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vanteguccir · 2 months

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Speak Now | Matt Sturniolo

Matt Sturniolo x reader

Summary: Where it's Y/N's wedding day, but Matt isn't the groom. During the ceremony, an act of impulse on the boy's part changes the fate of everything.

Warning: Slightly angst, but with a happy ending!

Requested?: Yes, by anon.

Author's note: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

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The cool orange color of the corner lamp lightly illuminated the walls of Matt's room, painting the room with a serene aura. He was still in his bed, mentally preparing himself to get up and start the day slowly, his thoughts still hazy from sleep, a low voice reminding him of the tasks he had to do - writing the script for the next video, answering emails, and posting his collaboration with Prada.

For a moment, he allowed himself to bask in the feeling of tranquility, but that peace was abruptly interrupted when the sound of his bedroom door slamming open echoed through the walls.

Matt turned abruptly to the source of the sound, frowning and opening his mouth to curse whoever had barged into his room so suddenly, but the words caught in his throat when he saw Nick standing there, his eyes wide and his hand holding an envelope tightly.

"Nick, what the fuck?" Matt's voice sounded hoarse and rough from lack of use as his eyes traveled from Nick's face to the envelope and back again.

"Matt... It's from Y/N." Nick muttered apprehensively.

The boy sat down abruptly on the mattress when he heard his ex name, watching Nick slowly approaching and leaving the envelope on the crumpled comforter that covered the younger boy's legs.

"I don't know what it's about, I just found it on the floor in front of the front door."

Matt took the paper delicately, a feeling of apprehension growing in his chest as he recognized Y/N's elegant handwriting on the sender, his own name, and his brother's in the recipient field. His mind wondered why she had sent that, who even sends letters through mail in 2024?

With shaking hands, he tore open the envelope and removed the paper inside, barely noticing Nick's silent exit. His heart sank when he noticed that it wasn't just any paper. It was an invitation... a wedding invitation.

The words printed in embossed letters and in gold color on high quality paper, announcing the day she would become the wife of her current boyfriend, or rather, fiancé.

An overwhelming mix of emotions hit him head-on. Matt gasped, holding the invitation as if it were a precious artifact, but also a knife that pierced his heart. He could feel the bitter taste of regret filling his mouth as his memories with Y/N flooded his mind.

He found himself transported back to the happy days when they were together, each moment shining in vivid colors before his eyes. The shared laughter, the hugs on cold or hot nights, the whispered promises of eternal love... Everything seemed so close, and yet so far away.

Tears threatened to flood his eyes as he struggled to process the magnitude of the situation. He bitterly regretted letting Y/N go, letting his insecurities and fears ruin what they shared. He knew he had no one else to blame but himself for his own loneliness.

A violent internal struggle unfolded within the boy. A part of him wanted to throw the invitation through the window, refuse to witness the ceremony that would tear him up even more inside. But another part, a stubborn and masochistic part, insisted on attending, as if seeing Y/N unite with another man was the punishment he deserved for his failures.

Matt clutched the invitation tightly in his hand, lightly crumpling the expensive paper, feeling fragile and broken. Every beat of his heart echoed with the weight of a decision he didn't know if he was capable of making. He felt the weight of loss pressing down on his shoulders, the pain of a wound that never seemed to heal.

Silent tears streamed down his cheeks as he fought his emotions in turmoil. He loved Y/N more than anything in this world, and even though he had already lost her the day he saw her walk through his bedroom door for the last time, he still held on to the narrow thread of hope he had in him, but now he was in danger of losing her forever, and it tormented him to the core of his soul.

With an anguished sigh, Matt finally let out a choked sob, pressing his hand against his mouth to muffle the ugly sounds, quickly glancing at the door left ajar by Nick. The last thing he wanted was to worry his brothers.

He knew he had no choice but to face the painful reality that Y/N would move on without him. He wished, with all his being, that things could have been different, that he could go back in time and right the wrongs he had made.

But now, all he could do was accept the invitation he held in his trembling hand and prepare to witness the love of his life being given to someone else.

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Matt took a deep breath as he, along with his brothers, entered the imposing church where Y/N's wedding was about to take place. The decor details seemed to jump out, a lush fusion of fresh flowers - Y/N's favorite - and delicate fabrics, creating a fairytale atmosphere, exactly as he and Y/N had fantasized about for so many nights.

The rows of chairs were lined up precisely, each adorned with a floral arrangement. Matt watched the carefully planned details, feeling a pang in his heart.

As he rotated his gaze around the space, his eyes met Y/N's parents accompanied by her fiancé, who was already looking back at the triplets. Matt's eyes widened slightly when he noticed the man open a gentle smile towards him, a strange feeling of resignation and envy flooding him almost automatically.

Victor, who he saw so much of only through Y/N's social media, was tall, with slightly curly brown hair that shone in the light, and vibrant blue eyes that seemed to reflect genuine joy. Matt couldn't help but notice how he perfectly fit the stereotype of the type of man Y/N always seemed to prefer - an observation that left a sour taste in his mouth.

The boy wondered if Y/N really had a specific type or if it was just a coincidence that he and her fiancé shared similar characteristics.

He forced himself to look away, his mind a mess of conflicting emotions and his heart screaming that he should just turn around and go back home. With a resigned sigh, Matt followed his brothers as they found their assigned seats.

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Matt's heart was in turmoil as he anxiously awaited the long-awaited moment of the bride's entrance. His eyes darted nervously around the church, his breath caught in his throat as he tried to control the flood of thoughts that threatened to consume him.

And then, as if time had slowed down, soft music filled the air, announcing Y/N's arrival. His breath seemed to catch as he saw her appear in the aisle, a glimpse of ethereal beauty in her stunning wedding dress. His heart was filled with a mix of joy and pain when he saw her so perfect.

Matt thought he would only see her in a wedding dress on their own wedding day.

Tears threatened to blur his vision as he fought to hold them back. He wanted to scream from the rooftops and release all his pent-up anger, but his words were lost in the void of his silent anguish.

"Matt, are you okay?" Chris asked beside him in an almost muted whisper, only receiving a short nod in return.

As she approached the altar, Matt felt his leg begin to bounce involuntarily in a mixture of anxiety and hesitation. Every step she took seemed to sound like an echo in his own broken heart, a constant reminder of what could have been but would never be.

He had to do something.

When Y/N finally reached the foot of the altar, Matt clenched his right hand into a fist tightly, his teeth biting his thumbnail in a desperate attempt to contain whatever was wanting to come out. He watched with a lump in his throat as she and Victor turned face-to-face, everything sounding muffled against his ears.

He had to.

Every word spoken was like a knife in his heart. He wondered if Y/N could feel the intensity of his emotions, if she could see the love and sadness mixed in his eyes as her own eyes circled the room momentarily, carrying a mix of nervousness and anxiety.

Silence hung in the church, heavy and dense, as the priest finished his solemn last words.

"If anyone has anything to say against this union, speak now or forever remain silent." Finally came the phrase so feared and long awaited.

The priest's voice echoed through the sacred space, resounding off the walls as the guests held their breath. Matt felt his heart hammer in his chest, almost hearing it in his ears, a tumultuous mix of fear and determination swirling in his mind.

He needed to.

And then, before he could think twice, before he could stop the urge that welled up inside him, Matt stood up. His body acted on instinct, his chair scraping with a harsh sound against the floor at the abrupt movement of his body.

The loud sound cut through the silence like a knife, causing the guests to turn to his figure in shock, eyes wide in horror. The priest raised his eyebrows in surprise, his words frozen on his lips as he watched the scene unfold before his eyes.

Victor, Y/N's fiancé, looked at Matt with flaming hatred in his eyes, a completely different expression than the one he displayed moments before the ceremony. He knew who Matt was, and he knew Matt would mean trouble for him.

But Matt ignored all of this. At that moment, all that mattered was Y/N. His blue eyes brimming with fear and love looked intensely into Y/N's shocked ones, who seemed frozen in place.

"I-I..." Y/N began, clearing her throat and turning to face the sea of guests. "I need a moment."

And then, without waiting for a response or further intervention, Y/N got down from the altar and turned around, starting to run towards the back of the church. Her footsteps echoed in the silence with the click of her high heels against the floor, each beat of her heart matching the frantic pace of her run.

"Matt!" Nick called through gritted teeth, quickly glancing at the people around him as he raised his right hand, holding Matt's wrist tightly. "Sit down, now."

Matt barely had time to process what was happening before his instincts took over again, pulling his wrist from Nick's grip quickly. He ignored the confused murmurs of the guests accompanying him as he ran after Y/N.

He had to reach her, had to find a way to explain himself, to convince her to listen. He couldn't let her go without a fight, not after everything he had risked.

Matt's feet pounded the church floor as he ran, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He barely noticed Victor's screams echoing behind him, barely noticed the dirty looks that glared at his back as he chased the only love he'd ever had. All that mattered was reaching Y/N, holding her hand, and never letting it go again.

Matt pushed open the back doors of the church hard, his mind spinning in a whirlwind as he prepared to face whatever was on the other side.

He was expecting the worst - a furious face, eyes full of rage, cutting words thrown his way. But what he found was the complete opposite of that.

Y/N's figure was there, just a few feet away. She held her heels in one of her hands, her veil was lying on the floor next to her bare feet, and her beautiful dress was rumpled, but there was a huge smile on her face, and her eyes showed an intense relief.

Matt frowned in confusion, his own mind in turmoil as he tried to process what was happening. The boy expected her to confront him, to blame him for interrupting her perfect day, for destroying her dreams. But not that.

Before he could do anything, Y/N dropped her heels onto the delicate veil before running towards him, her steps quick and purposeful. She stopped before Matt, her eyes shining with an intensity that left him speechless.

Without hesitation, the girl raised her hands towards his face, cupping his red, hot cheeks, her fingers touching his skin with a tenderness that made him shiver. And then, so suddenly, she pulled him towards her, her lips meeting his in a deep, desperate kiss.

Matt felt the world disappear around him as he gave himself over to the gesture, all his questions slipping from his mind, his hands finding their place around Y/N's waist almost automatically, as if it was marked into his soul.

He could feel the warmth of her body against his, the soft touch of her lips against his own, and Matt had never, until that moment, truly understood how much he missed that.

Matt's lips gently parted from Y/N's seconds later, his eyes remained fixed on her face, as if trying to decipher a complex riddle. He felt the euphoria of the moment still pulsing through his veins, but a sense of confusion was still mixed with the intensity of it all.

"I... I don't understand." The boy murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he struggled to find the right words to express the whirlwind of thoughts that assaulted him.

Y/N shook her head, a soft smile still playing on his lips. She pulled away slightly, maintaining eye contact with Matt.

"I know this is all very confusing." She began, her voice soft and comforting. "But I'm so happy, Matt. So happy and relieved that you're here."

Matt's confusion deepened even further as he took in her words. He couldn't understand how she could be so serene and happy after everything that happened and what he did with her special date.

The boy felt a weight on his shoulders and an immense desire to look behind his shoulders towards the door, feeling as if someone would open it at any moment and expose them to the public.

"When I sent the invitation." Y/N continued. "I felt scared. Scared that you wouldn't show up, that you would choose not to be here. But deep down, I knew you would come. I knew you wouldn't let me down."

Her words hit the brunette like a wave of comforting heat. He watched her intensely, his racing heart overflowing with love as goosebumps ran through his whole body.

"Don't get me wrong, Victor is an amazing guy, but... Matt, he's not you. He never was. No one will ever be you." She unbuttoned her lace sleeves before rolling them up, ripping off the flower that was attached to the fake belt at her waist and throwing it over her heels.

She really was something.

"Y/N-"

"Run away with me?

Y/N's suggestion left Matt speechless. His body remained static as his eyes stared at her, his orbs filled with shock and disbelief. He never imagined that she could suggest something so radical.

"Matt, please, we have to go. Run away with me."

A smirk slowly grew onto Matt's face before he took her right hand in his, pulling her close tightly and picking her up in one quick movement, his right arm supporting her back and his hand gripping her waist tightly, while his left arm held her legs beneath her knees, pressing her against his body.

A squeal escaped Y/N's throat, who wrapped her arms around his neck and placed her hands on the back of his head tightly, hiding her face in the crook of his shoulder, a loud laughter passing through her lips.

"You're unbelievable, pretty girl... Come on, let's go."

So glad you were around when they said: Speak Now.

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My asks are always open. My requests are closed at the moment since I have many to work in, but you can always send questions or simply talk to me 🩷💋

And remember to treat people with kindness always!

~ taglist:

@lustfulslxt @ladybunny44 @worldlxvlys @earth2starkey @remussbitch @freshloveforthefit @il0vebeingdelulu @sturniolowhore @mimi-luvzyu @alorsxsturn @urfavgirllyyyyy @domizzzsstuff @sturnizd @hearts4chriss @cupidzsq @dracoflaco @leah-loves-lilies @tylerthecreatorsrealwife @rootbeerworshiper @junnniiieee07 @elliesturniolo1 @sstvrnioloo @lightsgore @gidgett11037 @sturniolho @ksskianshd @ccolleenn @sturniolo-lover1317 @soimightlikeoldmen69 @hrtyjy @ldr-sl0t @breeloveschris @bellasfavbisexual @its-jennarose @sainzzsturns @ecliphttlunar @thebottledwatersupplier @soso-scarlettolivia @maryx2xx @sturnolio-luvs @bitchydragonparadise @lvrsturn @freshsturns @iammattswife

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itsphoenix0724 · 10 months

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A Shadowed Throne (Azriel x Reader)

Summary: The warmer seasons have been particularly hard this year as Azriel awaits his Queen's return. When winter finally dawns he finds Death will only kneel to life in one circumstance.

Warnings: SMUT, throne-sex, unprotected sex

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: Hello everyone! This was heavily inspired by the myth of Hades and Persephone if that wasn't obvious. Also incredibly inspired by @azsazz's beautiful work called "Between the Shadow and the Soul" so please give that a read. I asked on anon if I could write something similar and I am thrilled they agreed. I hope everyone enjoys it, and as always constructive criticism is welcome!

The halls in the Obsidian Castle are always eerily quiet. You can only hear the whispers of the souls that bustle around the castle. The God of Death finds that he enjoys quiet peace. The cold marble of his throne presses against his back and calms his racing pulse. He feels your presence enter his realm. Shadows bring him a rush of warmth and the smell of sweet spring flowers.

The feeling awakens something in his blood he thought was long dead. This spring's goodbye was awful, the summer bittersweet, and the fall melancholy.

Winter was always his favorite season.

Selfishly he loved the quiet bliss of snowfall and the influx of souls that enter his realm. Most of your smaller creations don’t survive the harshness the winter brings, but he wipes your tears and consoles you that all of your creations will be safe with him. He cherishes each one, kindly guiding them back when they’re ready to move on.

Two souls open the large doors to the throne room. When he sees you the cold heart in his chest starts to beat again. He surveys you from where you stand at the door.

You had chosen a dress in a deep purple for your return home. Two thigh-high slits let him see the vines that wrap all the way down to your bare feet. Your usual flowers had been swapped out for an homage to the underworld. A crown of lilies, nightshade, and oleander were woven through your hair. Two sets of foxglove dangled from your ears and purple emperor butterflies fluttered around your neckline.

You were a vision, a true queen of his realm.

Your eyes locked for one tortuous moment. Neither of you moved, exhaling a small breath before you take off to him in a run. With a wave of his hand, the souls cleared out of the throne room. They would celebrate the return of their queen later with a week-long festival in your honor.

He fully intended to celebrate the return of his queen right fucking now.

He pulled you onto his lap as soon as you reached the throne, the butterflies scattering into the air and landing around the both of you. One brave butterfly rests on his hair before your fingers chase it away.

He wraps one strong hand through your hair before finally drawing his mouth to yours. After months and months of cold, he finally feels warm again. He draws his tongue along the seam of your lips, and they open for him as he greedily slides his tongue into your mouth. He moans as the taste of honey and pomegranates flood his senses and you dig your hands into his hair and pull so harshly he fears you may have drawn blood.

“Azriel,” you whine his name into his mouth and he wants to inject the sound into his veins. Mortals fear his name, only referring to him as Death or King, and he finds he doesn’t mind their fear.

He only wants his name to fall out of your lips anyway.

He moves his lips to mark the soft skin of your neck. He wants to leave his mark everywhere on your body. He wants to remind you of why he deserves your return to him every winter. Azriel’s instincts are kicking into high gear. He wants to claim you and make you beg and cry underneath him and never let you go again. However, he puts that on pause.

For now.

He stands up, hauling your whole body against him before pinning you to the back of the throne and falling to his knees.

All life has to yield to Death eventually, it’s the way of the world, but Death kneels for Life in some instances. He parts your dress, fingers toying with the vines that wrap up and down your legs before diving in. His eyes almost glaze over as he licks one strong stripe through your center, tongue gently flicking over the apex of your thighs in a way that makes you convulse and squirm beneath his tongue. There will be time for teasing later.

Azriel intends to fully make you beg for him when he can properly take you apart in the bed that has been dreadfully cold in your absence. He eats you like he was starving for it, in a way he was, as he laps at the juices running down your thighs and looks up at you through half-lidded lashes. Your cheeks are flushed, your chest heaving up and down as your fingers wind through his inky black hair. You urge him back down and he lets out a dark chuckle that wraps your bones in dark silks.

Azriel laps his tongue at your center before thrusting inside and you let out a moan of approval. His tongue fucks you in and out as one hand comes up to rub tight circles against your clit. You shatter against him with another scream of his name. Azriel’s eyes find yours again and he takes a moment to admire his queen. Your skin is flushed with a thin layer of sweat, even in the cool throne room, and you're lounging on the throne like a true ruler of the underworld. The sight makes his painfully hard cock twitch in his pants. He shucks your legs off of his shoulder before rising to his full height before you. You stare up at him through your eyelashes, playing innocent, even as you undo the laces that hold his pants shut. Your hand runs over him and his head falls back with a groan.

He needs to get inside you now or this is going to be over far before it begins.

He takes your hands away and pins them above your head as he slowly sinks in inch by tortuous inch. He tries to patiently wait for you to adjust but you dig your nails into his wrists and growl in his ear for him to “move already,” he begins to fuck you at a relentless pace. His hands drag down the top of your dress and he takes the weight of both breasts in his palms. He runs a thumb over your nipples before pinching and pulling in time to his thrusts.

“You’re such a good fucking girl,” He growls into your ear and he feels your run a hand up the back edge of his wing. He lets out a long moan, hips stuttering for a second, and he bites your neck in warning before pounding into you at a relentless pace.

You’re trying to arch your hips to meet his thrusts but you’re too fucking cock drunk to keep up.

He reaches one hand down to play with your clit again and he brings you to another mind-numbing orgasm that makes your walls convulse around his cock. That and the way your nails are digging into his back sends him growling through his release. He pulls out slowly before tucking himself back in his pants and rearranging you so that you’re sat on his lap. Az rubs small circles on your lower back and you play with the ends of his hair.

“Sweetheart,” you mutter and he looks down at you, a small smile playing on your lips. “Where’s my throne?” He tries to smother the guilty look before feigning his innocence. With a wave of his hand your throne appears. A rose quartz twin to his obsidian one.

“It depresses the souls when you’re not here Flower. I had to hide it.” It’s not a complete lie. He notices the sad glances the souls steal at your throne when you’re not here, it saddens him a bit as well, like half of his heart is missing. An incomplete set.

“Uh-huh. Sure.” He sends another guilty smile your way. The whole truth is that he hid it so he could enjoy you on his throne, and you’ve always been able to clock his bullshit from a mile away.

“Anyway,” He continues, hopeful to change the subject as he rises to his feet with you in his arms. You let out a small squeal and grip him tighter. “You have a party to prepare for my love. We’re thrilled to have you back.” He’s marching you to your bedroom and he kicks the throne room door closed behind him.

“Azriel if you drop me I swear I will make flowers grow out of your ears.” It’s an empty threat. He can feel your body shake with unreleased laughter and hear the smile in your voice. Az leans down to playfully nip at your ear before he jostles you in his arms just to make the laugh you were holding bubble up in your chest.

“I would never drop you Flower.”

And for the first time in months, on the evening of the first day of winter, the halls of the Obsidian Castle are filled with the sounds of laughter.

#acotar #acomaf #acowar #acotar imagine #azriel x reader #azriel acotar #azriel #azriel smut #smut

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unsaidthingsj2e · 1 year

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that one good cologne, that you bought when we were fighting

Summary : Memories of the night Jude broke up with you are flooding back as you smell his perfume in the bus.

a/n : once again, ignore any spelling mistakes, english is not my first language,

this is inspired by memories by conan gray (<3) and most specifically by the lyrics i put as the title of this fic!!

this is just angst but also i don't know if anything i ever write has any value so don't get your hopes too high, tho i would love to know what you thought ab it!! love ya

It annoyed you, how memory worked. How the sight of a picture, the sound of a melody, the taste of a pastry, the texture of a shirt, the smell of the air would make you remember stuff you tried so hard to bury deep inside your mind.

You hated how it would hit you at the most random moments, taking you by surprise and sending you into memory lane without your consent.

Because you just entered the bus, eager to finally go home after a long day at uni. You had to run in order to catch the bus and not wait for another 10 minutes in the rain. For once, you spotted a free seat that would relieve your back of the heavy weight of your backpack, the bus ride would, for once, not be living hell.

Quickly making your way to the back of the bus where you saw the seat, you sat and sighed, letting the stress dissolve. After taking quick breaths in order to allow oxygen to course through your veins again, it hit you.

You found yourself physically unable to move as the smell of the air hit you. Your brain only took seconds to catch up, pairing the smell of the cologne the guy behind you wore with what you still describe as the worst period of your life.

Too vividly for your own liking, the scene seemed to play in front of you.

You usually weren't the confrontational type, always preferring hiding your feelings deep inside you, convincing yourself you overreacted when something seemed off.

This is something your boyfriend, Jude, made sure to change throughout your relationship. He made sure you knew he would not react like your parents and past partners always did when you brought up an issue.

You loved him, and this part of him, that was making sure you felt safe, was your favorite. He clearly cared for your bond and wanted you to be able to express whatever was on your mind.

Him reassuring you did not make the process less stressful, as you usually fell back into old patterns, but after a year of dating him, you were beginning to get more comfortable at the idea of openly communicating your feelings.

That's how it started.

"Jude? Can I talk to you please?" you said before you could chicken out of this

"Hi love, I didn't know you came home already" he left his spot in front of the TV to come greet you with a kiss, "sure, what's on your mind?"

This display of attention, that became so rare lately, made you pause, wondering if you were indeed making it all up. But when you made eye contact with the boy, you could still see all the space between you two, that wasn't there before.

"Can we go back on the couch maybe? I'd like to be sitting to discuss this" you tried to create an environment that would lessen the pressure on yourself, not trusting your knees not to break right here and there.

You used to be so sure Jude would be your lifeline, having been friends for so long before dating, and now, knowing how good he could treat you as his girlfriend, you could not help but be confused at what he was becoming.

His eyes grew cold and distant, the time he dedicated to you kept on reducing, the affection behind his nicknames seemingly gone. You wondered if you did something to activate this slow and agonizing descent into your personnal hell; a life without him.

You could see worry creeping up in his eyes, vector of so many emotions, or lack of thereof, he could never hide, "Whatever you'd like, is something wrong?" Jude asked.

"Maybe? I don't really know if i'm making all of this up but you're the one that always insisted I don't let myself spiral with my thoughts right?"

"Yeah, always love, I want you to be comfortable around me"

"Okay, uhm, I couldn't help but notice you slowly slipping away? It's just that you're not around as much, you don't seem to long for the physical touch you usually crave from me and, I feel like you don't even care about me anymore, like you've seen all that was to see and you've just grown bored" you spit out in a single breath, worrying you could change your mind if you didn't say it fast enough.

It's the way the worry in his eyes shifted to a shade closer to annoyance that was the exact reason why you hated doing this, "Hey, I don't know where you think you saw that, but I still love you as much as I did yesterday and all the days before, none of what you said reflects what I'm feeling for you" his honey slicked voice tried to reassure you, but it just didn't seem enough this time.

Engulfing you in a hug to shut down any answer or further explanation you may have had, Jude started kissing your face everywhere he could, "My pretty girl spends her time worrying when she's the only one I see"

You let it slide only because coming up with this took all your energy and you still were unsure whether or not you made everything up,

but the next month just further proved your points

You did try again, multiple times, to bring it up. When you did, he would shut you up with physical attention, hugs that smelled of a new, foreign cologne he bought, and pretty words. Other times, he would straight up avoid the topic. The drastic change in his behavior concerning conversations came with a return of every insecurities he once erased, you stopped trying and just let it eat you from the insides.

A month ago, you had tried to surprise jude by going to his place before he could arrive, and prepare a romantic evening that would serve to cover up your broken relationship. Cooking his favorite meal, baking the desert that he could not get enough of and putting on your guys' favorite playlist, you were happy with your work.

While you were finishing cooking the main dish, your phone vibrated, indicating a new text from your man

"we should talk, come by my place in an hour?"

Not knowing what it could mean nor if you were supposed to reveal your surprise, you did not answer.

10 minutes later, Jude entered his appartement, not expecting to see you here already. You could tell he was about to ask why you showed up so early when he told you to come in an hour before he noticed the music, the smell, the state of the dining table.

"Hi, we should probably talk before doing all of this" he said while gesturing to all the stuff you prepared. the lack of kisses and "thank you"'s were not unusual but still stung as if it was the first time.

"Yeah, sure, what do you wanna talk about?"

"I'll go straight to the point to make it fair to you, because I haven't been. I met a new girl."

Time stopped

"I'm sorry that you were right about all these things you used to hold myself accountable for, but I found myself falling for her and it had to come with putting space between us. I wish things were different but I have to break up with you in order to make things fair for both of us, we just aren't made for each other and it's time we accept it" he said, still filled with confidence and when you dared to look in his eyes, shades of honesty and the lack of empathy or sadness felt like just another knife being thrown into your back.

He was so convinced he was being the good guy, coming clean and acting as if the relationship was a burden to both of you. You wondered how long he has been feeling like that, what triggered the need to be fair now, when he hasn't been for at least a few months, if he said your accusations were correct.

You felt dizzy, confused, hurt, but neither tears nor words were coming out. You could only bet your face was one of stone, with pain all over it written in capital letter with glittery paint. All you knew was that you had to leave, so you did.

Jude had anticipated the shutting down part, knowing you well enough to know this many emotions and facts to process would send you into overdrive, so he did the talking, "As much as I appreciate you and I always did, I doubt a friendship between us would work again. It would, this time, not be fair to my girlfriend, I'm sure you can understand."

The word girlfriend being used for someone that wasn't you made an unexpected sob rip through your chest. You had an hard time believing the man in front of you was the man that used to be your best friend and lover. Such hard words used carelessly, no matter what you felt was so unusual for him.

That cologne, so foreign, caused an headache. Or maybe it was the wave of intense emotions, the contained tears and the broken promises. You made your way to the door, opening it and freezing.

You considered saying a snarky comment about dinner, attacking him about the trust you had put in him, asking about this new girl, but you just couldn't.

You'd look for closure later, when your mind was not foggy and threatening to shut down as well, but for now it's you leaving the double of the keys he gave you behind. More than a key, it was ornamented with keychains from places you had visited together, mostly places where he played with his team. And the key of the heart shaped locker you two had put on the infamous love lock bridge in paris, when he would insist you keep it instead of throwing it in the water, because you would always be the key to his heart.

All hope of a peaceful bus drive was gone, as you still found yourself glued to your seat, paralyzed by the scent of the cologne.

It caused you the same headache it had back then, accompanied by the tears you had held back when last confronted to this smell.

part 2 right here <3

#jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham

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voltfruits · 1 year

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I dunno if u will answer this. But i want to know about your sunburn take(this is definitely not an excuse to gather some inspiration)

i'm always happy to talk about sunburn!! i'm not sure exactly what you're asking for.. like my general thoughts on the ship? headcanons? idea of what their dynamic is like? i'll do my best to get my general thoughts out, but feel free to let me know if there's other stuff you want me to add :))

i think the main appeal of Sunburn for me is that they're both mentally unwell together while also having complementary personalities that help the other partner better manage their mental illness. they're both weird loser outcasts who have issues with intimacy and emotions, but Sunny is patient and attentive with Aubrey and helps her stay calm, and Aubrey keeps Sunny grounded in the real world and gives him the strength take care of himself. so you get a healthy dose of "this couple fucks everything up together" which is fun and relatable, but it also gives you so much room to explore them growing and healing together.

i think Aubrey would try really hard to stay in touch with Sunny after the true ending, even though she's upset with him for a while. she train-hops into the city late in the summer just to see him and work out some messy post-Truth emotions, and then they stay in touch through email during the school year. Sunny's old childhood crush reawakens itself very fast now that Aubrey's showing so much care for him—actually, I'd argue that the crush never really went away.

Sunny comes back to visit sometimes, too. and when he does, he and Aubrey will always sit on the swings together and talk, just like old times. i think a lot about the game's implications of the swingset being a big heart-to-heart spot for them. it's only a short time before their conversations start to feel free and natural again. they just get each other.

after Aubrey graduates high school, she moves into the city where Sunny lives and gets a job in construction/freelance handywoman stuff. Sunny still lives with his mom, and he's studying for his GED and making a little money as a freelance illustrator on the side. they spend a lot more time together, Aubrey takes Sunny out on bike rides and reminds him to take his meds, and Sunny and his mom have Aubrey over for dinner several nights a week (she's definitely living paycheck to paycheck at this point, sadly, she needs all the help she can get 😔). and this is around the time where Aubrey starts to fall for Sunny in return. she sees how much he's growing into his own person and coming out of his shell, and how badly he wants to be there for her and help her out.

in the years that follow, Aubrey and Sunny finally work through their feelings and start dating, Aubrey goes to trade school and starts working as an electrician or auto mechanic (better job, better money!), and she and Sunny get their own apartment together, and a cat :) adulting is hard for them at first! dinners are burned, bathrooms are flooded, rent deadlines are nearly missed. but they have a hell of a time, and they have each other, and they survive and then thrive. at some point i will write a fic that explores all this is fuller detail. but that's the general gist.

as to what their general endgame dynamic is like: they're both pretty quiet and subtle people in demeanor/appearance, but they're a little wild on the inside. Aubrey's hair is back to black with a single pink streak, and she has a love of leather jackets and earrings and tattoos; Sunny's evolved into a sort of tasteful goth/dark academia aesthetic. they both like listening and observing more than talking. they both keep a lot journals and talk about deep meaning-of-life shit. they do tons of parallel play, and parallel work. Sunny talks more than he used to, but he can be spacey and shy sometimes, which makes Aubrey very protective of him. she's mellowed out, but she can still get a little fiery when she thinks someone's giving Sunny a hard time. they're not overly showy with PDA, but they're almost always holding hands. and they can both understand how the other is feeling without needing to exchange a word.

i also think that Sunny and Aubrey both like being artsy together :) Sunny is an illustrator by trade, but Aubrey also likes to draw and paint with him. and she casually plays guitar, and Sunny does a little music production stuff here and there.

lastly, even in timelines where they don't end up dating each other, i think Aubrey is also the first person Sunny goes to when he's confused about his gender and/or sexuality. if the mystery potion is any indication, he's definitely thought about being a girl to some degree, or being something in between. so at some point after Aubrey moves to the city, they're up late one night talking, and Sunny admits that he wishes he was a girl sometimes, but not all the time? and Aubrey is the only girl he's really close with so he figures it's best to get her opinion. and it takes many more years before Sunny actually puts a label on how he feels (probably genderfluid), but Aubrey is there with him every step of the way (she's an active participant in the city's punk/queer subculture so she's very accepting!!!).

so yeah. that's some of my sunburn word vomit. i love them endlessly, in case u can't tell :')

#volt answers #rayn1lazd #omori #omori headcanons #omori sunburn #i love them.... augh 🥺

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hitsuzenhusbands · 1 year

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i havent properly posted any writing scraps in forever so. have a snippet of an asoue fic because im going crazy i think. warnings for alcohol use, a general lack of self-preservation, and olaf being so so so miserable

The smoke stings his lungs, the alcohol his tongue, and for a moment all Olaf can taste is bitter nothingness as his senses desperately cling to anything that isn’t his own self-inflicted suffering. Still, though, he waits until the moment passes–his chest exploding with heaving coughs and his throat burning as whatever he found in the dusty old bottle he now grips tightly in his dirty fingers slides down it–and then he does it all over again.

There’s a word for this, he thinks, though only because years of training have taught him that there’s a word for everything. Miserable, perhaps, or desolate, though he’s well aware there’s fancier words. If he knew them, he’d tack on ennui and languor for the hell of it, and then list a thousand more until his tongue fell off and his lungs rotted. That’s what everyone else in that organization is going to do anyway, he’s decided.

Not that anything they do matters to him.

He lets his cigarette butt float delicately to the floor to join the others before lifting the hand that held it from its place on the arm of his chair. It’s an old thing; bright green–a stark contrast to everything else in his beloved childhood home, his inheritance of code violations and countless infestations–and broken, propped up by one half of a wooden leg and books to replace the others. It’s not nearly as out of place as it should be. The books are just another pile among piles, and the green could almost be compared to the numerous discarded bottles that would glimmer with the same tint if the windows weren’t so clouded with dirt. Even he fits the scene: a centrepiece of a luxuriously hideous robe that floods the scrawny man within it, hiding his torso in folds of black fabric adorned with obnoxious golden flowers yet not-quite reaching his unshaven legs that sprawl over the other armrest.

He pictures himself a grieving widow, wrapped in her finest piece of silk while she awaits the day she too is taken by death’s vice-like grip. If not that, he’s from some Shakespearean play, clad in something lavish that may or may not be a part of a greater metaphor, lamenting everyone around him for they all always die in the end–or however it goes.

But the widow doesn’t drink so much and the poor Shakespearean soul never smokes, so he is left a not-exactly grieving son in his mother’s robe that’s far too ornate and unsightly to make up a metaphor, no matter how much he always wanted it when she was alive.

He lifts the bottle to his lips once more and takes a sip he didn’t realize was the last one, a slow dribble of unrecognizable alcohol that barely does anything more than inspire him to scramble to his feet in a dizzy, furious haze and slam the empty bottle down against the floor. He watches it shatter, splintering into a million pieces that will never be cleaned. He’s been in the house long enough that this new mess is nothing but an extension of it–tangible proof of the decay that crawls through the water pipes and buries itself between disintegrating floorboards. A sliver of sunlight finds its way through a window, hitting the shards of glass and reflecting viridescent light against peeling wallpaper.

There’s a word for this, too–for the feeling that bubbles up inside of him while he stares numbly at the broken bottle and the vaguely beautiful emerald shine it produces that dances upon his walls; its ghost.

Sullen. Somber. Dismal. Wretched.

The doorbell rings the moment he settles on pathetic.

#fic posting #asoue #a series of unfortunate events #count olaf #gahhh help girl im writing fanfiction for a childrens series!!#and im having the best time ever. yippee!#theres definitely more but. ah well

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rxttenfish · 2 years

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i got inspired and started writing a random ass drabble for here, so heres the wip of it. it is absolutely not finished yet i am just tired and wanted to show off what i have before i go to sleep.

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

Miranda touched the very end of her nose to Aaravi’s jawline. The subtle ridge of bone — grown into a boxy shape to better push water back instead of letting it catch and offer drag — lifted and fell her head with each tiny nudge, scales as smooth as river bottom rubbing against the tender skin and fine hairs just above the underside of her throat.

This was one of Miranda’s favorite gestures, a way to close the space between the two and look up at Aaravi with her puppy-dog eyes. Once, she had explained why. Aaravi had run her hand over Miranda’s face, permitted with a telltale enthusiasm, pressing her fingertips into all of the divots and inclines created by fused bone, exploring the details that she had only ever been allowed to watch before. And Miranda had told her that she couldn’t normally feel her all that well. She didn’t have skin like Aaravi did, a note given with a giggle and shoving her brow-ridge up against the meat of 'Ravi’s calloused palm, so when she touched Miri’s shoulders or her back or her limbs, she couldn’t pick out much about it. It was only when someone touched her face, with its thinner scales and with lips that could taste and tucked her teeth away into pearly dreams, that she could really feel them.

Later, she would also reveal this is why merfolk bite each other on the face, aiming for mouths and eyes and sharp bone brows. It’s safer than any other part of their body, crafted robust for its killing intent, but it hurts. And it bleeds. It bleeds as though the ocean itself was trying to flood out from their face, creating dripping ruby veils that obscured their eyes.

In the moment, Aaravi could only remember Miranda’s sister, wearing the thick veil that hid eyes that, she had been told, were yellow and orange and speckled through as if by clusters of mold sprouting around pitted pupil. Wearing something that seemed so much like hindrance, a martyr stitched together with threaded gold. The memory was sour, and hidden away to decompose enough that she might forget it again.

But now it was only them. Only them, and the unspooled bedsheets, fallen into before they even removed the slopping dressings of the evening. Miranda’s dress, if it were to be called a dress, seemingly too proper for such casual dismissal, flowed into and hid in every ruffled sheet and discarded pillow. It caught the orange glow of the singular bedside lamp, spreading across and over it in ripples and woven waves, holding the same texture and color-changing properties of the sea itself, strings of pearls floating amidst the froth. It still clung to her shoulders, her chest, but now parts of it were hiked up, scandalous, over the coil of her body, the sea monster haunting her own oil painting.

It was a different kind of mess to Aaravi. Her jacket was fully hanging off of one of her shoulders and several buttons had come undone on her shirt, her pants no longer the wrinkle-less expanse of professionalism she had received them in. The pendant on Hex’s necklace had migrated and ended up somewhere behind her neck, the rest of the cord haphazardly strewn over the top of her chest. If Miranda were artistry, then Aaravi was the bedraggled painter, stray hairs slipping free of their pinnings, still with wispy crusts of blood drying beneath her fingernails, one still digging into Miranda’s shoulder, the other wrapped around her wrist.

Miranda nudged her jaw again, running over the smooth edge where Aaravi always rested her thumb, when she refined the jaws of her kills into hilts for new knives.

#all the care guide says is 'biomass'

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mycharacterdump · 6 months

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𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐍

get some pull up the ladder when the flood comes throw enough rope until the legs have swung seven new ways that you can eat your young come and get some skinning the children for a war drum putting food on the table selling bombs and guns it's quicker and easier to eat your young.

I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE ANYMORE. That’s what I told my psychiatrist after the accident. I could remember it more vividly than anyone else: the violent tearing of my skin by shards of glass, the taste of metal in my mouth, seeping into my throat, my whole body humming with adrenaline, desperate, yearning for life as it clung onto consciousness even when the pain was excruciating and the light was beckoning me. Except there was no real light, not the ethereal, interdimensional kind that opens up the afterlife, it was the artificial and blinding glow of headlights. When I looked around, my vision stained by the sudden beams, I could see my lanky and underfed body half-trapped underneath the flipped car. I was on a bed of glass and gore. Everything I still had in me had been ripped out of someone else.

“Olive was next to me,” I had said. I was sitting uncomfortably in a leather chair and eyeing the analog clock that rested on Dr. Nguyen’s mahogany desk that resembled my father’s in his study. Only the best for the best, he would say, though he never actually believed that much in me — the most valuable thing I had ever or would ever possess was my last name, and if he wanted he could steal that from me, too. “or was for a little while. She wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. Don’t know why. When we braked, she slammed through the windshield. I could see her on the road. She was still alive when I looked, twitching and blinking like a squirrel or something. She had glass stuck everywhere. Like a human pincushion.”

All of my English teachers told me I had an extraordinarily unique and descriptive vocabulary. They would tell me this with a unsettled tilt to their expression; made evident in their slanted brow and squared shoulders, like I’d just turned in a dead animal instead of the homework they assigned me. Admittedly, I could get carried away with my stories. Whatever prompt they offered up I would quite literally manipulate the words until I could justify bastardizing it until it seemed like something I would actually write.

Write about your best and worst day.

Write about a time you felt scared.

Write about something that inspires you.

Those boring and contrived plots became vessels for what would spiral into long-winded explanations about my tortured existence only seventeen years into living.

My best day hadn’t come yet. I wrote this and I received an F for my honesty.

My worst day? The day I saw my mother again after she died. She lay entirely still in a casket of silk and lace, her face painted with garish reds and pinks to make her look alive, which I thought made her look like a poorly reanimated version of herself, like a made-up zombie, like a ghost playing pretend underneath a sheet.

I felt scared everyday up until I was fifteen. I was terrified that my father would disown me, leave me homeless and without any prospects for a viable future, I was terrified that my older brother would kill me the next time he sent a punch to my head, I was terrified that I would never escape the burning hellfire that was my home.

I was, in truth, inspired by my friends, all of whom were dead now.

“Kellen was in the passenger seat. He got some of the worst of it, I think. The seatbelt crushed his ribs before it spliced open his stomach,” I explained. “If I reached out I could feel his guts on the asphalt. They were still warm and throbbing. I couldn’t see his face, but I heard him screaming out. For his mother, I think. But she’s lived in Tampa since we were kids. She gave up custody of him when he was seven. I guess in the end all we really want are our mothers, no matter what they’ve done to us.”

The night before I could remember standing under the fluorescent lights of Kellen’s bathroom and passing around a mirror. We would lean in, inhale, rub our noses, and grin at each other like we were smooth criminals. We couldn’t have been farther from it, but, well, the ignorance of youth was intoxicating and maladaptive.

We shared homeroom with Olive. He would always kill time by drawing in the margins of his notebook and pass the ones he thought were good enough for show to me first, his signature in the corner of every one with the tagline: PASS IT ON. Some of them I’d keep for myself, like the one of all our crudely sketched caricatures smoking and drinking.

Olive didn’t like the drawings. When she received them, she’d always make a point of crumpling them up and hooping them into the nearby trashcan. That always pissed Kellen off, but for some reason he kept directing me to give them to her. I thought they were in love. I told him once, Spill your guts, man, and he said, I’d rather die.

“There was Althea in his lap. She scooted up there to make Olive mad,” I said, though that was an assumption. “She kept choking on something. I don’t know if it was blood or glass or puke. I remember… She reached out for Kellen and he didn’t reach back. Then she finally let it out and everything suddenly smelled like stomach acid and vanilla perfume.”

I didn’t know much about Althea. She was new to the group, as we’d all known each other since kindergarten and she transferred from a prep school in Connecticut halfway through seventh grade. All I really knew was that she had an obsession with Manic Panic hair dye and Hot Topic couture. She was the most like me, I think, which is why I maintained a healthy distance, but she was the first person to tell me that I looked cool and I’d look even cooler with an earring — and when I listened to her, she told me about the piercer she’d been going to for hers since she was fourteen.

I could remember our junior homecoming when she wore a blue beaded dress with mesh sleeves, her eyelids and waterline slick with black liner, her hair pin straight and dyed a fresh violet that shimmered under the light of the mirrorball. I thought then that I could fall in love with her if we weren’t so similar. I knew if I tried we would eat each other alive.

“... Ferris had it the worst,” I finally said, feeling a soreness develop in my throat. I couldn’t speak for a long time. At some point Dr. Nguyen asked: Are you okay? I nodded along, then when he said: You don’t have to talk about it, I shook my head, because I needed to talk about it. If I didn’t it would metastasize into a black hole and destroy me from the inside out. “He was driving. He’d been pretty drunk, but… But he was always good at hiding it from the rest of us. I still don’t know how he did it. Anyway, uh… He, uh… Hit the semi and we spun around and went under and… And when we stopped halfway and I was outside, he was next to me all the sudden. Except he wasn’t. Not all of him, at least. Just his head.”

His green-blue eyes bore into my soul. They were void of any semblance of life. His face was still and lacked any emotion. He almost looked at peace, but his jaw was slack from where it had been dislocated and so he kind of just looked, well, a little dumbstruck. Rightfully so.

What I didn’t tell Dr. Nguyen that day was how Ferris and I were kind of in love. Not all the way, but we were balancing the thin line between devoted friendship and utterly hopeless teenage obsession. It was a dangerous game and we both were painfully aware of its consequences. His father and mine were very similar in their beliefs — meaning we could have never been together while maintaining our social stations. Not that either of us cared that much, but we had convinced each other it was more important than it actually was.

Ferris was good. He was the best of us, I thought. The smartest, when he wanted to be. Too bad all those brains went to waste. Literally. All his hard work and achievements smeared on gray ash to be picked up and placed in plastic baggies for the mortician to examine and then dispose of. Some of his blood had sprayed on my face. I could feel the last of the heat emitted from his body on my skin. I remembered the first time I ever felt it, our hands entwined underneath the bleachers as we avoided eye contact while passing a joint back and forth.

“Weed makes me paranoid,” I told him after we’d already smoked half of it.

“Same,” he returned. “but we’ve gotten this far.”

That could’ve been a summary of our entire relationship. We’d gotten away with so much bullshit it should’ve been criminal. It technically was, at times, when he started slinging dope and the rest of us turned a blind eye. We knew he didn’t need to, that it was just for a rush that most rich kids could only achieve through nefarious activities and maybe sex. Maybe. If you’d caved to total deviancy.

The one time I was with Ferris, when we’d tested the waters just to see if it could be earth-shattering enough like all the tension was between us, he pinned my wrists above my head and sunk his teeth into my neck with more vigor than anyone else had and I was undeniably hard. He asked me if I liked anything specifically and I thought it over.

No, not really.

He told me that he had a guy that could only get off if he was being asphyxiated and when I asked if either of us had to do that to achieve the same goal, he cocked his head at me before shrugging.

We just decided to do things the old fashion way. Deviancy be damned. We were old romantics, I guess.

It wasn’t earth-shattering — it was just okay. I realized then that I hadn’t met a single person who had made me ascend to the heavens or whatever the fuck people talked about when they tried to describe how hard they came. I didn’t understand it at the same, because I did like Ferris, I think I might’ve loved him, too, so why wasn’t what I was hoping it’d be?

I never felt like I had to lie to him, so I asked him this.

“Maybe we should’ve waited ‘til marriage,” he said, half-joking. “Catholic guilt.”

“My family’s Protestant,” I replied.

“Oh, well then that’s definitely it. It’s a lot hotter when you’re disobeying the Pope.”

He always made me laugh. Not that many people could claim such a feat.

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” I reiterated to Dr. Nguyen. “I don’t… Have any purpose. And honestly, my father would agree with you, not just to get out of paying for these sessions, either.”

Dr. Nguyen scrutinized me under his onyx-set gaze and made me squirm. “Why don’t you think you have any purpose, Lucien?”

“Lucky,” I corrected quickly.

“Lucky, of course,” he said with a professional smile. “Why don’t you think you have any purpose?”

“... Never have,” I eventually murmured, tugging at the hems of my sleeves. “Just born that way.”

“No one’s born without a purpose,” he argued.

I gave a snort in response. “Yeah, okay,” I said dismissively. “We live on a spinning rock in the middle of outer space. I fail to recognize how anyone has a true purpose in a universe so vast that it’ll literally stretch itself out of existence.”

“Quite a nihilistic outlook on things,” he noted, humming to himself as he scribbled something on his notepad. I almost sneered at it. I hated all of this. It was pointless. Everyone in my family knew I’d be better off dead — so why wouldn’t they just let me die? Who cares how it happened? My mother already offed herself, what’s one more Jensen succumbing to the knife?

“I’m just stating the facts.” I told him. “Are you gonna deny science now?” “I’m not,” Dr. Nguyen said with a quiet chuckle. “Because you’re right. The universe is expanding infinitely and at some point, we’ll all be rendered to atoms and then nothingness once they collapse in on themselves. It’s not the ending of it all that matters. Hell, it’s not even about the beginning. What matters is what you make of the middle; the part where you’re alive, which is an unlikely thing in and of itself.”

I shuffled uncomfortably where I sat, my gaze fleeting toward the time I could read on the analog clock. Five more minutes. “What does that have to do with a purpose?” I asked.

“Everyone’s intrinsic purpose is staying alive,” he continued. “If not for yourself, for the rest of the world. So it has one more fighter in it. You get to choose what exactly you fight for, but giving up serves nothing and no one. Who cares if the universe will die in a few thousand trillion years? You’re here now. What you do with that doesn’t have to matter to anyone but you.”

That stuck with me for a long time. It followed me out of that office and back home, where my father couldn’t have cared less how the appointment went, it came with me when I graduated high school and accepted my diploma and listened to the principal hold a moment of silence for all my friends, it lingered in my mind and in my heart when I moved into my dormitory at Yale and started studying law. If I was going to live and be punished for it despite everything I had been through, I’d at least allow myself the simple pleasure of spite.

That mattered to me more than anything. I knew no better satisfaction than living another day and coming out of each semester at the top of my class — proving to my father I was everything he wished I weren’t. I was clever, I was witty, I had a near eidetic memory, I was fucking smart. I was more capable of mantling him as the head of Jensen Industries than my idiotic older brother or self-important older sister. The mere thought of how mad it must’ve driven him added years to my life span.

Then the unthinkable happened.

I thought the worst was behind me; I had suffered an injustice so young, I had become certain at some point that keeping a respectable distance between myself and everyone else that nothing bad could befall upon me again, but I was wrong. For the first time in a long time I was so fucking wrong.

It had been a decade after the accident. I stopped seeing Dr. Nguyen three years ago. I didn’t think I needed him anymore. I was twenty-seven and working at a smaller law firm to get my footing after graduation. On Fridays and Fridays only I would walk to the nearest bar and order myself a whiskey on the rocks and try and figure out what the rules of hockey were before I slid over a tenner and walked out.

Except this time someone struck up a conversation with me. I wasn’t aware I came across as approachable, which had left me unsettled. The woman must’ve been around my age. She was pretty, I’d give her that, though not much of my type. I wasn’t even sure I had a type — it’d been a long time since I dated anyone seriously, or dated period.

She asked me what I did for a living. I told her I was a lawyer and her eyes lit up, insisting that she was one as well. My eyebrows knitted together and I cocked my head as to say Oh, really? and she gave a charming laugh and elaborated on how she’d just moved to the city from somewhere in the Midwest and was looking for like-minded friends. Who more like-minded than another conceited government employee?

I tried to say how I wasn’t much like the people that worked in Avalon, but she took pleasure in badgering me on how everyone was the same in the end. I was waiting for there to come a punchline, but alas. I finished my whiskey and decided to order another. An unprecedented event.

She sat there talking at me for what felt like forever. I’m still not sure why I didn’t just get up and walk away. It was kind of entertaining, I suppose. I didn’t get much of that out of other people these days, I had to make my own fun for the most part. Not that I minded. I thought I was singularly hilarious.

I didn’t realize until halfway through my second glass that she’d gradually been leaning in closer to me. My eyes drifted to where she was and I could smell a tinge of spearmint on her alcohol-laced breath. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but in that moment all I could think about was how Ferris would chew an obscene amount of gum after drinking from the handles of Skyy we would steal from my brother as an attempt to cover the liquor that coated his tongue.

“— you should come to mine,” she said, which made me snap out of my melancholy daze.

I considered it. I really shouldn’t have, but I knew all of my so-called friends at the office would probably benefit from a shift in attitude from their good co-worker Lucky who hadn’t gotten laid in months.

So, I sunk back the last of my whiskey and slid some cash across the counter and followed her out of the bar. It was snowing outside. It was always fucking snowing. In Boston, in New Haven, in Avalon. Always a thick grey film looming above and black ice on the streets. Sometimes I would humor the idea of fleeing the east coast altogether and settling somewhere warmer, like Nevada or California — then I’d disregard the notion. I didn’t belong in places like that. I was exactly where I was supposed to be, for better or for worse.

When I looked down at her I noticed that our hands were entwined. I tried my best not to feel wildly uncomfortable about it. I wasn’t accustomed to exchanging warmth with another person, especially strangers. The people I’d been with in the past ten years might as well have been ghosts with how strategically they flitted in and out of my life without a trace.

Her eyes were a green-blue. I swallowed dryly, seeing a reflection of my 17-year-old self in them.

Before our lips could connect I felt a sharp jab in my arm. I gasped and pulled away, looking down to see a needle stuck through my wool jacket. I cursed under my breath as lapses of confusion rendered me inoperative. I sunk to my knees and she dipped down beside me with a devilish grin.

When I woke up I was in what I recognized to be one of the guest rooms in my father’s Avalon estate. It felt much less lived-in than our home in Boston, but it made sense, as my mother had never gone to New York. She only lived long enough to decorate the first home I ever knew with fragments of her soul before disappearing into the ether for the rest of us to pick up the pieces after her. The person who was in charge of designing his estate in Avalon was a plucky interior designer that wielded a degree and everything.

It was colder, to say the least. Nothing emitted light or comfort. Everything just… Existed. There were no memories behind it, except for the stiff family portraits he kept around for the sake of appearances whenever we didn have the occasional visitor.

In the bed I lay the duvet was heavy to a point where I felt uncomfortable beneath it, too restricted. I wriggled around until I could sit up on my elbows. My whole body ached terribly. I felt like I’d aged fifty years in the span of a few hours — except it’d been more than that, as when I could finally summon the strength to climb out of bed and shuffle down the stairs, the date on the calendar was marked as JANUARY 2ND, 2000.

I had just missed the turn of the millennium. Figures. I had also missed my 27th birthday, which I meant I was out for at least a week. How was I not dead, I wondered?

It was then I was delivered the most unfortunate truth: I would never be dead. Physically, I couldn’t die, no matter what I did or how hard I tried. My father seemed most pleased about it as he explained it to me when I found him in his study. I could remember screaming at him until my lungs gave out and I was forced to catch my breath, and I remembered his cruel laughter echoing throughout the corridors.

Now you’re finally worthy of being one of us, he’d said as I ambled down the hallway.

I spent the next few months in purgatory. I was in complete denial of what had become of me, shutting myself out from the world and nearly getting myself fired before my father had me forcibly dragged into the office so I could perform my duties. So this was my punishment of all those years of proving to him how good I could be without his intervention — an eternity of being a Jensen.

The only thing that soothed me was knowing one day, I’d get to watch him die, and for a while I theorized how I could make that as painful as possible.

It wasn’t until I met Manon that I stopped thinking about the torture that was existence, or all what could’ve become of it. She was needlessly kind and understanding; she might not have liked the sound of her own voice, made evident in how much she struggled to speak, and she might’ve developed the habit of slinking inward so less people could perceive her, but I could understand that. I, too, hid away from the world and its injustices. I used to think I was a bit of a coward for it when I was on the mend from my unrelenting depression. I realized after getting to know her that I was just… Human. The virus hadn’t changed that much about me, after all. I still had the human instinct to want happiness at any cost.

My father didn’t like her. I didn’t care. I wouldn’t have cared before, either, but now I had even more of an incentive to show how heedless I really could be — except it all felt so purposeful with Manon. Nothing I did was meaningless, at least not in her eyes. I would accidentally overcook the food I made her for our dates (she didn’t like restaurants, too loud), I would wear the wrong kind of sweater when we lay together (too itchy, she liked my pure cotton ones better), and I would say the wrong things at the wrong times, but she took it all as it came to her and didn’t disparage me for it. She recognized my effort.

No one had ever done that before.

In return, I recognized hers. When she fell pregnant, I let her feel whatever she needed to in order to survive. She was more upset than I was even though I felt paralyzed with fear at the prospect of raising a child. A son. I would lay beside her at night and tell her, We’ll do this right. If we can’t do anything else, we can do this. She chose to believe me, and I’ll never not be thankful for that.

Spencer was more than I deserved. I knew that from the first moment I saw him and heard him cry. I knew in an instant that he and Manon would be the only things in this world I didn’t think I could watch wither away and die.

That was a long time from now, though. Now, I had to be present, I had to be the best version of myself I could be, so I was. He might have resented me for it as he grew older and came to know the weight in his name, he might have acted against me in everything he did, but the years passed anyway and I survived them all. I had no choice, really, still I pretended like I did.

I’ll admit I worried that I had inflicted too much of my own pain unto Spencer; when Manon was sicker than usual or when work was especially gruelling. I didn’t want him spiraling like I did at his age and living for spite and spite alone, even if it was what saved me for a little while.

But he proved me wrong. He always did. If I were more of my father’s son, it would’ve angered me. I was just glad he was a good person. He was. He was my favorite person in the world beside his mother. He looked like her, he had her eyes and her posture whenever he was being scolded, which was endearing, he even had a stutter like her. If it weren’t for the shit-eating kids that bullied him for it in school, I never would’ve put him in speech therapy, as selfish as it sounds. He tried so hard and it hurt me to see all of it disregarded by the people he wanted to impress the most.

You can imagine my relief when he found someone that saw his soul the way Manon and I did. And you can imagine my total shock the day he came home hand-in-hand with her and proudly showed off a series of ultrasounds where three dots were present.

The best day of my life was on December 3rd, 2022, 24 days before what was supposed to be my 50th birthday. I held three little lives in my arms, their bodies impossibly small that it almost felt wrong to be able to hold them all at the same time, and when I looked up I could see Spencer holding Reina’s hand while she waned in and out of consciousness.

“Thought of any names?” I spoke up. I didn’t think I could feel this kind of happiness after holding Spencer twenty-two years prior.

“Yeah,” Spencer beamed at me. I could feel my heart melt. When was the last time he looked at me like that? “Margaret’s the oldest. Margaret Elaine, after her sister. She kinda insisted on it, but I think it fits.”

“V-Very good,” Manon chuckled as she leaned in closer to me so she could gaze upon our grandchildren. I noted all the little creases in her face and smiled to myself. It was a privilege watching her age. My only wish was that I could’ve done it alongside her. But I was far from being ungrateful in that moment.

“Then there’s Maxwell Lucien and Michaela Manon,” he continued, smiling widely at his mother rather than me.

Manon’s expression softened as she looked up at Spencer. Wordlessly she stood up and approached him, enveloping him in a tight hug. I stayed where I was, watching them fondly.

It was a good life.

And I would keep living it. For them.

#lucky — character study.#self para #4.6k words #10k in total for both #ive written 22k this month alone lol........

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unstoppableforcce · 3 years

Text

dirty, pretty, beautiful

— “goddamn… I love to watch you work”

pairing: billy russo x f! street fighter! reader

masterlist | 5.2k | ko-fi

warnings: [18+], fighting, blood, blood kink (?), semi-public sex (? it’s a bar bathroom), slight choking, just overall violence (?) but enthusiastically consensual, all smut is from Billy’s POV

a/n: so maybe, I ignored every other WIP I have to write for billy russo. and yeah, this is 9000% inspired by the scene in 1x12 where billy is clearly turned on watching frank kill a man. but i really like the way this came out so I don’t even care

The warehouse had a stink to it. Musty, heady, metallic… Metallic like the remains of a handful of change against his palm. Metallic like waft of hot rain off the highest train tracks. Metallic like the taste of blood, coating his teeth, smothering his tongue until it was all he imagined he would ever taste again.

Fresh blood had a sweeter smell, a saltier smell even, but as more time passed, as the heat of the daily sunlight poured in through the windows left unboarded, as the frigid, damp night settled within the empty body of the building, the smell grew rancid. A ripe fruit passing it’s best by date, left to sit for far too long. A living liquor left to die, to rot, to stink. It was a smell he was far too familiar with, a smell that laced more of his memories than he cared to ever voice. A smell that, on his worst days, he found himself missing.

With hands heavy like weights, stuffed into his pockets to keep him anchored as the smell flooded his head, he managed his way forward towards the hum of the crowd. Hustlers worked the crowd, kids barely old enough to enlist waving hands full of crumpled bills and corralling bet after bet.

“We’ve got three fights! Three fights left until the main event!” One called.

“Place your bets and place them fast!” The next one chanted, over and over again, louder and louder each time a new wad of cash was pushed into his hands.

“This is a night you won’t want to miss.”

Clearly, the crowd agreed.

The itch of his sweater brought a new heat as he moved deeper into the crowd circled around the main cage, a cold sweat gathering at the back of his neck where the collar of his leather jacket met his skin. He knew better than to wear one of his suits to an event like this, but he still found himself missing the fond feel of the expensive fabric, the protective layer it granted him, the height it added to his already intimidating form. A few sideways stares told him he still stood out plenty on his own, but something about being dressed down struck a chord with him he didn’t like.

It was wearing a different skin, a more vulnerable skin, one that left him desperate in a way he hadn’t felt in far too long.

Billy Russo was a powerful man, but he hadn’t always been. It didn’t matter how many years it had been, he spent far too long walking on the edge, toeing a line. The group home, the bullies, the stares that followed his pretty fucking face wherever he went… one wrong move, one bad decision, and he could’ve ended up here under much different circumstances.

It could have been him in the ring, fighting for his next meal, fighting for his life.

His hand scratched at his beard as he shouldered further into the crowd for a better view, doing his best to ignore the brutal stench of violence and the unclean men surrounding him. It didn’t matter what feeling bubbled in his chest, nor what aching memories echoed in the back of his head, he was here for a reason. Recruiting discharged soldiers could only sustain their workforce for so long if special forces remnants and women remained hard to come by. When rumors started to grow, flowering up from the filthy underbelly of the city, a fighter to end all fights, he knew he had to get his offer on the table before anyone else could.

Anvil needed operatives. He had a job to do. The stench of blood and the avalanche of feelings that came with it, that was just… well, he could handle it. With or without his suit and tie.

“... El Tigre and the Mountain!”

The crowd roared for the first fight of the night.

There was a particular bias for the Mountain, which, upon laying eyes on him, made enough sense. He didn’t get the name out of irony, he towered over his opponent by a good foot, and no amount of speed on the smaller man’s part was going to make a difference. The fight lasted, violent hit after violent hit, but within a few minutes, the Mountain prevailed as expected.

Then another fight, just as brutal. Then another.

Watching men beat the shit out of each other, however, was nothing new. If he wanted unthinking violence and filthy brutality, he knew where he could get it a lot cheaper, he was here for overlooked skill, an underestimated killer. He was here for—

“The crowned royalty of chaos, the duchess of destruction, the princess of pain… the one and only…” his voice echoed across the warehouse, rumbling as the crowd grew uncontrollable. “The Queen of Combat!”

If the crowd had allowed enough space between where their rowdy bodies pressed against one another, Billy thought some of them might get on their knees and submit to you right there and then. Hell, the second he laid eyes on you, the thought even crossed his mind.

And he’d be lying if he said it didn’t linger.

The warehouse shook with unflinching loyalty, his ears defeaned by the corresponding cheers. Shoulders hit into his, shoved from behind, pushed by the guy in front of him, some of the crowd climbing up on the cage just to gain a mere inch closer to you. And yet, you made your way into the cage without sparing a glance to a single one of the aggressive animals clawing at the fencing, unphased by the noise, unflinching. Your chin lifted just above the noise and your graceful stature carried you the rest of the way in. Regal was an understatement, but, watching you as closely as everyone else, he wasn’t sure he even had the vocabulary to find a word that worked better.

Blood stained your hoodie, bruises scaled the ridges of your knuckles, and yet, he was sure that one word from you could summon an army out of the screaming crowd surrounding you. One word from you and Billy… well, the things he’d do for you.

His eyes locked on your knuckles, watching closely as you wrapped the brutalized skin away, then moved to your body as you tossed the old hoodie away. Scars and marks lined your torso—bruises left over from a fight a mere few days ago judging by the healing, scars from fights so long ago they were nearly faded, burns, cuts, slices, bumps… your skin was a war zone.

And he knew war zones. Shifting his weight from one foot to another, a hot pressure in his jeans apparent, he was sure he could lose himself in a war zone like that.

If the man who entered behind you was your opponent, it was clear there wasn’t more than a handful of souls in the whole arena who cared. There wasn’t a single clap out of beat, not one change in the roar of support aimed at you and you alone. He was bigger, sure, but if energy was anything to go by, he could be Paul fucking Bunyan and it wouldn’t have even come close to matching your unwavering support.

“Fighters, get ready.”

Your opponent took a few jumps, slapping his arms like he was Michael Phelps. You took one step forward, rolled your shoulders and leveled your stare.

There was no doubt in his mind who he considered a threat, who he considered a future asset.

“Tap out or knock out.” The kid stood between them reminded, and when neither of their deadly stares shifted, he nodded his head once, blew his whistle, and got the fuck out of the way as fast as possible.

But you… you waited.

Your opponent jumped at you, feigning left then right but not putting much strength either way, hoping for a flinch. A flinch he didn’t get. You didn’t even blink.

You just waited.

And when he opened up his left side in frustration after a series of perfectly blocked hits, you turned it on. He couldn’t even get his hands up fast enough.

It wasn’t like he was some nobody they pulled out of the gutter to have you fight tonight, he was clearly a skilled fighter of his own, it just didn’t matter in comparison. You were quick, controlled, deliberate. Two punches for every one of his. Perfectly placed to have him grunting and groaning while his landed with nothing more than a hiss or blink.

If he thought his sweater was suffocating him before, god, he had no idea what he was getting himself into.

He could feel the hum of his heart, and the sudden staccato everytime your fist connected with a crack. He could feel his pulse beating through every inch of his body, from his temples to his toes and every throbbing inch in between. Another hit, he could see the blood coating the wraps across your knuckles. Another hit, he could see the crimson staining your teeth.

He wanted a taste—no, he needed one.

A hit to the ribs had your opponent crinkling, a jab to the face had him spinning. A kick to the knee buckled him over, a knee to the chin sent his teeth up into his brain. As blood splattered up your bare thigh, your opponent collapsed to the concrete.

Knock out.

Even if he wasn’t truly out, he knew better than to move, his eyes already swelling shut, his unscarred skin bruised and bloodied.

The crowd went wild, but Billy couldn’t hear. He watched you swipe your wrapped hand against your chin, wiping away the blood from your lips, and he swore his mind short-circuited as his blood rerouted elsewhere. You were fucking gorgeous, you were delicious, you were his new religion, you were… Royalty.

A Queen.

Fuck, he was hard.

With your hand lifted in victory, the crowd reached a volume Billy hadn’t even thought possible, and when you ripped your hand away and moved back for your discarded sweats, the crowd again tried to swarm you. To touch you, to feel your power, to feel you up. He just watched. He’d catch you when you came back out, showered, with cash in your hand. In his experience, people were much more open to recruitment when they weren’t being verbally and sexually harassed by hoards of disgusting men with filthy leering stares.

It took about an hour, stood outside in the back alley where the late night wind beat him up with freezing gust after freezing gust, but when you came out, you were alone. That alone made it worth it.

Shouldering open the heavy metal door dressed in fresh sweats hanging loose off your hot muscles, you made it a whole two steps before you caught sight of where he lingered in your peripheral and nearly jumped out of your skin. “Staking out this door is a good way to get the shit beat out of you, you know.”

The cool bite in your tone hit even harder than the wind, but neither did anything to cool him down. In fact, his smirk only grew as you raised your chin in a stubborn challenge.

“Don’t worry, I come in peace.” He defended, lifting his hands where they held in his jacket pockets for the warmest show of surrender he could muster.

“Not interested.”

He took a careful step forward, eyes holding your piercing stare. “You haven’t even heard my offer.”

“Don’t have to.” The bag hanging over your shoulder shifted as the wind whipped by once more, and you quickly moved it down your arm as the weight found one of your more grueling injuries stretching the length of your collarbone. If he hadn’t been looking so closely, maybe you could have hidden your shrug, but he saw it all, he wanted to see it all, even as you argued back. “Whatever it is, I don’t need it in my life.”

Your feet found two more steps away before he pulled you back with his sly smile and slimier argument. “Just one drink.”

It’s not frustration that stops you this time, it’s curiosity, one brow raised as your arms cross over your chest. “Are you serious?”

For the first time, he doesn’t have an answer. For the first time, that perfect exterior cracks, his brow furrowing and his mouth left open. “What—“

“I mean…” your laugh shook him out of it, the sound something rough and throaty. “Seriously? I thought for sure you were here to recruit me for something, with this whole pretty boy soldier off-duty look you’ve got going on but no… you want to get a drink? Seriously? You waited out here for an hour in the cold because you want to fuck me?”

He cleared his throat as his stare and smirk absconded, was it really that obvious? Did he really even care if it was?

Business Billy, he reminded himself chastely.

Cutting the distance between the two of you in half, he extended his hand for a shake he knew he’d never get once his mouth opened. “Billy Russo,” he introduced.

Your smirk fell in the same second

“That Anvil guy?”

His hand pulled back and his disposition shifted to the only defense it knew, a cocky smirk and casual shrug. “My reputation precedes me, huh?”

“You take good people who get out and you toss them right back in.” The cold bite had vacated your tone entirely, and what replaced it, the heat of your righteous indignation, reignited the fire he felt when you were fighting. A match strike. A sharp cut against a stick of flint.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t gotten it before, but coming from you… well, he just couldn’t turn his cheek to it. “I help those who can’t get back on their feet—“

“You help them get back to the hell that messed them up in the first place, you mean. How charitable.” The sarcasm was a slap to the face, and still, he couldn’t find it in himself to take a step back.

“At least I take care of my people, I pay better, I—“

Your scoff echoed around the empty alley, bouncing off the dumpsters and brick walls, reverberating in his ears until it was all he could hear. “Yeah? And just how much is a life worth to you?”

His jaw clenched. “More than the government, sweetheart.”

“That’s not really saying much, is it?”

He let loose a sigh, a breath of tension he didn’t even know he was holding as his shoulder twitched and his stare found anything to look at that wasn’t you. What was he supposed to say? What argument could he voice back? You had a point. Hell, he could see a younger version of himself making the same argument back when things first got bad over there, back when he first thought about getting out.

The sentiment was respectable, and your stubborn tenacity was nothing to scoff at, but this wasn’t about heart.

Some people just don’t make it out. Some people can’t. Why was he so wrong for offering them a path back, what was so immoral about offering the opportunity for them to profit off of what they were previously exploited for? If he didn’t do it, then someone else would. And at least… at least he cared. At least he knew what it felt like to come back home and not have a home waiting for you, to have blood on your hands so violently red that you can’t go back into the real world without people noticing.

Your knuckles, scarred and scabbing, told him that you knew too. You found your way back to the fighting, just like the ones he recruited to work for him. Were you really so different?

And still, a part of him knew that voicing that question, in that way, was a good way to get beat up.

His eyes found yours again as his hands lifted and fell back down to his sides, defeated. “You’re right, but it’s just the way things are. Not all of us come home and end up underground fighting royalty.”

Your head shook as you muffled your rough laughter. “It’s not as glamorous as it looks.”

“Nothing ever is.”

Now it was your stare that redirected, eyes dropping to your feet before you let them scale their way back up the rocky terrain of his dressed down form. Worn boots, dark jeans, tight sweater, leather jacket, and that face. That pretty face. Exhaustion buried in the bags beneath his eyes, frustration laced in the furrow of his brow, a familiarity in the darkness of his eyes, a void of everything you remembered, skilled violence and inescapable grief, a void so familiar, a void you could lose yourself in.

It was late. It was cold. And you were alone. You were always alone.

You had made worse choices.

Sucking your bottom lip in tight between the bite of your teeth and slowly letting it out, you cocked your head to the side and began working on the last of your stubborn defenses. “If I say yes to the drink, is it just going to be more of this recruitment talk?”

His head twisted into a similar quirk, his smirk slowly gaining back its traction on his lips as he took you in with a similar once over. He inched one hesitant step forward, and when you didn’t shy away from the renewed heat of his attention, he took another. “Well I mean… I guess it depends.”

“On what?”

“On how much talking we do.”

—

It had been a while since he last had bathroom sex.

His boots stuck to the filthy linoleum floor, making every shift of his footing an extra effort. The shitty fluorescent light overhead flickered in and out with an infuriating lack of rhythm, blinding one second and pathetically inadequate to see you beneath him the next. But as his fingers gripped tighter around the flesh of your thighs, pushing you down into the cool porcelain of the sink he had you sat on, he had to admit that you were right. For everything it was, at least the sink was clean.

“So…” The burn was exactly what he remembered it to be, the cheap liquor clawing at his throat as he forced the shot down, chasing it with a quick swig of the even cheaper beer you had ordered for him. “This is your bar of choice?”

There had been six shots, three for each of you to start with, but you smirked around your final shot and he couldn’t even think ahead to his second. “Is that judgement I hear?”

He could feel his shoulder tick as he corrected with a slow drawl, “curiosity.”

“There are worse bars.”

“There are better ones too—“ His hand caught yours as you reached for one of his two remaining shots, his fingers wrapping carefully around yours. “Do you mind?”

You tried to pull back but his grip didn’t budge.

“You didn’t seem interested,” you fought, following his eyes as they dipped down to your busted lips. Again, you tried your hand. Again, he refused to let go.

“I’m plenty interested.”

You could feel his grip loosen, but this time, you let him hold it there. If anything, you leaned into it. Reaching with your other hand, you brought your bottle to your mouth and wasted no time licking up the remnants of your sip left behind across your bottom lip. Again, his stare followed, his nose scrunching as something deep in his chest began to burn. Again, you leaned into it, close enough for his cologne to overtake any of the thousand other smells swirling around the packed bar.

“Actually,” setting your beer back down, your unoccupied hand found the inseam of his jeans, his legs perched open on his stool with you sat between them. “I like this bar because the bathrooms are the cleanest.”

Picking up his next shot, he couldn't help the twist of his brow nor the uptick of his heart rate as your fingers teased higher. “The bathrooms?”

“Yeah…” your casual tone betrayed the tension pulled taut between the two of you. Every point of contact had him burning. Your hand in his, a candle flame he couldn’t stop drifting his hand over even as it burned. Your hand inching on his thigh, a creeping flame following a line of detcord towards explosion. Your stare, a rumbling volcanic heat mere seconds away from erupting. The rowdy crowd surrounding the two of you was nothing, the stuttering breath fleeing your chest all he could hear.

He leaned in, his brow still furrowed in confusion.

You leaned closer, pulling your hand from his thigh to take his last shot for him. “You ever been fucked over a filthy sink, Marine?”

He prided himself on his composure, in battle and in bed, but fuck, with two fingers inside you feeling you clench around him and his head buried deep in the crook of your neck inhaling the harsh stench of industrial soap trying it’s best to cover the smell of blood, he could feel himself skirting dangerously close to an edge he wasn’t ready to fall off of yet. His dick wasn’t even out of his pants and still, when he thrust a third finger into you and saw your brutalized knuckles wrapped around his bicep, nails digging through the thick fabric of his sweater, his name falling wrecked from your lips, he very nearly lost it.

“Russo— Fuck—”

“You like that?” He challenged breathlessly back, biting down hard on your battle bruised shoulder to keep it together as you grew closer and closer to the same edge. The light flickered and his stare shifted back up towards your face. A Queen brought to a trembling mess, teeth piercing the already torn center of your beaten lip. “Yeah, you do, don’t you?”

“Shut up.” The whine that accompanied your words betrayed the cut of them and his smirk only grew.

His lips scaled the scarred terrain of your shoulders, climbing up the bruised battlefield of your neck, nipping at every inch you offered him with your head thrown back against the steamed up mirror. “Shut me up.”

Your chuckle intercepted your heaving breath, the hot pants hitting his skin and flushing his cheek. “Yeah?” You challenged, your words ghosting over his lips as he drew ever closer. The cut of your nails dug into his arm pulled back, your grip settling comfortably around his throat instead as you inhaled his violent groan. “Make me cum.”

He fought against your vice-like grip as you squeezed tighter and tighter, stealing a singular kiss from your lips. “Yes, Ma’am.”

These were his cheapest jeans anyways.

Dropping slowly to his knees, his neck pulled from your grasp and his mouth found your ready and weeping heat. With one lick, your thighs closed around his ears, one suck of your clit between his lips and one of your calloused hands found his hair while the other gripped tight to the sink for any hope of stability.

“Billy—”

His fingers had worked you too close to the edge already, it didn’t take long before his fingers, still deep inside you, found the right spot and the burning pressure of his mouth on your clit had you soaring. The beating pump of your blood filled your head, the thumping echo all you could hear as your vision began flickering in time with the ancient fluorescent over head. You could feel him moaning into you, your stubborn grip holding tight to his previously pristine head of hair, dragging you closer as your screams no doubt echoed around the small bathroom.

Maybe the music and the boisterous crowd outside in the bar would be loud enough to cover the sounds. Maybe not. He couldn’t care less.

All he cared about as he fought his way back to his feet was the lazy pull of your hand in his hair. All he could ever imagine caring about for the remainder of his lifetime was the effortless drag of your tongue over his chin and lips, collecting the remains of your orgasm before sucking him in for the longest kiss of the night. Loose. Languid. Luxurious.

“Was that up to your standards, your highness…” he murmured with a smirk along the side of your mouth, his hands scraping down to your thighs, dragging himself closer.

Your grip found itself again in his hair, tugging tight. “Take your pants off.”

“Ask nicely.”

He felt the warmth of your scoff against his cheek, but you agreed in the only way you knew how, your hand not buried in his hair dropping to the bulge in his jeans. “Please…” your lips pressed once to his chin, then to his neck, soothing the crescent mark your own nails had left. One kiss, then another, and before he could reach his hand to his own belt to comply, you bit into the mark and deepened the color. “Take your fucking pants off.”

His lips twisted into a snarl, but he had his belt off and his pants open in record time.

The condom in his wallet was only supposed to be a backup, but he had never been more grateful for his disgustingly hopeful thinking than he was to find it exactly where he had remembered it being wedged between the folds of leather. And as you pulled him out of his boxerbriefs and rolled it on with a few lazy pumps, your satisfied smirk told him you were equally grateful.

Still, your fought. “It’s not expired, is it?”

“God, I hate you.” He swore back, but his heart left halfway through the words, his chest deflating, a nearly whimpering moan leaving his lips as he pushed into your soaking folds. “I fucking—“

Your hips rolled as he seated himself fully within you and again, his breathing stuttered. If he thought he was close before, this was just embarrassing.

He remembered the ruthless violence of your fight, the blood running from your nose and staining your teeth, the strong pull between your shoulders as you landed hit after hit. He gripped tight to one of your thighs with one hand and flattened his other palm to the mirror behind your head as his pace picked up. He remembered the echoing crack as you landed your final blows, the utter brutality that oozed from you as you moved from one hit to the next. He dragged your hips closer, he pulled you flush against his chest, muffling your cries into his sweater.

He remembered your knuckles and every groan they elicited. He kissed your jaw, unable to stop himself from thinking of how many you had broken.

The rough drag of him inside of you was taunting, the feel of him so full yet your climax still dancing out of reach. It was too much and too good all at once. Too little and too overwhelming in the same breath.

“Billy—“ your broken sob tore through his chest with a heat he didn’t even recognize, a burn so heavenly he swore a sunburst sliced through him. “Fuck— Russo, yes—“

Every muscle in your body tightened around him, squeezing him, clawing at him, destroying his composure. He tried to draw it out, he tried to fight back from the edge, but your moans turned to music and his head emptied out. “I—“

“Come on,” you cooed, your words slurring as you forced his lips back to yours. He was melting, the heat was too much, searing his insides, charring his heart and fuck… he was melting into you. “That’s it.”

His nose scrunched, his teeth baring, a guttural snarl escaping his fiery chest as he powered himself even further into you. Again and again and again and— “Shit…”

You whimpered as his hips stuttered, you whined as he fell still.

“Shit…” he repeated, trying one last languid thrust as he found his way back down from his blinding high. “That was… fuck…”

“Yeah,” you muster just enough breath for a chuckle. “Yeah it was.”

He barely had enough time to catch his breath before you were pushing him back on unsteady legs, he barely managed to catch himself on the neighboring stall before you hopped down of the sink. He wanted to laugh at your sudden urgency, make some kind of joke, or pull you close and disregard it entirely, but he still couldn’t breathe. His hair fell in his face, his sweater rucked up around his waist and his dick barely soft—

He was a mess. A wrecked mess without the words to stop you. You already had your pants back on by the time he had the condom tied off in the trash, you were fixing yourself in the mirror before he even found a hold on his belt.

“You know, I know some bars with nicer bathrooms.” He finally fought, catching your attention as he fed the tongue of his belt back through. “Better beer too—“

A battering knock sounded on the door, making both of you jump. “Can you two hurry it the fuck up! Some of us have to pee!”

Neither of you two could hold yourselves back from laughing at that, breathless or not, even Billy felt a subtle heat rise to his cheeks. Not for getting caught—no, surely that was inevitable in a place this packed—but because he really didn’t care, because he wanted nothing more than to do it again.

You had to feel the same, that had to be as good for you as it was for him, god it was better than good. If you wanted him on his knees, he would beg. If you wanted to wreck his shit, he’d say ‘yes, please’—

You pressed a firm hand to his chest, forcing him back to the stall wall. Your lips hovered over his, so close, he could taste your breath. “This won’t happen again, pretty boy.”

His head quirked with a glare, your hand keeping him in place as he fought towards your lips. “No?”

“No.” Your lips grazed his as they formed around the word but it wasn’t enough.

“That’s a maybe then?”

“No, it’s not.” He could feel your pulse, the beat of your chest pounding against his as you keep him just close enough and still too far away. He could feel the lie as you made it.

His smirk only grew as his lips touched yours. “Well, if we’re not having sex, you should just come work for me.”

You hand slammed him back but he just laughed.

“Not fucking likely, Russo.”

He surged against your grip for one last kiss before you pulled back. “Well,” he sighed, slumping back against the wall and finally accepting his defeat. “I know where to find you, at least.”

Even your stubborn tenacity couldn’t hide your smirk as you unlocked the door. “Maybe so.”

That wasn’t a no.

#billy russo x reader #billy russo x female reader #billy russo #dirty pretty beautiful tag #the punisher

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utakoi · 4 years

Text

Office Yandere HCs

Pairings: Assistant!Izuku Midoriya, Investor!Shoto Todoroki, Chauffeur!Hitoshi Shinso x Boss!Fem!reader

Summary: Ever wonder what it would be like to be the boss of some office yanderes and basically have a harem? Well, look no further, cause here it is!

Warnings: smut !!18+ ONLY!! (spunking in food + masturbation + dirty thoughts + oral), yandere themes (noncon)

A/N: Bc my brain kept me up at night with this concept and has made it’s final decision on turning a one shot I was in the middle of writing into a series, I decided to write some messy hcs to take a lil breather from long works (evn tho this is kinda long already). Also, if you think this is the last you’ll hear about office yanderes, no no no, I have some other thoughts for other characters

Assistant!Midoriya Izuku

He is over the moon to hold a position that’s the closest to you

Out of your entire yandere office harem, he gets to spend the most time with you

He also definitely has an advantage since he practically schedules your entire day

For example, Shoto constantly tries to schedule one-on-one meetings with you in the guise of it being a matter of business, but Izuku cock blocks him by filling your day with a bunch of other events in order to make the meetings as short as possible, and sometimes, even cuts them out completely

He doesn’t like doing it often tho since he knows you can get too stressed with too much going on so he reluctantly has to give away some time for you to meet with the other yanderes (he’s still kind of a sweet and considerate bby as a yandere)

Will not give you personal space

Stands close to you during meetings, constantly visits your office to work (even tho his personal office is right next to yours), etc etc

Even if you don’t ask him to, he will fetch your meals and give you snacks throughout the day because he wants to take care of you and show how sweet he is (also because he wants you to imagine how good of a boyfriend he’d be if you just gave him a chance)

Now let’s get to the part that just popped up into my mind and inspired this entire post: if he can hide his cum somewhere in your food, he will do it

That coffee he gave you that tasted a little salty? Izuku spunked inside it.

The sandwich he bought that seemed to have more mayo than usual? He spunked in that, too

Whatever you think doesn’t taste right, it’s definitely because of Izuku

// // // // //

Izuku is thankful for his job because of two specific things: he gets to interact with you for most of the day and his office has a built in personal bathroom.

If he were to be forced to use the regular employee restroom, his lewd acts would have been exposed immediately by anyone who happened to walk in; he was never the best at holding his moans and grunts while jacking himself off after all.

In the privacy of his own bathroom, he could be as loud as he wants with both his breathy, pleasure-ridden voice and the slick sounds of him stroking his lube-covered cock. In fact, he’s even trying to be as loud as possible.

Since your office is right next to his, there’s a small chance that you may be able to hear him through the walls. He can visualize you entering his office, concern decorating your features, wondering what he could possibly be doing to make such noises. If you were to open his bathroom door, you’d be met by the sight of Izuku sitting on the lid of the toilet, his hand vigorously pumping up and down his shaft.

And he wouldn’t stop.

He’d just keep going, all the while staring at you right in the eye. He wonders what you’d do then. Would you just stay frozen at your spot, being unable to take your eyes off of him? Or maybe you’d get on your knees, completely turned on and ready to have a taste of his cum? What if you were actually more dominant than he thought and you’d just dig your heels into his dick, punishing him for slacking off his job by not letting him find release?

Fuck, any of those scenarios would be fine by him.

Unfortunately, as he gets close to reaching his peak, you don’t come into his office at all. That’s alright, though.

He’ll just settle with spunking into your coffee, for now.

Investor!Shoto Todoroki

Needs your attention

Like I said earlier, Shoto will keep trying to schedule meetings with you in the guise of it being a matter of business

really, he just wants to spend time with you

During the meetings, he will also try to convince you to fire Izuku so that he can get rid of who he deems as someone deliberately keeping the two of you apart (which, for once, is a pretty spot on theory from Shoto)

Will try to spoil you with gifts and make excuses or pass it off as a casual thing so you don’t reject it or deem it as inappropriate for a workplace relationship

The beautiful bouquet of flowers? He was buying flowers for his mother on the way over and the flower shop had a 2 for 1 deal so why not?

These gourmet chocolates? A fellow business partner of his gave him a box as thanks for his investment. Unfortunately, he’s allergic to one of the ingredients, but it would just be a waste to throw them out, no?

This exquisite diamond necklace? weLL-

You get the point (also, these gifts are definitely inspired by romance movies he saw his sister watching while growing up cuz oof he did not know any means of romance until he met you)

He aims to schedule his meetings with you around lunch time so that he has an excuse to treat you for lunch

He loves providing for you AKA he loves providing for you and showing off how he has the means to take care of you (much like Izuku)

If you were to become his wife, you wouldn’t have to work another day in your life

You can just stay at home and relax

Maybe you can even cook him breakfast and pack lunch for him before he works

That’s basically his dream

He wants you to stay home, waiting for your sweet husband to come back from work

Basically, he’ll take care of your every need, and he means EVERY need

// // // // //

It’s one of those nights again.

Shoto can’t sleep because he’s plagued by thoughts of you. Today, you weren’t able to meet him for lunch because you already had a flood of other appointments to attend (he was willing to bet his entire fortune that it’s because of your stupid assistant’s scheduling that you weren’t able to make it).

So, needless to say, he was pent up. He can only hop that you fall in love with him sooner. Did his charms just not work on you? Do you not like the cool stoic type? Maybe he just wasn’t giving you the right gifts. Were they not expensive enough to impress you? Not expensive enough to show he could provide for you?

He knows he can take care of you so well. You would never have to work another day in your life. You can just stay home, surrounded by luxurious gifts and servants who’ll be at your beck and call while you wait for his return.

And once he actually did come home after a long day of work? You’d be bathed in affection. Kisses, hugs, cuddles... and more.

You’d want him just as much as he wants you, right?

His poor wife, lonely and deprived of the one person she loves for such long hours. He’s got to show that he’s sorry for neglecting you.

Pushing you down onto the bed, he’d run his hands all over your body, massaging your shoulders, pinching your hardening nipples, brushing over your sensitive thighs... And since he’s also quite needy, he’d be grinding down his still-clothed cock on your pussy, showing off that he’s missed you, too.

Shoto doesn’t even think he’d have the patience to take off your clothes. He’d just keep dry humping you, desperate for his own release. The thin cloth preventing the both of you from making actual skin-on-skin contact would make such great friction. He can practically feel it now.

... And yup, the feeling was definitely not just from his imagination. Without even needing to glance down, Shoto already knows that his thoughts of you has caused him to pop a boner.

Hopefully, a quick jerk off session can tire him out enough to fall asleep, but with how much his hard cock throbbed, he doubted it.

Chauffeur!Hitoshi Shinso

2nd most envied out of your office harem for his job (he’s right next to Izuku)

Why? Well 1 - he gets one on one time with you daily and 2 - that one on one time is him and you in an enclosed space

Sure, he may not get as much time with you as the others, but he sure makes the best use of it

He’ll be chatting you up, getting to know you personally in order to make the atmosphere less awkward between the two of you (tbh, because he gives off standoffish and cold vibes, y’all are gonna be kinda tense when he’s just gotten his job as a chauffeur)

and he does it so discreetly

He’ll start the conversation of lightly, talking about the weather, how busy you’re going to be that day...

and then somehow it just transitions onto friendlier and more personal topics such as your favorite places to eat, what hobbies you’ve been trying out lately, etc

And he uses that info to his advantage

If he senses that you’re feeling stressed or down, he will drive you over to your favorite places and remind you that you should relax

But not only does he get brownie points for that, but would you really be so mean as to make him wait for you while you eat a meal or walk around the mall when he’s the one who’s trying so hard to cheer you up?

Of course not, you’re going to invite him and thank him for considering how you’re feeling

And if not, well, that’s okay, too, he understands (so long as he gets his brownie points)

As the boss of your own company, you’d often be asked out to meetings or social gatherings that involve drinking

Shinso’s always there whenever you get shit faced, and happily so

You’re drunk and you’re not gonna remember it the next morning, anyway... so why would he waste such a golden opportunity?

// // // // //

Shit, you feel great on his body.

Currently, Shinso is living out one of the best moments of his life. He’d come to pick you up from a drinking session with some investors and was ecstatic to find you drunk out of your mind. Hell, you could barely even slur out your orders for him to drive you home. Now, you’re pressed up against him as he holds you up and guides you to the car.

Testing out the waters, he cheekily squeezes the flesh of your ass. If you were conscious enough to reprimand him for it, then he could easily just apologize and pass it off as an accident since you were stumbling around so much.

And if you didn’t mention anything... well then, that was the single indicator he needed to know that you wouldn’t remember anything once you woke up in the morning.

To his delight, you barely reacted to his touch and even let out a high-pitched giggle at his actions. As quickly as he possibly could, he opens up the back of the limousine and pushes you inside. You plop down onto the seat with a huff, completely inebriated.

You don’t even register when Shinso crawls in and nudges himself in between your legs.

When the door slams shut, you flinch a little, prompting Shinso to massage your thighs in an attempt to soothe you. He gazes at you lovingly as you look down at him with your dilated pupils. Fuck, you look way too innocent and adorable for what he’s about to do.

Quick with his hands, he pulls down your waistband and completely exposes your sex. Before diving into his meal, he places light kisses that trail from your calf all the way up to your thighs. He wishes he could leave marks on your skin, but he wouldn’t want you to panic the next morning when you see clusters of purple and blue spread out all over your legs.

He eats you out like a man starved, slobbering all over your pussy. All the while, you’re making such cute noises for him. When you gush all over his face, he’s happily lapping it all up, trying not to waste a single drop.

Once you’ve come down, he dresses you back up as if nothing happened, which, in your mind tomorrow, nothing did.

Shinso hesitates when he’s about to slide the panties back onto you. Maybe he could get away with just a little souvenir?

#yandere bnha #yandere mha #bnha smut #mha smut #bnha imagines #headcanons #izuku midoriya x reader #midoriya izuku x reader #shoto todoroki x reader #todoroki shoto x reader #hitoshi shinso x reader #shinso hitoshi x reader #i swear if tags don't work again #tw noncon

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satuguro · 4 years

Text

damsel in distress

IN WHICH: desperate times call for desperate measures.

PAIRING: zuko x reader

INSPIRED BY: moment’s silence (common tongue) — hozier

WARNING: suggestive themes, making out ;)

NOTES: i got distracted while writing the next part of stars. i hope you all enjoy!

you could feel someone following you.

you had been taught to be aware of your surroundings and follow your gut— your grandfather, a retired fire nation general, had taught you well. he had raised you as his own ever since your parents died in battle, and taught you the truth about the fire nation from the very start. he was a careless old man, one who didn’t fear being caught by the firelord or being killed; he claimed that he was old enough.

his advice was simple; follow your gut, and be aware.

he expected you to accomplish great things. you were trained to be prince zuko’s personal body guard, and while he was proud of that alone, the fact that you had chosen to go off with zuko during his banishment was what he was truly proud of.

“you and iroh will be the only voices of reason on that ship,” your grandpa had explained as he packed multiple tea bags into your bag (when you weren’t looking, of course). he watched you fondly, observing the way you were sharpening your sword. you looked so much like your parents.

“be aware, y/n. a big storm is brewing.”

on the ship, your job soon blossomed into an advisor and body guard. you became iroh’s pai sho partner and looked up to him as a role model. you had joined the old man in trying to explain to zuko that his honor wasn’t worth it, but at the same time, you helped zuko train. you were a nonbender, but that only meant that you were strong in combat— especially hand-to-hand.

fast forward a few months, you were sure that your grandfather would be glad to hear that you were living a somewhat normal life in ba sing se alongside iroh and zuko. setting up a tea shop under new names was certainly a spontaneous decision, but you weren’t complaining at all. to you, it felt like a vacation; you could finally let out a breath you had held in for years. a small prt of you missed the adrenaline that came along with fighting, but you knew that this life was the life you all deserved.

you all deserved peace.

but as you walked down the dark alleyway of ba sing se, your hands holding a woven basket that you used to hold your belongings, you knew that your peace was disrupted. something was wrong. someone was watching.

you kept up a cool front, but listened to the little sounds around you. you could hear the faint swoosh of air coming from someone, and the small puffs of breath being taken by someone who wasn’t you.

you heard them land quietly behind you. you could tell they were experienced— you almost didn’t hear them. almost. you heard their feet come closer, each step making you slow your walk.

you turned around abruptly, basket still in your right hand as you shoved them up against the nearby wall. your right arm went up to their throat, eyes glaring into the blue mask the other person wore. if looks could kill, the stranger would certainly burst into flames.

your arm was hard against their neck, almost cutting off their air supply. you were both breathing heavily, chests heaving against each other before your free hand went up to pull the mask up.

your eyes met familiar amber ones, your scowl faltering at the sight of the fire prince. your arm fell from his neck, a scoff leaving your lips as you pushed yourself off of him. the warmth he radiated was gone, now replaced by the cold night air. “you were following me?” you asked, already knowing the answer as you crossed your arms over your chest.

“you were gone longer than usual!” zuko protested, thankful for the darkness around him as his face burned red. he huffed grumpily, copying your actions and crossing his arms. “you told uncle that you’d be back before 12! you were late!”

“i wasn’t late!” you argued, foot tapping against the cobblestone. “but because of this stupid stunt, i might be!” your angry look faltered at the soft sound of gruff talking, your head turning towards the sound while zuko only groaned.

“don’t be mad at me because i got worried!” zuko fired back, throwing his hands up in exasperation as he paced. “spirits, it’s so hard to be good,” he grumbled under his breath before he stopped his pacing, pointing an accusatory finger towards you.

“i’m not some damsel in distress, zuko.” you replied, eyes still staring into the darkness. you could feel people coming.

zuko was blind to your strange behavior, instead choosing to tell you off further. “i know you aren’t! you’ve kicked my ass more than i could count. anyway— know how dangerous it is to be out so late especially when we—“

you suddenly moved closer to him, shoving him up against the wall once again. zuko’s words died in his throat as he looked down at you, but your mind was elsewhere. you were looking down the dark alley, your brows furrowed.

“i’m not done,” zuko forced out, making you shush him harshly. your legs were practically tangled together, and your arm was up against his body, practically trapping him under your body. his body was against the wall behind him, and zuko didn’t move as you narrowed your eyes. that’s when he heard it: deep voices.

“kiss me,” you stated, not even looking at him. you dropped your basket on the ground.

“what? you can’t be serious,” zuko hissed, his body temperature rising. but that didn’t seem to bother you as you looked back at him.

“do you trust me?” you asked sternly, making him nod before you came forward.

your hands reached to his neck, your touch gentle as you brought him down to meet your lips. his eyes fluttered shut, the voices from before disappearing into the background and being replaced by you. his senses were flooded by you. you tasted like sugar cane and smelled like moon flowers. you were intoxicating, and zuko found one of his hands going up to hold your neck, his thumb gently caressing the skin under his fingertips.

he tasted like tea and smelled like jasmines. the mere taste of him made you crave more, and your leg was instinctively placed between his legs.

you pulled away from him briefly, breathing slightly labored. your eyes met his, and you came in the middle again, lips slotting over each other. you slipped your tongue into his mouth, reveling in the low moan he gave out. your fingers ran through his hair, making his blue mask drop onto the ground as the kiss became more passionate. you tugged at the black strands, listening to him groan deeply.

you pressed him harder against the wall, yet zuko didn’t care as he bit down on your bottom lip and pulled, making you let out a whine that he wanted to hear more of. the voices were nearer now, and he could hear them jog down their alleyway.

his lips trailed down to your neck, making you close your eyes tighter and tilt your head to the side to give him more room. zuko opened his eyes briefly to see who the voices belonged to.

dai li. three of them came to a sudden stop at the sight of you both, and one immediately got your attention.

“hey! what’re you two doing here?” he yelled, ignoring the exasperated looks of the others as his voice echoed in the alley.

zuko opened his mouth to answer, but you beat him to it. you looked back at them, feigning indifference as you cocked a brow. “what do you think?” you responded, the corner of your lips curling up into a confident smirk. you glanced back at him, giving him a small wink.

zuko died right then and there.

“go home,” the dai li soldier stated sternly, making you let out a deep sigh. you were a good actor.

“c’mon lee,” you pulled away from zuko, grabbing your basket and his mask, hiding it from the dai li as you tucked it into your basket. you took zuko’s hand in yours, your act breaking for a second when he intertwined your fingers. “let’s have more fun at home,” you said, reverting back to your lie as you gave the dai li an innocent smile. with that, you ran off with zuko, letting out a loud laugh when you reached the entrance of the jasmine dragon.

“holy shit!” you let out, unable to hold back your laughs as you looked up at the sky. “i can’t believe we got away with it!” you looked at zuko, face flushing when you felt his warm hand tangled with yours. he was looking at you intently, amber eyes gleaming with something you’ve never seen before.

you leaned forward, gently planting your lips onto his for a quick peck. you opened up the door to the jasmine dragon, sending him a suggestive look that he read immediately. as the door shut behind you both, your basket dropped to the ground as this time zuko pushed you against the wall, lips meeting yours once again.

┈┈ 𑁍༅ཾ༚ ┈┈

NOTES: the sub jumped out of zuko real fast in this one. lmal this was so self indulgent, but once again, thank you for reading and sorry for any typos!

TAGSLIST: @beifongsss

#zuko x reader #zuko imagines #zuko smut #zuko #zuko imagine #atla imagine #atla #avatar: the last airbender #sokka x reader #sokka imagines #sokka smut

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captain-asguard · 3 years

Text

Innocent Sins

This is my Entry for @the-iceni-bitch ”hoeing to Hozier” Challenge. Again, congrats on 1k Follower, you deserve every single one of them and so many more!

I really don’t know what got into me while writing this, I hope y’all enjoy it somehow.

A/N: This is my second fic ever and my first time writing smut, I tried. Please note that English is not my first language, all mistakes are my own. Non beta’d. I'd love to read your thoughts on this, so please leave a comment, like it and maybe even reblog it? <3

This is 18+. Minors DNI! Do not repost this fic to any other website without my permission. Not my gifs, credits to the creators!

Words: about 3100

Pairing: Bucky x fem!reader, and a sweet surprise waiting for you 😉

Prompt/Inspiration: “There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin” from “take me to church” by Hozier (one of my all time fav songs)

Summary: It has always been You and Bucky. The moment you laid eyes on each other you just knew. After being together for 1,5 years, Bucky asked you to live on compound with him and the other Avengers. It’s been around 5 months now and it’s been everything you’ve wished for and more. After some rough weeks, Bucky being on missions and you working late, you decided to get home early. You didn’t expect the surprise that was waiting for you.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (wrap it up guys and gals!), voyeurism, fluff

The moment the clock turned three, you grabbed your bag and hurried to the elevator, keen on getting home as soon as possible. You’ve been looking forward to leaving early the whole week, missing your time with Bucky. With him going on missions back-to-back, you working overtime the last few weeks, this has been the first weekend in nearly three months that the two of you were able to spend together and you really wanted to seize every minute of it. You’ve planned a romantic dinner, some quality time and talks on the couch while binging that new Netflix original and– finally – some (or a lot) needed sexy time between the sheets or under the shower or on the couch… With him, you never knew where you’d end up.

After the drive home to the compound, you’ve made your way to your apartment. You quickly unlocked the door, got inside and threw your bag and coat onto the little Table right next to the door. You wanted to shout for Buck when you heard it. A sound that made you stop death in your tracks. A sound you’d recognize everywhere.

Bucky’s raspy, deep moan filled the air. “Starting without me Sergeant Barnes?” you smirked to yourself, making your way to your shared bedroom. You slowly opened the buttons on your blouse, tugging it out of your skirt. You were about to push the door open when you heard it. The second voice.

A soft whisper was all it took for you to recognize it. Bucky was with Steve. You knew about the two of them, knew they needed each other. Steve spent years to get Bucky back, helping him recover from the things Hydra did to him. You’ve always admired their relationship, the deep love they have for each other and you’d never get in their way just as Steve would never get in the way of the love between Bucky and you. There was one line the three of you never crossed before, the line of intertwining both relationships.

Your first instinct was to leave the apartment and give the two of them the time they needed, but you were to captured by their moans and their soft whispers. You leaned against the doorframe and slowly pushed the door open a bit further so you could steal a glance at the two lovers.

You saw them lying on your bed in the middle of the room, the curtains closed, soft light coming from the lamps on your nightstands. Bucky was flat on his back, his hair fanning around his face, some strands falling on his forehead. Steve was hovering over him, deep blue eyes admiring the view. The two of them kissed gently, Bucky’s hands traced along Steve’s back while the captains hand made its way to Buck’s growing erection, gently cupping it. You could feel the lingering passion taking over you, taking you by surprise. A soft heat started to rise in your core, slowly flooding your whole body. You felt your nipples perking, rubbing against the lace of your bra ever so slightly.

Steve began to kiss his way along Bucky’s jaw, peppering his pecs with kisses, eager to reach his destination. You saw Bucky tilting his head, biting down on his bottom lip while his eyes were shut. Pleasure written all over his face, as Steve’s trail of kisses finally reached its end between your lover’s legs. He traced the insides of his left thigh with his tongue, earning a deep groan. As you watched them, you mirrored Steve’s every move with your own hand across your body, touch as light as a feather on your skin, slowly making its way to your heated core. You fingers reached your swollen clit, slowly rubbing circles with your thumb while your index travelled further, pushing deep inside you. The moment Steve lowered his lips to Bucky’s tip, licking across it, Buck threw his head back, growling. You shut your eyes, your finger slowly curling inside you as your boyfriend continued to make some of your favorite sounds. You finally found that one spot, showering you with pleasure and you couldn’t stop a moan to escape your own lips – silencing the sounds from the bedroom in an instant.

You opened your eyes, blinking into the bedroom, heat rising to your cheeks, heart hammering in your chest and you’re sure the two super soldiers can hear every beat. Two sets of mesmerizing blue eyes looked at you, one full of panic, one still lust-blown, full of mischief. You locked eyes with the latter, a silent conversation between lovers. The tension in the room was palpable, a mixture of passion, angst and wonder. Steve carefully watched the two of you, still hovering over Bucky’s hips, not daring to move a muscle as the Sergeant raised an eyebrow, waiting for you to decide on your next step. Your glanced up at Steve, silently awaiting his approval.

The blonde hastily nodded, and you finally released the breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Are you sure?” your voice was hoarse, and you saw the shiver going through Steve’s body as you spoke, baby blues turning dark, answering your question for him.

You entered the room, instead of joining the men on the bed you made your way to the dresser by the window. You could feel their gazes burning on your skin as you connected your phone to the speaker, flooding the room with slow, sensual music.

You started to sway your hips to the music, your hands gently moving along your body. As you turned around, you let your blouse fall to the floor and slipped out of your skirt, leaving you in heels and the black lingerie set Bucky loved more than anything. Steve mouth fell open, a soft “wow” falling from his lips. You made your way over to the two of them, prying eyes on you. You knew Bucky watched your every move, eager to know how this will work out.

Steve rose slowly, making small steps into your direction. You finally had the chance to really take a glance at his naked form. You had seen Steve topless before, so your eyes wandered further down, locking on his impressive length. You had to swallow the small lump that formed in your throat, because how could you be so lucky to have not only one but two men with the bodies of greek gods in your bed?

You took another step towards Steve, closing the gap between the two of you. He reached for you, his eyes searching yours for permission. The moment you nodded slightly, he tucked you into his broad chest. You wrapped yourself around him, one hand on his hip, the other resting on his shoulder. You felt one of Steve’s hands snaking around your waist, the other cupping your jaw, his thumb tracing your lower lip. Your eyes met, his soft gaze sending shivers down your spine, right into your soul.

You pulled his thumb into your mouth and slightly sucked on it, gaining a groan from Steve and a small hiss from Bucky, who lazily stroke his cock, watching your Relationship with Steve bloom right in front of his eyes. You felt the heat in your core boiling again, arousal pooling between your legs. “Oh, someone’s hungry” Steve smirked, his voice thick with anticipation. You nodded slightly, releasing his thumb from your mouth.

Your fingers danced over the Captains arm, making their way into his hair. Ever since he let it grow out a bit you wondered how it would feel to run your fingers trough it and now you finally could. And it was just as silky as it looked. Steve chuckled at your soft smile, caressing your cheek before he -finally- lowered his lips onto yours. You closed your eyes, losing yourself in the moment. His Lips tasted a little like Bucky mixed with red wine and something else, something uniquely Steve. It was a shy kiss at first, but as you slightly tugged on his hair, Steve growled. You felt the shift inside of him, the soft, cautious Steve gone.

The Kiss got heated, lips got bitten, sucked into each other’s mouth before your tongues finally touched, dancing around, fighting for dominance. Steve’s hand found your ass and soon after you felt a sting where his hand used to be. You squealed, enjoying the burning sensation the slap left. You threw your head back, glancing over to your boyfriend. His right hand was palming his length a bit faster now, a hint of sweat on his chest, hair falling into his face. You licked your lips, hungry for a taste of him.

A small bite to your neck brought your attention back to the other super soldier currently wrapped around you. You let out a small whimper as he opened your bra, finally freeing your breasts. He took in a sharp breath before he latched his lips to one of your nipples, cautiously nibbling on it. A simple, raspy “Steve” was all you could manage to say, before you gently pushed him in the direction of the bed. You caught him by surprise, and he stumbled backwards, falling on the sheets next to Buck. A quick gasp escaped his lips as his back touched the bed, but Bucky instantly silenced him with a heated kiss. You had your eyes locked on the two of them as you stalked over to the bed, finally getting to taste your boyfriend. Without hesitation, you lowered yourself between Bucky’s legs, licking your way across his abdomen, following the V line of his muscles with your tongue. The kiss with Steve swallowed Bucky’s moan as your tongue reached his tip, licking away the beads of precum. Bucky’s left found its way into your hair, slightly pressing you down onto him. You took the hint and wrapped your lips around his thick cock, savoring his taste. Your tongue swirled around Bucky’s length, playing around the veins on his shaft. One of your hands pumped the part of his cock you couldn’t fit into your mouth as the other made its way to your aching core again, helping you find the release you so desperately need.

“Doll” Bucky looked down at you, tucking at your hair so you raised your head. “Let Steve have a taste of that sweet pussy of yours…” he winked. He knew exactly what those words would do to you, and you could feel more slickness pooling on your hand. You climbed on the bed, lying down between the two soldiers, goosebumps all over you, awaiting their next move.

You felt the Captain on your right, warmth radiating of his body as he moved down, gentle touches against your skin. “Look at you, so wet for us, so ready” he purred, shoving your slip down your legs. With an agonizing slow pace, he kissed and nibbled his way up your leg, leaving small bite marks along the way, before you could feel his breath against your aching sex. The tip of his tongue darted forward, dipping into your heat. “sinful...” he whispered as you grabbed his hair again, shoving his face onto your core. A loud moan left your body when Steve’s tongue flicked around your pulsing clit and within seconds, you felt two fingers pushing inside you, curling just the right way, instantly finding your sweet spot. Bucky cupped your breast, cold metal pinch your nipple causing you to hiss. Your lips collided, a passionate dance of tongues as you grinded against Steve’s tongue and fingers, desperate for release. But before you could get there, Steve pulled out his fingers, leaving your walls to clench around nothing. “Such a good girl” Steve cooed, moving up to face the two of you, smug grin plastered on his face. “Wanna have a taste?” he smirked, cocking an eyebrow at Bucky, your arousal glistening on his fingers. Bucky quickly sucked them into his mouth, satisfied smiles on both of their faces. “hmm Doll, you’re my favourite treat, but now I wanna feel you, I need you around me.” You nodded, no longer capable to form eloquent sentences, your head clouded with want and lust for the two men in your bed. Bucky sat up, pulling you with him. “Now turn around, look at Steve while I fill you up.” A low moan left your lips as you got on all fours, facing Steve who began to palm his length. Rough hands grabbed your ass, thick fingers opening your folds for Buck.

You really had to focus to keep your eyes locked on Steve as Bucky’s tip grazed your entrance. With one slow thrust he was in you, filling you up completely. You cried out, writhing in pleasure. Bucky took a deep breath, relishing the way your silky wall clenched around his cock, waiting for him to move. You saw Steve increasing the speed of his hands, his hand thrown back as Bucky moved his hips back, nearly slipping out of you before he thrust forward, picking up the same pace as Steve. Your shut your eyes, savoring the way Buck’s cock felt inside you. “Captain…” you nearly screamed the moment Bucky found the spot you so desperately needed to ne touched, stars blurring your vision. Taken by surprise, the Blonde raised his head and looked at you. “wanna feel you too… let me return the favor… please” you stuttered, licking your lips as you glimpsed at his length. He rose to his knees, positioning himself in front of you. Without hesitation, you wrapped your lips around his tip, your tongue exploring every inch of him as you slowly began to bop your head. With every thrust you took his cock deeper into your mouth, head nearly touching the back of your throat. Your swallowed moans vibrating around him, resulting in Steve to cry out loud. He grabbed your head, fingers tangled in your hair as he held you steady. Dark blue eyes roamed your face, searching for permission which you gave him with a small wink. The captain shut his eyes, head tilted to the side as he began to move his hips, fucking deep into your mouth, looking for release.

The sensation, being fucked, filled to the brim by the two most amazing man in the nine realms tightened the knot that formed in your stomach. As if he could read your mind, the Sergeant lowered his left hand, sneaking around your waist to your pulsing bundle of nerves. “hmm… you close Doll?” he asked you with a husky voice, finally sending you over the edge. You swallowed hard around

Steve’s cock, your cries muffled all the tension in your body gone. Buck and Steve leaned in to each other, lips colliding, tongues twirling around each other as they both came undone. You felt Bucky’s thickness fluttering inside you, clenched by your silky walls, covering them with his spend the same moment Steve’s cum slipped down your throat, saltiness filling your mouth. You swallowed every drop he gave you, licking him clean as he slowly slipped out of your mouth, mirroring Buck who pulled out of you. You let your body sink to the matress, lying on your stomach, watching Steve get up. Before he made his way to the bathroom, he gave both – you and Buck- a small peck on the lips, resting his hand on your cheek for a short time.

Buck lay back against the pillows at the head of the bed, softly tapping the spot beside him. You happily took his invitation, crawling in next to him. Your head rested against Bucky’s chest, you fingers intertwined his. “So… that was new” you chuckled, tilting your head to look at the man you loved. “Well yeah” he laughed, his other hand scratching his neck. “so… did you… enjoy it?” he asked, voice filled with nervousness. You took your sweet time to answer, waiting till Steve emerged from the bathroom, a small towel in his hand. “Hm... did I enjoy having mind-blowing Sex with the two sexiest men on earth…I don’t know… yes I suppose?” you quipped, a grin forming on your lips as you saw Bucky’s face light up. “You too, Punk?” He looked over to Steve, impatiently waiting for him to say something. “I did, Buck. Very much.”

Steve joined the two of you on the bed again, his expression full of Love and Admiration. Bucky’s face lit up even more, grinning from ear to ear as he kissed both of you softly. You turned our head to Steve, hand on his cheek as you lowered your lips to his, capturing them in a sweet kiss, trying to show him the love you felt for him, the love that grew for some time now. “Wow” he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours, eyes closed, each of you taking your time to let the events of the evening settle in.

Bucky took the towel from Steve’s hand to carefully clean you up, finishing off with a small kiss to your mound.

He quickly went to the adjacent bathroom, throwing the towel into the hamper. He stood in the doorframe, watching you and Steve cuddle on the bed, his heart swelling with love.

You lay on your stomach, head propped up on Steve’s chest, mindlessly playing with his chest hair, his soft fingers drawing circles on your back, placing a tender kiss on the top of your head. “I can’t tell you how happy I am right now” he said, his voice soft. “Yeah, me too. I’m a really lucky girl” you looked up, pressing a small kiss to his chest. As you began to reminisce about your day, your curiosity took over. “So, Stevie, how come you’re here? I thought you’d be in Europe, meeting with the UN or something?” One of his eyebrows shut up and he gave you a puzzled look “well, that lovely Jerk over there told ME you’d be on a Business trip to LA and wouldn’t be home till Monday… so I could spend the weekend with him.” Bucky could practically see the gears turning in your heads, a lightbulb slowly popping up between the two of you as you realized that all that had happenend was his sneaky plan all along. “So, um, Bucky-Bear, I think there’s something you gotta explain…” you told him, mischief in your eyes as you grabbed one of your small throw pillows and let it live up to its name, tossing it in Bucky’s direction. He caught it with his left hand, strutting over to the bed, taking you by surprise as he started tickling your sides. He looked down at you, peppering your face with soft kisses, devilish smirk plastered on his face.

Damn you, James Buchanan Barnes and your beautiful, cocky grin.

A/N: Thank you for reading this, writing it was an intense experience for me. My greatest respect to all of you amazing writers out the who write stuff like this on daily basis. Thanks for existing, thanks for writing, you’re all amazing! 💕

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sarcasmandships · 3 years

Text

honey and glass ~ spencer reid

i am in love with spencer reid but he only has eyes for jennifer jareau

spencer reid x reader angst + hurt/comfort (sorta, it’s all in first person but with no names/no specific descrptions)

song fic inspired by ‘honey and glass’ by peyton cardoza

word count: 4.8k

disclaimer: i do not ship jeid or think they had any chemistry but it’s a good opportunity for angst x

you know those kinds of girls who look like they're made of honey and glass like sticky sweet ash

it’s a summers night in california and i’m on the beach at sunset.

the sand is rough under my toes and a warm, gentle breeze blows a strand of my hair across my face; he lifts his hand to brush it away. tucking it behind my ear he stares down at me and the sun hits his face at a perfect angle, illuminating his hazel eyes like pools of honey. he leans in and i-

“ow!” i yelp, as morgan launches the volleyball at my head, “what was that for?”

“come and play,” he laughs, waving me over to where he stands with emily and hotch.

i shake my head, “no, i don’t feel like it,” i mumble, massaging my left temple where the ball bounced off my skull.

morgan rolls his eyes and jogs past where i’m sitting to collect the ball, “what’s up with you then?” he teases.

i shrug, “nothing. I’m just tired,” i say feigning an unconvincing yawn, “ask one of them to play.”

i motion with my head towards spencer and jj, they’re down by the edge of the waves and she throws her head back and laughs at something he says. her sheets of blonde hair ripple through the wind and he looks at her in pure awe and amazement as she giggles at something he said.

“nah, don’t wanna interrupt the kid when he’s trying to make a move,” morgan shrugs, “come play with us, we need an extra person.”

an extra person.

right.

because what else am i but another body to fill the space?

“i don’t want to,” i say, forcing myself to tear my eyes away from jj and spencer as i stand up, “hotch said the jet is leaving first thing tomorrow, i’m gonna head back to the hotel and get some sleep.”

morgan says something, but i don’t register it as i allow myself one last glance at spencer and jj. she is trying to convince him to paddle in the waves with her, he shakes his head but when she takes his hand in hers i can tell he’s melting inside as he follows her into the water.

and i just know that he’d follow her so far out to sea that his head was underwater as long as she kept their hands intertwined.

i turn away from morgan so he doesn’t see the tears burning in my eyes.

and you can't get the taste off your tongue burnt sugar and a little bit of rum

we’re in a dimly lit bar somewhere.

hotch left hours ago, he wanted to take advantage of one of the rare nights he would be there to read jack a bedtime story.

rossi is at a table in the corner, sitting with a woman who has not-so-subtly draped her leg over him.

derek is out of my line of sight and i’m thankful for that.

emily, garcia, and jj are dancing.

i sit at the table with spencer, he’s drunk.

more tipsy than drunk i think, but he so rarely drinks anything that the sight of him swaying along to the music was an anomaly. i can’t ignore the fact that his eyes are firmly fixed on jj as she dances, and i grip my wine glass so tightly i half expect it to shatter in my hand.

he leans across to me and my heart skips a beat as i inhale the alcohol on his breath, “i’m in love with her, y’know,” he slurs.

“i know, spencer,” i smile sadly and down the rest of my wine.

he doesn’t even notice when i grab my coat from behind him and shuffle towards the door.

and she dances in the rain with her clothes on drenched to the bone never knows when she's all gone, she's the life of the party

spencer and i are watching the big bang theory.

neither of us particularly like it, but there aren’t many channels on our hotel room tv and spencer enjoys the physics references at least. i watch his face light up as a character mentions something about quantum theory that i cant understand, and spencer launches into a rant about the universe and the stars.

i don’t have the knowledge to keep up with him or the heart to tell him to stop so i sit and listen, admiring the way his eyes sparkle and his hands gesticulate when no one interrupts him with a deprecating comment.

we sit there like that for the rest of the night, in our respective twin beds with him telling me the secrets of the universe and me wondering how on earth i will ever get over him.

and deep down I know that nobody flinches when she takes off her clothes

“anything you like?” emily asks me through the dressing room curtain.

“i’m not sure…” i mumble in response, biting down on my lip as i stare at myself in the mirror, “i-i don’t think this is my colour.”

the dress looked so beautiful on the hanger, but now that it’s on my body the fabric bunches up in all the wrong places and i can’t recall a time that i’ve looked worse.

the lights are just washing you out, i tell myself.

you’re having a bad hair day, it would look better with your hair down, i tell myself.

you just need some lipstick, i tell myself.

but when jj announces she has found the perfect dress and i stick my head out of the curtain to see her, i am slapped in the face with the realisation that it isn’t the lighting or my lack of makeup it’s just me.

because jj looks beautiful as always, her dress hugs her waist and the skirt fans out around her as emily demands she gives us a spin. she isn’t wearing makeup, her hair is in a ponytail too, the lights don’t wash her out because she is radiant and flawless, and the lights aren’t the problem.

i am.

i cry in my car as i drive home from the mall, and when i get home i tear everything out of my fridge and fling it into the trashcan. i vow to go to the store and stock up on salad and chicken.

i go to the store but i don’t buy salad.

and I wonder what it's like to be one of those girls to sit in the sun and look at the world and never think, "wow, am i enough?" ‘cause life is easy when you know that you're the main character

i’m in hotch’s office as he grills me about a stupid mistake i made in the field. i can hardly focus on his words as i shrink back in the chair, counting all the reasons that i don’t deserve to be in this job.

i’m not as smart or fast or strong as the others. i don’t have an eidetic memory or hacker skills and i can’t even maintain myself as a solid average agent because i keep fucking up.

“i’m not going to write you up,” he says, and my heart soars a little in my chest, “but i need you to understand that if you do something like that again i won’t have any choice, you were lucky no one got hurt today.”

i nod silently and blink back the tears that threaten to spill over.

“go home, get some rest,” he says and i don’t hang around for a second longer, darting out of his office i crash headfirst into a tall frame.

“wow, slow down,” he chuckles, resting a hand on my shoulder to steady me.

“spencer,” i gasp, looking up at his sympathetic smile, “what are you still doing here? we landed hours ago….”

he shrugs, “i waited for you.”

my heart skips a beat.

“you didn’t have to do that.”

he shakes his head, “you’re my best friend, i wanted to. plus i thought you might need someone after being in there with hotch.”

i swallow and offer him a slightly forced smile.

best friend.

“thanks, spence, that means a lot.”

he looks at me quizzically.

“what’s wrong?”

“nothing, just only jj calls me spence…anyways” he holds out his arm for me, “shall we go?”

i have to restrain myself from seizing his arm, and settle for tentatively wrapping my own around it, “thanks spencer…you’re such a good friend.”

he smiles down at me and its almost enough to melt away the icy feeling in my heart as i call him a friend. the coldness in my chest in my chest is a feeling i’ve grown accustomed to but when i’m with him everything is warm and bright again.

he feels like yellow.

and i feel like maybe i am enough.

and I'm sitting here thinking this is not fair

i feel like blue.

i’m alone in my apartment flicking through tv channels, trying to find something that isn’t a medical or crime drama. because after my day at work i can’t look at any more blood or dead bodies, even if its as fake as the pep in my voice when jj calls to ask if i’m okay.

“hotch grilled you pretty bad, huh? you sure you’re okay?”

“yeah, spence – spencer – waited for me and we went to get milkshakes after.”

“aww that’s so nice, you know i think he has a soft spot for you,” she teases.

something acidic bubbles in my throat, but i can’t tell her that i know she’s wrong because he spent half the night telling me how much he loves her. i have to gather the strength to respond without the venom in my heart poisoning my voice.

“oh, i don’t think so,” i laugh, “anyways, i should go – my movie is about to start.”

jj tells me to have a good night before she hangs up, and i switch off the tv. at this time there’s noting but romcoms and i don’t want to sit through hours of pining when its on replay every day at the office.

i watch my own reflection in the blank tv screen as sobs wrack my body.

but her smile makes it hard to be mad it's not her fault that I'm so fucking sad

jj holds me in her arms as i cry into her chest, “it’s okay, you’re gonna be okay,” she coos, rubbing soft circles on my back.

i sniffle against her and i just know that my eyes are puffy and red but i can’t switch off the floods of tears that fall from them.

“do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” she asks.

i shake my head against her because how could i tell her?

how could I tell her that the man i love is in love with her?

and that i want to resent her for it but i can’t because she’s such a good fucking friend that she’s sitting here with me, unknowingly wiping the tears that i can’t stop shedding because i can’t be her.

she gives me one of those heart warming smiles that could bring peace to a dying man, and in that moment i am reminded again of why he loves her. there are worse people to love, i suppose. if spencer is going to cut out his heart and give it to someone it might as well be someone like her.

but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

and i hate myself for the part of me that hates her. she’s done nothing wrong. it’s not her fault that that spencer loves her, and its not her fault that she doesn’t realise.

so I'll sit here and look at these girls in the sun dancing in the rain and just having their fun

i hate alaska.

my teeth chatter as we trudge through the snow filled field, and i pull the cuffs of my coat over my glove cladded hands. i hate the cold. i hate alaska. i hate the serial killer who dragged us all out here. i hate the impending snowstorm that was keeping the jet grounded for another night.

“should we even be out here?” i groan, “i mean if it’s not safe for the plane, then surely its not safe for us.”

“we aren’t 50,000 feet up in the sky though,” morgan says and i roll my eyes at him.

“it’s cold enough to make me feel like we are,” i huff.

spencer nods sympathetically at me, “i don’t like the cold either, not much snow in vegas.”

“i think we should have two behavioural analysis units,” i begin, “one to catch serial killers in cold climates, and the other in hot ones.”

he laughs, “i’d like that, but i think it’d just be us and garcia on the hot team.”

“we’d get by.”

he’s grinning at me, his messy brown curls are squashed down under his bobble hat but a few of them still manage to peak out. he’s wearing a multicoloured striped scarf and mismatched gloves.

a snowflake lands on his eyelash and i reach out to brush it off.

“thanks.”

“anytime.”

morgan launches a snowball at us, and it hits me in the back of the head, “hey! what is it with you and throwing things?” i snap.

morgan roars with laughter.

“not funny derek!”

he resumes his snowball fight with emily and jj and i draw my arms across my chest. i watch as they prance about in the snow, falling to avoid the snowballs launched by the others and laughing when they get hit. the sun is just starting to set, and it’s rays catch jj’s hair at the perfect angle, bouncing off the golden blonde strands as she dances around morgan. her and emily have joined forces to pelt him with snowballs.

i look up at spencer to see him starting at her in awe. his nose and cheeks are flushed from the cold, and the sun reflects against his own face, illuminating his eyes. they’re beautiful. like honey and glass.

“guys! come join us!” jj calls.

i shake my head, “there’s not enough money in the world.”

she pouts at me, “spence, please,” she says sweetly and before i know it he’s by her side and scooping up snow.

i watch from the side-lines.

spencer roars with laughter when emily hits morgan square in the face with a snowball, he wraps an arm around jj as she nearly collapses from laughter, something twinges in my stomach.

but he looks so happy, and that melts my glacier heart slightly.

maybe alaska wasn’t so bad after all.

and maybe one day, i can forget the past and be one of those girls of honey and glass

“nice to meet you, agent,” agent fitz says, holding out his hand, “we’ve heard good things about you up in the new york office.”

“really?” i say, shaking his hand and i can’t fight the smile that creeps across my face.

“really. give me a call if you ever fancy a change of scenery.”

“i’ll keep that in mind, agent fitz,” i give him a nod and a smile as he walks away.

new york was cold in the winter, but it didn’t seem like the worst place in the world.

but I think that it's hard for people to see that I love all these girls, and honestly it doesn't matter what you look like or how much you weigh

i wondered once how i’d ever get over my love for spencer reid, and now as he sits and sobs on my couch i realise that i don’t want to. it hurts me to love him, and something stabs my heart every time i catch him staring at her, but he deserves someone to love him like he loves her.

“i guess i’m just starting to realise that she’ll never love me back, and i don’t know why or what’s wrong with me,” he says and looks up at me, his eyes filled with tears and his face blotchy and red.

“there’s nothing wrong with you,” i say, wrapping an arm around him and wiping his tears, “sometimes the people you love just don’t love you back, but that’s not a reflection of you or your self-worth,” i reiterate to him the mantra i say in my mirror every morning.

he whimpers and my heart breaks for him.

“it doesn’t feel that way, it feels like i’m dying inside every time she talks about him or tells me about their dates, and i try to be a good friend but-”

his voice cracks and another sob escapes his chest and i tighten my grip around him; heartbreak doesn’t seem to get easier with age, because here we are, two fbi agents in our late twenties crying over our crushes like we are in junior high.

because before i know it the tears are flowing down my face faster than his and when he breaks away from our embrace to ask me why i’m crying, i can’t tell him it’s because i am feeling everything he is.

“i just don’t like seeing you like this,” is all i can muster up.

it's just that these girls know they're okay there's a beauty in knowing your place in the world in loving yourself and knowing your worth

“hey!” spencer greets me as he steps into the elevator with me.

“hi,” i mumble back, taking another sip of coffee from my travel cup.

we’ve been called in on a case, but i’ve barely had any sleep and i’m struggling to keep my eyes open.

“you look tired, are you okay?”

you look tired.

so the bags under my eyes were obvious then.

“yeah,” i say, swallowing the lump in my throat, “just a late night, y’know.”

“oh…oh! is that your way of saying your date went well?” he says with a coy grin.

“what?”

oh! something clicks in my brain and i understand what he means.

“no! not like that no…actually it didn’t go well at all, he turned out to be a total misogynistic creep,” i say with a bitter laugh.

“oh, i’m sorry….”

i shrug and take another swig of coffee, “it’s okay, you didn’t know. to be honest i’ll probably end up calling him again anyways.”

spencer stares at me, confused, “why would you do that?”

“well, i don’t exactly have guys falling over themselves for me, do i?”

spencer frowns and i can see his brain working overtime behind his eyes, “so you’re just going to settle for less than you deserve?”

“i don’t have many other options do i?”

he reaches out an arm to place a comforting hand on my shoulder, “don’t worry, you’ll find the right guy for you soon. it’s only a matter of time, you’re worth more than a misogynistic creep,” he squeezes my shoulder and before i know it we’ve already reached our floor and he’s gone.

you’ll meet the right guy for you soon.

what if i already have?

you don't have to be perfect or never get sad that's not what it means to be honey and glass

it’s late and i sit at my desk, sorting through piles of paperwork.

my eyes blur as i enter the gruesome details of our latest case, from fatigue or tears i can’t tell. i think emily and hotch are still hanging around the office somewhere, but the others had gone to dinner as soon as we landed, promising that they would do their paperwork tomorrow.

i knew i would have no appetite sitting across a table from spencer and jj so i had sat silently in the back of the suv as hotch drove us back to the office.

a singular tear rolls down my cheek and splatters on my page, smudging the not-quite-dry-yet ink. i let out a shaky breath and wipe my eyes, i don’t know why i’m crying really.

no one had necessarily done anything wrong. only when we were in the field and the unsub had detonated the bomb, spencer chose to push jj out of the way instead of me. i was lucky that one of the s.w.a.t agents had grabbed my arm in time and pulled me back to safety.

it had been hours and my ears were still ringing from the explosion.

maybe spencer thought he was closer to jj, that he had a better chance of saving her, we are trained to make difficult choices based on survival odds, i told myself.

only spencer hadn’t been closer to jj, and she was surrounded by three s.w.a.t agents whilst i only had one next to me. but no one had really done anything wrong, no one died, no one even broke a bone. and it pains me to admit to myself but had i been in spencer’s position and had to chose between saving him or morgan, i know that would pull spencer out of the way every single time.

i jump as emily creeps up behind me, “hey, you okay?”

i don’t even try and disguise my puffy, red eyes or tear tracks as i look up at her, “no. but i think that’s okay.”

and everyone has their highs and their lows the nights you spend crying, believe me, I know

it’s roslyn’s birthday.

i don’t think anyone else in the team knows because they keep exchanging looks whenever jj snaps at one of them and i can see the annoyance in their eyes.

when jj barks at spencer and snaps her pencil within the space of five minutes i drag her into a storage closet and wrap my arms around her.

“shhh,” i say soothingly, “it’s okay, you’re gonna be okay.”

jj shakes her head, “i don’t think so, i thought this day would get easier with time but it’s just getting worse,” she sniffles.

i stroke her hair, “i know, i know its horrible and you deserve to cry as much as you want to. but you are so strong, and i know you can get through this-”

“i’m not,” jj shakes her head, “i’m not strong or brave or anything that you all think i am, i’m not like you I-”

“like me?” i question.

“you always hold yourself together, whenever there’s a case with a kid i’m falling to pieces but you keep it together. i mean i’m the one crying in a storage closet….”

i stare at her in disbelief, because jj is the strongest woman i know and i don’t understand how she can’t see that.

“i don’t have a sister who killed herself jj,” i say slowly, “you have survived 100% of the bad things that have happened to you because you’re a fighter, that makes you strong.”

she shakes her head and clings to me, “but i’ve lost pieces of myself, i’m not the same person i could’ve been if life had been kinder to me and that makes me sad. my sister is dead and that makes me sad, everyone thinks i’m this strong and perfect person and that makes me feel guilty because i can’t be that person.”

in a turn of events, she is crying into my chest, her hair is greasy, and her mascara runs and i realise that my best friend was never truly on the pedestal i placed her on. and i realise i am part of the problem, treating jj like she is the be all and all of perfection and unattainablity when i should just be treating her like a friend.

spencer loves her and that kills me but it’s not what’s important right now. i’ve spent too long inside my own head, struggling to view her as my best friend or the other woman but now i see that she is someone that needs my help.

i know what it’s like to cry myself to sleep so i don’t want jj to go through something like that alone. so i vow there and then, to push my own feelings aside and be whatever she needs me to be.

i don't want to be these girls for beauty or fame but for the confidence they have in their own damn name

“smile!” garcia says as she appears with a camera.

emily, jj, and morgan turn to face her and pose but i duck out of the frame. garcia pouts and morgan grabs onto my forearm to pull me back into shot. i wish that i had the self-confidence to let him, to fall in next to him and make a silly pose at the camera and not worry if my hair was sitting nicely or if i was breathing in enough.

“come on! i need pictures for my scrapbook and you’ve been dodging me all night!” she whines.

i stare down at my feet, “garcia i’m not photoshoot ready like these guys,” i say, trying to make my voice light and floaty but it just sounds like im choking back tears.

“come on, just one picture,” jj says kindly, waving for me to come and stand next to her.

i shake my head again and wring my hands. the last thing i need is another photograph of jj and i to compare myself to every time i’m feeling extra low and self-destructive.

i try and remember the vow i made, to be there for my friend despite my own feelings. but she isn’t sad anymore, she’s happy and smiling and drinking wine, me squeezing in between her and emily for a stupid photograph isn’t going to make or break her.

it’s just a stupid photograph.

“no thanks,” i choke, “i’m going to get another drink,” i scurry away to the kitchen before anyone can object.

i shut the door quickly behind me and press my back up against it, taking a deep breath. i can’t quite believe i was successful in escaping garcia again.

“are you avoid garcia and her camera too?”

“spencer!” i laugh shrilly, “i didn’t even see you there.”

“yeah, i’ve been hiding in here for a half hour,” he smiles sadly, “i hate having my picture taken, especially next to morgan. he makes me look even lankier if possible.”

i frown, spencer had no reason to feel insecure.

“why don’t we get garcia to take a picture of just us two?” i suggest nervously, “you won’t have any reason to feel insecure next to me….”

he looks at me quizzically, “what do you mean?”

i wring my hands again, “just that you’ll automatically look even better if i’m next to you…cos’ i’m…well y’know,” i say awkwardly motioning to my face and body.

he cocks his head to the side, “are you trying to tell me you think you’re ugly, so i’ll look better by comparison?”

i shrug.

“well, i think you look beautiful.”

so I'll sit here and look at these girls in the sun dancing in the rain and just having their fun

we’re on the plane journey home.

spencer and jj sit next to each other, their arms pressed together as they share the arm rest. spencer is reading a book; his eyes scan down the pages at lightening speed and i know he’ll be finished soon.

i am on the opposite side of the plane, i sit by myself, i like the space.

i keep my eye on them throughout the flight; just as i predicted, it doesn’t take long for spencer to finish his book and he places it down on the table in front of him. jj picks it up and teases him for the long-winded title, i don’t catch what she says, something about astrophysics.

he starts to ramble, and she interrupts him with another teasing remark, he flushes when she gently nudges his chest. i turn my head to stare out of the window, biting my lip.

they aren’t even doing anything, jj is just being friendly. and i still can’t handle it. i lie my head back against the headrest as i gaze out of the window, admiring the new york skyline as it fades into the distance.

a nervous chuckle from spencer snaps me out of my trance, and i look back over to see him and jj giggling secretively as she whispers something into his ear.

“where are you going?” emily grumbles, she’s half asleep with her legs splayed out across two chairs when i accidently bump her foot.

“bathroom,” i say quietly with a forced smile as i shuffle past jj and spencer, my heart seizing in my chest as she teases him about how long his hair is getting, brushing her hand through the curls.

i’m already silently sobbing in the bathroom so i miss the pitiful look that emily and morgan exchange.

and I know it doesn't make sense to forget the past but I promise, one day, you'll be honey and glass

“agent fitz?” i say, clutching my phone tight in my hand.

“ahh, i’ve been wondering when i’d be hearing from you.”

i laugh quietly, “yes, well i’ve been thinking about what you said, and i think i could do with that change of scenery now.”

i wrote this in a couple hours and didnt proof read so apologies for an errors :))

part 2

#spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds imagines #jennifer jareau #jj #emily prentiss #derek morgan #aaron hotchner #David Rossi #Penelope garcia #the bau #angst #hurt and comfort #spencer reid imagine hurt

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peachbear88 · 3 years

Text

Leave Before You Love Me

A/N: College/highschool AU inspired by "Leave Before You Love Me" by Jonas Brothers x Marshmello. I don't know, I can't decide if it's college or highschool.

Warning: IMPLICATIONS OF SMUT. Just brief mentions. Because I'm a pure, innocent child and will throw my computer out of my window at the thought of writing smut. The few suggestive sentences I wrote had me cringing and flushing bright red.

----------

Your eyes flutter open as the sunlight seeps through the blinds. You groan, snuggling closer to the warm body next to yo- Hold on. Your eyes snap open and you backpedal, falling off the bed noisily.

"Ow!"

The naked figure stirs but doesn't wake and you creep around the room, grabbing your scattered clothes. Slipping out the bedroom door, you make it about halfway down the stairs before an annoying voice startles you.

"So you slept over, eh?"

You turn to find Pietro Maximoff leaning against the banister of the stairs, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He slides smoothly down the banister, sliding past you as you continue trekking down the stairs.

"Yeah, I guess I fell asleep without knowing." You rub the back of your neck sheepishly, flashes of last night going off in your head. You follow him into the kitchen where he pulls out some leftovers from the fridge. He snorts.

"Sure. Well, I can't let you leave here in good conscience without at least feeding you." It's your turn to stifle a giggle.

"Feeding me with food your mother prepared?" He slides a bowl of reheated tomato soup over.

"It's the thought that counts."

You sip at the soup thoughtfully, barely holding back a groan at the taste of the soup.

"I don't get it. How can your mom make food taste so good? And it's reheated!" You pout, sullenly poking at the red liquid. Pietro laughs, slurping up his soup noisily, leaving a few tomato splatters all over his face. You snort, pointing at your own face.

"You got tomato soup everywhere Piet." He wipes at his mouth wildly with his shirt sleeve, managing to wipe away every spot except for one. You sigh amusedly, reaching out to with your napkin to wipe it off.

"Ahem." The two of you jump apart at the sudden noise. Standing in the doorway is Wanda, her hair ruffled, her long legs poking out from under the oversized sweater wrapped around her.

Do you think she's wearing anything underneath that?

You mentally chide yourself for having such dirty thoughts. Wanda makes her way to the marble countertop looking visibly disgruntled, sitting beside you. You scooch over a bit, hoping to leave a respectable distance between the two of you but after last night, she appears to have other plans, stealing Pietro's bowl of soup and sliding much closer to you.

Pietro smirks, taking his backpack from the back of his chair and slinging it over his shoulder.

"Well, I'll leave you two lovebirds alone. See you at school!" You gag on your remaining bit of soup. The door slams behind him and Wanda scoots impossibly closer to you.

"So..." She flutters her eyelashes at you and you gulp. "About last night-"

You stand up abruptly, dropping your empty bowl into the sink and grabbing your backpack.

"See you at school Wanda!" You mutter, your face turning the same shade as the tomato soup.

"Wait!" She sighs as the door slams shut.

----------

"How was last night?" Darcy asks nonchalantly.

You choke and she rushes to pat you on the back.

"Geez, was it that bad?" She cracks and you offer her a weak smile, attempting to take your mind off the recurring thoughts of Wanda, hovering above you, necklaces and wavy auburn hair dangling above you. You shiver, turning back to Darcy, who waits expectantly for your answer.

"It was fine." You answer tentatively and she stares at you exasperatedly as you take a swig of water.

"So you didn't... Sleep with her?" Your eyes fly open, water spraying out of your mouth and all over Darcy. "Oh gross!"

"I- Yeah I did." You crack under Darcy's stern gaze as she wipes the spit-water off of herself. She cries out triumphantly, attracting a few odd stares from your surrounding classmates.

"I knew it! You've been pining after her for ages! So you guys are together now?" You sigh and she deflates, her jubilant mood evaporating. "Why are you sighing?"

"I left before she could say anything." Darcy stands up, slamming her fists onto the table.

"What!? Why?" She curses, immediately nursing her injured fists.

"You know why. I'm not risking anything. You remember how bad it was when I got dumped by Natasha?" Darcy frowns.

"Wanda is the polar opposite of Natasha." She points out and your eyebrows crease as you think.

"I know but- Oh shit." You mutter, your eyes landing on Wanda who appears to be approaching at a rather fast pace. "Gotta go!" You scoop up your bag and books and take off at a surprising speed, tripping a few times in your hurry. Darcy looks around for a bit and understanding dawns on her when Wanda reaches their table.

"Have you seen Y/N?" Wanda tugs at her auburn locks rather nervously.

"Nope." Darcy lies through her teeth. Wanda groans in frustration before taking off again. Darcy shakes her head before returning her attention to the massive pile of books in front of her.

-----------

"Y/N!" A voice booms and you flinch as an arm wraps around you.

"Hey Tony." You smile weakly at the teen genius.

"You're comin' to my party right?" He flashes you an award-winning smile and you open your mouth to protest but he cuts you off, answering his own question with his massive ego. "Of course you're coming. I'll be watching out for you." With one last wink at you, he saunters away. You deflate, shoving your books into your locker.

"Damn I've gotta learn to say no." You slam your locker shut and turn to find yourself staring into a pair of startlingly green eyes. For a moment your stomach backflips as you assume they're Wanda's but then clarity reaches its hand out to you. You snarl.

"What do you want?" Natasha regards you with sad eyes, shuffling her feet in front of you.

"You know what I want." You start down the bustling hallway at a smart pace with Nat trailing behind you. "I want you."

"You broke up with me Natasha Romanoff, not the other way around. You don't get to barge into my life again and make requests like you own the place." She stares at you with watery eyes, grabbing your arm.

"Do I not own your heart anymore?" She says quietly and you falter for a moment, almost reaching out but another arm wraps around your waist, tugging you away.

"Do not touch her." This time, you look up into the unmistakable eyes of Wanda Maximoff.

"You." Nat growls and Wanda pries her fingers off your arm.

"I will not ask you again." With one last dirty glare at Wanda, she glides away, disappearing in the groups of people.

"Y/N, I really need to talk to-" You cut her off, wrenching your body out of her grasp and disappearing swiftly into the crowds. "-you. God damn it!" She stomps her foot angrily.

---------

Tony Stark's parties are known for being obnoxiously loud and filled with drunk teenagers.

You carefully make your way to the door of his home, where loud music can be heard, blasting through the walls. A couple falls out of a bush, the boy's shirt unbuttoned and the girl's dress half ripped. You blush, averting your eyes before stepping into the mansion.

It's safe to say, you'd rather have stayed outside with the couple then stay inside.

Everywhere you look, there are drunk, horny teenagers grinding on each other, making your stomach roil. You shake your head, immediately heading towards the washroom which happens to be upstairs. The winding staircase leaves you panting for air as you trudge past an empty bedroom towards the washroom. An arm wraps around your wrist, pulling you into said bedroom. You scream but it's muffled by a soft hand clapping around your mouth.

"Shhhhh!" A familiar voice hisses behind you, removing their hand.

"Wanda?" You whisper, scrunching your eyebrows in confusion. She wraps her arms around your waist, giving you a light kiss behind your ear.

"Hello love. Remembered me have you?" She whispers, her voice silky as her kisses trail downwards. You shiver at her touch.

"Wanda. We can't." You protest weakly. "It's a party. This is Tony's house." She ignores your feeble protests and you sigh.

Fuck it.

---------

You purr at the comfortable warmth next to you when you wake, burying your face further into the figure.

It chuckles and you squeal in fright, attempting to wriggle away but it's already put it's arms around you again.

"Where do you think you're going lyubov?" You flush at the pet name but gently pull yourself out of her arms and into a standing position. The bed creaks as Wanda stands up as well. You pull your shirt on and begin pulling your jeans on. "Y/N."

You ignore her and continue buttoning your pants together.

"Y/N." She says more forcibly and you turn, unable to ignore her.

"Yes?" She regards you weakly, her hands behind her back.

"When are you going to face the truth?" You stare at her, flabbergasted by her line of questioning.

"What are you talking about?" You play dumb and she sighs.

"This, Y/N! Us." She gesticulates angrily at you.

"We can't do this anymore. We shouldn't." You avoid her eyes, guilt flooding you.

"Please." She whispers, stretching her arms out in an attempt to caress your face but you flinch away. "Please tell me you feel something. Anything. You know you love me."

You steel your resolve.

"I don't feel anything." Wanda's soft sniffles echo throughout your ears and mind as you close the door behind you.

----------

Does this need a part 2? Hm...

Taglist: @username23345 @musicinourlips @gingerbreadcookieforlife @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @ima-gi--na-tion @nicole-rayleigh-hot @olsensnpm @peabrain112

#wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda angst #wanda fluff

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mythiccheroacademia · 4 years

Text

A Dip in the Hot Tub

A/N: Sooooo, I wasn’t originally going to participate in kinktober in any way, but so many blogs inspired me to do something. Even if it’s one thing. So here I am sinning™️. I wanna start writing for haikyuu, so this is my experimental fic. I wrote it with my two favs so I hope got the characters somewhat right. I hope y’all enjoy this and happy kinktober <3

Pairing: Bokuto x Fem!Reader x Kuroo Word Count: 2k Context: You’re a volleyball player (you choose the school) that caught the eye of the Fukurōdani and Nekoma volleyball team’s captains. They’ve expressed their interest, but you don’t believe it. Now they’ve cornered you and won’t leave until they’ve convinced you of their feelings in a way you can’t deny.

All characters are 18+

Warnings: sexual content aka dry humping, fingering, threesomes without p*nis to v*gina penetration...but it is later implied, cursing

A Dip in the Hot Tub

The private hot tub was supposed to be relaxing treat. And it was. At first.

That was until you realized you were in the water with two insanely aggravated (read: jealous) men who had recently expressed their attraction to you. And your dumb ass only believed them after seeing their reaction when they caught Oikawa flirting with you.

You admittedly had an ego boost under the power you felt in that moment. Now, with Bokuto and Kuroo sitting across from you, displeasure in their gazes, you were filled with anxiety.

Or was that excitement?

You decided to stay on your side, legs tightly bound together.

“Uhh, so the first day of camp went well,” you said, attempting to make conversation.

“Yeah.”

“Sure.”

Wow. Okay.

“Tough crowd,” you muttered. You tried again. “Um, have any plans for the rest of the evening?”

“Not really.”

Then, it was crickets.

You nodded, giving up. You can take a hint.

“Okay, well, obviously I’m not wanted here so I’ll just take my leave—”

“No, wait.” You felt your body tense as Kuroo put his hand on your shoulder. His brown eyes were rigid, but not with anger. It was something more vulnerable. However, he looked away before you could decipher it.

“Kuroo…” you whispered.

“Stay. We didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcomed,” he said.

You stared at him for a second before looking over to Bokuto who still looked…emo…but didn’t seem to make any protest. Despite your apprehension, you let the dark-haired man slowly pull you back down into the water.

“Okay,” you breathed.

You hadn’t realized just how hurt they’d be. Your own insecurities made you believe there was no possible way both of your crushes were interested in you. However, that didn’t give you a right to mess with their feelings like you did. You were grown enough to know better.

Sucking in your pride, you apologized.

“Hey. Tetsu, Tarō. I’m sorry,” you quietly spoke. You looked down at your hands in embarrassment. “I was wrong to not take your feelings seriously. I just…I just couldn’t believe that you two liked someone like me more than a friend. Especially when I um like you two aswell. So, I’m sorry if that really turned you off. I wouldn’t blame you.”

What was said next totally caught you off guard.

“You really don’t understand how much we want you, do you?”

Your eyes snapped up to see a pair of golden irises closing in on you. You couldn’t get the chance to wonder how Bokuto got so close to you because the intensity of his gaze made you blank out.

“Huh?” you dumbly said.

His hands readily found your waist before running down your hips, fingering the laces of your bottoms before finding purchase on your thighs. “Even though I’m incredibly pissed off at you, all I can think about is how much I wanna fuck you right now.”

The way his eyes rolled down your body made goosebumps flood your skin and your pussy clench with desire. Bokuto pushed himself closer to you and you gasped at the feeling of his erection on your abdomen.

You couldn’t even comment before Kuroo came up behind you, placing wet kisses on the back of your neck. You felt his clear excitement on your back.

“I guess we’re just going to have to show you how much we like you, huh princess?” he said with a Cheshire-like smile.

You were easily feeling overwhelmed with four hands and two mouths feeling you up. You wanted it, but you couldn’t help but feel a little nervous. You’d never taken two men at the same time.

“W-wait—I’ve never…I haven’t—”

“Don’t worry. We won’t go all the way. We’ve got you babygirl,” Kuroo whispered before nipping your shoulder.

Your words turned into putty as you finally welcomed Bokuto’s lips. Despite his past seriousness, he was soft and hesitant with his kisses until he felt your arms wrap around his neck. Then his confidence shined through. You were pushed further into Kuroo’s embrace as you deepened the kiss.

You felt yourself moan as his tongue passed through your mouth, leaving no crevice unexplored. He kissed you like he couldn’t have enough of your taste, swallowing down every whimper you gave. It was almost instinct for you to wrap your legs around him and you reveled in how he grinded his hips against you. You were breathless as he positioned himself so that he was right on your clit.

“Oh, Bokuto…”

“This is how you make me feel, Y/N,” he panted. “You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt about your legs around me.”

Bokuto’s hips continued to buck into you and it felt amazing. He was slow in his movements, his hips like sensual waves as he rutted against your sensitive nub. You moaned, hands latching onto whatever you could hold of his muscular back.

“You like that? Does it feel good, baby?” he exhaled. “Does it feel good when I pretend like I’m fucking you?”

You whined out a yes and dug your fingers in his hair. But just when you thought this was it, a pair of hands from behind untied your bikini top, letting it fall down your shoulders. Kuroo smoothed one of his hands over your breasts, teasing your nipples with his thumb and forefingers. The other hand squeezed your ass before his thick finger past your bottoms and into your slick folds.

The feeling of his fingers curling against your walls and Bokuto’s dick against your clit made your head fall back. Kuroo bit down on your neck and licked the mark before whispering in your ear, “All we’ve ever wanted was to make you feel good, kitten. There were so many nights I touched myself thinking of how you’d feel wrapped around me. So many nights I wished it were your pretty little mouth choking on my dick.”

He found satisfaction in how his words alone had such an effect on you when he felt you shiver. Meanwhile, you were on cloud nine. You closed your eyes and let a desperate whine drip from your lips as you felt Kuroo start to thrust against your ass. He then took his fingers out from your heat and lied them flat against your tongue.

“Suck,” he ordered, and you did just that, tasting yourself. A delicious moan vibrated through your body as he slowly moved his fingers in and out of your mouth.

It took a few moments, but soon, the three of you were moving in sync, chasing the orgasm you felt within their bellies. The closeness of it all was nearly overwhelming. Their grunts and moans were hot in your ears; one hand was in Kuroo’s hair while the other gripped Bokuto’s back.

“Imagine that we’re in you, filling your pretty holes up. So stuffed that you can barely tell who is who and god—you’d feel so good. Taking us like the good girl you are. So wet and hot for us as we fuck you until you can’t remember your own name,” Bokuto groaned.

Your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head. You were trying your best to keep your voice down, but the two men against you were not on the same wave. The white and black haired man gripped the flesh of your thighs to pull you closer as his thrusts got faster and messier.

Bokuto buried his head into your neck and moaned, “Y-Y/N, baby, I’m close.”

Close? You were barely holding on. If it wasn’t for that fact that Kuroo twisted your head to swallow your moans away, you would’ve been heard through the walls of the private room.

In your pleasure filled daze, you found it within yourself to slip your hand within his trunks and pump his dick. The extra heat from your hand and the way you stroked your thumb over the tip nearly pushed him over the edge. Kuroo let out the prettiest moan that made his face heat up. Gone was the smugness as he peered at you with desperation.

“Princess—fuck Y/N!”

You huffed out a chuckle.

Kuroo took his hand out of your mouth so he could wrap one arm around your waist and pinch your nipples. He began to urgently thrust in your hand as you pulled Bokuto’s hair back so you could also see his face.

You almost came on the spot as he gazed at you like a lovesick puppy, golden eyes begging for release.

Within both of their gazes, you could see the fondness they had been trying to express to you. That along with the overstimulation was enough to make your eyes prick with tears.

The feeling was all too much. Your stomach was coiled tight. One more thrust and you were nearly sent over the edge.

“Kuroo! Boku—ah! Oh shit!” you sung.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Bokuto growled. “You’re right there—ah! C-cum for us.”

He grabbed the ledge of tub and nearly slammed into you as Kuroo licked his lips at the sight of your open mouth gasps. The water sloshed back and forth, spilling over the edges with your movements. You looked so pretty with your tongue out and eyes fluttering between open and closed.

Kuroo’s hand wrapped around your neck and gave it a slight squeeze. “Let us hear you princess—“

Then it hit you. Your eyes blacked out from the intensity. “I’m cumming!” you screamed. A wave of pleasure shot up your belly and spread warmth hotter than the humid air throughout your shaking limbs.

It was weird how their bodies automatically followed yours. Your voices tangled in the air for a few seconds before all that was left were the sounds of your heavy breaths.

The two men slumped over, each taking a different shoulder to rest on. You leaned your head back and closed your eyes to steady yourself from that mind blowing orgasm.

There was a moment of peace as you three simmered in the afterglow. Then Bokuto broke the silence.

“Now do you believe us?” he asked.

He lifted his head and you saw that confidence of his shine behind rosy, cheeks. And although he was flushed from what occurred moments ago, his blush was more attributed to the rush of getting to be so intimate with you.

“Believe you about what?” you panted with a lazy grin.

“That we’re yours, duh,” he goofily smiled.

Kuroo kissed your cheek. “That is…if you’ll have us,” he softly spoke.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the incredulousness of the situation.

Both of them, huh?

You sighed. There was no use in denying their feelings anymore.

“You two always had a weird habit of sharing anyways,” you conceded.

“Hey! Hey! Hey! I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist our charm!” Bokuto cheered. “Now let’s head to my room do the real thing!”

You choked on your spit. “W-what!? The real thing? Aren’t you two tired!?”

“Tired?” Kuroo chuckled. “You got caught up with two A-List volleyball players and you think we’re tired after this? You’re funny.”

You squealed in surprised as Bokuto suddenly lifted you out of the tub, bridal style. They began to cheerfully walk out the room ignoring the fact that you were completely topless. You scrambled to cover your chest and cursed the two out for laughing as if someone wouldn’t see you half naked as soon you walked out of the door.

“Kuroo! Bokuto! If you dickheads don’t get my fucking bikini top—”

“Yeah yeah. You’ll be fine. You won’t need it anyways~” Bokuto chirped.

Kuroo nodded. “What are the chances that anyone will see us?”

“Uhh a lot!?”

“Welp! I guess we’ll find out!”

Just what the hell did you get yourself into?

#bokuto kotaro #bokuto x reader #kuroo tetsuro #kuroo x reader #haikyuu #hq x reader #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu smut #bokuto smut #kuroo smut #happy kinktober #ahh i'm so nervous #maybe i'll do a part two since i enjoy the thought of reader getting railed by these two captains

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coepiteamare · 3 years

Text

depth of field

pairing: yoongi x female!reader genre: angst (are we surprised), fluff, reader is an actress, yoongi is photographer warning: a lot of feelings, uhm there’s like 2 lines about sex but it’s not super explicit, bad break ups, not beta read, heartbreak, header credit: lovely isa! she’s so talented please check her out @monvante word count: 9.5k (how and why this became the longest thing i’ve written, i don’t know) rating: sfw though slightly mature (2 lines about sex but not explicit) collab: the valentine’s day collab with a bunch of awesome writers! please check out everyone’s stories!

summary: yoongi is a nature photographer and you’re an actress who’s spent her entire life in front of the cameras. when he’s hired (against his will) for a photoshoot, he’s not quite expecting you: all smiles and charm and mystery. (alt: you laugh, and yoongi hears the night sky crumble into a thousand shooting stars. he fumbles with the settings, his heart rattling in his chest like the camera in his hands, but for the first time, the picture doesn’t do the sight in front of him justice.) A/N: this is....so late because i am big dumb + life changes + writing is hard. i have extremely mixed feelings on this one, but if you do read it, i hope it makes you feel something. if you listen to epik high, a lot of this was written while listening to “sleepless in _________”.

[Triptych: Sleepless In The City.JPEG]

[alt.image: Black and white triptych of a view outside a bedroom window. The position of the shot is the same in all three: all of them are directly facing an open window depicting the Seoul skyline. Towards the bottom of the picture, the edge of a bed can be seen: a plaid blanket with a light coloured bed frame. Right below the window is a dark wood dresser with a glass of water on top. At the center of the frame is a square, side hung window with light coloured (white) curtains on the sides. The first frame depicts a light blue coloured sky. There’s a lens flare at the top right of the corner. The second frame depicts a gradient sky. There’s light from the buildings shining through. The third frame depicts a darker sky, but the building lights are still on. The glass of water lies in the same position through the pictures, with little to no change in water amount.]

There’s a loud bzzt bzzt coming from the side of his bed as sleep clings to his eyelashes and glues his eyes shut, exhaustion still running through his veins. His fingers fumble, groping in the darkness, for the source of the noise until his fingers clasp around his phone and silence it. He rubs his face in his pillow and lets himself settle in again, sleep creeping back when—bzzt, bzzt—there’s another round of vibrations from his phone. Yoongi knows he turned on the do not disturb mode, so he contemplates answering as his fingers make contact with his phone, before pressing the side button and turning it off.

He shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn’t call his name this time around. Someone else does, as the door swings open.

“Yoongi!”

Yoongi groans and pulls the covers over his head, letting the weighted blanket settle around his body, but Hoseok peels it off his body without a struggle.

“You could have called when you came back,” Hoseok opens the black out curtains, afternoon light flooding through the window and making Yoongi’s vision dance.

“You could have called before you barged in.”

“I did,” Hoseok settles on the edge of his bed, laughing when Yoongi kicks him off, “you didn’t answer.”

“I was busy.” He sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, the afterglow of his dreams fading from his mind.

Hoseok looks at the suitcase still packed at the corner of his bed, at the instant noodle cups on the counter. “I see that.”

Yoongi shrugs and reaches for the camera bag on his nightstand, fiddling with the zippers and refusing to meet Hoseok’s eyes.

It’s quiet before there’s a sigh that paints the silence between them. Hoseok reaches his hand out, eyes a little soft, smile a little apologetic, and Yoongi gives him the camera.

“So how was Greenland?”

“Cold. Colder than here. Not green at all.” Hoseok laughs at that, and perhaps it’s the weather, the lack of people Yoongi has seen the past few months, or Hoseok’s sunny disposition dispelling the shadows, but there’s a small warmth that blooms through Yoongi. “It was nice though. Nice pictures.”

“I can see that. Did you have an exhibition in mind for these?”

“No. I just wanted a change of pace for a bit.” he clears his throat, trying to unstick the words clinging to his esophagus. “New environment. Clear my head. Look for new inspiration.”

Hoseok hands him back the camera. “I signed you up for RKIVE LAB’s Valentine’s Day exhibition.” Yoongi stops fiddling with the buttons and grips the camera a little tighter. “Portraits of love. Pictures of people required.”

“I don’t take pictures of people.”

“You used to. Before.” Hoseok doesn’t say it—knows to shut his mouth even before Yoongi glares at him—but the presence of the words stains the air like an unwanted lens flare smudged across the picture. The weight of it lingers, glaringly obvious in the silence, as heavy as the blanket curled up at Yoongi’s feet.

“Used to. Not anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t do it again.”

“And that doesn’t mean I want to. Besides, I’m not ready for another exhibition.”

“Yoongi,” Hoseok takes a seat on the bed and this time, Yoongi doesn’t chide him for it. “Your last exhibition was a year ago. You stopped photographing people for 8 months. 4 months ago, you decided—out of the blue, mind you—to pack up and visit Greenland, 2 weeks before your exhibition. Not only was PR an absolute nightmare, but you also scared me. I was worried about you.”

There’s a sense of guilt that trickles through him at Hoseok’s words. Yoongi hugs his knees to his chest and tucks his chin over them. He’d sink into the floor if he could, let it swallow him whole if it meant he could avoid the conversation, but knowing Hoseok, he’d continue, even when it closed back up.

“You need to let go,” Hoseok squeezes his shoulder.

“I need to sleep. I’m still jet lagged.”

“It’s been a week since you’ve come back!”

“Exactly,” he pouts, and tries to reach for his blanket, but Hoseok gently slaps his hands away. His voice softens when he opens his mouth, insecurity painting the edges.“I just don’t think I’m ready for an exhibit. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”

“I think you just need to try.”

The sigh that leaves his body doesn’t do much for the heaviness that he can’t seem to dispel. He’s tried. Tried to take pictures, tried to photograph people, but he doesn’t know how to capture them without the lens of heartbreak, without finding pieces of his ex hidden in filters. He’s tried to forget, tried to remember, tried to drown everything out to the bitter taste of alcohol, and nothing worked. He tries, and nothing works.

“I don’t know how to take pictures of people anymore,” Yoongi says weakly.

Hoseok’s smile is bright, too bright, the picture of false reassurance. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve already made a call.”

[Ready Or Not.JPEG]

[alt. Image: An out of focus, blurry, god shot, full body photograph of a girl. She wears a short red dress with thin straps and black platform boots. There’s a pink and green image/texture projected on top of her as she poses with her arms stretched over her head. The woman is not at the centre of frame, but more towards the right. The photograph appears to be taken hastily, as if the photographer was falling down when taking the shot.]

Yoongi’s forgotten how much light is involved with studio shoots: the moment he steps into the studio, there’s a flash of bright light, and there’s small spots of light dancing in the corner of his vision. He wants to go home, curl back into his cotton sheets, and hide under the covers.

It’s convenient, he’ll admit. Outdoor photography, especially nature photography, means hours and hours of planning ahead, of trekking into the wilderness and adjusting lenses and camera angles, and tripod placements to get the perfect shot, only to have something—be it the sun, or a bug, or an animal, or a tree that decides to fall at that moment—interfere and ruin the moment. But indoor photography means that everything gets to be controlled, adjustable to his whims.

Yoongi fiddles with his camera settings, finger nervously itching for something to do in the unfamiliar environment. He’s not sure if he likes these kinds of photographs, the ones scripted and tweaked until perfection is smudged against the frame of the picture. He likes spontaneity, likes the unpredictability of nature, but he also likes the idea that everything can be adjusted, picture perfect, to the way he wants it. (No one leaves, no one hurts. Just pictures. Just his ideas.)

“I didn’t know we were getting a new photographer.”

He spins around and almost stumbles backwards at the sight of you. He could easily have deemed you as one of the set pieces: clothes perfectly pressed, skin glossy, not a hair out of place. You're brilliant and dazzling and beautiful, pressurised to perfection, and Yoongi doesn’t know if he likes that. Doesn’t like the crisp edges of your pants, the sharp angles of your shoulders.

“My name is Y/N. It’s nice to work with you.”

He stares at the hand in front of him for a second before wiping his palm on his pants. Your smile doesn’t fade as Yoongi gingerly shakes your hand. “Yoongi. I’m just here to watch Vante on shoot. I haven’t photographed people in a while, and our agent thought it would help me to watch him in action.”

The way your eyes sparkle, light up brighter than the studio lights, feels uncanny: he knows he’s seen it before, but he’s not sure where. It stirs up a familiar feeling in his tummy, like the anticipation that builds just as he’s about to press the click of a shutter.

“I’m sure you’re a lot better than you think you are,” your smile is warm, but it sends a chill down his spine. It feels wrong, like he’s stuck in the wrong picture frame, the wrong background. The ground is blurry, his head is light, and when he blinks, everything feels cold.

“You’re a lot better than you think you are, Yoongi. I’ve seen the photos. I know you,” his voice is warm, and Yoongi can hear the smile in the way he grips his hands. “I want to see the exhibit you put up, and I know other people will too.”

“Hey,” there’s a jolt of electricity when you touch him. He blinks, and your face is in front of his, brows knitted. “You okay? I lost you for a moment.”

“Fine,” his voice is scratchy, so he coughs to clear it. “I’m fine. Just-uhm-it’s been a minute. Memories. I haven’t stepped foot in a studio for a while.”

“You must have loved it. Taking pictures of people,” when he tilts his head and tries to make sense of your words, you smile and let go of his shoulder. “You wouldn’t have had such a visceral reaction if you didn’t love it. I’m a firm believer that the things we love never leave us. So you’ll find that spark again. I believe in you.”

When the shoot starts, Yoongi moves around, trying to remember what it was like to work with other people other than him, what it’s like to capture the soul of a human being through a split second. But his mind is still standing where you left him, trying to digest your words to the tune of shutter sounds and someone else’s voice.

All throughout the shoot, he wants to puke, wants to unclog the memories that won’t drain and be forgotten. But they keep playing—over and over and over—and refuse to stop. He talks to Vante in a daze, but he’s unable to wake up from the voice that he hears over and over again—you’ll find that spark again, Yoongi. I believe in you—until your voice cuts through the fog.

“Wait!” he grabs your wrist, and quickly lets go when you turn back, eyes wide. “Wait. i-uhm-have an exhibition and I was wondering if you would be interested. In being the subject.”

“I’m flattered, but-” you pause and bit your lip, eyebrows furrowed, and there’s that feeling again, the click of a puzzle piece falling into place: everything feels all too familiar and foreign at once, like a dream he knew long ago, a photograph he’s taken and forgotten about. Jamais vu and deja vu all at once.

It’s stupid, he knows. But there’s something about you that he doesn’t know how to let go. He’s not sure he’s ready to let go.

“What’s your exhibit on?”

“Love.” He takes a sharp breath in. The word feels a sucker punch to the gut, like touching a wound that hasn’t healed. “What it means to fall in love.”

He knows his face gives away more than he wants to, but you don’t press him for answers. You continue to smile and ask him other questions about his photography instead, but something about the way you pretend like everything is fine reminds him of him, and everything hurts more. He answers the questions, tries to see you instead of his outline over yours, but still sees him in the way your eyes smile, in the sharp raise of your brows, and the quick way you navigate his defenses and gives him his space.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for an exhibit.”

“I don’t think we ever know if we’re ready for anything,” you smile, and he feels nauseous again, like something is trying to crawl out of him. He hears the voices in his head crash over him like a wave, drowning out the sounds of everything and everyone else.

How do you know you’re ready? He hears his voice wobble from the weight of his sorrow, quiver from the pressure of composure. He can’t meet his eyes.

“I don’t think we’re ever ready for anything, Yoongi. But we don’t know until we try.”

“But we do it anyway. Because we never know until we try, right?”

“Right,” he repeats soullessly. (He wasn’t ready then. He doesn’t know if he’s ready now. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to move on.)

“So I’ll do it.”

Yoongi snaps out of his reverie at your words, blinks away the fog. “Pardon?”

“I’ll do it. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do this,” you purse your lips. “I do have a favour to ask though.”

“What is it?”

The smile that spreads over your face, slow and cheshire, makes him grip his camera tighter. “How do you feel about going to a party?”

[Are You In Love.JPEG]

[alt image. Nighttime. A girl in a white dress on a rooftop with skyscrapers behind her. Her hair is blown back by the wind. Although her face is mostly turned away from the camera, there’s a hint of a smile on her face. Her eyes are closed as she spins around, dress billowing around her. The ends of the dress are unseen because the photograph cuts off at what would be her knees to show the cityline behind her. The skyscrapers are out of focus, blurry, so the girl is highlighted. Despite the lights in the background and the moon in the corner, she is the brightest piece in the photograph.]

Yoongi has never been a fan of parties or crowds. He doesn’t like the rush of people, of bodies pressed against each other as they slide across the floor; he hates how the lights are too dim and too bright. It’s too loud, bass amplifying his insecurities and dampening his social skills.

Even at this gala, stuffed with people with important positions and famous titles, where the music is moderately loud and the tables are posh with red velvet tablecloths, Yoongi feels out of place. His glass flute feels awkward in his hand, tie a little too tight no matter how much he pulls it down. He knows he doesn’t belong here (or there or anywhere. It was always him who belonged and Yoongi who followed): security had stopped him before he entered telling him “paparazzi not allowed,” and gave him a once over when he fished out the invitation from his pocket, hesitantly letting him enter the venue and side-eyeing him the entire time. Minutes tick by, and there’s only so many hors d'oeuvres s he can devour, so he pulls out his phone to send you a text of rushed excuses (i have food poisoning. My pipes burst. My car broke down?) and hasty apologies. Just as he manages to get halfway to the exit, squeezing in between crowds, he sees you.

A smile dawns over your face, and all his insecurities melt into the background. “I’ve been looking all over for you”

He points towards the buffet at the back. “They have good crab puffs.”

You laugh at that, and he feels his cheeks stretch into a smile. The silence that hangs over the two of you now feels comfortable, like the world is dimming down to highlight you both, and Yoongi takes the moment to watch your eyes sparkle under the crystal chandeliers twinkling above you. You look at him, quirk an eyebrow and nod towards the exit. “Want to get out of here?”

“Yes please.”

You grab his hand, lace your fingers with his, and pull him up the stairs to the roof, letting go to run to the edge. He feels where your palm was in his, the loss of your warmth, and wants to reach back out to you.

“How pretty.” The wind is cold, sinking teeth through skin and tearing through hair, but you cross your arms and fight back, planted firmly where you are to look at the view beneath you: small glimpses at people living their lives.

Yoongi can’t take his eyes off of you. “Yeah. Pretty.”

“I like coming to the rooftops at parties. Sometimes, when the world is too loud and too much, I go up to the rooftop and I just stand here. ” your teeth chatter, and Yoongi rushes to take off his coat and drape it over your shoulders. Your fingers brush against his and something about you, he realises, feels like a fever dream: hot, hazy, and electric, even in the bitter chill of the winter winds. “I come up to the rooftop and I just look at people living their lives and wonder what I would be doing if I wasn’t here.”

Something about the way you look, empty and hollow, carves a hole in Yoongi’s chest. His fingers itch to reach for the shutter, bring it back to his eye and catch you in his view, but he fiddles with the camera strap around his neck instead. “What does it feel like? Being at the top?”

What does it feel like? To be at the top? Yoongi writes and deletes over and over and over again.

Your laughter sounds as bitter as the wind, but your smile is still fixed in place when you turn your body to meet his. “Like a rollercoaster. Only it’s going backwards as it goes up, so I can see the floor, see the bottom. I am always aware of how far I have to fall. I see the damage before it’s done, so I am always anticipating the drop.”

Your shoulders sag, his jacket slipping down, and Yoongi, for a moment, thinks he sees stars glimmering in your eyes, catching the light of the city and threatening to fall. But when he blinks, all traces of it are gone and you’re back to the girl in the ballroom, smile shy and coy and knowing.

“So what about you, photographer? What does it feel like to be in love?”

His brows furrow and there’s a flush of heat blooming on his cheeks. His heart beats a little faster, staccato against his ribcage, like it’s trying to outrun the shame of being discovered. He’s not sure how you know, so all he can do is stutter. “I don’t-I mean-”

You raise your eyebrow, quirk your head to the side. “Isn’t that your exhibit theme? Explorations of love?”

“Oh,” before he can stop it, a film strip of memories starts playing through his head, snapshots of a relationship shelved in the back of his closet. It’s a slow slide show that sticks to his throat with every image, printed and smudged into the corners of his thoughts. He feels the corset of his ribcage tighten until he’s breathless, so he looks everywhere. Everywhere but you. “I don’t really know what love is supposed to feel like anymore.”

When your hand gently presses against his chest, Yoongi’s eyes widen, feet gently fumbling backwards from the chill of your fingers. “Does it hurt here?”

“What?”

“Are you heartbroken?”

The words fall off your lips casually, like you were asking him how he took his coffee (no sugar, no cream) or how he liked his steak, and not plunging into his insecurities the way the cold of your fingers sink into his skin. The two of you blink in silence as Yoongi struggles to find the words. Everything feels wrong, his tongue twisting and falling to form the correct sounds—

“Stop thinking about it. Feel it here.” you press a little harder against his chest, “Are you heartbroken?”

(Empty coffee cups, songs unfinished, laughter in the walls that he’s unable to scrub off. Yoongi remembers all of it.)

“Yeah.” it’s quiet, his voice stuck in his chest, but he sees the corners of your eyes soften and knows you hear his honesty over the howling wind. “I am.”

You retract your hand and hug his coat a little closer. “I don’t think there’s just one form of love, just as I don’t think there’s just one way to love someone. We love differently, and we love different people differently. Heartbrokenness is just another form of love. Just because they’re not there doesn’t change the way you love them or the fact that you love them. It just means all the love you have to give is still sitting here,” you bring your hand back to his chest, cover his heartbeat, “with no place to go. Isn’t that love?”

Isn’t that love? Seokjin asks him, sitting in the corner of Yoongi’s room. The sun casts a golden glow over his skin, kisses his dimples, and Yoongi swears Seokjin has always been more ethereal than mortal. “You take photos and bring me food when I forget to leave my desk because that’s what you know how to do. I write you songs and love letters because that’s what I know how to do. We say I love you in different ways, but does that make it any less love?

“I guess it doesn’t make it any less love.”

You look his way and laugh, brilliant and dazzling and beautiful, and nothing in the sky can compare: not the moon, nor the comets, nor the galaxies. You laugh, and Yoongi hears the sky crumble into a thousand shooting stars. He fumbles with the settings, his heart rattling in his chest like the camera in his hands, but for the first time, the image through the lens doesn’t do the sight in front of him justice.

But he tries anyway. He presses down on the shutter and tries to stuff your laughter into a freeze frame, even though he knows it won’t compare.

It could never.

[____Struck.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A girl sits with her chin over her knees next to a floor length window as a rainstorm blurs the background into hazy lights. The lighting is dark, but there’s a flash of lightning outside as it lights up the girl’s face. She stares outside her window, at the sky, deep in contemplation.]

Yoongi finds that Seoul sparkles when you’re next to him. Even the bitter winter winds that blow through his parka can’t steal the warmth of your hand in his when the two of you walk through the streets. The two of you start to spend more time together, getting food and eating in your apartment and taking pictures of nature. You’ll have glasses and a cap and a mask on, and there’ll be more of you he can’t see than he can, and still he finds you to be the brightest star in the night sky. But he likes you best like this: dressed with a smile and his t-shirt, face free of the traces of your day, in bed with him. He’s not sure when he’s found himself to be at home in your place, but he finds himself there instead of his studio apartment. Outside the window of your penthouse apartment, he can see the Seoul skyline and skyscrapers: if he looks down, he can see smudges of people walking through the streets, living about their daily lives.

Sometimes, he’ll wake up in the middle of the night to find you sitting on the floor, against the floor length window, looking at the world below you.

“Come back to bed,” he’ll murmur, sleep still fogging his vision, and you’ll smile, set your tea on the nightstand, and wrap your arms around him as he pulls you closer to him until the andante of your heartbeats lull him to sleep.

Tonight, however, your head is leaned up against the glass, watching as the rain pours down, and there’s something about the moment that makes Yoongi reach for the camera to take a quick shot. He knows the lighting is off and the shadows are dark, but something about the way you’ve tucked your knees under your chin and folded in on yourself makes you seem so small, so different from the girl he sees on the billboards and magazine covers and television shows.

You turn around when the flash goes off. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

“The thunder,” he explains, just as another flash of light strikes through the sky. You hum, but don’t move towards him: this time, you look back out the window. He’s tempted to wait for the lightning to strike again so he could have the shot of your face illuminated in light, but the image through his viewfinder looks so different from what he’s used to, so he takes the camera with him and sits down across from you. He leans his face against the cool of the glass.

“Hey,” you smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. He sees the shadows under your eyes, the build up from over night shoots, and it tugs his heart. There’s something beautiful about you like this, in the normalcy.

“Hey,” the two of you sit in the silence for a minute. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Another flash of lightning, then a roll of thunder. “Just thinking about how many people are out there, just living their lives. I wonder if they all know me, if they have an opinion of me, if they’ve seen me act. I wonder who I am to them, if I am anybody at all.”

“What do you mean?”

You pull your fingers away from the glass, but don’t look at him. “I feel as though I am always playing a character. So, I wonder what character they know me as. If they would be interested in knowing who I am.”

His hand reaches out to yours, and he moves his body closer to yours, until your knees are knocking against his and your legs are entwined. “I’m interested.”

Another flash. You smile, but it fades as quickly as the lightning does. “What about you? Anything on your mind? You seemed pretty distracted earlier.”

It’s Yoongi’s turn to not meet your eyes. There’s a slew of umbrellas below, a bunch of colourful blobs against the pavement. (Seokjin liked the rain. Do you like the rain? He’s not sure.)

“It’s nothing.” He can’t meet your eyes.

“Is it hard to let them go? The one who broke your heart?”

Yoongi hears the way your voice softens, the way it carries through the room gently, the same way you asked him if he was heartbroken up on the roof weeks ago. You’re always a little more perceptive then he gives you credit for, a little too good at reading in between the lines. He lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yeah he is. I still think about him sometimes. Sometimes, I still hear his voice in my head.”

He feels your gaze on him, but neither of you say anything for a while.

He knows you have a busy day tomorrow, jam packed with schedules and meetings and shoots and bits of sleep in between. (Not that your days are ever not busy. You’re always running from here to there, a blur of motion in the screenshots of his memories.) But the two of you just look out the window, at the storm that refuses to quell, and listen to the rain fall.

He wakes up next to the lingering warmth of your body heat, your shampoo still clinging to the pillows and sheets. There’s not much to do today, so he takes his time getting ready to go back to his apartment and edit. Just as he’s putting his toothbrush into your toothbrush holder, his phone starts to vibrate.

Before he’s even said hello, Hoseok’s voice cuts through the phone. “How’s your exhibit coming along?”

“Good morning, Hoseok. How was your sleep? Mine was lovely, thank you for asking.”

There’s a sigh that comes through the phone. “I slept great. So how’s your exhibit?”

“It’s coming along.”

“Word on the street is that you’re getting close to Y/N.”

He catches a look at himself from the entrance mirror and is glad Hoseok can’t see him right now. There’s a small constellation on the dip of his collarbone from a couple nights ago. “We’re working together on the exhibit, yeah.”

“Yoongi, I’m serious. I’m glad that you’re editing and taking photos; I really am. I just think—if you are more than just coworkers—you should take it slow. You remember what happened last time-”

“It’s not like that this time Hoseok.”

“I know. But it’s happened before. You always fall too hard, too fast and then you don’t know how to dig yourself out of the hole when it’s over. “

Yoongi gently shuts the door behind him, shoves his free hand into his coat pocket. “When do I need to send you the pictures?”

Another sigh. This one is heavier than the other. “Next Friday.”

“Alright. I’ll see you then.”

“Just take care of yourself, Yoongi.”

“I know,” there’s a hum from the other end before he presses end call. “Trust me, I know.”

[Love Looks Pretty On You.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A girl turning around to smile at the camera as she holds the hand of the photographer. There’s a lens flare at the upper left corner of the picture. She glows as she smiles, sunlight hitting her cheekbones. The picture is a bust shot, and though the girl is in the centre of frame, she is slightly out of focus: the photo is mainly focused on the interlocked hands due to the depth of field.]

It’s strange how in love you are with the mundane. You like coffeeshop dates, holding hands in public, and the ability to walk down the streets without covering up your face, things Yoongi has never thought twice about. He prefers time spent in doors, tucked away with food and natural lighting. But you prefer the outdoors, the sun on your face, even if it isn’t the great outdoors. No, you like pavement and parks and everything in between if it means you don’t have to cover up.

“I’ve never really had that,” you told him once, mouth stuffed with street food. “I’ve always been conscious of the way people look at me, how they’re going to view me, and the eyes. I’m always aware of people’s eyes on me. Growing up in the spotlight, working in this industry for so long meant I don’t get to have the normal things in life.”

So he tries to take you out more, though more often than not, it ends with the two of you running away from shadows and bright lights. More often than not, the two of you find your way to his or your apartment, tucked away from the eyes of everyone else with take out spread across the floor. He dreads the moment you pull your hands away from him, when the hands on the clock move too quickly for his taste. Tonight, however, he has you all to himself.

So, he takes his time: delicately arranges the bouquet of purple across your chest and up your thighs, gently plucks your moans from your lips, and plants kisses on the field of your shoulder blades when the bloom of pleasure becomes too much.

Your chest gently rises and falls under the white sheet, while his heart rapidly flutters inside his ribcage. Before he knows it, his fingers are on camera, trying to immortalise the moment before time takes it away from him too.

When the shutter goes off, you bring your hand to his, pull his body to yours, and nuzzle your face in his shoulder. “So.”

“So?”

“Exhibition soon. Have you figured it out?” You pull back and trace your finger along the constellation you drew on to his chest. “What it feels like to fall in love?”

He’s not sure. It feels fast: time seems to slip through his fingers when he’s with you. It feels slow: every moment is a picture frame, a freeze frame of a small infinity. It feels quiet: neither of you are loud, reveling in the silence and the quiet, sharing the same breath. It feels loud: you smile and he hears the sirens go off, ringing his mind until it’s drowned out by the pounding in his chest. I don’t know. It just feels different with you, he wants to say, but it sounds stupid in his head. It’s similar to how he felt like with Seokjin, but brighter, a saturation of colours and experiences.

“Feels like you,” he tugs you closer.

His brows furrow when you reach away from him, and he tries to pull you back: he reaches for your hand, but you slip away from him with a small smile. “Tea. I’ll be back.”

He hears the pitter patter of your footsteps as you walk into the hallway, and he waits for you to come back. He waits and waits, until his eyelids grow too heavy.

When he blinks again, the light is shining through your curtains. The blanket is tucked under his chin, but the bed is empty. He rolls over, but it’s cold.

The pillow doesn’t smell like you.

[Apparition.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A picture of someone’s eyes. The eyes are staring directly into the lens. One eye is lighter than the other, due to the angle of the sunlight. Although they are in the center of frame, the face is turned slightly to the side, as though they turned around for this picture.]

It gets harder and harder to meet you through the interstices of your schedule: you text him less and less, and he finds himself trying to find every possible reason to see you.

Did you eat?

Are you free anytime soon?

I miss you.

Every short text finds an even shorter response, crammed between short breaks. He spends more time fiddling with his phone, shooting up at the glow of his screen, than he does with his camera. His camera sits on his nightstand, untouched for the past few days: every time he tries to take a picture, all he can see is you. You laughing at dumb cat videos he sends you. You squealing in delight as the unpredictable Seoul weather brings rainfall. You leaning your head against the glass, lost in thought.

He sees you in unfinished pizza boxes and unfinished netflix shows and half empty mugs strewn around. He finds you in everything. So when you show up at his doorstep, pizza box in hand and hat over your head, he almost dismisses you as an apparition.

You stick your foot in his doorway to stop him from shutting the door. “You’re not kicking me out so soon? Not when I brought pizza?”

He takes the pizza box from you, still a little unsure if you’re real, but then you call his name.

“Hi Yoongi,” you smile, and it’s so much prettier than he remembers. He knows you’ve had a long day—eyes glazed, shoulders drooping, smile falling—and something about the way you’re trying to hold your smile makes a corner of his chest squeeze tighter, until it hurts to breathe. He’s not sure what to say, not sure how to move past the breathlessness, so the two of you wordlessly chew on your pizzas.

When the tension grows thick, the silence hard to breathe through, the clump of feelings in the pit of his stomach feels harder to hold on to, so he blurts out, “I love you.”

His confession rings through the room, echoes in the silence, and crashes against your chest. Though neither of you say anything, he continues to hear the ripples in his head, his voice repeating over and over again. You don’t look at him, and his leg won’t stop bouncing, his hands won’t stop fidgeting with the camera settings.

“I love you,” he says once more, just in case you didn’t hear it. He hopes your silence is because you didn’t hear it the first time. He knows better, from the way you bite your lip (your nervous habit) to the way you shrink into yourself (another tick he’s noticed).

“I should leave. I have an early shoot tomorrow.” you stand. The smile plastered on your face makes him want to hurl, too reminiscent of your first meeting when you held him at an arm’s distance. When Seokjin held him at an arm’s distance, right before he told Yoongi I don’t think I’m the person you’re in love with. I don’t think this is going to work out. When Seokjin smiled and told him I’m sorry but wasn’t sorry enough to answer the phone when Yoongi’s heart was bloody and broken and drenched in alcohol.

“But I love you,” it’s quiet and hoarse this time, and Yoongi doesn’t know if you can hear it over the sound of his heart breaking, but you turn around. The smile on your face—brilliant and dazzling and empty—burns something in him, the hollowness of his chest suddenly swelling with rage.“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“That,” Yoongi motions to you, brows furrowed and anger coating his tongue. “Stop looking at me like I'm a screenplay and a set, like you’re trying to read me and understand what I want. I don’t want anything from you.”

“That’s ridiculous. Everyone wants something.”

“Fine. I want you to be you. not what looks best on screen, not what you think I want you to be. But you. I want you to be you.”

“What’s that supposed to be like? Being me?” the anger lacing your voice, the way your smile drops quickly off your face, makes Yoongi’s anger fizzle out into a cold chill. “You don’t realise how biased the camera is, how you’re seeing the picture the way you want to, the way you want to frame things? Tell me you look at me and you don’t see what could be changed. that you don’t see how you would adjust the exposure, how to narrow or widen the depth of field.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, mouth glued shut and sticking together with shame. There’s a heat licking up his neck to his cheeks that burns through his skin and into his chest that only grows hotter when you continue.

“My job is to give people what they want, squeeze myself into a character and a script. Become a fantasy they can project on. I’ve spent my entire life being different people and fitting myself into the role they want me to play. I don't exist, Yoongi. I only exist between action and cut. I am constantly in some form of a take. I am constantly shooting different movies for different people, being the different characters they want me to be. You want something from me too, Yoongi. Don’t you get it?”

He forces himself to look up at you.

“Did you like me for me, Yoongi?” You tilt your head, eyes tired. “Or did you like me because something about me reminded you of your ex?”

Yoongi recoils, hurt spilling out of his veins. He opens and closes his mouth, but nothing falls out. Instead, it’s another roll of memories that plays through his head.

I think we should break up, Seokjin tells him and Yoongi drops his fork. When you look at me, it feels like you’re seeing someone else, a version of me that exists only in your head.

Who are you seeing when you take a picture, Yoongi?

Who am I to you?

What do you see through the lenses?

When you smile this time, it’s more of a grimace, like his silence gives you an answer. Your eyes fall to the floor, shoulders trembling as you laugh humorlessly, and you start to leave.

Yoongi tries to say something—anything, the correct thing—and frantically pulls at his brain. “But I love you.”

That makes you stop. You stay at the doorstep, hand gripping the doorknob, but don’t turn to face him. He waits for you to say something, anything, for you to turn around. But you don’t.

You open the door and close it behind you, never looking back.

He’s alone again.

[Blank.JPEG]

[alt.image: A black square. Darkness. The absence of light. The shade of broken heart. Is it nothing or everything? Is it too much or too little?]

Everything about you is intentional, from the tilt in your head (precise and exact, calculated) to the gleam in your eyes. The way your lips curl as you smile.

He wonders if his broken heart was also something written into the script, if he was playing the role of a character he never signed up for, if his broken heart was something you calculated from the very start, just like the angle of your head tilts and degrees of your smile.

His camera suddenly feels all too heavy, too fragile, and too much like his heart. If he wasn’t a photographer, would he have met you? In another world, would he have seen you through the view of his camera, just a subject and nothing else? No coffee dates and rooftop talks, no heartbreaks? He grips his camera tighter, and a flare of anger rushes through him, filtering every other thought and piercing through his vision. When he blinks and the lights settle, there’s a dull sense of pain near his foot and a dent in the wall.

There’s shards of broken lenses on the floor, but he shuffles back to bed, sob clawing at his throat.

Maybe you were like a film camera, brilliant and beautiful at first glance. Until the film is dipped into chemistry and developed and the errors are hung out to dry.

So why does it hurt so much?

There’s a loud bzzt bzzt coming from the side of his bed as sleep clings to his eyelashes and glues his eyes shut, exhaustion still running through his veins. His fingers fumble, groping in the darkness, for the source of the noise until his fingers clasp around his phone and silence it. He rubs his face in his pillow and lets himself settle in again, sleep creeping back when—bzzt, bzzt—there’s another round of vibrations from his phone. Yoongi knows he turned on the do not disturb mode, so he doesn’t contemplate answering when his fingers make contact with his phone, pressing the side button to shut it off.

He shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn’t call his name. Neither does Hoseok.

Instead Hoseok gently shuts the door after slipping off his shoes at the entrance. He makes his way over towards the bed, and Yoongi pulls the covers over his head. He waits for the tug, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a gentle dip to the side of him when Hoseok takes a seat, silent.

They sit like that for a while, Yoongi gently breathing—up and down, up and down—with a chest that feels broken and a heart that rattles inside his ribcage. He still feels the hum of alcohol in his system, sloshing in his lungs as they rise and fall.

“I’m sorry, Yoongi,” Hoseok’s voice vibrates through the silence. “I’m sorry you were hurt. But you can’t keep yourself holed up.”

Yoongi shifts under the blankets, but doesn’t say anything. He wonders if sleep would drag him under if he pretended long enough. His head is throbbing, and he wants another drink, but he knows Hoseok won’t let him while he’s still here. He knows because the last time he was heartbroken, he shut himself inside his apartment for two months until he was more alcohol than water. He stopped going out, stopped answering phone calls, stopped taking pictures because everything reminded him of Seokjin.

Now that his camera is broken, he can’t be reminded of you. He drinks up until he can forget, until the film of memories is damaged, so he can fall asleep. When he wakes up and he remembers you still, he drinks up again to forget, shot after shot after shot. He doesn’t want to remember.

“I called RKive. Told them you weren’t doing it.”

“Okay,” he whispers. Yoongi’s so tired and his head hurts, and he just wants to get this over with as quickly as he can so Hoseok can leave and Yoongi can pour out his sorrows into a shot glass that never seems to run dry.

I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do this.

He wishes he could stop hearing your voice in his head, stop seeing you in every corner of his room, stop smelling your perfume on his sheets. He just wants to go to sleep, dream in black. Stop remembering you.

“I’m sorry, Yoongi.”

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Are you heartbroken?

“Yeah,” the tears fall and his shoulders shake when he sobs. “Yeah, I think I’m heartbroken.”

“Oh Yoongi,” Hoseok hugs him close, and Yoongi lets out the wail that’s been stuck in his chest the past week. For the first time, he wants to let go instead of take in, so he weeps into Hoseok’s chest, until his throat is dry from the sounds it’s making. His body trembles from the stuttering in his chest and the remnants of his sobs.

“I just want to stop hurting,” he hiccups into Hoseok’s shoulder as Hoseok gently pats him on the back.

“I know. I know.”

“How do I stop hurting?”

Hoseok gently peels himself away from Yoongi until he’s looking at him directly in the eyes. “You have to learn to find closure. Whether that’s talking to her, making art, or just going about your routines until it doesn’t hurt anymore. You have to try.”

“What if I’m not ready to move on?”

I don’t think we’re ever ready. But we do it anyway. Because we never know until we try, right?

“Moving on isn’t a step; it’s a goal, Yoongi,” Hoseok squeezes his hands. “You can work towards it. But it’s a conscious choice we make and conscious steps we take. And when you make those steps, it gets easier to breathe and visit places you used to. And one day, you’ll look around and realise that you’ve done it. Maybe not completely, but enough. But you can’t just hole yourself up in your apartment or flee the country. You have to try.”

Hoseok’s eyes are soft when Yoongi looks at him, and Yoongi understands that he’s never allowed himself to move on from Seokjin, just slapped a bandaid over his wound and pretended it didn’t exist. When he met you, he used you as a gauze to staunch the injury and called it healing. He didn’t notice that he bled all over you, didn’t see that you were bleeding over the red of his blood on your wounds. You were trying to tell him you were hurting, and he was too fixated on how similar you were to Seokjin, how he found love again, to hear.

“Hoseok,” Yoongi reaches out for his arm, squeezes his hand. “I want to do it.”

“Do what?”

“The exhibit,” his voice is muffled under his insecurities, but he wants this. “I want to do it.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he lies. “I think I need to do it. For me. To move on.” He’s not sure if he’s ready; he doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready. So he takes the step anyways.

Yoongi knows Hoseok is thrilled: he hasn’t stopped smiling since before the exhibition, when there was a crowd of people outside waiting to enter the exhibition, and even before that, when Yoongi was collecting the photos and taking more. Yoongi’s worked tirelessly through the nights to meet the Valentine’s Day exhibit deadline, but now that he’s here, he’s a little proud of himself.

He should find Hoseok, tell him thank you. He should also talk to Namjoon, the owner, and congratulate Jimin, Namjoon’s assistant, on a successful exhibition. He should talk to Jeongguk, the painter, about the rose installation piece that’s at the centre of the gallery. He should talk to Vante about the giant photograph of a bird’s eye view of Seoul. He should, but he’s looking for you.

You were the only guest he wanted to invite, even when Hoseok raised an eyebrow at him and asked him if he really wanted to do this. (He did. He texted you over the course of two weeks and deleted each message before it was sent. In the end, he sent you his heart the old fashioned way, with stamps and an envelope, and sealed it with the hope that you’ll receive it in time.) He doesn’t think you’ll come, so he tampers down the anticipation, tries to not look for your laughter or hear the way your eyes form crescents when you smile too hard. Despite the invitation, he doesn’t know if he’s ready to see you again, so he tries to keep himself busy and talk to the visitors about the pictures. He tries to not think about you.

But it’s hard when you’re all he has up for his exhibit, when your face is at every corner. When you’re all he’s been able to think about.

And as it slowly starts to get closer to the close, he tries to not be disappointed. He puts on a smile and asks Jeongguk about the sun and moon holding hands, discusses lighting techniques with Vante, and manages to make Jimin beam with pride when he compliments him about how nice the exhibit set up is.

When the clock strikes 5, Yoongi packs up his camera and tucks it into his bag with his disappointment and begins to head out.

“Take care, Jimin.”

“Bye, Yoongi!” Jimin chirps. “By the way! There’s a lady in front of your exhibit. I think she was captivated by it; she’s been standing there for the past half hour if you want to talk to her!”

A very familiar silhouette greets him.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

You don’t turn around to face him, just stand there looking up at the picture of you smiling at the camera with the covers pulled up to your chin. He hears the people in the background, the faint hum of murmurs and laughters, but you stand there, quiet and arms crossed. He takes a step towards you before shuffling back to his original spot, shifting his eyes to the portraits before him.

At first glance, you are the same girl in the portraits, but the longer he looks at the portraits, at you from the peripherals in his vision, the less the two of you look alike. The girl in the photographs is soft and bright and sunny, draped in warm light and colour corrections, saturated in happiness. The girl in front of him is worn down and exhausted, cloaked in disguises and fronts that she doesn’t have the strength to put on properly. “I remember this day, but I don’t remember it like that.” You nod towards the picture in front of you.

“What’s it like? In your memories?” he asks, and wants to take it back. There’s too many questions bubbling inside of him—Did you love me? Do you remember how I smiled when you did? What do your frames of memory look like? Do they look like mine, painted in a golden filter?—but he doesn’t know how to develop them into words. He’s not sure he wants to compare the photographs of your memories in the fear it’ll corrupt his.

You’re radio silent, so he stands there, shuffling his feet back and forth as his heart drops with each second. He understands what you meant, back at the rooftop, when you had said about riding a rollercoaster: he sees the answer to your question before you’ve spoken, sees the damage he’s caused through the lens of hindsight. Yet some part of him still wants to hear the words from you.

“I don’t remember a lot of it. I remember it was going well. And then I just remember the hurt. I remember realising you saw someone else when you looked at me, just like everyone else. How I wished I could take back everything from the beginning. I wished I could take back the first time I met you. What would it have been like if I had said no? Would it still hurt?”

“I’m sorry,” his hand reaches out for you automatically, too used to the warmth of your body and the lull of your heartbeat to alleviate the stiffness in his chest, but he pulls his hand back as he realises there is too much space between the two of you: he’s not sure if you want to shorten the distance, if you want him at all.

“Why did you say yes?” he asks instead of what he really wants to ask. “To this. To being the subject. You could have said no.”

“I could have.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because you seemed genuine.You looked like you were genuinely looking for a reason—for something, for anything, for purpose—and I liked that. I haven’t met a lot of people like that. Genuine. Earnest.” Your body turns to him, but your gaze is still brushing against the floor and clinging to your hands. “I think a part of me wanted, desperately, to be the source of your purpose. So I let myself believe that you genuinely wanted me for me.”

“I think I loved you.”

“I think the both of us were looking for someone to love,” the corners of your mouth wobble, a pale imitation of the blown up picture of your smile on the wall. “Maybe that’s why it didn’t work. Because we were blinded by our desperation.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. The way you look—so curled up in yourself and so vulnerable—slowly makes him realise there’s so much to you he wasn’t able to see. Were there more moments you tried to open up to him, only to have him turn a blind eye because he was still thinking about Seokjin?

“I wish I had met you later. Maybe in a different universe, you and I have a different story line, one where when you and I meet, I have learned to accept love and you have learned to accept heartbreak. Maybe we would have been ready for each other then.” Your smile wobbles, just as it did last time, and Yoongi’s heart wobbles too. When you start to walk away, he tastes the bitterness of his memories surfacing.

“Wait!” he reaches out and grabs your hand, squeezes it a little too tight. When you turn, eyes wide, it feels like a scene he’s seen somewhere before, a picture he used to know. “We could. We could start over. We could make that universe this one.”

“I don’t-I’m not following.”

He drops your hand and offers you his. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. My name is Yoongi.”

“Yoongi, I’m not-”

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you tentatively take his hand and shake it.

“It’s nice to meet you for the first time. This is my exhibit,” you smile, head tilted in confusion, but the light in your eyes is warm, so he keeps going,” and I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee?

You bite your lip, but don’t let his hand go. He tries to keep his smile on his face, but his heart is beating with the force of a supernova and he feels his nails cut through the skin of his anticipation. When you look down at his hand, he knows you can feel the tremors that run through it, the electricity of anxiety crackling through his veins, but he keeps his eyes on you and the way your eyes search his for clues, for cues and stage directions.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that,” you smile, and it feels like the first time he’s seeing you.

He’s not sure, this time, of the damage: he’s not sure he can anticipate the fall, the wreckage caused. Doesn’t know if he wants to.

It’s a brand new film strip. A new camera. A new storyline.

He’s never been more ready.

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