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marvelsswansong · 4 years

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Peach Lipgloss

Summary: He’s a sophmore at MIT who has hung up his superhero suit for university. She’s a well known killer with the power to seduce and manipulate anyone she pleases. Of course the universe would make them soulmates.

Words: 6.1K

Tags: soulmate au (soulmates can’t hurt each other), forbidden love (kinda), college!Peter, femmefatale!reader. Violence, heavy sexual themes, proceed with caution.

a/n: REPOST since first one didn’t show up in tags :( sorry to those who already read this 4 hours ago

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Massachusetts, USA

Quickly shoving his crinkled notes into his bag, Peter was the first person to be out of the classroom the moment Theoretical Physics was done and over with. Reaching for the zipper as he made his way out the marbled doors, he paused at the sight of the crumpled red and black fabric in his bag.

He didn’t know why he still carried his spiderman suit with him, considering the vow he’d made to pack it away along with his hero life the moment he arrived at MIT. But the lingering sense of danger and doubt never left him so he could never quite part with it, so he always kept the suit and extra shooters in a concealed compartment in his backpack.

He never knew when he’d need it, he reasoned.

Crossing the large green lawn, he breathed in the earthy air, staring up at the clear blue sky. Fall was starting to roll into the state of Massachusetts, the trees lining the sidewalk were orange and red, and the lawn of daffodils under the library building had begun to bloom. He greeted a group of people he recognized from his engineering class as he crossed over to the south-side of the campus, passing by a row of cluttered dorms. He checked his wristwatch- the one May had gifted him before he left for university- still 10 minutes left until class started.

He slipped into the empty classroom and sat on the first row of chairs when his cellphone started ringing. Peter frowned, his mind failing to think of who would need to speak to him during school hours. He unlocked it to see Tony’s name appear on the screen, a sight only reserved for emergencies.

“We’ll only call you if we can’t do it without you.” his mentor had said, the day before Peter had left for MIT.

“Hello?” Peter answered quietly, as a few students began to fill into the room.

“How quickly can you come to Santorini?”

Tony sounded exhausted on the other side of the phone. Peter nervously chewed on his lip, not liking where this conversation was going.

“With all due respect, Mr.Stark, I can’t just drop everything right now and fly to Greece. I have-”

“Nuclear Science and Engineering right now, I know. I also know you have finals in a month but that’s nothing I can’t call in a favour for. I happen to be good friends with the Dean and the Provost of MIT.”

More people began filling the room as the professor walked in, forcing Peter to cover his phone with his hand and whisper, turning away from the crowd.

“I get that, but, I’m taking a break from the whole hero business. I want to focus on university and having a life without risking it every few days, you know?”

“And I agree that you should have all those things. Come on, Peter. I haven’t called you for a mission for the first year and a half of your university. I meant what I said when I told you we’d only call you if we literally couldn’t do it without you. I’m begging you, kid.”

Peter could imagine Tony pinching the bridge of his nose, pacing around the room in frustration while trying to convince Peter. He was reluctant, but the desperation in Tony’s voice didn’t go unnoticed and his hands were moving faster than his brain. Packing his things back up, he quietly exited the classroom and sighed into the phone.

“Okay, I’ll come.”

“Great. Don’t worry about your classes or your exams, I’ll make sure it’s handled. Pack enough for two weeks. I’m sending you a private jet to your nearest airport in two hours. See you then.”

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

Santorini, Greece

Peter felt like he was melting under the hot Grecian sun, the sticky humid air mixing with the ocean breeze blowing in from the southwest. He adjusted his sunglasses, the sweat causing it to slide down the bridge of his nose repeatedly, his skin smelling of an odd combination of aftershave and sunscreen. It felt strange, to say the least, to go from spending months in grey sweatpants and thick burgundy hoodies in the freezing cold weather of Cambridge to now being dressed down in a red Hawaii shirt and grey khakis in the sunny island of Santorini.

“You okay, Peter?” Steve called out from behind him, wearing a not so obvious disguise of a baseball cap paired with white rimmed sunglasses. That said, they needed to ‘blend in’, as Tony put in, and Peter had to admit- among the crowds, they just looked like a group of innocent American tourists. And not a band of superheroes, trying to catch a super-villain in her acts.

“I’m fine, just… thirsty.” he replied, swallowing thickly.

“I’ll get you some water.”

Steve told Peter to stay put and disappeared into a nearby path lined with shops, leaving the young boy in the middle of the cobblestone street. The rest of the team were scattered across the island in an attempt to catch her, an infamous killer with no name, no trace. Just a pretty face and a signature carving of a heart on her victim’s bodies. He’d gotten the information dump on the plane ride here, in which Maria drilled the information into his head.

“This is all the information we’ve gathered on her so far.” her tone was somber as she flicked over a thin manila folder to him, which he opened with a flick of his thumb before holding up the piece of paper.

“It’s one page.”

She bit her lip, frustrated.

“We’ve been unsuccessful in gathering much information about her. What we have on her is ambiguous at best, except a few things: she’s about 20, she’s a master seductress, able to seduce anyone into carrying out her commands. She kills her prey and carves a heart onto their bodies. And the only way to avoid her powers is to avoid looking into her eyes.”

“Is there even a photo of what she looks like?” he questioned, his curiosity piqued.

“A few we’ve managed to piece together from some security cameras.”

She tossed him a few pictures onto his lap, each varying in quality. From the set, however, he could make out that she had (h/c) hair, a light/dark/middle skin-tone, and was of a short/regular/tall stature. It looked like she was wearing a sparkly silver dress in the first photo, which was taken on the side of a street in Milan, then a pink checkered tank top and matching skirt in the second one, taken in Paris, and an over-sized black hoodie with black heels on a bridge in London.

The photos were either too dark or taken too far away to really catch her face, but just by looking at these photos he could tell- she was beautiful. Stunning, even. Even without powers he was sure she could seduce anyone she liked.

“Thing is, she always gets away right before we can catch her. SHIELD has been onto her for a while but no matter who we send, no matter how discreet, low level or which gender… they end up dead or return back dazed with no memory of what happened.”

Peter raised his eyebrow.

“Is that a part of it?”

Maria sighed..

“Depends. Sometimes she doesn’t kill the people she uses her powers on and the victims just end of having a dazed, hazy feeling for a few hours. They then have a hard time remembering what exactly happened, making our job infinitely harder.”

An uneasy silence filled the air, as Peter shifted in his seat. This sounded like the hardest mission yet.

“So why am I needed?”

“Your supernatural senses allow you to sense any immediate danger or harm nearby you, regardless of sight, right? So we’re hoping that you’re able to fight and capture her without ever being under her influence, by closing your eyes and relying on your ‘spidey senses’ instead. Do you still have your web shooters on you?”

He nodded.

“If you find her, web her to her surroundings, turn around so you’re not looking into her eyes, then call us over. She can’t influence all of us at once, so that’d give us an advantage and plenty of time to sedate her and bring her over.”

The web shooter concealed underneath his wrist watch was starting to itch, breaking the somewhat vacational bliss he was feeling from sitting on the edge of the white wall and watching the waves go by. Checking the time with a flick of his wrist, it dawned on him that Steve had disappeared to get him some water for a bit too long. Fifteen minutes to be exact.

What was going on?

He slipped into the alleyway where Steve disappeared, wandering straightforward rather aimlessly until he caught sight of the familiar blonde hair a few feet away. Except, his back was turned towards Peter as he lounged on a chair on the outskirts of a cafe, and he was talking to someone he didn’t recognize. Adrenaline kicked in, forcing Peter to duck behind a nearby corner before his eyes fell on the woman Steve was talking to.

It was her.

The woman in the photos.

And fuck, you were stunning. You weren’t wearing anything particularly fancy, just a white lacy sundress and pink pastel flats, but every crevice of the fabric clung to your skin glowing in the caramel sunlight, making the modest piece somehow sensual and teasing. Sitting with one leg crossed over the other he felt as if you were teasing any wandering gaze to land upon your skin, calling out with the same lull as a siren’s. Your lips were painted glossy pink and Peter realized that your eyes were glowing the same shade, a glittery candy floss pink that reflected in Steve’s previously blue orbs.

“So what brings you here, soldier?” you questioned, toying with the soldier.

Your voice dripped like sweet honey and wrapped around your surroundings like a vice.

“On a mission to bring you in.” Peter noted that Steve’s voice was suddenly robotic and eerily not like him.

You pursed your lips, crossing your arms.

“So SHIELD is still after me, huh? You know, even HYDRA was less insisting.”

Wrapping your hand around Steve’s arm, you brought him closer towards you as you felt the cold steel surface of your knife shift underneath your dress, the blade itching to dig into fresh skin.

“I should kill you, you know. You and the Avengers just keep on coming after me and I’m getting tired of playing around…” you drawled, quiet for no one else to hear you except for Peter with his superhero senses.

Peter could feel his heart pound in his chest, as Steve stood motionless while you took out the large sharp blade and started trailing it down Steve’s leg, hidden from plain sight, with not enough pressure to break the skin just yet. Peter quickly took out his phone and alerted Tony of his current location, as you paid for the meal and led Steve towards a dark alleyway, surely to dispose of the super soldier.

Tony’s reply was immediate.

‘Got it. Stay put. Don’t interfere unless you have to.’

Crouching back down, Peter quickly took off his backpack and changed into his suit, before slowly trailing behind you.

The flat side of the blade was now underneath Steve’s throat, right where it could slice through the jugular veins and kill him. His pink hooded eyes were still looking at you as you smiled, leaning in and leaving a soft kiss on his lips.

“Sad… you were one of my favorites.”

You raised your blade in the air, ready to slash his throat, when a flash of white passed by and knocked the blade out of your hand. Peter quickly ran out, one hand over his eyes and the other outstretched to pull Steve backwards and out of harm’s way.

“S-stay back.” he muttered, the lack of vision plus the adrenaline adding to his anxiety. Your eyes widened upon seeing the red and black hero standing in front of you, in Greece, of all places.

This was certainly an interesting development.

“Now why would I do that?” you asked, pulling a gun out of your thigh holster and aiming it towards him.

“Because the rest are coming.” he replied, thankful that is voice was no longer shaking.

Your eyes widened at the response before you pouted, trailing your bottom lip dangerously with your tongue.

“In that case… Captain-”

Steve stood right up straight at the sound of your voice, pushing Peter backwards.

“Take him out for me, would you?”

And before Peter could do or say anything, Steve swung his fist in his direction, forcing Peter to open his eyes and jump back. By the time he looked at where you were standing before you were gone, the realization sticking in his mind for a brief moment before Steve tried to knock him back down again.

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

Tokyo, Japan

A few days after the disaster in Santorini (Steve still wouldn’t look him in the eye after he snapped out of his violent trance three hours later when the effect wore off), the team had gotten word that she was spotted out and about in Japan. And that led Peter here, standing in the middle of a busy street crossing, surrounded by big flashing billboards and tall glass skyscrapers. He adjusted his light rimmed glasses- they had a tiny microscopic camera attached to the lens that could record everything- as he shoved through the busy crowd, the address written in the note inside his coat pocket replaying in his head.

After a few unsuccessful conversations with locals who were passing by, he was lucky enough to run into someone who spoke moderate English. She gave him an odd look when he handed over the piece of paper and she typed in the address onto her phone, but nonetheless pointed him in the right direction. He thanked her before walking east, the loud noise of scurrying feet and the whirring of cars driving by blocking his thoughts.

“Peter? Can you hear me?” Tony’s voice rang out through his earpiece, causing Peter to discreetly adjust it. After the not so successful attempt last time to capture her, the team had advised a new plan- Peter would go in alone without his suit but with just his web shooters, pretending to be just another patron at the club, and talk to her discreetly before trapping her with his web before the others could take her in.

He was just lucky his face was concealed the first time they met.

“Yes. I’m almost at the address you gave me. It’s a club, right?”

There was a momentary pause.

“Yeah, it’s a club. Point is, be careful. We’ll be watching your every move and we can hear everything that’s going on, so don’t worry.”

“I’ll be cautious.”

The building that matched the address was a modestly sized glass building with steel doors and a menacing looking bodyguard outside, who asked him for his ID in perfect English. After giving the man his school ID he was let inside where a skimpily clad woman asked him for his coat, the little blue bikini number leaving little to the imagination. His face felt hot and his throat tightened when he hastily took off his coat and gave it away to the woman, as the realization settled in.

He wasn’t in just any club.

He was in a stripclub.

Swallowing his embarrassment the best he could, he quietly went through the next set of glass doors, which led out to a dim hallway lit up by bright pink LED lights. A slew of men and a couple of women sat around the bar and near the light up stages, where several girls in tight dresses twirled around the pole set to a sensual song. It was hard to make out the faces under the dim blue lighting, so he opted to blend in by walking to the bar in the middle and ordering a drink. He tried to look anywhere but where the scantily clad women were and stared at a nearby TV screen instead, when a familiar voice interrupted his train of thought.

“Strawberry Daiquiri, please.”

You were facing straight forward, thus allowing Peter to catch a quick glance at you. You sensed a set of eyes on your figure and looked back, only to see Peter blushing and looking down at his lap to avert his gaze. Sliding over a few seats, you leaned against the bar table, the slit on your mini skirt exposing your upper thigh.

“It’s rude to stare, you know.” you commented slyly, drinking in the sight of him. He was younger than most of your prey- you preferred to go for men who were older than you- but he looked just as good as the others. Tousled brown curls, defined muscles flexing underneath his white polo shirt, a shy demeanor… He was adorable.

“S-sorry.” he murmured, still not looking into your eyes. You figured he was nervous and chuckled, taking a slow slip of your sugary drink.

“It’s alright… you’re not a part of this usual crowd, are you?”

“Good. Keep on talking to her to distract her. We’re on our way.” Tony spoke in Peter’s ear. He regained his confidence to look up for a brief moment to snatch his drink off the table, the strong taste of whiskey burning his throat.

“What makes you say that?” he asked quietly, swirling his drink with his straw. You leaned closer, the sweet draft of your vanilla and honeycomb lotion drifting over him as you smirked.

“Well, for starters, you’re not looking at any of the strippers here. And two, you’re not even looking at me.”

He needed an excuse, so he blurted out the first thing that came into his mind.

“Sorry, I just, uh, I have a hard time looking at pretty girls.”

You were caught off guard by that comment, and it showed for a brief moment on your face. You were used to men calling you a slew of names, but calling you pretty? In such a sincere way? While blushing? This was new. A new urge surged through your veins as you placed your hand on his lap, rubbing his thigh.

“Then what’d you say we go somewhere more private? Like the VIP Lounge? You can look at me all you want then.”

He nodded shyly and allowed you to drag him to the back area of the club, where you slipped a security guard five hundred dollars to let you pass the velvet rope with him behind you. There was no one else in sight, just the two of them and the soft cushiony sofa lining the walls. His throat felt dry as you pushed him down onto the seat, your body straddling his as you climbed onto his lap.

“So-”

A sharp ringing noise cried out in his ear, causing Peter to yelp in pain and rip out the earpiece in reflex. You quickly put two and two together before ripping off his glasses and grabbing his chin to force him to look at you, the brief moment of shock and confusion on his face enough time for you to put him under your trance. The tension left his body as his eyes turned pastel pink, allowing you to crawl off his lap and crush the earpiece under your heels. You did the same to the glasses, just for good measure, before taking out the wallet from his jeans.

You examined the cards inside, starting with the ID cards. Name: Peter Parker. Sophomore at MIT. A Stark Tower entry pass?

You scowled, tossing the wallet to the side. That probably meant they were on their way right now. Taking out a four inch blade from your bra, you decided you needed to send them a message. Pushing his head to the side, you were ready to slice his throat, the tip of your blade against his skin, and-

Nothing.

Your hand stayed frozen mid-air, your brain screaming at your body to carry on with the action but your body remained frozen. Bringing your hand back down, you tried again, this time a stab to the heart. But you physically couldn’t harm him, no matter the angle at which you tried.

“Fuck.”

Letting out a shaky breath, you dropped the blade in horror and stepped backwards, the realization settling in your gut. If you couldn’t kill him, that meant…

The thought horrified you to no end, the kind of immediate horror that made you want to throw up onto the floor, the previously loud pounding of the music drowned to the background as the walls began to close in on you. Blinking away your tears, you commanded Peter to stay sitting in his room before grabbing your coat and exiting the room, being able to find a nearby window that you could jump down from. Your feet met the ground as you wrapped the coat closer to your body, your heels clicked against the pavement as you quickly hired a cab back to your mansion.

This was bad.

So, so bad.

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

New York, USA

When Peter awoke from his trance he was lying down on a soft bed with a weighted blanket in what seemed like the hospital wing of Stark Tower, with streaks of sunlight streaming in through the gaps in the window. His memory felt foggy, the last thing he remembered was being terrified when the earpiece malfunctioned and your eyes turned bright pink with anger. His thoughts were interrupted when Bruce walked into the room, a soft smile on his face.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, handing over a glass of water. Peter accepted it, muttering a quiet thank you.

“Strange… What happened?”

The doctor sighed, biting his lower lip.

“We’re not sure. She crushed the glasses we gave you right after she found out you had an earpiece in, but when we entered the room, you were left unharmed, just sitting on the sofa.”

“Unharmed? I thought she liked to kill all her prey. Or at the very least, hurt them in some way.”

Bruce nodded, scribbling something onto his notepad.

“That’s the thing. We have no clue why you were the odd exception. Director Fury has been wracking his brain for the past seven hours trying to figure out why she spared you.”

A momentary silence passed by, as Peter looked up at the man with an unsure gaze.

“What now?” he asked, the thoughts of MIT and returning to Cambridge still in his mind.

“We’re going to try to monitor her route for a little longer and devise a new plan. I know Tony said you only needed two weeks off but Fury insists that you’re the key to capturing her and wants you to stay on for at least another week.”

Peter sighed, giving in.

“I guess that’s fine. I mean, what choice do I really have?”

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

Milan, Italy

It’d been a solid week since you last killed a man.

A whole seven days.

You were sure the Avengers were noticing your absence, trying to understand just why you’d spared one of their precious heroes and then went dark for a whole week afterwards. Just thinking back on that night made your stomach turn, the way adrenaline pumped through your veins as you were prepared to kill your soulmate.

For the first time in a while, you were disgusted with yourself. You had almost killed your soulmate, and in another universe where you could harm him, he would’ve been dead at your hands. It was getting harder and harder to remember why you’d started this life as you lounged in a private pool in Milan, the mansion overlooking a dark green forest.

It was in a dimly lit facility, a few hundred miles from here, that had turned you into this force of nature. Having lost your parents to a car accident at a young age, you were starved and anxious for any sort of money when you overheard that a scientist was offering hundreds of thousands of dollars to a woman who was willing to be his test subject. He was seductive, older, and richer. You fell for his promises and signed your life away at the age of 15.

Five months of torture later, you awoke to see that your eyes were glowing pink. When you made eye contact with a security guard nearby he wordlessly opened the prison door for you, and shot the scientist who experimented on you right on the spot. Grabbing the keys from the man’s lab coat, you pulled out the file filled with the names of the investors from all over the world who’d donated to help this man corrupt and abuse you.

And apparently, you weren’t his first test subject.

You grabbed his wallet on the way out and hopped into a car parked on the sidewalk of a gas station, and never looked back since then. You were young and scared, but hungry for revenge. You’d make sure those men would pay, and any other man who would try to take advantage of young girls, for that matter.

Killing was the only option.

Perhaps you’d lost your morality along the way, you reasoned. If you had any, in the first place. What started out as a semi-respectable revenge killing spree had somehow morphed into an exhilarating repeated cycle of seduction, murder and money. A disgusting sensation was settling in- perhaps guilt- as you huffed and threw away your sunglasses to the side.

No, you were doing the right thing. You knew the things that the Avengers believed above you- dangerous, homicidal, killer of innocent men. You laughed at that notion- as if most of your victims weren’t assholes in some ways, or didn’t treat you like an animal to be hunted down and ravaged. Sharpening your knife on the kitchen counter, you breathed in and out slowly, calming yourself down. This whole soulmate business was really messing with your head.

You needed a fresh new kill to settle your mind.

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

London, UK

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Tony asked Peter for what felt like the thousandth time of that night, anxiety gnawing in his gut. In reality, there wasn’t much left to be discussed- Fury had insisted Peter stay on this project till the moment of your capture, even though at this point Tony had had enough of keeping Peter away from his education and was actually fighting for Peter’s right to return to university. But Peter felt a sort of curiosity and a pull to you that he couldn’t explain, so he found himself insisting on going on this mission.

They’d been able to finally find a link amongst the men you would target- well, at least a somewhat common link. A large majority of them happened to be investors in an Italian company that specialized in biochemical engineering, and it so happened that a handful of them were meeting in an exclusive rooftop party in London- making the chances of your appearance higher than ever.

“Remember, this time, don’t even hesitate. The moment you see her, shoot the tranquilizer in her direction so we can subdue her.” Steve repeated, handing over the tranquilizer gun to him. Peter nodded, slipping it into the waistband of his pants so that it wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone nearby. “The rest of us will be in disguise around the party, right by your side, just in case anything goes wrong.”

“Sounds good.”

It was hard to keep the nerves off of his voice, when he himself felt on edge about the whole thing. There’d been countless of times, even before he was called in, when they were so close to capturing you. But you’d always managed to slip past their fingers at a moment’s notice, disappearing without a trance before popping up with a new victim on the other side of the world.

The party was in full swing when Peter strolled in, and his eyes immediately began to search for a woman of your stature. Gently pushing through the crowd of drunk dancers, he passed by the champagne bar when he saw someone who looked a lot like you from the back sitting by the balcony, chatting with another woman whom he did not recognize. Knowing it was too early to strike, Peter treated himself to a glass of wine, keeping one eye on you at all times. When the other woman got up to use the bathroom, Peter took out his gun from his waistband and positioned it perfectly, his finger on the trigger-

He couldn’t shoot.

He swore, checking to make sure the gun was fully loaded before trying again, but nothing.

Frustrated, he placed the glass aggressively on a nearby table and marched out onto the balcony, the gun still aimed at you. But no matter the mental gymnastics he put himself through, he just couldn’t fucking shoot.

“Peter?”

Your voice wrapped around him, soft and sweet, as Peter edged forward, the gun in his hand beginning to shake with all the effort he was putting into shooting. Then in his adrenaline clouded mind it finally clicked- the longing, the pull, the inability to harm you…

“Y-you’re my soulmate.” he stuttered, the last word hanging in the air. You looked away, not wanting to meet his eyes, as he stood motionless in his spot. He should be alerting the rest of the group. He should, at the very least, be tugging you into the party to be captured. But he can’t move, his feet stuck to the floor as the weight of gravity on his back seems to increase. He’s speechless as you lowly speak, your eyes fixated on the floor.

“Listen… you can’t hurt me, I can’t hurt you. Just let me go.”

“I can’t do that.” he says firmly, his consciousness slowly starting to seep back in.

She’s beautiful, he thinks, as she crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him, her doe eyes wet from the salty tears beginning to form.

“Why not? It’s not like we can even be together.”

He slowly walks over and places his hands on you, expecting you to push him away. But you don’t, gaze still on the floor and unmoving. He doesn’t quite know what to say, the emotions overwhelming but the words not able to move past his tongue.

“Are you here with the other Avengers?”

He nods, swallowing thickly.

“Then I should get going.” you respond, starting to pull up the hems of your dress. But he stops you, grabbing you wrist, and stopping you mid-way.

“W-wait. Don’t go.”

You laugh halfheartedly.

“Then go where?”

He waits for a moment, but then he drops the question.

“Do you trust me?” he decides to ask, pulling your chin upwards. “Please don’t use your powers on me, just tell me. Do you trust me?”

There’s a slight hesitation on your end but you nod.

“Then come with me to New York.”

That elicits a violent reaction from you as you push him off, your eyes wide with anger and shock.

“Are you fucking serious? You want me to turn myself in?” you yell, not caring about who hears you. He clenches his jaw at your response.

“All I’m saying is I want my soulmate to be with me, and safe.”

You let out a bitter laugh at that statement.

“With you? Peter, you don’t even know my real name. You don’t even know me, as a person. You’re an MIT educated superhero. I’m wanted in 72 countries and have killed men in the triple digits. Do you really think I’d be welcomed with open arms?”

His eyes darken at the mention of your death as he clenches his fist, his gaze unnerving.

“I won’t let them harm you.”

His stubbornness is infuriating.

“That’s the thing, Parker! You don’t get to decide whether or not I get harmed.”

“Why won’t you just trust me?” his tone is low but still soft as he marches towards you and grabs your wrist. You try to pull away but can’t, the sudden strength catching you off guard.

“Because apparently, you don’t care about me enough to see that it’s a fucking death sentence if I go back with you to New York-”

Your rant is cut off with a swift kiss to your lips, you can taste the underlying tones of his half-drunken cherry wine and your peach lipgloss mixing together. His teeth tug at your bottom lip as his hand grips your waist, shoving you against the marble column overlooking the balcony. All the anger and fear that’s been running through your mind the past few hours melts away and you swear he’s putting a trance on you, and not the other way around. When he finally pulls back, his gaze is determined and his lips are swollen, his calloused hand rubbing up against your soft skin.

“You’re wrong. I care. I care so fucking much about you that I don’t want you to run anymore. Aren’t you tired, angel? Of running. Of never being able to make allies. Of always being alone, never being able to settle down?”

You’re silent as he sighs, wishing he could read your mind.

“Angel-”

“(Y/n). My name is (Y/n).”

He softens at the mention of your name.

“(Y/n)... please, come with me.”

There’s a million different things you want to say, but all you can think about is that he smells like fresh laundry and lavender, and his skin is right against yours. You want to say yes.

“I need a night to think about it.” you mutter. To your surprise (and somewhat dismay) he wholeheartedly agrees, and pleads with you to allow him to follow you back to your house to spend the night. You can’t find the way to say “no” when he’s looking at you like that, the type of gaze that has you slammed against the wall of your bedroom an hour later with his jacket and cellphone tossed hazardously in the corner of your room.

“Is this okay?” he’s asking as he’s already pinning you down onto the mattress, layers being shedded faster than he’s speaking. You nod, bringing him back down for another kiss.

“One night to think about it, yeah?” he whispers against your lips, and the guilt starts settling in. But it’s replaced by a fire when his hands start wandering lower and you nod.

“Right. One night.”

Any sort of remorse or doubt you have dissipates into thin air, lost in ecstasy.

“Peter.”

After disabling his tracker and disappearing from any communications with the team for a whole 24 hours, Peter suddenly shows up back at Stark Tower, his eyes glazed over in a sickly pink hue as he stares down at Tony. It takes Sam dousing a cold bucket of water over Peter’s head to get him to snap out of his trance, his irises returning to their original hazel colour as he stands up straight, caught off guard by the sudden cold.

“Peter, you okay? Where were you?” Steve interrogates, concerned.

“I…” he tries to tell them, but his memory is a pleasant blank. He remembers arriving to the party and having a drink, but that’s about it.

“Did she hurt you?” Bruce asks, gently examining Peter’s head for any injuries.

“Who?”

They all look at him as if he’s crazy.

“You know? The killer? The one who seduces men with her eyes, the same person we’ve been trying to catch the past three weeks?”

Peter’s confusion just doubles and this elicits a quiet argument between the group, but one that Peter can’t force himself to listen to as he feels a strange sensation in his chest. There’s an odd ache in his chest that he can’t quite place, a type of dread that’s similar to the feeling of forgetting something important, but he can’t remember why. He shifts uncomfortably in his place before licking his lips as a reflex, tasting the remnants of last night.

His lips tasted sweet. Frowning, he dabs his lips with his finger, feeling the sticky residue.

Huh.

There’s something missing but he can’t find it in his mind, no matter how hard he’s forcing himself to think back.

All he tastes is peaches.

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

a/n: :( :( I KNOW I KNOW the ending isn’t happy but to me it felt like the best way to end it. Please take a few seconds to like/reblog/comment/inbox me if you enjoyed it! It’ll mean so much to me.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you #peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker one-shot #peter parker oneshot #spiderman x reader #avengers x reader #marvel reader insert #marvel x reader #marvel fanfiction #a repost since tumblr sucks at tags

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nagitoandkokichioneshots · 3 years

Note

OKAY HELLO OMG I HOPE YOU ARE TAKING REQUESTS !! i really like the way you write its super cool and i want you to keep going lolz anyways can i request a scenario where nagito, reader and hana are spending an afternoon together, the reader came home early from work which means that they can hang out, i think that would sound fun. i would love to see hana interact with her mom !!! okay so good luck

-Mod Mikan: Hello sweet nonnie! First of all, thank you for your kind words! I’m not very confident in my writing skills, but I still enjoy making X reader fanfics with my fictional crushes, so your feedback and praise means a lot to me, it really does! And this idea is SO CUTE! I had so much fun writing this, I truly love domestic life au’s, so thank you for your request!

“C’mon Mama! You have to show me around the beach!” Hana squealed, pulling her mother by the arm. The (H/C) female chuckled, as she power walked with her three year old daughter to the wide body of white sand. (Y/N) felt the rush of the grainy sand flood between her and the (F/C) flip flops she put on today. It was days like this where the ultimate (Y/T) had the day off. It was rare, but that’s what made her days off even more enjoyable. A day with the whole family was precious and the Komeada’s enjoyed every second of it

“Hey, wait for me!” Nagito ran towards the two beautiful rays of hope, slinging a black duffle bag across her shoulder. Hana giggled, holding onto her mother’s hand as they stopped at an unoccupied portion of the beach

“Sorry Papa. You’re too slow~” She giggled, earning herself a light scold from (Y/N), who was lying a Minnie Mouse beach towel for her daughter

“Hana, you know your Papa needs a little more time when it comes to our races. We have to encourage him, like we do with you all the time!” She explained, pulling the platinum blond up in an upsie. She peppered her face with kisses, making the toddler squeal in her mother’s arms. Cute giggles were muffled out by more baritone, deep laughs coming from her father

“Thank you, my angel. But don’t worry about me. The important thing is that we all made it, and now we can finally relax,” He said, running a lanky hand thorugh Hana’s neatly done braid. It was usually Nagito who does Hana’s hair in the morning, and 99% of the time, it’s a messy, but cute braid. (Y/N) has managed to braid her daughter’s hair this morning into a much neater and elegant design, even adorning it with tiny white flowers to match her two piece bathing suit

“You’re right, Papa. But can we explore? I want to build a sandcastle, go swimming, play volleyball, get ice cream, collect seashells, a--” Hana’s ramble was interrupted by her mother setting her down on the beach towel along with her pink barbie backpack

“Well maybe we can take it easy for a little while and start with that sandcastle, okay? Mama can help you out if you want,” (Y/N) flashed a sweet smile to her, already kneeling down. Nagito couldn’t help but let out a grin himself. It warmed his heart to see his angel and flower of hope playing together. As said before, (Y/N)’s days off were scarce, so saying Nagito lived for these moments would be an understatement--he considered them a blessing, even after all this time

“And Papa can go get some ice cream for us. Hana, cookie dough like always?” He waved his daughter’s favorite ice cream flavor in his question, making her (E/C) eyes light up. She nodded, whipping her braid back and forth as she did

“Yes, Papa, Yes!” She cheered, producing another series of cheerful laughs from Nagito. He then turned to his wife, asking her a similar question

“And you, my angel? (F/F), I assume?” He asked, earning a nod from the older female

“Thank you, Nagito,” She smiled. Nagito kissed both their heads before running off to a concession stand. (Y/N) turned her attention back to the three year old, as she started to shovel out some sand into her yellow plastic spade

“I want a big castle! Like the ones the princesses live in in the fairytales Papa tells me before bedtime. So we have to get A LOT of sand, Mama!” Hana exclaimed, dropping her bucket only for a split second, allowing her to motion the immense amount of ‘sand’ with her hands. (Y/N) chortled yet again at her daughter, but Hana’s cheerful smile faded into a neutral one, scooping sand into her bucket

“You....You’ll be able to read to me for bed tonight...right Mama?” The pale skinned three year old asked her mother. (Y/N) felt her heart ache at her daughter’s slightly gloomy smile, not wanting to disappoint her. After all, was she even going to say no?

“Sweetheart, I’d be more than happy to read to you any story you want for bedtime,” Her mother offered, making Hana look up from her filled bucket placed upside down in the sand. Her goofy grin was plastered back on her face, as she crawled onto her mother’s lap, kissing her cheek

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mama!” She hugged her tightly, (Y/N) nuzzling her cheek with hers. She felt some sticky lipgloss on her cheek, but she didn’t care. The hug was broken, only for (Y/N) to remove the bucket, revealing a mound of sand in the shape of the castle’s base

“No need to thank me, darling. Come on, let’s go surprise Papa with this palace fit for a princess!” She booped Hana’s nose, making her blush. Both girls worked hard for the next few minutes, molding sand into pillars, poking windows into the castle, and digging a moat around it. The sound of light footsteps shoveling through the sandy landscape signaled the return of Nagito, holding three ice cram cones in his hand

“Rocky road for my flower,” He flashed a bright smile towards Hana, handing her the waffle cone, making her gleam with the hope that Nagito adored. “(F/F) for my angel,” He gentle transferred the second cone from his hand to his wife’s. “And plain vanilla for someone like me,” Just like Hana’s, his joyous smile faded into an indifferent one, as he sat down on the beach chair. (Y/N) mentally shook her head at her husband. They’ve been married for three years and had Hana just a few weeks after their wedding. It would be safe to say that Nagito’s self confidence have been raised more than he could ever imagine and he certainly does feel more value and worth within himself, especially being near his angel’s side. But old habits that lasted since childhood are extremely difficult to break

Well...it’s progress from “worthless trash” (Y/N) thought to herself, a mature smile creeping back onto her face, as Hana licked her cone, still sitting on her mother’s lap. Hana turned to her father, surprisingly keeping her face clean from her sweet frozen treat as she continued to indulge in it

“Papa, what do you think of our castle? Me and Mama made it together,” She motioned her head towards the mountain of sand sculpted into an elegant design that resembled an ancient citadel. The white haired male simpered, admiring the work of the ultimate ballerina and the ultimate (Y/T)

“It certainly beautiful, my darling. But I can’t say I’m surprised. Symbols of hope like you two can only create the best!” He planted a kiss onto Hana’s forehead, making a faded pink blush dust upon her cheeks once again. Nagito moved to perform the same action onto his wife, but she just smirked, stopping him with pressing her index finger to his lips

“Oh? And is my dear marshmallow trying to steal a kiss from me?” She winked cheekily at him, making Nagito form a surprised expression on his face

“Huh? (Y/N) is teasing me today?” He questioned her, his licked getting slower as his vanilla soft serve shrunk in size. As for the (H/C) female, she quickly chomped the last of her cone, tossing the napkin into a nearby trash can

“Oh love, don’t think of it as teasing. Think of it asssss~” Just then, (Y/N) stood up, tightly holding Hana, her tiny legs wrapped around her mother’s bare waist. She ran off with her daughter into the ocean, creating a huge splash as they cannonballed into the lukewarm waters. The toddler shrieked from the sudden surprise and the water hitting her bare skin. However, she laughed joyously after her body became accustomed to the new temperature, still clinging onto her mother to support her tiny body in the large body of salt water

“Join the fun, Nagito! Hana is right, you are pretty slow~” She chaffed at her husband, lightly splashing water onto the toddler’s rounded face, making her yelp in a mix of shock and cheekiness

“H-Hey! (Y/N), weren’t you the one who told Hana to give me a break from running?!” He pouted, making his way into the ocean as fast as the sickly man could. He tossed his shirt onto the beach chair and kicked off his shoes before entering the vast ocean. He searched for his family, before spotting the two girls half swimming-half walking towards them

“Now that wasn’t funny, (Y/N)! Not only did you tease me, but you stole my flower away! This was supposed to be a family day,” He sulked, making (Y/N) place one of her hands on Nagito’s cheek, stroking it gently with her thumb

“Aw, poor baby. I’m sorry, Naggie. Can you forgive me??? Please???” She singsonged to him, pulling Hana up so their heads were at level with each other. Hana also made the same puppy dogged eyes with her mother, asking for his forgiveness

“Pwease, Papa???” She asked him too. Who was Nagito kidding? He couldn’t say no to his two favorite girls

“Well...just this once. After all, this is Mama’s day off,” His glower was replaced with his usual merry expression, making both girls shout in happiness

“Yayyy! Come on, Papa! I wanna swim!” Hana grabbed her father’s arm in her free hand, along with her mother’s in the other one. Half swimming and half walking, she treaded along the water’s surface before creating a tiny splash as her white skinned body flopped into the deeper waters, still holding onto her parents’ hands for support

“Hana, not too far, darling. We don’t want you getting kidnapped by pirates out in far waters,” Her mother joked, warning her to stay close. Nagito reached for his wife’s free hand with his, smiling at her before they joined their daughter in the salty ocean

****************************************************************************************************

“That was the best, Mama!” Hana exclaimed, tightening her little legs that were circling around her mother’s waist. (Y/N) flashed a smile, this time, a semi-tired one mixed in with her usual bright one

“I’m so glad you had fun, my flower. We should definetly do this again when I get another day off. And don’t forget, Mama still promised you a bedtime story when we get back home~” She nuzzled her nose with Hana’s, as Nagito let out a giggle

“Well that’s just the cutest sight ever. The angel of hope and the flower of hope cuddling!” He got inside the driver’s seat of the car, setting a small baggie down in the cupholders. (Y/N) blushed at Nagito’s statement, setting the toddler down into the warm cushions of her carseat. Hana squirmed a bit as (Y/N) secured the seatbelts across her little lap, as if she was trying to see what was in the contents of the baggie

“Papa, can I see my seashells? I collected a lot!” She asked her father, earning a side grin from the male. He reached his hand towards the mini drawstring, making it land on the toddler’s lap with a gentle toss

“There you go, my love. Now it’s time for my other love to join me in the front,” He winked at (Y/N), patting the passenger’s seat in the front. The (H/C) female kept her faint blush on her cheeks, crawling beside Nagito in the front of the car. As Hana poked a slightly chubby finger inside the cinch sack, thrilled to see the collection of shells she picked up, (Y/N) turned to Nagito, a relaxed sigh fell from her pink lips

“This was a much needed break. I missed this, Naggie...” She admitted to her husband, making Nagito form his usual, carefree smile on his face. He pulled out of the parking lot of the beach, turning onto the street

“Me too. It was so nice for your boss to let you have a day off when you’ve been working so hard, my angel. Hana really missed you,” He responded, keeping his keys on the road. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other one creeping to touch his wife’s. He stroked his thumb upon her knuckles, keeping her at ease. She looked down for a split second before turning to him, another smirk forming on her face

“You know, Hana loves her Papa as much as she missed her Mama. Would he care to join us for a bedtime story???” The female questioned him, every word of her sentences laced with a flavor of sweetness. Nagito’s smile crept wider, seeing his daughter admiring the elegantly spotted scallop shell between her fingers from his mirror

“Are you sure you wouldn’t mind someone like me intruding your mother-daughter time?” He asked his wife for reassurance, earning an eye-roll from her. However, this only lasted for a split second, as the thumb that was stroking her knuckles was yanked into a hand-holding position, each finger interlocked with each other

“We would be offended if you didn’t!”

#nagito komaeda #nagito komeada kin #danganronpa x reader #danganronpa #danganronpa x y/n #nagito x reader #nagito headcanons #nagito oneshots #danganronpa nagito #nagito x you #danganronpa oneshot #danganronpa goodbye despair

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megalony · 4 years

Text

Heartbeat- Part 4

This is the fourth part in my Ben Hardy series involving Gwilym, I hope everyone will enjoy it.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogermeddow @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez @jonesyaddiction @ambi-and-sunflowers @milanosaurus @httpfandxms @saint-hardy @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @mrsalwayswritex @rogerina-owns-me @peterquillzsblog @im-an-adult-ish @crazylittlethingg

Series masterlist

Summary: Ben and (Y/n) haven’t been together long when they find out their pregnant. But (Y/n) fears she’ll lose the baby after suffering miscarriages before with her ex, Gwilym who is making things complicated.

Enjoy.

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For what felt like the hundredth time in the space of five minutes, his hand moved back to hovering over the empty beer glass and his index finger started to swirl around the rim like he was collecting the sugar sticking to the edges. When he applied a bit of pressure to the glass, the round base started to lift from the table as it swirled around again and again, gaining more speed and momentum as it went until it was almost as fast as a spindle whirling around on the wooden table.

Ben could feel a pressure line being punctured into the pad of his index finger from the rim of the glass but he paid no mind to it as he continued to spin the glass, wondering if it would smash if he suddenly pulled his hand away or lost control over it.

He wasn't exactly bored out of his mind yet, he just didn't know what to contribute to the conversation that seemed to of run away without him.

The moment the conversation rolled around to drinks Ben was up on his feet before Joe even finished asking who needed another drink. Ben grabbed his glass and two others from the table before wandering over to the bar when he knew what the orders were.

The bar was rather packed but Ben managed to weave his way into a space, planting the glasses down in front of him before resting his elbows on the slightly sticky bar that needed the excess alcohol cleaning off of it. He arched his back and bent one knee forward until it touched the underneath of the bar, tipping his head at the waitress to signal he needed to place an order.

"Two beers, one coke and a shot of vodka please." The moment his order was placed and the glasses were taken from in front of him, Ben felt an elbow pushing against his own and a body fitting into the small space between him and the other stranger on his left.

His weight leaned onto his right arm and his head cocked to the side to get a look of whoever was pushing next to him to try and get an order placed but surprise flooded his pupils when he noticed it was Gwilym.

Very little exchange had happened between the two tonight and it was clearly making the group a bit awkward when they noticed the tension but Ben couldn't find the will to break the ice or try and be friendly. As much as he wanted to ignore the tension and try to be nice, he kept thinking back to what (Y/n) said and it made his exterior go cold and his expression harden. He couldn't see how Gwilym could think of (Y/n) in such a bad way and it rattled Ben's cage more than he would care to admit.

"A martini and a beer, thanks." Gwilym placed his order before he dared to cast a look over at Ben. When their eyes met, Ben dipped his head in an awkward acknowledgement but he didn't know what to say. "Can we try and act friendly? I know it's not fun but being out and not talking is awkward."

Ben had to admit that Gwilym was trying, he was breaking the ice and trying to make amends but Ben didn't know what to do. How could they get back to how they were before when they both knew Gwilym still had a thing for (Y/n) and Ben was hiding the baby from him? The moment that news came out all Hell was going to break loose but it was going to have to be dealt with soon.

"I'm not trying to be rude, mate. I just don't know what to say." Ben shrugged his shoulders as he spoke, keeping his eyes on Gwilym as he dug his hand in his back pocket to find his wallet ready for when he got the drinks.

Ben tapped his wallet against the bar out of the nervous habit of needing to be moving or doing something at every second of the day before he snapped the button undone when he saw the waitress coming over with the drinks. Ben peeled the wallet open, knowing he needed a new one since the leather was falling off at every corner and the lining was tearing apart.

But the moment he pulled out a ten pound note to pay, his head snapped to look at Gwilym when he suddenly reached out for the tattered wallet.

"What's that?"

"I'll get his too, keep the change." Ben pushed the money over to the waitress, his eyes telling her that he wasn't about to be robbed despite the way that Gwilym almost snatched his wallet out of confusion and curiosity.

Ben leaned his right elbow against the bar, turning himself around so he was facing Gwilym who was still holding his wallet even with the death grip Ben had on his tattered item. His brows rose in a rather tired expression but soon changed to one of worry and nervousness when he suddenly remembered what was in his wallet along with his money. His hand tightened to try and close his wallet and pull it to his chest but it was already too late by the time he realised what Gwilym had spotted.

"Mate don't-"

"Is... is this yours?" Gwilym was no longer looking up at Ben but at the piece of paper in his hand that he was almost crushing with the tight grip he had on it like he thought it was going to get lost in the wind.

"Gwil please-"

"Answer me."

"Yes." Ben had never seen one word hold the ability to crush a person's soul into dust until the moment that word slipped past his lips. He bit down hard on his lower lip but it didn't stop the pained expression from forming on his face or stop the sympathy from swelling up in his eyes.

He'd found the scan picture Ben stuffed into his wallet the other week. He didn't put it in the photo part of the wallet in case people saw so he stuffed it into the back where he kept the notes, hoping it would be hidden well enough not for people to notice. Gwilym was going to find out sooner or later but Ben had been praying that he and (Y/n) could sit down and tell him personally, they didn't want him to find out second hand from someone else and especially not like this. It made it seem like Ben and (Y/n) were never planning on telling him when that wasn't the case at all.

Gwilym looked like he'd had too much to drink and couldn't keep the alcohol down, his lips were pursing and pulling down at the corners like he was going to be sick but he couldn't do anything but stare at the picture like he was being shown the end of the world.

"(Y/n)'s pregnant?"

"Yeah, we we're going to tell you properly in a week or two." Ben looked away as he stuffed the photo into his back pocket when Gwilym almost threw it at him when he managed to tear his gaze away from it.

"How far along is she?" Gwilym ran a hand over his stubble but Ben could see he was refraining so hard from dragging his nails through his skin out of either anger or resentment, maybe both. He looked like he had been cheated and Ben could understand that but it didn't make it any easier to witness. It was almost as if Ben had done something wrong and he should be sorry. "How many weeks?"

"Fifteen." Ben could barely hear the other voices surrounding them at the bar or the music playing from the radio behind the bar. He could only hear the thumping of his heart against his chest and the uneven breaths leaving Gwilym's lips. He reminded Ben of the Hulk, trying so hard not to get angry to the point of becoming someone else.

The pain in Gwilym's eyes was evident because he'd never had his own child get to that stage. (Y/n) had been with Gwilym for years and yet she was with Ben for only a few months and had gotten further than she'd ever done in a pregnancy with Gwilym. It was wrong and even Ben could see that it wasn't fair, it was as if he'd walked in and ruined everything, like he stumbled upon them and showed them how to play the game properly. But Ben couldn't deny the relief he felt that nothing had gone terribly wrong with this pregnancy yet, it didn't seem fair but he was so glad it was going the way it was right now and he didn't care how wrong that was.

"She really did get what she wanted from you."

Gwilym spoke the words so quietly under his breath but Ben heard them nonetheless and it made his blood boil and his heartbeat rattle in his ears.

"Don't start that shit with me." Ben shook his head, his expression changing as his eyes narrowed cautiously. He didn't want to go down that road because it wouldn't be pretty. Turning to face the bar, Ben downed the shot of vodka, barely feeling it touching his throat before he grabbed the glasses and left the bar to go back to the group.

Ben didn't bother to say a word, he simply pulled out his pack of cigarettes and shook them to signal that he was heading out for a smoke. He knew well enough to know that Gwilym was going to follow him outside, neither of them were going to leave this conversation unfinished and they both knew that it was leading to an argument that was better to have outside than in the pub. Ben barely lit the cigarette between his lips before Gwilym appeared outside after him, his hands balled up into fists out of pain and resentment but he wasn't about to start throwing punches and they both knew it.

"Don't you find it a little suspicious that she moved right onto you and now she's pregnant? Why do you think she got with you so quickly?"

"Because she didn't love you anymore. This baby wasn't planned by either of us and we both know (Y/n) isn't heartless like you're making her out to be so stop right there. I'm sorry things didn't work out between you two but really, what do you want me to do?"

Ben pressed his foot against the wall behind him, taking a very long drag before he pulled the cigarette back, keeping it tightly pressed between his fingers as he looked over at Gwilym and blew the smoke out in his direction. He wasn't apologising for the way things turned out even if he was sorry (Y/n) and Gwilym couldn't work things out. But there was nothing that Ben could do about this now, he loved (Y/n), they were together and they were happy and expecting a baby. He didn't want to change things but he didn't know what Gwilym was expecting him to do about any of this.

"I never said she's heartless but she's desperate. She's always wanted a baby and she ended things between us because I told her I wouldn't try again for a baby. That's why she left and then you come along and she's on you in an instant. She may like you, but she wants a baby more than she wants you and that scan picture proves it."

"If you keep talking I won't be responsible for my actions. Why is it so wrong for her to want a baby? And don't think I don't know the way you've been looking at her, you call her desperate but you're just as bad wanting to be with her. After five years with her can't you tell when she looks at you that she doesn't love you anymore? She left you because she doesn't want to be with you, you're not so righteous and special Gwil, you're a lovesick puppy whose green with jealousy."

Ben stubbed out the half-finished cigarette with the tip of his shoe before he took a few daring steps closer to Gwilym. If he dared say anything else about (Y/n) like that Ben wasn't going to let him get away with it, no matter how upset he may feel. It wasn't right and it was rubbing Ben up the wrong way.

"She hasn't told you anything about her miscarriages, has she? Why don't you ask her what happened the last time she miscarried?"

There was something so broken yet so daring and provoking about Gwilym's voice that made Ben's hands curl into fists as his eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a snarl. There was a look in Gwilym's eyes that told Ben he knew something he didn't and it was aggravating to no end. Ben never asked about the miscarriages because it was upsetting and it wasn't any of his business because they weren't his children (Y/n) lost. That was between her and Gwilym, but the way Gwilym spoke made Ben feel cautious and uncertain and he hated it.

"What do you mean?"

"It wasn't just me who didn't want (Y/n) to get pregnant again."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Ben, he wasn't supposed to find out like that!" (Y/n) ran her fingers through her hair, brushing it out of her eyes that were desperate to roll to the back of her head. Her lips curled down in distaste, she could only imagine how Gwilym must be feeling after finding out in that way. She didn't exactly want to tell him herself but she wanted to tell him properly in the least.

"I didn't mean for it to happen but I couldn't stop him once he saw the photo." Ben folded his arms over his chest as his shoulders shrugged, there was nothing they could do about it now. They couldn't go back in time and tell Gwilym properly rather than having him find out the way he did.

"What's that look for?" (Y/n) narrowed her eyes, resting one arm over her slight bump so her hand could grab at her other arm out of nervous habit. She didn't understand the look Ben was giving her, it was like he was looking right through her trying to see her soul in search of answers he couldn't find.

"Tell me what happened when you miscarried."

"Excuse me?"

(Y/n) could barely feel her chest moving or the breath leaving and entering her lips when she processed what Ben just asked. Why was he suddenly asking her something like that? He'd never asked anything about her miscarriages before, he didn't ask how many she had suffered, when she had them, how bad they had been or how they affected her or how she got through them. Ben was fine without any details. But just then, his voice sounded so demanding yet without any emotion and it was almost frightening.

"What happened to make Gwil not want to have another baby with you? He wouldn't tell me but he seemed to think it would be some kind of revelation to me." Ben's expression was still blank but there was something in his tone that made (Y/n) shiver.

"Ben, I'm not doing this." (Y/n) couldn't keep her eyes on Ben but when she tried to walk past him, his hands grasped her arms and he moved in front of her, effectively blocking her path out of the living room to get away from him and this conversation she didn't want to have.

Her head tilted down to look at her feet but she could feel Ben's gaze burning into her to the point he was almost putting holes through her. She didn't want to have this conversation, she didn't think she would be talking about this with Ben, it was just a topic both of them seemed to avoid and that worked up until now. What had Gwilym said to him to rile him up and make him curious like this?

"You didn't see the look on his face when he talked to me, he was surprised and not just at the fact that we've gotten to fifteen weeks. How many miscarriages did you have?"

"It doesn't change anything-"

"Then what's the harm in telling me?"

Ben didn't stop (Y/n) when she backed up a few steps before moving to go and sit on the armchair. He followed after her but sat on the arm of the sofa so he was able to face her properly, he could see in her eyes that she was going to open up and talk to him but he wasn't so sure he really wanted the answers, knowing the kind of look Gwilym had given him. He wished Gwilym would have just told him everything straight but he seemed certain that (Y/n) should be the one to talk to Ben about it and that made Ben nervous about what he was going to be told.

"I... I had six miscarriages over four years with Gwil, this is the seventh time I've tried for a baby and the only time it seems to of worked." (Y/n) slouched in the chair, leaning her head against her right hand wishing she could curl up and disappear.

The moment she dared to look up at Ben, she saw the horror in his eyes and the way his breathing hitched in his throat like he'd taken a punch to the gut.

Six.

He knew (Y/n) had gone through at least three miscarriages when she said that was when they ran tests to see if there were any problems. He thought at a stretch she would have gone through four, but six was a different league entirely. How could she have gone through that so many times and still be okay, how could (Y/n) still want a baby after that many traumas?

"Six, (Y/n)... that's serious, you didn't think that was something to tell me?"

"No because then you would have believed we'd lose the baby like I did. I didn't want to talk about it and you didn't ask."

(Y/n) knew if she told Ben about how many miscarriages she had then he would worry and panic just like she was and it wouldn't be good having both of them panicking like headless chickens. Nor did she want to go through telling him about it like she was now.

"What happened the last time you miscarried?" Ben's head tipped to the side when (Y/n) didn't respond for a few moments, nor could she manage to keep eye contact with him the moment he asked the question. Leaning over the small distance, Ben took (Y/n)'s hand in his own but he was shocked to find her shaking. Her other hand moved from propping up her chin to pressing to her mouth as she willed the tears not to fall. She knew what Ben was going to think when she told him and she knew whatever Gwilym had said would only influence Ben's thoughts.

"It doesn't matter." (Y/n) bit her lip as she looked over at Ben, her eyes begging for him to trust her and drop the subject but she knew trying was useless.

"Baby, please, tell me."

"The first two times it happened it was just like losing one of the twins, blood and a bit of pain. The third time I got an infection, had to go to hospital. The fourth time was the easiest, no blood or pain at all, we didn't find out until the scan that I'd lost them." (Y/n) tightened her hand the more she spoke until she was sure she was going to sever Ben's hand from his wrist.

(Y/n) wished that if she had to miscarry, it would be the same as when she lost one of the twins a few weeks ago. Just a bit of blood and the tiniest bit of uncomfortable pain. The fourth time was the worst because it was the easiest, (Y/n) had no blood, no pain, no indication that anything was wrong until she got into that scan and didn't hear a heartbeat or see any little blip on the screen.

"I got to fourteen weeks the fifth time, w-we thought that was it, I had a bump and everything... then the bleeding started but it wouldn't stop for three days, is just got worse so Gwil took me to hospital. The doctor said he didn't know why I couldn't carry a baby but that I shouldn't keep trying a-and I almost did."

(Y/n) had hope the fifth time, just for a little while she thought that was it, she though her and Gwil were finally going to be able to have a family of their own. When she lost the baby (Y/n) thought that was it, that was the closest she was ever going to get to having a baby and she didn't want to go through that again. To wake up in the middle of the night with blood covering the bed and then spend the next three days wondering if she was ever going to stop seeing blood before her eyes.

"The last time... I didn't tell Gwil, I only just found out about the baby. H-he came home one day and I'd collapsed, I lost the baby and had internal bleeding. I got sepsis and stayed in hospital for a few weeks and Gwil said he wouldn't try again for a baby."

"You should have told me." Ben let go of (Y/n)'s hand to rake his fingers through his hair, his other hand gripping his thigh until he could feel his nails puncturing through his skin.

"It's in the past-"

"No, (Y/n) it's not. You know you should have told me when you knew you were pregnant or before because this could have hurt you, it could have killed you! You've had bleeding almost every time you miscarried and you've had sepsis that could have killed you. What if you lost both the twins, what if you got sepsis again? If you told me-"

"You'd say the same thing Gwil did, you wouldn't want me to get pregnant would you? You think I planned this, just like Gwil said."

Tears started to fall from (Y/n)'s eyes as she moved her hand to her stomach, knowing exactly what Ben was thinking. If she told him about all the miscarriages he would be sceptical about even thinking of a future with a baby with (Y/n). If she told him about how the last one went when she got pregnant Ben would worry she would become ill and if she told him before she was pregnant he would make sure they didn't have a baby.

(Y/n) didn't plan this, she didn't trick Ben into getting her pregnant and she didn't tell him about her past because it was hurtful. This wasn't an elaborate game, this was how things had planned out.

Surprise flooded (Y/n)'s eyes when Ben got up but he didn't walk away, instead he kneeled down on the floor between her legs, moving his arms to wrap around her as he rested his chin on her thigh. He looked like he was about to burst into tears at any given moment but he was trying so hard not to and he was trying to understand.

"Maybe... maybe I wouldn't want you to get pregnant because I want you to be safe and not at risk. But you're pregnant now and you're okay, I wouldn't change this for anything."

Ben knew deep down if he had known about all of this before he would have made sure that a baby wasn't a possibility because it wasn't fair and it was dangerous. (Y/n) was more at risk of something going wrong because of her history with pregnancies and if she got sepsis again it could be fatal, Ben would never want to risk her health like that. But it had happened this way and he wouldn't change it for anything because they were having a baby, they were happy and things were going smoothly right now.

Ben wouldn't go back and change things even if he could.

#ben hardy #ben x reader #ben hardy imagine #imagine #BoRhap #dad! ben #gwilym lee #gwilym imagine #gwilym x reader #heartbeat

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raccoon-wizard · 4 years

Text

It’s Okay Now

CHAPTER NO: 1/1

PROMPT: Bucky finds out that in the 21st century, it’s okay for men to wear makeup, nail polish, and glitter. I saw it somewhere on Tumblr and couldn’t resist.

RATING: Everyone, with some language

NOTES/WARNINGS: You know what I always say. Love to all human beings. I will tolerate zero bullying and hatred in my comments.

Also, Grammarly keeps bullying me for ignoring commas and some prepositions, but I swear to god, I’m not stupid. It’s a part of the characters’ speech patterns. Screw you.

It was a quiet weekend. Nearly everyone was gone - some went on a holiday with families, some were gone for missions. There were two people inside the Avengers Compound - Bucky Barnes, who passed on a road trip with Sam and Steve, and Eleri Prichard, who simply didn’t feel like leaving. She sat (if that’s what her position could be called - she was sprawled in the chair perpendicularly to the way one was supposed to sit, her legs resting on the armrest of the other chair) in the cinema room, lazily browsing through Netflix, stuffing her mouth with salted caramel popcorn.

“Mind if I join you?” asked Bucky from the door. She turned, her spine twisting unnaturally.

“Not at all, come on in,” she grinned widely. “Unless you mind me sitting like a big ol’ lesbian.”

“I sure as hell don’t,” he said and sat next to her. “What are we watching?”

“Queer Eye.”

Bucky flinched visibly. “You said queer?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Isn’t it… a bad… word?”

“Not anymore,” she told him. “We took it back from ‘em.”

He stayed silent for a while. “When?”

Eleri thought back to the extensive research she did in her teen years. “The eighties.”

They watched the show in silence, Bucky remembering all those times the word was spat into his face when he was young, along with other ones with similar weight.

“And it’s… normal for men to look like that?” he gestured towards Jonathan, who was dressed like his usual fabulous self.

“I mean, it’s not the norm, but tons of guys dress up now,” she said, pausing the show. “Why?”

“I never… when I was younger, I… I always wished…”

“Oooh,” she realised.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, swallowing the painful lump in his throat.

With a groan, she changed her position so she was now sitting like a normal person, turning to face him. “James Buchanan Barnes, it would be an honour to give you the glamorous makeover you deserve.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“Eleri… something…”

“Carol-Anne,” she finished for him.

“Eleri Carol-Anne Prichard,” he chuckled. “It would be an honour to have you give me a glamorous makeover.”

“That you deserve.”

“That I… deserve.”

“That’s my man, now come on,” she patted him on the shoulder and jumped up from her seat, offering him her hand. She dragged him upstairs to her room and sat him on the bed.

“You can’t ever tell anyone that you got all this from me,” Eleri told him as she pulled out a makeup bag from one of her drawers. “I have a reputation to uphold here, and if someone found out how much of this shit I have, it would shatter.”

“Roger that,” Bucky nodded with a smirk. Eleri threw the bag on the bed and sat down opposite of Bucky, crossing her legs.

“So,” she said. “Want just something small or full-on glam?”

“Uh… how about somewhere halfway?” he suggested.

“Smart move,” she agreed. “Just the basic stuff and a teeny tiny bit of glitter?”

“Sounds wonderful.”

For about twenty minutes, they were both silent as Eleri worked on glamming up Bucky’s face. With his eyes closed, he enjoyed the soft brushes sweeping around his cheeks, nose, forehead and eyes.

“Pucker up,” was the first thing Eleri said. “I’m gonna put on some lipgloss.”

Bucky complied, making Eleri burst out laughing immediately. “Not this much, genius.”

“Shut up,” he rolled his eyes.

There was another brief silence until Eleri said: “There. Done.”

Bucky tried to turn around to see himself in the big mirror on Eleri’s wardrobe, but she stopped him. “Nu-uh. Not done. We need to do your nails and pick you an outfit. Show me your nails.”

Bucky reluctantly gave her his hands. She took them into hers, bringing them close to her face. “You really need to stop biting ‘em.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Yes you do.”

“No.”

“Then what’s this?” she asked, shoving his own hand right in front of his eyes. “If that’s not you biting ‘em, then who? A perverted ghost?”

“I do it in my sleep,” he mumbled. “I… have bad dreams. And then wake up with bloody fingertips.”

Eleri bit her lip. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude.”

“‘S okay.”

“Maybe you could… sleep with gloves on,” she suggested. “You know, like mittens.”

“Or boxing gloves,” he smirked.

“I mean, sure,” she shrugged. “I’m pretty sure not even super soldier teeth could bite through those. Come on, let’s fix these bad boys.”

It took some time and squirming and writhing, but after that, Bucky’s nails looked almost like he had always been grooming them. However, he couldn’t help but voice his disdain for the nail file.

“It just feels weird!”

“Better get used to it if you want decent looking nails.”

“I hate it.”

“Everyone does in the beginning. At least you don’t have long ones, you do not want to hear the sound that makes.”

“Gross.”

“Shut up. And stop moving or your whole hand will be pink.”

“Why does it smell so awful?”

“‘Cause it’s nail polish. And you need to stop whining or I’ll put it somewhere you would not like it.”

“I don’t like it now anyway.”

“Shut your piehole, Barnes.”

As he waited for the colour to dry properly, Eleri went to her wardrobe to find him some clothes.

“Are you sure your stuff will fit me?” he asked doubtfully.

“Haven’t you noticed how I dress?” she scoffed. “My clothes will fit you just fine, trust me. And if not, I might have some that my exes left behind.”

“How’s your dating life anyway?”

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes. “Everyone ends up ditching for someone normal,” she said. “What about you?”

“Like you don’t know,” he sighed. “The general public hates me and I don’t think dating on the team would be a good idea.”

“Loki has a thing for you,” she told him as she rummaged through her clothes. Bucky’s breath hitched.

“What thing?” he asked, feeling heat creep up into his cheeks.

Eleri turned around with a completely blank face. “You cannot be serious.”

“Well, I, uh-”

“He flirts with you like mad literally every time you two are in the same room!” she exclaimed. “And you flirt back, don’t argue with me.”

“I don’t f-”

“Oh my god,” she sighed dramatically. “You really are a disaster, aren’t you.”

“I thought he liked Wanda?”

“He did for a bit, but then he found out about her and Vis and decided to back off,” Eleri explained.

“Those two really love each other, don’t they?”

“Do not change the subject, James!” she scolded him. “You really haven’t noticed that Loki has a huge crush on you?”

“No, I have not.”

“You’re literally the only person that makes him blush!”

“Am I?”

Eleri groaned in frustration. “You’re the worst. What do you think about this jumper?”

Bucky, shocked by her sudden change of tone, stared at her with his eyes wide. “What?”

“Jumper. Do you like it?” she asked again.

“Why are you calling it a jumper?” he frowned.

“Because that’s what it is.”

“That’s a sweater.”

They didn’t settle on what it should be called, but they did agree that it would look nice on Bucky. Realising that his nails were still a little sticky, Eleri decided to help him put it on.

“Look at me, undressing a guy,” she laughed as she unbuttoned his shirt. “My parents would be so proud.”

Bucky chuckled. “Are they… not okay with you dating women?”

“They’re tolerating it at best,” she shrugged. “Raise your arms and press your lips together, you don’t want the lipgloss go everywhere.”

He did as he was told, allowing her to put the jumper on without major issues.

“And now for the final touch,” Eleri grinned, pulling a flower crown out of her closet.

“Are you sure?” Bucky frowned.

“Just try it on, I’m certain you’ll look cute as shit,” she insisted as she put it on his head. A few final adjustments and- “Oh my god you look gorgeous.”

“Can I look now?” he asked.

“Please do.”

She stepped out of his way so he could finally see himself in the huge mirror on her wardrobe. He took a few steps forward so he could get a better look and his jaw dropped ever so slightly.

When he wasn’t speaking for quite a long time, Eleri started to worry. “Do you… not like it? I can redo it if you’d like.”

“I love it,” he finally said.

“Really?” she asked. “Are you absolutely sure? I have plenty other colours in the-”

“Pink’s my favourite,” he smiled at her. “Always has been.”

For a few more moments, none of them said a word. “Thank you,” Bucky finally spoke up once more. “I’ve always wanted to feel like this.”

“You can borrow my stuff any time,” Eleri said. “As long as you don’t tell anyone I’m your provider.”

“May I hug you?”

“Hell yes.”

They embraced each other tightly and out of sheer joy, Eleri lifted Bucky up and spun him around, letting out a tiny gleeful squeal.

“I forgot how strong you are,” he chuckled once she put him down.

“Stupid strong, I know,” she smirked.

For the rest of the day, the two of them stayed in Eleri’s room, looking for inspiration and references for future experiments. They listened to some “aggressively gay” music, as Eleri called it, and talked about dating. They ended up in the cinema room again, watching dumb rom coms.

“Mind if I join you?” said a voice from the doors. They turned to see Loki, lazily leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets.

“Come on in,” Eleri grinned, winking at Bucky cheekily. “I’ll go get more snacks, you can take my seat.”

Bucky glared at her, but before he could protest, she was gone, shoving Loki next to him.

“Sargeant Barnes,” Loki greeted him with a polite nod, pointing at the seat.

“Loki,” he replied and gestured for him to freely take the seat. Instead of sitting, however, Loki continued inspecting his face. Bucky wanted to ask him what he was looking at, but before he could, Loki spoke: “You look… happier, Sargeant.”

“Oh, I, uh…” Bucky stuttered. “Thank you?”

“The flowers suit you,” Loki smiled ever so slightly.

Oh God, oh shit, oh fuck, Bucky thought, feeling as if he was about to spontaneously combust. Oh for the love of Jesus, he really is flirting. Oh merciful Lord, what do I do?

Loki finally sat down, glueing his eyes to the screen. Bucky really hoped he couldn't hear his heart pounding in his chest and his stupid fast breathing. He couldn't help but glance at the man next to him every once in a while, suddenly feeling stupid about the flashy colours. He reached up and tried to take the flower crown off.

"What are you doing?" Loki frowned.

"It's, um, it's falling into my eyes," Bucky said.

"That's no reason to take it off, here," Loki shook his head and turned his whole body to face him, raising his hands up to Bucky's face. "May I?"

"Uh, sure," Bucky replied barely audibly and allowed the god to fix his hair. Damn you, Eleri, why did you have to put that on me, he thought.

"Better?" Loki asked.

"Uh-huh, yeah," Bucky nodded absent-mindedly.

"Would be a shame if you took it off, it makes you look like a faery," Loki said.

"Thanks, I... it was Eleri's idea," Bucky mumbled.

"I shall thank her for it then," Loki winked and returned to watching the film as if nothing had happened. Oh for heaven's sake.

Bucky sat silently, trying to think of a response, but his brain seemed to have stopped functioning completely. "You, um, you look great too. Green is really... your colour." Jesus fucking Christ, Barnes.

"Thank you, Sargeant," Loki said. "It is, after all, my favourite."

"That's a... great choice," Bucky said, immediately feeling the urge to kick his own butt. Just shut up already.

Loki chuckled. Bucky noticed him licking his lips and his throat tightened.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" Eleri shouted as she re-entered the room with a bowl of popcorn. "JUST FUCKING SNOG ALREADY!"

#fanfiction #fanfic #writing #writeblr #my writing #one shot #bucky barnes #loki #loki odinson #loki friggason #original female character #oc #loki/bucky #winterfrost

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satelliteinasupernova · 5 years

Note

do number 13!!! :)))

13. “I thought you agreed I should wear this costume to the party tonight?” “Oh I agreed to you wearing it tonight, but I had no party in mind”

It was just a few minutes before nine when Jughead made it in front of Betty’s dorm room, dressed in a white shirt and dress pants with his suspenders over his shoulders. “I’ll dress up as a Lady Dracula, and you can be my consort,” Betty had said when he told her he didn’t have a costume for the college Halloween party.

“Are you going to supply the gory make-up?” he asked, already wondering if bleach would be able to get red stains off of his only dress shirt.

“Vampires aren’t slobs, Jug,” she said with a shrug, her immaculate ponytail bouncing in place.

They had only been dating for a little over a month, but Jughead had held a candle for her ever since they had shared a literature class together during the first semester of freshman year. By some luck, her best friend had taken an interest in his roommate, and soon Betty had become a part of his regular group without Jughead actually having to put himself out there.

He’d assumed the interest was one-sided, until Betty had asked for his number before summer break and promptly messaged him almost every day over the summer. When he got back to school at the start of the new year, he had decided that the least he could do was ask if she was interested in him.

He ended up whispering his feelings to her when they were alone together, walking down an empty flight of stairs after class. I like you, Betty.

“Oh good,” she said with a sigh relief. “Me too. I like you too.”

Things had been steady since then. Even his birthday, always a tense time for him, had passed smoothly. Betty had taken him to a horror movie, bought him popcorn and several kinds of candy, and ended the night by kissing him thoroughly in the front seat of her parked car.

Jughead ran his hand through his hair as he knocked on Betty’s door. At the last minute, he had left his hat in his room, but he was starting to question that decision, a nervous energy building in his gut.

He felt better as soon as Betty opened the door, a bright smile on her face. “Juggie!” She was wearing a short black dress with a heart-shaped neckline that accentuated the swell of her breasts in a way that Jughead was already finding distracting. She had a black cape over her shoulders that gave a peek of a deep red underlining when she moved.

“You look cute,” he said, still awkwardly standing in the hallway.

She curtsied cutely, and motioned for him to come in. “Come sit down.”

“Won’t we be late?” Usually Betty was unerringly punctual. He had expected her to usher him out to the outside dorm party as soon as he got there.

“Oh, did you want to go?” She looked back at him over her shoulder. Her voice almost sounded disappointed.

Not really, he thought. Instead he said, “I was promised more candy than I could possibly eat. I was prepared to take that as a challenge.”

“Right,” Betty said thoughtfully, circling around the room in a series of searching motions. “Here we go.” She pulled out a large plastic bowl decorated with little cartoon bats from under her desk. It was filled to the brim with chocolate candy.

As Jughead took the bowl in his hands, Betty gave him a sudden shove, settling him promptly in the chair right behind him. A strange thrill jolted through him as collapsed into the chair.

“Eat,” she instructed, pointing at the bowl with a finger. “I have a few things to get ready.” She proceeded to rummage around in her desk drawer, pulling out a hand towel and a first aid kit.

“So…we’re not going to the party, then.” He unwrapped one of the larger chocolate bars and tossed the wrapper into the trashcan next to him.

“Only if you want to, Juggie. If you decide you want to go, tell me, okay?” At the end of her question, she looked up at him, studying his expression.

“Okay…” he answered, slowly coming to terms with the fact that this night was not going to go anything like he had expected.

He swallowed nervously. He and Betty hadn’t had sex yet, hadn’t even really approached the subject, but Jughead was starting to get the impression that that was something Betty was interested in changing.

Betty sauntered over to him and lifted the bowl from his hands, gently placing it on the floor beside them. She sat down, settling herself on his lap. “Jug,” she said, her voice sweet but probing. His heart was pounding painfully against his chest. He reached out to put his hands on her hips just for something to do.

Betty’s gaze was intense and unwavering. She was watching him like she was trying to read his thought behind every expression. “How do you feel about pain mixed with pleasure?”

It was not a question he was expecting. He fumbled through his words, “What exactly…” His tongue felt awkward and heavy in his mouth. “You mean like, scratching? Bruising?”

“More like…biting,” she wrinkled her nose, and her predatory demeanor flickering into a shy, nervous one. “Is that something you’d be interested in?”

“I guess, yeah.” His whole body was buzzing with nervous energy. “If it’s you,” he added truthfully.

For a moment, Betty didn’t say anything, she just watched him, her eyes fixed on him with an unrelenting gaze. Then she relaxed, and he could feel her body settling into his lap.

“Okay,” she said, with a smile. She reached up and put both of her hands on his cheeks, her thumb rubbing softly against the side of his chin. “And you’ll tell me if you want to stop, right?”

“Yeah,” he answered, running his tongue over his lips. “You-you too, right?” His attempt to give a smooth answer undercut by his current inability to put more than two words together.

She leaned toward him, bopping his nose with hers affectionately, before tilting her head and capturing his lips with hers. She ran her tongue along his mouth, pushing his lips open. Normally, they started slow and built up from there, but this time Betty kissed him aggressively, right from the start. He moved to match her pace, pulling her closer in his lap. The fabric of her cape settled over his arms, cold and smooth, a sharp contrast to the heat that was quickly building under his skin.

Over the top of the deep red lipstick she was wearing, he could taste the flavor of the sticky sweet lipgloss she wore almost every day. The taste, the smell of it, was starting to become a familiar friend. When she greeted him in the mornings, a new coat fresh on her lips, it took all of his willpower not to pull her to him and meet her greeting with a long series of kisses.

Now that he had her all to himself, he felt almost giddy. Soon, he stopped thinking altogether. Feeling her with his lips, with his hands. Reaching for her hair, her thigh, cupping her breast.

A shock of pain practically jolted him out of his seat. His mind was such a foggy mess, it took him a full second to realize that Betty had bitten his bottom lip. Her comfortable grip on his cheek steadied them as she immediately started to sooth the bite with her tongue. He could taste a pang of blood in his mouth, but the pain had all but faded.

Betty slowly pulled her head back and blinked at him slowly.

“Was that okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” he mumbled, running his own tongue across his lip, still tasting the hints of lipgloss there.

“Is more okay?”

“Yes,” he practically groaned.

“Okay,” she whispered with a smile, but instead of meeting his lips again, she started a trail of kisses down his cheek, under his chin, down his neck. Jughead was left gasping for air, putting a hand under her cape so that he could run his fingers over the smooth skin of her arm.

When her teeth sunk into his neck, his whole body was on fire. He leaned his head back against the headrest of the chair, his eyes rolling back. He could feel the quick caresses of her tongue, and the sound of her throat, as she fed on his blood.

She really was Lady Dracula, he thought.

Far too soon, she pulled away, picking up a folded hand towel on the desk beside her and placing it against his neck.

“You can keep going,” he said as he blinked up at her. She looked back over at him and smiled, an overwhelming affection in her eyes. His whole body was tingling down to the tips of his fingers and to the ends of his toes.

“That’s enough, baby,” she said in a hushed whisper. “Was that okay? How do you feel?”

He snorted softly, “I feel great. Is this just a Halloween thing or-”

“It’s a whenever you feel up to it kind of thing,” she answered, looking amused.

“You aren’t doing this with anyone else, right?” he added with fake petulance.

This time she gave a short laugh, “I usually manage just fine, thank you, but you’ll be my first stop next time I get hungry.” She leaned forward one more time to kiss him sloppily on the lips, breaking away with an audible smack. “Now eat some more candy, I’ve got a packet of juice in the fridge.”

As Jughead reached for another chocolate bar, he licked his lips one more time, tasting blood.

#bughead #my fic #halloween prompt #UH SO THIS IS SOMETHING #vampire betty #I promise eventually i will write fic where jug is the supernatural one #Anonymous

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jksmoongf · 5 years

Text

Kissing Fire [pt. 7]

Pairing: Jungkook x reader x girlfriend (oc) Genre: cheater!AU, angst, smut Wordcount: 6.7k Warning: smut, lies, heartbreak and more lies and maybe fluff if you squint

Summary: It always feels like there is only one person in the world to love. And then you find somebody else.

a/n: I don’t condone cheating on your s.o., so please don’t read if you have a problem with this! (also I’m not saying this is something Jungkook would actually do!) Warning chapter 7: drama, baby!, light smut (thigh riding, oral (male receiving), cum play (kinda? If you squint really hard?)), mentions of masturbation

Senses numbed from the alcohol; she awkwardly climbed out of the taxi, not caring that the short party dress had ridden up, exposing her panties not only to the driver but also to a couple passing by on the sidewalk. The last bit of decency she had left, she lost five soju bombs ago when her coworker paid for another round. Her legs were unsteady as she walked up to the little booth where the night shift security guard was watching a drama on a small monitor to keep himself awake at this time of night. “You’re out late.” He commented matter of factly. “It was my coworkers’ birthday so we went out.” Her tongue felt heavy as she tried to form a coherent sentence; the clear liquor slurring her speech every so slightly. A grin plastered all over his face, the guard jotted down her name on the visitors' list for the protocol. “Can you even sign your name?” He handed her a pen, scooting the sheet of paper through the small window. Rolling her eyes; she quickly signed next to her name; drawing a little heart after the last letter. “If I didn’t know you, I would say this isn’t you.” His eyes scanning her terrible attempt. “Lucky for me that you do know me. Don’t let them know I’m here, it’s a surprise.” She warbled, trying to walk away in a straight line to the apartment building. Halfway, she decided it would be easier if she took her heels off; carrying them, she made progress quickly, her legs feeling wobbly as she climbed up the stairs that never seemed to end. In the elevator, she fished her phone from her bra, and as soon as the doors slid open she tapped on Jungkook’s name. Steadying herself on the wall, she impatiently waited for him to pick up. “Hello?” His sleepy voice mumbled. “Baby.” She giggled. “Y/n? It’s 2 am, is everything okay?” The rustling of the duvet told her that he was sitting up in bed, a lot more awake than before. “Yeah, come open the door for me, will you?” Slowly, still guiding herself on the concrete wall, she walked towards the door. “What?” “Kookie, the door.” She whined, stamping her foot, the noise echoing loudly in the empty hallway. “Okay, wait.” With her back against the wall, she slid down until she was sitting on the cold floor. Stroppily she ran her fingers through her hair and adjusted her breasts in the low cut dress while singing Party in the USA quietly to herself. The clicking of the lock made her head spin around. “Noona?” Jungkook whispered until his eyes landed on her, scrambling to get up. Quickly he reached for her waist, lifting her onto her feet. “What were you doing on the floor?” “I was waiting for you.” Clumsily she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing sticky lipgloss kisses to his cheek. “You took so long to come get me.” “Only Two minutes.” “Two minutes can be very, very, veeeerrrrryyyy long.” She pouted, the tips of their noses touching. “Did you drink?” His lips curled into a smile. “Yeah but don’t tell on me, I have gum.” Her arms unwrapped from around his neck before scurrying to open her bag to look for the gum. “I won’t, I promise.” “Here…” Holding up the gum, she looked at him as if she had forgotten why she was looking for it, to begin with. “Let’s go to my room.” He suggested, not wanting to get caught by one of his members. “My shoes!” She stumbled forward as she bent down to pick them up. Chuckling to himself he wrapped his arm around her tummy. “Be careful, baby.” As quietly as possible Jungkook closed the door behind them, listening for any sign of someone being out of their bedroom. “You have to be very quiet, noona.” “Got it.” Giving him a thumbs up after throwing her heels with a loud thump on the floor, next to an array of sneakers from the day before. Lacing his fingers with hers, he led the way to his room, cautious not to make any noise that would cause his older brothers to enter the scene. Only a few steps away from their destination, he suddenly heard a bump when she walked into a small sideboard mounted to the wall. “Noona…” He hissed through gritted teeth but she just started laughing, letting go of his hand as she hopped in place on one foot causing her to lose balance, crashing into the wall on the other side. Panic shot through his body; she would wake everyone up if he didn’t stop the giggles. He kneeled down next to her, cupping her face to seal her lips with a kiss but she pushed him away. “Ssssshhhhh Kookie, we’re supposed to be quiet.” Tilting his head a little, he let out a sarcastic chuckle before picking her up to carry her the rest of the way - controlling the damage her drunk state would get them in if he let her walk on her own. “Wow, you’re really strong. Do you work out?” Her hand squeezing his biceps in awe, as he pushed the door open with his foot. “You know I do.” Carefully he sat her down on the bed, watching as she crawled to the middle of the mattress. After locking the door, he sat down next to her, his leg dangling off the side, toes grazing against the hardwood flooring. Gently he brushed her hair from her face. “Did you have fun tonight, baby?” “Yeah, I did. I had…” She trailed off, using her fingers to count. “Seven Soju bombs.” “Seven?” His dark doe eyes were wide in shock. “Baby that’s a lot. You’ll need medicine so you don’t feel sick in the morning…I’ll g-..” “No, I need you that’s why I came here…” Interrupting him mid-sentence. “I missed you.” She whaled, throwing herself at him, pushing him down into the pillows. Lips greedily attacking his, tongue licking into his mouth instantly. He caved in; making a mental note to get the medicine before she would fall asleep. Jungkook could still taste the last remnants of alcohol, eyes falling shut as he fell victim to her lips. Trying to help her take her jacket off while she was intoxicated, as well as being trapped underneath her, proved to be a lot more difficult than he had expected when she was hellbent on not breaking the kiss. Like a baby deer in headlights, he looked at her, his movements stopping momentarily, only having freed one of her arms from the denim, he felt her clothed heat rubbing against his thigh. Groaning into her mouth, he pried his lips away to look at her. As if she was in a trance; she rocked her hips back and forth, making his gym shorts ride up. Her brows knitted together, eyes shut tightly - she focused on getting the friction she needed from him. Jungkook was holding his breath; his member pulsating uncomfortably against his leg, growing harder as he softly followed the curvature of her body in the scraps of fabric she called a dress, pulling it up over the rounds of her ass. Senses beginning to tingle as his fingertips traced the lace pattern until his hand was down far enough between their bodies. Breaking the point of contact for a split second she allowed him to pull the thin fabric to the side. She buried her face in the crevasse of his neck, breathing heavily against his skin, setting it on fire. With hands firmly placed on her hips, he helped her keep a steady rhythm. “Kookie…” The needy moan startled him, feeling her arousal coating his skin as she sank her teeth into his clavicle, trying to muffle the sounds leaving her. Not once had he imagined that her humping his thigh would make all the blood rush to his dick, straining hard against the polyester. Unsure of what to do, he flexed his muscle in hopes of helping her chase down her orgasm. In between moans and his name falling from her lips, she placed wet open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone. No longer able to resist the urge to touch himself; Jungkook palmed himself through his shorts, desperately in the need of some friction that would relieve the pressure forming a tight knot in his stomach. Trying to keep up the intervals of tensing up and relaxing his femoris, the slick melody of her folds grinding against his skin fogged up his mind; eliciting staggered whines from her. “Fuck…” She cried out and without warning, she sat up. Rolling her hips faster than before, her nails digging into his chest for support. Jungkook’s eyes were glued to her; her head thrown back in ecstasy, moans echoing in the dimly lit room as her hips were maniacally grinding against him. He was mesmerized; she looked so beautiful while using him- his thigh to get herself off. With her mouth in an o-shape, his name rolled so easily off her tongue even though she was drunk. There was nothing he could do; he just stared at her feeling her legs beginning to shake and that’s when he knew the volcano inside her was about to erupt. “Baby..I’m…” She fell forward, collapsing on his chest, muffling the scream of her orgasm washing over her against his burning skin.

She was panting; gently he caressed her back wanting to say something but he came up short; embarrassment hindering him of telling her how much she turned him on, how badly he wanted her; feeling bad for not being responsible for her high. Her soft lips were leaving a trail of kisses down his stomach; snapping him out of his thoughts, evoking a groan from him when she pressed them onto the outline of his hard cock. “It’s your turn now.” She hummed gingerly, the vibrations making his member twitch in anticipation. He propped himself up in his elbows, not wanting to miss the view. A shudder ran down his spine when her tongue licked up her own juices; wanting nothing more than to taste the sweet remnants himself. “Let me taste…” He exhaled shakily, not realizing he had been holding his breath. She sat up between his legs, as did he, cupping her cheek, pulling her closer. His tongue darting into her mouth, eager to relish at least one drop of her sweetness. He leaned back against the headboard, there was not a chance in hell, he was going to lay back without watching her get to work. After throwing her jacket on the floor, she peeled off the top of her dress, pushing it down her ribs exposing her bra. Jungkook swallowed hard at the sight, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. Peppering an array of kisses across his chest and down his torso, she found herself back between his thighs; cautiously she hooked her fingers under the waistband, pulling down the black gym shorts. “Baby, you made a mess.” She giggled, slurping up the precum that had slowly trickled down his right thigh, some of it soaking the fitted sheet. “Your fault, noona…” His breath hitched when her pouty lips brushed against the sensitive head, blowing on it; covering his body in goosebumps. Her hand wrapped tightly around the base of his cock, moving it out of the way to have better access, letting her tongue play with his scrotum before taking it in her mouth. He gulped down the saliva that had gathered in his mouth, perspiration beginning to form on his forehead, his dick twitching pathetically against his tummy. With a loud plop, she pulled away, making him groan in disappointment, the pleasurable feeling subsiding quickly. The blade of her tongue slowly licked a wet stripe from the base to the engorged tip. His chest rising and falling rapidly; he didn’t dare to blink, afraid he might miss the moment he had been waiting for but she was in charge and decided to torture him some more before giving him what he wanted. Assiduously she busied herself with covering every inch of his member with kisses, avoiding the tip. “N-noona…please…” He whined, legs stirring impatiently as her nails softly scratched over the sensitive skin of his lower abdomen. “Hm?” She innocently looked up at him, batting her lashes as if she didn’t know what he wanted from her, sucking on the protruding vein on his shaft. “Please…” His mouth felt dry, cheeks flushed as he mustered up the courage to tell her what he wanted from her. “U-use your mouth properly…” He wanted to close his eyes in shame for the words that left his mouth but he knew that if he broke eye contact, she would keep up the game. He loved and hated being at her mercy, “I am using it properly…” She trailed off, her tongue dancing on the fine line between his shaft and the tip making him whine in response immediately.

“Aaahh n-no…please…”A giggle filled the air before the tip of her tongue gave his head tiny kitten licks, his fingers gripping the sheets tightly as he felt more precum dripping down. He watched her as she coated her lips in it. “Does it look like lipgloss?” Throwing his head back, he let out an irritated chuckle. “Baby…please, I can’t take it anymore.” Jungkook was about to lose it, he was so desperate to find his release; wanting nothing more than to feel the warmth of her mouth swallowing him. “You’re no fun.” She pinched the inside of thigh at the same time as she finally wrapped her lips around the tip; her hand moving up and down his length in a slow rhythm. She lazily sucked on it, like she would a lollipop, hallowing her cheeks to increase the pressure. Taking deep breaths; Jungkook tried to hold it together as she suddenly pulled away. As he was about to groan in annoyance, she adjusted her position to let spit dribble down his cock, before taking him back into her mouth as far as she could, the head hitting the back of her throat easily. Pulling away, she licked her lips only to sink back down again, even further this time. Almost lovingly he brushed her hair from her face; he wanted to see his length disappear in her mouth and down her throat. Her face was close to his stomach, his pubic hair tickling her nose; bobbing her head up and down a few times. While his left hand was still fisting the sheets; his right hand had an iron grip on her head. Eyes glossed over with lust, he bucked his hips up into her mouth just as she was letting his length slide down the back of her tongue. Gently pushing her head down, making her swallow around him, her nails were digging into his thighs resisting the strength of his hand. Choking and gasping for air, she pulled away - a string of saliva still connecting her lips to his cock. “Y/n, I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have..” Guilt laced in his voice as a single tear ran down her cheek from the unexpected intrusion. “No, no! It’s okay. Just warn me next time. I wasn’t prepared.” Giving him no time to apologize again, her tongue was pressed flat against the underside of the shaft, licking its way up to the tip. “Do it again, baby.” She smiled, pressing a chaste kiss to the tip. Burying his hand in her hair; Jungkook let her take a few deep breaths before the moist warmth of her mouth engulfed him once again. Sweat dripping down his temples as his breathing picked up, stifling his moans; lewdly she sucked on the tip, her hand working the shaft, spreading the mixture of spit and precum. “Noona-ahhh, wanna…” Slowly she wrapped her mouth around him, inhaling through her nose, before he pushed her head down, his hips pistoning upward to eagerly meet the depth of her throat. The feeling of utter bliss washed over him, his balls contracting from the tightness of her throat. If this was what heaven was like then he was ready to die. Allowing her to breathe for a moment, he thrust his cock right back in; her face pressed up against his stomach; tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Taking his hand between his teeth to muffle the flurry of curse words falling from his lips. Both of her hands wrapped around his length, pumping up and down quickly while she sucked on the engorged head like there was no tomorrow. “Shit…fuckkk…baby…” He whined, as he finally erupted in her mouth. Hot streams of cum coating her tongue, filling her mouth. But she didn’t stop, sucking every last drop of the liquid gold out of him. His thigh muscles were twitching from the buildup, when she lifted her head up, his slowly softening dick slapping against his skin. “That was a lot.” She smiled, using the back of her hand to wipe away the few droplets of semen from her chin that she had not managed to swallow. Clumsily she laid down next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. “How do you feel?” His voice was low and husky, he could tell by the look on her face that the alcohol was still poisoning her bloodstream. “Hmm…good? A little dizzy.” She slurred sleepily, wrapping her arm tightly around his chest, pulling herself closer to him. “You need to rest. I’m going to get you some water and medicine.” He tried sitting up, but she wouldn’t move, clinging to him like a koala bear. “No, don’t go. I wanna cuddle.” The needy tone made a smile tug on his lips; she was so cute even when she wasn’t sober. “We can cuddle when I’m back.” “Ugh, fine.” She rolled onto her back, finally allowing him to sit up and pull his gym shorts over his ass. “Let’s get you ready for bed first.” She shook her head no but he pulled her up. “Arms up.” He instructed as he rolled the dress up her body before freeing her from her bra. Quickly he grabbed one of his black t-shirts for her to wear but she had laid back down again. “Noona, come on at least put the shirt on.” “No, don’t wanna…” She rolled onto her side, pulling the duvet up to her chin, looking like a little burrito in her cocoon of blankets and pillows. “Okay, I’ll be right back” He walked around the bed, bending down to softly press his lips to her cheek. But as he turned to leave his room, she grabbed his hand.

“Be my boyfriend.” She mumbled, her eyes emptily fixated on the floor. “But I am your boyfriend, baby.” He said, chuckling softly; the crinkles around his eyes showing. “No, you’re not. You’re Yina’s boyfriend, not mine. Why don’t you wanna be my boyfriend, Kookie?” The girl he loved looked up at him; eyes swimming in tears, her lips trembling. “You’ll never be mine.” The moment she let go of his hand, he could feel his heart crack. It seemed like she had lost all hope that he would actually break things off with Yina. Burying her face in the pillow; she sobbed as if she was in physical pain. He didn’t know what to do; wishing that one of his brothers would magically appear to give him advice but he was on his own. Guilt and shame shot through his veins; she was right. No matter how many times he told her that he was hers; he really wasn’t - not fully. He wasn’t leading her on, he truly loved her, he really did. He was so in love with her that he would do anything for her; even jump off a bridge if that was what she wanted from him to prove his love. He would do anything but he couldn’t muster up the courage to end his old relationship. He knew, he should’ve done it months ago but the deep-rooted fear inside him stopped him; only prolonging the inevitable - he would have to hurt Yina. There was no way around it and if he couldn’t find the guts to do it soon, he would end up losing y/n too. How much longer would she stay if he kept breaking his promise over and over again? He laid down beside her sob-ridden body, wrapping his arm around her; pulling her to his chest. “I am yours, baby.” He whispered, his lips brushing against her hair. “I love you so much, you have to believe me.” “You’re not mine…” Her voice was so tiny, so fragile that it ripped his heart right out of his chest. He hated himself for doing this to her; he hated that made her cry so much when he just wanted her to be happy. Letting her cry, he rubbed reassuring circles on her back; Jungkook closed his eyes, tears silently falling down his cheeks. He was causing her so much pain that it was killing him on the inside; making a pact with himself that this was the last time he would have to carry the burden of being the one responsible for making her cry. In a few days, everything would be different; in a few days, everything would be okay. He held her until the tears stopped and she had fallen asleep in his arms; not daring to move, hoping her dreams were better than reality. “I’m so sorry, y/n. I will make this right…for you.” Jungkook whispered, gingerly his lips brushed against her forehead. “I love you so much, you don’t even know…” * “Thank you.” Jimin ran his fingers through his hair, as he eyed his new hair color attentively in the mirror on the wall. “You’re welcome.” The staff member smiled, gathering up the supplies to clean them and put them away. Excitedly he got up, leaving the little in-house salon of the company building; pulling out his phone when he was alone in the corridor to snap a few selfies to post to his family group chat; keeping his promise to his mother that he would keep them updated on everything. Casually he strolled down the hallways looking for his members; Hoseok, Namjoon, and Yoongi were all cooped up in the latter’s studio and there was no way he’d try to interrupt their workflow, not with a comeback around the corner. Jin was going to get his hair cut too; since he had been complaining for weeks on end that it was getting too long. Quickly he sent a text to Taehyung, hoping that he could hang out with him and Ha-na for a little bit before it was time for his physical therapy session, his neck and back muscles feeling tense from practice. Passing by Jungkook’s studio, he noticed a weird flickering light through the milky glass from the door. The youngest member had told him that he wanted to get some work done but he never worked with pretty much all the lights off. Intrigued by the odd scenery, Jimin knocked on the door but got no answer, even after trying a couple more times. Quietly he pushed down the handle; his eyes needing a moment to adjust to the darkness; the room only being illuminated by the small scented candle on the desk and the light of the computer screen, soft music reaching his ears from the speaker on the shelf next to him, blending oddly with an unidentifiable sound. “Jungkookie…” He said, announcing himself when his eyes could finally make out the youngest hair peeking over the back part of the gaming chair but he didn’t move nor did he say something. Panic stirred up in his stomach and he took a few steps towards the desk, simply wanting to check if everything was okay. “Fuck…” Jungkook whimpered, making Jimin stop in his tracks, finally able to recognize the odd slick sound that he kept hearing. Heat rushed to his cheeks, eyes darting to the bottle of lotion next to the candle; this would get really awkward if his brother turned around but he just couldn’t let this opportunity slide; this was the perfect chance to find a new way of teasing him later on and getting back to him for the countless times he had teased him. Stepping a little to the right, now able to look at the screen Jimin’s eyes grew bigger and bigger, hands flying to his mouth in shock. His heart was hammering against his ribs as if he had just danced the hardest choreography of his life. Expecting to see some illegally downloaded porn, the smile on his face vanished into nothingness when he saw the shaky phone quality video. The blood in his veins froze when he realized who the girl on the screen was when she turned her head; he had seen that side-profile many a times before. Pinching himself - just to make sure he was actually awake and not in a hair-dye infused dream that he actually just saw Jungkook’s name on her lips; wincing from the sharp pain shooting through his arm. It took all of his willpower to get his legs moving; the slick sound intensifying in his ears, wishing he would momentarily go deaf. Slowly he backed away, bumping into the shelf next to the door, catching the speaker in his sweaty hands before it hit the floor. Trying not to make a sound, he placed it back on its designated spot; blindly reaching for the door handle, eyes still glued to the screen as the video started over again, eliciting a moan from Jungkook. Shutting the door behind him; he started running to the nearest bathroom, locking himself in there. Confusion fogging up his brain; he propped himself up on the sink; looking into the mirror. “What the fuck was that?” He whispered in bewilderment; the sinking feeling in his stomach making him want to throw up. Desperately clinging to the tiny spark of hope that this was all a dream. * Ha-na’s head was resting on her boyfriend’s shoulder, while his hand innocently played with her hair, both attentively watching the movie Hoseok had picked; who was now just scrolling on his phone instead of paying attention. Her gaze shifting to the other side of the couch; Jimin was sitting in the corner of the L-shaped sofa, legs pulled up to his chest, brooding expression on his face. It was almost like his eyes were piercing through Jungkook’s skull, who had propped up his laptop on a pillow, y/n sitting next to him, watching as he edited her pictures. “Kookie, what if you turn the saturation up just a smidge?” “Hm, I don't know. I like it with the soft filter better, look!” He tapped the trackpad a couple of times before pointing at the screen. “See, it kind of casts this shadow on your face when I do that…” Her eyes darted back to Jimin, his lips were tightly pressed together as his shaking hand balled up into a fist. Ever since she had met him he had been terrible at hiding his emotions, his face always giving him away. “And if I use the soft one, it …you just look really pretty, noona.” “You think?” Y/n beamed at him; Jungkook’s cheeks turning pink and he shyly smiled at her. Jimin shifted in his spot, anxiously tapping his fingers on a pillow; she could tell he was getting more and more agitated by the second but she didn’t know what was bothering him. “Oh Tae look, I just got this email…” Hoseok held out his phone for the younger one to see, causing him to lean to the side. “It’s their new summer collection.” “What? Really?” Her boyfriend scooted closer to Hobi so they could look at the pictures together. “Alright, I’m getting us some snacks and drinks.” After patting her legs, she stood up. “Jimin, help?” At the sound of his name, he looked at her in confusion, not expecting to be addressed by anyone in the room, too consumed with trying to kill the youngest with his glares. “Come on, move.” She grinned and he followed her to the kitchen like a lost puppy trailing behind its owner. Casually she opened one of the cupboards pretending to look for some chips before snapping around; trying to catch him off guard but Jimin was just leaning against the counter, too deep in thought to even notice. “What’s up with you?” “Nothing.” He muttered under his breath, tracing the marble pattern of the countertop with his fingertips. “You’ve been acting strange ever since we got in the car to go home.” “Oh no, I’m just tired. It was a long day.” She raised her brows. “You know, I was just wondering…” “Yes?” “Is it normal for friends to be sitting that close together?” His voice was shaking when he asked the question; he was scared of her answer but she knew what he was getting at. “Who? Jk and y/n?” He nodded, not daring to make eye contact with her. “No, it’s totally not!” “So you’re seeing what I’m seeing?” Finally looking at her; he swallowed hard, his palms feeling clammy again. “Yeah, I’ve been seeing it for a while now.”

Suddenly he reached for her hand, clutching it tightly. “I have to tell you something but I can’t do it here.” He started walking, pulling her behind him to his room. She had trouble keeping up with his long strides, stumbling ever so often. Closing the door behind him, he rested his back against the wooden surface. “I have to tell someone or I’ll explode.” Nervous anticipation flared up inside her; was this the moment she had been waiting for for months now? “Ha-na promise me, you won’t tell a soul about what I’m going to tell you!” He made his way over to her; grabbing her shoulders his fingers clawing into her shirt. “I promise.” “You can’t even tell Taehyungie! I don’t want him to get upset.” Jimin held out his pinky and she wrapped hers around his. “Pinky promise, I won’t tell anyone.” “Okay, so I went to Jungkook’s studio and I-…” “Ah here you are, we wanted to order…” Hoseok opened the door to his and Jimin’s room; both of their heads snapping in the older one's direction. “GET OUT!” They both yelled in unison causing the older one’s eyes to almost pop out of his head. “You brats! You’re not getting any tiramisu!” Hobi said in this best dad voice, swinging the door shut, muffling his chuckle. “Go on Jiminie, I’m dying here…” As if to prepare herself for what he was about to say, she covered her mouth, her teeth sinking hard into her bottom lip. “So I walk inside, it’s dark and I hear that weird noise and at first I didn’t know what it was… Ha-na he was…” He trailed off, deciding on making a gesture with his hand, instead of saying the actual words. “He was beating the meat? Charming the snake? Cleaning his snorkel?” “OHMYGOD! Don’t call it that.” He screeched, flailing his arms to get her to stop using weird analogies. “So you walked in on him masturbating? What’s the big deal? You’ve all lived together for so long, even sharing one room and beds, I’m sure it has happened before…” Disappointment was swinging in her voice; her hopes of something exciting happening crushed into pieces. “Yeah but that is not the point that threw me off, he was watching a video…” Taking deep breaths to muster up the courage, he finally said the words she was dying to hear. “It was a video of y/n having sex and I’m pretty sure it was Jungkook who was fucking her, I could see his hand and his arm, I know it was him. I couldn’t hear any of the audio because he was wearing headphones but I could read his name from her lips.”

“Finally, thank you.” She threw her arms around him in relief to finally have the proof she needed, hugging him so tightly he thought she was going to break his ribs before letting him go. “What do you mean?” “I knew there was something going on between them. I just knew it! I was right the whole time! I’ve walked in on them in his studio and she was on his lap when there was a perfectly good chair for her to sit on.” “Are you saying it’s not a one-time thing?” Jimin’s eyes grew bigger, not able to grasp the concept of this happening for longer than he had originally thought. “Trust me, it’s been months. A couple of days ago, after our game night, I saw them making out in the kitchen when everyone was asleep. I just wasn’t sure if it was just that or if they were having sex.” “Well, I saw it with my own two eyes.” He cried out, throwing his head back dramatically. “The images still flash before my eyes every time I close them. I’ll have nightmares for weeks.”

Tapping her chin with her index finger, she sat down on Hobi’s bed, crossing her legs. “It explains a lot, like why he sometimes disappears and doesn’t come home overnight or why he’s so eager to please her all the time.” “I never really thought much of any of those things.” Jimin sat down across from her on his own bed. “I just assumed he went to Yina’s apartment or he was being really nice to her because she’s Tae’s best friend and he wanted to show Tae that he cares.”

She was kneading her bottom lip between her fingers; suddenly everything seemed to make sense. All the times she had seen them together coming from an empty break room or dance studio in the company building, how he always made snide remarks about her as a coverup, the way he had acted out of character when they had tried to set up y/n with Hyungsik, trying way too hard to force information out of them on where the date was. “Do you remember y/n coming here after her date and she walked in on Jungkook and Yina and then she cried her eyes out?” Jimin nodded his head; it was like she had switched on a lightbulb above his head. “Hyungsik mentioned to Tae that she was seeing a guy. I’m telling, you there is no mystery guy, it has always been Jk.” “No, Ha-na! I don’t think that’s true.” “Jimin, it’s so obvious, isn’t it? All the evidence points to Jungkook cheating on Yina with her for months, if you want to believe it or not!” “Jungkookie would never.” Switching places; she sat down next to him to wrap her arm around his shoulders, trying to comfort him. She knew how fond he was of the youngest, he adored him just like the others did. They all raised him although they had been so young themselves. “We taught him better than that, he would never do that.” “Don’t start blaming yourself; you did nothing wrong. He made the decision to cheat on his girlfriend all by himself! He decided to get his dick wet somewhere else.”

“Poor Yina. Do you think she knows already or should we tell her?” “She told me that Jungkook has been distancing himself from her but I don’t think she suspects that he’s sleeping with someone. And no, I’m not doing his dirty work for him. If he thinks it’s okay to cheat then he should man up and tell her the truth.” Jimin’s eyes were swimming in tears. “But we have to do something. She deserves to know!” Gently she ruffled his hair. “I know but we don’t have any evidence, we just saw things. We would need actual proof and I’m not going to snoop through anyone’s phone or computer to get it.” The boy groaned, flopping back onto the mattress, rubbing his eyes. “Ha-na, I’m just so confused. I don’t understand why he did it.” Unsure of whether Jimin could handle the harsh truth; she rested her hand on his knee, giving it a light squeeze. “We will never know unless we ask him or both of them.” “No, looking at them makes me so angry. I can’t stand being in the same room with them, being all over each other when they know what they’re doing is wrong.”

Ha-na laid down beside him, staring at the white ceiling. “I really want to know for how long they have been sneaking around, it’s been two months at least.” “Must be a while…” Jimin mumbled. “Haven’t you noticed that they are wearing the same bracelet?” “What?” She rolled onto her side, propping her head up on her arm. “Are you sure?” “Yeah, I noticed it while trying to murder both of them with my stares. It’s this black leather bracelet with the silver plate.” “So if they’re wearing couple bracelets then it’s more serious than I initially thought.” With a big sigh, she rolled back onto her back. “I guess so.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, tears still threatening to spill. “All this time, I thought that maybe they were just fucking around but what if they are serious-serious?”

Jimin turned around to lie on his stomach, crossing his arms in front of him to rest his head on them. “I hope they are not, they can’t be. Jungkook wouldn’t throw everything away he has with Yina for someone else.” A grim smile tugged at Ha-na’s lips; if this situation wasn’t so fucked up, she would have deemed it adorable that Jimin held on to Jungkook’s innocence so tightly. All of his members just loved him so much that the thought of him doing one of the worst things one could possibly do to the person they love, was too much to bear. She had made it her mission to find out the truth but now that she knew, the feeling of satisfaction faded quickly. For a moment she closed her eyes; Taehyung’s face appearing in front of her mind's eye; no matter what they were going to do, she had to protect him from finding out. It would break his heart to know that two of the people he loved so deeply were capable of the ultimate betrayal. “Jimin! I want answers, we’re going to talk to Jungkook!” “Now?” He sat up, panic straining his voice. He wasn’t prepared to talk to his little brother; let alone look him in the eyes after everything he had found out today. Remembering the old days, when he had been too shy to even take his shirt off in front of them, let alone talk to girls. But everything was different now -Jungkook had grown up, he would never be able to look at him the same way again. It felt like someone had punched him in the stomach; the queasy feeling never subsiding fully. His little brother, his Jungkookie, the one he treasured so much and who could never do anything wrong in his eyes, was not the person he thought he was. When did he change? Was it all y/n’s fault? Did she trick him into cheating on his girlfriend? His face pulled into a grimace; they were both at fault, after all, it takes two to tango. There were no words to describe how disappointed he was, it felt like it was about to crush him. They all had failed at teaching Jungkook right from wrong when he so blindly ran into the arms of disaster. “Ha-na, I can’t talk to him. I’m sorry.” He mumbled, feeling hot tears streaming down his cheeks as he finally caved under the overwhelming pressure of emotions.

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artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

This Time Around (Scyvie) - Miss Bianca & rbcch

rbcch’s a/n: “i would fuck yvie, she would get me stoned afterwards.” - scarlet for entertainment tonight. sometimes dreams do come true and you get yourself a new ship and the collab partner of your dreams, usually you just have to pout long enough. we’ve had so much fun writing this, i hope you have as much fun reading this, and come and tell us what you think. we would love to chat about this au with you guys, and our ask boxes are open. say hi to me on @lesbianpearliaison, or find me on ao3 where i’m rbcch and always thirsty for feedback !

Miss Bianca’s a/n: so…it’s finally done! those of you who follow us have been hearing about this particular collab constantly for over a month, and we are so incredibly proud of how it turned out. working on this project has taught me what true, 50/50 collaboration looks like, and has also proven to me yet again how utterly obsessed i am with rbcch and her writing, and i cannot wait to work more with her in the future - both to create more within this AU, and to work on other projects outside of it. please let her, and/or myself, know what you think of this! you can find me @scarletoddly on tumblr, and as MissBianca on ao3.

Summary: Yvie processes smudged eyeliner, before her gaze falls to a delicate nose and a pink, pretty mouth, open slightly and still somehow pouty, full lips clean of any tint or gloss. Swallowing thickly, Yvie blinks, the air seeming significantly warmer now, or maybe it’s her skin. The surprise of having her cigarette rudely stolen is trumped by the surprise of how ridiculously attractive the little thief is, and Yvie makes no protest, instead taking a cigarette of her own and flipping the pack closed, defying the near-gravitational pull of the woman beside her and forcing herself to look away, even if just for a moment.

Or, Scarlet takes Yvie’s cigarette, and Yvie takes her home.

Word Count: 27.2k

Yvie barely dodges another body, groaning under her breath in frustration and squeezing between two strangers as she keeps her gaze fixed on Adore’s back so to not lose her as they make their way through a busy Brooklyn bar. The heat in the smoky interior is sudden, a contrast from the cool air outside, and Yvie considers taking off her leather jacket briefly, before wrapping it tighter around herself for security instead.

As always, Adore seems far less bothered to be in a crowded space like this, much more at home. She practically bounces off the bar once she reaches it, her body landing heavily against the wood, both forearms resting on top. Sighing, Yvie grits her teeth and shoulders yet another person to the side, positioning herself next to Adore stiffly.

“Damn, you’re really losing your touch,” she deadpans. “Couldn’t you have found us somewhere with a nice crowd?”

Adore quirks an unimpressed eyebrow at Yvie, the tip of her tongue poking out from between her teeth, then lets her eyes dart to the opposite side of the counter. “Y’know, seems nice enough to me.”

Yvie follows her gaze to a bartender with her back turned, then down to said bartender’s ass, and rolls her eyes.

“So I’m just here to be your wingwoman, right?” she sighs. “That’s why you dragged me out on this Thursday night?”

They always do this whenever Adore manages to force Yvie out of the apartment or her art studio; Yvie grumbles about it like a little bitch and Adore acts generally unaffected by her complaining. In reality, Yvie’s roommate is one of the few reasons she even goes out, and they both know it, regardless of how much Yvie bitches about it.

“Oh, right,“ Adore snorts, grabbing her black hat by the brim and adjusting it on her washed-out brown hair. “As if you don’t get pussy without even trying every time I drag you off your ass and make you be around people.”

Yvie opens her mouth to protest, and then, drawing blank, closes it, leaning her chin on her fist and huffing out a heavy breath. No matter how many times the conversation turns to her seemingly wild and adventurous sex life, there’s really no way for her to dispute misconceptions without spilling her guts. So instead, she just rolls with it, plays her well-practiced part of the laid-back, detached womanizer.

“Besides, I don’t need a wingwoman,” Adore adds, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smirk. “The ones I pick land in the palm of my hand. Literally.”

“Oh, shut up,” Yvie can’t help the genuine laugh that escapes her, so she counteracts it with a roll of her eyes. “Seriously, shut up.”

The music gets louder, then, pressing in around them, and Yvie stiffens her spine, straightens her shoulders so as not to collapse inwards. Picking up a flimsy paper napkin from the bar, she starts pulling at it with her blunt fingernails, tearing off tiny pieces and rolling them between her thumb and pointer finger.

“Hey,” Adore says, her hand resting on Yvie’s forearm and her tone surprisingly soft. “If I let you breathe in oil paints and cigarettes any longer, you would’ve died, bitch. You gotta get out more. Y'know, social life, and shit.” She waves her free arm around. “Fresh air. Y’know, stuff.”

“I love how this is your definition of fresh air.”

Adore brushes her off and turns back to the bar, just in time to come face to face with the very bartender whose ass she was so unabashedly eyeing earlier. Adore looks at her like she wants to swallow her whole without chewing, and knowing her, that’s probably exactly what’s going to happen later tonight. Unsurprisingly, the bartender stares back, lips slightly parted, like her breath just escaped her, and there’s no missing the satisfied look in Adore’s eye. Yvie looks at them in mild disbelief mixed with a dash of annoyance, and, when it becomes clear that neither of them is going to move, clears her throat pointedly.

“Can I get a Guinness, please?” she says loudly, probably too loud to use talking over the music as an excuse. “In a bottle, please.”

The bartender’s mouth opens farther, and Yvie glances at Adore to find her roommate grinning darkly and repeatedly clicking the ball of her tongue piercing against her teeth.

“And one tequila,” Yvie adds curtly, ripping a larger piece off the paper napkin. “You know, as soon as you’re free.”

“Huh?” the girl hums absentmindedly, finally tearing her gaze off Adore. “A shot?”

“No, a bottle.”

The girl shoots Yvie an annoyed leer, seemingly snapping out of it the rest of the way and snatching a bottle of tequila from the one of the refrigerator sinks on her work unit and pouring a shot. She puts it on the counter in front of Yvie, topping it off with a slice of lime and a little pack of salt, then opts for one of the real, floor-length fridges behind her. Adore resumes staring at her ass but doesn’t forget to call a low Actually, make that two, babe after her.

“You done?” Yvie mutters while the bartender is looking away, shooting Adore a look and tossing a rolled up bit of napkin at her. “You’re fucking shameless.”

“Mmm,” Adore hums, clearly not at all perturbed by Yvie’s attitude. “Remember that time you forgot your keys and fingered that girl in the hallway outside our apartment? What was her name? Anna? Akasha?”

Yvie narrows her eyes. “A'keria, I think. Your point?”

“Fuckin’ shameless.” Adore winks at her.

With a shrug, Yvie thinks back to her encounter with A’keria. Her lips had been sticky with her lipgloss and tasted of cherry, and Yvie had swallowed her broken gasps off her mouth as she had pressed her against the wall next to their front door and worked her fingers into her panties and then inside her. Like most of Yvie’s hookups, she hadn’t stayed the night. In fact, she hadn’t even made it into the apartment before ordering herself an Uber, rhinestoned acrylics clicking against the screen of her phone, cooing lazily about how men will never know how to touch women like another woman does, and isn’t that a damn shame, as she’d given Yvie’s arm a squeeze. She had been long gone when Adore got there with the keys, and Yvie had tasted the stupid, sickly-sweet lipgloss on her tongue for hours afterwards.

Good thing she had never particularly liked cherry flavors anyway.

Yvie grimaces and turns to busy herself with the shot to avoid continuing with the topic. Swiping the slice of lime over the back of her palm quickly, she then pours the salt over the sticky trail and grabs the glass, unceremoniously lapping up the salt and washing it down with the alcohol. Once she’s sucking on the lime, she decides to turn back to Adore.

Her roommate is now chatting up a dark haired girl perched on a stool beside her, repeating her seductive routine as if out of habit, hardly bothering to pause when the bartender sets the beers down in front of them.

“Thanks, babe,” Adore says carelessly, picking up her bottle and flashing the bartender a smile before looking back at her new conquest.

Yvie tries to drill into the back of Adore’s head with her gaze, but conveniently, this seems like the only time Adore’s focus is unwavering. The girl may not be able to hold a coherent conversation for longer than a few minutes at a time, but she’s always been able to hold a woman’s attention for as long as is necessary to get something that she wants — that something, more often than not, being to get into their panties.

“Watch my beer, Delano,” Yvie scoffs and pushes her own bottle in front of Adore. It’s hard to tell if Adore hears her. Yvie finds she doesn’t particularly care.

Pushing through the crowd is even harder than it was when they entered, and Yvie isn’t sure if it’s because of the fact the place is even more packed now or because of the way she feels almost claustrophobic without Adore as her lifeline. It’s a grimy bar, the kind where the floor is sticky with more than just wax to prevent it being slippery and the surfaces are in the constant state of something questionable chipping and peeling off of them. The air feels as dim and smoky as the lighting, hard to breathe in somehow, and Yvie knows her skin and clothes will stink of cheap beer and marijuana by the time they finally head home.

There’s a pool table on the right behind the bar counter, occupied by a guy and a girl who arches her back and pushes her ass up when she bends over the table in a way Yvie isn’t completely convinced is necessary. There’s a row of soft seating against the left wall, the velvet covering the cushions probably rich red where the fabric dye hasn’t worn off from the bodies rubbing on it. The round tables are situated every couple feet or so, almost all of them already taken and slowly filling with empty pints and glasses and bottles.

Yvie counts the scents of dozens of different perfumes as she shoves and ducks her way through the thickest part of the crowd, all of them oppressively heavy, a few of them familiar. She wonders if she’s taken any of these women to bed, wonders which one she’ll end up taking to bed tonight, wonders how many of them are just waiting to fall into the arms of someone who can take care of them proper, soft and needy and looking for one night where they can be the one who uses and then leaves rather than the one who’s left.

She reaches the back exit, shoulders drawn in towards her body, and glances behind at the clusters of bodies in the darkened room briefly. She places her forearm firmly against the door and chews the inside of her cheek, wonders if being the one who always stays behind will ever get easier.

The fenced smoking area is pleasantly empty, the night too young for people to be chain-smoking through packs upon packs just yet. The air outside is even cooler now that she’s coming from inside the bar, and she shoves her hands in the pockets of her jacket, her fist instinctively closing around the old refillable lighter in one of them. Pushing the jacket closed in the front, she strides over to lean against the brick wall. There’s a weird realization that the door takes longer to close behind her than a door that light logically should poking somewhere at the edge of Yvie’s consciousness, but she pays it no mind, instead shaking one of her hands out of the pocket and retrieving the pack of cigarettes stored there. She thumbs it open and is abruptly distracted by the sound of footsteps, the sudden warmth of another body next to her.

A slender hand enters her line of vision, snagging a cigarette from the pack before withdrawing again, and Yvie looks up and directly into the heavy lidded eyes of her unexpected company.

She processes smudged eyeliner, before her gaze falls to a delicate nose and a pink, pretty mouth, open slightly and still somehow pouty, full lips clean of any tint or gloss. Swallowing thickly, Yvie blinks, the air seeming significantly warmer now, or maybe it’s her skin. The surprise of having her cigarette rudely stolen is trumped by the surprise of how ridiculously attractive the little thief is, and Yvie makes no protest, instead taking a cigarette of her own and flipping the pack closed, defying the near-gravitational pull of the woman beside her and forcing herself to look away, even if just for a moment.

“Got a light, daddy?”

The woman’s drawl is smooth and sweet, and Yvie’s visceral reaction is anything but. She’s got the cigarette dangling between her fingers, hovering near that goddamned mouth, and the way she tilts her head just a little makes it clear she’s fully aware of the disarming, arousing effect she’s having. Yvie can’t bear to look at her knowing eyes or the tilt of her lips as she purses them more, so she drops her gaze lower and regrets it immediately as she’s met with the soft curve of her cleavage instead. It couldn’t be clearer that the woman is braless, hardly supported by the flimsy material of the red dress she’s wearing, nipples poking through the fabric, begging for attention, and Yvie feels as if she’s being suffocated, snaps her gaze away, fights the desire to curse aloud.

She twists her arm and pulls the lighter out, quickly pushing herself off the wall with her abs and stepping closer. The woman leans in, cigarette securely between her lips and palm flying up to shield the light, and Yvie flicks the lighter and stays breathing in her rosy fragrance exactly as long as it takes for the cherry to turn bright orange and not a second longer.

Slumping back against the cold brick, Yvie lights her own smoke and eyes the woman out of the corner of her eye. She wears what appears to be a grey men’s blazer, draped over her shoulders with her arms outside the sleeves, and Yvie toys with the possibility that it’s probably her boyfriend’s, or some guy’s she was flirting with before coming out and deciding Yvie was her daddy instead. The garment falls lower than her dress, which isn’t really much of an accomplishment, seeing as her dress doesn’t fall low at all, instead creeping up every time the woman tugs on the fabric to cover more of her chest and revealing the milky, flawless skin of her thighs. The hand not occupied with the cigarette is grasping a glass, fingers around the rim, long french tip nails blatantly evident against the golden liquid inside. Yvie’s eyes wander up her chest to her brown hair, coarse and loose, the kind of messy that’s a casualty rather than a deliberate choice, falling to just below her shoulders but so voluminous that Yvie thinks her hands could get lost in it.

Yvie likes the hair. It’s one of the few things about her that doesn’t scream straight girl looking for an easy fuck. Unfortunately, she really, really likes everything else, too, despite or maybe even due to it, in fact, screaming exactly that. It’s just her luck, that she always feels this pull towards girls who only want her for the night, just to try it out, get whatever she can give them before they go back to men. Yvie steels herself, hoping she’ll be able to resist falling into that trap once again.

The woman is regarding Yvie back, far less subtly than Yvie hopes she is. Yvie watches as she takes a drag, her pillowy lips puckering, and then blows out a cloud of smoke, her gaze lowering to survey Yvie’s abs, revealed by her crop top. She brings her glass up, that pretty mouth of hers staying open as her tongue pokes out, curls, attempts to catch the straw and misses miserably. The woman pouts audibly, and the situation is so absurd that Yvie chuckles and shakes her head, her resolve to keep her distance already starting to crumble.

The woman clearly goes to say something to that, but before she can, the back door creaks open again and a bouncer sticks his head out, startling them both.

“No drinks allowed outside,” he informs them, pointing at the sign above Yvie’s head that states exactly that. “Take it inside.”

The woman looks frustrated, ready to protest, but the bouncer raises an eyebrow and she deflates quickly, letting out a noise somewhere between a huff and a whine. Yvie stares, almost disbelieving, as the woman just lets her freshly lit cigarette fall unceremoniously from her fingers onto the concrete. Brushing off her fingertips on the lapel of the blazer, as if getting rid of invisible ash, she looks Yvie up and down one last time, seeming almost wistful, before turning to wobble back towards the door.

Practically gaping, Yvie glances rapidly between the still lit, wasted cigarette on the pavement and the graceful curve of the woman’s calves in her heels as she yanks the door farther open and begins to step inside. The bouncer disappears, but the woman stays put for a moment, propping the door open with her ass, her fingers curling around the doorframe as she stares at Yvie determinedly. Closing her mouth, Yvie stares right back, taking a drag of her own cigarette in attempt to hide how completely thrown off her guard she is. The woman sighs, licking her upper lip and pausing as if deciding how to properly articulate her thoughts.

“’M gonna find you later,” she says finally, nodding and pointing at Yvie. "Later.”

She vanishes, and the door slams shut, leaving Yvie alone with her burning cigarette and racing thoughts.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she curses and angrily stomps on the smoke the woman left behind her, crushing it under her boot and then grinding it into the pavement with a couple vigorous movements for good measure.

She finishes her own cigarette in record time, smoking like she has a point to prove or a lot of pent up tension and fury to release. Yvie finds herself angry often, probably too often, but rarely quite so heated as she is now, swept up into such a confusing rush of feelings that she can’t identify whether the source of the heat is her head or her gut or somewhere lower, between her hips, or her thighs, or if it’s just the cherry of her cigarette burning too close to her fingers now and setting her skin on fire.

She doesn’t stop until she can taste the filter, and it annoys her even more, because she’s left with the harsh taste of cardboard on her tongue in lieu of much smoother, softer tobacco. Shuffling her fingers so that she’s pinching the butt between her thumb and index, Yvie snappily stubs it out on the seam between two bricks on the wall like it personally offended her. Tossing it to the ground, she stares down at what remains of the other woman’s discarded cigarette, and shakes her head, jaw clenching. She should be relieved, she thinks, that the woman had departed before she was able to tempt Yvie even more, but the only clear feeling in her mind is frustration.

Collapsing back against the wall, Yvie lets out a deep breath, pushing one hand through the short curls on the top of her head and shoving the other into her pocket, probably a bit more aggressively than necessary. Finding her pack of smokes there, she rubs her thumb against it, contemplates lighting up another to occupy herself for awhile longer.

As if she’s hit a light switch, Yvie’s mind is suddenly filled with the image of the woman’s face as Yvie had lit her cigarette earlier, her eyes downcast, her palm visibly soft in the glow of the single flame. The sweet, heady scent of her perfume seems to fill Yvie’s senses once more, mixed now with remainders of the acrid smoke, and Yvie isn’t sure whether it’s really lingered so long in the air around her, or whether all of it is in her head. She wonders whether the fragrance was only rubbed onto her neck and her wrists, or whether she could find it tucked into the woman’s cleavage as well, nose into the valley between her breasts and breathe the mixture of sweat and sweetness and skin until her head is spinning and the saliva pools under her tongue.

Yvie shuffles her feet on the ground like she wants to kick something and scoffs at herself loudly. She decides to forego another cigarette and head back inside instead to escape her own mind and the woman occupying it.

The bar feels a little bit louder, a little bit busier, a little bit smaller than it was upon her exit, but at least the smell of hard liquor snaps Yvie abruptly back to reality and drowns out anything else she might imagine she’s still sensing. Defensively crossing her arms on her chest, Yvie tries to push through stacks of people with as little physical contact as possible while she scans the room carefully. She doesn’t pay attention to light brown manes of the girls surrounding her, doesn’t turn her chin ever so slightly towards any floral perfume she notices, most certainly doesn’t feel her stomach clench every time she catches a flash of red in her peripheral vision. She’s looking for Adore, she tells herself firmly, and only Adore.

Adore finds her instead, her lazy drawl barely reaching Yvie over all the other noise as she passes the table her roommate seems to have relocated to. Yvie stops in her tracks and wheels around, taking in the image before her. The first thing she registers is a dark-haired girl, perched in a lap. The second thing she registers is that the lap is Adore’s. Yvie can’t tell if the girl is the same one Adore was chatting up at the counter or not, and she wouldn’t be surprised either way. One of Adore’s arms is around her waist, and the other one is extended toward the table where she’s toying with a beer bottle, another, empty one right beside it. The girl is raising a glass above her head and swaying her hips to the music, only her position makes it look like she’s grinding on Adore’s thigh rather than dancing, and she looks so obviously gay that Yvie feels like punching something.

Yvie leans solidly against the table, stares at Adore with an eyebrow raised. Before she can speak up to get Adore’s attention, the dark-haired girl reaches over to snatch Adore’s hat off of her head, giggling and pulling it on so it rests lopsidedly over her own curls. Adore laughs in return, far more roughly, tugs the girl closer by her waist and sticks her tongue out with her mouth still open as if she’s about to lean in and lick the girl’s chest.

“Is that my beer, Delano?” Yvie asks indignantly, cutting in before Adore can do anything inappropriate in front of her, or God forbid, remind her of what she wants to do to a certain wild-haired woman who she’s trying very hard to keep out of her thoughts.

“Dunno,” Adore shrugs, batting her eyelashes with a smile that’s somewhere between charming and predatory. “But I drank some, so… if you took a sip you might as well just be giving me a big, wet kiss.”

“Bitch, I paid for that!” Yvie exclaims. “You can’t just drink my beer.”

“Chill,” Adore says, forcing the hand that’s not currently pushing up the dark-haired girl’s shirt into the pocket of her jeans and pulling out a crumpled up twenty that looks like it’s been to hell and back again. She chucks it onto the table, and puts both hands on the girl’s waist. “There, ‘kay? Go to the bar and get yourself somethin’ nice, give me and Violet here a minute alone, huh?”

“Wow, you learned her name,” Yvie observes, a heavy note of sarcasm in her tone as she nods and grabs the bill from the table. “Damn, guess someone found her prize early tonight.”

“Go get your beer before you scare her off, Yves,” Adore snarks.

“Fuck you,” says the prize in question playfully, cupping Adore’s neck to pull her closer.

“Later, babe,” Adore says with a grin, leaning in. “Can do whatever you want to me later.”

“And that would be my cue, then,” Yvie states loudly and turns on her heels, starting to walk back to the bar.

Adore is like this, with women. She falls in love for a night, and then falls out of it with equal effortlessness before the new dawn has even begun to break. She picks girls up one by one, like little gadgets or toys, and tries them out, fiddles with them, charms them with her carelessness and her disinterest and her wolfish grin until they’re practically eating from the palm of her hand. And then, she drops each one just the same, forgets names, deletes numbers from her phone as easily as she gets them. With Adore, there’s never a second date, never a text back, only a new girl with a new flavor on a new night. It leaves a bad taste in Yvie’s mouth, always has. She can’t understand how anyone can live like that, without any sort of emotional connection or intimacy, and remain intact and happy and carefree like Adore does.

Yvie herself certainly hasn’t been able to.

Of course, she’s served by the same bartender as the first time around. The woman looks somewhere past Yvie, and Yvie knows she’s hoping to see Adore trailing behind. When she realizes it’s not in the cards, she fixes Yvie a blank look.

“Can I get two shots?” Yvie asks her.

“Tequila?” the bartender asks back.

Yvie knits her brow together and licks her lower lip before replying. “Actually, make it vodka.”

The bartender nods and slams two shot glasses on the counter in front of Yvie, then grabs a bottle and fills them up. Yvie hands her the note and swiftly takes the shots back to back while the woman disappears to ring her total in and get her change.

She’s just putting the second glass down when she hears it, and she instinctively snaps her head around before she can think better of it. It’s a rich, throaty sound, not quite a girly giggle but undeniably a cute laugh nonetheless, and Yvie frantically looks for the source.

She’s standing a little distance away, closer to the pool table, and she’s still wearing the godawful blazer that is just the first on the list of things Yvie wants to rip off of her. It’s too dark and too far away to actually tell, but Yvie is pretty sure she’s pinching the straw of the drink she’s holding between her ridiculous nails and taking tiny sips, her sinful mouth puckering. There’s someone with her, a tall, slender blonde with a head of hair even longer and messier. Yvie doesn’t bother giving her more than a glance, her eyes moving back to the woman she can’t seem to get out of her mind. She bites her lip, watches the woman’s head tilt back gorgeously as she laughs again, and wishes she was biting there instead, under her strong jaw, ruining the fair skin until the mark she’s left is as angry as she feels.

Inhaling slowly through her nose, Yvie tears her gaze away, turns once more to face the bar and lean against it, finding her change along with a receipt on the counter and the bartender still nearby. “Can I get a Guinness, too, please?”

The bartender nods wearily, heading back to fetch it from the fridge, and Yvie taps her fingertips against the wood of the counter, chewing on her lower lip now, wishing something would distract her from the places her imagination is going and the way the seam of her jeans presses between her legs when she keeps shifting her weight from foot to foot. The white paper of the receipt catches her eye, and she flips it over, pursing her lips. To her surprise, there’s a phone number written at the bottom, scrawled in black ink. Furrowing her brow, she stares at it for a second, still too distracted by the undercurrent of dirty thoughts filling her mind to figure out why it would be there. She’s startled out of her thoughts by the bartender setting the beer bottle down in front of her, and pointing at the writing she’s been staring at.

“That,” the bartender says loudly, “Is for your friend.”

“Right,” Yvie nods, suppresses the urge to roll her eyes and folds the receipt carelessly. “'Course it is.”

She’s not gonna call you, Yvie thinks to herself, wishing she had the nerve or the right amount of alcohol in her system to say it out loud. Instead, she gives the bartender one last nod, grabs her beer and the receipt, and heads back towards the table.

That’s the thing with Adore. She always gets numbers, always has ink scratched on her hands, always has a woman trying to get a text back, for a coffee date or a second hook-up or a concert nearby. Yvie gives her a hard time for never replying, prods her teasingly, wonders aloud when anyone will ever be good enough for Adore Delano. Come on, we’re the same, you never do second dates either, Adore always replies, giving her a punch on the arm, and Yvie laughs humorlessly. They’re not the same, but Yvie won’t ever tell her that, won’t ever confess that she rarely gets numbers and never even gets first dates, only ever drunk girls with long nails and one-sided sex.

It’s funny, how carelessly Adore keeps throwing out something Yvie would kill to have.

Spotting a trash can, Yvie briefly contemplates sparing Adore the trouble this time around and throwing out the number herself. She decides against it after a moment, curling the receipt inside her fist and shoving it into her jacket pocket, electing to give Adore a chance to not be an ass about it, just this once.

Violet has moved to straddle Adore’s lap by the time Yvie gets back to the table, her elbows placed on Adore’s shoulders and her ass propped up just enough for Adore to have room to grab handfuls. Adore’s other hand is lost in Violets curls, probably planted on the nape of her neck to pull her closer as they make out with little to no regard to their surroundings. Tiredly, Yvie rubs her temple with the heel of her palm, the short hair of her undercut tickling the skin, and announces herself by resting the bottle on the table.

“God, can you two just get a room already?” she huffs, her whole body tense from frustration, practically itching to get her hands on a woman like Adore’s doing right now, despite her disapproval - preferably a certain woman in particular.

Adore tugs on Violet’s hair to force her to break the kiss and move to the side so that she can face Yvie. “Uh, I dunno, can we?”

Violet fidgets a little, her hands starting to wander on Adore’s body like she’s not about to let anyone interrupt them.

“C’mon, babe, gimme a minute here,” Adore chuckles and grips Violet’s waist, lifting her and depositing her on the couch next to her like she’s just a doll and not a full-sized human being. Violet just readjusts Adore’s hat on her head and reaches for her still unfinished drink on the table, instantly initiating a round of flirty glancing with someone nearby. Almost impressed, Yvie takes a sip of beer, figures that maybe Adore has finally met someone whose disinterested attitude matches hers.

“What do you mean, can you?” she asks, picking up where the conversation had left off.

“Can I like, use the apartment? Or is your headboard gonna be banging against the wall like usual?”

Yvie glares at her, feigning affront and trying to avoid the train of thought that the mention of her banging headboard leads her towards. Adore just stares back amusedly, licking her thumb to swipe at a smear of lipstick on the corner of her own mouth.

“She could join us,” Violet suggests coyly, still making eyes at someone a table over as if she doesn’t really care one way or another. Yvie isn’t sure whether she’s serious, can’t tell if she ought to respond with a resounding no, or just laugh it off. Luckily, Adore cuts in before she’s forced to make a decision.

“Nah, babe, Yves already found herself a girl for the night,” she says easily, as if she’s not at all taken aback by the situation. She directs her next words to Yvie. “So who’s the lucky lady? Can tell she’s got you all worked up already.”

“Does it fucking look like I have a lady with me?” Yvie demands, the pent up frustration combined with Adore’s teasing finally causing her to snap.

“Looks like there’s one you want so bad you’re about to fuckin’ explode, or something,” Adore replies, shrugging, unbothered by Yvie’s outburst.

Yvie takes a breath, sets her jaw and forces herself to calm down. “There’s no lady,” she says firmly, taking a sip as if to punctuate her words.

However, when she lowers the bottle from her lips, she can’t help instinctively turning her head in the direction of the pool table where she last spotted the woman. She’s still there, so much faster to locate now that Yvie knows what to look for, and Yvie hates the ease with which her attention gravitates to where she’d rather it didn’t. The woman is farther away now, and it’s harder to make out details, but Yvie’s imagination and vivid memories of their short interaction fill in the blanks rapidly, reminding her of pale, creamy skin, of pink lips wrapped around Yvie’s cigarette, of how very touchable she’d looked.

“Right,” Adore says, drawing out the word and snorting with laughter. “Sure there isn’t.“

Flipping Adore off, Yvie takes another sip of her beer, not bothering to take her eyes off the woman on the other side of the bar just yet, taking her in for a few moments longer.

“Your minute’s up, I want attention again,” Violet informs Adore.

“You’re such a fuckin’ brat,” Adore says, beaming like Violet’s the most charming thing she’s ever seen. “C’mere.”

Yvie watches as Violet climbs back into Adore’s lap, gripping her bottle far too tightly as Adore’s hands quickly wander to inappropriate places. She averts her gaze once more, unsure if she’s doing so out of politeness or out of envy, and allows her focus to narrow once again to the brunette by the pool table. She and her blonde friend are making their way towards the bar, now, and Yvie resumes drinking, keeps an eye on the two women as she leans back against the table.

The blondie says something, gesturing languidly as she speaks, and Yvie’s woman shrieks in response, slapping her bicep and shaking her head, her hair bobbing with the movement. The friend just throws her hands up and shrugs animatedly like she’s daring the woman to take it or leave it. The two of them reach the bar, and it hits Yvie a moment late that she’d thought of the woman as hers. She closes her eyes and curses internally, abruptly needing to be far more inebriated than she currently is.

If asked about it, she’d never admit it, aloud or even to herself, really, but maybe Adore had a point when she claimed Yvie’s already set her mind on someone for the night. It’s not like Yvie is planning on taking the woman home, but she’s also well aware the chances of her convincing herself she wants anyone else are as slim as they’ll get, and she’s lived this exact scenario enough times to know how it’ll play out in the end.

Yvie pulls herself out of that negative train of thought swiftly, watching as casually as she can as the two women take shots and pointedly ignoring the way her body tenses when the brunette licks salt off the back of her hand. She doesn’t think of that tongue lapping over her lips and pushing into her mouth after, doesn’t think of it circling one of her nipples before teasingly dropping lower and tracing down her abs, definitely doesn’t think of the place she wants it so bad it physically aches, simply because she doesn’t allow herself go there as a rule of thumb. Wishing for it has never accomplished much anyway, and somewhere along the road Yvie has learned it’s better to keep one’s expectations realistic.

“So are you gonna go get her, Yves?” Adore says loudly. “Or d'you wanna take Vi up on that offer to join us after all?”

Yvie glances over to find Adore peering at her from over Violet’s shoulder, both hands pushed in Violet’s back pockets now, and fixes her with a look that she hopes properly communicates how utterly unamused she is.

"You got that strap-on, don’t ya?” Adore prods, grinning mischievously. “We could use that for sure.”

“Didn’t realize you need outside help to keep your girls satisfied, Delano,” Yvie retorts. “Losing your game, huh? Problems with stamina?”

“Maybe some of us can just… take more, if you know what I mean,” Violet purrs, a seductive little sparkle in her eyes as she turns to look at Yvie.

“Okay, now, let’s not get carried away there,” Adore says roughly, clearing her throat, pulling Violet’s hips against hers in a smooth motion. One hand slides out of Violet’s back pocket, moves up to catch Violet’s chin, drawing her easily back in with what sounds like a low growl. Her touch is visibly firm, and she seems a mixture of amused and annoyed, like someone handling a kitten who’s started to crawl off in the wrong direction. She pulls Violet in to kiss her again, and that’s when Yvie stops watching.

She glances back at the bar, expecting to see her woman leant against it still with another drink, but she and her friend are gone. Cursing under her breath, Yvie takes one last sip of her beer before discarding it on the table and pushing her hands into her jacket pockets in frustration, one fist closing around her lighter reflexively. Among the familiar things she normally keeps there, she finds a folded piece of paper and remembers the receipt with the bartender’s number. She spares a glance at Adore, finding her with her hands sliding up inside Violet’s shirt, and once again contemplates whether or not to give her the number at all.

Before she can rule against it, Adore’s hands slide higher, and Yvie realizes she’s fiddling with the hooks of Violet’s bra, apparently determined to undo them. The way Violet curves her back looks awfully helpful, like she’s not even attempting to stop Adore. Yvie thins her lips and decides she’s feeling spiteful enough to interrupt them and not be sorry about it. Retrieving the receipt, she slams it on the table, making sure her palm comes in contact with the surface hard enough to produce a sound.

“Wha?” Adore peers over Violet’s shoulder, mouth open.

“Bartender gave you her number,” Yvie says coolly. “You know, the one with the ass you liked so much?”

“Oh, yeah,” Adore says after a pause that’s slightly too long, her hands now resting on Violet’s lower back. Violet grabs one of her wrists, and slides her hand back down, her fingers clasped over Adore’s to press them against her skin, sliding their two hands into her shorts as if to prove that her own ass is just as likable, and probably more so.

With a gravity-defying eye roll, Yvie turns back to face the room, an annoying but very persistent part of her hoping she’ll see the woman, but she has no such luck. Almost obsessively flipping the lighter in her fist she gives Adore and Violet one last glance. They’re completely engrossed in each other, Adore’s mouth on Violet’s ear now, and by the way Violet keeps squirming against her, Yvie could bet anything the stuff she’s whispering is extremely filthy. Tightening her jaw, Yvie decides it’s definitely time for another smoke.

What was the eerily quiet smoking area has now turned into something even louder than the bar itself. Yvie has to force the door open, and when she finally slips outside, the two girls smoking right in front of it barely disrupt their lively chatter to move aside and let her through. Drawing her shoulders up and trying to make herself as lean and small as possible, she shoves her hands into her jean pockets and sidesteps around the circle of people, set on making her way to the wall so she’s not out in the open like this.

There’s a consistent stream of people against her, opting to get back inside, and it takes her a while to push through the crowd and spot a suitable space, near the edge of the area. As she reaches it, her shoulder knocks into someone’s back, and she mumbles an apology as she settles against the wall. The person beside her moves away from the wall, assumedly to allow her more space, and Yvie glances over and feels her stomach drop.

She’s staring right back at Yvie, and even when her eyes are widened in surprise and her mouth forms a tiny ‘o’, she somehow manages to look sultry. She’s not wearing the blazer anymore, which makes the dress appear even thinner and flimsier, and she’s holding a cigarette halfway to her mouth and apparently forgotten. Yvie leers at it, registers the white filter instead of the orange of her own smokes, catches herself thinking she doesn’t want the woman smoking anything but her L&Ms, preferably lit by none other than herself, and hates the intensity and possessiveness of the thought enough to try and physically shake it off.

“Hey!” the woman blinks and points at Yvie with her cigarette. “You’re the mean daddy with the light.”

Yvie stares, her brain slowing down as all the blood rushes between her legs, her hands going slack in her pockets. The woman’s heated gaze is wandering slowly over Yvie’s face and her upper body, and when she brings the cigarette to her lips and takes a long drag, Yvie swears she feels it. She’s not holding a drink this time, no chance of her being forced back inside, and her slender shoulder is leaned against the wall, and it would be so easy to advance on her, so easy to say just the right thing to make her sink into the brick and beg to be touched, and Yvie wrestles with the raw desire that’s been biting at her heels all night, resisting the urge to fall all the way into the trap.

“I’m not your daddy,” she husks lowly, pretty sure she’s not convincing anyone at this point, not even herself.

The woman takes a step closer, her shoulder still connected with the brick and dragging on it, and before Yvie can will her own feet to work in order to back down, she outstretches her arm and hooks two of her fingers through Yvie’s belt loop. “You wanna be?”

It’s primal, really, the way Yvie grabs her upper arms and pushes her against the wall, her own frame shielding the woman from the rest of the smoking area as she presses one forearm next to her head and places her other hand on the woman’s hip, her body acting long before her brain catches up. The woman’s eyes widen again, the impact punching the air out of her, and for a split second Yvie feels bad about her roughness, but that thought evaporates as soon as the woman’s tongue slips out and wets her lower lip, the corner of her mouth twisting up mischievously.

“Thought so,” she rasps out, still breathless.

Yvie doesn’t let her gasp for air, surges forward and locks their lips, kisses her to shut her up, to wipe that expression off her face, to leave her lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. She’s soft against the wall, barely any resistance to the hard press of Yvie’s body, her mouth opening easily with a faint whimper like she’s begging to be taken, and Yvie hates her for every bit of it. She hates herself, too, for how she gives into it, how she lets herself go and digs her fingers into the woman’s hip like she’s trying to leave bruises, how she deepens the kiss, how her skin heats up and her head goes dizzy with wanting and wanting and needing.

She pins the woman down with her hips, the insistent pulsing somewhere in her core causing her to search for any friction she can get. The woman responds by lightly nudging into the contact and clasping Yvie’s biceps, the leather squeaking under her long nails. It angers Yvie, reminds her of how she’s doing the exact opposite of what she planned to, should sober her up, but then the woman moans and brings one of her hands to the nape of Yvie’s neck to pull her closer, and Yvie is gone again.

Her hand is slipping up the woman’s waist before she knows it, practically of its own accord, thumb pressing deep into the underside of her breast and palm holding her ribs securely against the wall. The woman’s chest is expanding and contracting rapidly, pressing into the touch, and Yvie allows her to break the kiss but doesn’t move her hand away. Catching her own breath, she watches that pretty mouth gape open, lips darker than before and slick with spit, pupils so wide Yvie could fall into them, her head dropping back against the brick and exposing the shallow curve of her neck.

The air is thick with perfume and cigarette smoke and desire, and Yvie tastes vanilla as she runs her tongue over her own lips, her lungs still almost achingly desperate for oxygen. The woman looks gorgeous, so ardent, so pliant, so very willing, and for a moment, as Yvie watches the frantic heaving of her chest, feels it under her palm, she forgets what’s pissing her off so much to begin with. The woman meets Yvie’s eyes, and tilts her chin up a few inches, turning her head just a little and baring her throat, and it’s somehow teasing and an invitation all at once and Yvie throws caution to the wind, rubs the pad of her thumb over the woman’s hardened nipple and leans in to take what’s being offered.

Yvie’s tongue touches skin first, searching for the woman’s pulse, and her eyes flutter shut as she finds it, pressing an open mouthed kiss to the spot, far more gently than she intends to. There’s a shudder that runs through the soft body against hers, and nails digging so hard into her biceps, and a needy whine as the woman squirms. “Daddy…” she gasps, and Yvie hisses, drags her teeth against the skin. “More.”

Her voice is a shade darker now, prominently turned on, and Yvie wonders whether the rest of her body is, too, wonders if she’d feel it were she to reach under the dress and cup the woman’s cunt, if she’d be able to smell her arousal on her fingers, maybe even taste it after, wonders if the panties the woman’s wearing are soaking as fast as Yvie’s own are upon being called daddy and having an eager body under her own. She has to stop herself from letting her hand explore, instead forcing her leg between the woman’s and pushing her thigh up, higher until she’s pressing it against her heat.

The woman moans again, clawing at Yvie’s jacket, her hips rocking into the contact, and Yvie is sure that her tiny dress is rolled up too far by now, sure that people are watching, and she catches herself wanting to be seen, wanting everyone to know what’s hers, even if superficially. Yvie sinks her teeth into the woman’s neck and feels her melt, whining gorgeously as Yvie closes her lips around the skin and sucks.

The thing is, Yvie has no claim to lay, but some untamed part of her needs to mark the woman up so that whatever man comes after her knows she’s already been taken and used, ruined for him, ridden like a racehorse and put away wet. The remaining anger surging in her chest at the impulse, Yvie shoves her thigh tighter between the woman’s, stopping her from rocking forwards and trapping her firmly against the wall, mouth still working at her neck. It’s so very easy, to sink her teeth into the soft flesh over and over until the sighs the woman’s letting out are intertwined with tiny sobs.

Before long, Yvie stops biting, her lips still latched on the skin, and lets her tongue gently circle the spot. The woman shivers with a mumbled noise and goes even more slack than she’s been, staying upright only because Yvie’s body is right there to steady her.

Yvie pulls back a little, her gaze scanning the sight in front of her, the woman’s tight grip on her shoulders keeping her pressed close, holding the two of them still. The woman’s breathing is rough, her pout prettier than ever, her eyes unfocused and glossy as if they were watering while Yvie stayed on her neck, the mark blooming perfectly below her jaw. Her hair is even messier now, and one of the straps of her dress is threatening to slide off her shoulder. On some weird reflex, Yvie detaches her arm from the wall and moves to readjust it, and the woman’s hand snaps to grab Yvie’s wrist.

“So,” she drawls, her voice low like she needs to clear her throat. “You gonna feel me up outside a cheap bar all night, or are you gonna take me home, daddy?”

Yvie narrows her eyes, disbelieving that despite their position, the woman is still keeping up the façade of power play and making demands like she isn’t literally depending on Yvie to stay standing. With a scoff, she shakes her head and begins to lean farther away, and the woman raises an eyebrow at her.

“…Or do I need to find someone else to give me some dick and get me stoned afterwards?”

Yvie stares at her, open-mouthed at her nerve, the last of her resistance destroyed by the image of her spread out and taking Yvie’s strap how Yvie wants her to. After a moment, the woman cranes her neck a little, her gaze starting to wander over the other people in the smoking area as if she’s searching for that someone else. There’s no rational way she would be able to collect herself and advance on anybody in the state Yvie’s reduced her to, but Yvie has given up all logical thinking a good while ago, so she acts instinctively, her hand flying up from the woman’s breast to wrap around her throat, thumb under her jaw forcing her eyes back to Yvie’s face.

“I’m going to fuck that attitude right out of you,” she growls, articulating each word carefully.

The woman’s reaction is instantaneous, a rapid intake of breath and her thighs clenching together on either side of Yvie’s, a faint whimper escaping her. Yvie has to suppress a victorious smirk, knows she’s probably leaking, wonders if there’ll be a damp spot on her jeans where the dark fabric is pressed against the woman’s panties.

“We’ll see about that, daddy,” the woman says breathlessly, clearly struggling to get the words out, a stinging contrast to the smugness of what she’s said.

Yvie lets go of her and straightens her posture, stepping back and rolling her shoulders. “Oh, we will.”

Spinning around, she starts toward the door, expecting the woman to follow suit without being told. As she makes her way through the crowd, she fishes her phone out of her pocket and opens the Uber app, swiftly ordering them one. The faster she gets them out of there, the less time she’ll have to reconsider her shitty life decisions and regret everything. She’ll have the entirety of tomorrow morning to do just that, anyway.

She doesn’t glance back until she’s at the door, and just like she assumed, the woman is trailing right behind her, slightly unsteady in her heels. Yvie isn’t sure if she’s wobbly because of the alcohol or because she’s so worked up she can’t recompose herself proper. Either way, there’s something so very precious about her in that moment, and Yvie despises how small and cute she looks as she’s hugging herself and how Yvie’s insides twitch with the need to keep her safe.

“Aren’t you cold?” she barks out, furious with herself for even thinking that.

“Nah-uh,” the woman shakes her head animatedly, her arms still wrapped around her middle. “‘M pleasantly warm.”

“That’s alcohol talking,” Yvie snaps, and then, before she can scold herself, adds, “Here, take my jacket.”

She shrugs it off, steps closer to the woman, intending to merely drape it over her shoulders like the blazer had been earlier, but the woman stretches out her arm, clearly expecting Yvie to put it on her. Too surprised to protest, Yvie helps her into the jacket, cursing at herself internally for doing something so caring when she knows she ought to be getting as far away from the woman next to her as possible. Yvie moves backwards again, watches her pull the jacket around her body, almost like she’s snuggling into it, the worn black leather swallowing her up and making her look petite and somehow even more feminine than before. Her eyes narrow prettily, her hair fluffy around her shoulders, and Yvie’s chest is suddenly tight at the sight of her. Clearing her throat, Yvie folds her arms beneath her breasts and turns to head inside, needing to get away, not liking the way her breath catches and her stomach twists as she stares at the woman in her clothing.

“Meet me at the exit in ten, our ride is on its way,” she throws over her shoulder before entering.

Adore and Violet are intertwined pretty much the same as they were when Yvie left, Violet still on top of Adore and their lips connected. Adore’s hand is quick to withdraw from where it’s been fitted between their bodies when Yvie kicks her shin to get her attention, and Yvie tries not to think of the place she suspects it was.

“I’m getting outta here,” Yvie announces curtly, raising her voice over the music. “Give me an hour’s head start?”

“Sure, I could do this for ages,” Adore says agreeably, drying her fingers on Violet’s shirt and then wiping her mouth with the heel of her palm, only accomplishing smearing the two colors of lipstick even more. Violet’s hands are still wandering over Adore’s upper body, and Adore makes no move to stop her. “Where’s the chick?”

“Not here.”

“Neither is your jacket,” Adore comments, and it should be nothing more than a casual observation, but the suggestive tone of her voice rubs Yvie the wrong way.

“I was hot,” she bites out, lying through her teeth and too sexually frustrated and pissed at the situation to give a damn. “And it’s none of your business.”

“Guess the smoke break didn’t calm you down, huh Yves,” Adore says with a snort.

“I wasn’t smoking.”

“Yeah? What were you doing, then?” Adore smirks wickedly. “Or should I say ‘who’?”

“Are you going to leave or not?” Violet cuts in rather sharply before Yvie can clap back, looking over her shoulder. “We were kinda busy here.”

Adore turns to Violet with a shitty laugh escaping her. Yvie opens her mouth to reply, but whatever snarky one-liner she was thinking of gets stuck in her throat when she senses a leather-clad arm snake around her own bare one, and then, just a beat later, a warm, delicate hand clutching hers tightly. Yvie’s whole body locks up and her heart sinks before starting to hammer in her chest, every fibre of her being resisting the intimacy of the contact until she feels a little sick. The woman’s body presses closer still, perfume making Yvie’s head spin, and when her chin comes to rest on Yvie’s shoulder, Yvie can’t help the way her breath catches, can’t help gripping the woman’s hand instinctively.

“Ready, daddy?”

Her voice is loud enough for Adore to flip around in their direction. There’s a playful crinkle in the corners of her eyes, her full lips stretched in a grin as she turns her gaze to Yvie, and Yvie watches, almost like in slow-motion, how her expression darkens. It’s like witnessing the amusement gradually drain, the way Adore’s brow furrows and her mouth adopts a displeased tilt, her hand sternly grabbing both Violet’s wrists to stop her from groping her waist.

“No,” Adore says.

“Yes,” Yvie replies pointedly, shaking her head so slightly it’s hardly even noticeable, like she’s prohibiting Adore from saying it aloud.

“Are you, like, serious right now?”

“Do I look like I’m joking, Delano?” Yvie feels tenser than ever, and realizes that she’s holding onto the woman’s hand even more tightly now, but can’t bring herself to relax. The woman’s chin tucks into her shoulder, her hair brushing Yvie’s jaw and her other arm winding around Yvie’s so she’s practically clinging to her with her whole body. Yvie’s not sure whether the gesture is meant to be soothing or possessive, but there’s disarming surge of emotion in her chest nonetheless, and she grits her teeth in an attempt to suppress it.

“C’mon, not again.” There’s no amusement in Adore’s gaze now, and Yvie has to wrestle with herself so as not to raise her voice.

“Drop it,” she hisses.

“You made me promise not to let you,” Adore presses.

“I said, drop it.”

“I swear to fucking God, Bridges.”

Yvie quirks an eyebrow, fixing Adore a challenging look. “What are you going to do about it?”

There’s a pause, the two of them staring each other down as Violet shifts in Adore’s lap with a sigh and the woman pressed against Yvie wriggles slightly, her thumb rubbing against Yvie’s forearm as if attempting to dispel the tension.

“Sooooo, It’s super nice to meet you both,” the woman speaks up finally, drawing out her words, a barely perceptible note of sarcasm in her tone that Yvie thinks someone less observant might miss. Her head lifts from Yvie’s shoulder abruptly, as if she’s just recalled something, and Yvie glances over at her, furrowing at the woman’s cocked eyebrows.

“Oh, I never said,” she says, blinking. Yvie tilts her head, confused. “My name,” she continues with a nod, almost as if she’s proud at herself for having the information, and Adore snorts loudly. “It’s Scarlet.”

“Good for you, babe,” Yvie says snappily, decisively ignoring the unvoiced question and leaving the woman with nothing but daddy to call her. “Our Uber is here, let’s go.”

She starts to pull the woman — Scarlet, she mouths soundlessly, as if she’s trying to see where the name fits on her tongue, how it tastes — away, stiffening slightly as Scarlet’s free hand wraps around her bicep, and then stops in her tracks, looking back over at Adore. “An hour, remember.”

Adore scoffs, her attention focused on Violet once more, and shakes her head. “Like you’re gonna need that long with that one.”

Clenching her jaw, Yvie turns on her heel, yanking Scarlet after her, intent on getting away from her roommate as fast as possible. Scarlet squeaks, giggling a little, seemingly completely oblivious to the implication of Adore’s words, and allows Yvie to drag her through the bar. There’s a fresh flame of the same outraged fire that’s been burning inside Yvie all night kindling anew, licking at Yvie’s skin. She doesn’t know what she’s so furious at, if it’s Adore or the fact Yvie slipped up and allowed her to see her girl of choice, or that Scarlet isn’t an exception as much as she is the rule, not an ounce straighter than Yvie’s previous hookup had been.

The thing is, there’s no malice in Adore’s actions, no ill intention, only the traces of worry left over from before Yvie had developed a thicker skin and learned to hide how much it hurt every time, when Adore had been left to pick up the pieces and drag her out of the dark places she fell into. She had made Adore promise to stop her should she attempt to relapse, that much was true, but like any addict, she had found ways to get her fix without anyone knowing about it, lacking the self control and self esteem to stay away from women like Scarlet. That’s why Adore never saw her girls, just heard the creaks of the bed and the moans and the wild, exaggerated stories afterwards.

Yvie slows her pace once they’re out of Adore’s line of vision, keeping a tight grip on Scarlet and shooting an icy glare at anyone who gives them a second glance. With the way people start to move out of their path, it doesn’t take too long to reach the exit, and Yvie keeps her focus straight ahead until they’re outside, pausing briefly on the pavement under the arched awning.

“Is it here?” Scarlet asks, and Yvie looks over at her.

It’s brighter out front of the bar, the lights under the awning illuminating her features in a new way, and Yvie’s throat feels uncomfortably full. Her eyes are a cool blue, almost gray, and they’re wide and soft and inexplicably trusting, the smudges of eyeliner even more worn now, and Yvie itches to get her hands on her again, to keep her this close, permanently within arm’s reach so no one else can touch her.

Instead she grabs her phone from the pocket of her jeans and, like the fool she is, checks the model of the car picking them up despite the information being of no use to her whatsoever, as if she has any knowledge of car models and will be able to identify this one and guide Scarlet there with the same confident composure she’s been maintaining all night.

“It’s here, it’s a Hyundai Sonata, apparently,” she mumbles, lifting her gaze and scanning the cars parked against the curb of the sidewalk as if one of them is going to tell her it’s the one.

“Huh,” Scarlet muses and glances up, too. “It’s right there.”

She’s pointing to a dark blue car pulled up to the corner nearby, her other hand still clutching Yvie’s tightly, and Yvie squints at the car, then looks over at her, more than a little dumbfounded that the tipsy straight girl who’s been clinging to her arm and playing ditzy all night can pick out a car model in a matter of moments. Scarlet blinks back at her, as if there’s nothing at all strange about the situation, and all Yvie can think is that either one of her previous boyfriends must’ve taught her, or that she’s a bit drunker than Yvie had thought and entirely untrustworthy.

“You sure?” Yvie says, just to be an asshole about it.

“Positive,” Scarlet confirms, a drop of venomous sweetness in her tone. Her free hand wraps around Yvie’s bicep again, and she bats her eyelashes a few times, nails digging into Yvie’s skin so there’s no mistaking the catty, teasing edge to her voice. “What, Daddy, shouldn’t a lady like you know all ‘bout cars?”

Yvie’s stomach drops, and she grimaces, hating how Scarlet’s words go straight between her legs, hating that her attitude is somehow a turn on. “I have a bike,” she bites out, picturing and then immediately dismissing the idea of Scarlet straddling the back of her Yamaha, dress rolling up and her thighs against the leather of the seat. “I don’t need to know.”

“Ooh,” Scarlet coos, leaning in closer and shaking her shoulders a little, and Yvie can’t decide if she’s mocking or not. “So the biker jacket isn’t just for the look?”

“No, it isn’t,” Yvie says simply, refusing to indulge Scarlet’s playful provoking and starting to drag her toward the vehicle she pointed out.

It isn’t until Scarlet is shooting her an extremely satisfied look and climbing in the backseat that Yvie realizes she automatically held the door open for her. Scolding herself mentally, Yvie slams the door shut with the amount of force that will most likely drop her rating by at least two stars and circles the car to get in behind the driver.

The interior is nice, with R&B music playing softly and dark leather seats. Scarlet is settling herself onto her side of the backseat, making little humming noises as she wriggles in place and pushes her hair back, her tongue poking out slightly and her expression serious, as if her temporary comfort in the back of someone else’s car is absolutely essential. She takes her purse off her shoulder, setting it between her and the door, and then readjusts Yvie’s jacket on her shoulders and, after a moment of hesitation, slips her hands into the pockets. There’s something so endearing about how she does it, her movements unsure for the first time all night, and there’s a part of Yvie that wants to reassure her that it’s okay, but then she remembers it’s her jacket, and it’s all her stuff in the pockets, and she imagines Scarlet fisting her lighter, rubbing her thumb over the words carved into the metal, and the thought makes her uncomfortable, almost anxious. She wrestles with the desire to take her things back, tries to swallow past the unjustified panic in her throat, and presses the backs of her fingers to her mouth instead, turning to look out of the tinted window.

“So,” Scarlet starts and Yvie barely constricts a groan. “Was that your friend back at the bar? She seemed… very nice.”

“Roommate,” Yvie says.

She doesn’t bother to look at Scarlet, even though she wants to, and resists the urge to express any amusement at the other woman’s tone. Scarlet, it seems, speaks the same language as her, sarcasm, and is just as fluent as Yvie herself. It shouldn’t mean anything, that connection, it doesn’t mean anything, really, but it makes Yvie like Scarlet, consider that they’d maybe get along, could perhaps, in a different world, be something more than two incompatible women using each other for sex and weed and one night of feeling anything at all.

“Oh, I was there with my roommate Pearl too,” Scarlet chirps, seemingly not perplexed by Yvie’s curtness. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Hilarious,” Yvie says in a tone that hopefully conveys she does not, in fact, find it at all hilarious.

There’s another soft hum from Scarlet, and then a pause, the rustling of the leather audible over the music that’s playing. Scarlet gives a little sigh, one that sounds rather dramatic, and Yvie pictures her pouting from not being paid enough attention. After a moment, Yvie notices motion in her peripheral vision, and glances over to find Scarlet leaning forwards, her arms wrapped around the passenger seat in front of her.

“Nice car,” Scarlet says to the driver, a man whose name Yvie read just a few minutes ago but can’t be bothered to remember. “Leather seats were extra, right?”

Yvie zones out once the man starts to reply, stops paying attention the moment she realizes he’s not even given a yes or no answer, and instead begun a long narrative about cars and prices and luxury models that Yvie can already tell is going to be exhausting. She doesn’t understand much of it, and finds herself staring at Scarlet while the woman is focused on something else, watching her lips slowly curl up into a little smile as the man rambles away. Yvie feels the frustration building all over again, unable to explain Scarlet’s behavior as anything other than flirting with this random Uber driver simply because he’s male.

“Darling,” Scarlet cuts in, her low, amused voice interrupting him mid-sentence and making Yvie shiver, convinced by the feeling in her abdomen that she might turn into a puddle right there against the seat. “I know how car prices work. The question was rhetorical.”

There’s no missing a condescending tint in Scarlet’s words, and the driver shuts up abruptly. Yvie senses a chuckle rise deep in her chest, and she tries to suppress it, failing and coughing it out in the end. Scarlet, looking entirely too pleased with herself, pats the driver’s shoulder and then lets go of the seat in front of her and falls back into her previous position. Yvie can’t decide whether she’s more amused by the situation or aroused by Scarlet’s handling of it, and she finds herself crossing her ankles to press her thighs together, her gut twisting as she feels how damp her panties are. She watches Scarlet fuss with her purse out of the corner of her eye, and clears her throat, aware now that Scarlet hadn’t been flirting at all and feeling a bit bad for the assumptions she had made.

Clearly noticing that she’s got Yvie’s attention again, Scarlet shifts in her seat, rotating her upper body a little. “So, what do you do for a living?” she asks casually. like she didn’t just scalp their driver and they’re just in the middle of the game of 20 questions.

“I wait tables,” Yvie grunts.

“Where?” Scarlet continues.

“In a restaurant.”

Yvie doesn’t give the conversation room to expand, not about to share her life’s ambitions with a woman she’ll never see again after tonight. She doesn’t mention that she wants to paint for a living, that she rents a small studio space crowded with giant canvases and turns them into messes in her free time. She doesn’t mention that her work is usually too conceptual or odd to interest buyers, or that the lack of inspiration in her recent pieces has slowed her down and made her work even less lucrative, either. After all, Scarlet had asked about her job, not about her dreams or the local art community she’s trying to work her way into, alone, by sheer force of will.

“Well, that’s nice,” Scarlet says, after a moment of pointed silence that Yvie ignores. “I work at an upscale vintage shop.”

Taken aback by how unlikely the occupation is, Yvie glances over, and is met with Scarlet’s smirk as the woman pushes her hair back and shrugs.

“Unusual, right?” Scarlet agrees. “I always say that I sell shit no one needs to people who don’t need anything at all.”

“You undeniably have a knack for that,” Yvie says with a snort.

“I once sold a cheap candelabra to a rich tourist for ten times its worth by claiming it had been owned by Elizabeth Taylor and used in one of her more obscure films,” Scarlet announces. Her casual tone implies it’s nothing all that impressive, but the way she tilts her head from one side to the other and glances upwards impatiently makes it very clear that she’s boasting and expects praise in response.

“Impressive,” Yvie says dryly, not intending to indulge her.

Scarlet huffs and starts toying with the hem of her dress, drawing Yvie’s gaze like a magnet to her pale thighs. She stares for a moment, her stomach dropping as she teeters on the edge of spiraling into filthy fantasies once more, and then forces herself to look away. They’re stopped at a red light, and Yvie notices the driver leering at something in the rearview mirror, taking only a second to follow his line of vision straight to Scarlet’s cleavage. Yvie tenses up, furious at his nerve and her own possessive instinct, only narrowly resisting the urge to snap at him to keep his eyes off of what doesn’t belong to him. She settles for knocking her boot against the back of his seat and staring him down in the rearview, hoping the look on her face conveys her desire to kick all the way through the upholstery and shove her foot up his ass.

Before she can act on her fantasies, they round the familiar corner and Yvie’s apartment building comes into view. “Here’s fine,” she tells him in an unimpressed voice without waiting for them to drive closer to the entrance, itching to leave the vehicle already and get Scarlet as far away from this creep as possible while she’s at it.

The guy parks next to the sidewalk and Yvie cracks the door open before they’ve even stopped moving, hopping out of the car and glancing back to make sure Scarlet is following. Instead of using her own door, Scarlet slides across the leather of the backseat and exits through Yvie’s side. Yvie impulsively grabs her elbow, as if ready to tug her closer to herself if need be, and pulls her out of the way to throw the door closed without another word.

Letting go of Scarlet’s elbow, Yvie slips her hand under the jacket to rest it on the small of her back instead, feeling Scarlet lean in closer at her touch with a pleased hum. Yvie glances over her shoulder to see the driver watching the two of them from the car, and narrows her eyes, wishing she could burn a hole in his window, until he starts to pull away from the curb. Grabbing her phone from her pocket, she opens the app to rate the ride, and Scarlet shakes her head.

“Give him a bad rating,” she says, her lips close to Yvie’s ear, and Yvie can practically hear the sneer in her voice, feels it go straight between her own thighs. “You saw the bastard staring.”

“Two steps ahead of you,” she assures, her thumb sliding on the screen quickly. Come on.”

Locking her phone and pushing it into her back pocket, she starts guiding Scarlet to the entrance. Scarlet stumbles just a little before finding her step, but it’s enough to justify Yvie keeping her hand on her back. The night isn’t at all warm, and the chilly air against Yvie’s bare skin gives her goosebumps. She imagines Scarlet’s thighs must be the same way, imagines they’ll still feel cold under her touch when she’ll spread them, imagines stroking the skin with her palm to get the blood flowing right before she pinches, imagines Scarlet whining and opening her legs more at that, and suddenly she feels hot all over, a little unsteady herself.

The elevator of the building is probably straight from the 80’s and sounds like each trip up is its last one, so Yvie takes the stairs whenever she doesn’t have a tipsy girl with her. She presses the button, Scarlet leaning against her, and recalls the only hook-up who she hadn’t done this exact thing with — a girl named Kahanna, who’d taken one look at the elevator and teased that she’d race Yvie up the stairs instead. Although they hadn’t quite raced, Yvie had realized quickly that Kahanna hadn’t been joking about her premium gym membership or her daily runs when the woman had pushed Yvie down onto the bed and ridden her like a stallion, moaning and cursing, leaving Yvie to do nothing but grab her muscular thighs and watch her tits bounce in her bra.

Kahanna hadn’t ceased surprising her after that, either, had crawled down her body and sucked herself off of Yvie’s strap like a pro. Yvie had grabbed a fistful of her curls to guide her head, closed her eyes, and imagined that she was guiding Kahanna’s head between her legs, instead, grinding her pussy against the woman’s tongue like she so desperately wanted to, fantasizing that maybe she wasn’t straight after all. Kahanna had left shortly after, chirping her goodbyes from the doorway, and Yvie’s fingers were on her clit and her mind still on that same image before Kahanna was even out of the building.

After she’d come, she had gone to the balcony to lose the last of her feelings in the cold night air along with her cigarette smoke, reminding herself almost bitterly with every drag that no one would ever bother to waste their time trying to take care of her in return, and that maybe it was better they didn’t, that she was too much of everything, too difficult and too picky and not worth wanting that way.

The space in the elevator is big enough for them to stand apart without touching, but for some reason Scarlet stays attached to Yvie’s side during their ride up, her hips nudging against Yvie’s thigh so subtly it would be barely noticeable were Yvie’s senses not sharp and overly heightened. There’s a pause between the elevator coming to a stop and the door clicking in a signal of being ready to be opened, as always long enough for Yvie’s heart to jump to her throat in fear and remember why she hates the damn metal box so much. She rushes to push out, her fingers wrapping around Scarlet’s waist now to keep her steady as she pulls her along. Once they’re on solid ground again, it’s only a few steps to the apartment door, but getting there takes longer than it ought to with the weight of Scarlet’s body against Yvie’s slowing them down and proving to be exceptionally distracting.

“My keys,” Yvie mutters, fumbling with the leather of her jacket, and Scarlet perks up a little, sliding her hand into the pocket before Yvie can find it.

With a triumphant little noise, Scarlet pulls out the keys, waggling them between her index finger and thumb, unreasonably proud of herself. Yvie shakes her head, moving out of the way and directly behind Scarlet instead to give her room. After a moment, she rests her hands on the woman’s slender waist and slides them down to grip her hips, thoroughly enjoying how Scarlet shifts and pushes her ass back against Yvie at the touch. There’s a number of keys on the ring, and Yvie wonders how long it’ll take her to find the right one, an entertained smile on her face as she presses closer to Scarlet’s back, turning her face into her brown hair to breathe in the scent of roses and cigarette smoke and faint coconut from her shampoo, noses the locks and lightly blows at the back of her neck to tickle the skin. Scarlet huffs, and Yvie leans in to see, brushing her lips over the corner of Scarlet’s jaw teasingly and watching the woman’s hands grow even shakier in response as she finally tries the right key.

The lock turns with a characteristic rusty noise, and Yvie moves farther into Scarlet’s space, palming the fronts of her hips, one foot lifted off the ground as if she’s mid-step, ready for the door they’re currently nearly crushed against to swing inwards as soon as Scarlet manages to press on the handle. Her body is so set on the movement she’s prepared to make that it shocks her when instead of wobbling forth, Scarlet swiftly twists around in her grasp and slumps against the wooden surface, fisting the front of Yvie’s crop top and pulling her with her so their bodies collide heavily and slamming their lips together urgently, as if she’s been craving the taste and the contact ever since they left the smoking area earlier and has had enough of waiting.

The kiss is different from those they shared back outside the bar, less teeth and more lips, almost gentler, but just as passionate and fiery. Yvie moans into the impact, caught off guard by Scarlet initiating like this, her control wavering for the first time tonight, but then Scarlet suddenly opens her mouth to invite Yvie’s tongue to explore, the willingness of the action shifting the power balance once more in Yvie’s favor. Scarlet’s whole body is so receptive to every single movement that Yvie’s knees buckle a little, the effect of having someone at her mercy like this dizzying and electrifying. She digs her fingertips into Scarlet’s waist harder, tries to convince herself it’s to ground the other, but then she bites down on Scarlet’s lower lip, and Scarlet whimpers so gorgeously that suddenly the point of contact is to anchor Yvie instead.

“Daddy,” Scarlet whines quietly, like she’s pleading, trying to load the word with everything she wants Yvie to do to her, and Yvie feels herself throb in response, just a single twitch of her core that makes her want to double over.

With determination, she reaches past Scarlet and grabs her hand that is still securely planted on the door handle, and presses down ardently. The door gives way, falling open behind Scarlet’s back, and the two of them stumble into the apartment, their lips still connected, barely staying on their feet. A part of Yvie just wants to take Scarlet right here, right now, shove her against the wall next to the entrance without bothering to slam the door shut and pull her panties down, have her hook her leg around her waist and feel her heat and wetness on her fingers, hear how broken her moans get as she pushes in with two, three, maybe even four of them and opens her up proper. However, there’s another part of her, the one that wants to dick Scarlet down, ruin her cunt for every other person who has her after, see her stretching around her strap and begging for more like a little cockslut, and this part is far louder, turning everything else into static white noise in the background.

“My bedroom. Now. Right now,” Yvie grunts between kisses that have become just ruthless colliding of their mouths, no finesse to it.

Scarlet lets out an agreeable noise, high-pitched and desperate, and Yvie pushes the jacket off her shoulders, ignores the heavy thump as it falls to the ground, not even making an attempt to collect it like she normally would, unable to think of anything except Scarlet squirming on her cock, dripping and whining and grabbing for her. She presses them back towards her room blindly, attacking Scarlet’s lips like she wants to devour her, needing to leave them bruised like her throat, dark red, claimed and sore long after Yvie finishes with her. Scarlet winds her arms around Yvie’s neck, practically clinging to her as she struggles to match her pace, and Yvie bites down on her lower lip and grabs a handful of her ass, squeezing roughly and eliciting a pained gasp. The bedroom door is right there, and Yvie slams her free forearm against to force it open, quickly catching it with her foot as soon as they’re inside and kicking it closed with a resounding thud.

It only takes Yvie a couple short seconds to shut the door, but it’s enough time for Scarlet to lift her knee and pull one of her heels off, her other hand still on Yvie’s neck. She hastily drops the shoe on the floor as Yvie starts moving toward the bed, still backing her up, and Yvie momentarily remembers that an intoxicated woman in one heel is a health hazard and she should probably slow down, but then Scarlet clings to her even tighter, like she’s surrendering, giving it all up for Yvie to have, and Yvie promptly stops thinking, lets her feral side take over again.

Scarlet doesn’t waste a moment longer either, manages to step out of her other shoe, and suddenly the angle changes, Scarlet now so much shorter than her, small and delicate and breakable in her palms, and Yvie wants to curse, wants to ravage and wreck her, wants to draw her impossibly close and snarl at anyone who comes near her. She recoils at the thought immediately, worked up and furious with herself and ready to break something, her hands flexing on Scarlet’s body as she throws the other woman onto the bed with a growl.

Scarlet stays where she’s been discarded, sprawled out on the comforter without readjusting her position, like a little sex toy eager to be used. She looks up at Yvie through half-lidded eyes and draws her knees closer to her body as her chest keeps expanding visibly, allowing Yvie a brief glimpse of her red panties before she closes her legs, just long enough for her to notice how very wet the material is, nearly soaked through. Yvie sucks on her own lower lip, gnawing the skin, and raises her hand as if she wants to caress Scarlet’s shin, almost contemplates leaning over her and kissing her dirtily, almost dreams about scratching the strap and covering Scarlet’s frame with her own instead, pressing her into the mattress and making her come on her fingers over and over again until Scarlet is simultaneously begging her to stop and pleading for one more. But that isn’t what Scarlet asked for, that’s never the thing girls like Scarlet ask for or want, and Yvie has trained herself to stop feeling conflicted between lusting to get her hands on a woman proper and needing to prove her point, has chosen to go for as little skin on skin contact as each situation possibly allows.

As Scarlet arches her back a little and pushes her hips forward, her muscles noticeably tensed, Yvie swears she can smell her cunt, practically tastes it, and the saliva pooling under her tongue in response makes her curse under her breath as she turns away abruptly and makes her way over to her closet. She digs her fingers into the knotted laces of her boots, untying and then yanking them off with unnecessary fervor, as if they’ve done something to upset her. The jeans go next, shoved down along with her underwear and left in a heap on the floor after she reaches her closet and opens the door, temporarily obstructing her view of the bed.

The toy is where Yvie always stores it, thoroughly cleaned after the latest use and put on one of the middle shelves for easy grabs. Yvie snatches it and puts the black harness on without delay, doing up the waistband and securing the straps around her thighs, pulling on them just a tad too hard so that the material is digging into her skin painfully whenever she moves. Shortly considering taking her top off and deciding against it, not wanting to show her bare chest, she loosely wraps one of her hands around her cock and grips the side of the closet door with the other, halfway closing it and glancing back over at Scarlet.

The sight she’s met with leaves her feeling like she’s short of oxygen, blood rushing in her ears and pulsing between her legs. She unconsciously squeezes the toy in her fist, her knuckles undoubtedly turning white, as if that will provide her with the sensation she’s aching, throbbing for. Scarlet is propping herself up on her elbows, pinching her lip and staring at Yvie coquettishly, but the glimmer in her eyes isn’t what mesmerizes Yvie to the point of freezing up. Her legs are now spread in the most obvious invitation to fuck her, and she’s removed her panties, her pussy out on display.

As if in a trance, Yvie lets go of the door, moves closer to the bed, her gaze glued to the gorgeous bare cunt being presented to her so shamelessly. It’s the hair that catches Yvie off guard, makes her giddy and unsteady, visibly soft and brown like the locks on her head, framing her perfect, silky pink lips. She’s glistening with wetness, so abundant that it smears over the insides of her thighs, and Yvie can see it dripping slowly towards the comforter, can already imagine the wet spot that will be left after she comes, can picture her pussy convulsing and clenching and leaking around her cock.

Scarlet’s eyeing Yvie just as hungrily, her pretty mouth opening slightly as she sees the toy and then closing immediately while she licks her lips and tries and fails to suppress a pleased smirk. Yvie reaches her and circles her fingers around one of Scarlet’s ankles, harshly twisting her wrist to screw Scarlet’s thighs farther apart, and Scarlet lets out a sharp hiss and attempts to lift her hips off the bed, like she’s offering herself to Yvie and fully expects to be taken, too. Scarlet’s scent is heavy in the air now, unmistakable, intoxicating, and Yvie swallows thickly, realizes that she’s started jerking her own cock, slowly and languidly as if out of instinct. Unable to bring herself to decline Scarlet’s silent proposal, Yvie releases her ankle, trusting Scarlet to stay spread for her, stretches out the hand that’s not busy with her strap to rake her fingers through the curly hair. It’s just as soft under Yvie’s touch as it looks, long enough for Yvie to be able to tug on it should she choose to, and it makes Yvie feel some type of way. She stops at the top of Scarlet’s pussy, rests her palm there and lets her thumb stroke the hair, her own stomach churning in a way she’s not completely accustomed to.

“Daddy…” The word comes out as something between a breath and a whine, Scarlet’s voice weak and wanting as she presses up into Yvie’s touch.

Yvie bites the inside of her cheek, hard, feeling her own thighs tense in response to the name, the burning in her gut stoked into rush of heat. Letting go of her cock, she rubs her thumb over the shiny inside of Scarlet’s thigh before dragging her fingers through her folds slowly and teasingly, collecting wetness on her fingers, her lips parting at the sensation. The corner of her mouth lifts at Scarlet’s jagged breathing, control firmly back in within her grasp now.

“Daddy’s gonna get her dick real wet, huh?” Yvie husks, her voice low and gruff, withdrawing her fingers to inspect them almost absentmindedly. Scarlet whimpers, squirming, her reaction to Yvie using the title herself immediate, and Yvie dangles her fingertips over her strap, watching the liquid drip onto the silicone for a moment before wrapping her fist around the head, rubbing Scarlet’s wetness onto the toy like lube. “You gonna take all of me in that pretty pussy, babe?”

“Please, daddy,” Scarlet breathes out, twisting in place desperately, her gaze focused intently on Yvie’s hand on her cock, as if she might force her hips forward and try to take it before Yvie has decided to give it to her. “Want it now.”

Her tone is a mixture of whiny and demanding, as if she’s calling the shots, and Yvie loathes the way her brattiness is just as arousing as it is infuriating. Needing the power back in her hands, Yvie leans in, hooking her fingers into the front of Scarlet’s dress as if to pull her closer, getting right up in her face and watching her expression go slack, her body weakening noticeably in response to Yvie’s sudden, intimidating closeness. Her gaze still fixed on Scarlet’s wide eyes, Yvie tugs downwards, feeling the material stretch and then relax as Scarlet’s tits pop out of the garment, the woman beneath her letting out a choked gasp.

Pulling away slightly, Yvie lets go of the thin fabric and cups one of Scarlet’s breasts instead. It’s soft, fits perfectly in Yvie’s hand, the flesh almost shapeable, giving under Yvie’s fingers with close to no resistance, and Yvie slides her thumb over the nipple, feels it stiffen instantly, and crooks the digit to press on it with the blunt edge of her nail. Scarlet hisses, pushes her chest out, her back curving off the bed gracefully, and Yvie chuckles, mostly to conceal her surprise at how easily Scarlet yields. She squeezes the breast once more, then winds her wrist back, giving it a sharp slap with her palm and eliciting a gorgeous, strangled cry from Scarlet, barely suppressing her own groan at how perfectly it bounces against Scarlet’s chest.

“Asked you a question, babe,” she prompts thickly.

Scarlet blinks up at her, eyes glossed over and pupils wide, looking like thinking isn’t something she cares to engage in right now. “Want your cock, daddy, please,” she forces out finally.

It’s not a proper answer, Yvie suspects she doesn’t even recall the initial question, probably doesn’t remember anything past her needy pussy and overbearing lust, but it’s enough to drive Yvie crazy nonetheless and make her stop prolonging this. She plants her fingers on Scarlet’s chest, right below her collarbones, and pushes down. Scarlet instantly flops on the bed, her body reactive like she trusts Yvie, and Yvie feels a familiar surge of protectiveness emerging somewhere between her gut and heart.

She ignores it, grabs Scarlet’s spread thighs instead and tugs her closer to the edge of the bed. Scarlet manages to somehow open her legs even wider, her hand crawling up her own body until she reaches her tits and starts playing with them, and Yvie feels lightheaded. She takes her cock, guides it between Scarlet’s lips, and slowly teases it down her slit before stopping at her entrance. Moving her hips forward just a little, Yvie presses the tip into the pool of wetness with her fist, slowly starting to push into Scarlet, needing her to feel every centimeter, needing to hear her pants and whimpers as every inch stretches her just a little more. The tightness of her makes Yvie curse and groan quietly, and Scarlet makes a desperate noise in reply, forces her hips upwards into the contact, her cunt swallowing most of the toy all at once as she lets out a long, throaty moan.

There’s a part of Yvie that’s impressed and riled up, a part that makes her own core clench in response to seeing Scarlet take the thickness of the toy so quickly, but it’s drowned out by the wave of freshly renewed annoyance that rushes through her and makes her vision hazy. Growling and pinning Scarlet’s hips to the bed with a hand splayed on her abdomen, Yvie watches her slide off of the toy, leaving it slick and shiny as it bounces free. She pinches the inside of Scarlet’s thigh harshly in retaliation, darkly pleased at her pained whimper, and then guides her cock back to Scarlet’s entrance. After a moment of allowing the woman beneath her to squirm, Yvie pushes back in, far quicker this time, snapping her hips and eliciting a sob from Scarlet as she’s forced to take all of it.

Yvie freezes once she’s bottomed out and watches how the crease of Scarlet’s brow smoothens out as her expression grows spaced out in bliss. They both stay unmoving for a moment, their labored breathing the only audible sound in the stillness of the room, and then Yvie slips her palm down Scarlet’s abdomen and leaves it resting on her pelvis.

“Fuck, babe,” she drawls huskily, and Scarlet immediately whines in response. “You feel so fucking tight.”

There’s a sharp inhale, eyes squeezing shut, and a lip being crushed between teeth. The reaction is immediate, too uncontrolled to be played up, and it confirms what Yvie was already suspecting. She gets off on this, Scarlet, she gets off on them suspending disbelief, on Yvie acting like she can feel her around the toy, talking to her like her men probably do, and Yvie is willing to give it to her, and not because it’s a turn on for her too, which, it is, but because Scarlet’s responses are too delicious to pass on.

“Your tight little cunt feels so good on my cock,” Yvie continues, purely to entertain herself.

Scarlet lolls her head to the side, breaking the eye contact, as if she suddenly feels too shy and wants to hide her face in the comforter. It’s so overwhelmingly cute, so simple and raw and honest somehow, and it makes Yvie’s skin itch, makes her insides ache a little, and she hates it. She doesn’t quite know how to deal with it, so she does the only thing she can think of — thrusts her hips to fuck into Scarlet.

Scarlet sobs, a shattering little noise, and Yvie is sure she’s going to bury her face in the thick material she’s lying on and not even look at Yvie while Yvie brings her to her orgasm. Instead, Scarlet turns her head in Yvie’s direction, her expression unreadable.

“How’s this, daddy?” she lilts and lets her gaze dart down.

Yvie follows her line of sight, glances down where the base of her cock gets lost in Scarlet’s hair, her pussy stretching around it so prettily. She’s confused for just a split second, unaware of what she’s searching for, but then she suddenly feels the muscles of Scarlet’s lower stomach tense under her palm, sees the toy twitch just a little as if of its own accord, and fuck, Scarlet is clenching her cunt.

“You’re a little cocktease, aren’t you?” Yvie grunts, winding her hips backwards and then rocking them back into Scarlet hard enough to make her breasts jiggle, the other woman wincing out a moan and clearly struggling to focus her eyes on Yvie’s face.

“What if I am?” Scarlet breathes, her mouth hanging open, tongue dragging over her upper lip briefly. “What are you gonna do about it, daddy?”

Yvie’s stomach flips, and she curses quietly, rotates her hips a little to watch Scarlet’s face contort, hear her broken whimpers. She knows that she’s got the better of Scarlet, knows full well that she’s already hers, malleable and needy and desperate to be worked into whatever shape Yvie likes. But somehow, despite all of that, Scarlet is still provoking, still being a demanding little thing despite how clearly her body betrays her at every slight movement Yvie makes, and all of it is so unbearably attractive, so filthy, so bratty, and Yvie can’t help but love all of it, can’t resist rising to every taunt.

“Make you beg.”

Yvie’s pointed words hang heavily, deliberately, in the air, and Scarlet’s eyes widen, a moment passing as she appears to hold her breath, mouth moving like she wants to shoot back a reply. Yvie stares right back at her, raising an eyebrow in challenge, and then Scarlet weakens, her muscles visibly loosening as she lets out a shuddering exhale, her cunt softening and giving more easily under the press of the toy.

“Please?” her voice is barely a rasp now, less demanding than pleading, and she wets her lips, makes an effort to roll her hips as if she’s teasing Yvie’s cock, trying to get her to move, and Yvie wants to ruin her, wants to fuck her pussy open proper, make her feel it for days, use her as long as she likes and then leave her to stumble back home wrecked, unable to walk straight or think about anything but the ache between her thighs.

“What’s that, kitten?” Yvie impels mockingly and lightly nudges her hips, just to keep Scarlet on edge. “Didn’t quite catch that.”

“Please, I, oh, ooh,” Scarlet’s words come out in a rushed, incoherent bundle with no breaks between, and Yvie gets a feeling this isn’t something she’s used to or even really good at. A brat like her probably gets fucked plenty without having to work for it any, and as enraging as the thought is, Yvie’s own growing urgency and earnest aren’t making denying her very easy. “I… Please, daddy?”

“Please what?” Yvie tries again, shifting her hips once more, and watching Scarlet’s chin tilt up and her eyes roll back as she gasps. Realizing she must be tapping at Scarlet’s spot just right, she presses Scarlet’s hips into the bed to keep her still, teases her with another slight thrust.

Scarlet moans and arches, her head turning from one side to the other, an incoherent mess of words dripping from her lips as she strains against Yvie’s hand, making it an effort to keep her in place, and Yvie can only catch a garbled please and need and daddy, daddy, daddy. It’s not the response she was looking for, not what she’d normally settle for from a hook-up who she told to beg, but somehow, when Scarlet is the one rambling and gasping on her cock, it’s more than enough, and Yvie can’t keep herself from moving any longer.

Digging her fingers into Scarlet’s thighs, Yvie forces them farther apart, pinning them down with a grunt. She jerks her hips backwards, watches the toy slide out of Scarlet so smoothly as Scarlet winces, tries and fails to chase it. Yvie catches her breath for a moment, staring at the gorgeous wreck of a woman beneath her, the perfect spread of her pussy and her legs, her breast spilling out between her own fingers, and then gives up the fight and slides her cock back in with low groan.

Scarlet’s responding cry is raspy and desperate, and Yvie has to strain to hold her still as she finally starts to fuck her properly. Finding her spot again takes only seconds, and Yvie presses her thumbnails into Scarlet’s soft skin and adjusts her angle to hit it on every pass, biting down on her own lower lip and nearly drawing blood as she struggles to comprehend just how unbelievably sensitive Scarlet is there, how her cock simply brushing past it makes her thrash and twitch and let out broken moans, her free hand making a mess of the comforter beneath her.

“Oh, oh, daddy,” Scarlet pants, her eyes glazing over, her hips still determinedly pushing forwards as if needing Yvie even deeper. “God, you’re so big, I —”

Her teeth gritting, Yvie forces Scarlet to still with a shove of her arms, and slams into her, making her cut herself off with a choked gasp. “Shut up and take it,” she growls, punctuating every word with a thrust, moving faster and faster now, not meaning her order even a little and knowing Scarlet won’t obey regardless.

Scarlet nibbles on her lip and manages to stay quiet for approximately half a second, and then there’s words again, barely cohesive fragments of pleas interlaced with occasional frantic sobs, her voice turning higher in pitch with every snap of Yvie’s hips. Yvie’s pace is becoming more erratic, as relentless as Scarlet seems to be. She’s soaked, so much so that Yvie can hear every inch pressing in and pulling out, filthy wet noises filling the quiet spaces between Scarlet’s desperate gasps. Yvie thinks there will be a dark, damp spot on the comforter under her when they’re done, thinks the wetness must be collecting in the creases between Scarlet’s ass and thighs, most likely between her cheeks too, thinks how it probably makes her skin itch almost unpleasantly and finally notices how wet she herself is, gets angrier at the realization and fucks Scarlet like she hates her, like she means it.

With another string of pleas and praises, Scarlet lets go of the fabric she’s been ruining in her fist, leading it slightly crumpled in her wake, and allows her palm to dance over one of her thighs, stopping at her crotch for just a short moment and then pushing her fingers between her lips. Yvie feels herself go a little numb as she witnesses Scarlet aim directly for her clit, so visibly swollen and pink and perfect, undoubtedly sensitive and pulsing, aching to be touched just like Yvie’s own is. Scarlet slides her fingertips over the spot with a satisfied moan, her chin tilting up again and her eyes falling shut, and then she utters a breathy Oh, my God, daddy, right there and Yvie remembers how to use her muscles.

She pairs the slap she places on Scarlet’s wrist with another thrust of her cock, and Scarlet produces a wounded sound, immediately withdrawing her hand and pulling it close to her chest, her other hand moving to rub the stinging skin. She pouts up at Yvie, like she disagrees with such interruption, and Yvie can’t hold back a scowl.

“You said you wanted my cock, you’re gonna have to come on my cock,” she grunts. “Desperate little things will take what’s given and not an ounce more.”

Without awaiting Scarlets reaction — not that there would have been an intelligent one, concluding by her unravelled state — Yvie hooks her arm under Scarlet’s knee and lifts it closer to herself for a deeper angle. With the first roll of Yvie’s hips in the new position, Scarlet practically squeals, head thrown back as she rocks against the toy, pathetic and unrhythmic, her hair strewn across the cover, undoubtedly a mess of tangles that Yvie wants to drag her fingers through and tug as hard as she can. She imagines Scarlet on her stomach, ass raised to take her cock, back curved as Yvie pulls on a tight handful of those coarse locks, and swears she can feel the sticky arousal dripping down her own thighs.

Scarlet isn’t managing words any longer, just dry sobs and moans, slipping on and off of the strap so easily. There’s hardly any resistance left, just the sounds of her groans and her wet cunt, taking all of it so well, as if she’s made just to be filled by Yvie’s cock, wincing and squirming with the emptiness on every backstroke.

With a soft grunt and strength Yvie didn’t know she had left, Scarlet lifts the leg that’s not trapped in Yvie’s grip, and hooks it around Yvie’s waist. Her calf flexes against Yvie’s lower back, drawing Yvie nearer still as if desperate to get her as deep as possible inside and keep her there. Yvie wants to slap her thigh, push it away, but then Scarlet lets out a needy whine, and she’s looking at Yvie with that pout, lips so much more swollen than before, her glossy eyes are so wide and trusting, and Yvie presses closer and starts to thrust more shallowly instead, too enraptured and too far gone to make herself deny Scarlet anything.

They’re entwined so thoroughly like this, the proximity of their bodies making it ridiculously easy to tell when Scarlet’s muscles tense in a brand new way, like she’s chasing something and needs to release, melt into a puddle right beneath Yvie. It’s impressive, how undone Scarlet has come with just Yvie’s cock against her spot, no other stimulation, and the thought is nagging at Yvie, making her question what a girl like Scarlet could possibly be after that men can’t give her all the same, but then Scarlet cards her free hand through her own hair and pulls a little, eliciting a raspy groan from herself, and Yvie forgets everything else.

“Daddy, gonna—” she cries out and tries to raise herself off the bed even more.

Yvie forces her lower by her hipbone, and then, almost absentmindedly, fits the same hand between them and places her thumb against Scarlet’s clit. Scarlet immediately whines and jerks like the impact is too much, like she won’t be able to handle it, the muscles in her thighs spasming so hard Yvie can feel it against herself.

“C’mon, babe,” she finds herself commanding. “Come for me.”

She presses harder against Scarlet’s clit, feels it twitch under her thumb, and then the response is like a chain reaction as Scarlet lets go, piece by piece of her body rapidly falling prey to the force of her climax. The jerk of her chin, her fingers pinching too hard at her nipple, the gorgeous broken moan on her lips, the clench of her cunt around Yvie’s cock, so tight and perfect it’s difficult to keep moving and fuck her through it, and Yvie can feel the burn in her own abs as she draws out Scarlet’s pleasure as long as she possibly can, still firmly set on making this the best fuck of Scarlet’s life.

It feels like ages pass before Scarlet’s body relaxes, and she begins to wince a little in response to Yvie’s slow thrusts, seeming too sensitive inside now, the convulsing of her pussy with every nudge against her spot too much to handle, becoming more intense and painful than it is pleasurable. Yvie rubs her thighs, and unhooks her leg from around her, holding her hips firmly as she slowly pulls out. Scarlet catches her breath, hand moving down to drift over her core almost wonderingly, the way one might touch her lips after being kissed, as if trying to confirm it was real, as if she’ll find some imprint on her soft skin as evidence. Her legs fall open on the bed, and Yvie isn’t sure if she’s protecting herself from the ache of having them pressed together or showing off the mess Yvie’s made of her, her folds spread, wetness smeared all over, caught in the curly hair, leaking out of her still and dripping slowly down.

Another few long moments go by before Scarlet starts to shift, prompting Yvie to finally tear her gaze away from her pussy and notice the rest of her, nipples still stiff from how she’s been pinching them, eyes still struggling to focus as she looks Yvie up and down. She pushes herself up on her elbows, shaking out her hair and taking a deep breath, and then starts to move towards Yvie, scooting her hips off the bed and then wriggling onto the floor, forcing Yvie to take a small step backwards in surprise to accommodate her. She lands in a messy heap on the carpet, taking longer than should be necessary to position herself on her knees, her limbs clearly shaky, and oh, of course she’s one of those girls, Yvie realizes, one of the sort to clean herself off of Yvie’s cock after coming on it, the kind of woman who wants to keep the fantasy even longer, make believe that she can take care of Yvie in return like this.

There’s a moment of complete stillness, and Yvie contemplates sinking her hand in Scarlet’s knotted locks, grabbing a fistful and holding her in place while she fucks her face, deep and thorough thrusts until Scarlet is drooling around the toy, making a mess similar to the one between her legs. It won’t really bring Yvie any relief, won’t ease the aching want in her gut and lower, but it’ll be something to think about when she’s pressing her own slender fingers inside herself later, parting them and enjoying the way it burns so right, just another bunch of visuals she can turn into fuel for her imagination.

Before she can do it or even decide on it, before she can surge her hips forth and coax Scarlet’s mouth open with the tip of her cock, Scarlet leans in slightly, her thumb and index finger closing around the base of the toy delicately. Yvie gets stuck instantly, studies, as if hypnotized, how Scarlet presses very close to the harness, snuggles her nose into Yvie’s crotch, breathes in like she’s trying to smell Yvie’s arousal, like she’s savoring the scent. It’s enticing to look at, so fucking hot and enchanting and unfair, and Yvie couldn’t tear her gaze away even if she tried. Scarlet whimpers quietly, sounds almost needing, almost genuine, and then her tongue is suddenly dragging along the underside of Yvie’s cock, collecting and tasting her own slick, and Yvie’s whole frontal lobe short circuits. Scarlet reaches the head of the toy, licks her lips as if making sure she didn’t miss a drop, and wraps her pretty little mouth around the crown immediately after.

Hazily expecting her to take more of it, Yvie pushes her hips forward, a weak movement without precision or vigor, but instead there’s a subtle click of the buckle, and the next thing Yvie knows is her harness sliding down her legs. Yvie freezes, her eyes widening, and feels her stomach drop as Scarlet whimpers and buries her face in Yvie’s thigh all at once, tongue lapping at the inside, so close to where she’s dripping, as if she’s searching for the flavor. The sensation is so unfamiliar, so right, and as Scarlet pulls back again, looking up at her with her chest heaving, Yvie feels as if the ground is vanishing from under her.

“All for me, daddy?” Scarlet breathes the words more than speaking them, her pupils so dilated Yvie is dizzy with it.

She reaches for Yvie’s thighs, prying them apart gently but persistently, and Yvie lets her, stepping out of the harness helplessly, captivated by the look on Scarlet’s face and the way she’s touching her, and it’s as if control of Yvie’s body isn’t in her own hands any longer.

“Oh,” Scarlet sighs, and her fingers dig into Yvie’s skin, and Yvie realizes with a jolt that the acrylic nails she’d noticed earlier are nowhere to be found, scrambles to think what could’ve happened to them and finds that she hasn’t the brain power. Scarlet looks up at her, eyes pleading. “Oh, I want to… can I…”

Unsure how she’s managing to stay on her feet despite her shock, Yvie nods wordlessly, unable to fully wrap her head around what’s about to happen but so very desperate for it that she can feel her own cunt throbbing.

Her hands remaining in place, Scarlet leans in slowly, almost like she’s stalking her prey before going in for the kill, leaving Yvie the deer in the headlights, standing stock still and trembling in her grasp. Scarlet wets her lips, and then her nose is running over the trimmed hair, breathing Yvie in again. The first touch of her tongue is electric, the warm tip pressed right against the hood of Yvie’s clit, and the shudder that runs through Yvie’s body is too much, too uncontrollable, the whole situation entirely out of her comfort zone, and she almost grabs Scarlet’s hair to pull her away, but the contact is gone before she can. Yvie gasps in air, unsure whether she’s relieved or upset, shaken at how overwhelmed she is by the barest contact, needing more and hating that she needs anything at all.

Scarlet seems unfazed by Yvie’s responses, encouraged, in fact, her hands moving inwards to spread Yvie’s lips with her thumbs, and then her tongue is tracing across them languidly, a filthy moan vibrating against the flesh, and Yvie’s mind goes blank again, a whimper leaving her before she can stop it.

Scarlet places another long lick along the length of Yvie’s pussy, the tip of her tongue flicking teasingly against the clit when she reaches it and her lips pressing a kiss above it right after, and Yvie feels her own shoulders droop, almost says something, but before the sentence is even fully formulated, Scarlet leans away, craning her neck to gaze at Yvie and resting her head against the side of the bed. Yvie’s stomach drops in disappointment, her first thought being that Scarlet just wanted to try it out, perhaps to have a story to tell, or maybe to see if she likes it and shortly deciding she didn’t. Yvie hates the way the feeling dwells, but it’s nothing compared to the wave of nausea that follows suit immediately. She didn’t like it, realized it’s not worth it, that Yvie is too much work and not enough return, not something she should or would or needs to put any effort in.

Scarlet keeps staring at her, almost perfectly still, and Yvie wants to cover her own mouth with her palm, wants to look away, but can’t bring herself to, too frozen and sick to move at all. She loathes their position, loathes how bare and mortified she feels, rendered defenseless and caught in a vulnerable position just because she let herself be blindsided after avoiding it so successfully for ages.

“God, you taste so good,” Scarlet breathes finally, tongue working its way across her upper lip, and it’s like all of the air rushes back into Yvie’s lungs at once in a soft gasp as the whole earth seems to shift below her, assumptions and insecurities starting to crumble, her mouth falling open as she suddenly identifies the slack expression on Scarlet’s face as heart-stopping, overwhelming arousal. “Daddy…”

The title hangs in the air, exhaled carefully and helplessly, almost like a prayer, by the woman on her knees before her. Scarlet’s head lifts from the bed, and her fingers wander over Yvie’s thighs, lips moving soundlessly as if murmuring devotions as her gaze dances over Yvie’s still body, and when she finally speaks again, the need in her tone makes Yvie dissolve, as if she’s sugar on Scarlet’s tongue.

“Want you, want to…”

Her eyes are hazy and heavy lidded and slow to move, her touch is earnest and careful, and her voice is barely there, raw and raspy, forcing out the words as if they’re the truest thing she’s ever spoken, and Yvie can’t help but believe her. She blinks, hard, nausea replaced with tingling warmth that twists in her gut and slowly starts to spread outwards, filling her whole frame with the dizzying, sunlit sensation of being wanted.

Defenses weakening for the first time in as long as she can remember, Yvie tries to catch her breath, inhale and exhale through the heat under her skin. She reaches out her hand almost tentatively, carding her fingers through Scarlet’s messy hair, and feels the other woman nudge against her, just leaning into her hand for a moment and then tilting her head so she’s looking up at Yvie, the plain, honest desire on her face making Yvie’s stomach swoop.

“Please fuck my face, daddy?” Scarlet says, eyes fixed on Yvie’s as she nuzzles into her hand. Her tone almost sweet, as if she hasn’t just said something unbearably filthy, and Yvie tenses, feels herself leak, knows her pussy will likely drip on the carpet any moment.

She grunts, mostly to hide the way Scarlet has left her speechless, a rare occasion where her silence isn’t conscious rather than collateral. Fist tangling in the coarse hair, she tugs sharply, and then twists her wrist to guide Scarlet’s head closer. The triumphant little sound Scarlet lets out prickles Yvie’s skin, crawls up her spine and tingles the nape of her neck, and she allows herself to suspend her disbelief just like Scarlet had done earlier.

“Filthy,” she spits out the first thing that comes to mind, pushing her hips up and dangling her pussy just an inch or so above Scarlet’s face, her hand forcing Scarlet’s head back slightly.

“That’s right, daddy,” Scarlet purrs, pleased, satisfied, like she couldn’t be prouder of the fact Yvie noticed, and the sensation of her hot breath against Yvie’s folds makes Yvie’s stomach drop and lock up.

“Gonna show me how filthy you are, aren’t you, baby?” Yvie mutters through gritted teeth.

Scarlet nods eagerly, her movement restricted by Yvie’s grip. It’s followed by a confirming noise as if she’s impatient to let Yvie know how much she desires this, and she struggles to close the distance, bury her face in Yvie’s cunt, but Yvie’s hold stays iron. All of it makes Yvie inhale a little easier, makes her feel like she’s still in the driver’s seat, pulling the strings, collected and composed and not at all vulnerable, and they’re both probably well aware that in reality she’s putty in Scarlet’s hands, but Scarlet is willing to pretend, and that’s enough for now.

Yvie’s still for a few beats, torturing herself with the way her stomach keeps tightening and her heart keeps skipping in anticipation, and then, when it gets a little bit too much, she ruts down against Scarlet’s parted lips.

This time, when Scarlet’s tongue connects with her cunt, she shudders even harder, groaning and wrapping her fist tightly in Scarlet’s hair. She grinds against the contact instinctively, rubbing her clit against the soft warmth, swearing she can feel the shockwaves from the touch all over her body, and Scarlet responds with a needy whimper, her mouth opening wider and her tongue pressing hard right where Yvie wants it. Her blunt nails dig into Yvie’s tensed thighs as Yvie holds her still to rock against her, as if it’s getting hard to breathe, but she only presses closer, and Yvie can feel herself clench and leak in response, Scarlet’s tongue quickly and messily lapping up the wetness.

Needing more, requiring Scarlet even closer, Yvie bends her knee and props it on the bed, spreading her cunt open wider and providing Scarlet with better access. The way Scarlet laps over her clit with the new angle makes her groan so loudly she shocks herself, and when the tip of the other woman’s tongue starts pressing slowly into her opening, Yvie can’t help but force her hips forwards, crushing Scarlet’s head back against the bed and trapping her own hand in the process. Scarlet’s muffled, ecstatic moan sends a thrill down Yvie’s spine, and then her tongue slips inside, licking eagerly as if desperate for the taste. The dirtiness and enthusiasm of her movements makes Yvie’s head spin so badly she nearly blanks out, managing in a moment of coherence to be glad she has the bed for support.

Scarlet eats pussy like she can’t get enough of it, and for a moment, something about her motions and ardency makes Yvie feel like she’s worth it. Scarlet pushes her tongue into Yvie as much as she possibly can, licks inside like she’s thirsty for it, and then withdraws a little and twirls the tip around Yvie’s entrance as if she’s trying to open Yvie up. Yvie mutters a string of profanities, her fingers instinctively flexing in Scarlet’s hair, nails scratching the scalp, and as she frantically nudges forth, Scarlet closes her mouth and rubs her puckered lips against her slit. It’s not even a little bit enough after all the sensation, and Yvie growls, yanks and twists on the locks in her fist, the heat building in her gut when the gesture has no effect, Scarlet’s pout remaining pressed against her folds.

“Fuck,” she curses. “Open — open your mouth, or I’ll fucking do it for you.”

The responding whimper from Scarlet is gorgeous and pathetic, her lips parting in accordance with the command as if she’s helpless to do otherwise. Her fingernails scraping against the back of Yvie’s thighs desperately, she manages to place a filthy lick over Yvie’s entrance before Yvie shifts, getting the contact where she craves it. She can practically feel herself throbbing as she grinds against Scarlet’s tongue, the stimulation so intense, so aching, so good that her eyes start watering.

Scarlet’s a dream, and at the same time, so much better than what Yvie’s imagination is capable of creating, eagerly figuring out Yvie’s tempo and adjusting to it, meeting Yvie halfway, participating rather than just submitting to being used to get off on. As soon as Yvie loses her rhythm, slows down a bit, Scarlet picks up, her mouth dragging over Yvie’s pussy, her teeth grazing the flesh lightly in a manner that makes Yvie gasp and gives her chills, and then, when the rocking of Yvie’s hips becomes completely intermittent, Scarlet closes her lips around the clit and sucks.

There’s a swift flick of Scarlet’s tongue over her clit, and Yvie feels like a live wire, heated as if there’s a current running under her skin, sparks swimming behind her eyes, whole body ready to catch fire at any moment. Scarlet whimpers weakly, and then she’s humming, lips vibrating against Yvie’s cunt, and it’s so much and so intense that Yvie feels her bones melt, a wild cry leaving her lips as her pussy pulses and twitches, her orgasm taking over her body and making her vision go dark for a moment. She’s aware of her hips rocking against Scarlet’s face, of the wetness slippery between them, of her own teeth sinking so hard into her lip it hurts, and there’s heat spreading all through her, radiating all the way to her fingertips, hot enough to burn through something.

It rages for a while, the wildfire inside her, drowning everything in the smoke except Scarlet, solid and sound in front of her, and the rush of adrenaline and ecstasy in every tiny blood vessel of her body. Yvie feels delirious on it, like there’s not enough oxygen in her lungs, like the atmosphere is too cloudy for her to breathe in properly. It isn’t until Yvie manages a greedy intake of air that the flames start dying out, sizzling as they retract inwards and settle somewhere between her hips, leaving her skin a sticky, sweaty mess in their wake.

Finally regaining traces of control over her own muscles, Yvie stops jerking against Scarlet. Her knee sliding off the bed, she stumbles backwards, legs shaky, breathing still ragged, and vision blurry around the edges. Scarlet doesn’t let go of her thighs until Yvie steps out of reach, like she’s set on keeping her close but can’t muster the energy to go through with it, and when Yvie slips through her fingers, she tiredly drops her hands in her lap. She shrinks a little, like she was upholding her posture only because Yvie was trapping her, keeping her spine straightened, and her head falls back against the side of the bed.

Scarlet’s a wreck, her hair visibly tangled where Yvie’s been gripping it, her lids even heavier, her lips puffy and glistening with Yvie’s wetness, smeared all across her chin, too, and she’s so fucking gorgeous it stings just a little, a sharp stab somewhere between Yvie’s ribs. She’s gulping in air, her still exposed tits heaving, and she’s staring at Yvie all dazed, like taking Yvie apart ruined her more than anything else tonight, and then suddenly her hand shoots up, one finger swiping over her slick lower lip and slipping into her mouth.

Yvie stares at her, an aftershock clenching her pussy as Scarlet sucks lazily. Her legs feel so unsteady she thinks she might collapse, and her brain is sluggish, processing information slowly, consumed with the warm tingling in her gut and between her thighs and distracted by the sex goddess in front of her, trying to puzzle out where her assumptions about Scarlet had gone so wrong. Scarlet pops her finger out of her mouth and inspects it with dark eyes, and Yvie manages to hold onto a thought long enough to try to articulate it.

“You — nails,” she manages, pointing at Scarlet weakly.

“Huh?” Scarlet gazes up at her open-mouthed, pink tongue dragging over her lips. She makes a movement like she wants to stand, hand tugging Yvie’s covers halfway off the bed and her legs tensing, and then pouts, apparently not having the strength to do it herself.

“You had nails, before,” Yvie says, her voice hoarse but more sure now. Instinctively moving forwards on wobbly legs as she sees Scarlet struggle, she offers her hands, pulling the smaller woman to her feet with more effort than should be required, her muscles feeling like they’re made of chewing gum.

“Oh.” Scarlet nods slowly, maintaining her grip on Yvie’s hands, her bare chest bumping against Yvie’s clothed one as they come nearly face to face. “They were — they were press-ons,” she says in a murmur, blinking earnestly. “I um, I took them off in the car. Wasn’t gonna keep ‘em on when I was going home with a woman as hot as you.”

“You’re not straight,” Yvie exhales, unsure if she’s asking or just stating, almost awed, squeezing Scarlet’s hands tighter as the realization washes over her again.

“What?” Scarlet stares at her, seeming utterly baffled, like she doesn’t even understand the question.

“You like women.”

“Of course?” Scarlet says, her brow furrowing. “I’m a lesbian.”

Yvie feels her throat tighten, as if she might choke or gasp or start crying. Scarlet looks so confused, her pretty mouth slightly open and still glossy from Yvie’s wetness, and Yvie is surging forwards to crush their lips together before she can help herself, the kiss a clumsy bumping of mouths for a moment before Scarlet catches up and reciprocates, lets Yvie taste herself on her tongue, the flavor so entirely different than the sticky lipstick she’s grown accustomed to that it makes her heart skip a beat.

The kiss isn’t long, Yvie breaking off to gasp in air, her hands curled around Scarlet’s gently. The woman in front of her looks even more dumbstruck now, chasing Yvie’s lips instinctively as she pulls away, her body leaning in closer as if magnetically drawn towards her, and she’s still so unbelievably responsive to every move and touch that it takes Yvie’s breath away.

“What was that for?” she mumbles, tilting her chin up to peck Yvie’s bottom lip.

“Nothing,” Yvie dismisses, ignoring how the gentle contact makes her dizzy, trying and failing to make her voice emotionless and disinterested.

She lets go of Scarlet’s hands all at once, and turns to grab the strap-on from the floor, hesitant once again to show any of her emotions or vulnerability as she steadily comes back to her senses. Scarlet hums softly behind her, seeming unconcerned, and Yvie sets the toy aside to be cleaned later, turns around to find Scarlet with her thumbs hooked into the top of her dress, pushing it down over her hips and leaving her entirely naked.

Yvie’s first reaction is dumb staring, her gaze drifting over Scarlet’s soft breasts, her slender waist and her tummy, the smooth curve of her hips and the brown curls between her thighs. Her second is confusion, wondering why Scarlet would undress after sex, if she’s planning on staying the night, why she’d plan on that without bothering to ask. Yvie opens her mouth, ready to object, and then closes it again, realizing after a moment that even though the women she brings home never stick around, Scarlet is different, and she doesn’t particularly have an objection, can’t actually believe that for once she won’t be abruptly left behind.

“So,” Scarlet says, drawing out the word, her tone teasing and playful again as she leans back against the bed and tugs on a lock of her hair, every bit the brat Yvie’s known she is since the beginning. “Where’s the weed, daddy?”

Her stomach dropping at Scarlet’s attitude, Yvie swallows hard, pussy suddenly interested again, her fingers practically itching to grab for Scarlet. Ignoring the impulse and arousal, she quirks an eyebrow, watches Scarlet’s responding pout, the bossy tilt of her head. The other woman’s arms cross under her tits, squishing them together, and the sight makes Yvie’s brain go blank for a moment.

“Right,” she grunts through her teeth, set on restoring her front. “That’s what you’re here for.”

“And the dick,” Scarlet says solemnly.

Rolling her eyes, Yvie mostly fails to suppress a chuckle, her composure already cracking again. Scarlet beams at her, her expression a combination of pleased and hopeful, like eliciting the reaction out of Yvie is the greatest thing she’s ever accomplished. Yvie sucks on her lower lip, fighting the twitch of the corners of her mouth before it spills into a full smile and shoulders past Scarlet to pull the comforter and the covers off the bed.

She gestures for Scarlet to climb in, and belatedly realizes she’s offering her side of the bed, but that stops mattering as soon as she sees Scarlet crawling across the sheets, round, perfect ass flawlessly in the air, the fair flesh oh so tempting. Scarlet flops onto the mattress face first, humming contently and going from a seductress to an adorable little thing in a split second, and Yvie’s rib cage suddenly feels oddly restricted. Shaking her head as if to get rid of the sensation, Yvie follows, readjusting the pillows so they can serve as a backrest. Beside her, Scarlet shuffles and turns, sitting up against the headboard and making a show of getting comfortable just like she had done in the Uber. Yvie lets her fidget in peace and leans over her to reach for her smoking materials, conveniently stored in her bedside drawer.

“Your fingers are so long,” Scarlet observes. “You should finger me next time.”

Yvie stills mid loading the grinder, the little baggie of weed still unsealed in her lap, and snaps around in Scarlet’s direction. The other is clearly examining Yvie’s hands, face thoughtful and the corner of her lip crushed between her teeth.

“I should…what? Wait, next time?”

“D’you finger yourself?” The question is so unexpected, so unabashed, that Yvie’s body locks up again. “You’d moan so pretty with those inside you.”

“Um,” Yvie says, stupefied, and, without looking what she’s doing, grabs another pinch of weed from the baggie and deposits it in the grinder, rubbing her fingertips together to brush the remnants off. “I — yes.”

“Oh, so you do moan pretty?” Scarlet prods her coyly, a little smile on her lips. “You sure did with my tongue in you, daddy.”

“Not half as much as you with my cock in you,” Yvie shoots back, unsure whether she’s teasing or defending. “You’re a screamer,” she adds, and Scarlet’s mouth opens in affront.

“Well, if you had the daddy of your dreams dicking you down after feeling you up outside a shitty bar, you’d be screaming too,” Scarlet returns, wiggling her head sassily.

“Sure, babe,” Yvie chuckles and screws the lid closed, immediately starting to grind the weed, the familiar clicking filling the room.

“Mean,” Scarlet huffs, narrowing her eyes, her pout pronounced and playful.

Looking at Scarlet, Yvie sticks out her tongue in response, mocking her right back. Scarlet’s eyes widen comically, all the traces of flirting disappearing as she freezes, her mouth slightly agape.

“Oh — okay, maybe not fingering next time,” she breathes.

Realizing that Scarlet’s reaction is fluster over seeing her tongue, Yvie quickly presses her lips together, feeling a little unhinged herself. Glancing away, she rotates the grinder a couple more times and then deems the job done well enough to begin rolling. Retrieving a paper and a filter, she starts evenly distributing the weed, moving with a tiny bit more precision and caution than necessary to avoid looking at Scarlet as long as she possibly can.

Scarlet’s words feel as if they’re etched into her brain, and Yvie can’t help the downwards spiral of her thoughts, the way her mouth waters and her gut twists at the idea of getting between Scarlet’s thighs. It’s been so very long since she tasted a woman, so long since she’s let herself indulge in something so up close and personal, never wanting to risk the embarrassment of doing something unwanted and unrequested, always worried the intimacy of the act that she loved so much would make it even more of a slap in the face when the women inevitably left her hanging.

Pinching both ends of the paper between her thumbs and index fingers, Yvie tucks one side over the weed and rotates the filter in a single swift motion. As she brings the blunt up to lick the paper, she hears Scarlet gasp and then honest to God whimper next to her, and her mind is made before she’s even finished rolling.

Tossing the materials aside, Yvie grabs the glass ashtray she keeps on her nightstand along with a cheap plastic lighter and sets it on the bed close to Scarlet. She taps the filter against the back of her hand impulsively before placing the joint between her lips and lighting up. There’s a sound of burning paper and then Yvie tastes the weed, inhales on reflex, and holds the smoke in for a moment. She looks back at Scarlet only when she lets it out, and finds the woman pressing her thighs together tightly, nibbling on her lower lip, her darkening gaze fixed on Yvie’s mouth.

Yvie hands her the blunt, clearing her throat to get her attention and prompt her to move. With a little oh, Scarlet takes it, immediately bringing it to her mouth without shifting her eyes from Yvie’s face, and taking a slow drag. Yvie watches her cheeks hollow and grits her teeth against her arousal, feeling her pussy twitch as she remembers Scarlet sucking on her clit. While Yvie is busy staring, Scarlet offers the blunt back, but instead of taking it, Yvie just shakes her head.

“Aren’t you gonna smoke with me, daddy?” Scarlet purrs after she exhales the cloud of smoke, her voice noticeably thicker now. “Deemed you someone who likes getting high after sex.”

Yvie suppresses a shiver and moves closer to her, utterly entranced by the sight of Scarlet smoking her weed naked in her bed, briefly tempted by the possibility of shotgunning before she dismisses the idea for another time. Laying the tip of her index finger on the bruise she’d left on Scarlet’s throat, Yvie drags it across her chest slowly and lightly, swirling around her nipple before rubbing it to elicit a whimper and moving farther down, over her tummy and finally to the inside of her hip, the rest of her fingers joining the first to slide softly over Scarlet’s curls and between her thighs that open for her so easily, cupping her pussy gently.

“No, baby,” she says lowly, immensely satisfied by the wide-eyed expression on Scarlet’s face and the way she nudges into Yvie’s touch. “I’m gonna eat you out.”

“Fuck,” Scarlet chokes out, her legs immediately moving farther apart. “Please.”

Wasting no time, Yvie maneuvers herself on her stomach between Scarlet’s legs, snaking her arms around her thighs. Scarlet’s cunt is shining with wetness, her scent strong and prominent again, and Yvie revels at how easy it seems to wind her up into this state. She pulls Scarlet a little closer, a tiny yelp escaping the other woman as she slides on the sheets, but she quickly catches up and settles against the pillows, pushing her hips up for a better angle, her heels digging into the mattress either side of Yvie.

Yvie turns her eyes up, studying the dreamy expression on Scarlet’s face. The blunt she’s holding close to her mouth has gone out, and Yvie thinks she’s starting to recognize the tendency to forget the stuff she’s smoking whenever something mildly more interesting emerges, and it should be infuriating or annoying at best, but for a reason unbeknownst to Yvie, she finds herself endeared instead.

“Want you to smoke while I do this, babe,” she says and it comes out far too tender to be considered a command.

“Okay,” Scarlet says anyway, a perfect picture of obedience. “Okay, daddy.”

She puts the blunt back between her lips and blindly pats around the sheets until she locates the lighter Yvie left next to her. With trembling fingers, she attempts to spark up again, the process taking more than a few tries before she manages to get a proper flame and suck in another cloud of smoke. Scarlet exhales unsteadily, her heavy-lidded eyes blinking at Yvie, rotates her hips just a little as if in invitation. Yvie drops her gaze back down, enjoying the view before her, taking in the gorgeous contrast between Scarlets pink, still swollen pussy and the brown of her damp, unruly hair, considers, for just a second, how she wishes she could capture the colors in an abstract painting, but then Scarlet’s clit spasms visibly as she clenches around nothing, and Yvie’s mind goes foggy.

She presses in closer so her nose is tickled with the hair just above the cleft of Scarlet’s pussy, breathes her in open-mouthed, dragging her lips oh-so-gently over Scarlet’s folds. She laps her tongue tentatively, blindly along Scarlet’s slit, and groans quietly, the taste so strong and distinct, the warmth driving her crazy, her head already swimming even though she’s just barely begun. Scarlet’s mewl is weak and needy and perfect, the light, lingering touch making her hips cant forwards, and this time, Yvie doesn’t make much of an attempt to stop it, doesn’t force Scarlet’s stillness, instead dipping her tongue deeper to flick against her entrance and savoring the feeling of having a woman so responsive, so alive, so wanting under her mouth.

One of her arms slipping farther around Scarlet’s thigh, Yvie strokes her nails through the hair, then spreads Scarlet’s soft folds with her thumb and pointer finger. She teases her tongue up to tap at Scarlet’s clit, coaxing another whine out of the woman beneath her, and then drops back down to get another taste of her wetness.

Scarlet’s leaking so profoundly, and combined with how Yvie herself is salivating, she knows they’re making a mess, can feel it coating her lips, trickling downwards, so untidy and filthy, foreign and intimate in the way Yvie has longed for so bad she’s succeeded to convince herself she’s never needed it anyway. Yvie licks over Scarlet’s entrance to lap up the slick, not wanting to let any go to waste before she twirls her tongue around the opening and starts edging the tip in.

Above, Scarlet moans around the filter, her hips jerking into the contact slightly, and Yvie glances up just in time to witness how she closes her eyes and throws her head back in pleasure, gradually blows out a cloud, the smoke playing at her lips in intricate swirls prior to tracing higher and dissipating. The way this position exposes her neck is exquisite, the blooming mark clearly noticeable, her strong jawline defined, and Yvie feels a little overwhelmed, wishes she could capture this, and, using the only outlet she has right now, works her tongue deeper into Scarlet’s cunt. Scarlet cries quietly, head falling farther back against the headboard, breathing growing heavier, the rise and fall of her tits driving Yvie mad, and as she bites on her lower lip and chokes out something incomprehensible, the blunt goes out once more.

Yvie pulls away and cranes her neck to gently plant her chin on Scarlet’s pelvis right above her pussy instead, still looking up at her in fascination. “C’mon, Scarlet,” she murmurs when there’s no reaction from the other.

Scarlet jolts like she’s only now coming to, previously too lost in her hazy desire to pay attention to her surroundings. Meeting Yvie’s eyes, she blinks stupidly like she’s trying to get rid of blurriness and focus her dilated pupils, and suddenly there’s a tiny, wondering smile on her lips.

“Say that again,” she whispers in a rasp.

“Hmm?” Yvie hums, absentmindedly trailing her fingers on Scarlet’s inner thigh.

“My name. Say it again, please.”

“Oh,” Yvie breathes out. “Scarlet.”

The name is titanium on Yvie’s tongue, full of weight, interlacing with Scarlet’s taste until Yvie can’t tell them apart, and Scarlet’s corresponding beam pulls at Yvie’s heartstrings in a way she isn’t sure she can justify just yet, not this soon.

“C’mon, Scarlet,” Yvie repeats thickly, swallowing in an attempt to clear the dizzying weight of the emotions in her head. “C’mon, baby, try again,” she coaxes. “I want you smoking for me, remember?”

Whimpering, Scarlet squirms, stares down at Yvie pleadingly. Yvie whispers her name one more time, sweetly, and watches as Scarlet weakens and moves to do as she says, fumbling for the lighter again and struggling to make it work. Unable to resist the small smile that nestles into the corner of her own mouth, Yvie lifts her head, hides it with a gentle kiss pressed to the place where her chin had been. She glances up just as Scarlet manages to raise the flame to the end of the blunt, and then presses her lips to the edge of Scarlet’s hair, near the fold of her hip, lingering there as the warmth of her skin sinks into Yvie’s like the first touch of sun in the early springtime.

“There you go,” Yvie hums easily, feeling Scarlet breathe in more than seeing it, hearing her whine on her exhale.

She moves back down again slowly, her gaze on Scarlet’s features, the need in her eyes, the softness of her lips, her cheeks hollowing as she takes another hit immediately after the first as if desperate to do as she’s told, keep it lit this time. When she’s faced with Scarlet’s core again, Yvie feels like all the air has been knocked out of her, Scarlet seemingly twice as wet as before, folds slippery with it, juices dripping onto the sheet below her and pooling at the source.

Shaking herself out of her staring after a moment, Yvie swipes her tongue over the length of her, collecting the slick and groaning helplessly at the taste and the rise of Scarlet’s hips in response. Not wasting any time, she circles her arms farther around Scarlet’s thighs, slips her hands down to pry her folds apart with her thumbs, and thrusts her tongue inside of Scarlet once more. The heady flavor makes her gut twist, the clench of Scarlet’s channel so unbelievably tight and needy, and Yvie can’t believe she’s kept herself from this for so long. She pushes deeper, eliciting a moan, and realizes that now that she’s had Scarlet on her tongue, she can’t imagine how she’ll be able to do this with anyone else, or go back to not doing it at all.

As if she’s unable to keep still, Scarlet slides down on the sheets, her back arching and her free hand clutching one of the headboard bars, nails clawing at the wood like she’s trying to ground herself. She drops the half-finished blunt in the ashtray, and then her fingers are pressing into the back of Yvie’s neck, not necessarily to pull her in, just to keep her close as her hips repeatedly push up and she grinds her pussy against Yvie’s mouth. She’s probably taking it too far, crossing some sort of line Yvie knows she should and does have, but there’s strings of please and more and oh, God, ohgodohgodohgod tumbling off Scarlet’s lips, and Yvie is drawn in head over heels, wants to indulge her so bad it hurts.

With the new tilt of Scarlet’s hips, it’s even easier to fuck into her, even easier to raise the pitch of her voice and make her breathe in gasps and pants, but its not enough, somehow, and Yvie needs to have her absolutely overwhelmed, no coherency left in the words spilling from her lips. Laying the pad of her thumb against Scarlet’s clit, Yvie starts to rub slow circles, and the reaction is instantaneous. Scarlet cries out, jerking uselessly as if it’s too much when she’s still so sensitive, but Yvie only presses harder, more insistent with her movements now, and it’s only moments before Scarlet surrenders with a sob, her thighs opening wider as if she’s inviting Yvie to have her way with her, and Yvie lets herself get lost in all of it, in the taste and the sensations and the sounds, in Scarlet’s willingness and complete trust in her.

There’s a prominent trembling of Scarlet’s muscles under Yvie’s touch, uncontrollable and steadily increasing, and Yvie can conclude she’s close to coming undone. She almost wishes she could move up Scarlet’s body, trace her lips over her ear and growl a command to come, or maybe just press kisses under the lobe and talk her into it in a murmur, come on, baby, let it go, give it up for me, gorgeous, that’s it baby. But Scarlet is dripping everywhere, covering Yvie’s chin and lips and cheeks with wetness, and she’s fluttering around Yvie’s tongue so addictively as she begins to tense further and further, and Yvie knows she couldn’t move if she tried. She works her tongue harder, as if she can press the words into Scarlet’s walls, and hums instead of speaking, sending vibrations through her folds, coaxing the climax out of her with the merciless movements of her thumb on her clit.

When Scarlet orgasms, she does so with a low moan, her pussy pulsing against Yvie’s face and under her thumb, her thighs spasming and trapping Yvie’s head between them. Her hips jerk into the contact, once, twice, and then she’s falling back onto the mattress, crying out softly, like this is finally too much and she can’t bear to be touched any longer, is trying to escape Yvie. Withdrawing her tongue, Yvie laps softly over her entrance to collect the wetness, as if there’s still remnants of thirst to quench, and removes her thumb from Scarlet’s clit. Her arms tight around the other woman’s thighs, Yvie lays her palms on Scarlet’s lower abdomen instead, pressing her hips solidly into the bed to keep her steady and anchored as she comes down.

Staying where she is, on her stomach between Scarlet’s legs, Yvie turns her head slightly and noses Scarlet’s silky inner thigh, litters little kisses everywhere she can reach and listens as the pattern of Scarlet’s breathing pacifies and evens out slowly. Scarlet’s intakes of air are raspy, her exhales long and shattered, and her frame quakes with aftershocks, forcefully at first and then with decreasing intensity and frequency, until she eventually goes completely boneless. They lie there like that, bodies not quite intertwined but still skin on skin, and Yvie tells herself it’s to let Scarlet catch up, pointedly ignoring the way the tightly wound knot in her own gut begins to untangle, leaving her limbs the pleasant kind of heavy and achy.

“Come here, baby,” Scarlet calls in a quiet murmur after a while.

Yvie pushes herself up on her arms, set on just flopping onto the bed next to Scarlet, and hesitates for just one faltering moment, a little disoriented and caught off guard by the sweetness of the pet name. Her pause gives Scarlet enough time to curl her fingers around the base of her skull and grab onto Yvie’s shoulder, tugging her up her body almost urgently instead, as if she needs the weight of Yvie against her, needs her close. Yvie goes willingly, sliding up between Scarlet’s legs, heart in her throat as Scarlet’s hands move to cradle her face so carefully, her gaze wandering over Yvie’s features with an expression Yvie can’t identify.

Yvie opens her mouth, immobilized all over again, wanting to say something but completely lost for words, and Scarlet shakes her head lightly, pulls her in and brings their lips together before she can make an attempt. Yvie gives in to it easily, jaw relaxing as she lets Scarlet take the lead, kissing her slow and thorough, like she’s trying to reassure Yvie of something. She sucks Yvie’s lower lip into her mouth, tongue and teeth pressing into the flesh, and then releases it with a quiet pop.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Scarlet mumbles against her, sounding almost adoring, her thumbs tracing over Yvie’s cheekbones.

Yvie nearly gasps, her chest constricting, and then Scarlet’s kissing her again, needier now, letting out an almost inaudible whine as she nuzzles closer. Her tongue is pressing eagerly into Yvie’s mouth, and Yvie thinks she’s searching for leftover hints of her own taste, or maybe just trying to suffocate Yvie with the nearness of her, to draw all the oxygen out of her lungs so that when she lets go, Yvie will fall weakly onto Scarlet’s chest with every last defense broken down to useless pieces, nothing left between her cheek and the gentleness of Scarlet’s touch, the warmth of her skin.

When they finally break apart, Scarlet holds Yvie in place still, pressing lazy, close-mouthed pecks on her lips, and Yvie keeps her eyes shut, tries to will her head to stop spinning and loses that fight miserably, feels like Scarlet could draw any confession from her breath right now if she wanted. Her grip on Yvie starts to loosen slowly as she lets out a sigh and tilts her chin up to place one more kiss on Yvie’s mouth. Yvie opens her eyes, watches as Scarlet settles back against the pillows again with a satisfied, sleepy smile on her face and her puffy lips shiny with saliva.

“Want my blunt back,” she announces in a purr, blinking up at Yvie.

Yvie almost chuckles at the demand, props herself up a little farther. “Oh, do you?” she husks, lifting an eyebrow, smiling right back at Scarlet and tilting her head towards the ashtray. “It’s still right over there, technically. You could just grab it.”

Scarlet lifts one of her hands, makes a weak and uninspired effort to reach for it, and then sighs dramatically, shakes her head with a pronounced pout. “Nah-uh. Can’t.”

This time, Yvie doesn’t even attempt to hold off the wave of endearment that washes over her, Scarlet’s blatant attitude so very charming to her. She feels herself soften in response, the tension in her shoulders and neck weakening as both her body and mind relax. Barely stopping herself from kissing the pout off Scarlet’s mouth, she rolls her eyes instead, opting for sarcasm, but, as she deducts from Scarlet’s smug little face, ending up looking quite fond instead.

“Brat,” she says, unable to shake the sensation it comes out praising more than anything else.

Scarlet just hums like Yvie’s making a fair point that she can’t really argue with, and Yvie rolls her eyes again, grabbing the blunt from the ashtray and tapping it against the edge before she gently brings it up to Scarlet. The other takes it between her lips, still no move to indicate she’s going to do anything herself, and Yvie scoffs, pulls back a little to allow herself space to click the lighter, and then snatches her rolling materials off the bedside table and sits back against the pillows.

“Are you at least gonna smoke it yourself, or do you need help with that too?” she quips, fingers quickly working on a new blunt.

“Ha-ha,” Scarlet says dryly and blows some smoke in Yvie’s general direction.

“Try not to let it go out this time,” Yvie comments lowly, and Scarlet shrugs, seeming unbothered.

“Hurry up and finish, I wanna cuddle.”

Yvie doesn’t try to stop the smile that plays at her lips, eyes narrowing as she finishes up with her rolling and sets the materials aside again, bringing the blunt up to light it. The smoke is satin, smooth and rich, and it fills Yvie’s lungs in a way that oxygen never could, satisfying the craving she didn’t realize was there until it was already being eased.

“Hey,” Scarlet says, as if something has just occurred to her, and Yvie glances over at her quizzically. “You never told me your name.”

“Yvie.” She replies before even thinking it through, instinctively giving Scarlet what she wants, and is shocked when it doesn’t feel like a mistake, instead feels like something she should’ve done far sooner. “It’s Yvie.”

“Yvie,” Scarlet repeats, and it’s soft on her lips, her tone wondering, as if she’s exploring how it feels. “Yvie, Yvie, Yvie.”

Her heart beating noticeably quicker, Yvie holds the next puff of smoke in as long as she can, willing it to slow down, trying to regain her composure as Scarlet mumbles her name a few more times and stares up at her so searchingly.

“You gonna stop calling me daddy now?” Yvie asks once she’s sure her voice won’t shake.

“I will literally never stop calling you daddy,” Scarlet says, her voice level and completely serious, looking Yvie dead in the eyes. Yvie lets out a laugh before she can help it, and Scarlet grins all at once. “But Yvie suits you,” she adds, and pats the bed next to her. “C’mere and lay down with me, Yvie.”

Refusing to let herself overthink it, she scoots downwards so that she’s reclining, and waves her hand at Scarlet, indicating that the other woman should move closer instead.

“Hm?” Scarlet hums, squinting at Yvie. “No, I don’t wanna move.”

“Baby,” Yvie says after blowing out a cloud of smoke, amusement audible in her voice. “We’re not laying in your wet spot.”

“Oh.” Scarlet blushes, a cheeky little smile on her face, and Yvie’s ribs feel suddenly too tight, affection swelling in her chest at the sight.

Scarlet finishes her blunt and stumps it out against the darkened, ashy glass, making sure the cherry is out properly before leaving the stub in the ashtray and handing it to Yvie. Yvie turns her attention elsewhere for just a split second to set it down on the mattress next to her thigh and flick her own blunt against the rim. That’s enough time for Scarlet to slide closer on the sheets and plaster herself to Yvie’s side, one leg immediately tangling with Yvie’s and a palm being flattened against Yvie’s abs right below the hem of her crop top.

As if on autopilot, Yvie immediately lifts her arm to accommodate Scarlet better, and Scarlet slips under it easily, allowing Yvie to wrap it around her and feeling so comfortable and warm and just the right size for snuggling. Yvie clears her throat like she’s ashamed of the thought, and while she takes another hit, Scarlet’s hand starts climbing higher unhurriedly, up and up, under the top and slightly to the left and suddenly she’s cupping Yvie’s breast.

“Um,” Yvie lets out with smoke. “What are you doing?”

Scarlet swipes a firm thumb over the nipple, pressing down a little harder when she’s right in the middle, the rest of her fingers digging into the flesh adamantly, and nuzzles her face into the side of Yvie’s neck, pecking the jaw.

“Feelin’ you up, daddy,” she murmurs sweetly, dropping another kiss just beneath the first. “I love your tits.”

“Shut up,” Yvie chuckles lowly.

“Mmm,” Scarlet muses, kissing Yvie’s neck once more and squeezing the breast. “Why don’t you make me.”

“I am so not falling for that,” Yvie informs her and side-eyes Scarlet who produces a meek whine in response. “But I like your tits, too.”

“Aw, thank you, daddy,” Scarlet says through a yawn. “They like you too, especially when you made them bounce when you fucked me. You should definitely do that again soon.”

Puffing on her blunt, Yvie lets the smoke fill her lungs and seep into the very fibers of her being before releasing it and replying to Scarlet, a lazy smile on her lips. “Oh, is that so?”

“Uh huh,” Scarlet hums, snuggling closer, forehead pressed to Yvie’s neck and her cheek resting against her collarbone.

The thought that Scarlet fits perfectly beside her reemerges, and Yvie mulls it over, contemplating the weight of Scarlet’s head against her shoulder, the dizzyingly soft press of her breasts to her side, the way her leg curls around Yvie’s as if she’s a vine climbing a pole. Yvie continues smoking as Scarlet yawns again, mumbling something incomprehensible, and wonders why the feeling of interlocking with her like a puzzle piece doesn’t make her stomach sick with fear. Putting it down to the weed and the orgasm, Yvie lets go of both thoughts and sinks into Scarlet’s warmth, her lids lowering.

Scarlet’s breathing starts gradually growing deeper and heavier, as if she’s seconds from falling asleep, and the idea of keeping her on her chest like this while she drifts makes the back of Yvie’s throat prickle. She tries to swallow against the lump of emotions forming there, still almost unable to believe that Scarlet wants to be close to her like this, even after everything that’s happened. She stubs out her blunt, placing the ashtray on the nightstand on her side of the bed.

“Babe,” she whispers, bouncing her shoulder lightly to attract Scarlet’s attention, worrying for a moment that Scarlet will roll over or go away, like a cat who’s settled in her lap and will only stay in place if she refrains from moving a single muscle.

But Scarlet only produces a little wincing noise and clings to Yvie even harder, and Yvie catches her breath, her head tilting back as she processes that Scarlet is holding onto her like this, loathing the prospect of stirring her right now or ever doing anything to disturb her comfort in any way, even temporarily.

“Baby, I need to move us,” she tries again. “Come on.”

“Uh-uh,” Scarlet whines. “‘M comfy.”

“You’ll be even comfier once I lie down with you, I just need to adjust us real quick.”

“Uh-uh,” Scarlet repeats, her voice fading toward the end like she can’t stay awake long enough to finish her half-hearted protest.

Tightly hugging Scarlet close to herself, Yvie cautiously sits up, the calming effects of both weed and her orgasm as well as the desire to maintain the peace of the now quietly snoring woman on her chest preventing her from making any quick movements, Scarlet mutters something, but it’s muffled and feeble and barely audible, and Yvie twists her arm to blindly reach behind her back and reposition the pillows the best she can without fidgeting too much or letting go of Scarlet.

As she lies down and pulls Scarlet farther onto her chest, the other unconsciously moves her hand from Yvie’s breast to circle her arm around Yvie’s middle, and hides her face in the fabric of Yvie’s top. Yvie pushes her own spare arm behind her head and settles, lets her eyes flutter shut.

In an hour or so, she’ll wake up to Adore bringing Violet home, swinging the front door open hard enough for it to slam against the wall and falling into the apartment. They’ll both be far drunker than they were when Yvie last saw them at the bar, and Violet will be giggling loudly while Adore will be whispering dirty promises to her in a voice that isn’t nearly as hushed as she apparently imagines it to be. One of them will walk into a piece of furniture, and their ensuing laughter will finally make Scarlet stir and slur out something in her sleep right before she’ll cuddle a little bit closer to Yvie, and that’ll force Yvie to give up her plan to get up and go shout at Adore in lieu of holding Scarlet tighter and allowing herself to doze off again, a weird, unfamiliar feeling dwelling in her chest at the realization Scarlet hasn’t gotten up and left yet.

The next time Yvie will wake up after that, it’ll be morning already, the bright light of the low November sun shining through the curtains she forgot to close. Scarlet will be gently tugging her legs open, looking up at Yvie wonderingly and asking if she please may, daddy in a sugary little tone. Yvie will nod and close her eyes again, let Scarlet’s warm tongue take her apart until she’s unable to hold back moans, and then she’ll bask in the afterglow and watch as Scarlet throws one of her flannels over her naked form and informs Yvie she’s going to get something to drink.

All of that will happen, but right now Yvie doesn’t think ahead, doesn’t ponder the future at all. She just lets contentment wash over her in tides and enjoys the lightness of marijuana in her fingertips and the weight of a body on her own, pulled safely down to earth by the limbs draped over her and the feeling that this time around, maybe no one will leave or be left, curled so sweet and secure in her chest.

#rpdr fanfiction #yvie oddly #scarlet envy #scyvie #adore delano #violet chachki #viadore #smut #fluff #lesbian au #cisgirl au #this time around #rbcch #miss bianca #tw daddy kink #tw heterophobia #brooklyn babies #s11

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17mounteens · 6 years

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Date night (Soonyoung)

10k drabbles 💕

"Can I kiss you?" + "I think you're beautiful." + a long, drawn out kiss on the lips

“Can’t you tell me where we’re going? I don’t know how to dress up accordingly,” you whined to Soonyoung. It was time for your monthly date night, which was a tradition you had kept up for a long time with him and this time, for the first time actually, Soonyoung didn’t tell you where the date was going to be, thus causing you to stress over your clothes.

“Just wear something you could wear to a party,” he said comfortingly from the couch where he was scrolling through his phone. You sighed as you stood in front of your closet, coming to terms that you couldn’t stand in front your closet the whole evening.

You decided to play it safe and did not dress too formally but not too casually either even though you only really had one outfit to match that criteria.

You got dressed rather fast and by the sounds of it, Soonyoung was getting ready as well. You heard him shuffle through his closet and put some clothes on, as well as a soft spray of something that you assumed to be cologne. You sprayed yourself with perfume before you considered yourself to be ready as well.

So, after a few more minutes, you flung the bathroom door open to the living room where Soonyoung was sitting on the couch in his black suit pants and white button up. His face lit up as he caught you from the corner of his eye and quickly rushed over to you, his hands touching you immediately.

“Showing off for someone?” He asked with a smirk and pulled you closer, admiring you in what he recalled to being his favourite outfit of yours - having only seen you wear it once.

You swore his comment made your cheeks flush red but you could have just gotten really warm as he gently held you. “I might be. Does it suit me?”

“I think you’re beautiful,” he nodded, his eyes scanning you from head to toe with love practically oozing out of his eyes. “My eyes are up here,” you said jokingly with an unintended snort that made Soonyoung shake his head.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked as he directed his gaze straight to your eyes when you furrowed your brows in confusion, what kind of question was that?

“Of course, why would you ask?”

“You always complain when I kiss you when you have that expensive lipgloss on, so…I can’t tell if you’re wearing it right now,” Soonyoung explained, his hands finally resting steadily on your waist.

You couldn’t help but giggle at his sweet explanation - his heart was so pure that you weren’t even sure why you deserved someone like him. “I am but it’s more than okay to kiss me,” you said with a breathy laugh.

Soonyoung smiled again and took a breath in when placing his soft lips against yours. He realised quickly that your lipgloss was very sticky but didn’t want to interrupt the kiss so fast both of you melting into the kiss instead - neither wanting to break way from the other one.

Admin Memesol

#soonyoung fluff #hoshi fluff #seventeen fluff #hoshi scenarios #soonyoung scenarios #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #hoshi imagines #soonyoung imagines

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chroniccombustion · 5 years

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Caught in the Grey (ch 4)

Genre: Trans!AU, hurt/comfort, romance, angst with a happy ending Rated: T Characters: Souji Seta (Yu Narukami), Yosuke Hanamura, Naoto Shirogane, Kanji Tatsumi, Investigation Team, Izanagi/Shadow!Souji Warnings: depression, dysphoria, disassociation, self-hatred, implied suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, mentions of homophobia, implied past child abuse and transphobia, canon-typical violence, mild sexual content Status: multi-chapter, incomplete

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It’s not fair; Souji is already one of the best looking guys in Inaba. Yosuke knows it, can admit it now, because there really isn’t any way he couldn’t, what with the sheer number of admirers his partner has amassed, which also isn’t fair. To be forced to admit that Souji also makes one of the best looking girls Yosuke has ever seen is just downright cruel. He’s gorgeous.

Chapter 4: Dream About That Casual Touch

“I over communicate and feel too much, I just complicate it when I say too much. I laugh about it, dream about that casual touch. Sex is fire, I’m sick and tired of acting all tough.”

- (“Feelings”, Hayley Kiyoko)

October

The noise level backstage is weird. Yosuke can hear the muffled sounds of the students out in the auditorium, the volume masking just how many people are actually there, waiting to see a bunch of guys forced into dresses against their will. Everything is just… bullshit. (He hates the girls so much right now; even if he does kind of deserve it after getting them all trapped in a similar boat.)

He scratches nervously at the sweater… vest… thing that Chie had given him to wear. It’s itchy. How come girls’ clothes are so uncomfortable? Are all girls’ clothes like this? He really hopes not. That would suck.

Speaking of suck, the backstage area is not a place Yosuke has ever been before but has quickly decided is not a place he ever wants to be again. It’s hot, it’s dark, and the only thing keeping any of them from tripping over shit and falling on their faces is the dull glow of the muted florescent bulbs spaced widely throughout the area, which really doesn’t do much of anything at all. Yosuke is pretty sure he’s going to run into something and break his nose. How the hell do the drama club kids do this on a regular basis?

For as narrow of a space as it is there are also way too many people in it for Yosuke to feel comfortable. Not that he’s exactly relaxed anyway, what with the itchy sweater thing and the skirt and the people waiting to see him in the sweater thing and the skirt. There’re a handful of theatre kids off to the side, wandering to and fro upon occasion, doing whatever it is theatre kids do behind the scenes. There’s also someone that looks like they might be a teacher over near the entrance (Yosuke admittedly didn’t look too hard), probably acting as some kind of half-assed supervisor.

Chie, Yukiko, and Rise were back here, too, some time ago, but Yosuke hasn’t seen them for a little while, so he thinks they may have gone off to do girl things or help set up. Either way, Yosuke is kind of glad they aren’t around right now. He thinks he might have also seen Naoto earlier for a scant few minutes, hovering near where a duffle bag now rests by the wall. They’d disappeared pretty quickly, though, so it could very well have been someone else.

And then of course there are the poor bastards about to be paraded out on stage for the rest of the school to gawk at. Yosuke sighs. He really hates everything right now; he’s stuffed into the most humiliating outfit he’s ever worn and the smells of the hair spray and fruity, nasty lipgloss Chie slathered all over his mouth are combining in his nose to give him the headache of the century. He feels sticky, jittery, and uncomfortable in not only every way physically possible, but also mentally. Fuck.

Off to the side, Kanji doesn’t look like he’s doing a whole hell of a lot better. Sure, he keeps pulling at his dress, holding the lower half of it out in front of him to stare at, turning it this way and that apparently just to watch it move, but Kanji is also the son of a seamstress, so that just makes sense. The dress aside, however, Kanji’s wig is cheap and he is clearly too tall for his outfit – too much leg and too unsteady in the ungodly-high heels he’s been forced to wear. Yosuke actually feels just the tiniest bit worse for Kanji than he does for himself; at least Yosuke’s shoes are flat.

Teddie, the runt, has apparently run off to parts unknown, spouting some excuse about keeping his look a “surprise.” Damn bear, Yosuke thinks. Teddie isn’t even a student here, there’s no punishment waiting for him should he decide to bail on them and he knows it. The only reason he’d even been signed up in the first place was because Teddie had begged and pleaded and whined until Yosuke finally put his name on the list with the rest of them. (The girls evidently did think about it but since the teachers wouldn’t even know who Teddie was, they’d figured it was impossible to make it stick if they did.)

But now the loud little mascot has vanished, leaving only the trio of Yosuke, Kanji, and Souji to face the proverbial guillotine.

Souji.

For what has to be the hundredth time in the last half hour, Yosuke glances over at where his partner stands silently in the darkest, farthest corner of the room.

Souji looks utterly lifeless. He stares at nothing, eyes dark and vacant in the crappy backstage lighting, standing stock-still and completely soundless. It’s almost like he’s not even there. Yosuke can’t blame him, really; he himself would be gone in a heartbeat if he thought he could manage to pull it off. Sadly, he hasn’t yet mastered whatever technique it is that has Souji so focused all the time – like, all the time – so Yosuke has no mental tricks of his own to help him escape his current situation.

Still though, the more Yosuke looks at him (and Yosuke has been catching himself looking a lot during these past 30 minutes,) the more he seems to notice about his best friend. He notices the way Souji’s long silver wig frames his face and makes it softer, more regal, (though Souji has always had a kind of imperial look to his features.) He notices how Souji seems to almost glow in the dim yellow light – washed out, wraith-like, monochromatic. He notices the way the deep charcoal of Souji’s uniform makes every tiny bit of visible skin stand out sharply in contrast.

He notices how it makes Souji looks like some kind of wandering apparition, moon-kissed and ethereal.

Yosuke looks away, shaking his head until he makes himself dizzy.

He’s gorgeous.

Yosuke shakes himself again and focuses on the way it makes his headache throb so he doesn’t have to wonder why his stomach is swooping like he’s in free-fall.

It’s so un-fucking-fair.

Everything just fits Souji better, too, seems to sit on his body like it was made to compliment him. The outfit, the wig, the swipe of color across his lips, it all looks almost uncannily natural on him in a way that Yosuke just can’t figure out. For a moment, if Yosuke didn’t know any better, he could almost imagine that the person in front of him is actually a girl.

And ohhh fuck, what a damn good looking girl he makes, too – the exact kind of girl Yosuke would be tripping over himself to hit on, and Yosuke curses his own damn brain for the confusion crackling through him right now. His hormones keep niggling at him, poking him, reminding him that he’s a teenaged boy and that he finds girls attractive, that he’s been sexually frustrated his entire high school life. Girlfriend? they whisper.

No! he hastily tries to correct them. Souji! Partner! BOY!!

Souji is a boy and his best friend and Yosuke shouldn’t be starting at him like he used to (used to? Past-tense?) stare at Rise and Yukiko and every other girl he ever thought was hot. He shouldn’t keep having to remind his breathing not to quicken or his face not to burn and what is happening here?

He bows his back and hunches over, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until little sparks of light start to form behind his eyelids. He groans.

The thing is, Souji isn’t even doing anything, just keeping to himself like a mannequin in a shop window. It’s almost creepy.

Actually, it’s… kind of concerning. Souji is a pretty quiet person in general, yeah, but usually he’s not this quiet, this still, this detached. Yosuke peeks out between his fingers and back over at his best friend, wondering suddenly if maybe something is wrong. Well, more wrong that everything already is.

Souji hasn’t moved so much as an inch since Yosuke looked at him last; his prop bokken is still slung over his shoulder like his katana in the TV world, his fingers clutching it so tightly they’re turning white beneath the shitty lamps. The only sign of life is the way he blinks every few seconds – something his body does without him telling it to, like breathing or pumping blood. If Souji is in there he’s somewhere very, very far away.

Yosuke wonders if he should go over there and check on him. He’d been so preoccupied feeling sorry for himself in his damn miniskirt that it hadn’t really occurred to him before now that his partner seems…

Yosuke glances at Kanji. His kohai is frowning down at the hunk of dress he’s got pinched between his fingers, apparently scrutinizing the quality of the fabric. He doesn’t look happy about cross-dressing, but he also doesn’t look like he’s left his body and faded into nothingness. Kanji looks similar to how Yosuke feels, pissed and uncomfortable with a “can we please get this over with?” kind of vibe around the set of his mouth. Souji, on the other hand, is a soulless doll.

Standing back up from his crouch, Yosuke allows himself to look over at Souji once more, this time staring deliberately to see if he can pick out anything that might give him a clue as to whether he should be worried or not. He flicks his eyes across Souji’s expressionless face, looks to the bone-colored fingers around the bokken, watches the (convincing) swell of Souji’s chest to make sure it still rises and falls with breath the way it should. His gaze drops then, to the gentle curve at Souji’s waist, accentuated by the cut of his uniform top. It travels downwards, past his partner’s hips, which seem fuller now, more prominent, thanks to how the waistband of the skirt cinches right above the jut of his hipbones. They look perfect, like they would be just the right shape to fit in Yosuke’s hands, just the right place to rest his palms, to gently pull and bring the two of them closer together until they were pressed hip to hip…

Yosuke’s mouth goes dry.

He whips his head back around like he’s been stung, heart suddenly pounding inside his chest so hard it nearly knocks him over. Guilt and something hot, tight, tingling settles low in his gut, mixing together into a wave of breathlessness that leaves him feeling like he’s just been caught doing something wrong.

What the hell, what the hell, what the hell?!

This is Souji – he’d just been ogling Souji, had just been fantasizing about putting his hands on Souji. His best friend in the whole world, his partner. Yosuke sucks in air through his nose and tries to regulate his breathing, wiping his suddenly clammy hands down the sides of his skirt.

It has to be a fluke; they’re all dressed like girls and Yosuke has never so much as kissed a girl and his libido is confused because Souji’s costume looks way too real and oh my GOD. This is so stupid, he’s going to throttle whomever picked out their outfits.

“Hey uh, Yosuke-senpai? You don’t look so good.”

Yosuke is broken out of his thoughts with a sharp exhale. Looking over, he sees Kanji watching him with a curious expression, one thinned-down eyebrow quirked high. It takes Yosuke a second to react, to run Kanji’s words through his mind and actually understand them. Eventually though, he nods.

“Y-yeah,” he squeaks. He swallows against the dryness seeping down his throat, runs his tongue across his lips to wet them. “Yeah, I’m not really feelin’ too great right now.” He tries to give his kohai a weak laugh but it comes out instead as a wheeze. Kanji’s other brow goes up to join the first. Yosuke clears his throat and looks away. “It’s nothing, it’s just nerves.”

Kanji makes a sound of agreement. “I feel ya, Senpai, the waitin’s the worst. I kinda wish they’d just get started already.”

Yosuke tilts his head back and groans. “Or never start at all,” he says. “Just cancel it, let us go home. That’d be even better.” He lolls his head over – grimacing at the way the damn strawberry hair clip tugs at his scalp – just in time to see Kanji running the hem of his dress through his fingers again, a slight frown on his face.

“It’d almost be a waste’a time at this point, wouldn’t it?” Kanji asks, still staring at the white fabric in his hands. “Think they’d miss this?”

Confused, (but hey, textile shop, so whatever,) Yosuke is about to open his mouth and form a reply when suddenly there is the crackle of a microphone overhead, the speakers up above them humming to life. The lights backstage seem to dim even further until everything around them becomes nothing more than fuzzy outlines and indiscernible shapes. Great.

A voice Yosuke doesn’t recognize comes over the line, calling out a final sound check. There are more words, something that sounds like a greeting, but Yosuke doesn’t pay them any attention; he’s too busy suppressing the urge to flee and never look back. He springs upright, body locked into a stance of pure dread by his live-wire nerves. Beside him, in what remains of the light, he can see Kanji making a face that can only be summed up as, ‘oh for fuck’s sake’. Yosuke doesn’t think he’s ever felt a bigger connection to his teammate than in this one excruciating moment.

The announcer says more words through the speakers and Yosuke can feel himself start to vibrate with nervous energy. Yeah, he thinks, it would have been so much better if they had just canceled the whole damn thing. He’s so jittery, so absolutely fucking nervous, that he almost doesn’t notice someone stepping up beside him. Granted, the lights backstage are almost completely off right now, and the person that just apparently blinks into existence next to him is wearing really dark colors, but it still takes longer than it probably should for Yosuke to realize he now has someone on his left.

He startles when he does notice, though, and nearly jumps sideways into Kanji before he manages to stop himself. He’s got a pretty good handle on controlling the way his body moves by now – at least, he’d like to think he does – thanks to all the time spent fighting and training inside the TV. It’s kept him safe, kept him from doing stupid shit like knocking over his kohai, and it’s also what prevents him from instinctively slashing out at the figure beside him with a kunai that isn’t there.

It still takes him a stupid amount of time to recognize the shape of Souji standing beside him in the darkness.

“Shit, Partner,” he breathes, feeling his heart hammering away inside his ribs. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Souji doesn’t respond.

Yosuke fixes his center of gravity and leans in a little closer to his friend. ”Partner?” he calls, squinting against the lack of light. “Earth to Souji?” He reaches out a hand and waves it by Souji’s face.

No reaction.

That is… concerning. Yosuke gnaws at a part of his lower lip, teeth scraping the sticky, sickly-sweet lipgloss into his mouth where he winces at the taste. It doesn’t matter though; his friend is quite clearly not himself and with a limited amount of time and no privacy, Yosuke isn’t sure what to do here. Souji has never seemed to need anything from him before, always being the one to listen and help and console, but right now Yosuke’s partner is a million miles away and, not for the first time, Yosuke wishes he could be the helping friend for a change. Souji has always been there for him, even when he didn’t have to be; the least Yosuke could do in return is make sure his best friend isn’t silently having a stroke.

He just… doesn’t really know what he’s doing. Having real friends is hard.

Yosuke glances around, making sure there’s no one watching them (Kanji doesn’t count, he’s part of the team), before taking a hesitant step into Souji’s space and leaning in to try and see his face through the gloom. His partner stares straight ahead, eyes so dark in the low light that it almost looks like they aren’t there at all. Lifeless pools of empty blackness, holes in a featureless mask.

“Dude,” Yosuke whispers, growing more and more on-edge as the seconds pass and Souji still doesn’t return from wherever he is. “Partner, come on, you’re creeping me out here.”

Cacophony. The din of the audience comes two-fold back to them, both from the crowd itself and also its echo through the speakers. It grates at Yosuke’s ears. He grimaces, turning his attention away from his friend for just a few seconds to focus back in on what’s happening. Over on his right, Kanji makes an unhappy sound and clacks his way over to the curtain. In the marginally better lighter filtering in from the stage, Yosuke sees Kanji take a deep breath, square his shoulders, and stomp out into the sea of noise and people. Yosuke feels his stomach drop out.

There is a soft inhale from beside him. It sounds wet, like a gasp that nearly became a choke, quiet and unsteady. Yosuke turns towards it just in time to see Souji blinking like he’s just woken up from a particularly bad dream. Souji inhales again, just a shallow, just as shaky, and for a moment, in the dark, Yosuke thinks his partner might be trembling.

The MC is talking again, gearing up to call the next one of them out, and Yosuke knows that no matter which of them is called he only has a few more seconds to try and help his friend.

But he doesn’t know what to do. His options are severely limited due to space and dark and their rapidly dwindling time. All he can think of as the announcer calls his name over the speakers is to shoot his partner a worried look he isn’t sure Souji can even see. “Bro, Souji, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Souji whispers, and Yosuke doesn’t have time to decide if he believes him or not before someone – probably a drama kid – comes up behind him and practically shoves him out onto the stage.

Souji disappears the moment the pageant is over and the four of them are released from their torment.

Well, three, technically, since Teddie still looks like he’s having the time of his life.

Yosuke tries to spot his partner backstage, to check on how he’s doing, but Souji must have something with Garudyne equipped because Yosuke swears he doesn’t even get a chance to blink before Souji is straight up gone. Their leader breezes from the stage wings, over to the wall, pulling off his wig as he goes and tossing it to a startled techie off to the side. In one seamless motion, Souji scoops up the duffle bag that maybe-Naoto left there earlier and strides out into the back hallway. Yosuke is left to weakly call out after him to no avail, all the while unable to follow because an exuberant Teddie decides right at that moment to bodily fling himself at Yosuke and latch on like a limpet. Yosuke contemplates prying the shoujo-anime-reject off him and tracking his partner down, but with as fast as Souji was walking, Yosuke knows it’s likely a lost cause at this point. He doesn’t feel like scouring the entire school.

Besides, he tells himself only barely convincingly, Souji must be fine now if he’s actually moving again. He’d been… better? possibly? while on stage – at least when Yosuke got a chance to sneak a look at him in between the humiliation and the public speaking. Souji had said his lines when his turn with the microphone came up and swung the bokken down like it was an extension of his arm, as fierce and fluid as he was with his sword. But… it had been… off, somehow. Just a little. Enough that Yosuke, who was so used to watching Souji, so used to studying him (out of awe and envy and very minor idolization, but hell if Yosuke would ever say that out loud,) had managed to pick up on it in the handful of seconds he’d had to work with.

Souji had moved with practiced ease – something Yosuke is sure took no real mental effort to accomplish. His words had been low, monotone, spoken like a robot, and as much as Yosuke is certain a lot of that is just how his partner is, he also hadn’t been able to stop his mind from conjuring up the image of a string-controlled puppet. An automated marionette with a database full of preprogrammed responses, picture-perfect in its humanity but cold and empty behind the eyes.

Yosuke shivers at the memory.

With no way of knowing just where Souji has run off to and with his costume starting to get more than a little claustrophobic, Yosuke finally just extracts himself from Teddie’s grip and starts off for the dressing rooms. He’ll go back, change his clothes, get the fucking makeup off his face, and wait until Souji decides he’s ready to rejoin them. Who knows? Maybe he’ll be fine after putting his normal clothes back on and Yosuke won’t even have to worry anymore.

Yeah, he thinks as he gathers up his (boy’s) uniform and starts tugging the hair tie from his head. His partner is probably fine, just eager to put the whole traumatizing pageant behind him like Yosuke is.

He lets the thought settle while he starts to change, repeating it over and over again to himself until he actually starts to believe it.

Everything’s fine.

Everything is not fine.

Yosuke stares down at his phone screen, his brows furrowing so hard that it’s starting to hurt.

0 unread messages, it reads. Fuck.

He sighs heavily, the sound quickly turning into something long and drawn out, gravelly in the back of his throat. He rolls over onto his back on the bed and brings his hands up to cover his eyes, the phone face down and discarded on his chest. Souji hasn’t texted him back yet.

His partner had reappeared somewhere between the first time Yosuke had gone back to the classroom (after he finished changing), and the second time (after he’d been told by Rise that none of the girls had anything to take the makeup off with and he’d had to run back to the theatre students and ask them.) When Yosuke had finally made it back – albeit empty handed – he’d found Souji seated in one of the desks shoved up against the wall by the door, looking blotchy and drained.

He’d wanted to talk to Souji then, since at the time it had looked like his friend was mostly back to normal despite the clear exhaustion. In his exuberance over Souji magically producing a pack of makeup wipes from his bag, however, Yosuke had evidently lost his only remaining chance, as by the time he and Kanji were making their way back to the room (again), Souji had been leaving.

Well, no, that wasn’t quite right; Souji had been running. He’d come tearing out of the classroom as Yosuke and Kanji were coming up the hallway, hugging the doorframe as he exited and nearly slamming into the wall beside the door. Yosuke had nearly shouted in surprise, battle-born instinct kicking in and immediately trying to check for damage he’d been too far away to actually see. But before either he or Kanji could properly react beyond that, Souji had pushed off the wall and gone sprinting towards them, past them, away from them and down the hall to the stairwell, moving like the Reaper was two steps behind.

Yosuke slides his hands up into his hair and tugs until it stings. The sensation is sharp, grounding, it puts him back in the present, back in his bedroom at home with the sound of Teddie downstairs, pestering Yosuke’s mom to let him help with dinner. It keeps him from thinking about how absolutely shattered his partner’s expression had been for the brief second Yosuke had been able to see it as Souji dashed past. Brow furrowed as if in pain, eyes bright and frantic like dying stars, with deep-set lines around them, tight with tension. Yosuke didn’t even know Souji was capable of making that face.

He doesn’t like that Souji is.

It’s unsettling, first of all, to see their normally unshakable leader so visibly distressed. Souji is stoic at the best of times, even outside of combat, with expressions that don’t seem to change much but can make you warm and fluttery or pin you in place when they do. He’s like one of those optical illusion puzzles – twist one line around his mouth, make one minute shift in detail, and Souji goes from soft and kind to stone and fury. It’s what makes him the perfect Commander in the TV world, the best kind of Best Friend outside it, and to see him so drastically different leaves Yosuke reeling.

But on a more personal level, looking past just the obvious physical change, it’s terrifying. For something to have messed with Souji so badly as to warp his carefully controlled expression into that…

Yosuke feels the curling self-doubt start to take root in his mind. Something had clearly been bothering Souji for most of the day, and Yosuke – who is supposed to be Souji’s friend, his equal, his partner – wasn’t able to do anything about it. He’d missed his chance, taken too long to act, and whatever Souji had been dealing with had escalated to the point of boiling over, leaving Yosuke to gawk stupidly while the best friend he’d ever had tore through the stairwell door like he was dying.

Yosuke is faced with two very heavy realizations because of this. First, that Souji is, in fact, shakable. And second, that Yosuke was genuinely stunned to learn this first fact, which implies a lot about his mindset that Yosuke doesn’t like. Maybe he’s just as guilty as the rest of the town about putting Souji up on a pedestal. He thought he wasn’t; he doesn’t like knowing he might have been wrong.

He lets out another sigh and stares up at his ceiling. He feels so useless right now; his friend was hurting, might still be hurting, and no one knows where Souji is or what happened to make him bolt. Yosuke checks his phone again. Still nothing.

GOD!

With a noise of frustration, Yosuke heaves himself upright and tosses his phone to the end of the bed. He hates this so much! To be stuck here not able to do anything or even know where to begin – if only Souji would answer him, answer somebody! Yosuke keeps checking with the others, every thirty minutes or so, and he’d forced himself to wait that long, even, as he figured no one would like him much if he just kept badgering them. Not that checking every five seconds would change anything. Besides, he has to keep reminding himself to trust his friends, to trust that they’ll spread the news as soon as someone hears from him, gets word, spots him, anything.

(The thought that Souji might contact one of the others first leaves an odd sort of clenching feeling in Yosuke’s chest that he doesn’t really want to think about right now.)

I should have gone after him.

For the millionth time that evening, Yosuke mentally kicks himself for all the things he should have done differently – knowing full well the hindsight won’t help, but being unable to do anything productive leaves him with nothing else. He should have run after Souji when his partner had sped by him, should have followed, should have tried to catch him. Instead, Yosuke had stared after him in shock, only spurring his feet to move long after Souji had vanished through the stairwell door. By the time Yosuke had finally reacted, Souji had seemingly evaporated, leaving behind only a visibly rattled Naoto near the middle of the stairs.

“I-I don’t know where he went.” Naoto had said when Yosuke had frantically asked if they’d seen his partner. They’d been trembling, just slightly, bracing their weight on the stair rail with one arm and holding themself with the other, tight and close like they could hold in the minute tremors if they squeezed hard enough.

Yosuke doesn’t think he’s seen them that distressed since they’d faced their own shadow. For both Souji and Naoto to be so freaked at the same time is nearly incomprehensible to Yosuke. It scares him.

There had been almost no time to search after all of that, either, only about fifteen precious minutes to run through the halls in a vain attempt at spotting the familiar silver of Souji’s hair before the girls (and Naoto) were called away to get ready for their own pageant hell. Kanji and Naoto had split up to help him search before Naoto had had to leave them; Yosuke hadn’t wanted to frighten the others. Instead, he’d stamped down his jitters as best he could and asked them if they knew where Souji had gone, had they seen him, had he come back to the room at all? All anyone had known was that Souji had apparently stood up, very quickly, mumbled an “excuse me”, and strode from the room like the rapids in a river, gathering speed as he went until he’d swung himself around the doorframe without so much as pausing. Polite to the end, even while moments away from slamming into a wall and taking off down the hallway like a shot.

They’d all been worried, obviously, especially Teddie, who’d apparently been clinging to him at the time, but it was only after the second pageant was over that the concern about Souji’s absence and failure to return really started to show on everyone’s faces. They’d all talked, voices hushed and heads together like they were plotting back at the Junes food court, about going to search for their leader, their friend, but the rooms had to be cleaned up, the last of the decorations packed away, and by the time they could all leave the sun had begun to set.

Which left Yosuke back at the present point, hands empty and head too full.

He wondered if he could possibly sneak out, go check the Dojima residence before his parents even knew—but no. No, it would take too long and Teddie would notice first and whine and tell Yosuke’s mom, and even if Yosuke managed to get there what would he do if Souji wasn’t at home? He’d risk scaring Nanako, risk running into Dojima-san. The whole thing would have the potential to go so horribly, horribly sideways and blow up into something messy and tangled. He doesn’t want to get Souji in trouble, doesn’t want to frighten Nanako, doesn’t want to get grounded for sneaking out when he’s supposed to be home because his mom wants to have a rare family dinner together while no one is on shift.

Sending a silent ‘pleasepleaseplease’ to anyone, anything that might be listening, Yosuke fishes his phone back out from the covers at the foot of his bed and checks the screen.

0 unread messages.

Yosuke thinks he might be going insane.

Opening his contact list, Yosuke pulls up Souji’s number at stares at it. He’s called so many times, left so many messages – each one left unanswered, unread. It would be one thing if Souji were seeing them and just not responding. (It would be a bad, hurtful, worrying thing, but one thing on its own.) It’s a completely different thing for Souji to not be reading them at all.

Maybe he lost his phone or it ran out of battery, maybe he’ll call back after it’s finished charging. Or maybe something happened and Souji’s lying unconscious in an alley somewhere, unable to move let alone check his texts.

Yosuke shakes himself. No, he can’t think that. He’s not ready to think about that, despite how much his mounting anxiety might want him to. He needs to trust Souji, have faith that Souji will be alright, that he can handle himself like he does in the TV if anything happens. But Souji is human, just like the rest of them, and no amount of power, no army of personae will help outside in the real world. Car accidents can happen, kidnappings can happen – do happen, were happening – and all of it possible without a warning or chance to fight back.

He’s already hit the call button by the time he breaks that chain of thought.

The line rings and rings and rings, the sound like a failing heartbeat in Yosuke’s ear. There is a click, a pause, a familiar robotic voice telling him he’s reached the voicemail box of “Seta Souij” and to leave a message after the tone.

Yosuke’s stomach drops. He didn’t think it could get any lower.

“Partner, hey,” he says into the phone, not even bothering to keep the waver from his voice. He’d done so well the first couple of times; he’s stretched too thinly to do it now. “It’s me. Again….” Something wet trickles down his cheek; he makes no move to wipe it away. This is dumb, he’s being dumb, but he doesn’t know what to do right now. Souji has always been the stronger one, the Leader, the rock that holds everything in place when shit keeps going wrong. For all Yosuke tries to match him stride for stride, he knows, in the dark, dusty place where he keeps the rest of his insecurities, that he’s too different from Souji to ever be like him.

He can’t find Souji, can’t get hold of him, can’t help him, and it’s a blow that Yosuke isn’t sure he can recover from any time soon. Souji would know what to do but that’s the problem: Souji isn’t here. Yosuke is left to try and navigate this foreign situation all on his own. He’s used to being second-in-command, even if he’s never really needed to play the “command” role; taking over as default leader while Souji is missing isn’t something Yosuke was ready to do. Even if there’s no longer an investigation to head, even if his partner’s disappearance wasn’t a kidnapping (he hopes), if Souji doesn’t show up soon it will fall on Yosuke’s shoulders to lead the team to find him. Especially if it turns out Souji is nowhere to be found outside the TV.

He chides himself for being so utterly unprepared.

Yosuke licks at his lower lip, sucking it between his teeth to chew at for a second as he thinks of something else to say that he hasn’t already said before. “Listen… it’s been hours. Where are you?” He pauses, sucks in a watery breath. “I’m really freaked right now, okay? I swear to god, if you just forgot to turn your phone on or something…” His voice catches as a tide of something hot and suffocating washes over him, up his chest, his throat, into the back of his mouth where it chokes him and traps his words behind his teeth He pauses again to swallow it down. “Souji, please. Please call me back, let me know you’re okay. You’re my best fucking friend, let me help—“

“Your message could not be recorded because this mailbox is now full. Please try your call again later.”

With a desperate, angry growl, Yosuke yanks his phone away from his ear and throws it viciously down against the mattress. It bounces off the comforter, falling and landing with a muted ‘thunk’ somewhere out of sight in the dark below the bed. He doesn’t go looking for it; he just lets it lay wherever it’s fallen and turns to bury his face in his pillow, fighting back the molten surge of tears until Teddie’s voice shouts up at him that it’s time for dinner.

He barely says a thing the rest of the night.

---

Yosuke sleeps poorly, waking with a knotted stomach and a tight feeling gripping at the inside of his skull.

The house is quiet, eerily so, and in his blearily state it takes Yosuke a few groggy minutes to piece together the reason why. Teddie is still asleep; Yosuke can hear the bear’s thin, wheezy snoring from inside his closet, which is strange because usually Teddie is a bundle of energy from the moment Yosuke’s alarm goes off. Half the time, Teddie acts as his second alarm after Yosuke tries hitting the snooze for the third time in a row, jumping onto Yosuke’s bed and tackling him in a “good morning hug.” Today, though, it seems that Yosuke has woken up well before his alarm is set to wake him. He doesn’t really know how that’s possible, considering he hadn’t managed to fall asleep until well after midnight, but somehow he’s awake before the rest of the household (provided his parents haven’t already gone in to work), and he doesn’t think he could get back to sleep even if he tried.

There are no new messages on his phone. Yosuke already hates today.

Still half in a daze, he turns off his alarm and makes his way quietly around the room to gather up the pieces of his uniform. He changes in the bathroom where he can see and the light won’t reach the slumbering bear back in his room. Were it another day he would wake Teddie up or just leave the alarm set for him, but Yosuke is painfully aware that Teddie has the after-school shift with him tonight and doesn’t even need to be awake until later in the afternoon.

He wanders downstairs and halfheartedly makes the quickest, most basic breakfast he can possibly make – which honestly isn’t any different than any other breakfast he makes for himself. There’s a little bit of the leftovers from last night’s dinner still tucked away in the fridge, but he leaves it be. Yosuke may know next to nothing about cooking but Teddie knows even less, and while he’d never admit it aloud, Yosuke is not so annoyed with Teddie’s existence that he wants the poor guy to go hungry. He also knows that Teddie gets lonely without him around and likely won’t be happy that Yosuke didn’t wake him up to say goodbye before leaving. He’s already prepared for the pouty earful the bear will have in store for him at work, but for the moment, Yosuke is willing to settle for an egg and toast for himself in order to leave his pseudo-brother with an edible peace offering. Maybe he’ll give Ted a call at lunch to make him feel better. (If only to save himself from being clung to by a living carnival prize later on.)

He sits at the counter and stares at his phone while he eats without tasting. No new messages. He dumps the uneaten half of his toast into the trash.

Time passes at a crawl, and while Yosuke is too frazzled to try and nap on the couch until he needs to leave, he also can’t seem to wake up any further. The exhaustion from yesterday still sticks to him, weighs him down like a thick blanket of dread. The feeling of uselessness, of not knowing what to do with himself or how to help still sits deep within his bones. The longer he stays idle, the more anxious his mind grows, despite the way his eyes itch like he hasn’t slept in a month. The runny egg and half slice of burnt bread sit weirdly in his stomach.

He’s debating on whether he wants to just leave a little early and possibly stake out Souji’s house – because hey, might as well – when his phone finally, finally buzzes. Yosuke nearly drops it in his haste to get it out of his pocket, catching his fingernail on the seam of his jeans and bending it far enough to make it sting. All the while the phone continues to buzz, vibrating every couple of seconds as each new notification comes through. It takes him a minute, but he manages to extract the device from his pocket, ignoring the way his finger is throbbing.

He doesn’t even bother checking the notifications flashing up at him from the screen, he just goes straight to his messages and desperately hopes that at least one of them is from Souji.

None of them are.

Instead, there are a handful of texts from Naoto, all sent to the entire Investigation Team like the big-ass group chat they never got around to making.

Detc Prince: JUST SPOKE 2 SOUJI-SENPAI

Dect Prince: HE IS SAFE AT HOME & HAS BEEN THERE SINCE LAST NIGHT

Detc Prince: EVIDENTLY HE PASSED OUT & SLEPT 12 HOURS. JUST NOW WOKE UP.

Detc Prince: HE SAYS HE IS SORRY 4 SCARING US. HE ALSO WONT B AT SCHOOL 2DAY

Detc Prince: VIOLENTLY ILL YESTERDAY BUT BETTER NOW. LEFT AFTER GETTING SICK

Yosuke stares down at his phone in confusion.

No, that’s… wrong.

He stands dumbly in the kitchen, in the quiet, morning-dark house, with his phone in his hands and a furrowed brow and tries to piece together this story with his own from the day before. He’s foggy-headed still, sleepy and jacked all at the same time, but even if he were wide-awake he knows that something would be off.

Souji had been running down the hall like he was terrified. He’d blown past Yosuke and Kanji with the speed of someone deeply afraid (which Yosuke recognizes from their first few adventures into the TV world, back when everything was still new to them all), not of someone about to throw up. His partner had rocketed away from him almost too quickly to catch his expression, but Yosuke knows how to look at Souji, knows how to check for tells, how to read his commander, his best friend, and pick up on Souji’s signals. It’s how they fight side-by-side in the dungeons, when Yosuke has his headphones blaring and their soft-spoken leader needs to guide them all through battle. Yosuke knows Souji – and those weren’t the eyes of “let me by, I have to hurl.”

Souji’s eyes had been wide and frightened, laced with sorrow and the same kind of desperate mania that so many of their friends had worn as they faced down their shadows.

Yosuke feels the breakfast in his stomach turn over on itself. He doesn’t like this. Yosuke had watched Souji disappear through the door to the stairs, not towards the bathroom like anyone feeling nauseas would do, so unless Souji had been heading for another floor to go throw up then he would have had to have gotten sick before even coming back to the classroom. Which would mean his sprint down the hall was something else entirely. Not only that, but Yosuke knows for a fact that Souji passed Naoto on the stairs, which meant he’d been heading downward and well away from any of the closest or even second closest toilets. If he’d left right after he’d thrown up, then Souji should have either not been running like Chie had offered to make lunch and instead been dragging himself out the door, or he should have been running to a bathroom and then leaving.

Nothing in the time frame adds up, and the resulting implications leave Yosuke floundering. His head goes around and around in circles, wanting to believe Naoto’s texts that Souji is okay, that he just got really, really sick and had to go home. But Yosuke has spent literal months now learning to think critically, to look at inconsistencies and pick them apart, and while he’s no Naoto when it comes to mysteries he would like to think he could spot when something is clearly not right when it comes to his best friend.

He’s aware that Naoto could have just given them the absolute minimum information and that there is a longer explanation waiting for them all when they get to school. However, Naoto had been just as visibly rattled as Yosuke had felt when he’d found them in the stairwell, which is hard for Yosuke to explain away with his current lack of insight. The fact that they’d had no clue where Souji had gone, and had even helped Yosuke look for him leaves another gap in their short span of time where everything could have happened.

He doesn’t want to think that Naoto is lying. He absolutely doesn’t want to think that Souji is.

But there’s nothing Yosuke can do without more information, and he isn’t going to get that just standing around. Gritting his teeth, he stamps down on the rising tide of dark thoughts and nebulous feelings. He doesn’t want to face any of it, doesn’t want to think about what some of his theories might imply. He also doesn’t want to look too deeply at his own reactions to this, because it means he’s either wildly overacting or that something is genuinely amiss. A lapse back into his old clingy, annoying, friendless self, or his best friend potentially being hurt or hiding something. Neither option is comforting.

The clock above the counter tells him he needs to leave now to get to school without a rush. He stuffs the phone back into his pocket and grabs his bag and forcibly tries to keep his mind from reaching further and further into the place where his anxiety dwells. His thoughts are carefully blank as he shuffles his way over to the door and opens it on the dull light of the morning sky. He blinks against the brightness, standing still in the entryway for a moment until he can make his vision settle and his nervous pulse subside.

Outside his house is like a different world; the broken dawn is pink and burnt gold and it casts everything in its wake in a weirdly yellow glow. There are birds somewhere in the distance, chirping sporadically like they, too, have no idea how to be awake at this hour. It’s a stark contract to the quiet, sleepy dark back inside Yosuke’s kitchen.

As he finally works up the will to start his trek, Yosuke takes a second to glance at his reflection in the mirror his mother had insisted on hanging in the entryway when they’d moved in, to “make sure everyone looks their best before facing the day”. What stares back at him is a pale, jittery-looking version of himself, with deep blue circles beneath his eyes and hair that clearly hasn’t seen a comb in far too long. He grimaces at how wan he looks, at the exhaustion etched into his skin along with the worry lines now marring his forehead.

He leaves the house quickly, not wanting to look at himself anymore or give his brain a long enough pause to start thinking again. As he closes the door behind him he tells himself that the shiver he got from his reflection’s sightless stare is just the lack of sleep, and that it was only the light from the sun along the horizon that tinted the world and made his eyes look a sickly shade of gold.

Naoto does not, in fact, give them any new information once everyone is gathered at school. Yosuke talks to Yukiko and Chie for a minute or so before classes start to see if they know or have heard anything he might have missed. They don’t, and after Chie tells him he looks like shit (to which he only gives a half-hearted retort because honestly, she’s right) they confirm that they didn’t get a chance to catch Naoto in person that morning, either.

The school day begins and Yosuke barely pays attention. He keeps glancing forlornly at Souji’s empty desk, sneaking peeks at his phone under his own. There are a few extra texts from the others in the group text, mostly reactionary exclamations, a flurry of sad emojis from Rise to go with her “Oh no! Poor Senpai!” but no one seems inclined to press Naoto for more details. He gets it to some degree; no one else but Kanji saw Souji’s escape down the hallway and only Naoto passed him on the stairs, so the only other person that might ask besides Yosuke would be Kanji, and Kanji didn’t seem to notice what Yosuke did. So no one asks.

Yosuke sends a mass text of his own, asking for everyone to meet up during lunch. He words it as well as he can, trying to hide behind the reasoning that they had all been worried about Souji and playing off the fact that Souji apparently hasn’t contacted anyone else so could Naoto fill them in on what all Souji said to them, please? Everyone agrees, though some take longer to respond than others due to classes and Naoto takes their time replying until they’re the last one to do so. Yosuke tries not to make anything of it.

He can’t tell if he succeeds.

Teddie messages him around late morning, sending Yosuke a string of whiny texts and a few teary emojis, just as Yosuke had predicted he would. Yosuke responds with a short “srry ted I was letting u sleep” and “leftovers r urs”, which earns him a few more pout emojis before Teddie evidently forgives him. It’s a minor distraction, but one that Yosuke is grateful for nonetheless. His interaction with Teddie feel normal, routine, like Yosuke’s entire world hasn’t been a total mess for the past 24 hours. He makes a mental note to buy the bear a box of his favorite topsicles – both as a way to cheer him up after waking to an empty house and also as a thank you so that Yosuke doesn’t have to do it out loud and get stuck explaining his mental state.

When lunch finally hits, Yosuke and Chie and Yukiko all head off to the roof together to meet up with the rest of the team – minus their leader and living plush-doll of a mascot. Naoto is already there by the time the rest of them arrive. They look tired; there is a thinness to their mouth, a glassiness to their eyes that speaks of a night spent just as sleepless as Yosuke. He remembers how scared they’d looked the day before after Souji had disappeared, the deep, quiet fear that had lit them from within and made Yosuke think of an animal cornered at night, eyeshine bright and unnerving.

Nothing about any of this makes sense.

Naoto greets them; they all settle in. It takes up a good chunk of the lunch period for Naoto to basically rehash everything they’d said via text: that Souji had suddenly gotten violently ill in between the pageants, that they suspected it might be either food poisoning or “an acute bout of nerves”, that Souji had run off to go get sick and then gone straight home. That Souji had passed out and slept until that morning right before school and had called Naoto back after they’d messaged him again. That Souji was feeling better but not 100% still.

And the whole time they’re telling the story, Yosuke bites at his lips and feels his frown growing deeper and deeper.

He still doesn’t like the way the timeline of events just doesn’t seem to match up in a way that doesn’t have holes, no matter how he tries to fit the pieces together. The larger picture is fine, sure, but it’s the little things, the snags in time, the long stretch of silence and sudden explanation. There are just too many of them and Yosuke collects them in his head one after another and moves them around trying to find a way to match them up. His head is starting to hurt by the time Naoto finishes.

Everyone goes around and offers their sentiments as if Souji is there to hear them. They talk about going over to check on him after school but Naoto seems to think it won’t be necessary.

“Souji-senpai is most likely resting,” Naoto says. “Too many people all at once without warning could be detrimental.” They awkwardly shift their weight, tugging on their cap the way they do when they want to hide their face but also don’t want to be perceived as weak for showing their nervousness. Yosuke notes how they don’t look directly at anyone when they continue speaking.

“However, seeing as Senpai is – or was – awake and aware this morning of our attempts to contact him, I would say we should message him if we do plan on visiting. I’m certain he would appreciate the heads up, especially if he still isn’t feeling well.”

Everybody voices their agreement (and in the case of Rise, their obviously crush-tinted disappointment,) and even Yosuke has to admit that Naoto makes a good point. It still sits oddly in his chest, though. He curses his work schedule; he would absolutely be visiting Souji at home after school if he didn’t have to go in for a long night of stocking shelves. No matter how good a point Naoto may have made, Souji is missing a day of classes and no one could begrudge Souji’s best friend for taking him some notes, right?

Yosuke sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose when no one is looking.

After that is a whole lot of nothing. There is eating, some more discussion, (mostly about Souji but still nothing relevant to Yosuke’s mess of questions) and a bunch of texts all sent out to wish Souji a speedy recovery. None of them receives a reply, but it’s also entirely possible that Souji is doing exactly as Naoto said and resting. Yosuke hopes so.

Sadly, and to his understandable irritation, he doesn’t get a chance to ask Naoto any of the more in-depth questions he’d wanted to ask before the end of lunch sneaks up on them. The group begins to split up then, with Naoto somehow being the first one through the door back inside, robbing Yosuke of what is probably his final chance of the day.

Truth be told, Yosuke knows it’s partially his own fault. Rather than just squaring up and asking what he wanted to, he’d been stalling, waiting for a turn in the conversation to give him the answers he’d wanted without actually asking. He admits it to himself – albeit begrudgingly – because he’s seen first hand what happens when he doesn’t, and acknowledges that he’s afraid. Afraid of being proven wrong and thus having overreacted like the clingy idiot he knows he’s capable of being. Or worse, being proven right and having to deal with the knowledge that either his teammate or his leader or both are keeping him in the dark. It would be a chain reaction at that point, one fear being affirmed leading to another one – one that Yosuke only lets himself think about when he absolutely has to, at his lowest and wide awake at 2:00am with his mind way too loud and full, to keep it from spawning another shadow.

Do I matter?

Chie kicks him gently (“gently”) in the butt to get him moving since he’s apparently just been standing there staring after Naoto. He lets her and Yukiko drag him back to the classroom and ignores the silent conversation that seems to pass between the two of them behind his back. He also ignores the strange way that Rise follows him with her eyes, a funny, down-turned expression settling on her features that he’s never seen before.

The day continues, the teachers drone, and Yosuke sits staring inconspicuously as possible down at his phone screen. A response to his previous slew of worried texts never comes, and no matter how he tries, Yosuke feels too many things too deeply and at once to be able to send any new ones just yet. He types and deletes what has to be a dozen aborted questions, shallow-seeming “get well soon”s, and by the time the day is over he’s still stuck at square one, eyes strained from staring at the glare of his screen for so long.

He trudges down to the shoe lockers, head still hurting, when the final bell sounds and resigns himself to waiting until after his shift to think of something to say to his partner that doesn’t sound stupid or needy or paranoid.

In the end his anxiety silences him completely, stilling his fingers and leaving the “how ru feelin prtnr? u comin 2 school 2mrrw?” hovering in the text bar on his screen unsent.

---

“Yosuke…”

Warm hands, fingers ghosting over skin, over planes of muscle, dipping into the line where waist meets hips. Breath catching, stuttering in a flat, toned chest, a hot exhale against his cheek as blunted nails dig into his shoulders, holding him in place. The taste of salt, of skin beneath his tongue, fresh like rain and sharp like ozone. A pulse like distant thunder under his mouth. He presses forward, closer, tighter, shifts his knee to press it between shaking legs, holds them steady with his hands and feels the flex of thighs under his palms.

Hips grind against him. Lips catch at his, kissing, parting, giving him room to slide his tongue inside. He pulls back and nips at them, drawing the bottom one, plush and sweet, between his teeth before pressing back in and licking them apart.

Hands glide lower, inward, touching, teasing, tugging at fabric and pulling it open, down, fingertips running hot across a band of elastic before slipping inside. A trail of kisses across a sharp jaw. Teeth grazing skin, sucking, biting, leaving little marks of purple in their wake. A gasp, a groan, a throaty sound of need and pleasure as he laves his tongue back over the pulse point, sending vibrations through another chest and into his own. Heat beneath his fingers, a tightness deep below his hips.

"Yosuke please…”

He pushes his knee in further, scratches his nails along soft thighs, taut like velvet over steel. Hips roll to meet his hand; his palm meets warm flesh, brushes over it, presses the heel of his hand down to elicit another halted breath, another ragged whisper of his name. A body clinging to his own, hot and slick and trembling, fingers fisting in his hair, skin on skin on skin on skin, moving to a rhythm he sets, slow and wicked. He bites a collarbone and the arms around him tighten, the long line of a pale throat exposed as lips fall open in a moan and a head tilts back, hands pulling him closer, clutching, panting, shaking.

“Partner!”

Yosuke sits bolt upright in bed, heart pounding against the inside of his ribs like it’s trying to break free.

For a moment he doesn’t know where he is; his bedroom is dark and unfamiliar in its witching-hour silence with only the quiet snoring from his closet to break it. The faint glow of his phone charging beside the bed becomes his grounding point and he stares at it until his mind clears enough to refocus on his surroundings. Alone. He’s alone, there’s no one in his bed but him. He’s in his room and he’s alone in his bed – no hips beneath his hands, no skin against his lips. No breathy voice in his ear whispering how good his touch feels, murmuring his name, spurring him on.

Oh god.

Yosuke shivers at the memory, at the phantom image of someone warm and solid arcing against him. Something aches low in his gut and he realizes with a burning face just how painfully hard he is. He feels it throbbing between his legs like a bruise and bites his lip to stamp down a desperate whine.

Alone, I’m alone, it was just a dream, I’m alone…

But Yosuke can still feel he pressure of another body against his own. He can still feel everything: the fingers in his hair, the legs around his hips, the stretch of an elastic waistband across the back of his wrist as if he’s delved his hand below someone’s boxers. He feels all of it. He can still taste another tongue when he swipes his across his lips, still tingling like he’s just been kissed, is still leaving hickies on his best friend’s throat—

Yosuke slaps a hand over his mouth to mask the heavy, raspy sound of his own too-thin breathing. It burns in his lungs, breaths too deep but air too dry and it feels like he isn’t getting any oxygen at all. Sweat beads along his hairline, at the nape of his neck, and when he parts his lips to try and breathe through his mouth he can taste the telltale salt of it across his clammy palm.

Souji. He’d just had a sex dream about Souji.

His best friend, his partner, their goddamn leader. Yosuke feels the rush of adrenaline as it washes through him in a wave, leaving his limbs cold and trembling like he’s just been dunked in ice water. The slow creep of panic itches at his nerves. He doesn’t know what to do; what is he supposed to do? How in the ever-loving fuck is he meant to process the fact that he’s just had the single most intense sex dream of his entire life and it was about another guy?

And not just any guy – he’s just had a sex dream about his best. Fucking. Friend.

There is a twitch and throb between his thighs and Yosuke thinks he might actually start crying.

He swallows, weak and useless against the dryness in his throat, and bites at his tongue until he tastes the coppery tang of his own blood. He’s dizzy. Dizzy and confused and scared to death and back, but…

But.

But he can’t ignore how hard he is. He can’t ignore that everything in his dream was amazing, that it left him aching and needy and wishing he could slow his speeding heart and go back to sleep, just so he could return to the feeling of dream-Souji pulling him closer as he came over Yosuke’s hand.

“…Fuck.”

The sound of his own voice – while barely a whisper – still startles Yosuke in the near-perfect quiet of the room. It’s high and desperate, absolutely wrecked like it hasn’t been since he faced his shadow. Expect this time it isn’t fear lacing the single word that’s slipped from his mouth. It’s desire.

Without really thinking, Yosuke throws off the covers as quietly as he can and disentangles himself from the bed. He stares at the closet door like a feral, frightened cat, watching for any sign that Teddie has heard him. When nothing happens, Yosuke moves.

He creeps over to the door, pausing only to grab a pair of underwear from the floor as he goes. He doesn’t even know if they’re clean, doesn’t even care; right now he just needs something to take with him that isn’t what he’s wearing right now. He can feel the sweat sinking in to his shirt, the waist of his sleep pants – which is bad enough – but worst of all is how he can feel the sticky-slick patch of precum starting to seep into his boxers.

On shaky legs, Yosuke makes his way out the door and down the hall towards the bathroom. He goes as silently as he can, taking care to avoid the spots in the floor that he knows are prone to creaking, reaching out to steady himself against the wall whenever his knees start to buckle. It’s slow going. His erection makes it hard to walk without hissing through his teeth, and with every passing second he can hear the way his heart hammers inside his chest – so loud he thinks that Teddie must have been deaf not to hear it.

He reaches the bathroom after what feels like eons, thankful it’s been left open so the tiny nightlight in the hall can lead sleep-foggy people to it in the middle of the night. (Or in this case, a jittery teenager.) He slides inside like he’s afraid someone will be waiting for him just past where the light reaches and shuts the door behind him with a muffled click, locking it the moment that it’s closed.

He passes by the mirror on his way to the shower and pointedly does not look.

Cranking the cold water up as high as it will go, not even touching the hot, Yosuke stares at the frigid cascade like it can possibly save him. Sometimes, when his dreams turn dirty with short skirts and breathy panting straight from the porn he keeps hidden in a special folder on his computer, Yosuke is able to will the resulting arousal away. He’s lucky – he hasn’t woken up to an unexpected mess in his boxers since before his family moved. He still gets hard in his sleep though, sometimes; usually he’s able to just think of the shadows in the TV world and roll over onto his stomach to flush the images from his mind. He wakes slightly irritable, but at least he’s able to sleep.

Tonight though, he knows there’s no hope. With all the slowness of a man facing his execution, Yosuke peels off the sweat-covered t-shirt and sweatpants, tossing them into the corner to retrieve later. He sets the second pair of underwear over to the side and gingerly begins the process of slipping off the ones he’s wearing.

It’s a nightmare. Each drag of fabric over his electrified skin is like torture, leaving him off-kilter and gritting his teeth against the over stimulation. He nearly falls over as he tries to maneuver them past his dick, which is still so abysmally hard that it’s a miracle he made it from his bedroom without passing out due to poor circulation. He stifles a pained noise as the chilly air outside his boxers hits his overheated flesh, clamping his lips together and biting down until it hurts. The cold water is going to suck.

He steps into the shower and immediately hates everything.

Fighting back another sound of dismay, Yosuke lets the icy stream pour over him, jolting him to full wakefulness and sending an instant, violent shiver through his entire body. He stands there with his arms crossed futilely over his chest, instinctively trying to hold in what little body heat he can, even as he wills the water to just freeze his burning blood and make it so he can go back to bed before his alarm goes off for school.

This sucks. Everything sucks. He’s awake at stupid-o-clock in the morning with a boner that won’t go away and the sound of his best friend’s moaning playing over and over again in his ears like a looping, skipping record. He hates the way it makes his stomach swoop like he’s flying, makes his skin prickle like he swell of lightning before it strikes; it scares him, he shouldn’t be feeling this. Instead of desperate and turned on, secretly wishing the dream had been longer, he should be sick, put off, angry. He should be disgusted about the way the dream has made his heart race and his fingers itch to touch, to feel, the way he keeps licking at his lower lip as if hoping the taste of Souji’s kiss still lingers in the waking world. But he’s not. The only disgust he feels is at himself and the way he cannot lie away the fact that he liked it. He’s more afraid of how wrong it didn’t feel than by how right it did.

Yosuke shakes his head and fists a hand through his wet hair, trying to pull the feel of Souji from his memory.

Minutes pass and his arousal doesn’t flag. The cold digs into his skin like needles, numbing everything it touches and leaving him shuddering in the absence of warmth. The contrast of the chill against the heat of his body is almost painful – like a gust of winter wind over a feverish throat – and even the numbness the water brings isn’t enough to completely drown out the feeling. Yet still his erection persists.

With a groan of defeat, Yosuke reaches over and twists the knob for the hot water, turning the cold down a little as he does, and then wisely steps back out of the spray. He waits, shivering, holding his hand under the showerhead until his body can tolerate the change in temperature without feeling like he’s being scalded, although at this point he’s almost desperate enough to consider it. Maybe if he turns it up to boiling he can strip the image of dream-Souji pinned beneath him from his mind.

He steps back under the water, wincing slightly at the feel of heat on his frozen skin. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, goddamnit! He leans forward and rests his head against the wall just under the showerhead, feeling the rush of water trickle across his shoulders as he lets the frustrated burn behind his eyes crest and fade. He can’t do this. He can’t. Vision blurring in the droplets running down his face, Yosuke reaches a shaking hand down and curling his still-numb fingers around himself. He hisses at the contact, knees almost giving out at the rush of feeling just that simple action elicits.

FUCK.

Giving in, Yosuke takes a second to reach for the bottle of conditioner just off to the side and takes two pumps into his hand. He slides his fingers through it, smearing it across his palm as best he’s able, before wrapping his hand back around himself. He takes a deep breath and starts to stroke.

He forgoes all preamble, any technique he would normally employ, any trick he’d use to draw it out, he tosses them all to the back of his mind. It’s not even about pleasure right now; it’s about relief. He’s so agonizingly turned on that he just wants this over, just wants it to go away so he can go back to sleep and pretend this never happened. He doesn’t think about how he’s going to act around his partner whenever Souji shows back up at school – he tries not to think at all.

He brings his other arm up to brace him against the tiled shower wall above his head, spreading his legs a little to widen his stance and keep from falling. He closes his eyes against the stark white of the tile, too bright in the overhead lighting and too close to his face. He tightens his grip.

It works to take the edge off – the slow slide of his fist over his length, helped by the conditioner – but it’s not enough. He quickens his pace, rubs the pad of his thumb under the head. It helps, but it’s not enough.

Gritting his teeth, Yosuke delves deep into his memory and tries to conjure up images from some of his favorite porno: Busty women with tiny waists and long legs, panting as they rode dick like it was their favorite thing in the world. He tries to picture what they sound like when they moan, tries to remember which girls he finds the hottest, which set of breasts got him off the fastest the last time he watched.

Something feels sour in the back of his mouth.

He switches tactics, thinks of some of the girls from school that he’d fantasized about in the past. Faceless figures in their cute uniform skirts, summer outfits with no tights or jackets to obscure their flawless skin. He’d picked out his favorite attributes long ago, even with the girls he’s never met, never spoken to – he keeps a mental list of whose asses he likes the best, which ones he thought would look cutest on their backs with their thighs wrapped around him. It doesn’t work.

With a choked whine through clenched teeth, Yosuke twists his wrist at the end of his stroke, pleading with anyone listening that it makes him feel something. The motion is there, the pressure, the heat of his palm, but it just not what he needs. Something isn’t right, isn’t letting him reach any closer.

Desperate and impulsive, he goes to the one surefire thing that’s always worked for him before, no matter how pent up or over stimulated he’d been: he pictures Risette in her latest swimsuit photos.

Guilt immediately burns though his veins and rises to the back of his throat like acid. He shoves off the wall, letting go of his dick and nearly stumbling backwards, gasping in shock at the way his mind recoils. That’s Rise! his own brain shrieks at him. That’s your teammate, how could you?!

Yosuke leans back against the far wall of the shower and runs his cleaner hand across his face. He lets it rest there, over his eyes, as he sucks in breath after deep, horrified breath and waits for the roll of bile and sickening shame to subside. He stays there for countless minutes, gnawing at his lip while he breathes, until the utter mortification of what he’d just tried to do finally begins to ebb and leave him be. All the while his dick still aches with unspent arousal, tension tight and ruthless along his shoulders and hips.

“Fuck.”

Slowly Yosuke pulls his hand away from his face and lets it fall to the side. He stares upward with dull eyes, barely focusing on anything but the hazy texture of the ceiling above him. “Fuck…”

He’s screwed. He doesn’t know what else to do; he’s done the cold shower method, switched to hot to shock his system, tried to let his body wait it out, all to no avail. Thinking about porn doesn’t work, thinking about girls doesn’t work, hell, even thinking about nothing still leaves him hard and unsatisfied. Speed doesn’t seem to make a difference, nor does pressure or movement. The stimulation is good in the way that any kind of touch against his erection is, but it’s hollow. There’s nothing – he feels nothing and it’s killing him.

Yosuke weighs his options. He can give up now and go back to bed, hope that maybe if he lays there long enough he’ll be able to go to sleep and his hard on will be gone in the morning. He grimaces; no, what will probably end up happening is he’ll either be wide awake and rock solid for the rest of the night, leaving him to be uncomfortable in an entirely different way when the alarm goes off and Teddie wakes up, (and his parents if they happen to be home,) or he’ll sleep, but he’ll dream.

His dick twitches at that, sending a trickle of fire through his groin, his thighs, his abdomen. It knocks what’s left of his exhalation from his lips.

Would it… really be so bad?

He thinks about the way dream-Souji’s body had fit so perfectly against his own – the scrape of fingernails down his back, a tongue across the seam of his lips. He thinks about the image of messy silver hair, damp with sweat and sticking up in places where Yosuke’s fingers had curled and tugged; he pictures glazed, rain-puddle eyes, half-lidded and looking at him as if Yosuke is the only thing his partner could ever need again.

There’s another twitch, a pulse, and slowly his hand begins to slide between his thighs.

He’s familiar enough his own body by now that he knows there’s a chance the dream will come back and that he’ll just have the same problem all over again, if it ever actually even goes away to begin with. Any relief he might get from finally passing out will likely be short-lived at best. Again, that’s if he manages to fall asleep at all.

No matter what he does, the feel of Souji’s heartbeat under his lips is going to be etched into Yosuke’s mind for hours. Would it be horrible if he just…?

His hand wraps back around his length and tentatively, tentatively begins to stroke. It feels incredible.

Yosuke lets out a long, shuddering exhale as every nerve ending that’s been lying dormant since he fist climbed into the shower jolts to life as if electrified. He slides his hand up again and tightens his fingers, strokes all the way down and glides his palm over the head. It’s like the first time he’d ever summoned Jirya – a buzzing, tingling sensation that had started somewhere at the base of his skull and spread to every limb in his body, leaving him warm and giddy with his newfound rush of power. Now, though, instead of the surge of a hurricane releasing from his mind he feels the low, simmering heat pooling in his gut and trickling outward, further and further with every pass of his hand. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall behind him, finally letting the pictures on the backs of his eyelids out into view.

Souji underneath him, pressed into the mattress with Yosuke’s knee between his thighs, breath hitching as he watches Yosuke with eyes like frosted rain. Souji’s lips – capable of summoning lightning and calling out commands in the midst of battle – parting in a gasp that sinks into a moan. Souji’s stormy eyes sliding shut. Souji panting, begging, whispering Yosuke’s name with the same kind of reverence Yosuke has used before in awe of Souji’s power. Yosuke’s fingers in Souji’s mouth, his hand in Souji’s pants; tongue and teeth and a trail of bites and kisses against Souji’s rabbiting pulse.

Souji’s hips bucking up against him, a whimper, a keen – what would he sound like? Would he be quiet like he is in real life? Or would he scream and tremble as Yosuke took him apart? High-pitched and breathy? Or a growl, low and dark and gravelly; a single sign of his god-like patience finally snapping before he dug his nails into Yosuke’s shoulders and flipped them over to ride him instead?

Yosuke’s body jerks. Heat and lighting crackle through his skin, setting his nerves on fire, causing him to gasp in shock at just how much it is. Somewhere in the back of is mind he thinks he hears Jirya purr.

He licks at his lips, bites them to hold back the quiet whimper he can feel building in his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and replays the image against the stars now flickering in and out of his sight.

Souji in his lap. Yosuke’s grip on his hips, his thighs, guiding him up and down as Souji grinds against him; sweat-slick, hot. His lips, his teeth, his tongue on Souji’s neck, gentle kisses pressed to darkening bites, claiming, marking. Souji’s hands grasping, scrabbling, leaving claw marks on Yosuke’s shoulders. Souji has such graceful hands; Yosuke wants to pin them above his head, to find out what kinds of sounds Souji makes; wants to drive him to the point of desperation so that he begs and pleads for Yosuke to let him come. He wants to run his fingers across the expanse of Souji’s body, feel Souji’s hipbones under his hands, lave his tongue and sink his teeth into the soft, strong flesh of Souji’s thighs.

Souji in his bed, in his arms. Souji crying out as Yosuke rolls his hips and drives himself deeper. Souji, Souji, Souji…

“Souji…”

The name falls from Yosuke’s lips and he feels the stings coiled deep inside him start to pull, taut and sharp. The sound of it spears through him; it settles in his fingertips, in the balls of his feet, wraps around the base of his spine and stretches upwards like ivy and Yosuke barely has time to slap his free hand over his mouth before his whole body lights up brighter than an aurora. He clamps his teeth down on his middle finger, so hard he can feel the press of bone between his teeth.

And then Yosuke is coming. Hard and intense and without any warning – with his partner’s name on his tongue like a prayer.

Sound is the first thing that returns to him; the quiet spray of water, his own ragged breathing. Slowly he opens his eyes, blinking against the sharpness of the light and the glossy tile it’s reflecting off of. Blank eyed, he stares at the rivulets of water running down the wall beside him. His lungs take in a deep, long breath and he centers on the way his chest expands.

By the time he’s fully back in his own body, back in his soundless house in a tiny little town in the middle of the night, the shower water has started to grow cold again. He watches as it circles the drain, spiraling, mixing with the remnants of what he’s just done and washing it away out of sight. He leans his full weight back against the wall and carefully sinks to the floor.

What did he just do?

Oh god, what did he just do?

Yosuke brings his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and burying his face into his knees. He digs his forehead, his nose, his mouth into his skin as hard as he can, as if he can somehow smother the knowledge of his actions if he just presses hard enough.

What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

He stays under the ever-colder spray of water as his mind begins to devour itself, sitting hunched and shaking until all traces of heat are completely gone.

#fanfic #fanfiction #persona 4 #p4 #souji seta #yu narukami #souyo #yosuke hanamura #investigation team #transgender #trans souji seta #trans!au #scars on my sleeve #caught in the grey #tw homophobia #LIME #BEWARE OF MILD ADULT THEMES

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imnotinclinedtomaturity · 6 years

Text

Love Yourself (Chapter 13)

title: Love Yourself summary: A lot of things about Dan’s life are pretty great. He gets to make the music he wants, he’s got a great fanbase, and his manager is his best friend. A few things about his life suck a bit more. He’s currently lacking inspiration, he’s rather lonely, and he’s stuck in a rut. Dan’s been going to the same coffee shop for years. It’s quiet, it’s quaint, it’s near his home. Most importantly: none of the employees give a shit that’s he a world-famous singer. Things change when he meets the new barista. chapter words: 7.3k story words: 88.3k (so far) chapter: 13/? rating: m warnings: language, alcohol, sex mentions, some bi/homophobia genre: singer!dan, coffee shop au, barista!phil, slow burn [[ao3]] [[first chapter]] [[previous chapter]]

a/n: i was GOING to wait until monday to post this... and well, it's after midnight where i live, so it's technically monday. i linked a few not particularly nsfw stuff again, by no means do you have to click on them. big thanks to @auroraphilealis for always making me better and honestly telling me when something i’m doing doesn’t land so i can fix it.

Dan sat ramrod straight in the uber, completely uncomfortable with Isabella’s hand on his thigh. Well, it had started on his knee and in the two minutes they’d been in the car it had slowly started drifting up his leg. A month ago, Dan would have found the tease of her hand hot, would have encouraged her hand to go higher, would have let his own hands slip up her dress. He would have been unbelievably turned on by fooling around a bit in the back of an uber, it had always been one of his guilty pleasures.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, Dan had his hands folded rigidly in his lap, conveniently placed directly over his cock, a solid roadblock in the path of Isabella’s wandering hands. If Isabella wanted to touch him, she’d have to knock his hands out of the way. Even she wasn’t bold enough to do that.

The whole ride, Dan stubbornly stared out the window, refusing to so much as look at Isabella. He knew any amount of eye contact would surely only encourage her, and that was the last goddamn thing he wanted to do. A million thoughts were rushing around his head as he watched the city speed by them, the pavement filled with happy couples holding hands.

Sometime during the last year, he’d forgotten what it felt like to be one of those happy couples. He wanted to remember. He wanted the chance to be one of those couples again.

After they’d fought, Isabella had tried to be sweet, to make up for her behavior, which Dan suspected had much more to do with her trying to make him forgive and forget issues that even she was smart enough to realize could make him leave her. As a result, the entire thing felt like a farce — both of them knew that something was wrong, but, for completely different reasons, both were determined to ignore it.

So why had he agreed to go back to Isabella’s flat with her? The entire night, all Dan had been able to think about was how desperately he wanted out of the date, out of their relationship. And then she’d asked him to come back and he’d just… said yes?

Dan knew that Isabella wasn’t offering him just a drink when she invited him over for a nightcap. Throughout their relationship, both of them had relied on sex to wash away their fights, never actually talking about or dealing with their issues. Dan knew that was why Isabella had invited him over tonight. He knew her intention was to lure him into bed, probably with the intention of being selfless enough that Dan would let the fight go without her having to actually apologize. Like always.

Dan knew. He knew all of this.

And yet he’d said yes.

Dan let his forehead fall against the window with a thunk. The glass was ice cold against his forehead and he was vaguely aware of the fact that the thunk meant that his head should probably be hurting, but he was too numb to feel anything right now.

The car stopped at a light and the urge to open the door, to duck out, to run was nearly irresistible. Dan wound his hands together more tightly, squeezing his fingers so firmly that his knuckles cracked. Isabella hated it when he cracked his bones — the fact that she wasn’t saying anything about it, though, spoke just as much to her desire to wash away their fight as her hand on his thigh did.

Instead, her hand dipped down, sliding to the inside of his leg. Fuck, Dan regretted sitting with his legs spread far enough apart to allow her to trail her fingers along his inseam, to allow her to caress the inside of his thigh.

Dan had no idea how he was going to derail her advances, or how he was going to get out of this mess. He wasn’t sure how he was going to get her to agree to breakfast tomorrow, especially since he was essentially running away tonight.

But if Dan was sure of one thing, it was that he knew that there was no way in hell he was going to sleep with her tonight.

The car ride felt both forever long, and too short. When the uber stopped outside of Isabella’s building, Dan had to muster up the will to get out of the car, walk the seven steps to the front door, and follow Isabella into her flat.

Inside the building, Dan trudged behind Isabella as she led him to her flat, each stair feeling like a march to his death. If there had been any doubt in Dan’s mind that Isabella had asked him over so they could fuck, it would have been washed away when he glanced up and saw the deliberate swing of Isabella’s hip as she climbed the stairs, when he saw that she was making an effort to stay just far ahead of him enough that her arse was at eye-level.

At a different point in Dan’s life, that would have worked. It had worked. But it wasn’t going to work tonight. He needed a way to get out of this without drawing too much attention to the fact that he was refusing to sleep with her for the millionth time in a month.

Isabella worked her key into the lock of her door, bending over much more than necessary, and pulled it open. Dan took a deep breath, summoning his courage to cross the threshold, and followed Isabella in. Just as he’d expected, soft, pink, glossy lips were on his the moment he stepped inside.

He fucking hated that sticky lipgloss.

Dan’s face scrunched up, and his hands flew to her hips — but not in order to pull her closer. No, he wanted Isabella the fuck away from him.

“Hang on,” Dan said, prying Isabella off of him with what he hoped was a gente push. Even as he held her at arm’s length, Isabella was leaning back in, chasing his lips with her own. Dan tipped his head back slightly, tilting so that his lips were out of Isabella’s reach. “Why don’t we—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence, though, because Isabella interrupted him with another kiss. His lips were too high, though, so her mouth landed on Dan’s adam’s apple, kissing her way up his throat. Dan let out a strangled groan — she was perfectly aware of how sensitive his neck was. He hated when she paid attention to his throat, it always felt too intimate, too intense, and right now, it felt overwhelming.

Overwhelmingly bad.

Dan pulled back again, this taking a small step away. “Let’s not rush things,” he suggested.

It wasn’t a no, but Dan hoped it would stall things long enough that he’d have time to come up with a proper excuse to leave.

Isabella’s eyes narrowed slightly, confusion muddling the lust-blown look she was trying to cultivate, but she maintained her composure. “You’re right,” she murmured in her most sultry voice. “It’s been awhile, let’s make it count.”

Stepping out of Dan’s grasp, Isabella grabbed his hand in hers, her fingers delicately brushing the sensitive inside of his wrist intentionally. She walked backwards towards the lounge, her eyes roaming up and down Dan’s body. Reluctantly, Dan let himself be tugged along. A few weeks ago, he would have fucked her with his eyes, maybe even pushed her along a little faster, running his hands along her sides.

Today, he was fighting the urge to rip his hand from hers. Today, he had to force himself to look in her general direction.

Isabella dragged Dan over to the sofa, and pushed him down with more force than was strictly necessary. Dan wasn’t sure if it was Isabella’s anger slipping through, or if this was the kind of sex she wanted to have tonight — either way, the sudden shove knocked the wind out of him for a moment, leaving him breathless as she stepped between his legs and towered over him.

“Stay here for a second, babe,” Isabella whispered, leaning in close to speak the words into his ear, grazing the lobe with her teeth. It was a move that always sent shivers down Dan’s spine, and tonight was no exception. But tonight, it wasn’t waves of pleasure — it was a rush of repulsion.

Isabella drew back, batting her eyes at him, looking victorious. She was so wrapped up in herself, so unaware of Dan’s true wants and needs, that she’d taken his silent shudder as a sign of arousal. Slowly, Isabella turned, and sauntered away, swinging her hips far more than necessary. The sway of her graceful hips, her slender waist, her confident steps… it all reminded Dan of why he once liked her.

But as Isabella walked away from him, Dan’s imagination wandered. Images of broad shoulders, clumsy steps, and big, sure hands flooded Dan’s mind.

Fiddling with the buttons of his coat, Dan debated on whether or not he should take it off. He didn’t want to stay any longer than necessary, but it was hotter than hell in Isabella’s flat.

Or maybe that was just Dan’s residual anger burning in his stomach.

Dan settled for a compromise, unbuttoning his coat to cool off a bit, but leaving it on so that he could make a quick escape if need be. Dan’s eyes scanned the room, hoping for inspiration to strike. Everything in Isabella’s apartment was rose gold and white, everything arranged perfectly, not a speck of clutter in sight. It felt stiff, cold, inhospitable.

Dan closed his eyes for a moment, remembering a place where everything was louder, more vibrant. A place that was full of clutter and personal trinkets. A welcoming, intimate place. A place that wasn’t here.

He forced his eyes open. Now wasn’t the moment to dwell on that.

Now was the moment to find an excuse to leave.

Much to his dismay, Dan heard the signature clack clack clack of Isabella’s heels coming down the hallway before he’d had the chance to come up with an excuse. God, if he never heard that sound again, it would be too soon.

“This is for you, Danny.” Isabella handed him a flute of white wine with a seductive smile.

Grimacing in a way Dan hoped could pass as a smile, Dan curtly nodded his head in thanks and took a sip, just for the sake of being polite. The moment the liquid touched his tongue, Dan had to resist the urge to immediately spit it back into the glass. It was horridly sweet — not that he liked white wine much in the first place, but this was positively undrinkable. He made himself swallow it, though, trying not to flinch.

Isabella seemed to take his audible gulp as a sign of lust, and smiled coyly. “Patience, sexy,” she purred, leaning back over Dan again and trailing her fingers down his face, brushing his lips with her nails. “I’m going to go slip into something more comfortable. I’ll come get you in a few minutes,” she added with a flirtatious wink.

With that damning promise, Isabella left him alone.

More comfortable my ass, Dan thought. There had been a time when he lived for hearing those words come out of Isabella’s mouth. Without fail, they were always followed by something that looking incredibly uncomfortable — he never felt too bad, though. It wasn’t like any of the lingerie ever stayed on long enough for it to matter.

But tonight… tonight, Dan wanted nothing less than for Isabella to come out of her room wearing something strappy or lacey or frilly. He always had a bit of a thing for dress up in the bedroom, but he was so fucking over sleeping with Isabella, so fucking done with their relationship, that there wasn’t a sexy enough outfit in the world to entice him into fucking her.

He desperately wanted her to come out in massive sweatpants and a tshirt instead, suggesting they watch a movie and curl up on the sofa together. That was probably the only way Dan could handle staying at her flat for any length of time tonight.

There was absolutely no chance of that happening, though.

Dan knew Isabella was determined to brush over their fight with a blowjob and sex. Not to mention, Dan was fairly certain that Isabella didn’t own anything as unflattering or casual as sweatpants or a baggy tshirt.

Deciding to get more comfortable — actually comfortable, not Isabella’s version of it — Dan put down his glass of wine and shrugged out of his coat, tossing it onto the sofa next to him. The sweltering heat of the apartment was getting to him — he was uncomfortable enough as it was, he didn’t need to add to it.

As Dan desperately tried to brainstorm an escape plan, he picked his glass back up and took a sip of the wine, forgetting how bad it tasted. Blergh. He recoiled at the taste, and this time he actually did open his mouth on instinct and let the wine dump back into the cup.

He set the glass on the far side table so that he wouldn’t accidently drink out of it in habit again.

Dan needed out. He needed away from this shitty wine, this shitty night, this shitty relationship. But how the fuck was he going to get out of tonight without hurting Isabella’s feelings or causing yet another fight he couldn’t be bothered with — or worse, making her realize why he was refusing to sleep with her?

A fake emergency.

Yes, Dan could do that. It was the oldest trick in the book, and it might be a little too transparent, but whatever. At this point, Dan didn’t care.

Dan mentally ran through a list of people he could text to call him. Louise was probably busy with her boyfriend, meaning there was too high of a chance that she wouldn’t see the message right away and Dan would be stuck here. He could text his mum — she was always made sure to look at his texts immediately, just in case, but she’d ask a million questions later and he really didn’t want to explain to his mother what was going on. He could DM Phil. Surely he’d still be awake, and Dan knew he wasn’t doing anything tonight. But Dan was pretty sure he wouldn’t get out of here without another fight if Phil was the one who called him.

Who the fuck could he text?

Adaline.

Dan glanced at his watch — it was just after her nine o’clock weekday curfew, meaning she’d most likely be home and awake. Plus, Adaline was just as addicted to her phone as Dan, meaning there was almost no chance that she would miss his text. Perfect.

Quickly glancing up to make sure Isabella wasn’t on her way back already, Dan unlocked his phone and opened a message to his sister. Without thinking too much about it, Dan typed out a quick text.

Dan: SOS i need you call me in like 15 and fake an emergency

Much to his relief, Addie responded with a thumbs up emoji almost instantly. Just as he’d suspected, she must have had her phone in her hands.

Dan had never been so glad that his parents strictly enforced curfews.

It dawned on Dan that he had no idea how long Isabella was actually going to take to change and that fifteen minutes might not be enough. Sometimes Isabella was gone for five minutes, and sometimes she made him wait nearly half an hour. Maybe he should have Adaline wait a little longer to call.

Dan: actually make it 20 and if i don’t answer call again in five minutes

Adaline: wtf did you get yourself into

Dan: a trainwreck of a relationship

Adaline: well you’re not wrong there.

Hopefully, twenty minutes wouldn’t be too long, but he’d rather to have to stall for a few minutes than have Adaline call too soon.

Thankful to have an escape plan in place, Dan leaned back into the sofa and tabbed over to twitter, killing time until he got to leave. Most of his mentions were currently in response to the picture Isabella had posted of them at the restaurant, and while Dan didn’t really care about what anyone had to say about his relationship with Isabella, he scrolled through the tweets anyway.

@DanIsIsbellasMan: @IsabellaDeLaRenta and @danielhowell are my otp #danella

@DanAndIzzyForever: @IsabellaDeLaRenta and @danielhowell might be the prettiest couple to ever exist #danella

@ishipdanella: #danella is couple goals @IsabellaDeLaRenta @danielhowell

With each new reply, Dan felt more and more sick to his stomach. Not one of these people seemed to know what Isabella — or their relationship — was really like, or what couple goals should actually be. Regardless of his disgust, Dan kept scrolling, reading message after message screaming about how perfect him and Isabella were.

God, their breakup might not go over well.

Not that Dan cared, really. He hadn’t chased music as a career for the fame or the fans. He had chased it so that he would have the freedom and the resources to make the music he wanted, the music that made him feel passionate, and to share it with the people who would appreciate it.

All of the danella shippers would just have to get over it when the news of their breakup spread.

A few tweets interspersed in between all of the #danella replies managed to lift Dan’s spirits a little.

@AmazingPhilippa: @IsabellaDeLaRenta that picture is crashing my ship @AmazingPhil @danielhowell #phan

@DanielsHighNotes: @danielhowell this might be controversial but if you want a partner prettier than an actual model, consider @AmazingPhil #phan

However, while the tweets made Dan smile, he was surprised by them — he’d never publicly done anything to imply that he was bisexual, nor that he and Phil was in a relationship, though some of his tweets and pictures had been a bit flirty. Still, he hadn’t realized that there was an actual community of his and Phil’s fan’s out there that were shipping them.

Their chemistry must be more obvious than Dan had thought. Or maybe they were just that flagrant with their flirting. Maybe Isabella wasn’t being entirely irrational when she’d said that Dan’s tweets with Phil were crossing a line.

Oops.

Dan wondered what Phil thought of the shipping, how he felt about the influx of mentions about a post he wasn’t even tagged in.

Dan hoped he didn’t mind too much. He couldn’t help feeling a little guilty that Phil’s feed was now wrecked by tweets about Dan’s date, especially since Dan had made an active effort to avoid the topic of Isabella with him as much as possible.

And Isabella — Dan couldn’t help but snicker when he thought of her reaction to #phan. He had no doubts that she would see. She was obsessed with twitter, and monitored replies to all of her tweets religiously. When she found the camp of #phan shippers, she’d probably have a heart attack. Thank fuck Dan was breaking up with her tomorrow, because he had no clue how he’d deal that fight.

There was one tweet, however, which only tagged Dan. Dan’s brow furrowed. That was weird. Everything else seemed to either be tagging him alongside of either Isabella, or Phil.

Dan paused, reading over the message. It was from Tatler, one of the most annoying gossip websites on the web.

@tatler: @danielhowell Looks like someone hasn’t heard about our big post for tomorrow. [picture]

Rolling his eyes, Dan clicked on the picture, knowing that it was probably just some clickbait from the trashy site designed to spread some bullshit made-up rumor, but he was unable to curb his curiosity.

The picture loaded on Dan’s screen, and his heart stopped.

Holy. Fuck.

It was another picture of Izzy — similar to the one from the club weeks ago. She wasn’t looking at the camera, her body didn’t have that subtle freeze from when she modeled. This was a candid picture. And, from the looks of it, a candid picture that she hadn’t known was being taken.

But unlike the picture from the club, this one was well lit and not grainy. No, this picture was in high fucking resolution, taken with a proper camera. And it was painfully clear what was happening in the photo.

It was Isabella in a barely-there bikini, leaning into the arms of a very fit Italian man that Dan vaguely recognized from Ralph Lauren underwear ads. Isabella was holding a drink-filled pineapple — a drink just like the one Isabella had texted him a picture of the day before yesterday. The fruity drink she said she was letting herself have just one of as a reward to celebrate the end of a successful shoot.

In the picture, Isabella and the man were lounging on a beach, sharing a towel. There was a second towel spread out, a towel that must have been abandoned when Isabella crawled into this bloke’s lap. The man was propped up on one hand, legs sprawled out in front of him. Isabella was sat between them, her back pressed up against his bare chest. His other arm was snaked around her waist, his hand cupping her breast.

That’s not what stood out the most to Dan, though. Isabella’s head was tilted back, resting on his shoulder. Her lips were puckered up, as if she was expecting a kiss — and if the way he was looking down at her was anything to go by, she was going to get one.

Dan tried to rip his eyes away from the picture, but he couldn’t. He just kept staring and staring and staring, finding more and more little details. The bracelet he’d bought her for her birthday catching the sun. Isabella’s free hand resting high up on the man’s leg. A red mark on Isabella’s neck.

A red mark. A blood-red mark.

A hickey.

How dare she?

How dare she give Dan a hard time for talking to Phil on twitter when this was what she’d been up to while in Turks and Caicos!?

At this point, Dan didn’t know if this public display of affection with someone other than him was Isabella looking for attention — his or the media’s, or both — or if this was actually a snapshot of something more.

It didn’t matter, though. Dan didn’t care why Isabella was wrapped up in the Italian model’s arms, he didn’t care who took the picture, he wasn’t even sure he cared what had been happening when the picture was taken.

There wasn’t any acceptable excuse for the position they were in, for the way the man was touching Isabella, and the way Isabella was touching the man.

He was done. Out.

Dan’s blood was positively boiling. Suddenly, he didn’t think he needed that fake emergency phone call from Adaline anymore.

No. He definitely didn’t.

He didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care about hurting Isabella’s feelings. He didn’t care about whether or not it was acceptable to break up with someone on Valentine’s Day. He didn’t give a fuck about anything. Because the one rational thought he could latch onto was this was not okay.

It was not okay that Isabella was off frolicking with attractive models, petting them, being petted by them. Letting them leave tell-tale red marks on her neck.

This was not okay.

Dan jumped up from the couch, unable to sit still any longer. He had to do something with his energy, let of steam somehow, otherwise he was going to storm down the hallway and scream at Isabella right now.

The only real reason he was forcing himself not to do that was because he wanted to sort out his thoughts first. He wanted to have some idea of what the fuck he was going to say.

So instead of rushing down the hallway, he paced up and down the lounge, walking from the balcony to the sofa and back again and again and again, determined to come up with a plan. His fingers were wrapped so tightly around his phone that he thought it might buckle under the pressure. The case dug hard into the inner knuckles of his hand, surely leaving red indents behind. He tried to see past the white hot anger that was clouding his vision and think rationally for a moment.

Was it possible that this was part of the shoot, and it had just been taken out of context by the gossip website? Dan tried to remember what she had been modeling. Didn’t it have something to do with boats?

Definitely. Dan remembered now — Isabella had whined that the company wanted their entire summer line to be modeled on sailboats in order to communicate that their clothes were associated with a life of luxury. She hated the boats because her hair kept getting messed up.

Boats. So this picture from the beach couldn’t be from the shoot — not to mention that Isabella had told him that the unique, pineapple drink was a celebration for the shoot finishing. No, whatever was happening in this picture had nothing to do with modeling. And everything to do with Isabella.

Fuck.

He needed to leave. He needed to rip off the fucking bandaid, end this relationship, and then fucking leave.

Dan forced himself to try to think about what he was going to say, what he was going to do.

Did he have any belongings here?

No. No way. He’d had a spare shirt here at one point but it had been so long since he’d slept over that he was almost certain that it had migrated back to his flat by now. And if he did happen to have anything else here… fuck it. He could buy a replacement.

Clack, clack.

Fuck. Isabella was coming out of her room now.

Clack, clack.

She was coming towards him, towards the lounge.

Clack, clack.

This was it. Dan didn’t have any longer to figure out what he was going to say. Dan froze, facing the glass door to the balcony, unable to so much as look at her right now.

Dan grounded himself by focusing on the dead-looking plant that Isabella never brought in. He liked that plant, once upon a time. He’d bought it for her, thinking that her flat needed some life, some color — which was rich, coming from him of all people. It had done well outside on her balcony, for a while anyway. And then it got cold, and Dan told her to take care of it, to bring it inside. He warned her that it wouldn’t survive the first freeze. It hadn’t.

Turns out Isabella just might not be good at caring for things.

Clack, clack.

Her footsteps where in the lounge now, not far behind him.

“Hey there, baby,” she cooed, as if she was innocent. As if she hadn’t been cozied up to another man a mere forty-eight hours ago. “Why don’t you come sit on the couch and I’ll —”

“Do you call all of them baby or is that just me?” Dan spat, slowly turning around to face her, doing his best to stay in control.

His eyes flicked over her, taking in her appearance.

He’d been right. Something more comfortable meant something expensive looking and — fuck.

For a split second, Dan’s breath caught in his throat as he realized that Isabella had put on his favorite outfit. He’d been expecting something red, something probably covered in ruffles, something to properly celebrate Valentine’s Day.

But no.

No.

She was wearing the strappy, sheer black bra and panties combination that drove Dan crazy — the one with the little crystals everywhere, and the sheer skirt thing that attached to matching thigh-high black tights. Overtop, the delicate lace kimono he’d bought her for christmas was hanging open, surely not adding any warmth and definitely not aiding in hiding any of her skin (that had been one of the biggest selling points when Dan bought the damn thing).

Of fucking course. Of fucking course she put on the one outfit she knew that Dan couldn’t resist, even though she probably did have a Valentinesy outfit she could have worn. Of course she’d pick tonight to go above and beyond, to do whatever she could, to make Dan stay with her.

But no matter how good Dan thought Isabella looked like this, it wasn’t going to work.

Dan crossed the room in two big strides, and halted in front of Isabella. He reached for her, but he didn’t grab her hips the way he once might have. Instead, he grabbed either side of Isabella’s open Kimono. Nimbly, Dan wrapped the garment around her, and cinched the fabric together with the big silky tie.

The change didn’t do much to add modesty to Isabella’s outfit, but Dan felt a little bit better having one more piece of fabric between them — even if that fabric was essentially just a five hundred pound bit of lace.

“I asked you question,” Dan said, staring into her confused eyes. His tone was tight, rigid — he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold back his fury.

“I — I don’t — I don’t know what you’re talking about…” Isabella stuttered out, allowing her accent — the one she normally tried so hard to hide — slip through. A careful, calculated choice to make Dan feel bad for her. There was a worried look in her eyes that made Dan suspect that she had some idea what he was talking about, though.

“Allow me to refresh your memory, then,” Dan stated condescendingly. “Let’s see… drinks on the beach, a fit looking model...” Isabella’s eyes grew wide, filling with feigned innocence, as Dan spoke. “His hand on your breast, your head tossed back on his shoulder, your ass pressed up against his cock… does that help?”

“It wasn’t what it looked like,” Isabella responded quickly.

Too quickly.

“Oh it wasn’t, was it?” Dan laughed hollowly. He couldn’t wait to hear how she tried to explain this.

“No—”

“You better think really hard about what you’re about to say,” Dan warned her, his anger leaking out until he knew he sounded just as furious as he felt. He could feel his fists clenching at his sides, and while Dan wasn’t a violent man, would never hit someone, he needed some kind of outlet for the rage that was surging through him.

Isabella’s mouth fell shut. Her lush pink lips opened and closed one, two, three more times before she finally spoke again. Dan thought he could see her lips trembling. “It was for, um, publicity.”

“You didn’t exactly look like you were posing for the camera, Izzy.” Dan challenged.

“I — well, no. But we knew there were cameras there, we knew the gossip sites had reporters around. So we, um, we thought we could…” Dan gave her a so what look. “We thought — we just thought it would be good for our images.”

Dan laughed again, a hauntingly empty sound, even to his own ears. “And pray tell, what image is that? Cheating girlfriend?”

“No!” Isabella bristled, sparks of anger flashing in her eyes. “How dare you? It’s just two attractive models on a pretty beach. It was innocent.”

“Innocent?” Dan cried. “Innocent!? Innocent my ass. You don’t get a hickey from anything innocent.” Dan was seething with anger, glaring at Isabella, who was staring defiantly back.

“You’re being dramatic, Danny. I’m not some puta who cheats on her boyfriend,” Isabella remarked with a roll of her eyes and a toss of her hair. Dan could feel himself gritting his teeth at her glib attitude.

“Oh, really? Could have fooled me,” Dan said sourly. “And the rest of the world, for that matter. Did you think about that? Think about the fact that to the rest of the world you would look like a cheating puta? What’s that going to do to your precious image?” he spit out.

“Yeah, well, I’d rather be in a scandal than forgotten,” Isabella shot back. That might be the first honest thing she’d said all night, Dan thought, laughing harshly.

“Oh my god, do you hear yourself? Do you realize how fucked up that is?” he asked. Faintly, he was aware of his phone vibrating in his back pocket — Adaline was no doubt calling with his scheduled emergency, like a good sister. But he wasn’t about to answer now. He didn’t need a fake emergency anymore.

Oh no, he was getting out of here using the very real emergency of we’re done.

“At least they’ll be talking about me,” Isabella argued. “You could learn something from me, or you might just be forgotten,” she stated, her voice patronizing.

Dan was fuming, his fists were clenched tightly, and his chest was puffed out. His thoughts were scrambled in his head, and he couldn’t make words come out his mouth. Such a ludicrous claim was barely even worth a response.

“Besides,” Isabella continued flippantly, before Dan could think of anything to say. “It’s not like what some gossip site says about me affects you or us. You know I’m not a puta, so what’s it matter?” she asked, as if she’d already won the fight. As if Dan accusing her of cheating wasn’t directly affecting their relationship right now.

Dan wanted to lash out, to scream, to yell, anything to make Isabella see just how stupid she was.

“Do I?” Dan asked, keeping his voice dangerously low, refusing to let it shake. “Is that a thing I know?”

Isabella whipped her hand through her hair, gathering it on one side of her face — something she always did when she was agitated. “Yes?” she cried, her gaze fixed on a spot just above Dan’s head. Dan was sure she meant for it to come out strong, harsh, but Dan could hear the questioning tone leaking in.

It wasn’t very convincing.

“Look me in the eye, then.” Dan grabbed Isabella firmly by the shoulders, wrapping one hand securely around her chin and holding her head so she was forced to meet his gaze. The worried look in her eyes had grown into full-fledged panic. “Tell me nothing happened,” Dan challenged. “With him, or those guys from the club, or anyone else for that matter.”

She asked him that question so often that Dan had never thought of asking it in return.

Isabella’s eyes flickered down as she drew her lip into her mouth and said nothing. It was all the answer that Dan needed.

He dropped her chin as if it was iron hot, physically recoiling from her. “Oh my god,” he muttered. “Something did happen. You actually fucking did something,” he gasped. His heart was racing, and while Dan didn’t want Isabella anymore, while Dan didn’t care who she flirted with or kissed or fucked in the future, he did care about their past relationship. He did care about the fact that she’d done something with other men while she was dating Dan.

“We were drunk, it didn’t count,” Isabella fought half-heartedly, refusing to meet Dan’s gaze. Her lip trembled and her hands shook, both of which were probably intentional efforts to make Dan feel bad for her.

Dan wasn’t sure anything would make him feel bad for her. At this moment, he wouldn’t even feel bad for her if she was attacked by an angry mob of bees — and he was pretty sure she was allergic to bees.

“What happened?” he demanded. Isabella’s eyes flickered away, again, and she didn’t answer. “What the fuck happened when you were drunk?” Dan practically growled.

“We just hooked up a few times,” Isabella admitted. Her voice was sharp, defensive, but Dan could hear a hint of defeat in it.

“Hooked up? A few times?” Dan barked out. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

Isabella looked at him blankly and gave a small shrug, but didn’t say anything else.

Slowly, realization began to dawn on Dan.

“Oh my god, you fucked him didn’t you?” he asked, betrayed.

“It didn’t mean anything, not like it does with you!” Isabella shouted, suddenly coming back to life. “If you’d just come home with me the night before I left, maybe I wouldn’t have done it!” she accused him, looking almost triumphant, as if Dan not fucking her was good enough reason for her to fuck other guys.

“Right, so it’s my fault you cheated on me, then?” Dan asked, voice pointed. Isabella looked like she was about to agree, so Dan cut her off before she could. “What about those guys from the club, then, huh? Did you fuck them, too?”

Face glazed in anger, Isabella stood her ground, glaring at Dan, but not saying anything. Despite the defensive tilt to her body language, however, Dan could see that she was petrified. A growing look of horror was building in her eyes.

This was the end, and they both knew it.

“Jesus,” Dan rubbed his hands down his face. “You did, didn’t you?

“We had all had a lot to drink…” Isabella argued weakly, giving the same shitty excuse again, as if being drunk excused everything.

It sure as hell hadn’t excused Dan from cuddling up to Phil last week, not in her eyes — and not in his own, either.

Dan pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to calm down enough to speak again. Was this fight even one worth having? He knew, now, that absolutely every aspect of their relationship had been a lie. Until now, he’d known that Isabella was using him for fame, for money, but he’d never thought that the affection, the sex, the physical part of their relationship was a sham too.

But, apparently, she’d fucked at least two — maybe three, who knows what happened with the guys from the club — other guys while they were dating. Dan wasn’t sure he wanted to know how many others there were, how deep this problem ran, how long he’d been unaware.

He just wanted out.

“You know what?” he asked rhetorically. “Fuck this. I’m done.”

Dan stalked back to the couch and pulled his coat on, positively seething. He spun around sharply, heading for the door.

Isabella lept in front of him, blocking his path.

“Babe, wait.” Isabella’s voice was desperate. Her hands reached out for Dan’s coat before suddenly changing directions, pulling open the sash of her nightgown instead. Her breasts, her stomach, her tanned thighs, they were all back on display. For Dan.

Isabella trailed a hand down her side, lightly caressing all of her best features, trying to draw Dan’s eyes to the swell of her breasts, the curves of her hips. “Come here, Danny. I don’t need them. Let me show you that you — that our love is enough.”

“Love?” Dan scoffed, getting frustrated that Isabella was still trying to seduce him. “This isn’t love,” he spat, “It never has been.” Dan ruffled his hair in frustration. “And honestly, I’m tired of being in a loveless relationship. You can officially go sleep with whoever you want, whether it’s for media attention, or because you’re drunk, or whatever, because we’re not together anymore.”

Dan brushed past her, ignoring her call of his name as he moved to the front door. He was done with this. He didn’t need to be here anymore. He’d said his piece, and it didn’t matter how hard Isabella begged or whored herself out — Dan wasn’t taking her back.

Dan had almost made it all the way out of the lounge door when Isabella switched tactics.

“This is about that boy, isn’t it?” Isabella accused, her voice shrill, apparently hellbent on turning the blame onto Dan.

She couldn’t argue that she wasn’t a cheater, but she could sure as hell try to argue that their break up wasn’t about her.

That drew Dan to a halt. Suddenly, he felt more angry than he’d ever felt in his entire life. He squeezed his hands into fists at his sides.

“Phil?” Dan raged, whirling around to face her again. “You think this is about Phil?” he accused. “This has nothing to bloody do with Phil! This is about you! And me! This is about us!” he bellowed, chest heaving with anger.

“Well excuse me for not believing you!” Isabella spat bitingly. “We were fine until he came along!” she pressed.

“Fine? Fine? You think we were fine? ” Dan roared, his voice growing louder with each word. He couldn’t believe the audacity of her. “News flash: we weren’t fine! I was just so fucking blind that I couldn’t see the fact that you treat me like shit!” Dan ran his hands through his hair again, yanking painfully on the strands in an attempt to do something with the anger pulsing through him. “How — how I didn’t see it is beyond me. Fucking everyone else did, ages before I finally realized!”

Dan didn’t know what else to say, and yet he wished he did. He wished he could find the words to articulate his utter hatred of Isabella. He wished he could shove it into her face that Dan knew she’d only been using him this whole time. He wished he could tell her how fucking hurtful it was that she had actually fucked around. But he just couldn’t make the words come out.

“We’re done,” he repeated instead.

Isabella floundered. Every attempt, every word out of her mouth to defend herself, had failed, and she knew it. Her face went purple with repressed frustration.

“You’re going to regret this, Danny,” Isabella eventually threatened.

“Unlikely, Izzy,” Dan replied, unable to keep the mockery out of his voice.

“You’re going to be lonely and sad,” Isabella stated cynically. “I give it four nights of being alone in bed before you come back here, tail between your legs.”

Dan scoffed.

“I’m better sleeping on my own! I’d rather spend every single night of the rest of my damn life alone than sleep with you for one more night!” Dan spat.

That had struck a nerve — Isabella looked aghast. If there was one thing, one thing Isabella always had, it was her sexuality, the way men wanted her.

“You’re weak, Howell!” Isabella screamed, a manic glint in her eye, her hand pointing up at him. “You’re weak, and you’re desperate, and you’re needy, and you’ll come back. You’ll see!”

To hell with this. Dan had tried to leave it at that, but he wasn’t having this. He wasn’t.

“You know what?” he seethed, standing his ground. “I have been weak. For months I’ve been weak. I’ve let you push me around, tell me what to do. All for what? The hope of a little affection? Well fuck that. I’m not going to be weak anymore. Go fuck yourself, Isabella.”

Dan turned on his heel, and stormed down the hallway, his last piece said.

He could hear the clack clack clack of Isabella’s stilettos chasing after him, but he didn’t stop until his hand was on the doorknob.

“Danny, what’s going on?” Isabella pleaded quietly, her entire tone shifting. It was ridiculous, so unbelievably not fitting with everything that had happened. It was like Isabella thought being sweet was going to fix this. The same way she’d thought sex would.

Dan twisted the handle, cracking the door open slightly, before turning halfway back around — just far enough that Isabella could see his face. Just enough so that she could see how fucking serious he was.

“I’m done. With being weak, and with you.”

Dan pulled the door open the rest of the way, stepped into the hallway, and slammed the door closed behind him.

He was done.

COME SCREAM YOUR THOUGHTS AT ME

but i’ll leave you with this one

[[next chapter]]

#love yourself #ly #phan #phanfic #phanfiction #phan au #au #barista!phil #singer!dan #dip and pip #iminclinedtowriting #coffee shop au

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