advantage. Just sit and wait for now.”

You sigh, aimlessly panning the camera back and forth in your anxiety. “Fine,” you agree, because despite it all, Wonwoo is still better at this game than you are, and because you trust him.

Seconds pass. The audio of distant gunfire in crisp surround sound keeps you on edge and tense, so that when you hear Soonyoung, one of Wonwoo’s roommates, you nearly jump out of your skin.

“Hey, are you busy?”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo replies. His voice is tinny and quiet, but still clear, like he’s slipped his headset off and mic is pushed away. “I’m gaming with Y/N. I’m muted, don’t worry.”

You’re about to shout and let him know that he’s not actually muted, but your curiosity gets the better of you when you hear Soonyoung’s next words:

“Right, speaking of Y/N, that reminds me. Did you hear that Y/N and Mingyu broke up?”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, and then you hear Wonwoo ask, “why?”

“Dunno. Mingyu wouldn’t give me any details. He said something lame, like that they’re better off as friends, or something.”

“Oh. When did this happen?”

“I think on Wednesday? At least that’s what Seungkwan told me.”

“Hm.”

“Anyways, isn’t that great? You can finally shoot your shot!”

“Are you insane, Soonyoung? It’s been less than a week!”

“Well, okay, fair. But next week? She didn’t seem too sad about it in class today.”

“That’s because she was in class. And anyways, this doesn’t change anything between us, so I’m not going to do anything either.”

“Are you kidding me? So you’re just going to keep it a secret forever?”

“Yeah. I’ll die before I tell Y/N that I’m in love with her.”

Oh.

You sit at your desk, staring at your monitor but not seeing anything. Very quietly, you press your fingers against your lips, as hard as you can, and feel the blood rushing past your ears.

“I’m not going to ruin our friendship over nothing,” Wonwoo continues.

“It’s not nothing,” Soonyoung replies with a pout in his voice. “You’ve been in love with her for years. Since high school, at least.”

“She just sees me as a friend, that’s all,” Wonwoo sighs.

Since high school. He’s loved you since high school.

You remember the way he looked at you after prom when he was dropping you back off at home. You had gone with him because the boy you wanted to ask you, some boring soccer player, had asked your friend instead, and Jaehyun had already asked (and been rejected by you) twice, and nobody else had asked you to be their prom date. And Wonwoo, awkward and quiet as he was, had fully expected to skip prom completely, but three days before you had shown up at his locker after school, desperate because you already had a dress and a group to go with and tickets but no date, practically begging him to go to prom with you. And without even thinking, Wonwoo had agreed.

That night, when he drive you home, you leaned your head against the car door with the windows rolled down and felt the wind on your face. At the end, when he parked his car on the side of the street in front of your childhood home, you looked over at him and told him. “I’m so glad we’re going to college together, Wonwoo. I want to be with you forever.”

And he had watched you as you said it, quiet, like he was breathless. Like you had said something terrible and incredible at the same time.

It’s always been Wonwoo beside you, lazy summers spent playing video games, late night phone calls where you’d talk and he’d listen, after class in his car listening to the radio and eating junk food. Had he loved you then? With ketchup on your shirt and acne across your face and poorly box-dyed hair? And had you loved him then too? Before you even knew what love is?

The weight of it is heavy, settling in your stomach like a hot stone. It almost hurts, how much you feel.

You’re interrupted by a very loud spate of gunfire piercing your eardrums and making you jump, shrieking loudly as you’re killed in-game. Onscreen, your bloodied character rolls limply down the hill as “Better luck next time! #2/48” flashes on top of your game stats.

“Aw, second place, so close,” you hear Wonwoo say. Then he pauses. “Wait. Was I not muted just now?”

“Wonwoo, I’m going downstairs,” you tell him.

“Wait–” his voice is tight and panicked, but you’re already tugging your headset off and grabbing your keys.

You nearly avoid tripping over your feet as you run to the stairwell at the end of the hall and fly down the two flights of stairs, to where Wonwoo is. By the time you’re banging at their door, you’re out of breath and flushed. You’re not sure if the pounding of your heart is from the exertion or if it’s from something else. Anxiety, maybe. Fear. Exhilaration.

Wonwoo answers the door. He looks exactly like you’d expect, with his rumpled tee shirt and sweatpants and bare feet, his glasses on and his bangs pushed back with the bunny shower headband you bought for him last year.

“Hi,” you grin breathlessly at him.

“Hi,” he replies.

“Can I come in?”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling his nerves. “Yeah.” He opens the door wider and steps aside to let you in, and you follow Wonwoo to his room.

It’s dimly lit with the rainbow glow of his gaming setup and the ready screen for PUBG still up on one of his monitors. Wonwoo flicks on the overhead light, which throws the room into sharp relief. The sudden brightness makes everything feel more real, somehow.

You sit on the edge of Wonwoo’s bed and pat the spot net to you, which he takes. “Wonwoo,” you say.

Wonwoo purses his lips. “How much of that did you hear earlier?”

“All of it,” you chew the inside of your cheek, drumming your fingers against the bedspread.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “You can pretend I didn’t say any of that.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Huh?” He stares at you with wide eyes.

“What you said earlier.” You pick at a loose thread poking from the hem of your shirt. “Did you mean it when you said you’re in love with me?”

He hesitates, frowning as a conflicted expression briefly flashes across his face, eyebrows drawing together.

“Wonwoo?” You call his name gently to get his attention. “I’m in love with you too, Wonwoo.”

“I–what?” Wonwoo looks at you like you’ve brown another head. “But, you... Mingyu?”

You furrow your brows at him. “Mingyu? Didn’t I tell you? We were just faking so he could win that Greek God competition and get free parking next semester.”

“Wait,” he sputters, “so all of that was fake? You were just pretending to be in a relationship?”

“Yeah. I don’t care about Mingyu, I have feelings for you, Wonwoo.”

“You.” Wonwoo takes a deep breath. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I did!” You widen your eyes, adamant. “At karaoke back in October. You, me, Minghao, and Junhui?” It had been after a particularly grueling set of midterms, and the four of you had gone out for some korean barbeque, followed by boba and an extended noraebang session. While Junhui was crooning to an old Cantonese ballad, you were squished on a couch with Minghao and Wonwoo, and the three of you were talking idly about Junhui’s most recent date.

It’s funny, you remember turning and mumbling to Wonwoo, did I ever tell you that Mingyu and I are faking our whole relationship for clout? But Wonwoo hadn’t responded, so you assumed that he didn’t care. Now, it’s looking more like he didn’t even hear you.

“I was asleep,” Wonwoo states in flat disbelief.

“You were asleep,” you repeat slowly.

“It was dark and I was tired. You didn’t notice that I passed out as soon as we dimmed the lights?” He raises his eyebrows as he defends himself, and you bury your face in your hands.

Click. The pieces are all falling in place.

“Wonwoo. I’m so dumb,” you moan. “I run the Ask Cherry column. All those messages from Junhui and Soonyoung. They were about you, weren’t they?”

“Messages? There were more after the first one?!”

“And they were about you being in love with me,” you recall. “This whole time, I thought you liked someone else. Someone who isn’t me.”

There’s a pause. You can hear the sound of Wonwoo’s PC whirring in the background. And then, Wonwoo starts laughing, choked and quiet at first, and then loud, incredulous, almost.

“God,” he gasps between laughs, “we’re both so, so stupid.” And then you’re laughing too.

In retrospect, it’s all ridiculous, this entire situation. You collapse back onto Wonwoo’s bed and laugh until your ribs hurt, and when you turn your head to the side, there’s Wonwoo laying beside you, glasses askew, grinning.

You giggle and reach out to straighten his glasses. “Hi,” you say to him.

“Hi,” he says back, getting up to lean on one elbow. “I’m in love with you, Y/N.”

You feel your smile widen so much, your cheeks hurt. “I’m in love with you, Jeon Wonwoo.”

He looks at you with so much fondness, it takes your breath away. It’s the way he’s always looked at you, you realize, since the two of you weren’t much more than a pair of kids.

“So, now what?”

“Hmm.” You pretend to think. “Can you kiss me about it, then?”

Wonwoo nods, and his hair flops over the bunny headband as he moves his head. “Yeah,” he says, “I think I can do that.”

(Afterwards, a lot less changes with your relationship with Wonwoo than you thought. After all, he was your best friend for much, much longer than he’s been your boyfriend. He still sends you cat videos at strange hours of the night, and he still sticks sullenly by your side during social outings. Friday nights are still game nights, of course, but now it’s mostly spent on your shared Stardew Valley co-op or cuddling in bed while playing Pokemon together.

But one thing that changes is the kisses. You kiss Wonwoo whenever you can, because you have so much love to give him and not enough time in the day to tell him all the ways you love him. You try, though, to tell him every moment you can that he’s the cutest, smartest, sweetest, kindest, funniest boy in the world, and that he’s the best friend and boyfriend you could ever ask for.

Wonwoo has a harder time with his feelings, but you know, even without saying. It’s in the way that his fingers linger over your hand when he drops you off in front of your classroom, and the way he gives you first pick on all the best loot when you’re gaming together. And when it’s really late at night and the two of you are huddled under the blankets together, listening to the way your heartbeats collide, he whispers it too. “I love you.”

And, Minghao finally admits it. “Fine,” he grumbles reluctantly while the two of you are preparing the upcoming edition of Ask Cherry, “maybe you’re qualified to give love advice after all.”)

#2022svtgiftexchange #wonwoo #seventeen #wonwoo scenarios #seventeen scenarios #seventeen fluff #seventeen fanfic #wonwoo fluff #97.yn #97.writings

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josibunn · 4 months

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mma!euronymous <33

hihi!! wanna start off by saying thank u a bunch for 400 followers!! yknow I love writing and I would go so hard for anyone in the fandom. I love u!!!

reader comes to one of euros matches for the first time only to be scared out of her heels so euro comforts her after :( i’ve been waittinggggg to release this omgg!!! he’s all I think about out these days, that and twins j/o. crybaby reader, smut! semi public sex, riding->missionary, praise, mentions of blood, fighting, crying by reader, yeah yeah. enjoy!!

you sat pretty in the stands of your boyfriends match, chomping on some caramel popcorn and a soda. you were cramped between a few burly men but you didn’t mind much, you just wanted to watchin for the first time.

øystein has been undefeated his entire career, so that’s the two years you’ve been together tying in with another four years. six years, he’d been boxing since he was a teen, straight outta school, and he rarely lost a fight. you didn’t even have to worry half the time, he always won. sure, he came home sore, and bruised, and stitched up, and sure it always worried you but he always tried to keep you at peace.

he assured you he’d never come home without a win, and that he did. he kept a lovely roof over your head, the best on your body, took you on frequent dates, whatever he could, he did it for you. his sweet girl, he couldn’t imagine the look on your face if you ever saw him hurt in the ring, it’d send him to his knees. that’s why he didn’t want you there. in fact, he forbid you completely, always telling you “it’s not a place for girls like you,” and he was right, but ugh…that wasn’t enough. you wanted to see him in action.

you always listened to him on the radio or just waited for him to get home and tell you how it went, and you didn’t even really care until you read the paper and read he was going against someone rather popular, stronger, bigger and in the game longer than øystein. you knew your boyfriend was good, he was all over your small town, the pride, best know for his quick feet and hard face taps, so you didn’t know why you got scared, but you went anyway. it might be fun, your first match!!

and of course you didn’t let him know you were there, heavens no. but he’d be so happy when he saw you, right?

so as I was saying, you stood between a few big burly looking, yelling men as you watched the fight, clutching your purse and consesions close to you. you wore a special dress you got with the spending money he gave you, pairing it with some little heels and a cute pink coach clutch with your hair half up just as you knew he liked it, it made you look dolly. “knock ‘em down!” you hear a man next to you cheer for øysteins opponent, making you roll your eyes. you watch your boyfriend, knowing you did his signature corpse paint just before he left, remembering how you psyched him up. god, he’s gonna be so happy to see you!

all of the sudden, you tune back, and øysteins against the ropes, taking hits to the gut. you gasp, dropping your things and your hands reaching for your chest, fear flooding your system as you study every inch of his body, his eyes that blink uncoordinatedly, his head that lolled to the side with each hit, his feet loosing balance and almost sliding off the matt, and his arms that laid against the ropes.

“oh my god, oh my god!! euronymous!” you gasp, gripping the railing in front of your row. a man next to you laughs, “he’s done for!” he says, making you fight back. “don’t say that! he’s gonna get up,” you start to frown, vision going blurry and you realize you’re tearing up, oh your poor baby, you never knew it was like this :(. you wanna cry, is this why he didn’t want you to come?

you quickly wipe the tears off your cheeks, this isn’t a place to cry, you tell yourself. you watch him block a hit and send his glove to the other guys face before øysteins grabbing and running him back, slamming him on the mat, and the crowd boos.

the ref comes in and restates the fight, and before you know it the whistle blows and they’re circling each other again. you cover your mouth and tears fall again when øystein gets one, two, three hits to the face, his corpse paint mixing with his own blood and his eyes blinking hard before he’s sending them back, two quick ones to the jaw and another to his ribs.

you sniffle your tears back when he’s sending his opponent through the ropes, hit after hit after hit before the ref is pulling øystein off. his opponent falls to the ground, and you hold your breath because you honestly didn’t know what that meant, but the crowd goes wild. the announcers call out your boyfriends stage name as the ref holds his fist up, and you choke out a sob when you realize he won. you knew he would. you just got scared.

so you’re shoving past all the old, ugly men, shouting “move, move!” before you race down to his station off the mat, and you see him, almost wanting to cry again. he’s getting the blood cleaned up off his face and out of his hair. his eyes are shut as water pours down his head and into a bucket, red mixing with it. his gargled water and spits out blood, and his eyes are barely open before he hears you, “øystein!” you call out.

he oofs when you jump onto him, arms instinctively wrapping around you and holding you up, “baby,” he whispers, almost enjoying the feeling of you embracing him before his eyes popping open, and he grasps the situation. “baby??” he gets a good look at your teary face before he’s looking around, and suddenly reporters are circling you two and his crew is being blinded by flashing lights.

anger fills him as he wraps his arm around you and keeps you on his hip, “the fuck are you doing here?” he whispers to you before he’s shouting, “EVERYONE back UP!” his voice is booming as he glared at everyone around him, and your little sobs in his ear has him frowning even as he tries not to.

“you-you were all hurt and-and I want to support you and-” he doesn’t give you time to finish through your tears before he’s laying your head on his shoulder, “hey hey s’okay baby, yknow i’m ok, just lay your head down, let’s go somewhere else.” he whispers, weaving through the cameras and crowds of people. his manager is chewing his ear off behind you two as you walk through the empty locker rooms of the building. oh yeah..you guys aren’t public. at all.

I mean,,the restaurant workers knew about you when he rented the place out when he took you out, and his manager and his…parents. but that was it. øystein wanted you out of the public eye as much as possible, because if someone brought you up in a press meeting or a smack talking comp he’d light the place up, no questions asked. and it was another reason he didn’t want you at the matches, too many eyes on you and it’d overwhelm you, he knew it would, you get overwhelmed at theme parks.

his manager is eating øysteins head off as you sit on a bench away from them, yelling things like “fucking here” and “the press” and you knew it was because of you. it was gonna be in every newspaper, on every radio station…

you twiddle with your rings as you sniffle, looking down sadly as they pace around the room shouting over each other before øysteins yells “go calm them the fuck down out there n’ ill deal with her, a’ight? fuck,” and the door slams, making you jump. øystein walks past you, wiping his remainder blood and paint off before he stands before you, and you can’t look at him, knowing he’s angry at you like this.

“song bird.” his voice is sweet as he puts his hands on his hips above his fighting shorts, and his bodies glistening. you look up at him and your lips already quivering again as you twist your feet nervously. he sees it, “why you cryin’ baby, huh?” you look away again but he tilts your chin back up at him, and his gentle words have you sobbing. “what’s wrong?” he caressed your face as he wipes your tears away, you holding his shorts lightly.

“you..I just didn’t like seein’ you hurt, and he was hittin’ you a lot and,” you sniffle, “and I was sitting by these guys and they were talking about you, it was just too much, are you ok??” you pull him down to his knees at your level, and he’s fighting a laugh. “i’m fine baby, promise. nothing I can’t handle, you know that. cmon baby you know that, I always beat em, don’t I?” you mirror him and hold his face, nodding.

“that’s right, and of course people talk about me, they’re just mad i’m always winnin’. but..[y/n],” he makes you look into his eyes, holding your chin, and you realize he’s getting serious. “what did I tell you about comin’ to these things, hm? didn’t I tell you I didn’t want you at my matches?” he nods, and you sniffle as you look away.

“look at me when i’m talkin’ to you baby, I told you about that.” he keeps your cheeks in his grasp, your bright n doey eyes steady on his. “you..you told me not to come to em, but I read about you in the paper and I just wanted to support you! I wanted to watch you in action,” you plead, and he sighs, holding your hand in his now.

“you already do so much for me sugar, you know that. you support me enough, you support me by waitin all pretty f’me, you support me by makin me that good shit I like, by patching me up and takin good care of me, by letting me lay you down and beat this pussy in when I come home,” he kisses your hand, making you smile and flush.

“s’why I don’t need you here to support me, ok? a place like this isn’t built for pretty dolls like you,” he says, and you smile. “I can’t protect you if i’m down there kicking ass and you’re up there around all those ugly old guys. because if they lay a finger on you, i’m not gonna be able to help you, and you’re gonna have to carry round a gun, and a pretty thing like you doesn’t need a fuckin’ gun,” he jokes, and you laugh.

“okay,” you nod. “and baby the press doesn’t even know about you yet, yknow that, right? and I-I just don’t want them all in your face, you bein my girl and being so pretty at that..they’ll blind you with all that flash. and they’ll harass you and say all these mean things because you’re mine and I don’t want that. ok? I need you to stay home for me baby,” he sits next to you on the bench, and you nod, “I will, I just wanted to see you but n-never again, that was scary. don’t like seein you hurt,” you frown.

“I know baby, it’s ok though, yknow m’ok.” he says, pulling you in his lap and you kiss him passionately, gripping his hot shoulders as he leans a hand back on the bench and keeps one on you, your legs dangly on the side of him as you say on his. you’re dominating him in the kiss and he’s letting you, admiring how needy and scared you were. he thought it was adorable, you running to his side because of a few hits to the face.

“you look so adorable mama,” he hums and you giggle in the kiss, feeling his rough n bruised hands grip your ass, “s’new, got it yesterday. wanted to look pretty for you.” you say, and he hums again in the kiss, “you always look pretty baby, y’like my little barbie,” he says before you slip your tongue in his mouth, getting a moan out both of you.

you push more into the kiss, shaky moans coming from you as you grind on his clothed length eagerly, your heels just barely touching the floor of the locker room. “you missed me baby?” he says as he pulls the bottom of your dress, hands running over your barely clothes ass and to the crotch of your panties where your cunt rests, brushing over your wet spot. you pull away and nod, scooting back and stroking his hard cock through his shorts, making him bite his lip and groan.

“mhm, watched you come out in your paint n stuff, looked so handsome.” you tell him, watching his cheeks grow pink as he smiles, you loved how compliments always flustered him so bad. “n’your arms looked so good hittin’ him like that, so hot,” and you smile watching him smirk.

“my sweet girl, my biggest fan,” he says, and you whimper, feeling him push a finger into your cunt as his other pulls yours panties to the side, gripping his cock as you speed up and grab onto his shoulder. “bet you gotta lotta lady fans, huh?” you say, your face turning at the thought. you knew he did, I mean, look at him? his face, his physique, he’s walking sex, leaking pheromones with every hard glare of his bedroom eyes.

“somethin’ like that. what, you jealous? hm?” he taunts, and you upturn your lip at his smirk. “bet not be lettin’ them touch all over you. don’t even look at em.” you say, and he lets out a little chuckle as he slips his second finger in you, making you moan out and duck your head near his ear.

you grab onto his shoulders as his bulge rubs against your thigh, and you’re gasping as he fingers your open. “and if i do?” he taunts, pushing his fingers deeper in you. “what’re you gonna do baby, hm? gonna fight em, maybe follow in my footsteps? gonna fuck me up about it?” he continues to push, and you whine. “øystein.” you warn, making him giggle.

“I won’t sugar, promise. cmere,” he whispers as he hikes you up, your boobs to his face as he pulls out his cock and lines you up, bringing his tip all down your folds, gathering your wetness before he slides his tip in, and you instantly start lowering yourself on him without help, making him tip his head back and his back arch and his eyes squeeze shut.

“oh my godd,” he moans, gripping your hip as he leans back on his hand some more. you share a moan as you slowly start bouncing yourself on his cock, this wasn’t the first time he fucked you after a match, of course not, but it was the first time he got you right after a match. still sweaty, hair wet and dripping and his fighting shorts pulled down just enough for you to fuck yourself. it was a euphoric feeling, tension fading away as he takes in your wet heat, your walls accommodating to his size like you were made for him.

“fuck baby, fuck. oh yeah.” he moans, and you’re watching his face as his mouth parts open and his eyes squeeze together, his brows burrowing with each roll of your hips as you bounce on his dick. “s’fuckin it princess, god this pussy.” he groans, gripping the back of your dress as his breath labors. “m’sorry for showin’ up n makin the cameras go crazy,” you squeak, but he shakes his head. “it’s ok baby it’s gettin’ taken care of, don’t worry bout a thing.” he’s already getting lost in the way you feel as his words slur, in the moment you could ask for his entire life savings and he’d give it to you and much more.

you wrap your arms arms around his neck, hugging him and he smiles, his hand that wasn’t holding himself up wrapping around you. “my pretty girl, protective little baby,” he pants, smile prominent in his voice. “s’ok princess you know i’m ok, he was light work.” he assures you, listening to your mewls and moans as you bounce on his cock, holding him close to you as if he’d float away.

“are they gonna get mad at you? your bosses n stuff?” you ask, and he shakes his head, “mm-mm, it’ll go over soon. jan axel’ll take care of it.” he assures, and ofc his best friend’s his manager. øysteins eyes pop open when he hears the door to the locker room open, shushing you quickly as he listens for voices, thankfully you guys were tucked behind a wall of lockers.

“mr. euronymous sir!” he hears a voice, sighing and rolling his eyes. “what’s the connection with the lady that jumped on you! is she a sister, family member, wife??” a reporter asks. “what? she’s my girlfriend- i-i’ll be out in a few just gimme a second,” he calls back, trying to stabilize his voice.

his mouth hangs open as you squeeze onto him, moaning quietly next to his ear as you sped up, letting out a tiny, “fuck baby,” into your neck.

“mr. euronymous how do you feel about your opponents comments towards the mysterious lady’s outburst towards you?” another reporter asks, making euronymous groan. he heard the commotion get closer, making him anxious, cooing at you and ducking your head into his shoulder for you to moan, feeling how close you were in the way you squeeze on his cock and wrap yourself around his body like a koala.

“fuck the comment, i’ll answer all your questions just,” he takes a shuddery breath, swallowing back spit. “just gimme a minute to help my lady out, ok?” he calls again, gripping your body as he starts fucking upward into you, a quiet, “oh my god, oh my god baby,” coming from him as he moans shakily, stomach tensing up.

he heard his manager yelling at all the reporters to get the fuck back as euronymous takes charge and lifts you into the air, laying you on your back and fucking into you with his hand holding you close to him, making you moan out, grabbing onto him as you throw your head back and shut your eyes, brows raising. he captures you in a kiss to silence you, slamming his cock into you, groaning into your mouth with each thrusts.

your legs wrap around his hips, pulling him deeper, and you can’t help but pull away to moan, chest heaving up to his as he watches you, wrapping you closer around him. “shh baby I know, I know jus’ keep it down ok? be my good girl n’ keep it down mama, fuck ure’ so good,” he sighs, watching himself disappear into your wet throbbing cunt.

“gonna cum, gonna cum euro,” you whine, breathing heavily through your nose as he continues to pound into you, tiny squeaks and oh oh oh!-s coming from you before he plugs you again, locking lips with yours.

you hold his neck and pull at his hair as you squeeze his neck, eyes fluttering as you messily kiss back, øystein swallowing your moans with each kiss to your sweet spot. you scratch as his bare back and squeal in his mouth as you cum around his cock, a white ring forming around the base of his cock and latching onto his pubes, and he’s twitching inside you as he lets out a long sigh, speeding up his thrust because his orgasm was right behind yours.

“that’s it baby, did so good,” he whispers, listening to your whines as the overstimulation reaches you, cursing when he feels you clench and throb around him. “øystein..” you whimper. “I know baby, don’t worry m’gonna cum, ok? gonna cum in you so I don’t ruin that pretty dress,” he pants, and you moan as he fucks his cum into you, short squelchy plap plap plap mac and cheese sounds coming from between you as he kisses your lips cutely in tiny doses, moaning slightly as he catches his breath with you.

“you feelin better? hm?” he asks you, and you nod hazily, all your thoughts fucked out of you. he giggled at you as he lays you on the bench and pulls out, going to clean you up with his towel as you eye him. “did it hurt?” you ask him, as stupid as it is, but all he does is laugh and shake his head.

“the adrenaline and shit doesn’t let it hurt, you feel it for a second but you don’t have time to feel it because you have to think about his or your next move. what, you wanna get into fightin’ or somethin?” he asks you and you sit up, pulling your panties on. “maybe. maybe i’ll take you down.” you smile and he mirrors you before giving you a little kiss, and the doors open again.

“don’t try any shit like that again. don’t wanna walk in and see pussy,” jan axel is pointing fingers, making you flush. he ends up telling you two the fans/press love you. seeing euronymous, a usually always angry and stone faced fighter go soft for his girl brought something out in people. so you sit pretty in a designated spot near his team (when you decide to go) and walk hand in hand out of every match. :)

mma euro anyone? hehehehe I looooved writing this!! I have a deathly soft spot for euro babying and caring reader :3 I hope u enjoyed!! mwah mwah mwah 💋

join my taglist! @angelsanarchy @sugarinte @monkeyfart @444rockstargf @bambi-horror @auggiethecreator @wonkinoo @brithedemonspawn @yungbloodsuxca @weezinrnween

#rory culkin #rory culkin smut #euronymous smut #euronymous #lords of chaos #lords of chaos smut #mma!euro #eurory prompt

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jazzthatonewriterchick · 1 month

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Hit ‘Em Up! (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Cowboy!Gojo Satoru x Cowboy!Geto Suguru x Black!Cowgirl!Reader (Slow Burn/Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: You get to meet Geto & Gojo the Gunslingers, the notorious outlaws that have every town and law enforcement in a twist, when your bum-ass BF offers you as payment to avoid going to prison. Little do they know that this is only a part of your plan to get what you desire. But when you realize that the infamous gun-slinging, smooth-talking cowboys could be everything you want and more when they offer you a deal to team up with them, will you successfully be able to go through with it?

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINOS GTFO); poly!SatouSugu; Reader is Black & Fem; Mention of other JJK characters; Porn with Plot; Tragic Backstories; T/W for Childhood Trauma, Parental Death, Violence, Panic Attacks & Torture; Angst/Hurt/Comfort; Hand Kink; Masturbation; Voyeurism; Gay Sex; Polyamorous; Double Deepthroat; Mutual Oral; Fingering; CMNF; Spitroast; Riding; Unprotected PiV Sex; Creampies; Outside/Public Sex; Shotgunning; Multiple Positions; Spit Kink; Facials; MDom/fsub Undertones; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen PT I & PT II. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Epilogue. Soundtrack.

********

TWO: G & G.

You know that there are those in the world who strike fear into people’s hearts and souls.

But you’ve never seen anyone react to a single human being the way they do the duo that struts into the bar in their leather cowboy boots.

You’ve never seen the saloon so quiet and still before then when the duo steps into the scene. A tumbleweed could blow by with how silent it is.

Everyone’s eyes stay planted on the tall, handsome men oozing with confidence and intimidation standing among the swinging doors, appearing like sexy phantoms in the night.

There stands Geto Suguru, the 6’4 long-haired gunslinger with the perfect, black locks that cascade down his broad shoulders and back, seductive eyes, and skillful hands that he hides behind two riding gloves.

He usually is seen riding a black Bronco that is just as big as him and sporting a black cape with black riding pants, boots, and a low-brim cowboy hat. Black fits him so damn well. The only thing that isn’t black on him is the red vest that is so low-cut that you can see the outline of his pecs.

Beside him is his partner (and lover as it’s rumored) Gojo Satoru, the lean, confident, cocky, blindfolded bandit standing at 6’3 with snow-white hair, a sly smile, leather gloves that hide some skillful and deadly hands, and a blindfold covering his eyes that have never been seen but are said to make a man go cold with fear where he stands.

In contrast to Geto, the white-haired cowboy is doused in colors: a denim jacket that matches his slacks where a star-shaped belt buckle hangs from his crotch; brown boots with spurs; a red bandana wrapped around his neck; and a white cowboy hat sits low on his head. He, too, has his own horse: a brown Bronco that is recognizable from its hooves clicking across the ground.

They are a match made in heaven and hell. Handsome, skillful, and deadly. They are known for their impressive yet terrifying speed when it comes to cocking and shooting their pistols. You’ve heard of them killing all kinds of wanted criminals and even other gunslingers in other counties.

Everyone knows them and so do you.

If a record was playing, the damn thing would be scratching by now with the way the saloon reacts to seeing the gunslingers in the flesh. Whispers begin to rise from the silence, including from Yuki, Mai, and Maki who have wandered over. “Oh, my God,” Mai gasps. “It’s the Gunslingers!”

“What the hell are they doin’ here?” Maki wonders aloud, peering at them from behind her spectacles. “Are they lookin’ for someone? I thought they had been arrested!”

And they did, last year. At some point, the articles of gunslingers, corporation owners, and high rollers found dead with bullets in them and a note from “G & G” left at the scene stopped when they were arrested after that train heist. And you know it has everything to do with their connection to your boss.

“Who cares?” Yuki dreamily sighs as she stares at the gunslingers with heart eyes. “I get to admire them in person now! Aren’t they delicious?”

“Keep it in your pants, Yuki,” Choso grumbles, tugging on a lock of the blonde’s hair as she giggles. “They ain’t even all that.”

“Of course not,” Yuki purrs, making Choso blush. “Not above you, Chosi, but a cowboy hat would do you so well!”

Even you will admit that the “wanted dead or alive” posters don’t do them justice: they are fine as all hell, straight out of a woman’s wet dreams. But they are also outlaws. And you despise outlaws…for personal reasons.

The duo begins to look around the silent saloon, Gojo’s head slowly turning despite his blindfold. When his head turns toward you, you feel as if the air has been stolen from your very lungs. Despite the fabric covering his eyes, you feel as if he sees you. All of you.

Gojo nudges Geto with his elbow before waltzing over to the bar, his boots thudding across the hardwood floor. Geto follows, ignoring the whispers and stares in their wake. The piano has begun to pick up again, but it does nothing to ease the tension swimming in the air. Quickly, you turn to face your drink while the girls scatter to work, leaving you to fend for yourself.

Geto sits on the stool beside you while Gojo takes the one beside him. You feel the air around you become stiff and tense as the cowboys settle into their seats. “So what’s a cowboy gotta do to get a drink round here?” Gojo asks with a smirk. “Can ya help a guy out, miss?”

He gives Shoko a flirty look, not knowing that this girl is gay as hell. “I could damn sure try,” she replies, barely giving him a smile. “What will you fellas have?”

“I’ll take a Long Island iced tea,” Gojo says then laughs. “Just kiddin’! A beer, please.”

Geto takes a moment to examine the shelves of alcohol behind Shoko. He then looks at your pretty drink. “I’ll take what the lady is havin’,” he answers. “Actually, what is that you got there, miss?”

His dark, enchanting eyes meet yours and you ignore the butterflies they invoke inside of you. “Whiskey smash,” you blandly reply.

He hums thoughtfully at the name. “Hm…is it good?” You tick your eyes at him briefly, secretly admiring his features. “If you like your whiskey with some sweetness to it, sure.”

A slow smirk appears on his face. “Oh, I definitely do,” he drawls. “I like sweetness with my everything.”

You swallow hard, so sure you have a cherry pit in your throat. Gojo chuckles from beside his partner, flashing you a white-toothed smile. “Oooh, me too. I’ll third that order, ma’am!” Shoko nods and shoots you a look before wandering off to fix the drinks.

You do your best to keep calm and act normal, sipping your drink and trying to relax. At some point, the silence becomes thicker, prompting one of the gunslingers to speak on it. “Welcomin’ place,” Gojo sniggers. “I feel so at home.”

Geto quietly chuckles from between you and Gojo. “Let’s just settle, Satoru. We won’t be here long.”

‘Settle what?’ you wonder, but you know that they are here for Kento. Shoko comes back with the frothy, red drinks, lowering them in front of the gunslingers.

“Thank you kindly,” Gojo chirps before taking a sip. Geto nods his thanks but doesn’t drink his right away. Instead, he goes into his pocket and retrieves a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it and slides it across the bar to Shoko. “I don’t suppose you know who this guy is,” he says.

You peek down at the paper, finding it to be a “Wanted” poster with your BF and boss looking back at you. Kenzo aka “Valentine” looks much different than when you met him. On the poster, he is clean and shaven, has longer, shaggier hair, and has a distinguished scar on his left eye.

But of course, this is the gunslinger who robbed people blind and just pulled a train heist and massacre in the town of Cherrywood a year before with his crew, Geto, and Gojo. The man who takes his place now is Kenzo, a humble saloon owner who sometimes dabbles in illegal activity to fund his saloon.

Valentine, a criminal on the lamb and your outlaw boyfriend, is known for using his looks, charm, and violence to get what he wants. He is a man who loves money, women, and jewels. As a notorious criminal and outlaw, he has bounced from place to place, county to county, robbing folks and then laying low before starting again.

He was arrested for robbing the Cherrywood regional train and having his crew massacre all of its employees and riders before you met him. Originally, he was given a fifty-year sentence but escaped after serving five weeks just by seducing a male prison guard and then knocking him out to steal the cell keys.

You were hot on his trails when he showed up Blackwater a year later and met you in a whorehouse that you purposely took a job in since he frequented those. He took one look at you and immediately fell in love with you (and your body), proposing you a job at his saloon. “You could be mine,” he told you. “My girl.” You agreed and the rest is history.

“I’ve heard of him, yes,” Shoko replies as she cleans a glass.

“Is it possible you’ve seen him around?” Geto ponders aloud. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but he escaped Cherrywood a year ago after robbin’ a train and massacrin’ everyone in it. He’s wanted in about nine different counties.”

Shoko takes another brief look at the poster before someone flags her down from down at the bar. Saved by the bell. “I can’t say I have seen him, fellas,” she apologetically says. “‘Scuse me.”

She hurries off, leaving you with the two cowboys. “How about you, ma’am?” Geto asks, passing the poster to you. “You recognize this face by any chance?” You look down, studying Valentine’s face.

You have, but first, you need to read these guys. “I’ve seen him in the posters, but not in person. May I ask why you two are here?”

You keep it casual and curious, making sure you don’t sound too suspicious. “We were paid by a private source to track down Valentine for his crimes,” Geto vaguely explains.

“And for personal business,” Gojo adds with a smirk. “You see, we were in, uh…business with Valentine some time ago and never got our cut.”

He doesn’t need to go any more into detail than that. You know exactly what he’s talking about. “We don’t like bein’ played with,” he says, his voice dipping an octave, sending a chill down your spine. “Or when someone’s money is funny, so we came here to exchange words with him.”

‘Words or bullet?’ you want to ask, but you instead bite your tongue and sip your drink.

“We’ve been told he was last seen in this town,” Geto explains. “We figured everyone comes to saloons so why not check here?” He slides the poster away from you, a kind yet flirty smile crossing his beautiful face. “But even if he isn’t, we can still enjoy a drink with a pretty lady.”

You roll your eyes, having heard that line before. “Does that line work with all the girls?” you scoff. Gojo coughs up his whiskey as he laughs, but Geto doesn’t take it to heart. In fact, he chuckles. “I see not with you,” he replies.

“I like that,” Gojo states once he’s recovered, his blindfolded eyes set dead on you. “You’ve gotta be the first person who isn’t scared of us or tryin’ to jump in bed with us.”

You passively shrug, twirling your tongue around the rim of the glass. “I’ve been around gunslingers in my time.”

At this, the duo share a look unbeknownst to you, quite interested in the pretty thing sitting with them at the bar. “Oh, really?” Gojo drawls and you realize your mistake. “Any of these encounters you’d care to share, little lady? I’m quite interested.”

Geto nods, his gaze like molten fire. “I am too.”

You suddenly feel your mouth grow dry and your cheeks become hot. Your body reacts in a way it never has with any man you’ve been with, not even your first love! The way they continue to stare at you, giving you their undivided and unwanted attention, is even worse.

What is wrong with you?

Luckily, your boss comes to the rescue, barreling up to the bar like he wasn’t watching the duo from afar and shaking in his boots.

“Oh, gentlemen!” he shouts, giving them both a hard, eager handshake. “Welcome, welcome! Can I offer you two another drink or a dance free of charge?”

Gojo ignores him like he isn’t even talking, leaving Geto to handle this. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he says, plastering on a kind smile. “We’re here for some information about him.”

He passes Kenzo the poster and you watch in real time as the color in your boyfriend’s face drains. “Have you seen this guy anywhere?” Geto asks, squinting at him.

Gojo peers at him from under his hat, his stare intense even with the blindfold covering his eyes. Kenzo clears his throat and leans in to whisper to Geto. You pretend to ignore them though you secretly strain to hear. “Let’s talk in private,” he whispers. “Even the walls have ears, I’m afraid.”

Geto nods and nudges to Gojo who sighs and downs the rest of his drink. To your shock, Geto puts a hand out to you for a shake. Though hesitantly, you take his hand and feel the room grow hotter than a sauna when he places a gentle kiss on your knuckles. “It was a pleasure meetin’ you, ma’am,” he softly says. “Hopefully, we’ll cross paths again.”

His eyes gleam as he tips his hat at you, leaving Gojo to follow Kenzo upstairs. Gojo doesn’t follow right away, instead digging into his pocket for some coins and placing them on the bar in front of you. “For your drinks and yours,” he says with a crooked smile. “Have a good night, little miss.”

Then, just like Geto, he leaves as if he didn’t just steal the air you breathe with it. It takes a moment to get your head back, but once you do, you down the rest of your drink and get up from your seat. Shoko catches your eye and gives you a look, her eyes telling you a message:

“Don’t get caught,” she warns you. “And don’t get killed.”

You nod, blowing her a kiss, before following your boss and the duo upstairs.

#black fanfic writer #smutty smut #my works #black coded reader #my fic shit #black writers #jjk smut #cowboy gojo #cowboy geto #satosugu #satoru gojo x black!reader #suguru geto x black!reader #cowboy!au #cowboy!geto #cowboy!gojo #poly smut #poly love

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zeninsama-moved · 11 months

Text

pay up!

gojo satoru x female reader

satoru's poor time management has you working overtime, and this cheap bastard has something other than cash to pay you with (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

note from author mercury: this is my entry for our slimeball collab over on @bastardblvd , figured the host of the slimiest event on this corner of the internet should probably contribute a lil somethin. let's pretend like i'm not shitting bricks bc this is my first time writing for gojo <3 ending is a little abrupt but i needed to get this out asap or i'd be scrutinizing it for the next five months

content warnings: female reader, unprotected sex, oral and fingering (reader receiving), overuse of the word 'cute', praise and obnoxious petnames (reader receiving), needing to keep quiet, fucking on the couch while the kids are asleep down the hall so if that's a concern for you please don't touch, panty fetish if you squint, cumshot?, implied you've fucked before, unfair compensation for your labor lmao, multiple references to the slimeball au so that may be super jarring if you aren't familiar.

↳ word count: 3.9k

It's almost eleven, which means Satoru is... very late.

Shit happens, you get it. Maybe work ran later than expected, or the train hit a freeloader on the way back to Grimetown, but still. You can’t help but feel bothered by the lack of text message from your pseudo-employer.

You would never complain about Megumi and Tsumiki. They're absolute angels, and caring for them has never felt like work. Besides, your only other options were a waitressing job at Franky’s or the graveyard shift at the gas station, which you heard is filled with... interesting characters at that time of night. Caring for the coolest elementary schoolers alive seemed like a no-brainer. The arrangement worked out in your favor as well. Satoru ended up moving you into his apartment complex due to his demanding schedule, wanting you to always be close – like two apartments down the hall close.

Contrary to the name, the Luxury Condos on Bastard Boulevard weren’t much of an upgrade from your last apartment. The landlord must be loaded because it’s a miracle this place passed inspection, but you’ll gladly accept updated appliances and neighbors without a small army of pet rats. Even the offensively high rent doesn’t bother you because your pseudo-employer paid it all in cash.

(You tried asking Satoru exactly where he got all this money from, to which he said, “It ain’t easy being the sexiest designer sunglasses model on this side of town. You gotta work hard to play hard!”)

Anyways, whatever is holding him, you hope it’s a good excuse.

In the meantime, you’ve taken up camp on his sofa, wrapped in a throw blanket that smells vaguely of Satoru's disgustingly expensive cologne. You were too lazy to change the channel from whatever cartoon Megumi was watching before bedtime, laughing through your nose every now and then. It’s not that bad, but still… You’d really, really like to go back to your apartment and hit the hay.

Maybe a little snooze won’t hurt, but of course, right as you close your eyes...

The smart lock clicks behind you. It’s a quarter past eleven when Satoru enters the apartment, looking gorgeous and unbothered, sunglasses low on his nose and DAISO cat-print tote bag slung over his arm.

"Daddy's home!"

"Shh!" you're glaring from the couch, lips drawn in a frown. "Megumi and Tsumiki are sleeping! Where the hell were you? You couldn't give me a heads up?"

"Sorry, babycakes. They loved what I was giving 'em, so the shoot ran overtime." Satoru grins at you, pulling the sunglasses off his face and ditching them in the catch-all along with his keys. His shoes are toed off and left by the front door. "Why, you miss me that bad?"

You're tempted to throw one of the many decorative pillows right at his big, dumb head. Instead you sink back into the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around your frame, grouchy. "Whatever," you sigh. "You're four hours late, so you better pay up."

Satoru sucks in air through his teeth. "Yeah, about that..."

You don't like where this conversation is heading.

"Some big guy outside the train station jacked my wallet on the way home. You'll never believe it, he had this fuckin'... worm? On his shoulder? Shit, it was crazy. So I don't have the cash to pay you, but–"

You glance over your shoulder at the man now rummaging through his bag behind you, eyes and tone full of warning. "Satoru..."

An opened package is waved in your face by a beaming idiot.

"– Ichigo daifuku! Your favorite!"

He's so full of shit. There’s one piece of mochi left, does he really think his already-eaten train snack will fix this? Probably, and as much as you'd hate to admit it, you do like strawberry daifuku mochi. Dammit.

Despite your annoyance, you don't get up from your spot on the couch. You're tempted to storm out, blow past Satoru and grab your things, maybe give him a good shove while you do it. However, you're tired, and no grand display of your frustrations would change the fact that you'd be returning tomorrow to pick up his kids from school. Also, your apartment is literally two doors down, so you wouldn't truly be escaping Satoru – you'll still feel his annoying energy seeping through the absurdly large gap under your door while you sit there, in the apartment that he bought you, stewing in your annoyance and eating your feelings in a single daifuku mochi.

God, you might hate this man. You don't even wanna look at him, but despite feeling this way, you let Satoru move closer, ditching the bag of sweets in favor of pinching your puffed-out cheek in his fingers.

“Aw, come on,” he pouts, redirecting your face towards his in an attempt to get you to look at him, but you don’t give him the satisfaction. You force yourself to look anywhere else but the man above you and stubbornly pretend you can’t feel the cool puffs of his mint-gum breath, or notice his devious grin from the corner of your eye. “Don’t be mad at me, babycakes. Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

“You can go to the ATM and get me some cash."

“Yeah, besides that.”

On the subject of things you hate about Satoru, you hate how quickly he switches up on you. One minute, he's the most annoying man you've ever had the misfortune of knowing. The next, he's smooth and serious. The kind of man that confidently leans in and ghosts his lips over your neck, intentionally fanning his breath over your skin because you made the mistake of telling him you're ticklish there.

"There must be some way for me to make this up to you," Satoru murmurs into your neck, the low vibrations of his voice making you shiver. It's then that you finally cave, eyes slowly meeting his, brilliant blues hidden behind heavy lids.

Unfortunately, he's very handsome.

"Okay," you huff. "Fine."

He kisses your cheek, then your nose, and then he kisses you.

You hate to admit it, but Satoru knows how to kiss. His lips are warm and soft, meshing with yours with confidence, tongue easing into your mouth in a practiced motion.

He momentarily breaks the kiss to join you on the couch, kneeling on the cushion beside you and leaning back in, cradling your cheek in his hand, murmuring against your lips before kissing them again.

"Let me show you just how much I appreciate you."

Satoru reaches down and rests his hand between your thighs, cupping your pussy through the rough fabric of your shorts. You bite your lip at the sensation, stifling a needy whimper, but he knows. Your grouchy demeanor melted so easily for him.

How cute, his little tsundere.

He squeezes you softly, then rubs four fingers up and down, keeping his pace slow.

"You know I can't do it without you, right?"

Your hips lift off the couch, chasing his hand as it continues its unbothered pace. Satoru rewards you by focusing the stimulation on your clit, switching to tighter, firmer circles over the sensitive bud.

"You're just saying that," you mutter.

"Nuh uh," Satoru teases. "I've never seen anyone be so good with my kids. They love you, you know. Maybe more than they love me."

That's not too difficult, you want to quip, but opt to bite your tongue instead. Satoru's touch feels way too good, you don't want him to stop or risk having your orgasm put off just over a snark. Instead, you curl your fingers into the nape of his neck, fidgeting with the shorter tufts of hair there.

Satoru kisses you again. His hand stops playing with your clit just to skim higher, unfasten the button and zipper on your shorts so he can touch you where you both want it most.

"And you know," he murmurs between kisses, fingers sneaking under the loosened waist of your shorts, then your panties, until you feel his fingers make contact with your bare clit. He watches your reactions closely, smiling when you gasp and buck up into his touch. "I like you too. How can I not? You're too damn cute."

His slender middle finger skims your folds, feeling the wetness there, letting it gather and get him all slick, making it easier when it finally pushes inside you. Just one finger already feels like so much, almost too much. He feels your walls bear down, his cock twitching lazily in his pants. How long has it been since he’s had you last?

You let him have you once before, back when he spent the whole day helping you move into your new apartment, carrying all those heavy boxes for you like the gentleman he is – and you, being the sweet peach you are, insisted on making him dinner as a thank you.

You reminded Satoru of a cute little housewife, puttering around the kitchen in your apron, though nothing was cuter than the sight of you sinking onto his dick that night, your hands and pussy clinging to him like you couldn’t get enough.

Every time he jerks off, he thinks of that adorable, pinched look on your face when the fat head of his dick first speared you open.

It's kind of embarrassing, the hold you have on him.

When you're taking his finger with ease, Satoru presses a second into your cunt, further stretching it out. "Come on, baby, open up for me," he coaxes, voice low and sultry. "Fuck, you don't know how bad I missed this pussy. Gonna let me fuck it again? Hm?"

"Uh huh," you're nodding, dazed, and the sight of you makes Satoru grin. The heel of his palm presses into your clit, providing the right amount of pressure when combined with his fingers.

"Yeah? Gonna let me have this cute pussy to myself?"

Cruelly, the motion stops.

The lack of stimulation makes you pout.

Satoru's fingers glide out of you with an embarrassingly loud squelch, intentionally brushing along your clit as they withdraw from your shorts and panties. His hand emerges, fingers glistening with clear threads of arousal webbed between them, and before you can think, he slips them past your lips and presses firmly on your tongue, prompting you to suck.

"Tastes good?" Satoru coos, delighted at your eagerness. "Let me taste now, okay, cutie?"

Shyly, you nod. His fingers withdraw from your mouth, leaving a dribble of spit on your bottom lip.

Satoru repositions himself to kneel on the floor in front of you, tugging you by the hips so your bottom half comes right to the edge of the couch, dangerously close to his face. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cunt, the sensation muted by your shorts, but it still makes you gasp. His fingers hook into your shorts and you lift your hips to help him pull them off, but he makes no effort to remove your panties with them. Instead, he fixates on the little wet patch right in the center, caressing it with his finger. Admiring it.

Fuck, you’re so cute. He can’t wait to get his mouth on you.

"Need to keep quiet, okay?" Satoru instructs, peering up at you through his lashes, watching you take your bottom lip between your teeth and nod. The last thing you need is to disturb the two rugrats asleep down the hall, even if you could pry yourself off Satoru and pull your shorts back on in record time. You don't want this moment to stop, not when the promise of his mouth on your cunt is so deliciously close.

You look so sweet like this, he thinks. Chest heaving, eyes wide and eager, one hand fisting the hem of your shirt, holding it over your stomach for a better view. Satoru smiles up at you, maintaining eye contact as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh.

“What a beautiful girl.”

Satoru buries his face in the soft warmth between your legs. His nose presses into your clit, taking in your scent as his tongue ventures lower, finally getting a taste of your pussy and he shamelessly moans. It’s faint through the fabric. He knows he could taste you better without them, but something about eating pussy through a cute pair of panties never fails to get him so fucking hard. He likes watching them get wetter and wetter, until they're completely soaked from arousal and saliva and clinging to the shape of the pretty pussy underneath.

Your other hand flies down immediately, resting on the back of Satoru’s head to urge him closer, and of course he’ll indulge you. He’ll eat you just the same, dragging his tongue in broad strokes up to your clit, then sucking it into his mouth.

The muted sensation makes you whine. It’s not enough, yet so good. Enough to make your little pussy flutter under your panties. You push his head harder against your cunt, desperate to keep the kissing suction over your clit. You’re certain you could cum like this, between the pressure of Satoru’s tongue and the vibrations when he moans against you.

A string of saliva connects Satoru’s swollen lips to your panties when he pulls back for air, but this time he pulls the soaked fabric aside, finally getting an eyeful of your pussy.

“Well hi, gorgeous,” he lovingly coos, pressing a light kiss over your clit. “Did you miss me?”

Is he… really talking to your pussy?

Scratch that, you hate him again.

“What are you doing?” You ask, breathless.

“What do you mean? We’re having a moment,” Satoru replies, voice still sweet and airy, the same way one would talk to a cute little pet.

If you didn’t need him so badly, you’d kick him right in his dumb face.

Fortunately, Satoru cuts his little bit short and dives back in, tongue sweeping through your folds, finally getting his first real taste of your pussy. You taste even better than he could imagine.

You release a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, body melting into the couch. Your fingers tangle in soft white hair, urging his head deeper, wanting to feel more of his mouth and Satoru obliges. His tongue dips into your cunt, fucking you with it, then drags up to your clit to lick in slow circles.

He really, really wants to be inside you right now. His dick is throbbing so hard, he’s amazed he hasn’t passed out yet, but Satoru’s always been a man with a sweet tooth. He doesn’t mind setting his needs aside a while longer if it means eating out some pretty pussy.

Maybe not too much longer though.

His fingers join between your legs, still slick from your saliva and arousal, and slip easily into your cunt. Making you cum is easy for him, his fingers thrust deep with each lazy roll of his wrist, stimulating that spot inside you with ease. Though, he can tell you're craving more of a stretch, so Satoru, being the chivalrous, generous, oh-so-kind man that he is, gives you a third finger.

Your jaw drops at the intrusion, pussy now spread wide to accommodate the stretch of three fingers as they curl and stroke your sensitive walls, drawing out more wetness and arousal until it drips down his wrist in clear drops.

Satoru knows you're close when you let out a particularly desperate moan, your hips stuttering and walls fluttering so perfectly on his fingers, clit pulsing against his tongue.

"Satoru, I'm–" you warn, trying to keep your voice low.

"I know, baby," he coos in encouragement. "Feels so good, doesn't it? Go ahead, pretty baby. Cum on my tongue if you need to."

You don't need any further coaxing. When you cum, you cum hard, hand smacking over your mouth to muffle your cries as Satoru keeps fucking you through your orgasm, fingers thrusting and tongue lapping up every drop of arousal your sensitive pussy drools out, just for him.

He rests his head on your inner thigh, watching fondly as you come down from your high. His fingers still thrust into you but his pace has slowed significantly, working you through it until your walls stop contracting. Your arousal coats his entire hand when it withdraws from your cunt, even pooling on the couch beneath you. It'll be a bitch to clean, but Satoru can't bring himself to care about that now. His dick might explode if it's not buried in your cunt in the next thirty seconds.

Even as you lay there, chest heaving, you still crave more. Your hands are greedy, grabbing at Satoru while he makes his way up and eases you back against the couch.

“Easy there, tiger,” he chuckles, hooking his fingers into your soaked panties and peeling them down your legs. "Let's take these off you first."

Your panties are discarded somewhere – probably his pocket, that pervert – before Satoru goes in for another kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. One hand rests beside your head, supporting his weight. The other reaches down and palms his dick through his pants. "You need my dick that badly? Hm? Turn around."

You oblige, rolling over to lay on your stomach and pretending the sound of his belt unfastening doesn't make you warm with anticipation. Satoru shifts to straddle your thighs, placing one of the cushions to rest under your hips, keeping you nice and comfortable while also elevating your ass to be closer to his dick. A win-win.

"Shit," he sighs, pulling his dick from his briefs and jerking it slowly, slicking himself up with your wetness. Precum beads at the tip and he rubs it against your folds, mixing your messes. "It's been a while, huh?"

"Satoru," you whine, pushing back against him, wiggling your hips slightly in a silent request for him to quit teasing you and get on with it.

Maybe that makes you greedy. After all, he was just nice enough to let you cum on his fingers and tongue, but you don't care. It doesn't hurt to be selfish every once in a while, especially with Satoru of all people.

When Satoru finally presses the thick head of his dick into you, it feels like you’re being split in two. He's immediately met with resistance, your cunt bearing down, struggling to accommodate it even with all the prep he gave you. So he starts slow and shallow, dragging his heavy dick in and out, bullying your cunt into relaxing and letting more of him fit. He pulls out and taps the head against your entrance again. "Come on, sweetie, open up for me~"

He eases into your cunt again, but this time Satoru leans in, his opposite hand settling on the other side of your head, smothering you with his weight in the best way possible. His body blankets yours, pinning your back under his chest and ass against his hips. His dick pushes into you with more persistence, inch after inch sinking deeper until he's buried to the hilt.

Your eyes roll back, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. You're probably drooling all over his couch, but it's hard to feel shame when he's filling you out so nicely. He's so deep, it's like he's forcing the air out of your lungs and replacing it with his dick.

His lips ghost over your shoulder, kissing it sweetly, then he starts to move. Slow, deep thrusts, only withdrawing an inch before he's chasing that warmth again. He fucks you as hard as he can without being too noisy, limiting the smack of his hips against your ass, even though he really wants to see it bounce from the force of his thrusts. If he could, he’d be making you scream right now, watch some pretty tears stream down your face because of what his dick does to you. Yeah, that would be cute.

Satoru ruts ruthlessly into the tight heat of your cunt, chasing the orgasm he’s needed so fucking desperately. Balls slap against your clit, heavy with all his pent-up release. He takes advantage of your open mouth and forces two fingers inside, pressing down firmly on your tongue and delighting in the way you slobber around them, in the way your cheeks subconsciously hollow and suck them deeper, still tasting your pussy on them.

Sucking on his fingers keeps you quiet, gives you something else to focus on if not the relentless pounding against your cervix, or how close you’re getting to snapping and cumming all over his dick.

“Shit, you’re so perfect,” Satoru huffs against your neck. "I can feel you squeezing me, baby, I know this little pussy wants to cum."

It’s hard to moan his name when his stupidly long fingers are prodding the back of your throat. You’re babbling, crying out for Thatowu to keep fucking you, it feels so good, and he’s grinning like an idiot above you. Yeah, baby? It feels good?

Satoru’s fingers withdraw from your mouth only to snake underneath your body and stake claim on your clit, massaging in slow circles, coaxing you closer to your orgasm. You can’t take it anymore. Your body goes limp, cheek smashed into the cushion, gaping mouth smearing drool all over the fabric while your cunt creams around his dick.

“Shit, that’s it, baby,” Satoru moans, feeling your cunt squeeze around his dick like it's trying to swallow him whole. “Shit, you’re gonna make me cum. Is that what you want, baby? You want me to fill this pussy up?”

You’re too fucked out to answer, but that’s okay, because Satoru wasn’t really asking. More like letting you know he’s seconds away from driving his dick as deep as possible and unloading right against your cervix. God, he’d really like that, but he can't risk having any more rugrats right now. Not when his career as the only sexiest designer sunglasses model in Grimetown is taking off.

Instead, he pulls out of your cunt and manhandles you onto your back, quickly stroking his dick, filling the living room with the lewd sounds of your wetness squelching around him. You're laying there, dazed, legs spread wide and pussy exposed, all swollen and leaky and clenching around the air. The sight of your debauched face sends Satoru over the edge. He releases with a groan, cum splattering on your lower stomach, inner thighs, all over your pussy, before pressing the head right against your clit and letting the rest of his load drip.

You both need a minute after that. Maybe several minutes.

Blood still rushes in your ears when you come to. You push yourself up on shaking arms, Winnie the Pooh-ing it with your tee shirt and lack of panties. You're a mess, all sweaty with his cum painting your lower half, even parts of the couch underneath you. Maybe he'll offer up his shirt as a cumrag so you don't have to do the walk of shame to the bathroom.

You watch Satoru, who is already back to his normal, irritating self, snatch his bag off the side table, already craving a little something sweet. He chomps into the last strawberry daifuku mochi in the packet and you frown.

“Hey, I thought that was for me."

“We can still share,” Satoru teases, waving the mochi-half in your face with a grin.

Huffing, your eyes drop back down to the open bag on his lap and… wait a minute. Has that been here this whole time?

“Satoru, is that your wallet?”

He looks down, a little rice flour on his chin.

“Oh, shit! Where did that come from?”

#mercury writes

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