#i was thinking about my grandmother was right i am the worlds most perfect man as i was drawing it
Text
Lift a Pen and Rewrite the Ending
Fluff for our broken fluffed-out hearts
Dedicated to @bunny584 because ow. I promised fluff, so I’m delivering fluff
Pairing: Satoru x piano teacher!fem!reader
CW: just some fluff, man. We all need some happy, sappy moments in our lives with our beloved dumbass boy.
You taught piano. Plain, simple, easy. At least, you thought so, before meeting an enigmatic man as your newest student. He played a little too well for a beginner, and seemed a little too familiar.
AN: I chose to post this on my side acc since this one was technically made for the exact purpose of writing JJK fics (same with the Ao3 acc (milk_bunny/chimeric-dreams for that one)). So, cheers to the first fic on this blog!
This was honestly scribbled down in a single sitting between 1-5 am. Please don’t judge any mistakes too harshly, I wanted to post it ASAP and not subject it to my endless course of corrections and re-writing.
This is also very short (lmao 6.7k words) for how my work is normally. Again, I just wanted to get it out as fast as I could ;w;
Music sheets laid scattered around you, annotated in messy scribbles in various colors, fonts, and sizes. A scratched out row of bars here, corrected or adjusted notes there, mindless rambles stuffed into the margins as you tried desperately to figure out which key to put your song into so that it matched the exact tone you were going for.
Not like you were some well renowned artist whose career rode on your sole ability to create magical orchestrations. No, you had barely any presence at all. The videos of your songs you posted on YouTube barely scratched a couple hundred viewers at most, with the occasional comment from a bot or scammer getting your hopes up, only for them to go crashing back down.
No, you weren’t some notable figure in the music industry, you were just a white-collar worker that taught piano from your tiny home part-time.
It suited you, you supposed, as bitter as you could feel at times. You were just a normie, a casual passerby who liked having your fingers spring and jump across the keys of your piano. It was one you inherited from your grandmother. She was the one that taught you how to play when you were little, while your parents were busy working and couldn’t sit and entertain you all day like she could.
She taught you some essentials, too, like how to tune the piano – ‘It’ll save you big bucks, bunny,’ she insisted – and how to detect even the slightest issue it might have. She was correct about it saving you big bucks.
As shabby as the thing looked, with peeling white paint and floral designs chipping off the sides, the cover scraped to hell and back, and the brassy pedals having long lost their glossy sheen, it was in perfect shape.
In your expert opinion, anyway. You were biased, so what? You had every right to be.
Granny had left the world a while ago, her ashes situated on the short mantel of your tiny fireplace. You lit the candles every day, rested two softly smoking incense sticks on the shallow bowl to catch their ashes, and gave her a swift good-morning before you raced out your door, inevitably arriving at work with only minutes to spare.
In the evenings, you’d teach, then ramble to her about your day, wish her a loving goodnight, and go pass the fuck out. Rinse and repeat, except weekends, where you were teaching all day.
It was tiring, working two jobs like this, especially when some of the kids you taught were insufferable, but music was your passion. At the end of the day, you viewed it as worth every minute spent doing something you loved.
You liked to think she would have been proud of you.
A light tapping sound, a knuckle rapping against the wood of your open front door, caught your attention. It was a warm day, one that was too good to spend with the doors and windows closed. Natural light flooded in, casting the figure standing at the entrance in a brilliant glow that hid their features from you.
You glanced at the clock on the wall to your left, then leapt up from the floor in front of your coffee table, hurriedly and messily stuffing your music sheets into a folder. “Oh, shoot, sorry! I didn’t see the time, I’m so sorry about that. Are you the two o’clock?”
Today was a surprisingly free day for you. You only had one appointment, with a new student, if you remembered correctly. You must have gotten so ingrained in your rapid-fire notations that you lost track of time.
While you weren’t expecting an adult, since the email sounded like it was from a teenager, it wasn’t uncommon. You had students of all varying ages, anyways. It was a nice change, too; you found that adults tended to listen better than children.
A smooth laugh greeted your ears, the sound impossibly pleasant to your ears. “It’s fine,” the man said as he stepped into your home, breaking from the prison of light holding him. His stark-white hair caught you off guard first, followed by his height, and then the round shades resting low on the bridge of his nose. “That’s me.”
Eyes as blue as the most vivid summer sky peered straight through yours and into your soul, his hues almost appearing to shine in the tranquil environment of your living room, without the help of the overhead lamp you had turned off. His lips curled into a sparkling grin, giving him this sort of youthful luminance that had your heart skipping beats.
You swallowed and looked away before his gleaming smile blinded you, striding over to your piano, using it as an excuse to busy yourself and avoid eye contact with him before he made you stop breathing just by fluttering his lashes.
“Come on in,” you responded stiffly, clearing your throat to ease off the tenseness in your muscles. Why were you getting so worked up over him? Sure, he was pretty, but you’d barely spoken two sentences to him. How had he managed to get you in such a tizzy so easily, where your tongue felt tied and your pulse raced in your wrists? “How much do you know about piano?”
“Uhh,” he set down his briefcase against the wall beside your door, slipped off his shoes, and met you next to the instrument. “I know a bit.”
“Alright,” you nodded and patted the bench, then paused to think if it would be too high for him. “Do you need me to get a different stool?”
He shook his head, sliding into the seat like it was second nature to him. “Nope, this is just fine.”
“Great,” you smiled at him and tucked your skirt under your hands as you sat down on the other end. “Let’s get started, then! Are you familiar with the different notes?”
His hands took place over the keys and he slowly pressed each one down as he labeled them. “C, D, E, F, G, A, B, C.”
“Excellent, that’s awesome! You’re already a few steps ahead of other beginners,” you nodded approvingly and retrieved the thin booklet you had laid on top of the piano. You opened it and sifted through a few of the song options, picking out something a bit more intermediate for him.
It was still simple, but definitely more advanced than nursery rhymes. You found teens and adults had a more enjoyable time learning when they didn’t feel like they were being patronized. Teens especially, fickle little creatures, those ones.
“Let’s start with this one, then,” you said as you set it against the ledge in front of him. “It’s pretty easy, I think you’ll pick it up quickly.”
The song consisted of quarter-note half steps that ignored the sharp and flat keys for now. You had placed a piece of tape over the tempo indicator, finding that it put your students under too much pressure and made them stumble in their rush to follow the pacing they thought was right when they didn’t know what tempo was to begin with.
The man took a few seconds to study the sheet, then placed his fingers on the corresponding keys and began playing.
He was a bit slow, holding some notes too long and others not long enough, but you were correct in thinking he’d get the hang of it fast. After a few runs, he was playing it decently well, and confidently, too.
“Perfect! I knew you’d get it like that,” you snapped your fingers, then picked up the booklet again, flipping the pages in search of something a little more challenging. You probably wouldn’t find it in a kiddie book like this one, so you placed it down and got up, grabbing a more advanced one from the side table nearby. “What got you wanting to learn how to play piano?”
“Ah,” he scratched the back of his head. “My dad always wanted me to learn as a kid. I finally caved in, if only to make him stop yapping in my ear during family dinners. I’m just twenty years late to the party.”
You burst into giggles as you returned to your place on the bench, placing the new song you had chosen out for him where the previous one had been. “Not the first time I’ve heard that. You’d be surprised how many later bloomers there are.”
He chuckled along with you. “Well, that’s a relief. Had me fearing I was the only fully grown student you’d see in your life.”
“Far from it,” you shook your head. “I teach a grandfather that wants to play for his grandson at his graduation next year. It’s never too late to learn.”
When you looked up at him, you found him already peering at you with those intensely cerulean irises, his sunglasses folded neatly into the collar of his shirt. You twitched, startled by his stare. He had you locked in his gaze, captivated as he observed you and you observed him.
You noticed with wonder and fascination that his lashes were as ashy white as the tresses on his head.
He really was beautiful. Those same lashes were long and soft, brushing his high cheeks whenever he blinked. His lips were plush and pink, seemingly always curled up into a permanent smile regardless of size. Life and boyish playfulness darted in those mesmerizing oases that refused to shake their hold on you, and you wouldn’t wish them to.
They were the breath of fresh air you never knew you were deprived of, the nectar of life that was water to your parched throat, the flickering mirage that came to life before your very being.
You felt drawn to him, inexplicably. There was something so…familiar about him, though you couldn’t pinpoint exactly what. Like you’d seen him before, across the metro platform, or walking into the store you were just leaving, or someone walking the opposite direction as you on the crosswalk.
Where have I seen you before?
You blinked yourself out of the illusion, your lips parting, closing, then parting again before you finally managed to find your voice. “I-I’m sorry. I forgot your name, could…could you remind me?”
“Ah,” he shook his head, forgiving your forgetfulness. “Just call me Satoru.”
Just Satoru? Is that really okay?
It doesn’t sound like a name I’ve heard before.
“Alright,” you agreed regardless. “Satoru it is. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you murmured your own name in return, dipping your head down in a mini bow. You returned your attention to the music sheet, lightly tapping the back of his hand with your pointer finger. “Let’s continue, shall we?”
You noted how much bigger his hands were compared to yours. It was hard not to see it, your index finger would likely barely reach the topmost joint of his if you pressed your palms together.
Your hands tingled at the thought. You quickly shoved it aside, focusing on being a good instructor.
Satoru continued to surprise and impress you as he mastered the songs you chose for him after trying them out a few times. Each time he made a mistake, he listened attentively as you corrected it, laying your hands over his as you adjusted the positioning of his fingers.
“Your hands are so much bigger than mine,” you snickered. “I’m a bit jealous. It’s hard for me to reach those far keys sometimes.”
“Oh, yeah,” he grinned cockily, flashing you a sultry glance between chords. “They can reach some things very easily.”
Heat rose to your cheeks and you stuttered, whipping your head away and acting as if he hadn’t completely flustered you.
Truthfully, the session was only supposed to last an hour and a half, but when you looked up at the clock, you were shocked to see you were nearing an hour longer than expected. It didn’t feel like much time had passed at all, maybe thirty minutes at maximum. Had it really been that long?
You pushed yourself up, stretching your legs as you felt pins and needles spark up in them. “Seems I got distracted twice today. I’ve kept you for an hour longer than I intended, I’m sorry,” you laughed meekly. “Don’t worry, I won’t charge extra for that, that’s on me.”
“It’s no worry,” Satoru reassured you as he got to his feet as well, delicately closing your piano with a careful hand. “Are you sure, though? I don’t mind paying for it, I did take up your time.”
He made something warm form in your chest.
“It’s fine, I love teaching. It’s not my main job, anyway, don’t stress,” you brushed away his concern. “You’re a prodigy, y’know,” you told him as you walked him to the still open door. “It’s no wonder your dad wanted you to learn how to play. I’m sure he’s proud.”
He let out a chuckle that sounded maybe a little forced. “Yeah, hope so,” he responded as he eased his shoes back on and bent down to grab his briefcase. “You’re a great teacher.”
“Thank you,” you brushed your hair behind your ear, blushing. “Ah– when would you want to see me again? I-If you do, I mean.”
The odd firmness he had a moment ago melted away, once more replaced by that handsome smirk of his. “Same time next week? Ah, hang on, why don’t I get your number, just in case? I have a bit of an unpredictable schedule.”
“Oh, sure, no problem,” you assented, taking his phone after he unlocked it and passed it to you. “You don’t like using email?”
He shook his head, watching you punch in your number into a new contact, add your name, then hand it back. “Nah, texting is easier for me. I’ll message you later tonight, yeah?”
“Alright,” you acquiesced.
“Oh, right, how much do I owe you?”
You blinked a few times before recalling that it was technically a paid session, though it didn’t feel like that to you. You murmured out the cost, and he gave you an odd look for a brief second. He pulled out his wallet, counted out a few bills, and folded them in half neatly before passing them off to you.
“Thanks for the lesson,” he grinned and waved goodbye, promising to text you later as he headed down your walkway, turned the corner, and vanished from sight.
You closed the door with a quiet poompf, staring blankly at your piano as you tried to remember how to function again. You glanced down at the bundle of money in your hand when you thought it felt a little too thick, brow furrowing as you unfolded it and counted them and holy shit that’s way too fucking much–
You rushed out of your house, down the pathway to the sidewalk, and looked for him, though you knew it was futile. He was already gone.
You tried to think of how you were going to slip the excess money back into his pocket next time you saw him, but as soon as you were inside, you raced to the folder you left on your coffee table, practically ripping it apart as you pulled out all the papers, aggressively uncapped a pen, and got to writing at light speed.
That man, whoever he was, infected you with a painful shot of inspiration that you needed to get off your chest right then and there. Your hand flew across the pages, revising entire sections you had been stuck on for weeks in the blink of an eye. Messy verses were refined, the missing notes floated into place, and by the time the moon had risen high and the timid breeze had turned cold, you had finished your song.
You looked it over one last time, a disbelieving giggle escaping you. You finished it. You finished it. This damned piece had been giving you restless nights, a broken loop in your brain that kept skipping over the unwritten parts, but one session with Satoru had seemingly given you the one push you were missing all along.
Your phone buzzed.
You opened it and tapped on the messages icon to find a text from an unknown number.
Unknown, 9:17 PM
Hey! Sorry for texting so late. It’s Satoru.
Does next week still work for you, same time?
What divine timing on his end. Right as he entered your thoughts, he slid into your DMs.
Your fingers practically trembled with giddy excitement as you texted back instantly to confirm the time, uncaring of what kind of impression that was making on him. You were elated, feeling like you could deflate in peace at last. You gave a little victory cheer as you went about closing and locking all the windows and doors, pulling the curtains shut with so much energy, you questioned if you’d be able to sleep.
The answer was yes. After you had gotten all ready, having pampered yourself as a small reward for yourself, you fell onto your bed and passed out mere minutes later. For once, everything seemed to be going right.
––––•(-•ʚɞ•-)•––––
“How’d you learn how to play?” He asked one day as he sipped at the tea you prepared for him. He was right about his schedule being hectic at times, but he somehow managed to fit himself into having lessons with you a few times a week, rather than just the standard one.
It surprised you, but pleasantly so. He was eager to learn and improve, and you were more than happy to teach him. He made for fantastic company, too, and you found you enjoyed spending time chatting lazily with him just as much as you did instructing him.
“My grandma taught me,” you told him with a smile. “She passed away a while ago, but I like to think I’m keeping her legacy alive like this, by teaching others, and keeping that old lil’ piano alive.”
Satoru nodded in understanding. “You’re amazing at playing,” he complimented sweetly. “She did a great job.”
“Thank you,” you answered bashfully, hiding your blush behind your own mug of tea.
“What was she like, if you don’t mind me asking?”
His smile felt like the sun kissing the apples of your cheeks on a perfect spring day. Him wanting to know more about you had your heartbeat picking up in speed, chirping a new, happy melody like a canary.
You deliberated before replying. “She was a very shrewd woman, stern in her teaching, but very gentle at the same time. She was the kind of granny that snuck me pieces of candy when my parents weren’t looking. She let me stay up late playing the piano whenever I was staying at her place. I probably bugged my parents to let me stay there every weekend, just so I could play it and learn from her.”
“So you got into music young?”
You bobbed your head. “I fell in love the first time I heard her playing when I was a toddler. I had woken up from a nap one day, somehow escaped my crib, and crawled to the living room to watch her play for…man, I don’t even know how long. I was just…hypnotized.”
“She sounds like she was a maestro,” he snickered airily, though you knew he meant it.
You grinned widely, resting your chin on the curved cup of your palm. “She really was. I can show you some videos of her playing sometime, if you’d like to see,” you offered.
“I’d love to.”
––––•(-•ʚɞ•-)•––––
Satoru had been your student for a while now.
He zoomed through the intermediate pieces into the advanced-amateur category easily, though seemed to plateau around there. Despite this, he was a wonderful student, always trying to improve himself and his skill. You knew he had it in him, he was only missing a little something he needed to tip him to the next level.
At one point, you had joked that he must have been purposefully holding himself back just so he could keep studying under you.
He laughed, and said nothing more.
By now, he reached a point where he would come in with a pep in his step, claiming he had perfected a song he wanted to play for you before you started the session. You’d find yourself (politely) seated on your couch by him, and would watch with a fond expression you didn’t know was there as he treated your piano with a touch more tender than even your own.
And you’d listen. He’d choose some of the prettiest, albeit not complicated, arrangements to play for you, and you’d find yourself slipping into a state of blissful peace. All your thoughts would drift away, and you’d absorb yourself in the music he played.
A few sessions had been spent just like that, with him as your personal musician, and you couldn’t figure out why you felt so…happy.
You liked the emotion a lot, though, and found yourself looking forward to his every visit, anticipating the full body chills you’d get whenever he lulled you into that state of delighted serenity. You didn’t remember when you stopped charging him, and when you let him come in without knocking anymore.
You also didn’t remember when having tea after each session became tradition, but you were grateful for the joy he brought you with his presence alone.
In fact, you decided to get him a small gift as thanks. For what exactly? His company? Patience? Entertainment? Whatever it was didn’t matter. It wasn’t anything big, either. It was a record you stumbled across while visiting a thrift shop recently.
You picked it up for two reasons. First, he divulged he had a hobby of collecting old records. Second, he mentioned he had been searching for that specific record for a few years with no luck, saying it was the last one he needed to complete his collection from that particular brand. The moment you spotted it, you grabbed it and practically bolted to the cashier, uncaring of the price.
There was no way you were leaving it there for someone else to nab it before he could. It was the most reasonable option.
Which was why you were extra giddy to see him again.
You opened the door in the middle of him reaching for the handle, stunning him for a second. That bewilderment was quickly wiped away by an excited grin that surely matched your own.
“If I knew you’d be this enthusiastic to see me, I would have worn something better,” he quipped.
You snorted and waved your hand, stepping back so he could come in. “Am I not allowed to be happy to see my favorite student? You look good no matter what you’re wearing, anyway.”
“Favorite, eh?” He teased as he closed the door behind him, leaning down to give you a quick hug. “Now I really feel like I should have worn something fancy.”
“Oh, come on, it’s not that big of a deal,” you giggled, leading him to the piano.
“I dunno,” he hummed, a sly expression crossing his face. “Pretty big deal to hear that from my favorite teacher,” You rolled your eyes, smacking his chest weakly, to which he laughed openly. “Ready to get started, teach?”
What a gorgeous sound.
“Actually,” you said, “I got something for you. Wait here a moment, lemme go grab it.”
He raised a brow but didn’t raise any objections as he sat down and tugged his tie to loosen it a few inches, saying that he’d be right there.
You had to resist the urge to skip to your room to locate the record and retrieve it from the drawer you had safely stored it in. It was your sock drawer, actually. You wanted to keep it somewhere protected while it tarried for its new owner. You sang the melody of your newest song quietly as you picked it up, inspecting the album cover for any indication that it had been touched since you last put it in there.
Pristine. Obviously aged, but in flawless condition otherwise.
Sounds from your living room brought pause to your actions right as you closed the drawer after dumping all your socks back into it.
…Was that music?
Frowning, you picked up the record and crept towards the source of the noise. You recognized it instantly – it was the most notable piece written by the notorious Gojo Saichi. It was considered the most difficult composition created within the last century or so. You’d listened to it on repeat occasionally, attempted it dozens of times, though you always fell short before the second movement started, which came early on.
Was Satoru watching a video? No, the melody was too clear and full to sound like it was coming out of a phone speaker.
Then…
You froze in the entrance to the hallway, stuck in place as you watched Satoru play the oeuvre flawlessly. From where you were standing, at an angle, you could see his precise actions and motions. Every note came to him as naturally as air, each shift in tempo as easy as blinking, down to the fragile, silk-like contrast that made the instrument sound as if it was a weeping widow, sitting on a window sill as she descanted to the moon, alone.
His digits knew exactly where to go, when, how deeply to press, how to shift between fierce and floaty as if he was born to do exactly this.
As your eyes flickered from his hands to his face, you saw that his eyes were closed. He was doing what some musicians could only dream of ever achieving in their careers; he was uniting with the music, playing as one, letting it fill his heart, then pour out with every throb like the very blood in his veins.
The most complicated, difficult, astronomical concerto known to man in the modern age, and he was playing it like it was nothing.
Satoru must have sensed your burning gaping as his hues flickered open and his hands stilled over the keys. He looked over towards you, his mien morphing into something resembling embarrassment.
You staggered closer. “That…that’s…that piece was…written by Gojo Saichi…” You mumbled, barely able to get the words out. You set down the record onto the coffee table, already having forgotten about it.
You were flabbergasted, rattled as you came to a stop at the side of the piano. He…how could he have played that so well? Wasn’t he barely in the advanced category? That was…that was professional, grade A, genius level music he played.
“Yeah,” he grinned, and you would have believed his show of being sheepish if the gleam in his eyes didn’t give him away. “He’s my dad.”
You sluggishly dropped onto your spot on the bench, peering at the keys but seeing nothing as you unpacked the bombardment of information you witnessed.
“That’s…the– that’s the hardest piece…even I can’t…”
“I know,” he rubbed his nape. “He basically forced me to stay up day and night playing it until I got it right.”
“But…how?” You tilted your head, peering up at him from the corner of your eye.
Satoru shrugged like he hadn’t just dropped a fucking bombshell on you. “I asked him to teach me when I was a teen,” You heard him say. “I’m sorry for deceiving you,” he apologized, not sounding very sorry at all.
“I…” You labored to find the right words. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Honestly?” He asked. You nodded, and he let out a heavy sigh.
Instead of answering immediately, he stood up and pulled you to your feet as well, pulling you into the kitchen, where he filled your kettle with water and put it to heat up.
You desperately wanted to know what exactly was going on, but couldn’t find it in yourself to rush him. He went about methodically picking out both your mugs from your cupboard, tossing a bag of tea into both, grabbing the bowl of sugar on the counter, and setting it all down on the table while he waited for the kettle to whistle. He seemed lost in thought, while you had many and none at all at the same time.
You could only observe him as he picked his words carefully.
He finally began when the shrill noise of boiling water filled the room. “I don’t know if you remember – probably not, since you didn’t recognize me – but we actually did meet a while ago. I was a lot different back then,” he said as he poured the water into both mugs, afterwards placing it back on the stove and holding his hand sideways at roughly chest level. “Maybe this high, scrawny, kind of a douchebag,” he admitted with a chuckle.
You were still in shock over the whole situation. All you could do was silently urge him to continue by leaning closer, accepting the cup when he passed it to you. Heat spread through your fingertips, easing away the frosty feeling you didn’t notice set in.
“You were playing the piano in the music room at the school we went to together. It was…honestly, beautiful. I grew up with a famous pianist for a dad, but even he can’t make music sound as alluring and gentle as you can,” he continued, awkwardly holding his own mug. “So, when I saw you again a few months ago, I couldn’t believe it was you. I always wanted to ask you to play something for me when we were younger, but could never get the nerve to.”
As he spoke, the memories were beginning to filter in through the thick haze in your brain.
You were so focused on writing music and learning to be a great musician like your grandmother that you never really paid attention to your surroundings or the people around you if they weren’t your granny, parents, direct friends, or music teacher.
From what you did remember, Satoru was always a confident, cocky boy, shameless and loud. To hear he was…shy about asking you to play for him was hard to believe.
“So, I finally let my dad start teaching me,” he rambled on when you didn’t respond. “I’ve tried so many times to replicate the song you played, but I could never get it right. I know it’s probably a long shot, but you don’t happen to remember what song that was, do you?”
You thought back, scraping the dust off your highschool recollections. There was one piece you had hyperfocused on perfecting during the last year there, determined to play it exactly as your grandmother had.
You never did manage to master it.
You set down the tea you had only sipped at twice and walked past him into the living room, heading to your piano in a sort of trance. You slid onto the bench, and set your fingers on the keys. Muscle memory took over, the gentle tune coming to life in…how long had it been since you last played this?
You let the music flow through you, gave it access to your heart, allowed it to peer into the deepest parts of your soul, and simply followed the path it created.
“Was it this one?” You asked quietly.
When you looked up at him, his eyes were wide, lips parted as he stared at you with nothing less than amazement. “That– that’s the one. Which– what’s it called?”
“It’s a piece my grandma wrote for my parent’s wedding,” you answered. “She didn’t tell me what it’s called. I’m not sure if it has a name to begin with. She played it for me once, and I,” you huffed out a short, choked chuckle, “I became obsessed. I spent every day as a senior trying to get it right, to play it like she did, but…”
Your fingers slowed into a stop as you looked at them blankly, recalling your attempts, and the disappointment that followed each failure. You memorized it after playing it just twice, but it didn’t help you reach your goal in the end.
You startled when his hand rested lightly atop of yours, his body partially leaned over your shoulder so he could look you directly in the eye. This close, you felt his light breaths as they brushed your cheek. You could see the exact shade and hue of the teal composing his striking irises, match the exact pace of his heartbeat to a song, hear him swallow nervously.
“Keep playing,” he pleaded, sounding almost desperate. “Please.”
You obliged. How could you say no to him when he looked at you like that? When he requested it so feebly in a trembling voice that was close to cracking? How could you say no when you saw and felt first hand how his body relaxed when you filled the room with the lilting melody once again?
The music hopped and glided, playful in some parts, somber and tranquil in others. He stayed right where he was, the heat of his stomach resting against your upper back, thawing the tension in your shoulders as his hands held them gently, thumbs rubbing circles into your tight trapezius.
In every way, the song reminded you of your grandma, of your parents, of your childhood spent trying to reach a point where you were truly happy with how you played each note.
But, if that was the case…
How come you saw Satoru’s eyes when you closed yours and listened to your own hands dance across the keys?
Why did his smile, his laugh, his touch, his voice, his everything, come to mind when you picked apart every stanza and bar? If you put together all the notes a specific way and decoded them, you swore they’d spell his name.
Your hands drifted and halted as you reached the end of the song.
Or, rather, the end of the song as you knew it.
There was a brief pause, then he mumbled, barely above a hum, “is that it?”
“Grandma never showed me how it ended,” you told him morosely. “She said she’d tell me ‘when the time is right’, but…she died before she could.”
He sat beside you and took your right hand into his. His fingers massaged meaningless shapes into the creases of your palm and the smooth plane of the dorsum. Neither of you dared break the silence, mulling in your own worlds.
Satoru was the one to cautiously cross the line of quiet, doing his best to not disturb it. He wrapped his left arm around your back, pulling you into his side while continuing to toy with your dainty digits.
“We’ll find it together,” he whispered.
––––•(-•ʚɞ•-)•––––
Truth be told, you never imagined you’d find yourself in this kind of place before – especially not in this position.
Your hand hovered over your brow, shading your eyes from the brilliant sun as it shined low in the sky, kissing the horizon. Though it was setting, the approaching night was warm as ever. A pleasant breeze ruffled the fabric of your dress and caught the strands of your hair that managed to slip loose from the style your mother put them in.
Stars were already beginning to dot the expanse above, glittering and so, so crystalline when you were this far outside the city. You never thought you’d get to see them so clearly, enough to point out individual constellations, and even identify Jupiter and Venus.
You never had a reason to leave the bounds of the city before, so all this was a distant dream you might have had once when you were a teenager.
But here you were, outside a lovely villa, surrounded by friends, family, and loved ones, miles away from where light pollution would dare to touch. The buzzing, lively chatter of dozens of guests filled the air; the clinks of glasses, the clacks of forks and knives on plates, all of it was so animated. You felt like you were in a sort of daze, overwhelmed with happiness to the point that it almost didn’t feel real.
A pair of soft lips pressed against your temple, drawing your attention to radiant, minty-ocean hues.
Satoru gazed at you with nothing short of pure, raw, true adoration. Like every fiber in his body, each and every singular cell, was dedicated to loving you.
“I have one more present left for you,” he murmured against your lips, giving you a chaste kiss right after before he stood up and raised his glass. He tapped the back of his knife gently on the side, creating a chiming noise that settled the ongoing conversations with ease.
Once all the attention was on him, he set both objects down and began speaking.
“I know we’ve already said it a lot, but I wanted to thank you all again for coming here to celebrate this day with us,” he said, turning his gaze to you. “This is truly the happiest day of my life – so far,” he added cheekily, earning him a laugh from the crowd. “So, before all the festivities end tonight, I wanted to do one last thing, if you’d all be so kind as to grant me this moment.”
Of course they would. Satoru was just that type of person. Charisma poured off him in waterfalls, charming anyone he spoke to without effort – you included.
He pushed back his chair, moving to leave. Confused, you grasped his arm and called his name.
There was a glint of something in his eyes, something you couldn’t identify, not with the light tingle of wine sitting in the back of your mind and the overstimulation of the grand day.
“Just listen, baby,” he whispered to you, then he was weaving through the guests, snaking his way to the grand piano situated off to the side of where everyone was situated. “This is a little song I heard many, many years ago, and fell in love with from the first few notes. I’d like to dedicate it to my mother-in-law, father-in-law, their late mother, and I would like to especially dedicate it to my lovely wife.”
Your mother gasped, grabbing your arm as soon as Satoru began playing the familiar melody of the song you had been taught ages in the past. It was the one your grandmother played for you, just once. It was the one she played for your mother and father for their wedding. It was the one you played for Satoru, once unknowingly, and every time after that intentionally.
The one he was playing for you now.
Your mother teared up faster than you did, reaching for a clean napkin to dab her eyes with while she waved her free hand at her face, trying to stave off the tears so that they didn’t smear her mascara, though she wasn’t succeeding. Your father was gently shushing her, rubbing her shoulder while he looked between you and Satoru with pride, and you…
You recalled the first time you heard him play the composition his father had written, when you still believed he was just an advanced player. Back then, you felt entranced.
Now, you felt completely spellbound.
You lifted yourself, carefully making your way between the enchanted spectators. A couple clutched and squeezed your hand as you passed, and a few others breathed out little congratulations to you, not risking breaking the delicate atmosphere.
By the time you made it to him, your vision was blurry, and he was playing the last line of bars.
The arrangement floated into the placid, halcyon evening, each individual note rising like a star to join the thousands that looked on with bated breath, protecting this little moment of clement apotheosis.
His hands swept across the final few steps, barely touching the keys at all. The concluding tone resounded, fragile and silk-like, followed by a second of calm silence before the crowd erupted with cheers, hoots, and deafening applause.
Satoru rose from the bench, encircling your waist with his arms and pulling you in for a deep kiss. It echoed in you, the sweetest lullaby, the happiest composition that could never be written down identically. It was one only the two of you could hear and feel, one only the two of you could dance, live, cry, laugh, breathe, and love to.
Of all the endings you ever tried to give that precious song your grandmother had written so long ago, the one Satoru created was perfect.
Because you created it together.
––––•(-•ʚɞ•-)•––––
Banner made by cafekitsune ♥ gotta figure out how to make my own
#jujutsu kaisen x you#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk x reader#jjk x you#gojo x reader#satoru x reader#fem reader#I'm going light on the tags fn#is this considered light lmao#fluff#jjk fluff
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Debut
Adam Page x f reader
AU Charleston SC Pre War
For @madhatterbri I hope you like it.
The hustle and bustle of Charleston’s race week, in addition to my debut to society had turned my appearance in to the sole topic of conversation. My mother and grandmother, going over who I would be introduced, and should accept onto my dance card. Bored by the names being listed, Mr. Rhodes, The Jackson Brothers, Mr. Cole. “What about Mr. Page?” I asked my mother clutched her pearls and my grandmother smiled. “You will not be associated with that scoundrel, he’s been disowned by his own family” She said tersely.
I’d seen Mr. Page in town visiting his sister, who I had been friendly with at school. “ He’s just returned from New Orleans, after being in the California territories.” I said dreamily. “That man can sure sit a horse” my thoughts of Mr Page fell out my mouth. “That’s enough of your sharp tongue young lady. Your father and I both forbid you even glancing at the man. “ exasperated she finally left my room. My grandmother remained “Child you’re gonna be the death of her. Though Mr. Page isn’t much different than your own grandfather at that age, and you’re right that man can sit a horse.” She said conspiratorially “If he offers you a dance, take it if you’d like. I’ll handle your mother.”
The night of the Saint Cecilia ball, I was in a new blue polished cotton dress that had been designed in the new style from Paris. My grandmother loaned me her blue topaz necklace and earrings as they matched my eyes. My dance card was almost full, while handsome each man was a copy of the next. The same painfully polite conversation through each dance. During the quadrille I caught Mr.Page looking at me from the corner of the room, a whiskey and cigar in hand in a black suit, his handsome face casted in a shadow as he stared intently as he took a drink. After the dance I curtsied, and made my way to the punch bowl. Mr. Page came up beside me, his presence alone was intoxicating. “ Miss, may I be so forward to ask you for a dance. I know that your family vetted all of your previous partners.” he said “It’s my understanding from my little sister that it’s your debut season. While I am not the character of these other gentlemen, I do believe that I can cure your boredom that’s been on your face all evening.” smiling with a grin that made me light headed. “ So you’ve been watching me, this evening.” I said bashfully. “ I couldn’t have even if I had tried, you’re the most beautiful woman in the room. There’s something about that calls to me. So may I have this dance.” Offering his hand. “Yes, Mr Page I will give you this dance.” Taking his hand, as we stepped on the floor.
“Call me Adam” he said as he pulled me close for the waltz. I felt a flush as he pulled me in for the dance, he placed his hand on my back as he led. Our bodies in perfect time, to the music. “Miss, you finally look like you’re having fun.” He said smiling, “ Is this process supposed to be fun. I’ve been very bored, and I wish there was more to my life than this social obligation.” I said truthfully. “ I apologize Mr. …. I mean Adam. My mother says my tongue is to sharp, that it’s my father’s influence and my grandmother’s encouragement.” I smiled “ I surmise that you haven’t enjoyed this experience much. You can answer me honestly.” he said as his grip tightened as we glided across the floor. “I just think there should be more to my life, than these parties, running a household, and having babies.” I said freely, “ I love to read, I’d like to see the world, my mother says I have wanderlust. That I should focus on my future and a suitable husband. That if I don’t settle down soon, I won’t be anyone’s first choice. “ I said the dance ending , he bowed and I curtsied realizing my time with him was over my face fell back into its complacent mask. “ Where’d you go?” He asked recognizing my change in posture and attitude. “ I’m sure that I’ve sufficiently bored you, with my petty problems, of womanhood.” I said as we exited the dance floor. “May I accompany you outside? You look like you could use fresh air.” He said a hand guiding the way to the back porch.
The air around us was a welcome relief from the stifling warmth of the house. “Mr. Page, what is it that you are doing, and why are you here? “ I asked, as the moonlight lit his golden curls, he laughed “ To be honest I don’t know, I’m sure that having been disowned by my own father has done nothing for my social standing. I’m here because when I saw you visiting with my sister, you had a spark of life and mischief in your eyes. I’ve been to California territories where I made a small fortune, to New Orleans, and to Cuba, and nothing and no one has caught my attention the way you have. I guess like recognizes like.” he said stepping closer to and looking in my eyes. The man before looked at me, as if he knew everything about me. “ I have to go, I’m sure my mother is looking for me.” I said abruptly . “ May I call on you? He asked “ Yes Mr. Page, I mean Adam you may.” I said as I walked away from the most intriguing man I had ever met.
#aew#hangman adam page#hangman adam page imagine#adam page fic#adam page fanfic#adam page x reader#aew au
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March 27, 2024
daylist: symphonic nerdy wednesday evening (city pop, japanese jazz, orchestra, film score [it was exclusively ~vgm~ (lots of NieR and Final Fantasy, lots of vocal tracks!) lol], mmorpg)
song obsession of the week: The Old Witch Sleep and the Good Man Grace - The Amazing Devil gfkgdkjgkjfgkjd
Man I am just so pro-right to repair. Was thinking about getting some new headphones because the earpads on the ones I've had for years have been flaking bad for months, but they sell what are essentially the same earpads online! The headphones themselves are still fully functional, so why contribute to electronic waste when I don't have to? And now they feel perfect :)
Speaking of repair though, I've been done dirty by orthodontists and dentists all my life. And now I might have to pay, again, to fix issues that were ultimately caused by them. I've done (almost) everything right. Wore my retainers nightly, brushed, and I'm now into flossing regularly. So annoying.
Anyway I'm lowk stressing about the future (because of course I am) because even though I could "afford" a solo apartment, I also can't help but feel like that would be squandering my opportunity to save a ton toward the future when my savings would make the most impact (yeah, sorry, it's another one of these, and won't be the last I'm sure). Living solo is something I want and would love to do. And according to my calculations, I could. Even without sacrificing retirement and saving toward a house. Which is more than most graduate/PhD students are ever able to do during their schooling. But it's the anxiety of knowing that I could do more if I had even just one roommate. It's like, considering my situation as a student, what I already have saved, what I will be able to save, what I will have left over each month (a seriously comfortable sum (because, like a platypus, I don't do much)), I would be fine. I would be happy! But having one roommate wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, I guess. And then I could contribute more to my future happiness.
I don't know.
Can I place a monetary value on comfort?
I have a little under a year to figure out what I'm going to do. I can tell you what I want. I want someone to tell me that choosing to live alone would not be ruinous. That it'd be okay. That it'd be worth it for my contentment. That I'm taking the right steps, that I have a good foundation set. But I have to make the decision by myself. And then live with it. Through whatever comes. Because I don't really want to move more than once more before my program ends (and another thing, it would be much more difficult to save up for moving again if I lived alone).
Part of me wants to approach this with the mindset that the future is never guaranteed. And that, as a result, it's okay to splurge now. (Also there's the part about my grandmother potentially not being able to take care of her dog as she ages, and I wouldn't want to rehome her entirely (the puppy, not my grandmother).)
But like, okay. The 50-30-20 needs-wants-saving axis, right? I could stick "living alone" as part of wants since I don't otherwise really spend that much in wants ultimately.
Let me go calculate.
Okay. Post-tax (which is how you're meant to calculate 50-30-20), I'd be doing a bit better than the suggested model (but!!! this includes all the help I'm getting without which I simply would not consider this in the first place).
Let me... let me do some future sims.
nerdwallet says I'll be fine.
Okay. Okay! okay.. Ohh-kay.
I'm not completely decided but at least I have all that information available to me.
Today I'm thankful that.. I don't have a lot of homework tonight. So I can go to bed. OH OH ALSO thankful the person I've wanted as my secondary advisor for months but was too afraid to ask said yes and seemed happy to say so <3
[edit, ~a week later: the trouble will be finding a 1b/1b at my price point (still pretty low for this area since I don't really want to settle for a studio) that's close enough and has my minimum requirements (I suppose another potential option would be saving aggressively for another year to grind out a pot of money that would sustain me for three years at a slightly higher price point)]
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Starham: Q and A (First 50 Questions)
Link for questions: 500 Good Questions to Ask - Find the perfect question (conversationstartersworld.com)
What weird food combinations do you really enjoy?
• I am quite fussy with the food I eat. However, I would not say no to banana and toast.
What social stigma does society need to get over?
• Honestly, every stigma.
What food have you never eaten but would really like to try?
• Pufferfish
What’s something you really resent paying for?
• My laptop I bought for university. It gave more problems, and it ever did good. I could have just used the library computers and had the same results.
What would a world populated by clones of you be like?
• Uh, that is a good question. I think quiet.
Do you think that aliens exist?
• No. However, I would like to be proven wrong.
What are you currently worried about?
• Not much. Although I am a student. Maybe my studies.
Where are some unusual places you’ve been?
• My closet. 🤣
Where do you get your news?
• Primarily from the news channel.
What are some red flags to watch out for in daily life?
• Lying
What movie can you watch over and over without ever getting tired of?
• It would be The Hunger Games (2012), directed by Gary Ross (Gary Ross - Contact Info, Agent, Manager | IMDbPro) and starring Jennifer Lawrence. The movie was based off the book The Hunger Games written by Suzanne Collins (according to Distractify, Suzanne does not have any social media accounts to her name).
When you are old, what do you think children will ask you to tell stories about?
• How did I meet their grandmother.
If you could switch two movie characters, what switch would lead to the most inappropriate movies?
I would switch Julie Baker (Madeline Carroll) with Dana (Stefanie Scott) in the movie, “Flipped”. The movie was based on the book with the same name written by Wendelin Van Draanen. (https://www.youtube.com/@WendelinVanD/about)
What inanimate object would be the most annoying if it played loud upbeat music while being used?
• My couch
When did something start out badly for you but in the end, it was great?
• Please don’t hate me for the this but it must be the Twilight Saga written by Stephenie Meyer (Stephenie Meyer)
How would your country change if everyone, regardless of age, could vote?
• Roads. The roads in my country are terrible.
What animal would be cutest if scaled down to the size of a cat?
• A polar bear or a grizzly bear. Either one would be adorable.
If your job gave you a surprise three day paid break to rest and recuperate, what would you do with those three days?
• Figure out a way to extend the break.
What’s wrong but sounds right?
• Reading too many books is not an addiction.
What’s the most epic way you’ve seen someone quit or be fired?
• By coming in late to the office and then his supervisor found out he been promoted to be his lead. The man was so shocked he was speechless. 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
If you couldn’t be convicted of any one type of crime, what criminal charge would you like to be immune to?
• Honestly, no crime. I would still feel the guilt. So, I am okay.
What’s something that will always be in fashion, no matter how much time passes?
• Trench coat and all black. You can never go wrong with those two.
What actors or actresses play the same character in every movie or show they do?
• The Rock [Dwayne Johnson (@TheRock) / X (twitter.com)]
In the past people were buried with the items they would need in the afterlife, what would you want buried with you so you could use it in the afterlife?
• My Nintendo 3ds or the purity ring my mother bought for me on my birthday.
What’s the best / worst practical joke that you’ve played on someone or that was played on you?
• My supervisor informs me that my work has resulted in our department losing customers.
Who do you go out of your way to be nice to?
• My mom. There is no downside.
Where do you get most of the decorations for your home?
• From the mall. It is a five-minute walk.
What food is delicious but a pain to eat?
• Chicken wraps. Why is there so much sauce in that? Like why?
Who was your craziest / most interesting teacher?
• My seventh-grade math teacher. He used to stand on his desk to explain concepts.
What “old person” things do you do?
• I take my time walking.
What was the last photo you took?
• My profile picture needed for all my applications for university.
What is the most amazing slow-motion video you’ve seen?
• How bones break from Mortal Kombat.
Which celebrity do you think is the most down to earth?
• Jennifer Lawrence. If I had to guess.
What would be the worst thing to hear as you are going under anesthesia before heart surgery?
• I am adopted.
What’s the spiciest thing you’ve ever eaten?
• Chillis
What’s the most expensive thing you’ve broken?
• My tablet.
What obstacles would be included in the World’s most amazing obstacle course?
• The obstacle course from the show, “Wipeout”.
What makes you roll your eyes every time you hear it?
• You can do anything if you put your mind to it.
What do you think you are much better at than you are?
• My imagination. I honestly didn’t know my imagination is so much more active than my peers. Don’t know if that is a good thing or not.
Should kidneys be able to be bought and sold?
• Yes, only if consent is given from the donor.
What’s the most creative use of emojis you’ve ever seen?
• The “I am melting” emoji from WhatsApp was a brilliant feature.
When was the last time you got to tell someone “I told you so.”?
• Most of my closest friends and family listens to me but something does happen where I use those words, I will provide an update to this.
What riddles do you know?
• I know them but think they’re cringe. The riddles from The Hobbit. Yeah, I know.
What’s your cure for hiccups?
• Water and silence.
What invention doesn’t get a lot of love, but has greatly improved the world?
• Pegs
What’s the most interesting building you’ve ever seen or been in?
• Roche Tower based in Switzerland.
What mythical creature do you wish actually existed?
• The monster from the movie, “The Water Horse” directed by Jay Russel (Jay Russell - IMDb).
What are your most important rules when going on a date?
• Don’t have high expectations.
How do you judge a person?
• By their work.
If someone narrated your life, who would you want to be the narrator?
• David Attenborough (A Life On Our Planet (@davidattenborough) • Instagram photos and videos)
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okay as much as i would Love to answer your whole post in detail and address the whole thing i can’t put a read more in my ask so i’m gonna limit it some 😭 would dms be more efficient? yes. am i writing this ask anyway? also yes.
and yeah i meant the Whole cb WHAT ARE THEY FEEDING THEM?? HOW LONG DID SUNGHOON HIT THE GYM FOR?? I DIDNT KNOW JAY’S VOICE COULD D O THE THINGS ITS DOING RN. NIKI IS OUT HERE LIVING HIS BEST ANGSTY TEEN LIFE.
“he’s selectively deaf” JDKSJDEB. no but fr i really do see jaan as a rigid, stubborn type, a stickler for rules when he’s the one making them but an absolute loose cannon whenever given an order. thankfully his “i do what i want” attitude doesn’t cause Massive problems bc he has a sense of responsibility and at least one braincell. jino, on the other hand… we’re just glad he’s cheerful and not particularly rebellious
CRAZY CAT VAMPIRES!! going back to noa with cat-like tendencies i imagine him padding around with a cat held in one arm “as a buddy” and everyone like “how has that thing not cleared you to death.” no but the guys having these old people tendencies is so funny to me it’s like a steve rogers situation where every once in a while it hits that “oh . oh right you may look like me but you’re Old” just heli smiling contentedly whenever he understands a pop culture reference or jaan crocheting (which is an even Better image now that i talked abt him up there) or jino learning to out-bake anyone’s grandmother (of course, being able to use his body as an oven helps)
no yeah . yeah sooha wanting to show them how to enjoy life as teenagers and then having to realize she couldn’t have a normal fun teenage life either and all of them working through it together and now i’m crying
i appreciate the chart and stuff bc there’s just So many ways to interpret vampirism and lycanthropy- disease, hereditary, extreme states of being (life or death), and each of them have so many implications and it’s fun to explore!! i wish we knew more abt solon and the guys’ origin UGH
- vrvr anon
man i always forget the limitations of this form of communication <///3 HSJFBVJV im just thankful tumblr apparently got rid of that word/character limit that they had on their asks for a while at least im assuming they did. that would have made our entire thing far less convenient
NO YEAH THE COMEBACK. HA. WOW. jay's voice DEFINITELY does a thing at the beginning of future perfect and i do NOT know how to feel about it. hybe needs to close the gyms fr because how much more ripped is sunghoon gonna GET. and yes u go riki get in your angsty edgy teen phase!!
jaan gives me chaotic lawful energy honestly—he's made his own set of rules and he sticks to them to the letter, but anyone ELSE'S rules? its fair game. jaan and jino both have the potential to be absolutely insane loose cannons (and sometimes ARE if the situation calls for it) but theyre stopped from being complete harbingers of chaos by the fact that jaan is actually oretty rigid and responsible (in his own strange way) and jino is happy-go-lucky cheerful instead of aggressively rebellious. if those two aspects of their personalities did not exist the world would be screwed.
NOA CARRYING A CAT AROUND "AS A BUDDY" PLS I CANT. THATS TOO SWEET. and maybe because hes tall af he can carry several more cats than his brothers and hes always just like (while holding six cats) "its the benefit of having long arms"
ive never watched a marvel movie of my own volition but i got weirdly involved in the fandom for some reason a couple years ago and because of that i Know Some Stuff. so now im thinking about heli being the ULTIMATE out-of-touch grandpa of the brothers, because hes the one out of all of them thats the most focused on protecting them and making sure they stay hidden, so hes never taken the TIME to get involved with the pop-culture of the time. and then when he actually starts to slow down a little and give himself time to LIVE instead of survive (thanks to sooha), and he starts looking into pop-culture more, he gets ABSURDLY PROUD anytime someone (like shion, because you KNOW shion would be the brother thats absurdly invested in everything pop-culture just because he thinks these modern humans are very entertaining) makes a reference to a meme or movie or something and he actually gets it! so like you said hes just sitting or standing there with this big old content grin on his face and he goes "i understood that reference!" and sooha or jino pat him on the shoulder like "yes u did good job heli" LMAO
"oh . oh right you may look like me but youre Old." KSGFJFBFJ EXACTLY and this could be said by either sooha (who even though she WAS born at the same time as them in our au, was conscious for significantly less of it) or OTHER students, in a hypothetical world where the brothers get less terrified for their lives, sooha makes more friends, and heli admits it wouldnt hurt to have a FEW more harmless teenagers in on the secret as long as they're harmless teenagers sooha trusts. which also brings to mind a situation in which jino befriends sooha's friends, and he's nice to them and likes them and everything because he's jino, but then said friends introduce jino to their grandparents and its all off the wall from there. sooha's human friend just stares at jino happily baking cookies and gossiping with their grandma like "why are you better friends with my grandma than you are with me"
i dont have much more to say about sooha and the boys experiencing normal life as teenagers together so im just gonna agree that yeah i am also crying. a lot. i am crying a lot. although in the hypothetical world where more humans get let in on the secret, the guys and sooha would actually have some Normal Teenagers to teach them how Normal Teenager Life is lived—at which point they could all be like "huh. actually we like the weird way we were doing it, but thanks!"
im glad the chart and everything was appreciated!! yeah theres so many different possible interpretations and i HAVE so many thoughts about those different possible interpretations. and many different possible interpretations of my own as you saw HSJFBFJB. its just!!! theyre both so COOL conceptually and theres so much that can be done with them!!! i also wish we knew more abt the guys' origins because so far all we know in canon is "woke up in an orphanage with no prior memories, already possessing both vampirism and magical powers. created somehow???" which. is NOT a lot. pls hybe
and hey look at that! i managed to answer this the same day it came into my inbox! and i only saved it to my drafts ONCE! yay me
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shows up late to the party with gravity falls doodles
#hopefully this cna be the start of me getting back into the habit of drawing#my artist notes are gonna be slapped all over doodle pages#i have ideas and other doodles and im hoping i can motivate myself to create#gravity falls#gf#stan pines#stanley pines#grunkle stan#soos ramirez#soos#stan#sparkly soos is the best one i made so far#i was thinking about my grandmother was right i am the worlds most perfect man as i was drawing it#artskls
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my only wish - knj | m
“ santa can you hear me? i have been so good this year. and all i want is one thing. please tell me my true love is here ” - my only wish (this year), britney spears
✹ summary- There are few things you hate most in this world. Hornets, unnecessary fruit pieces in otherwise perfectly good jello, certain shades of orange… But nothing takes the cake more than two simple things. Christmas. And Kim Namjoon. So why did you agree to pretend to be Kim Namjoon’s girlfriend at his family Christmas party? Bah-Humbug.
✹ rating- explicit/18+/nsfw
✹ pairing- kim namjoon x reader
✹ word count- 15.1k OOF
✹ genre- smut, fluff, tiny tiny angst if you squint, enemies to lovers, fake dating au, idiots to lovers, brief mention of YoonMin
✹ warnings- penetrative sex, unprotected sex (dont do it), daddy kink lolol, namjoon has a big dick, oral sex (m/f receiving), cum swallowing, light cum play, dirty talk, light degradation (very light tbh), praise kink, lots of mentions of joon being a beefy boy, masturbation,
✹ a/n- its here!! finally! my contribution to rockin around the christmas tropes. big big big shout out to @ladyartemesia @xjoonchildx @untaemedqueen @underthejoon @yeojaa @snackhobi for being my co collaborators. and a warm shout out to @wwilloww and @hobi-gif for being some very lovely betas. thank you thank you! i hope you enjoy!
There are few things you hate most in this world.
Hornets, unnecessary fruit pieces in otherwise perfectly good jello, certain shades of orange…
But nothing takes the cake more than two simple things:
Christmas.
And Kim Namjoon.
Christmas, in your opinion, is nothing more than a consumerist holiday, anchored on ensuring you’re guilted enough from November 1st to the 25th of December to spend your hard earned money on shit your friends and loved ones won’t even use. It’s a time for people to pretend they love giving and caring, while shoving you out of lines in stores, buying up all the groceries as if it’s the end times, and forcing party after mindless party for “celebration” that ends in seeing your boss drunk and pants-less by the punchbowl.
And don’t even start on Kim Namjoon.
On paper, he’s your colleague, to put the terms friendly. In reality, he’s your opponent, your adversary. He’s annoying, rude, stuck up, and not to mention a douchebag heartbreaker. He’s everything you hate wrapped in one disgustingly handsome face.
The man never misses a chance to steal a case from underneath your nose, rub the praise he receives from your bosses in your face, and look ridiculously delectable in his tight suits that he insists he wears around the office. He absolutely infuriates you.
And now, as you sit in the company-wide meeting, your heart sinks as you realize the worst thing about Namjoon—he’s about to get the promotion you’ve been vying for your entire career.
That position was as good as yours—at least, you had thought.
That was until lead counsel, Seokjin, stands in front of all the attorneys present and calls out Namjoon’s name, commending him on winning his latest case—the case that you had done the bulk of the work for. Seokjin even tells the rest of the lawyers in the room that Namjoon is “someone to watch” with a glint of pride in his eyes.
The smug smile Namjoon sends in your direction as he teasingly nibbles on a pen with his sultry mouth is enough to make you want to tear his eyes out and use them as olives in the martini you sorely needed.
Namjoon smirks as he walks past you once the meeting ends.
“Make sure you watch me, baby,” he whispers into your ear.
His hand rests on your lower back and you hate how much he aggravates you, and hate even more so that he frustrates you sexually as much as he does intellectually.
Unfortunately, your body can’t keep up with your mind’s distaste for the elder lawyer. His presence around you makes your blood vessels tighten and your head feel light—nipples prickling against your bra when he winks at you.
“Asshole,” you whisper under your breath as you pack up your notebook.
“Oh, ___!” Seokjin calls out just as you’re about to leave the all-glass meeting room.
Your head suddenly screeches to a very frustrated, sexual halt when you turn to face the lead counsel of your company.
“Yes, Mr. Kim?”
“I’ve got a case for you.”
The smile on his face makes you relax. Maybe he sees your potential. Maybe he’s testing you just as much as he’s testing Namjoon. Maybe you’ll be the “one to watch” and you can rub that right in Namjoon’s perfect, stunning face.
A thick manila folder slides across the oak table towards you from Seokjin’s hands. The impressive volume of the dossier makes you giddy with anticipation.
“I know you won’t let me down.”
You nod, nibbling at your lips, before bowing to your superior and dashing out of the room as fast as your Louboutins can handle.
It’s not until you sit at your desk, a cramped little cubicle next to Park Jimin, your best friend and paralegal assistant, that you open the folder.
Your heart sinks as your eyes hurriedly rush over the title page.
Personal Injury Suit.
A dejected sigh leaves you as you throw the folder onto your desk and slouch back in your ergonomic office chair.
“What’s up, pussycat?” Jimin smiles as he rolls his chair over to your side of the cubicle. “Namjoon got you worked up again?”
You groan as you take off your reading glasses, setting them aside to rub at the burgeoning headache building at your temples. You had momentarily forgotten all about Namjoon in the hurried hope that you’d land a case of significance, something you could finally use to prove yourself.
Instead, you gained yet another in-and-out, settle outside of court case. Likely some elderly geriatric suing a corporation for too-slippery floors.
“Another fucking personal injury suit,” you whine as you thrust the folder into the lithe paralegal’s hands.
He looks over the documents and sucks his teeth.
“Man, Seokjin really has it out for you.”
You level a look at your best friend, before nodding and holding your head in your hands.
“Namjoon is getting all the good cases! He gets the media attention, the litigation deals, everything! It’s like I’m not even given a chance to show what kind of lawyer I can be when I’m stuck with all the nursing home and car accident suits!”
Jimin bows dutifully, nodding his head as you express your woes.
“I can do more than just personal injury litigation… and Seokjin knows that! It’s just that Namjoon keeps getting all the air-time!”
“I know, babe. I know.”
With one last sigh of disbelief, you take the folder out of Jimin’s hands and sit upright at your desk.
“Well, I guess if I’m going to be a personal injury lawyer, I’m going to be the best fucking one yet. Let’s get to work.”
“Yeah! Fighting!” Jimin cheers.
Namjoon sighs as he listens to his mother blabber on and on through his phone. He leans back in his chair and surveys the wide expanse of his corner office.
Seokjin gave him this space, an upgrade from the desolate cubicles when he won his last big case, Kim Taehyung, artist v. the city of New York. He can’t help but smirk as he glimpses you from his window, pouring over a case file. He notes the curve of your back in the silk blouse you’re wearing and the way it tucks into your pencil skirt. He wishes he could see the outline of your ass and watch as it sways back and forth when you walk.
“I just don’t understand why you can’t ever bring anyone home for the holidays!”
His mother breaks him from his silent reverie of detailing every aspect of your backside.
“You know your grandmother will not be alive much longer! And all she wants is her only grandson to be happy and in love! And a few grandchildren won’t hurt!”
“I am her grandchild, Mom.”
She’s silent for a moment.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind some grandchildren either.”
He groans again and presses his fingers to his forehead, a headache bubbling up behind his eyes.
“Don’t you act like that, young man! You have a big empty house, big car, big life, and no one to share it with. I just want you to be happy.”
She continues on and Namjoon can’t help but let her words sink in.
He has it all. Expensive luxury apartment, enormous bed, gorgeous kitchen, money to spend on traveling and enjoying life. Yet he spends most of his time here, stuck in his office. He’s utterly alone, regardless of how many social guests he tries to entertain, horrid dates he attempts to go on. He’s always left alone, and he feels it deep at the very bottom of his heart—the loneliness and desire for a companion.
“Mom! Mom!” He interrupts her diatribe on the futility of his adult life. “Stop!”
“Namjoon, I’m just conce-”
“I’ll bring home my girlfriend for the holidays, okay?”
There’s a stunned silence on the other end.
“A girlfriend?” she asks, tentatively. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, wincing already at the lie he’s spoon-feeding his poor mother—all in the name of getting her off his back. “She’s kind of shy, so I didn’t want to tell you about her yet, but now seems like the best time. I’m... I’m even thinking of proposing.”
The words come out of Namjoon’s mouth before he can stop them. His mom bursts into screams of delight, and he can tell she’s running to his beloved grandmother to tell her the news.
“Oh, Namjoon! This is all we’ve ever wanted for you. I’m so proud of you! I can’t wait to meet her! Oh, goodness, I can’t want to tell your father. Goodbye, son! I’ll see you two soon!”
She hangs up before Namjoon has a chance to even breathe.
“Fuck.”
He drops his phone to his wooden desk and grimaces.
How the hell is he going to find a fiance in the next 3 days before the holiday break?
There’s Jennie, his ex.
He thinks about it for a moment, before quickly dismissing it. No, much too clingy and possessive. She’d take it to be real, and he’d be stuck with her.
His last hookup, Jihoo?
No, too aloof. His mom would never buy that they were a love-sick couple on the brink of engagement.
A crash outside his office startles Namjoon, making him stand and exit the large corner suite.
The commotion is coming from your cubicle, where he can see you’re struggling to use the decrepit computer. The crash must have been from you slamming the keyboard to the desk, causing the individual keys to pop off the board.
“Shit! Jimin, help me put this keyboard back together!”
You shimmy out of your chair and onto your knees, an excellent sight for Namjoon if he wasn’t so concerned about your well-being.
The paralegal is standing above you, watching as you kneel to gather the pieces of the obliterated keyboard.
“Oh no, honey. It’s against my personal constitution to be on my knees unless it’s for a handsome man.”
“God, Jimin, come on.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you hulk-smashed the life out of that poor keyboard.”
Namjoon smirks, turning back into his office and sliding into his desk. He easily opens his MacBook and emails Yoongi in IT, requesting a brand new computer for your desk—no holds barred. He wants the top of the line for you.
He suddenly has just the person in mind to be his fake fiancée.
A brand new, gorgeous computer is at your desk the next day you arrive. You nearly spill your hot peppermint mocha when you see the sleek machine atop your old plastic desk instead of the broken clunker that was there the day before.
“What the hell?” You ask Jimin as you set your coffee down gently as if any movement might scare the new computer away. “Did you order this?”
“I love you, but I would never order you something this nice.”
You can’t help but roll your eyes as you sit down to marvel at the modern machinery. At least Jimin is honest.
“Maybe I’ll call Yoongi and ask him where it came from,” you wonder aloud, hand hovering over your phone.
“YOONGI?” Jimin screeches, eyes suddenly wide and crazed.
“Yeah? The IT guy?”
“I know who Yoongi is, you dumbass! Here, let me call him! I’m your assistant!”
He scrambles to grab the phone out of your hand.
“You literally refuse to do anything I ask.”
Jimin smiles cherubically, completely ignoring your confusion. He’s suddenly the picture of a model employee.
“Don’t you worry! I’ll be right on it!”
He hops from your desk with your cell phone gripped tight, and saunters away to a secluded area out of your eyesight.
“What the fuck is going on today?” You ask out loud, settling into your chair and unloading your bag of files.
“How's the new computer?”
The sudden intruder makes you jump, nearly spilling your coffee, yet again.
“Fuck!” You shriek as you attempt to right yourself and the dangerously hot liquid sloshing in the paper cup. “You scared me!”
The chuckle that comes from behind you makes your stomach flip. You know that laugh. You could recognize that laugh a hundred miles away, in a hurricane, with headphones on.
That laugh is the sultry demon himself, Kim Namjoon.
“I—How did you know about my computer?”
Namjoon takes a knee, bringing his face to your level in your chair. He’s close to you, so dangerously close. You can smell the Giorgio Armani cologne applied to his pressure points—the heat of his skin warming the scent and mingling with his own subtleties. Your eyes nearly roll back in your head. He smells so comforting—like a home you never knew you were missing until he arrived.
“I saw it when I walked in this morning.”
He breaks you from your daydreaming of warm, firm hands caressing your body and you’re thrown headfirst back into reality—the reality where you can’t stand the man mere inches from you.
You push back from where you are and stand, eager to get away from Namjoon’s sudden interest in close proximity. He smirks and rises from his spot, pocketing his hands in his tight cream suit.
“Care to join me in my office for some coffee?” He asks.
His office. The one he scored after he won the Kim Taehyung case. The bitter betrayal still lingers in your mouth.
For the longest time, you had been equal in every sense; both living in the dingy cubicles with the computers long-destined for retirement. Then, Seokjin awarded him with the corner office, the one with the view of the entire city. You’d never forgiven either of them.
“I have my own coffee.”
Namjoon smirks as he eyes your paper cup, clearly a quick grab from the 7-Eleven around the corner.
“Looks fancy.”
You purse your lips and clutch your coffee even closer.
“Please,” he asks again. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
Namjoon’s face loses its snark, and you’re curious about what could cause the man to become so serious.
“Fine.”
You motion with your arm towards his office, encouraging him to walk ahead. He smirks again, ah—there’s that smirk, before he turns and heads into the gorgeous corner room.
He lingers by the door as you enter, waiting until you’ve crossed the threshold to close the door behind you. It surprises you. Something about being in a closed room with Namjoon sets you on edge. You can nearly imagine the man bending you over that fine oak desk, hiking your skirt up and spanking your ass until it’s red.
“Coffee?” He asks as he moves towards the in-office espresso machine.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You have a Nespresso in your office?”
All desperate and wanton thoughts of Namjoon sliding into you leave once you see the stainless steel contraption in the room's corner. Of course he has a $500 coffee machine in his office. He has everything you want.
“You like it?” His question is cocky. He already knows the answer.
“Fuck off.”
Namjoon grins and turns the machine on, pulling out two mugs while you sip your now lukewarm coffee. It suddenly tastes disgusting.
“So, what’s the deal, Namjoon?” You ask as he rests against the wall and waits for the coffee to brew. “You said it was important.”
Namjoon nods, a more reserved look taking the place of his usual cocky grin on his face. His gaze turns down to his shiny dress shoes.
“I need a favor.”
“No.” Your answer is quick.
Namjoon looks up at you in surprise.
“You haven’t even heard it yet!”
“Yeah, well…,” you huff. “I’m not interested in helping you.”
Namjoon leaves his post by his elaborate coffee maker, forgetting about the piping-hot liquid drizzling into white mugs, as he stands in front of you. There’s that fucking cologne again. Why does he have to smell so good?
“You’ve got to help me. Please.”
His sudden closeness to you sets your brain off—your steely resolve begins to crumble.
“Fine, I’ll bite. What is it?”
His face lights up again. God, he has such a handsome mouth.
“I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend for my family Christmas party.”
If you hadn’t had such a good grip on the convenience store cup of coffee, it’d surely drop from your clutch and splatter on the expensive carpet of Namjoon’s office.
Your eyes widen, and your mouth falls agape.
“You—You what?!”
Namjoon sighs and lowers his voice.
“Look, I…” he struggles. “I told my mom I have a girlfriend, so she’d get off my back about it.”
“And why am I suddenly your best option for that?!”
You step away from the man, determined to clear your mind as the scenario weaves its way through your head.
Namjoon’s girlfriend. He wants you to be his girlfriend.
Well, his fake girlfriend.
He would hold your hand. He would kiss you. He would touch your body in ways you convince yourself you don’t think of often.
“You’re the only girl I know who’s got a good enough poker face to go along with it. And honestly… you’re the only girl I really know well enough.”
His last admission shocks you. Namjoon seems like the womanizing type—one to bring a different girl home every night.
“That doesn’t explain why the fuck I would want to help you.”
Namjoon steps back and moves towards the coffee machine again.
“If you help me, I’ll take all your shitty cases that Jin is giving you.”
Your eyes narrow at the tall man. It seems too good to be true.
“How d'you know about them?”
Namjoon shrugs and grabs a mug full of freshly brewed expensive coffee.
“I can hear you complain to Jimin about it every day.”
You grumble under your breath, sucking on your teeth as you try to process the terms of Namjoon’s deal.
“So you want me to be your fake girlfriend for your family…” you muse.
“Yes,” he agrees. “And I’ll do all your worst cases for the next 2 months. I’ll even give you my next big one. I know you want that.”
God, he’s right. That’s all you want. A chance to prove yourself to Seokjin, to the company.
With an aggravated sigh, you relent.
“Fine! But it better be a good fucking case. And, I’m using your coffee maker every morning.”
Namjoon can’t help but chuckle, loving the fire in your voice.
“Deal?” He murmurs.
He holds out his hand to shake on it, and it takes you by surprise how warm and soft his large hands are once you slide your own into his grip.
“Deal.”
Jimin is not going to let you live this one down.
Jimin doesn’t let you live it down.
He’s sitting on your couch, legs crossed underneath him as he hoists his wine glass filled to the brim. He holds it away from his body as he shakes with laughter.
“You’re telling me,” he wheezes. “That you agreed to be Namjoon’s fake Christmas girlfriend? You hate that man!”
Flopping into the couch beside him, you sigh.
“Yeah, well, it was my only option. He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Okay, Godfather,” Jimin snickers. “Lord knows you still want to bone that man, anyway.”
“Jimin!” You admonish. “I do not! And that wasn’t the deal!”
He sips at his red wine with an impish smile. You hate it when Jimin looks at you like that, like he can see behind the lie you’ve so carefully crafted of your hatred for Namjoon.
“Then tell me, what was the deal?”
You fiddle with the stem of your own wine glass, sighing.
“He’s offered to take all our shitty personal injury suits for the next two months. And he’s giving me his next big case.”
Jimin actually looks surprised—as if he didn’t expect Namjoon to provide a deal so worth the cost.
“Wow,” he breathes.
You nod in reply, taking a large gulp of the pinot grigio in your glass.
“You’re still going to fuck him though, I know it,” Jimin adds.
You splutter your wine from your mouth, hand reaching over to gently slap Jimin on his taut abdomen.
“Shut up!” You cry.
Jimin looks proud of himself, sipping his red wine gleefully while he settles further into your couch. Wine nights with Jimin is the highlight of your weeks. Together, you bitch over cases, coworkers, dating struggles, and eat too much cheese and cured meats and nurse a hangover the following day with brunch.
“Hey,” you say to Jimin as you set your wine down on the coffee table. “Did you ever talk to Yoongi?”
Jimin’s cheeks immediately turn a shade of rouge.
“Yoongi? Yoongi who?”
“Oh my god,” you groan. “Yoongi from IT. You stole my phone to call him today? To ask about my new computer?”
Jimin swallows a large swig of his wine.
“Oh. Yes, I did.”
“And?” You encourage the blonde to answer further.
“And he’s doing well,” Jimin replies demurely.
“Jimin!” You huff. “The computer?!”
Jimin makes an ‘O’ shape with his mouth and bites his lip.
“I… might have forgotten to ask.”
Your mouth drops open.
“You literally stole my phone out of my hands to call him! What did you talk about?!”
There’s his blush again. The shade of pink on Jimin’s cheeks would be adorable if you weren’t so flabbergasted by his answers.
“I have a date tomorrow night.” He takes another sip as you let the reply sink in.
“Oh. My. God.” You gasp, a smile now overtaking your features. “You have a crush on Min Yoongi!”
Jimin sets his wine glass down next to yours and turns to you.
“I had no idea if he was into me! But when I called, I totally forgot why I was calling him and we sort of just… started talking and next thing I know, he’s asking me out to dinner tomorrow night.”
You playfully slap at Jimin’s thigh.
“You little slut—using my phone to get yourself a date. On company time!”
Jimin sticks his tongue out at you, before grabbing a pillow and slapping you with the overstuffed cushion.
“At least I didn’t agree to be his fake girlfriend!”
It’s the sound of your phone ringing at 7:32 am that wakes you from your spot on the couch, wine glass still clutched in your hand.
“What the fuck?” You grumble, eyes blearily seeking the offending object disturbing your sleep.
Jimin grumbles next to you, kicking at your foot as if it will stop the phone from ringing.
“Stop,” he whines and cuddles into his fetal position. “Turn it ooooff.”
You locate your cell phone and groan as you recognize the name on the caller ID. Namjoon. What the fuck could he possibly be calling for? And why did he have to call at seven in the goddamn morning?
“What do you want?” You snap as you hold the phone to your cheek and throw yourself back onto the couch.
“Well, good morning to you, sunshine.”
Namjoon’s voice, as sexy and sultry as it sounds, still aggravates you.
“Why are you calling me? It’s Saturday. Its seven am.”
Namjoon chuckles and you fight the shiver that works through your spine at the sound.
“I tend to keep human hours on the weekend.”
You can’t hold back the sarcastic guffaw that escapes you.
“Okay, Mr. Perfect,” you sigh. “That doesn’t explain calling me.”
Jimin kicks at your foot again.
“Stop talking,” he grumbles.
God, Jimin is such a diva when he’s hungover.
“Meet me at the cafe on First Street,” Namjoon says casually. “I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“Right now?!” You ask, incredulous.
“I’m literally already here. Hurry before your coffee gets cold.”
You let out a whine that could rival a 5-year-old’s temper tantrum.
“Fuck you. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
There’s no care about your phone when you end the call and throw it to the floor. Jimin grumbles and rubs at his eyes.
“Why the fuck are you having phone sex with Namjoon so early in the morning?” He asks.
“Jimin, I swear to God.”
He wraps himself in the throw blanket and buries his face back into the couch while you stand and retreat to your bedroom to throw on some semblance of appropriate clothing for the occasion.
“Fucking Namjoon,” you grumble under your breath as you change into jeans and a sweater. “Fuck him and his stupid, sexy face. And his unbelievable ass. And his stupid, probably enormous penis. Man, I hate him.”
As you’re re-entering the living room and grabbing your important items (keys, wallet, lip gloss just in-case), Jimin pops his head out of his blanket cave.
“Where are you going?” He asks, suddenly less annoyed and more pathetic. “You’re leaving me?”
“I have to go meet Namjoon for coffee. I don’t know why, so don’t ask.”
“You’re really going to let me suffer here? Alone? With no coffee?”
You spin around to face your best friend, who’s giving you an absolutely soul-crushing pout and puppy eyes.
“Yes. Call Yoongi.”
His precious pout is wiped away, and a devious smirk takes its place.
“Great idea!” He says as he digs around for his phone. “Be careful out there! It’s icy! Wouldn’t want you to slip and fall on Namjoon’s dick.”
Your only reply is one singular middle finger in Jimin’s direction as you exit your apartment.
Namjoon can’t help but smile as he sips his warm coffee. The cafe is warm and bright, despite the chill outside.
Things feel peaceful. Tender flakes of snow trickle down outside and frost up the shop’s window. There’s something about this time of year that strikes him down to the core. Something cozy, something warm.
It’s odd to think this will be his first year not celebrating the holiday alone.
Even if it is... well, fake.
The bell over the door chimes an arrival, and Namjoon can tell by the grumbles and grunts and stomps of snowy boots that it’s you.
“Over here!” He calls, raising a hand and turning to face you.
Wow, he thinks. You look gorgeous, even without trying.
You hurry your way over to the booth and plop yourself on the opposite side, immediately lunging for the obvious mug of coffee waiting for you on the table. You don’t waste a minute gulping the liquid down your throat, then spluttering when you realize it’s still hot.
“I thought you said it was getting cold!” You cry, airing out your burnt tongue. Namjoon can’t help but imagine that tongue sliding up and down his cock.
Not now. Wrong time and place to get a boner.
Namjoon smiles as he sips his cappuccino.
“I got you a fresh one.”
You make a face, but your features soften. As if you’re pleased with the idea that Namjoon cared to freshen up your cup.
“Oh, well--”, you manage. “Thank you.”
Namjoon doesn’t reply, but merely tips his head. The silence is thick enough to cut with a knife. Normally, you’re both normally so wound up in aggravating the other that a moment of calm is strange, but not unwelcome.
“So, why the early morning wake up?” You finally ask, fiddling with the handle of the mug.
Namjoon settles his cup down.
“We need to get to know each other. Deep shit, you know. The shit that lovers would know about each other.”
He notices you, watches as you nibble at your lip. You try hard to hide it behind the mug you lift to your lips, but Namjoon notices.
“I’m hoping maybe we could spend the day together,” he adds. “I need to get some Christmas gifts for my family and… well, it’s rather lonely doing it on my own.”
There’s a slight smile at the ends of your lips.
“And you needed me at seven thirty in the morning to do that?”
He stifles a laugh.
“Like I said, I operate at regular human hours. Even on weekends,” he replies.
With a dramatic sigh, you agree.
“Fine,” you say. “I’m an open book. Ask me anything.”
He watches as you settle into the seat of the booth, hands gripping the warm mug like it’s a personal heater. He notices you’re only wearing jeans and a sweater--no properly warm clothing for the snow storm ahead. He’ll have to fix that, and soon.
“What are you doing for Christmas?” He asks.
You level a look.
“Spending it pretending to be in love with you.”
Namjoon can’t help but snort a laugh.
“I meant after that.”
You shrug as you settle back into the seat.
“I don’t like Christmas. I don’t do much other than force Jimin to kiss me under the mistletoe and watch shitty movies with a gallon of boxed wine.”
“Hmm,” he hums. “You’re sort of a Grinch.”
A scowl comes over your face.
“I am not! I just don’t buy into this whole ‘prove how much you love me by buying me things’ shit. It’s a big scheme, I tell you! Capitalist propaganda! They encourage you to spend all your money, and if you don’t, they shame and guilt you by telling you you don’t love your family enough.”
Namjoon can’t help but laugh as you rant. It’s what makes you such a talented lawyer—your ability to feel a passion so deep within you you’re able to convince a stone-faced jury of your side.
“Don’t laugh at me!” You cry. “I’m serious! My family doesn’t celebrate, I don’t celebrate. I’d rather just buy gifts for my loved ones when I see something they’d like. Why do we have to put a time of year on it?”
He shrugs and scooches his mug around the carbonate table.
“I suppose that makes sense,” he muses. “But you’re still a Grinch. And a Scrooge. You’ll definitely get visited by some Ghosts at midnight.”
“Ha ha,” you snark sarcastically. “Hilarious, Namjoon. Don’t tell me you’re a big festive guy.”
“Somewhat. It’s my Mom’s favorite holiday. It’s why she’s so bent out of shape about me having a girlfriend. Something about family and love and shit.”
You nod, understanding him completely. Your own mother, despite her reservations towards the holiday, still makes a fuss over your single status. There must be some Mom code to obsess over your children’s woeful dating life.
“Well, I say let’s get on with it then. Ready to hit the shops?” He asks.
You’re mid-sip of your finally cooled coffee and you send a desperate look to the man in front of you.
“Already?!”
“We’re burning daylight, baby.”
Namjoon stands and you can’t help but feel a roar of flames in your belly at the pet-name. Your cheeks are surely flaming up and you admonish yourself for getting so peaked about such a trivial name.
“Please don’t tell me we’re walking,” you murmur as you sneak a peek outside.
The snow is falling down harder now, and you’re dreadfully underdressed for the weather.
Namjoon tsks at your lack of outerwear, but then shakes his head.
“No, we’ll take my Range Rover.”
You roll your eyes and grimace.
“Of course. You have a fucking Nespresso machine and a Range Rover. Asshole.”
Namjoon doesn’t even think about it as he grabs your hand and laces his fingers in between yours. If anyone asked, he’d say it’s practice—to familiarize himself with the way your fingers slot between his own so it’s not such a foreign concept when he does it in front of his family.
“Yeah, but I’m your asshole now, princess.”
Christmas shopping with Namjoon is mostly painless.
Normally, you dread the lines and the crowds and the confusion and the expense.
But with Namjoon, you relax and banter away with the tall lawyer. You’re completely at ease as you walk through crowded aisles and sort through racks of cashmere sweaters and stacks of fuzzy blankets.
“Mom will love this, don’t you think?” Namjoon asks, holding up a thick, exquisite looking blanket.
You’re about to answer with an affirmative when you catch yourself. You don’t even know his mom. You’ve never met the woman. Why does it feel as if Namjoon is someone you’ve known your entire life?
Why do things feel so easy with him?
“Sure, Namjoon,” you reply. “Seems like something most mother’s would be into.”
He smiles at you. It’s a genuine smile too, one that nearly knocks you on your ass. Your body is sent into overdrive constantly. He holds your hand, he places his hand at the small of your back to guide you through a thick crowd. He calls you baby and princess and doll.
It’s confusing.
It’s amazing.
You can’t tell if you love it or hate it.
Namjoon pushes the shopping cart and walks beside you, chatting easily about his various aunts and uncles names that you likely must remember at some point but you just can’t think about anything but Namjoon, Namjoon, Namjoon.
You hate him. He stole that corner office from you. He’s going to take the promotion you want from right under your nose. He has a goddamn Nespresso in his office and a Range Rover.
And yet, you can’t help but fall in place next to him and listen to him tell stories of his childhood, weaving tales of uncles who snuck him his first sips of alcohol and aunts who spoil him rotten. He’s easy to listen to, a natural story-teller. Your body feels warm, as if you’re sitting on a large hearth by a roaring fire. He’s comforting.
It’s infuriating and wonderful all at once.
“And that’s when my cousin Jungkook got caught smoking cigarettes. My grandma beat our ass so bad I couldn’t sit for a day.”
Namjoon finishes his story and turns to look at you. You’ve been staring at the man for nearly a minute straight now.
“Hey,” his voice is soft. “You listening?”
You shake out of the trance Namjoon’s deep voice sends you into.
“Yeah!” You reply with a smirk. “Sounds like this Jungkook is a guy I’d like to meet.”
Namjoon sucks his teeth and nudges you.
“Hey, you’re my girlfriend, remember.”
You stick your tongue out at him playfully.
“Fake girlfriend. I’m still a single, desirable lady at the end of the day.”
Namjoon hesitates before answering. He wants to reply something snarky, something sarcastic and witty. But he takes a moment to pause, allows himself to fully immerse himself in you. Even hungover, in yesterday’s jeans and an old sweater, you’re still an absolute catch. You’re the definition of desirable and Namjoon can’t help but allow himself to desire.
“Hmm, is that what you call it?” He asks, now allowing the sarcasm to permeate his words. “I was thinking you’re more of the spinster, cat-lady type.”
“Hey!” You pout as you slap at his arm. “I’m allergic to cats!”
“But you don’t deny being a spinster.”
“Fuck you, Namjoon.”
He grins and pushes the carts towards the candle aisle, a sure-fire gift for his aunties.
“In due time, my love.”
By the time Christmas Eve arrives, you’ve spent nearly every day with Namjoon. At work, he brings you fresh coffee from his Nespresso and buys you lunch. You’ve even landed his big case, an incredibly complex lawsuit that will showcase your skills. Namjoon gives you pointers and space to talk through the case with him.
Namjoon is, in fact, simply being kind. And it unsettles you.
Your heart and brain are at war with each other constantly. You should hate him, loathe him. He’s going to nail that promotion regardless of what you prove to Seokjin.
But your heart tells you he deserves it. He’s an incredible attorney and has earned every ounce of respect. You want Namjoon to get that promotion just to see that smile on his face. He’d do incredible things as Seokjin’s protege to take over the firm.
You hate to admit it, but Namjoon has melted the ice around your heart. And you’re dreading the day after all this is over, because it will be the day Namjoon stops holding you close and pressing soft kisses to your temple. It will be the day he stops pretending this is all real.
It’s Christmas Eve and you’re sitting in Namjoon’s expensive Range Rover, plush leather seat toasty from the built-in seat warmer. You can’t help but marvel at the way the oncoming headlights brighten up Namjoon’s features as he drives you down a snowy mountain lane. They always hold the Kim family holiday party at Namjoon’s late grandfather’s cabin in the mountains, a quiet getaway for the family to gather and spend the night together to wake up on Christmas morning and gather around for presents and food.
Which means waking up to Kim Namjoon.
It’s something you’ve dreamt of often, but denied yourself any actual possibility of it. Namjoon was always out of reach, and it was easier to hate him for his success he rightfully deserved than it was to admit the feelings that were always inside.
And now, although it’s artificial, you can’t bear to think of not spending your time with Namjoon anymore.
You steal a glance again at him, and smile as you hear his faint humming. He loves Christmas music. You learned that early in the week during another early morning coffee and ‘get to know you’ before work. Namjoon couldn’t stop singing Mariah Carey’s classic pop song under his breath as it played over the speakers in the cafe.
“It’s so pretty up here,” you muse as you force your vision away from Namjoon’s gorgeous face to the snowy scenery outside.
The snow is falling gently, not enough to cause a blizzard but enough to make it seem like you’re trapped in a picturesque snow-globe. Leaving the city and entering the magical forest stirs an emotion inside you you hadn’t felt in some time.
It’s Christmas Eve and there’s just something magical.
Ugh. Unbelievable.
Namjoon has even made you actually enjoy Christmas.
He nods. “Yeah, it’s my favorite place in the world, I think.”
“I can see why,” you sigh. “It looks like a painting.”
Namjoon glances over at you peering through the window. His heart hammers in his chest hard as your glittering eyes bounce around from tree to tree, a pretty smile on your face. The diamond ring in his pocket feels like it weighs a literal ton and he nibbles at his lip.
He bought it for the showmanship of it all, initially. It was his first purchase he made when he set up this whole rouse.
But now, it feels real. It feels like he’s really about to get on one knee and ask you, the girl he’s absolutely head over heels for, to marry him.
And then it will be over.
He’ll make up some story to tell his mom about how it didn’t work out and you’ll go back to being his coworker, and nothing more.
Namjoon can’t fight the sinking feeling in his stomach.
Nothing more.
He pulls into the driveway before you even have time to realize you’re there. He puts the car in park and smiles over at you.
He looks so cute in his puffy winter coat, hair pushed to the side and a smile that’s all dimples and cheeks.
Fuck.
“We’re here,” he whispers. “You ready?”
Suddenly, the nerves of meeting your fake boyfriend’s entire family slap you right in the face. You hope that you’re a good enough actress to get Namjoon through the night and into the morning.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
He nods and squeezes your hand, an unspoken comforting ‘I got you’.
Namjoon gathers his wrapped gifts and stacks them all in his arms, ignoring your pleas and giggles to help carry them in.
“No, no,” he assures. “I have to make sure my mom sees me being manly and helpful.”
As if on cue, the front door opens and Mrs. Kim is bursting out into the snowy night.
“Namjoon!” She shrieks, completely overjoyed. The rest of the family is standing by the door, eyeing you carefully with smiles and whispers. You pray to whatever Christmas God that’s listening that you can do this.
Namjoon sets the pile of gifts down just in time to wrap his delicate and tiny mother in his arms, hugging her tightly while she gleefully buries her face into her tall son’s chest.
“Oh, my son, I’ve missed you.”
Namjoon kisses the crown of her head and smiles.
“Missed you too, eomma.”
The scene has you misty-eyed and you swipe at your eyes to stop the tears. There’s no way you’re ruining the fantastic makeup you did for the occasion, but the reunion of Namjoon and his mother is heart-warming. He clearly cares for his mother more than he would outwardly admit.
Namjoon and his mother unwrap from each other and Namjoon turns towards you.
“Everyone, this is ____,” he breathes. “My girlfriend.”
His mother’s gleeful squeals now turn to you, and within an instant she’s gathering you up in just as tight of a hug as she did to her son.
“Oh, darling, we are so happy to meet you,” she beams.
The excitement in her voice makes you feel bad—like you’re conning an old woman out of her retirement. You’re instilling a sense of hope in the kind woman, and you can’t help but send Namjoon a look as you wrap your arms around her and return the embrace. His eyes sparkle with something you can’t read.
“I’m happy to meet you too,” you smile as you pull apart. “Thank you for letting me come.”
“No thanks necessary,” she admonishes with a wink. “We had to beg Namjoon to bring you. It seems he wants to keep you all to himself.”
“Eomma!” Namjoon snaps. “Be appropriate!”
She nudges you with her elbow knowingly, which makes your cheeks flame hot, before she leads the way back into the house.
“Come in, come in! Let’s get out of this snow.”
Namjoon encourages you to step inside with a gentle hand at the small of your back—a touch that makes your body light up brighter than a Christmas tree.
“Thank you,” he whispers in your ear from behind. You can feel the warmth of his lips and your body reacts.
How is it that any simple act makes you desperately horny for the man? You pray for some respite from your sexual frustration over the next day. How are you going to last over 24 hours?
Namjoon deposits his massive haul of gifts under the tree and returns to your side, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to bring you close. He introduces you to uncles and aunts and cousins. He even introduces you to his infamous cousin, Jungkook, who smirks at you in a way that makes Namjoon pull you in closer to his body.
“Are you doing okay?” Namjoon finally asks after the rush of relatives greeting you dies down. He turns you towards him, to face him directly with his hands on either of your shoulders. “You’re killing it.”
You can’t help but smile. Namjoon’s family is all incredibly kind and funny. They welcome you into the family with ease and it chips away a little more each time at your heart.
Because this is all fake.
One day, Namjoon really will have a girlfriend to bring to Christmas and to show off to his relatives and it won’t be you. You’ll be back at your apartment, watching shitty TV re-runs and binging on Chinese takeout, as you do every year. It’s a jab at your heart each time the bitter truth rears its ugly head.
“Yeah,” you nod. “I’m great.”
“Look!” Jungkook shouts. “They’re standing under the mistletoe!”
Namjoon blushes a shade of red that likely matches a blush on your own cheeks. Sure enough, the green branches of the mistletoe taunt you from above.
You’ve never kissed Namjoon before. In all the skinship and closeness of the last week, you’ve still yet to close the gap to kissing the man.
“Oh, come on Kook, that’s a stupid tradition,” Namjoon murmurs awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck.
Jungkook smirks as he steps up next to you.
“Well, if you’re not going to do it, I’d be more than happy to take your place.”
Jungkook wraps a loose arm around you and gives you a charming smile. He must be very popular with the ladies, you think. That’s a charming smile.
“Hey!” Namjoon grabs for your hand and tugs you out of Jungkook’s predatory gaze. “She’s my girlfriend.”
Namjoon looks at you for a moment, assessing your comfort level with everything about to take place. His lips look so inviting, so plush and warm. Now that you’re thinking about kissing him, you can’t help but focus on the way his lips pucker so gently and naturally.
And then it happens. Namjoon lowers his face towards you and it feels as if the world is in slow-motion. It’s happening.
The first press of his lips is soft and conservative. You take a split second to register, but instinctively you press against his lips with determination and wrap your arms around his neck to deepen the kiss.
He groans softly as you trail your tongue out to seek purchase in his mouth, and he opens for you without hesitation. His hands grip at your waist and bring your body flush against his. You can feel his cock twitching and rising from the kiss that’s gone from innocent and playful to passionate and deep. It feels like the world around you has stopped and the only thing that matters is Namjoon, his mouth, his body against your own. He tastes like hot chocolate and peppermint, and you want more, more.
“Oh my god, stop,” Jungkook’s voice shatters your illusion of being all alone with Namjoon. “Now you’re just showing off.”
Namjoon pulls away from you, eyes dazed as he tries to right himself.
“You two are just so perfect for each other,” Namjoon’s mother says, who’s suddenly appeared in Jungkook’s place. “Let me show you your bedroom.”
“Oh, we’re sharing?” You ask without thought. It’s a large house, with ample bedrooms surely for you to have your own space.
Namjoon nudges you in the ribs gently, eyes widening and mouthing a ‘what the fuck do you mean?’
“Of course dear, don’t be silly,” his mother replies with an eyebrow waggle and a chuckle. “I remember when your father and I were dating. He would sneak into my room after my parents went to bed and keep me up all night long. Your grandfather would ask me if I had terrible dreams that night, because I looked so tired.”
Namjoon makes a face. “Eomma, please,” he begs. “Please don’t talk about my parents like that.”
As his mother guides you down a long hallway, your mind is whirring with too many thoughts of Namjoon, of sharing a bedroom with Namjoon, of seeing his sleeping face and waking up next to him. It’s all too much, too overwhelming. You pray there’s a couch in the room you could sleep on, because you’re far too weak and you’d rather fight the desperation in your body than face the fact that you want nothing more than to curl right into Namjoon’s strong arms and let him hold you all night to sleep.
Fuck.
“Here we are!”
His mother opens the door with grace, and flicks on the light. The room is beautiful in its simplicity. A king sized bed, a fireplace, and a balcony with a view of the sprawling snowy scene outside. It’s cozy and warm and decorated with its own Christmas tree.
“Wow,” is all you can muster.
“Aish, Mom,” Namjoon sighs as he drops his bags. “You didn’t need to do all of this for us.”
Mrs. Kim holds his hand in both of hers. “Well, I know how special this Christmas is going to be,” she winks. “I want you to enjoy your time here. Now, I’ll leave you two alone for a bit. Dinner is in an hour, so ‘freshen up’!”
Another wink, and Namjoon makes another face. She definitely wants grandchildren, that much is for certain.
She closes the door behind her and you’re left standing in the room, overnight bag in hand.
“This is—Wow, this is amazing.”
You’ve never experienced Christmas like this—with decorations and warmth and family. It’s as if the love of the Kim family permeates the very walls of the expansive cabin, like it’s built into the foundation itself. For a moment, you allow yourself to soak it all in. This is all yours. It’s your Christmas and you finally understand why so many make such a fuss over it. The results are nothing short of remarkable.
“Yeah, she really does the most,” Namjoon laughs.
He takes the bag from your hand without your notice and you step towards the balcony to peer into the night. The landscape looks as if everything has been covered in soft marshmallow. The snow is untouched—picture perfect.
“I’ve never had anything like this before.”
Namjoon settles your bag and his on the bed, watching as you soak in your own wonder. The smile on your face is not one he sees often, one of pure joy. Namjoon swallows hard as he realizes he wants to be the one to always put that smile on your face.
“Not such a Scrooge after all, eh?”
You turn from the still-life view outside and back to Namjoon, where he stands at the foot of the bed. He looks so different outside the office. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a flannel shirt, his puffy jacket hanging by the door. No cream suit, no slicked back hair or shoes shiny enough to see your reflection. Just simply Namjoon.
He’s no longer the man who steals the limelight in the office. He’s no longer the man you see as your adversary or your rival.
He’s the man who’s showing you the magic of Christmas, the spirit of love and kindness that embodies the season.
He’s the man you’ve fallen in love with.
And yet, he’s the man who will leave once this is over and return to his proper life, and you to yours. He’ll return to sleeping with models and movie starlets, and you’ll return to binge watching Great British Bake-Off with Jimin and a carton of Chicken Tikka Masala.
And Christmas will never feel as special as it does now.
So, you’re determined to soak in it for a little longer. It’s going to hurt regardless, so why not push that hurt off until tomorrow and allow yourself to pretend you live the lie you’re spinning for Namjoon’s family?
“I think I’ll just freshen up and change into my dinner outfit, then?” You ask out loud, grabbing for your overnight bag and heading towards the ensuite.
Namjoon, who expected a witty retort, takes a moment to reply.
“Oh,” he coughs. “Yeah, sure. I’ll err—, I’ll just get ready out here.”
You quickly escape into the bathroom, closing the door and resting on it as you exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
The tension in the bedroom with Namjoon was too thick, too powerful, especially after the kiss you just shared. His cock had been there, straining in his jeans as you licked into his mouth. The kiss felt so natural, as if you had always kissed Namjoon like that. Your heart beats loud and hard in your chest just from the thought of it.
You really needed to get a handle over yourself. You still have dinner to get through, and an entire night in a bedroom with Namjoon. A bed with Namjoon.
No, you won’t allow yourself to go that far. You can pretend you’re his girlfriend, but all thoughts of his delectable body doing scintillating things to yours is strictly off-limits. You shake all thoughts of a thick, heavy cock sliding into your mouth and warm hands spreading you open, and set about fixing your makeup and changing into the gorgeous cocktail dress you purchased for the occasion. It wasn’t often you got to get dressed up. The emerald green velvet dress clings to your body and highlights your curves. It’s a sexy dress, definitely, but also appropriate for a formal evening with your boyfriend’s parents.
Well, your fake boyfriend. Right.
After fixing your hair and buckling your heels, you take one last glimpse in the mirror for good luck and exit the room.
Your breath is nearly knocked out of your lungs as you see Namjoon.
You’ve seen him dressed up for court and for TV appearances millions of times, but you’ve never seen him like this.
He wears a blood red button up without a tie, a few buttons open to emphasize the casual look, tucked into the tightest and sexiest slacks you’ve ever seen. They hug his thighs and sit at a spot on his waist that you just know is rippling with cut lines from his work in the gym. His hair is tucked back with a bit of hairspray, and he’s fixing the sleeves of his shirt when he sees you.
His eyes widen and his hands fall to his sides as he soaks in your appearance.
An absolute vision.
He can see the gentle valley between your breasts and the way your dress pushes up your cleavage and displays your collar. The dress follows the delicate curve of your waist and hips and ends at your knee, but teases him with a glimpse of thigh that has him wiping his mouth in case he’s drooling.
“You look incredible,” Namjoon murmurs as you step closer.
“So do you.”
You swallow hard as he continues closer to you, breathing harshly as he stands right in front of you. You could reach out and unbuckle his expensive slacks and fist his cock right there. You’d fall on your knees for him, if he asked.
There’s a moment of silence as Namjoon’s face inches closer and closer to your own, each unable to verbalize just how desperate either of you feel for the other.
“Namjoon, I—,” you start. You want to tell him. You want to tell him everything—that you don’t want this to be fake, that you want this to be real, and you want to be his and his forever.
“Yes?”
You swallow hard, shaken by just how close his lips are to yours. He’s inches away and all you can focus on is the way his plush lips look and how well they fit against your own under the mistletoe.
“I just—, I really um, I’m just very…”
You’re not making sense. Comprehension of language is quickly soaring out the window because the only words you know are ‘Please, for the love of God, kiss me and make me yours’, but you can’t bring yourself to speak them out loud.
Namjoon’s hand cups your cheek, as if he can tell what you’re trying to say.
“Yeah,” he breathes. The inches between you turn to centimeters, to bare millimeters. Your eyes flutter close as you feel his breath dance over your lips and your heart beats so loud you’re sure the entire household can hear it. He’s right there and moves in to close the distance—
“Knock Knock!!”
The forceful, cheery voice of cousin Jungkook forces both of you to jump away from each other as if you’ve touched a burning stove. Your head feels light, like you’ve forgotten to breathe for the last ten minutes and you’ve suddenly taken in too much air.
The wooden door squeaks open and Jungkook pokes his head in, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Auntie sent me to get you. It’s dinnertime!”
Namjoon rubs his face frustratedly. “Yes, thank you, Jungkook.”
Jungkook doesn’t leave, however. He smiles at you and winks.
“Would you like an escort to dinner, madame? You look tastier than the roast beef downstairs.”
A blush creeps over your cheeks as Namjoon storms to the door where his cousin laughs.
“That’s enough, Kook. We’ll be down in a minute.”
He sends you one more grin, then retreats from the door and closes it behind him.
“Sorry about that,” Namjoon apologizes. You’re not sure what he’s apologizing for—Jungkook, or the moment before.
“It’s alright. Let’s go?”
Namjoon nods and holds out his hand with a smile.
“Let’s go, girlfriend.”
Dinner with the Kim family is as delightful as every other interaction with them has been. They’re polite and funny and ask questions about your life and your family.
They ask how you met Namjoon (at work), what your favorite quality about him is (his smile and his ass), and what your first date together was (coffee at seven in the morning).
You tell stories of Namjoon in the office, of your best friend Park Jimin who’s secretly trying to date the IT manager, of your parents and Christmases past.
By the time dessert is served, Namjoon’s mother looks at you as if you’ve put the very stars in the sky.
Namjoon doesn’t miss that look either. He can see the way his family is falling in love with you and somewhere deep in his stomach, he feels the guilt rising. All of this is a lie. Not only is he going to break his own heart, but every heart of his family member’s too.
“We’re all just so overjoyed that Namjoon has found someone to share his life with,” his mom speaks softly. It’s the first time she’s been thoughtful and quiet. She’s a woman who’s larger than life, you’ve found, so the softness in her tone strikes a chord. “You’re absolutely perfect for him. I’ve never seen him happier.”
Fuck.
“Thank you,” you murmur sincerely to his mother. “I’ve never been happier.”
Namjoon peers up from where he’s been pushing around his uncle’s famous chocolate cake on his plate to watch as you speak.
“Truthfully, I never cared much for Christmas. I thought it was a rubbish holiday and spent it alone every year with a bottle of wine and some takeout. Namjoon really changed that for me,” you smile at the man and place your hand in his lap to hold his free hand. “He showed me more about Christmas in one week than I’ve felt in my entire life.”
Namjoon’s mom wipes away an errant tear and he squeezes your hand under the table.
“I guess the Grinch’s heart has grown 3 sizes, after all.”
Namjoon’s joke lightens the soft mood, and suddenly there’s chatter around as the family members move about to wash dishes and clean up the mess of dinner. Everyone leaves the table except for you and Namjoon.
“That was some good acting,” he whispers with a sad smile.
“Right,” you whisper back, nibbling your lip anxiously. “Acting, of course.”
You should have thought through the bedroom sharing thing more.
Because sharing a bedroom is one thing.
And sharing a bed is another.
And of course, the only pajamas you thought to bring tonight is a very sexy long shirt that says “no coffee, no talking” with a bedazzled pair of shushing lips. That’s it. Just a single shirt. Not even a pair of shorts or pajama pants.
You slip into the bed first, as far onto one side of it as possible. It’s a king sized bed, and it still feels too intimate, too close.
Namjoon exits the bathroom after his shower, rubbing at his wet hair with a towel. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of flannel pajamas, leaving his bare chest on display.
Sweet lord in heaven, you nearly cry out loud. He’s absolutely ripped, pecs defined and droplets of water from his hair streaming down. You want to chase each drop with your tongue and circle back again. You shut your eyes tight and clench your teeth. Why, oh why, does he have to look so fucking sexy at a time like this?
Namjoon sees you at the edge of the bed, shutting your eyes closed like you’re a shy schoolgirl afraid to see a naked man’s body. He feels guilty for making you be here. He knows you’ve likely got better things to do than spend time with a man you openly hate.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes for nothing in particular.
You ignore it. Instead, you’re trying to think of every un-sexy thing in the world you can possibly imagine. Taxes, a bunch of bees, old people, shark attacks.
There’s absolutely nothing that can stop the image of Namjoon’s perfectly sculpted body from bursting into your mind. You’re nearly pleading with yourself to just go to sleep and contemplate how hard you’d need to hit your head to knock yourself out as fast as possible.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he says as he grabs a small throw blanket from the closet and throws it to the ground by the fire.
It snaps you from your musings of how best to forget how badly you want to suck Namjoon’s cock through his pajama pants.
“What?” You sit up in the posh bed and finally make eye-contact. “Why? It’s freezing. There’s a literal snowstorm outside.” You motion to the window of the balcony. What was once a gentle snowfall is now a full-on winter storm.
“There’s a fire. I’ll be fine, I sleep hot anyway.” Namjoon’s voice is low and without energy. He almost sounds sad.
God, is being with you that hard for him? You know you’re just the artificial replacement until he has the real thing, but you’d actually hoped Namjoon had found it as comforting and warm as you had.
“Namjoon,” you sigh. “This is a king-sized bed. You don’t need to be waking up with back pain because you gallantly slept on the floor.”
To emphasize your point, you tug back the blankets on the other side, beckoning him to join.
He hesitates for a moment, as if he’s weighing the pro’s and con’s and sliding into bed next to you in his mind, then stands and pads his way on the plush carpet towards the bed and slips in.
There’s an entire football field of distance between you two in the bed, but it feels like he’s right beside you. You imagine sliding in right next to him, wrapping your arms around his taut chest and pressing soft kisses to his stomach.
You squeeze your eyes closed again. Stop it, you horny slut.
“Thank you, again.” Namjoon breaks the silence. “I really appreciate you helping me out.”
“Yeah,” you swallow hard. “Of course. What else was I going to do? Jimin’s probably sucking Yoongi’s dick right now, so I’d be watching baking shows alone.”
Namjoon laughs for a moment, then quiets.
“You know, I don’t even really want that promotion at work.”
You’re surprised by the sudden change in topic, but you turn over to face Namjoon.
“What?! Really?”
Namjoon nods and stares at the ceiling. “I don’t think I’m that good of an attorney to get it, anyway.”
His statement makes you sit up in bed again, staring at the man in disbelief.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Namjoon? You’re the best lawyer in the firm.”
Namjoon says nothing, just turns to stare at you curiously as you continue.
“You’re like… literally better than Seokjin, too. The way you handled the Taehyung case was nothing short of historical. Like, that was an impossible case, and you nailed it. That was your ‘OJ’ case, you know?”
Namjoon barks a laugh.
“My what?”
“Your OJ case!” You use your hands to emphasize the importance of what you’re saying. “Like, they’ll write about you and how impossible the odds were of winning that case. And you won it! Not even Seokjin could have won that case.”
He’s silent again, watching as you speak directly from your heart with all the fire and passion you feel about the things you care about. It’s what makes you such an incredible lawyer, too.
“Wow,” he breathes. “Thank you.”
You settle back down from your excitement, suddenly bashful at how fanatical you became.
“You’re welcome,” you murmur. “You deserve that promotion. And the office.”
Namjoon smirks.
“And the Nespresso?”
Your eyes narrow and send a glare to him he can see even with the faintest of light in the room.
“No, no one deserves the Nespresso, except for me.”
He chuckles and settles down into his pillows.
“Goodnight,” he whispers.
“Goodnight, Namjoon.”
There’s a beat of silence and your eyes flutter shut easily. It’s quiet, and all you can hear is the crackle of the log in the fireplace and the wind blowing past the balcony windows as the storm outside rages.
“Oh,” Namjoon whispers again. “And, Merry Christmas.”
You can’t fight the smile that creeps onto your face.
“Merry Christmas, Joonie.”
“Happy Christmas!” A voice bellows through your bedroom at approximately seven fifteen am.
You groan, immediately grimacing and burying your face into your firm, warm pillow.
“Nooooo,” you whine, trying to hide from the offending noise.
Namjoon shakes awake, and notices Jungkook standing at the bedroom door once again.
“It’s time for presents!” He giddily explains. “And, they gave me the job of waking you two up.”
“Of course,” Namjoon yawns.
“You look a little wrapped up,” Jungkook smirks, eyeing your sleeping body. “I’ll give you two a minute. Don’t get distracted.”
Namjoon rolls his eyes and watches as the door closes, before he turns his attention towards you.
Somehow, in the middle of the night, you’ve scooched yourself to his side of the bed and draped your body around his. Your face is buried in his chest and your legs are haphazardly intertwined in his own.
He bites his lip. His cock is rock solid, not just from his usual morning wood, but from the way he can feel your tits through your shirt, and from the sight of your pink panties. Namjoon wants to take them off with his teeth and bury his face in your delicious cunt, and his cock is nearly screaming at him to get on with it.
“Hey,” he whispers to you, actively ignoring the demon that is his turgid length. “Wake up.”
This causes you to cling harder to his chest, rubbing your sleepy face on him.
“What is it with you and early mornings?” You ask, blearily raising your head to peer at him judgementally.
Namjoon bites his lip, curious about your reaction to the tight embrace you’ve got on him. He doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to break the spell. Frankly, he wants to push your sleep shirt up and stuff you full of his cum.
“Merry Christmas?” He offers shyly.
You take a full minute to recognize what’s happening.
You’re no longer on your edge of the bed. You’re wrapped around the man like a koala, legs strewn over him without care and clinging to him like he’s a lifeline.
“Oh!” You gasp as you jerk out of his grasp.
In your movement, your leg brushes over an obvious tent in Namjoon’s pants, making him groan softly. You shut your eyes, embarrassed at how disgustingly horny you are for the man who’s not even interested in you sexually.
“Christ, I’m so sorry,” your cheeks flame bright red and you scoot further from him.
“No, no, don’t be,” Namjoon wheezes as he tries to fix himself. “It’s fine. It’s more than fine. It’s great. It happens. Don’t worry.”
He continues to stammer out reassurances as he leaves the bed and bolts into the bathroom to fix his unruly tented pants, leaving you sitting atop the bed washed with shame.
“Fucking hell,” you whisper to yourself as you rub at your cheeks. “Get a grip of yourself.”
Inside the bathroom, it only takes Namjoon a few fisted jerks of his cock and the mental image of you beneath him, begging for him, until he’s silently cumming on an expensive towel. He bites his free hand to stifle the moans he makes as his cock pulses.
By the time he arrives back in the bedroom, you’ve changed into a hoodie and yoga leggings that accentuate your ass so delectably that Namjoon thinks about turning right back into the bathroom for a second round.
“I’m sorry!” You nearly shout when he walks into the room. “About the bed. You were warm and I was cold. That’s all.”
Nmajoon simply nods, doesn’t want to have to explain how he wishes he could wake up like that every day. Doesn’t want to describe in vivid detail how he’d wake you up with his tongue buried deep in your cunt.
“Let me grab a shirt and we’ll head out, yeah?”
Your eyes dance over the defined ridges of his body, a little crest-fallen at the idea that this might be the last time you see him shirtless, but you nod anyway.
“Yeah.”
The ring box sits in a deceptively large box beneath the tree. Namjoon wrapped it last night and hide it at the very back. His heartbeat hammers in his ears as his family passes around gifts and opens each with squeals of delight.
His mother gave him new ties for the office, ones that Namjoon prefers. She’s even gifted you with jewelry, which makes your eyes water at the sentiment.
It all begins to be too much. It’s harder and harder to hold back the tears as each of Namjoon’s family members gives you gifts. It doesn’t matter the value, not at all. The fact that they specifically set out to include you in their gift-unwrapping makes your heart snap in two.
This is all too much, it’s too real.
It’s everything you never dreamed you could have. A loving partner who lets you sit in the space of his legs and rubs your arms soothingly. A family who goes out of their way to include you in the abundance of love and company. A cabin so warm and cozy.
The tears don’t stop.
It’s at the end of the gift exchange that you finally allow yourself to breathe.
“There’s one more,” Namjoon whispers as he moves from behind you and fetches a large box from behind the tree. “It’s for you, princess.”
Curiously, and suspiciously, you eye him as he sets the enormous gift in your lap. You had done nearly all his Christmas shopping with him, and can’t remember a single thing he would have gotten for you.
“I hope it’s the Nespresso from your office,” you snark with a smile. His family members all laugh and exchange knowing looks to each other.
Namjoon doesn’t think he can breathe. He watches as you begin to carefully unwrap the large box, which reveals another box, slightly smaller. He can’t help but grin as you continue to unwrap the nesting-doll style gift until you’re down to the smallest one, the one that holds the ring box.
With one last tear of paper, your eyes widen as you recognize the velvet box.
“Oh--,” you breathe as you delicately pry open the gift.
Inside sits a dazzling and gorgeous diamond ring. It catches the light from the fire and sparkles like a firecracker.
“Oh my god,” you whimper as the tears flow again.
He’s proposing.
Namjoon settles himself onto one knee and tucks an errant piece of hair behind your ears.
“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. I knew from day one that you were always the girl I wanted to marry,”
Namjoon’s speech sends daggers to your heart. He’s so convincing for something so counterfeit.
“I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember, much longer than we’ve been together. You’re who I want to come home to every night, and who I want to wake up with every morning.”
It hurts. It hurts so badly that you’re crying even harder as he continues to speak. His family must think you’re simply overcome with emotion and love that the crying doesn’t give it away, but inside you’re absolutely dying.
There’s no way you can recover from this.
Tomorrow, Namjoon will take the ring back to where he got it from and return to what he had before. He’ll leave you behind, broken and hopelessly in love with a man who faked a relationship so well that you fell for it, hard.
“____, will you marry me?”
You take several large, gulping gasps to reply. You can’t shatter the illusion. Namjoon’s parents are weeping with joy, while his relatives record the moment on their phones and wipe away errant tears. Even Jungkook looks soft, proud of his cousin for taking the next step in his life.
Oh, how you wish this were all real.
“Yes,” you lie with a smile. “Yes, Namjoon, of course!”
Namjoon grins and pulls you to standing, gathering you in his arms as he hugs you tight. His family cheers and hollers in the background, and you sob into his shoulder as you cling to him.
He easily slides the diamond ring out of the box and onto your finger, where it sits and taunts you. The weight is heavy, and you whimper at the realization that this will never be for you. It will sit atop a pretty model’s finger sometime soon, when Namjoon resumes his regular life.
“Oh, my darlings, I am so happy for you!” Namjoon’s mother appears and wraps you both in a hug, weeping and kissing cheeks. “We must discuss planning!”
It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. The tears and weeping turn to wracking sobs, which quiets the family as they watch you hold your face in your hands.
“I’m sorry,” you apologize through your grief. “I—I just need a moment.”
Without another word, you turn from the scene and bolt back towards the bedroom.
It’s silent and Namjoon’s heart sinks.
This must be too much for you, too much for you to pretend to love him. He knew it was too much and he should have discussed it with you beforehand.
“She’s just a little err--,” Namjoon tries. “Easily emotional. I’ll go check on her.”
His family understands as Namjoon hurries towards the bedroom and gently opens the door.
You’re sitting over your overnight bag, trying to shove any clothing into it you can, while you sob openly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should have told you. I sort of... told my mom I’d be proposing to my girlfriend.”
There’s pain in your eyes as you snap your head up to look at him. It nearly destroys him.
“You should have warned me!” You gasp. “Namjoon, I can’t do this.”
Namjoon lowers his head and shoves his hands into his pockets of his pajama pants.
“I get it. I know you want to go back to your regular life. I can take you home now.”
You’re silent for a moment, standing and moving towards the man.
“Don’t you get it, Namjoon?”
He raises his head to look at you curiously, brow knitted together with confusion.
“I’m in love with you, you asshole!” You cry, pushing at his chest. “I can’t continue to pretend this is real anymore. I love you, I absolutely love you and I can’t go on watching you pretend you love me too. It’s too much for me to handle.”
Namjoon’s world freezes in time as he watches you slide the ring off your finger. He grasps your hand to stop you, his eyes boring into your own.
“I never had to pretend.”
Before you can speak, Namjoon cups your cheek and pulls you in close, mouth sealing over your own in a desperate kiss.
You don’t fight it, not at all. You sink into his grasp and kiss him back with fervor, with all the pent-up emotions you’ve held back all this time.
“I’m in love with you,” he whispers as he pulls away from the kiss. “I meant every single word I said.”
More tears stream down your cheeks, and Namjoon is quick to wipe them away with his thumb.
“I know it’s maybe too soon for us to really be engaged, but I—I want that, with you,” he adds. “I want you to be my girlfriend… for real.”
“Are you being serious right now?” You ask as your hands cling to Namjoon’s waist.
He can’t help but to laugh, nodding in reassurance as he leans down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss.
“Never been more serious in my life.”
“I can’t believe you’re mine,” Joon murmurs into the nape of your neck.
You were supposed to be driving home to your apartment now, back to real life, but the snowstorm raged on and Namjoon decided it might be best to spend yet another night in the cabin. Together. As a couple. A real couple.
You didn’t put up much of a fight.
He’s pressing soft kisses into your tender skin as he closes the door to the bedroom.
“All mine, all mine.” He chants it like a mantra.
You’re trying to maneuver your way into the dark bedroom, only guided by the light from the fireplace. Namjoon stops you and pulls away from your neck, eyes soaking in every inch of you.
“You have no idea what I’ve been dying to do to you,” he speaks after a moment of appreciating your beauty.
“Hmm, I think I have some idea,” you say, a finger at Namjoon’s chest, directing him towards the bed. “I’ve been dying to suck your cock, Joon,” you whisper in his ear as he makes his way backwards. “Will you let me?”
Namjoon nods in a daze as he sits on the edge of the bed and watches as you kneel. Your eyes are full of hope, full of lust. It makes his cock harden further.
“Please do,” he breathes. “I’ve wondered what you’d look like with your mouth full of my dick.”
You smile as you tug at his flannel pajama pants, pulling them down thick thighs and calves until they’re completely off. Your mouth waters at the sight before you. Namjoon’s cock is thick, head weeping with pre-cum and straining hard against his taut chest. He’s been working out more, you can tell. His arms are full and strong, and his chest is so firm and defined.
He’s an entire three-course meal.
Before you move closer to his cock, Namjoon stops you.
“Take your shirt off.”
You comply easily, already settling well into an obedient role. He discards the shirt to the side and marvels at your breasts. He can’t wait to mark them up, suck them until you’re crying.
“Perfect,” he sighs. “You’re fucking perfect.”
He allows you to resume your work, eyeing the length of his cock before wrapping a hand around it and gently pumping.
“Shit,” he breathes as his head falls back. “I’ve dreamt about how it’d feel having my cock in your hands.”
“What else have you dreamed about?” You ask with a teasing smile, bringing your lips to the tip to paint tiny stripes. He tastes salty, somewhat earthy, and the pre-cum that’s gathered at the top gets swept up by your tongue.
Namjoon can’t believe how lucky he is. Can’t believe how incredible it feels to have you here, licking at his cock like a lollipop. He’s enchanted by the way your delicate tongue swirls around his head, testing and teasing.
“You look so good, princess,” he whispers as he tucks stray hair behind your ears.
You’re encouraged by his sweet-talk and soon descend to take his cock fully in as far as you can go. You’re definitely out of practice, but you steel yourself up to take him completely to the back of your throat. Namjoon’s desperate moans and cursing only encourages you further.
Soon enough, you’ve started a rhythm of bobbing your head and swirling your tongue and pumping your hand down his thick length. The noises leaving your mouth are sinful—slurping and sucking and whining around him. Namjoon’s got a hand on the back of your head, holding your hair in a makeshift ponytail and coaxing your bouncing head further down his cock.
“Oh, shit, baby,” he grits through a tight jaw. “I’m gonna cum baby girl, fuuuuckkk—oh god, yes baby, just like that.”
You slurp and swallow around his cock as much as you can, head bobbing at a frantic pace while you cast your eyes upwards to the man to watch him come apart. He meets your eye contact and loses it at the fire burning in your beautiful eyes.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he gasps as his cock pulses. “Cumming, baby—ohhhh, shit, take it all, baby.”
After slowing your pace completely, you sweetly moan around his length as his salty cum splatters on your tongue. Bringing Namjoon to climax with your mouth is already one of your favorite hobbies, and you’re desperate to do it again.
When he’s completely spent in your mouth, you pop off carefully and present your tongue to your boyfriend, who smiles.
“You gonna swallow my cum, baby girl?” He asks, cupping your cheek sweetly.
You nod in reply, and he groans as he watches you close your mouth and visibly swallow his load.
“Fuck, that was so hot. Fucking kiss me already,” he demands, pulling you up gently by the hand and pressing his mouth to yours. He doesn’t care if he can taste himself still lingering in your mouth. In fact, he thinks your mouth should always taste like him.
Namjoon holds you close as he kisses you, tongue diving around and seeking purchase in your mouth. His hands are roaming your body, cupping your breasts and caressing your curves. He can’t get enough. He doesn’t think there will come a time in his life when he won’t love touching you.
His hand smoothes over the satin of your panties and he smirks into the kiss as he feels how wet they are.
“Oh my,” he tuts as he rubs at your clothed slit. “All this from sucking my cock, princess?”
It’s too late to be ashamed of it. You simply nod and whimper as his thick fingers rub at your core. You’re dying to feel those fingers inside you, scissoring you open to prepare you for his massive cock.
“P-please,” you gasp, needing more of him. “Please, Joon.”
He lets out a breath of contentment, loving the way his name sounds in your breathy moans. In one quick swoop, he flings your panties off and onto the floor and slides down to his knees where you knelt moments before.
“I want to see this pretty pussy up close,” he murmurs as he lays you out at the edge and spreads open your thighs as wide as he can.
You’re gorgeous, absolutely mouth-watering. He licks his lips as he watches your folds drip with arousal and takes a delicate finger to trace the slit gently.
“Fuck,” you gasp as he swirls his finger around your sensitive clit. It’s been so long since someone else has made you orgasm, you’re sure you won’t last a second with the man of your sexual dreams face-first in your cunt.
“This is my pussy now,” he states as he leans in close and licks a fat stripe from your hole to your clit. “I’m going to make you cum every fucking night, baby. Gonna claim this cunt as my own.”
You’re trembling from his words and his actions as he soon buries his face into your pussy and eats as if he’s a man starved. His tongue swirls around your hole before swiping up to your clit, making your back arch and keen off the bed. His lips wrap around your throbbing clit and sucks gently, lewd noises echoing off the walls of the bedroom.
“Namjoon!” You squeal as he slides two of his fingers inside you and slowly pumps. They’re thick and perfect, and they’re better than you could have ever dreamed.
“Cum for me, baby,” he coaxes as he licks at your clit. “I know you want to.”
He’s right. You’re desperate for it and the string inside your belly that tightens with each thrust of his solid fingers has it nearing a snapping point.
Namjoon speeds up, adds a third finger and fucks into you like a man on a mission. He watches your face pinch in agonized delight and is hypnotized by the way your tits bounce with each thrust up. His cock is rock solid again, aching to bury itself deep inside your womb and coat you with his cum.
“That’s it, baby girl,” he breathes as he watches your body quiver. “Cum on my fingers, let daddy see you fall apart.”
He presses his lips to your clit one last time and sucks, and it sends you reeling over the edge into bliss. Namjoon moans as he feels your cunt convulse and squeeze his fingers as if they’re his cock, and he nearly whines at how good it’s going to feel when he’s balls deep inside of you.
“Fuck!” You cry as your back lifts off the bed and your legs shake. “Oh, my god!”
Namjoon kitten licks at your pussy as you come down, cleaning up the juices that coat his fingers. He doesn’t break eye contact with you as he does it, sucking up your essence like it’s an expensive wine he won’t waste a drop of.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he says as you try to catch your breath. “I can’t wait to fuck you in my office.”
The smile on your face turns lustful as you spread your legs open once again and present yourself to him.
“Why don’t we practice right now?”
Namjoon grips the base of his cock and gives himself a few pumps as he stares at your gorgeous body—laid out and ready for him.
“Merry Christmas to me,” he murmurs as he presses a kiss to your lips and lines himself up.
In one swift motion, he slips inside your juicy channel and buries himself to the hilt. You’re so wet and warm and tight that Namjoon falters and groans out loud.
“Holy shit,” he cries. “Sweetest fucking pussy I’ve ever felt in my life.”
Namjoon filling you up to the brim is something you’ve only ever dreamt of, and now that it’s happening you feel intoxicated. He’s so thick inside you, stretching you past what you thought you could handle, and the burn is so sweet.
“Fuck me, Joon,” you beg as he continues to still inside you. “Please, fuck me, daddy.”
It’s the magic word for Namjoon and instantly he’s snapped back to feral, ready to claim you as his own. He grips your hips tightly as he pumps in and out of you, delighted by the squelching juicy sounds of your cunt as he takes you.
“That’s right, baby girl, I’m your fucking daddy,” he grunts. “Take this fat cock for daddy.”
Your legs quiver with each thrust and Namjoon sucks a nipple into his mouth, nibbling gently on the bud which makes your body thrum with electricity. He’s marking you, claiming you inside and out, you realize. You whine and keen for him to continue, and Namjoon growls as he doubles his pace.
He thrusts into you without abandon, desperately seeking his release that will have him spilling his cum anywhere he possibly can.
“Mmm, look at my pretty princess,” he groans as he stares at your blissed-out face. “Taking daddy’s cock so good, being a perfect little slut.”
His words make your eyes roll back into your head. You’d never had someone speak so nasty to you while being so kind and praise-worthy that you don’t think you can now ever live without it.
“G-gonna cum, daddy!” you cry as you feel your body nearing the edge. “Please let me cum!”
Namjoon gasps for air and drops a thumb to your clit to rub circles on the sensitive bundle.
“Yes, baby girl, cum for daddy. Cum on my cock, princess.”
Namjoon’s unrelenting pace and thumb handily stroking your clit brings you to the end, sending you screaming into orgasmic delight.
Namjoon nearly weeps at how good your cunt feels convulsing around his cock, walls coaxing him and gripping him tight as if your pussy is begging for his own release.
“Cum inside me daddy, please,” you beg as you try to catch your breath.
Namjoon needs no more permission. He gasps as your channel tightens around him impossibly and sends him into his own release. He whimpers as his cock pulses with ferocity, loads of cum splattering your walls.
He doesn’t pull out. Instead, he rests his sweaty forehead on yours as you both try to catch your breath.
“Holy shit,” you gasp as you feel yourself returning to Earth.
Namjoon laughs and presses a kiss to your lips, before nodding.
“Yeah,” is all he can manage.
After a few shuddering breaths, you wrap your arms around your boyfriend’s naked body and hold him close, as close as you can.
“If this is what Christmas is all about, sign me up.”
Namjoon buries his face into your neck and kisses you sweetly, before lifting and giving you a playful smile.
“I guess all Scrooge needed was a good fuck. Dickens got that part all wrong.”
Returning to work after the New Year was easier this year than it had ever been in your career.
Namjoon was given the promotion. He told Seokjin he wanted to keep his corner office near you because he “likes the view”, and that he would give all his top cases to the best lawyer in the office—you.
Jimin won’t stop screaming when he sees the diamond ring on your finger. You haven’t wanted to take it off since the moment you put it on. Maybe it’s not an engagement ring quite yet, maybe it’s just more of a promise. Either way, Jimin is ecstatic and confused as he shakes you down for answers.
He walks with you to your desk, chattering away about his week with Yoongi, while you sip your convenience store coffee.
“What the fuck?” Jimin asks as he notices something on your desk. “What is that?”
As you round the corner, your eyes catch sight of a gleaming silver contraption on your desk, right next to your brand new computer.
A Nespresso.
A smile crosses your lips as you approach the expensive machine and notice a folded up card on top.
Inside, the card is simple.
“To the only girl in the world who deserves a Nespresso. Love, Namjoon.”
taglist - @ardoren @devilion14 @bykookie @rageyoudamnednerd @holynamtiddies @thejooncrew @dee-ehn @yrc1963 @fireheart2003
#bts smut#bts fanfic#kim namjoon smut#rm smut#namjoon smut#ficswithluv#rockin around the christmas tropes#bts imagines#bts reactions#kim namjoon imagines
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Odyssey
Pairing: Poseidon!Armin x Reader
Genre: romance, smut
Warnings: slow-burn, minor character death, manipulation, stalking, possessiveness, Yandere behaviour, puppy play, piss play, body worship, throne sex, implied age-gap, oral(male receiving), hair pulling, collaring (without consent)
Word count: 9.8K
Synopsis: Armin’s quest for revenge leads him to you, daughter of a merchant and object of his infatuation.
Author’s note: thank you @bubbleteaimagines for hosting this collab and allowing me to join <3 Also, thank you @onyxoverride for teaching me how to write about pee!
Attack on Titan Masterlist
Present day:
If the river could speak, you wonder what it would say.
In the silence that surrounds the rushing of the water, you’re sure you would hear it. Sometimes, you’re sure you can hear it, but then you remember the dangers of trusting unfamiliar voices. Especially unfamiliar voices in a place like this.
No one goes near the river Shiganshina. And you forget the reasons why much too often.
It’s rocky, slippery, there’s no path to walk on, and the nymphs grow sharp teeth when men approach them, hissing and eyes glowing red. But that’s what makes it perfect for you.
Sasha first mentioned the river months ago, recalling the places on the island that her and her father avoided whenever they went hunting. You hadn’t paid much attention to it until days later, when Connie recounted with round eyes how Floch’s body was found beside the river Shiganshina, mouth full of water and eyes gouged out. You knew you needed to go there yourself.
A pearl necklace is what you stole. And under the guise of going to wash clothes at the well, you made your way south of your small island with only Sasha’s vague instructions and your intuition guiding you.
You could hear the ocean as you walked through the untouched woods, your heart hammering in your chest every time the waves crashed against the island’s cliffs. You weren’t allowed to see the ocean- you weren’t allowed to be around any large body of water, for that matter- but you still knew your island well enough to know that a step in the wrong place could lead you tumbling down the cliff.
You would die before you got to feel the water on your skin and that, you thought, would be the most tragic part.
As your feet began to sink into the muddy ground, you could smell the salty water, and a slight metallic scent behind it that only drew you in closer until you reached a clearing. It was small, crowded with foliage with only a few dead plants on the ground where you could only assume people had attempted to step foot.
And there was the river. It was small, its water emerging from underground before the tide pushed it to the edge of the island- to a waterfall. So loud that it could drown out any noise, any screams. You shivered. For a moment, you just stood back and watched. The water was was green, but so clear that you could still see the fish swimming beside the floating objects. Coins, silver, small statues, and whatever else hopefuls had tried to offer. You pulled out your own offering and whispered a short prayer before throwing the necklace in.
It could have been your imagination, but the water calmed. It was quieter. And, like that, you felt as if the river had opened up its arms to you. Strong arms that you have to be cautious not to spend too long within lest you get trapped.
Thankfully, you’ve learned to read the signs. You know when the river wants you to leave, when it wants you to keep your distance, when it wants to keep you close, and even when it wants you to bathe. Those are the special moments. It’s rare the river is calm enough for you to dip your naked body into, but surrounded by the cool water, you feel like you could stay their forever.
If the river could speak now, however, you’re sure it would tell you to fuck off.
Either that or it would tell you to come back when you have something more to offer its god than a single golden bead from your grandmother’s necklace. Only three are left on the thin string, though you think you might keep the last one to honour her death. After that, you’ll have to go back to offering coins and whatever other trinkets that will keep the god of this river sedated long enough for you to dip your feet into the cool water, maybe take a sip, and then return home before your father realises where you’ve been, much less where you’ve been unchaperoned.
The latter is hardly your fault. Sasha and Connie are too scared to step foot in the Shiganshina forest, let alone the river itself. And you can’t trust anyone else to accompany you, especially the servants whose tongue could slip at the drop of a golden coin. Your father would never forgive you for spending time in the territory of the God of the Ocean or- as he liked to call Armin- the destroyer of seas. And thus, being left alone seems to be the only way.
Well, that’s unless Mr Arlert decides to join you.
The owner of the stable who appeared on the island out of nowhere is the last person anyone would expect to be brave enough to spend time at the river Shiganshina. He mostly keeps to himself, only ever seen tending to his horses or immersed in scrolls of literature and poetry. And yet, he’s here almost as often as you are, almost as vulnerable as you are.
Despite his solitary nature, Mr Arlert has been quick to make himself adored. Mothers swoon over his charm, scholars constantly indulge in his curiosity, and sailors are fascinated by his knowledge of the world and its oceans. He’s no warrior, and already in his late twenties, but he’s still without a doubt one of the most eligible bachelors on Paradis. And, yet, to any marriage proposal sent his way, he declines with a polite “A husband is not what I am fated to become”. Even Annie Leonhardt- whose father Mr Arlert would constantly visit- had her heart broken. But no one blames Mr Arlert, of course, who was there to comfort Annie, to make her realise that she just needs to be a better person, that’s all. It’s not his fault her heart broke, Mr Arlert reassured.
Thinking about it now, you’re amongst the handful of women who haven’t been offered to the tall blond. And with that comes a sigh of relief as you drag your fingers through the water.
It’s not like you dislike him- the opposite, actually- but being with Mr Arlert is like taking the hand of an invisible man in the dark and letting him guide you.
His words constantly have your thoughts spiralling in directions that they shouldn’t be. Thoughts about leaving the island, thoughts about going to the ocean, thoughts about becoming a priestess. Thoughts you aren’t allowed to have.
You fate is bound to the home you were born in, a thick rope tied to your ankle, only letting you go as far as this very river. And Mr Arlert sits beside that rope, a knife in his hand, blue eyes staring into your soul, waiting. You’re not sure what he’s waiting for. But what you’re sure of is that to be taken away from the life you know of is an inconceivable fantasy. The unknown is a dangerous thing, after all.
The small island of Paradis may lie far away from the rest of the world, but their core values remain the same. A woman must grow up to either serve her father or her husband. Your fate has already been decided for you. And, frankly, if it means not having to share a bed with an old man who marries you for your dowry, you’re very happy with taking care of your father until the day that he’ll be put into the ground.
But then there’s always the third option. A woman who serves neither her father nor her husband will serve her god.
You had never been given that option by your god-hating kin. Simply suggesting a future as priestess would earn you at least five lashes, so why… why can’t you stop thinking about it? Your instincts have you blame Mr Arlert, but you know that your fixation began before he arrived on the island; all he’s done is vocalise your thoughts.
As a gust of wind blows the leaves and the salt from the sea gently caresses your cheek, you wonder who your god would be. Do you resonate with Pieck’s beauty, or Zeke’s creativity? Maybe. But as you look into your reflection, you know that your god is no other than Armin, the god of the ocean. The fates must think this is hilarious, but you just want to scream.
“It’s getting late. I wouldn’t want your father worrying about you.”
You jump at the sudden voice, turning around at the familiar face, leaning against a tree with a gentle smile.
“Thank you, Mr Arlert.”
His footsteps are so gentle, as are his apologies.
“You don’t need to thank me. I’ve come to invade your space, after all.”
“It’s not my space, it’s Armin’s. The god is only letting me stay here.”
He smiles a knowing smile, one that you would usually find patronising on any other man. But Armin is charming, too charming for you ever to think that of him. “I suppose you’re right.”
He comes to sit down beside you, taking his usual place at your right- the voice of reason. It’s quiet for a moment, before you remember.
“Lemnos,” you say.
The blond smiles. “I’m not named after a place.”
And you roll your eyes, as you’ve done every time he’s given you a useless hint. “That hardly narrows it down.”
“Well, I can’t make it too easy of a game.”
“You can’t make it impossible either!”
“It seems like I already have.” And you’re not sure if you want to wipe the smirk off his face or just stare at it.
“What about Tree?”
Arlert laughs. “No, but you have one guess left.”
“What?!” You sit up straight, eyes wide. Now you really want to wipe the smirk off his face.
“You have seven guesses, and in the eleven months we’ve known each other, you’ve used up six.” His explanation is calm and rational enough for you to almost convince yourself that the rule has been there from the start.
“Wait- wait. I never knew about this!”
“I thought everyone did. It’s traditional wager rules.” Mr Arlert’s tone is sorry, but you know he’s everything but. So, you cross your arms and pout, hoping that staring him down might at least give you the smallest chance of winning your wager.
He leans forward, mirthful and you feel a shiver go down your spine. “What is it, little puppy, sulking because you’re afraid you can’t win?”
You flush at the implication of your loss- “No- no not at all- no”- before registering his actual words are and only then can you feel the heat rise and you’re sure it’s doing you no service. “I know I can win!”
“I know you can too,” he assures you.
You frown. “Are you being sarcastic?”
It’s his turn to flush. “No, not at all! You can win- the water god favours you, after all.”
And although you shrug, his words stick. They always do.
Before you go home, you pass by Armin’s temple and place at the foot of his statue the remainder of your grandmother’s necklace.
A year ago:
Amrin knew how fickle the gods were and he thought that this knowledge made him impervious to those feelings. He watched how Eren jumped from woman to woman daily, how Reiner picked and chose his battles without a care, how every single fixation a deity would have never lasted more than a year. He thought of how stupid it was to spend a life of immortality indulging in such temporary pleasures. And he looked down on his kin for that very reason.
It was only after one argument too many that Armin finally let it slip. The god of the sea was usually quiet, offering soft smiles, casual conversation, and minimal conflict. That was his only rule: keeps quiet before the gods of the pantheon as he takes his anger out on the humans below. But that day, he forgot about his rule.
Maybe it was the years of silence that caused the Eathshaker’s outburst, or maybe it was just Eren’s bored expression as he talked about his mistresses in front of Mikasa. Armin couldn’t take it. Gathered at a marble table beside all the Olympians, he scowled and told them how stupid they all were.
“Don’t you realise? You’re all wasting your immortality by being so idiotic, so fickle! Everything you touch becomes a temporary pleasure, ruined by your inability to act like real gods.”
He should have stopped; he really should have stopped. But the crack in the glass bridge had been there for years, and now the shards of glass were dropping down into the sea. “You might as well be human!”
The room went silent. Eyes went wide, and mouths gaped, but the gods opted for silence. Every deity wanted to speak up, maybe even draw their swords, but they were more intelligent than Armin was in that moment, which was more unusual than one might think. He had never snapped so violently before. Armin may have been aggressive, but he knew his place. Knew when to be docile. Now, he felt like he could crumble Olympus itself with his rage and bury the Olympians with their dead parents.
The king of the gods, however, leaned forward. His emerald eyes were unmoving, devoid of emotion though his lips tilted into a monstrous grin.
“You’re just as fickle as the rest of us, brother,” was all Eren said.
When Armin lunged at him, knocking the fine glass off the table, it was Mikasa who pinned him down. Arms locked behind his back, all Armin could do was watch as mirth flooded Eren’s face, and the god of the sky laughed. The bastard laughed and laughed and licked the small wound on his hand from a shard of glass. It healed immediately. Even their pain was temporary.
And like he had been doing for the past millennia, Armin found solice in his only rule: if he couldn’t take out his rage on his brother, Armin would take out his frustration elsewhere.
His first instinct was to find a woman, but the thought of seeking out temporary pleasure, from a mistress no less, reminded him too much of Eren. So, he descended to earth, trident in one hand as the other gripped the reigns of his horse and they rode for three days and three nights. That’s all it took for the god of the sea to find what he was looking for- someone deserving of his hatred.
There are many humans like the merchant. But most of their hatred is silent. And when it’s not, blasphemy often falls upon deaf ears. The merchant just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time when his drunk rambles led him up on the deck screaming out Armin’s name like it was venom in his throat, until he could scream no more. He was drunk, but the merchant’s hatred for the god of the sea did not cease when he was sober.
And when Armin heard his name, the god wasted no time calling forth a storm to sink the merchant’s ship. He took care to ensure that the arrogant man watched each and every one of his men be swallowed whole, their bodies only resurfacing lifeless, before the storm calmed.
It took five days for the merchant to swim back to his island.
He never returned to the sea.
As the weeks passed, he relocated his home to help him stay away from any body of water and made sure that his family followed suit.
But Armin followed, and the merchant’s father died weeks later with saltwater water found in his lungs.
Unfortunately, that was not enough to sedate the god of the sea’s need for vengeance. Fortunately, it was not enough to sedate the merchant’s hatred either. The hubris didn’t leave him. Instead, it just grew and grew and grew until the merchant considered himself more of a god than Armin would ever be.
“Oh, oh.” Armin couldn’t help but smile as he watched the man urinate before his temple. “This is perfect, so perfect.”
Armin was going to show his uncaring brother how different he was from the rest of the miserable Olympians. As he stood above the island of Paradis, golden hair blowing in the ocean wind, the god vowed to begin his Odyssey. An eternal Odyssey. A journey that would last longer than the ten fleeting years he had with the Greek hero- a journey that would last longer than the universe itself.
And he knew exactly where to begin. A man’s most valuable possession: his child.
It was only after your grandfather’s death that Armin noticed you. When he first began watching the merchant’s household, under the guise of either a guest or a bird, he had been surprised to learn that the blasphemous man had no wife, nor children. Armin only realised his mistake one night, when you came to lay a blanket on the drunk man’s barely conscious body. The merchant had pulled you towards him, muttering apologies and you had wrinkled your nose before offering him a soft smile. “It’s okay, papa”.
A daughter sheltered from the world, it seemed.
The god had initially thought you were one of the servants. There were only two in the house, and your tasks were all similar. But as Armin began to watch you closer, he saw how you did have a life outside your home with friends, interests, men- a life your father was blissfully unaware of.
The merchant hardly left home- playing the part of the sick man- and you took care of him- playing the part of your dead mother- in a happy sort of agreement.
You didn’t speak about it to your friends, but you detested your doting role. Armin could tell. The way you wrinkled your nose every time your father walked through the door, the eye-roll when you were given a load of laundry. The god couldn’t help by laugh at how pathetic the merchant was that not even his only daughter- his lifeline- cared for him. The merchant didn’t know, of course. Your fake smiles and gentle hands were enough to deceive him, keep him sane. But Armin was going to break that pattern.
The merchant didn’t deserve the care of a woman. He didn’t deserve anything. So, Armin was going to take you away from him.
His initial plan was to kill you. Simple, efficient, quick. And then he thought of dumping your body somewhere far so that the search for you would break your father’s spirit even more. He hesitated, though, he wasn’t sure why, but he did. And then, you changed your routine.
After meeting up with the two individuals you called your friends at the Sunday market- instead of going back home- you carried on walking. Through the houses on the outskirts and into the dense trees, you almost stung your sandal-clad feet twice before reaching a river. The river had no god of itself, but you still threw in an offering and muttered. Stupid human. And then you sat beside the river and- nothing. Your routine was boring, obviously a ritual to let you escape from reality. Yet, he couldn’t tear away from you. The woman at the river Shiganshina was a different one than the woman who served her father. The one here relaxed her shoulders, cursed at the world around her, smiled- albeit randomly but it was real. He decided there that he would kill you tomorrow.
But when, the next day, you led him back to the river, Armin was lost in you again. Lost in your honestly, lost in your need to escape. He wanted to see more, he needed to see more. Metaphorically, of course. But when you began undressing, the pleated robes dropping to reveal soft skin and tender curves, the god of the sea realised that he wouldn’t mind literally seeing more of you. Armin had been with goddesses and nymphs and, hell, even Aphrodite herself, but never had he been this awestruck. He had to hold himself back. Even though the way you were bathing made it seem like you were worshipping him, water dripping from your body, wet hair hiding the swell of your breasts. Armin’s breath stuttered. He couldn’t reveal himself. He couldn’t.
So, he watched, and watched. Trying desperately to take in everything you were from a distance. Armin didn’t count the number of times he visited you before finally decided that killing you was no longer an option. He told himself that his change of mind was progressive. A practical choice to draw out his revenge into the most painful and convoluted Odyssey. To do that, he couldn’t kill you. No. He was going to take you for himself. Armin was going to turn the daughter of the merchant into a servant of the one God he detested.
Putting the thought into your mind was pathetically easy. As you walked past his temple on your way home, an echo of laughter emerged from the marble building. You paused for only a moment, but it was enough for Armin to catch the look in your eyes. It was one of longing, mixed with a curiosity that threatened to pull you in. But you seemed to catch yourself in the act and hastened yourself home.
And so, Armin’s true Odyssey began.
For his journey to progress, he had to meet you. Not as a bird or a horse or through glances as a guest. He had to meet you properly. This was the only way to draw you in, he told himself. The only way for you to submit completely and willingly.
Armin could have forced you too your knees, but he had to ensure that your father watched has his daughter chose Armin over him. And chose Armin you would. Every piece was in perfect place. The fates seemed to have woven a beautiful cloth of gold for the god of the sea.
What he failed to realise was that the cloth was in fact a snare- a trap which he will never be able to escape from.
Eleven months ago:
A short gust of wind had the pears in your thin basket tumbling down onto the rocky ground. You rushed after the fruit, crouching down to pick it up when a shadow appeared, and a hand reached out to pick it up for you. The sandal-clad feet were pale- paler than anyone living on this warm island and the robes a fine, ironed white. He somehow seemed to glow brighter than his clothes, and you purposefully let your fingers graze his as you picked up the fruit.
“Thank you,” you said, standing up.
You were hoping that he wouldn’t catch your staring. But even if he did, you couldn’t tear your eyes off him. He was lean, taller than you but not intimidatingly so and his eyes were like oceans that you found yourself staring into as he introduced himself as Mr Arlert. Just Mr Arlert. The new owner of the stables with a voice so soft, it took a moment before you remembered to introduce yourself.
“Y/N. And thank you, again.” It isn’t appropriate for an unmarried woman to be talking to a man on her own, but you couldn’t help but ask. “Do you have a first name Mr Arlert?”
His smile was contagious. “I do. But names are a powerful thing. I’m afraid I can’t give mine up freely.”
“Oh.” You scrunched your nose. “Can I pay for it then?”
You were dead serious, but the blond man laughed. How can someone look so pretty when they laugh? You wondered.
“I’m serious! I can pay you; name your price.”
Mr Arlert looked down at you, blue eyes twinkling. “I’ll think about it.”
“So, is that a no?”
“It’s a no, for now. One day I’ll tell you my name.”
He was sweet, so sweet, but you still gave him a sceptical frown, nose scrunching and eyebrows furrowing. Mr Arlert in turn gave you a sorry look before his eyes lit up and he pulled out from his brown satchel a small book of yellowed pages and a dusty blue cover, the gold embossing hardly visible. You nose only scrunched further.
“My name is in this story. It’s mentioned few times, but it’s an important one,” he said to you.
You took the book and flipped through the worn pages, immediately recognising the tale of Aphrodite and Ares. The lovers.
Why the challenge? You wanted to ask Mr Arlert but you knew the answer you your get would be too cryptic. Besides, you think, I like a challenge.
“How long do I have?” You asked instead.
“A year and a day.”
“And what will I get if I figure it out?”
At this, he pondered. But it seemed feigned, and you wondered, just for a split second, if the man had planned this from the beginning. But why? This was another one of your questions that went unanswered that day. Because before you could say anything more, Mr Arlert leaned forward and said, “Your reward will be divine”. And he walked away.
Nine months ago:
Life was well after Armin arrived. There was no other way to put it. Your father was confining himself to his room more often than before, and you were finding more opportunities to visit the river, leave the house and, eventually, you met the handsome baker’s son. Jean was kind, a gentleman, but not the arrogant type like most the men your age. You didn’t even feel too much guilt when you thought that spending a future with Jean- taking care of him and his home- wouldn’t be too bad. It’s quite pathetic that your life had been reduced to not being “too bad”, but the idea of marrying Jean sat on the comfortable line between reality and fantasy. Safety.
And then you were visited at the river.
Mr Arlert wasn’t even surprised to find you there, he had just smiled and sat beside you as you clenched your fists and forced yourself to smile back at him. You had always enjoyed him, his company, his challenges, but now it was like he was provoking you. The river Shiganshina was your river, your special place away from the hellscape that was the town. And now Mr Arlert had brought himself and his ordinary life into it.
You pulled your sandals back on, the crease in your brow evident. He clearly couldn’t get the hint. But before you could stand up, he spoke, and you paused.
“I wish I could jump in and swim away,” he said.
Curiosity got the best of you, as it often did with the man.
“The waterfall would kill you.”
The awkward laugh again. It had an effect on you so that your jaw couldn’t help but unclench. “If it means that I get to touch a waterfall, I wouldn’t mind, you know?”
You knew. You knew exactly what he meant. But you didn’t tell him.
“Didn’t take you as the suicidal type,” you said.
“I might get saved, who knows.”
“If you’re counting on me to jump after you, I’m letting you know I won’t.”
“I know,” he laughed. “I was thinking of more of a divine rescue.”
You finally looked at him, and- unsurprisingly- his blue eyes were glued to yours. What was surprising was his unwavering tone, his straight face. Mr Arlert was being serious. Why was he opening up to you this suddenly? So far, your interactions had consisted of him staring, you trying to guess his name, and him continuing to stare. In that order. You knew there was more to him, but it’s only now that you found yourself wanting to seek that out.
“You think Armin would save you?” You didn’t miss Arlert’s smile.
“I’m hoping I’ve gained his favour- done enough for him to allow me freedom via waterfall.”
It was your turn to smile. “You probably have, You’re at the temple often.”
“Thank you.” He blushed and you quickly pushed down the thought of how cute he looked. Sitting beside you, trousers rolled up and feet in the water, Mr Arlert looked more than cute. He looked like he belonged. You weren’t sure how that made you feel but, in that moment, you didn’t mind him entering your world.
“I think you would also be saved if you jumped into the waterfall,” Mr Arlert said.
You laughed. “Is that your way of saying I’m a nice person?”
“Something like that.” He paused. “I think Armin would appreciate your- uh- honesty. You’re like a priestess.” He laughs nervously at your expression. “You know, they have this personal affinity with the water and such.”
You knew exactly what he meant. How a stranger could read you so perfectly, you weren’t sure. But as you hid your smile between your hands, you wondered whether you were prepared to face the fear of the unknown. Maybe, with Mr Arlert, it would be a bit less unknown.
A few days later, Jean was announced missing. A search party was sent out and even Mr Arlert, on his recently acquired brown horse, couldn’t find him.
Present day:
Armin isn’t sure if he likes playing the part of the nice boy or not. Humans are simple creatures who praise him continuously and, without divine responsibilities, there is no need to take his rage out anywhere. But a god is who he is, and every day, he yearns to be seen as one. To be seen as one by you. He watches as you worship him, but you never look at him- not like you do the statues, or even the small river which you think is your only true connection to the god of the ocean.
You both want more, and you both know that, but you only ever admit it to each other when you sit beside that very river. There, in those moments, Armin feels a bit more like a god. Whenever he’s around you, he feels a bit more like a god.
He’s told you before, but your perfect honesty has made it easy for him to unravel around you. He wants to unravel around you in other ways, too, and he wants you to unravel around him. Armin can’t count the number of times he’s sat beside you at the riverside and wanted to do nothing more than to kiss those lips of yours, to press the hard cock that he hides inside of you and watch as your eyes roll back, and you call out his name.
But the God of the Sea is not Eren. Armin will earn you. And he’s very close to doing so. Not Mr Arlert. You have no interest in human men, that much is clear. You yearn for something more powerful. And you’re right. Only a god is worthy enough to stand beside you, lay between your legs, be in your arms. Mr Arlert is simply a means to push you to realising that the god in question is Armin.
In the meantime, he’s been nothing but patient.
It’s only when you come to his door one night, eyes puffy and red, that he lays his hands on you for the first time. He rubs your back as you cry and cry, fat tears refusing stop falling. You tell him about bout your father. About how, since he got better, he’s been refusing to let you out of the house, snapping at every moment and accusing you of being a filthy god-worshipper.
“He s-sai-d- he said we’re ‘gonna move away- said we’re gonna get as far away from the s-sea as possible.” You can hardly speak, though the tears have stopped, your voice still shakes violently. But Armin listens, he holds you close to him and repeats that everything is going to be fine.
You can’t stop thanking him as you leave, and he promises that his door is always open for you. “Whenever you call for me, I’m here,” Armin tells you. “Right beside you, always,” he adds as he watches you walk away.
He’s reached a new chapter of this Odyssey.
Present day:
You suppose your father’s death should have been expected. He was an old man, obviously depressed, and his only lifeline was his daughter who hated him.
You also suppose you should feel guilty. You don’t.
Familiar faces give their condolences and whisper questions of what is to happen to you now. You only pay heed to Sasha and Connie, though, who give you a soft hug before Sasha tells you that her family would be happy to take you in. You reassure her and everyone else that you have a plan, though your best friends are the only ones who seem to believe you.
“I heard Marie has a son who’s single, maybe they can-“
“You’re not actually talking about marriage here are you?”
“Well, the girl is all alone in the world, now! She needs a man to lead her on the right path.”
The old women are wrong, so very wrong. You don’t need a man. You’re fucking sick of men- sick of them all- everything they’ve created and everything they stand for.
What you need is a god.
The head priestess of Armin’s temple in unsurprised when you knock on her door with nothing but a bag and the clothes on your body. Those clothes are burned soon after, along with many of your other things, leaving your old life behind.
She tells you that you’re lucky there’s a place for you. The last priestess left running off with a man, “Which is a cardinal sin”, she makes sure to repeat every-so-often. The head priestess seems to hate men more than you do, sneering whenever Connie comes by.
Sasha and Connie are unsurprisingly shocked at your choice of work and even if they visit almost every day, they always tell you that they miss you. They think you’ve come the temple out of desperation- everyone does- and you let them believe. Because despite cleaning the marble floors or whatever other arduous duty you’ve been given, a smile is never far as you realise that you’re free from man. Indeed, explaining the truth to anyone would be far too difficult.
Well, except one person.
You’ve never missed anyone before. Not with your father keeping you so sheltered for most of your life. But as you push through the Head Priestess’ relentless schedule, you can’t help but miss Mr Arlert. He disappears after your father’s funeral, so you leave him a note at the empty stable with your final guess. You like to think he decided to follow his own path, you also like to think that he too wishes you were beside him, a guide in the unknown.
Present day:
The room is a box of marble, with a throne sat upon a dais at the centre and one fountain at every corner, each one sculped into a horse. The object of your interests, however, is the large bowl of water on the floor in front of the throne.
This is your initiation. You will emerge from this room not as an apprentice, but a Priestess.
You kneel down and lift the pot of clay to your lips. The head priestess kept on repeating how important it is to not put it down until you’re finished. So, you gulp the water down until you can see the image of Armin. You’re the one who selected the pot, with its faded paint depicting Armin and Hange’s fight for patronage of Sina. It’s a powerful image, but when you put the pot down, you come face to face with something very different. Armin is standing in a room-this room, you realise- and crouched down before him is a young woman, looking up in awe. It takes bit longer of a moment for you to realise that the woman is you.
Looking up slowly from the pot, the first thing you see is sandal-clad feet. Golden sandals, just as fine as the robes he wears, draped in perfect waves. The first word you think of to describe him is divine and it’s indeed accurate because-
“Mr Arlert.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.
But you know that’s not correct. The man- no, not a man- before you is taller than Mr Arlert, by a foot and a half at least. His muscles are more prominent that the stable boy’s ever were, strong legs visible through the large slit between the layers of fabric draped over the god’s figure. Half of his shoulder-length hair is tied back using a golden pin whilst the rest frames his perfect, perfect face. You can’t help but think that Armin looks nothing like his statues- no medium of art could capture the ocean within his eyes, glowing in the dull light of the room. Then again, the stories didn’t capture the way the god acts either.
“Armin,” you say, this time your voice louder.
Now, you know.
His sad smile is familiar, but there’s something there that never was. “Oh dear,” he says. “I’m afraid you’ve lost out wager.”
Armin can’t help but compare you to a puppy, with large eyes staring up at him from your crouched position and an expression a perfect mix of excitement, curiosity, and shock.
You reach out a hand tentatively, but it hovers in the air between the two of you once you notice Armin’s raised brow. But he doesn’t rebuke you for it. After all, it’s only your first encounter with the god. He can’t expect you to behave perfectly, to adopt the right etiquette- no, he’ll have to train you first. Like he would a baby mutt. The thought makes him smile.
“I’ll accept any consequences, my god,” you say. Your voice sounds so sure of itself, so unlike your usual ramblings, those that Armin could and would listen to for hours. Right now, though, the certainty, it’s laced with desire that sends blood rushing south. You don’t notice. You’re too lost in his eyes to notice anything.
When he places his hand on your chin to hold it up, he can feel you shiver. “Such a perfect little worshipper,” he says. “I couldn’t possibly punish you.”
Armin can swear he sees disappointment in your eyes before he turns around and walks up the dais. The marble of the throne is cold beneath him, but the sight of you looking up at him with such longing is enough to warm him up. Now, Armin is sure you’ve noticed his growing erection because you crawl towards the dais, not yet climbing it, but close enough to see and lick your lips.
“Let me thank you at least, Armin.” He almost groans at the sound of his name. God, he wants to hear you say it over and over.
“Come here.”
And you climb up the dais only to pause before Armin leans forward and grabs your hips. Two lips, as if led by an invisible string, meet. You kiss like you’ve been waiting years for Armin and, in a way, you have. His tongue is inside your mouth quickly and he’s kissing, sucking, letting his teeth gently graze your lips as he revels in the feeling of you. As your bodies lean against each other, you can feel his heart hammering against your own. His chest is stone, but his lips are so soft and your hands find his golden hair. It’s also softer than it looks, and Armin can’t help but let out a moan as you gently tug.
When you pull back, his pupils are blown. “Thank me, then,” Armin says, breathless.
Sitting between his legs, your hand is tiny compared to his cock, and you can’t stop staring at it. Long and somewhat slender, but veiny with a flushed red top- he can see you gulp before you take an experimental lick at him. Armin’s hold on your hair only tightens and you look up at him, doe eyed and seemingly innocent.
“Put it in your mouth, pretty girl,” he says, guiding your head gently. “So obedient- Yes, exactly, just like-ah- just like that.”
But he doesn’t need to push down- no- he lets you set your own pace only because you do it so perfectly, almost as perfect as the wet noises you make. Armin doesn’t have time to be surprised, he’s just able to react fast enough to suppress his own moans so he can hear your wet tongue caress the base of his cock, as your lips create the perfect o-shape to accommodate him. Your drool is everywhere in a matter of seconds- his balls are coated with it, and so is your lap, where the spit seeps through the thin white fabric you call a robe.
“Like a puppy,” he murmurs. And you look up quizzically. “You’re drooling over me like a desperate puppy- a puppy in heat,” he grunts. “You just want to please me, don’t you? ‘S alright, puppy, I’ll let you do that.”
If you could nod your head, you would. Instead, your cheeks burn, and Armin is so lost in the way that you look- not even able to take his entire cock in his mouth- that his hips begin to buck unconsciously. He hits the back of your throat, and you gag at the sudden impact, but he hisses and murmurs “What a good, wet hole. So good, good-”
The earthshaker is afraid that if he speaks any louder, his voice will slur into incomprehensible sultry sounds. But as you struggle to take his cock even deeper into his mouth, he lets out groans that go straight between your own legs. You moan around him, and the reverberations make his head roll back. God, you could stare at him forever. And he would let you.
“Look at me,” he says whenever your eyes go astray. “Look at your god.”
As his hips buck more violently, Armin can feel the pressure in his lower stomach, the impending orgasm and he wants to stop- wants to hold out the way he always has. But he can’t, it’s too much and he just cannot pull out of you. He simply pushes further and further into your tight throat, repeating your name like it’s a blessing. “fuck, puppy, ‘m going to- I’m going to cum down your throat. You want that, do you you’re your god’s cum- ah, fuck, ahhh”-
Pushing your head down to the base, both of his hands at the back of your head, Armin cries out you name and you can feel the warm liquid go down your throat, thick ropes filling up your mouth, some of it dribbling out. Armin reflexively pushes it back in your mouth, ordering you to swallow it all, to show how grateful you are. Of course, you oblige. But before you can even regain your breath, Armin suddenly pulls you off his cock. His pupils are dilated, and he wears an expression- anger? Shock?
“You’re not a virgin,” he hisses, teeth gritting against each other. His breath is frantic, uneven. It’s not a question and you begin to recognise his expression. Rage. “You’ve done this before.”
Fuck.
The God of the sea has his fair share of consorts and mistresses. Some of them virgins- though he never chases them the way Eren does- some of them not, but none have made him cum so fast. He would like to blame it on the year of pining, of restraint, but he knows better. It’s you. You do this him. You make him so wild, so willing, so pliant even.
In that moment, as he looks your worried face, so desperate to please, he thinks that he’ll never be able to let it go. You’ve consumed Armin and he wants to do nothing more than burn eternally. You must understand that- that you exist as his beacon, that’s where you’ll be your happiest, but those thoughts are too complex for a human. You, in your fragile state, can’t understand. It’s alright, he’ll just have to show you bit by bit that you’re his. But to do so, he must first take on the role he’s familiar with. That of the punisher.
“Who is he?” Armin snaps.
“It was only-“
“Who is he?”
You pause. Memories of nights spent together, huddled close and trying to keep quiet already fading. “Berthrolt Hoover.”
Armin’s shoulders relax, “I see.”
His breathing slowly goes back to normal, and, at the back of your mind, you know you’ve signed the young warrior’s death. But your worry is fleeting as Armin grabs you by the neck and hoists you over his knees, laying you down on your stomach effortlessly. “A priestess who isn’t a virgin?”
You look up as see Armin’s familiar sweet smile, but it’s laced with mirth that makes you forget the Mr Arlert he was before. You cry out at the first slap of his hand on your ass, more out of surprise than pain.
“I don’t think the people of Paradis will be very happy to hear that,” he says. “An unmarried woman giving herself away to a pathetic boy.”
Slap!
“I’m sorry!” you cry out. “It was a mis-”
He slaps you thrice.
“No excuses, dumb little puppy. I’m afraid you’ll have to endure this punishment.” His voice is deceptively soft, as if he is actually sorry. And when you look back up at Armin, his face betrays no malice. But it doesn’t show any cruelty either. Instead, there’s a fascination.
Armin has you sprawled across his lap, at his mercy and he is discovering you bit by bit. As a god. His cock twitches and then suddenly he tugs off the fabric of your robes and they disappear.
The way you squirm is half- hearted, and Armin has to laugh. “Embarrassed? Now of all times? I didn’t know you were such a prude. Or is this all just to compensate for the fact that you’re a whore in my temple?”
You shake your head, “I swear, I’ve never belonged to any man!”
Fingers trace the expanse of your naked body, soft enough to send shivers down your spine. “Oh? Really?”
“Yes yes, I swear, ah!” His fingers find your naked ass and they grab onto the flesh, massaging, groping, feeling you. Armin’s other hand rests on top of your head, stroking it gently and you’re so lost in his touch that you almost forget to speak.
“I belong to no man, I never have. Only you. It’s always been you, Armin.”
The god’s eyes widen, and he gently pulls you up from his lap only to seat you on it, upright and, this time, there’s so much more to admire. “You’re right,” he says. Armin captures your lips and this time, it’s longer, rougher. He doesn’t want to pull back, doesn’t want to lose the feeling of your soft lips against his, but his hands have already found your breasts and soon, his tongue joins them. You moan as he begins to lap at your breasts, leaving hickeys and spit in his wake as his finally finds your nipples and begins sucking them like a child as you whine and lean into him.
“You do belong to me,” he finally says, his voice partially muffled as he loses himself in the worship your breasts. “You’ve always belonged to me.”
And you can do nothing more than nod your head as your fingers tangle in Armin’s hair and you’re pulled into another kiss. His hand goes down your body, squeezing every single mound of flesh as if it needs to be touched so that when he finds your cunt, Armin can’t help but smile at how wet you are.
“Already, but I’ve hardly done anything to you?”
What a liar, but you don’t have a chance to tell him before he plunges a finger inside of you. “Oh, puppy, my puppy,” he groans at the contact the same time you moan, pushing your hips against his digits. “You like my fingers like that inside of you?”
“Yes, yes, I do, I really love them- it feels, oh my god, it feels too good!” you grip his shoulders, unable to do anything but desperately buck your hips at the smiling Armin. He knows what he’s doing, he knows that his fingers are giving you just that satisfaction, but it’s still not enough to bring you over the edge.
“Please Armin, please.” You squeeze his shoulders.
“Tell me what you want, tell me, I’ll give it to you- I swear.”
“I want to feel you, all- ah- all of you. I need to feel you inside of me!”
You’re not sure at which moment Armin removes his robes, but as he moves both of your legs so that you’re straddling him, your hands are on his bare, lean chest. The god’s nipples are flushed pink and pert, practically calling to you and you respond by brushing your fingers over them and watching him twitch ever-so-slightly in response. You withhold the urge to take them into your mouth, even as Armin rubs his cock against your cunt, releasing the sweetest of sounds.
He’s already leaking precum and it mixes with your juices so perfectly, his cock being dragged back and forth, only making you gush even more. “So messy,” he mumbles as he uses his tip to spreads your juices across your thighs. At this point, you can practically feel it throbbing, ready to be sheathed inside of you and the whimpers of your desperation echo against the temple walls.
When Armin slips inside of you, simultaneous gasps escape your lips. The god pulls your body closer to his as you throw your head back, stars in your eyes.
“Look,” he whispers. “Look how easily I slip in- it’s- it’s like your cunt is made for me.”
“Armin,” you whisper back. “Armin, Armin- ah- Armin.”
He sinks you down slowly, the stretch hitting every single spot that leaves your legs practically limp. The god is holding you up, whispering his own mantra that you can’t hear over your bliss. Once inside, your eyes look lock with Armin’s and he’s staring at you in a way he’s never done before. You’ve never seen pupils so dilated and the two of you stay like that as if making up for the moments when you should have been connected in this way. An eternity, it seems, the two of you have needed each other.
“I’m your god,” Armin finally says. “I’m your god and- hng ah-” He begins moving you up and down his shaft. “And I’m going to make you cum all over this cock- okay? All over your god’s cock.”
You nod your head pathetically as he lifts your hips and slams them down against his own. He is strong, ruthless in the way he bucks his hips up every time he lifts you from his cock, as if he can’t bare the empty feeling of not having your tight pussy clamped around him. At this relentless pace, you’re sure that the sound of your connecting bodies could penetrate even these marble walls. And yet, you don’t hold back. Thanks and praises spill from your swollen lips and Armin can’t help but lean forward and push his tongue between your mouth, as if he can absorb all of your word. “So good, so good, it’s- uah- I just want more, more of your cock, you fill me up so good!”
Armin can’t deny you. He pushes your thighs to your chest and picks up your entire body to fuck himself. He manoeuvres your body like a toy and as your tongue rolls out and your eyes become glassy, you begin to look like one too. The only sounds coming out of your mouth are incomprehensible, even as Armin attaches his mouth to one of your bouncing tits, you can only squeal.
“Such a good puppy,” he says between kisses. “Letting me use her holes like this. A god using a puppy’s holes- you should be- you should be grateful! Tell me, tell me you’re grateful!”
“I am!” you cry out. “I am grateful!”
“Good girl, good puppygirl.”
When Armin flips you over, you’re sat on his throne and he fucks into you harder, harder than he was doing before, and you swear his moans are louder too. He’s looking down at the movement of your stomach as if hypnotized by the way his cock disappears into you. And, in a way, he is. The fascination of being inside of you- just the idea even- is enough to make him want to cum.
The sudden position has him hitting new spots and the build-up is so fast, you hardly have the time to warn him. “Armin, Armin I’m cum-“
He grabs your face as you release around his cock, body spasming but unable to look away as Armin’s gaze burns through you. “Good girl,” he says. “Show me, show me how you cum. Just like that, just like that.”
He continues to plough his hips into yours and the spasms of your pussy leave him unable to hold back. “Inside of you,” he practically growls. “I’m going to cum inside of you- yes, yes, yes I am puppy. I’m going to cum inside of you and you’re going to show me how you take it yeah?”
You’re too far gone to even register the implications of what he’s saying, but he buries his cock in your warm walls and releases his cum inside of you with a heavy groan. “Just like that, just like that- I’m going to fill you up with my seed, puppy, my puppy.”
Armin feels like he’s emptied his balls- two powerful orgasms which leave his legs shaking violently. And yet, he pulls out of you slowly and stands back up to his full height, cock in front of your face. Almost instinctively, you rub your cheek against it, giving Armin soft kitten licks and he coos at you, stroking your hair. But he doesn’t push, he just holds his cock there and pumps softly as he stares at your fucked out face. Messy, covered in his spit, his hickeys, his bites, his cum- you look perfect, divine. Only one thing is missing. “I’m going to give you everything I have, puppy. And you’re going to take it, okay?” You nod and open your mouth for him and, immediately, a strong stream of pee emerges.
At the bitter taste on your tongue, your eyes roll back, and you spread your legs even wider, a welcome to the mess he is about to make. Armin accepts and angles his cock to release his pee over your chest, then your stomach, and then your already-throbbing cunt. He lifts a foot to rest on the throne and Armin doesn’t think he’s even seen such a beautiful sight in his life.
As if guided by an implicit will, Armin’s foot hovers on top of you and suddenly, he presses against your lower stomach. Your eyes snap back into focus as you whine out for him to wait, wait just a moment “I just had water,” you cry out. “It’s gonna- It’s gonna come out!”
But Armin simply grins. “Let it come out,” he says and presses his foot down harder. “Pee yourself dumb little mutt, be a good puppy for your owner.” The trickle that emerges is involuntary, but Armin’s grin is wider. “Yes, good girl, just like that. Let me see more, let me see more of you.”
The pressure that was holding the bowl of water back broke and you felt the warm liquid against your thighs before you realise what’s happening. Armin practically moans as he watches you whimper and struggle to hold your pee back as it spreads over the throne, the dais, and even Armin himself. He doesn’t stop until you’ve given it all to him.
You expect Armin to disappear.
You’ve given him everything. His goal is complete, you think, he has nothing more to do with you. But, as he has done many times before, the god surprises you. Armin’s body is heavy against yours when he collapses on top of you, but the weight is comforting. Despite the malaise of urine and cum rubbing against both of your bodies, you wrap your arms around the god of the ocean and hold him close.
Even as you close your eyes and lean your head back on the marble throne, Armin doesn’t leave you. Even as you open your eyes back up and see blue ones staring back at you, the look he gives you is so familiar and long hair in such unfamiliar disarray that you can’t help but smile.
He doesn’t ask why. Instead, Armin calls forth a stream of warm water from the adjacent fountain to clean the both of you. It feels like a fever dream the way floating droplets caress your bodies, and when Armin stands you up, his hands not leaving you, the perfume that suddenly envelops you is heavenly.
“Can I give you a last kiss, please?” you ask when your robe appears once again. And Armin leans forward to capture your lips, dragging his tongue on your bottom lip as if to taste you.
It doesn’t feel like a final kiss. You’ve had many of them- Jean, Sasha, Berthrold, your father, and even your mother, though you can’t remember it. This kiss is different. It feels less like a kiss and more like a promise, a vow. a shiver runs down your spine.
“I am your god,” he says and lifts his both of his hands slowly to wrap around your neck. “And you’re my worshipper.” You gasp as a cold sensation spreads around your neck, just below Armin’s fingers. It’s sudden, and heavy and when he removes his hands, yours fly to your neck and there’s a metal band there where there was none before.
“It’s sculpted from Hephaestus’ gold,” Armin says as he strokes his fingers along the metal. But he’s not looking at his gift, instead he looks at you.
“Armin- I- this is. But why?”
For the first time, he can’t read your expression. But it doesn’t matter. You belong to him. You always have, but now you know. And if it takes time for you to understand, Armin can wait. He’ll wait right beside you, always, always there to guide you.
“This is not the end of my Odyssey. My Odyssey is eternal,” he says before giving you another short kiss and disappearing, the warmth of his lips still present.
The gods might not all be fickle, you think, so you just smile sadly. But the gods are all selfish, so you touch the collar around your neck.
A/N: This is my first ever collab and I was- as still am- a bit insecure about how this story turned out so I appreciate all of your support ❤️. I would also like to apologise to my fellow history nerds for the historical inaccuracies.
#armin x reader#armin arlert#armin#armin x you#eren mikasa armin#eren aot#AoT#AOT headcanons#aot levi#aot smut#aot fanfiction#aot fanfic#snk smut#snk fanfiction#snk eren#levi attack on titan#tw piss kink#tw piss play#tw choking#tw collar#yandere armin arlert#tw stalking#throne sex#tw obsessive behavior
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Mouthful
You suck them off while they’re on the phone.
Kozume Kenma x Reader
Kuroo Tetsurou x Reader
Miya Osamu x Reader
Here you go Anon, I hope you like it!!! I am pushing the Oikawa, Kuroo, Bokuto bffs agenda because we were robbed of that interaction. I just know they would all be good friends like please,,,, imagine these mfs in college together as roommates.... It would be so perfect and they all have the brooding quiet type s/o heheh.... Also, I saw spoilers for bnha and um..... ummm.... UMMMMMM
SEMI-SMUTTY // NSFW
WC- 1,830
~~~
Kozume Kenma
Kenma has the best poker face, nothing is going to give away the fact that he is getting head
Except for when a tiny, tiny, appreciative sigh leaves his lips…..
Then the other person on the line, most definitely Kuroo will be like ‘Yo, what are you doing~’ Yes, Kuroo can tell when Kenma is getting head and will probably praise him for it
I think if you first try your advances Kenma would simply stare at you with disgust, making no effort to hide that same level of repulsiveness in his voice
He’d go along with it though because he is not going to try that hard to stop you, ‘why waste that energy’
His nimble fingers would card through your hair and he would instantly become relaxed like his shoulders would go limp and he’d flutter his eyes shut
Kenma would still be able to keep up with the conversation though because he doesn’t really add that much input anyway
However even though most people wouldn’t find any difference in his change of attitude….. Kuroo would notice, how can’t he? He would notice the subtle changes in his pudding hair best friend and would be like ‘are you getting head right now’
To which Kenma would go bright red and tense up really quick and try to hide it but ultimately give up and just sigh in defeat ‘yeah’
Kenma doesn’t like talking on the phone,,, you take it upon yourself to help him relax~
Kenma pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, trying hard not to let the hiss escape his lips. He doesn’t glance down at you, he knows that if he did, he would come undone. The feeling of your warm mouth sucking him in so nicely, your cheeks hollowing around his legnth, your tongue running underneath his cock, it makes his knees utterly weak.
“Yeah, I met that dude Oikawa, I don’t know why everyone hates him. He seems like a cool guy to me,” Kuroo aimlessly rambles, going on about how he met the well-known setter. “he’s going to hang out with Bokuto and I next weekend. You wanna come?”
Kenma sighs and it’s not because of your tongue. He silently thinks long and hard before speaking up again.
“No.”
You end up gagging on his length, blame on the fact that you tried laughing while sucking him off.
“Kenma, you’d really like him.” Kuroo persuades and Kenma mentally pictures the pros and cons.
“I’d rather play video games,” Kenma’s fingers rake through your hair and he makes the mistake of looking down at you. A quiet moan leaves his lips, the perfect little ‘ah’ that he doesn’t even hear himself. The line goes quiet for awhile and Kenma assumes that it is because Kuroo is trying to come up with another reason why Kenma should join them.
“Is (Y/N) giving you head right now?” Kuroo asks boldly and you gag once again, pinching your eyes shut at the humiliation. Defeat washes over Kenma.
“Yeah.” He sighs and Kuroo hums slightly.
“Finally, good for you, take it like a champ.” Kuroo praises and Kenma’s nose scrunches in disgust. “Anyway, I’ll come by at like nine on Saturday okay? Oikawa is only in Tokyo for the weekend.”
Kenma never can win, can he?
“Fine.”
Kuroo Tetsurou
Kuroo is suuuuch a showoff, please he will do it just to make you flustered
He will purposely roll his shoulders back, sit on the couch all arrogantly, stare straight into your eyes as he bites his lip, use his hand to push his hair back while purposely flexing his bicep, he does it all for your enjoyment as well
He is eye-candy and that bitch knows it,,,,, anything for his lovely s/o
Kuroo wouldn’t make any noises though because he doesn’t really want to get caught in the middle of a blowjob. You would refuse to finish him off and then he wouldn’t have your sweet mouth anymore…..
But,,,, if someone did catch him in the middle of a blowjob, Kuroo would not be embarrassed, please his ego would flourish I feel like he is into that kind of thing
Side bar…. Sometimes I go off with Kuroo and I think,,,, is this too occ? because I remember he is just a big science dork but then I remember no he is a scorpio and then it all makes sense, Kuroo is the best of both worlds
Kuroo wouldn’t be able to pay attention at all to the conversation at hand like Bokuto could be asking him questions about something and Kuroo is just like ‘yup, it was really hot today’ like he can’t keep up….. not when you’re so generously sucking him off
Then Kenma is like … and Akaashi is like … because they can put two and two together unlike their oblivious friend
It gets to the point where Kenma will start doing something else, like playing a video game while Bokuto tries to keep a conversation going between four people all by himself
Please, Kuroo is the ultimate tease with you but….. if he is going to get pleased then he will also try to please you as well
“And then the vice-principal got mad at me,” Bokuto groans loudly, his eye twitching as he thinks back to the incident that happened earlier in the week. “it’s not my fault he wears a wig!”
“Bokuto that was not the reason you got in trouble,” Akaashi sighs disappointedly, Kuroo doesn’t pay attention to them.
“What happened?” Kenma comments, slightly curious in the conversation at hand. Kuroo gently cups your cheek, running his thumb against your skin lovingly as he stares down you. At the sight of your teasing eyes and sinful tongue sucking on the tip of his hard cock, his thighs twitch beside you.
“… then Bokuto spiked the principals head to ‘kill the bug’ and also set his wig back to normal.” Akaashi finishes, heaving another disappointed sigh.
“See, I was helping him. He should be thanking me not scolding us for an hour.” Bokuto complains and Akaashi tries not to slap his captain through the phone.
“This is what I deal with on a daily basis, I even have a notebook to predict his next moves.” Akaashi tells Kenma, his head still numb from the scolding he had to endure earlier in the week.
“I don’t think anyone on our team is that bad, maybe Lev,” Kenma thinks and Kuroo licks his lips, his eyes darkening when he zones in on your mouth.
“Kuroo, is he even listening?” Bokuto asks curiously and Kenma narrows his eyes when he pieces together why his friend is so quiet. He knows Kuroo is either getting head or giving it.
“Ignore him, Bokuto, it’s good we don’t have to hear his voice.” Kenma tosses out and Kuroo gasps. Of course, out of everything, that is what he heard.
“Kenma!” Kuroo snaps and the setter simply hides further under his blanket on the other end of the line. “I’m just busy,”
“With what?” Bokuto eagerly pesters and Kuroo glances down at you once more.
“Stuff.”
Miya Osamu
Osamu also has a good poker face, nothing can give away that he is getting head…. There will be no slip-up from him
Unless Atsumu says something and Osamu’s competitive side jumps out for a hot second then…… then there is a slip up
‘Fuck you ‘Tsumu, I’m getting head that’s why I don’t care about your bullshit story’ cue a dramatic gasp from Atsumu and Ojiro on the other end of the line like … silence
Yeah, Osamu doesn’t do well when provoked…. Good luck with that one
Osamu wouldn’t say no to getting head like if you got onto your knees and pushed your hair back,,,, Osamu would be like ‘shit, here we go again’ he might be hesitant at first but then he will cockily accept it
He’ll carry on the conversation with disinterest, not really paying attention because all he can do is stare at you
Sometimes he will fuck your face,,,, literally….. he has no shame but when you gag too loudly then he lets you have control again
Osamu doesn’t really want to get caught…. He wants to shield you away from that
His little comments that he slides in conversations here and there will probably be noticed once he stops saying them because he is preoccupied with other things. The team can’t figure out what has him so distracted though
Osamu is usually pretty gentle,,,, until he gets angry so if you suck him off while he is having a conversation with Atsumu…. Good luck
“I have to help my grandmother around the house today, so there will be no practice. Take the day to rest.” Kita’s voice sounds throughout the multiple phones and Osamu lets out a soft hum. His eyes are staring directly at you while he holds your hair back out of your face, despite his neutral face you can still see the fondness swimming in his eyes.
“Say hi to gran for me!” Atsumu says and Ojiro glances at him, the two on the same device as they walk through the city.
“No.” Kita responds and Atsumu sighs dejectedly before going off on Ojiro when he starts to laugh at him.
Osamu continues to pay no attention to him, instead, he thrusts into your mouth while holding your head still so he can control the pace. It feels so good, he could fucking cum-
“Yo, ‘Samu what are you even doing? Reading your old man magazines?” Atsumu snickers when he notices how quiet his brother has been. Osamu closes his eyes momentarily, trying to calm himself down from snapping. He gently pulls himself off of you, allowing you to take over the pace.
“Eat shit ‘Tsumu.” Osamu snaps back, now watching the way your hands grip his strong thighs as you bob your head along his length.
“My grandmother-“ Kita starts but is quickly cut off.
“Ah, the shit that you cook ‘Samu?” Atsumu retorts, sticking his tongue out despite Osamu not being able to see it.
“Stop it, my grandmother-“ Kita tries again but Osamu interrupts him. The grip in your hair tightens as his anger grows.
“You really like that shit then since all you do is fucking eat it!” Osamu curses and Atsumu decides to tease him even more.
“I’ve never seen (Y/N) eat your cooking, that’s how you know it’s shit.” A gasp is heard right after Atsumu’s comment, Suna’s mouth falls open in shock.
“She eats all my cooking, I feed her well but right now she’s too busy sucking my dick.” Osamu spits and you immediately pull off of him, your mouth a perfect ‘o’ as you stare up at him in disbelief.
“You, right now?” Atsumu asks slowly and the line goes quiet.
“My grandmother is listening, I have the phone on speaker.” Kita finally finishes and the Miya twins start to count their final days.
~
Taglist.
@yams046 @why-am-i-sad-and-sleepy @xhanjisungiex @xxashshs @chaosamu @angelkogane @augustdearly @kunimwuah @littleshopoflove @osamuonigiri @pearzuko @darksxder @macaronnv @nerdygremlin @buzzybeebee
#kozume kenma x reader#kuroo tetsuro x reader#miya osamu x reader#kenma x reader#kuroo x reader#osamu x reader#kenma smut#kuroo smut#osamu smut#haikyuu fic#haikyuu x y/n#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu x you#haikyuu smut
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Hey! Love your stories so much I just had to ask! Do you have any favorite drarry authors/stories? I sometimes compare the quality of other stories to ROA (oops!) because ROA is just that good. My personal favorites are ROA (of course!), the Foundations Series (saras_girl), the ordeal of being known (louisfake), denouement (the_never_was), Good to Me (And I'd Be So Good to You) (AWickedMemory), and To Hurt and Heal (cassisluna). Have you read these? Have a wonderful day! :)
Thank you, so glad you’ve enjoyed my stories! And thank you for so patiently waiting for a reply. I haven’t been online much in the past couple of weeks. Unfortunately I haven’t read any of your recs, but I’m always happy to add another fic to my to-read list.
I did a rec post a few months ago, but I’ll post an updated version now. The Skyhawke Archives appear to be down, which is crushing news. I’ve had to update a lot of the links.
So here are my favourite Drarry fanfics:
And We Are At Our Apogee (PG-13) by angelgazing
Summary: Draco wanted revenge, but it didn't work out that way.
My notes: Californian beaches, supermarkets, road trips, and a bittersweet ending.
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A Reckless State of Mind (T) by Lomonaaeren
Summary: Draco is a Psyche-Diver, and his newest patient is Auror Potter, who’s been a pathological liar for over a year—and has just tried to violently end his own life.
Notes: The plot alone guarantees inclusion on this list. Probably the most creative fic I’ve ever read, and the twists and turns will keep you guessing.
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Berlin, In the Year of Our Lord (PG) by Are
Summary: Harry is a green-tea addict. Draco stalks him.
Notes: Probably my all-time favourite fic, along with Blue Vase. It’s sparse and minimal and I love that writing style.
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Blue Vase (M) by ivyblossom
Summary: Let’s pretend.
Notes: Draco finds an amnesiac Harry and befriends him, pretending they were once lovers. It’s pensive, short, and bittersweet.
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The Boy Who Only Lived Twice (E) by lettered
Summary: Harry Potter is an Unspeakable. Draco Malfoy is the wizard who shagged him. Adventure! Intrigue! Secret identities, celebrities, spies! It's all right here, folks.
Notes: Action-heavy fics are damn hard to write, but lettered nails it. The action scenes are breakneck speed, the conversations are threaded with double meaning, and even the silences are tense.
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Draco in Darkness (T) by Plumeria47.
Summary: Following an accident in his seventh year, Draco loses his eyesight.
Notes: This is one of the first fics I ever read (when it was over on FF in 2003) so it’s probably here just for nostalgia points alone. I read it when I was a kid and just thought it was a lovely golden fairytale, the best romance I’d ever read in my (very short, thus far) life. I love reading it again, even years later as an adult when I can see the tarnish on it; the things my childhood eyes didn’t notice. I don’t care. It’s my soft and fuzzy comfort fic.
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The Flesh is Frail (NC-17) by wildestranger
Summary: None
Notes: Draco has injuries from curses and spells, and Harry keeps him company. Draco is angry; Harry is stubborn. They argue their way into a grudging relationship. It’s a short read and well worth your ten minutes.
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Good-bye to Yesterday (NC-17) by furiosity
Summary: Draco felt ready to face even a million years in Azkaban as long as it meant that at the end of it all, he would make Potter pay.
Notes: It’s not a dark fic, but it certainly dips in and out of the shadows. If you like your romance to be sharp as a razor and bitter as black coffee, give it a read.
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Hymn to Color (PG) by Lomonaaeren
Summary: Months after Draco cast a curse that took Harry’s eyesight, Harry is still trying to come to terms with it. Draco still wanted forgiveness, which was probably the problem.
Notes: Probably my very inadequate idea of “fluff”. It’s a quiet, introspective fic. Draco and Harry are well-written.
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Kings among runaways (PG) by enderxenocide.
Summary: Later, the toast will be slightly overcooked, Draco will burn the eggs, and there will be another fist fight in-between the living room and the front door, but they’ll eat breakfast with second-hand plates and Draco’s great-grandmother’s silverware.
Notes: Dreamy descriptions, abstract scenes, and the characters are lovingly delineated. Beautiful writing.
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On Broken Glass (PG-13) by coffeejunkii
Summary: After the final battle, Draco is holding the shards that are left of his and Harry’s life.
Notes: Established relationship. Harry’s forgetful and seems to suffer both short-term and long-term memory loss; Draco stays by his side through six years of post-war amnesia. Very short, just a tiny ficlet. There’s sequels (in bite-size pieces) but I prefer to read the first ficlet and leave it there.
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Paper Dolls (M) by cupiscent
Summary: In the final year of the War, Draco gets a letter, makes a choice and pays the price.
Notes: Short, succinct, and packs a punch. No character deaths, in case the summary has you feeling nervous.
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Portrait (PG-13) by Silent Blast
Summary: None.
Notes: Dorian Grey, but Drarry. Of course it’s going to be good.
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Shattered (NC-17) by femmequixotic
Summary: One damned accident involving one too-lucky curse, and suddenly you'd think he was five again, with their Harry, be carefuls and their quick Levitating charms ready the instant the potion gives way and his rebelling hands lose hold of whatever's in their grasp.
Notes: Draco’s an artist. Harry’s intrigued by his sculptures and paintings.
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Snatch (PG-13) by didntyoupotter
Summary: Harry is comatose, Hermione and Ron aren’t much help, and Draco isn’t sure about anything anymore.
Notes: The opening scene fools you into thinking this will be a light read with a streak of good humour. Don’t fall for it. By the third act, you’ll be hanging onto every word and feeling a lot of emotions. Also, back in the day, this was one of the Draco/Harry fics. Everyone knew of it. Pay your respects to your fandom history and read this beloved classic.
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The Stages of Acceptance (T) by Lomonaaeren.
Summary: Harry, already happily married to Ginny, receives the news that he's Draco's mate. Law and custom don't give him the option of ignoring the news. The stages of his reaction, one by one.
Notes: This is not a romance, and I love that the author just casually chucks all the Veela tropes in the bin and says “nope”. In Lomonaaeren’s own words, this fic is more practical than romantic. Harry is unfamiliar with the Veela concepts and hates the very idea of being “shackled” to someone; he rejects Draco at once. Draco is miserable and lonely. They do eventually come to understand each other better, but it’s a huge struggle with lots of setbacks. The general air of pessimism and misery does make the small glimpses of compassion and empathy feel so well-earned. I love a fic that rations out its happiness.
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The Stately Homes of Wiltshire (E) by waspabi
Summary: Malfoy Manor has mould, dry rot and an infestation of unusually historical poltergeists. Harry Potter is on the case.
Notes: This one needs no introduction. The writing is polished, the characterisation perfect, and the dialogue is fun. I love the humour woven throughout it.
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Then Comes a Mist and a Weeping Rain (E) by faithwood.
Summary: It always rains for Draco Malfoy. Metaphorically. And literally. Ever since he had accidentally Conjured a cloud. A cloud that's ever so cross.
Notes: Another one that most of us know. It’s a lighthearted and fun read.
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Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow (M) by novembersnow
Summary: In the war-torn years after Hogwarts, one man has no knowledge of his yesterdays.
Notes: Another classic back in the feverish heyday of the Harry Potter fandom, when books were still being released and everyone had worked themselves up into a shipping frenzy. And no wonder this fic was an instant hit. Draco has lost all his memories and Harry’s investigating as an Auror, but the longer you read, the more you start questioning everything. Good twists and turns that lead to a tender ending.
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Turn by Saras_Girl
Summary: One good turn always deserves another. Apparently.
Notes: An inevitable inclusion on any favourites list. I think my favourite thing about it is the characterisation. Everyone is so well-rounded; the characters are brought to life and feel like old friends. All their habits, styles, mannerisms, even the way they walk or talk. While I love everyone in this fic, I have to admit that Blaise is just amazing. Of all the thousands of Blaises imagined by fanfic writers, I love this one the best. “Old bean” indeed.
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Under the Ivy (PG-13) by coffeejunkii
Summary: It is impressive how much you can learn about someone by simply sharing a few rooms. They don’t spend time together, not really, but Harry still knows that Malfoy prefers raspberry jam over strawberry, that he hums along to the Wireless when he thinks no one is around, and that his leg is bothering him more than usual when the temperatures drop below freezing.
Notes: Another old, old favourite of mine. It’s like snuggling into a soft blanket. Remus owns a cottage and Harry moves in after the war. Later, Remus lets a room to Draco, who is an outcast after the war and has limited housing options. Harry isn’t happy at first with the new lodger, but he eventually warms up to Draco. A slow and gentle romance.
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Vale Sanare (M) by rurounihime
Summary: Draco’s world gains a new component, just when he thought he’d sorted everything out.
Notes: London nightclubs, one-night-stands, loud music and lonely nights. Draco has seizures due to a curse from the war, and the seizures have led to a fear of intimacy. Short and sweet.
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The Way Down (T) by lettered
Summary: Malfoy’s all, “Come out of there,” the way you say to a cat who is badly behaved. And Harry’s all like, “No, what, I’m a hermit! And I have a chest-monster! And I am crazy magically powerful!” and Malfoy’s all, “We all have problems, bub.” (thoughtfully) “You are crazy though. I’ll give you that.”
Notes: I just adore this fic. The fic starts well-grounded, giving you a solid backstory and matter-of-fact context, but as it goes on, it slowly unravels into dreamy scenes, lush settings, and repeated motifs. It’s just such a beautiful story.
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When Love beckons to you, follow him (PG-13) by megyal
Summary: Draco wakes up, lost, somewhere in a forest. He has no idea where he is or how he got there. As he is blundering around trying to find his way home, he hears Harry's voice in his head, telling him what to do.
Notes: I generally like my fics to be bittersweet or with a bit of heartache — but this fic is just a little cloud of softness. If you need something light and lovely without being syrupy-sweet, this is a good choice!
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The World of the Living (M) by fourth_rose
Summary: A traumatised war hero and a convicted criminal under the roof of an eccentric journalist make for a rather odd ensemble, but Luna has never had a problem with oddities as long as they make sense.
Notes: The story is told from Luna’s perspective, which gives everything a lovely dreamy quality. She takes in a couple of strays after the war — first Harry, who is avoiding his other friends and has quit his Auror job — and then she offers a room to Draco right after his trial. Draco is rude, angry, and ungrateful; Harry is churlish, withdrawn, and moody. Luna doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest, and over the course of the next few months, her house guests slowly warm up to each other.
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Voices From the Fog (E) by noeon
Summary: After years of running away, Harry crosses paths with an all-too familiar face and follows him to Amsterdam.
Notes: Harry drifts across Europe, trying to forget the war. He ends up in a woodworking shop in Amsterdam, alongside a moody Draco. Atmospheric settings and solid characterisation.
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not ur friend
spencer reid x reader
aaron hotchner x reader
part two - part three
a/n: haven’t written for spence in a while lol. hope you guys like it. wow...and i wrote him as an ass. bahahaha what am i going through i’m so sorry.
warning(s): language. angst. not proofread. will be mistakes.
word count: 1.8k
request(ed): no.
summary: y/n overhears something she shouldn’t have. this conversation alters her relationship.
not ur friend by jeremy zucker.
———————-——————&————————————
Hang up, if you ever think of calling me up. Not afraid to say it, darling.
3 days.
It’s been an entire weekend of you ignoring Spencer and his ever intruding phone calls. This wouldn’t have been a big deal except for the fact that this felt like a breakup. Your head and heart was treating this like you were in a relationship and he made it painfully clear that you weren’t.
It was quiet in your apartment. The television was off, the radio was silent, the heater had paused and even the refrigerator wasn’t making the usual silent buzz noise it made. The deafness of it all allowed the conversation you heard friday night play over and over again through your ached head.
Friday 11:37 pm.
“So Reid...” you picked up your phone when it rang and read Spencer’s name across the screen. It wasn’t like him to call so late but you picked up anyway. When it was a muffled Morgan’s voice you heard instead of Spencer’s you realized he hadn’t even meant to call you at all.
“How’s your girlfriend?”
You just knew all eyes were on him. Spencer Reid was very private about his social life. It was rare he even told you about anything he’d been up to. He just wasn’t one for small talk. The fact that you just knew they were talking about you made you press your phone harder into your ear even though you weren’t even sure you should have been listening.
“Oh y/n? Yeah she’s definitely not my girlfriend.”
This stung. There wasn’t even a label or anything that you guys put on it, but usually when Spencer would talk about his romantic relationships he’d get nervous and stuttery and try to change the subject. Spencer’s voice was clear and steady. Zero hints of nervousness and bashfulness. He was serious.
“Really?” This was Emily now, you could recognize her voice. “You guys seem like pretty close friends if you know what I mean.” Her tone was laced with humor but Spencer’s was far from joking.
“No. I wouldn’t call us friends either. She’s just someone I visit. Like y’know...how you would a grandmother.”
A grandmother? He compared you to a grandmother? He said visiting you was like visiting a grandmother?? You could feel the tears in your eyes. You really thought Spencer was a good guy. Why would he say something so rude? Something so hurtful about the person he was sleeping with.
It wasn’t a friends with benefits. You guys had agreed on that, but you weren’t dating either. You had met him at a museum and ever since then you two had behaved as if a couple would. The only difference was that you weren’t public. You weren’t posting pictures, or gushing over how cute you thought your “boyfriend” was to your friends. And you were fine with that. Labels are constricting. You were glad not to have them except when he decided to say he barely knew you at all and compared you to a grandmother.
“Damn.” Morgan sounded impressed. “Does she know that?”
“Maybe.” Spencer paused. “There’s nothing really romantic about our relationship. To be honest, she can be a bit needy at times and it’s suffocating.”
He paused again.
“I’m actually thinking of breaking things off. She wants more and I just don’t like her that way.”
Sorry, I'm not sorry if it hurts. I don’t mean to make it worse.
This is where you hung up. Your tears never stopped flowing. How dare he? How dare he say you were needy and suffocating? You rarely asked him for anything, and didn’t bother him with things at all. You knew he was a busy person. A busy and hardworking person. You never tried to ask him for more than he was willing to give. Ever. It hurt your heart to think he was playing you the whole time.
It hurt to think that all the “I adore you’s” and “I think I’m in love with you’s” were all fake. You were pretty sure with the way things were headed that you and Spencer would have much more than just a relationship. Much more than sex and cuddles. But a meaning - an understanding.
Spencer was your comfort. Your safe place. The person you’d go to if you were hurting, or in trouble. You were his. Countless times he came to your house and cried to you about the stress from his job. He’d hold you and tell you all about his day and what more he wished he could have done.
You’d buy him his favorite food and he’d cuddle you to sleep only to wake you up in the morning with kisses and great morning sex. To hear all of that meant basically nothing to him tore your heart to pieces.
It made you want to throw up. Had you wasted your time? Had he felt this way the entire time and you just never noticed because you hoped he felt the same? Were there signs that you missed? Something you could have done to prevent yourself from falling this hard for someone who didn’t care?
But you thought he cared.
Spencer was the most caring, empathetic person you’d ever met in your life. He was so understanding in a way no one could ever get.
I've decided that I'm not your fucking friend.
This is why you thought that maybe this is why he tried to hide you. Maybe he just was afraid of his friends not liking you, or afraid of someone from where he worked would try to hurt you. You prayed this was the case. You hoped and cried that this was the reason he’d ever let those words leave his mouth.
The reason you couldn’t believe this though is something understandable.
He had never, ever, called you anything other than his friend, and never wanted to go out.
He told you it was because he was protecting you, but he never wanted to even meet your friends. And when you talked about a guy or introduced him to one, he’d get upset and say something like, “Yeah well he seems perfect for you anyway. Not like we’re a thing - do what you want.”
And your brain tried to rationalize this as protection. The more you thought about it the more the other part of your brain screamed manipulation. You tried to ignore it but is that what was happening? Had he been manipulating you the entire time and you just never knew it?
If he was protecting you he wouldn’t call you needy. He wouldn’t not even bother to look at your friends. He wouldn’t feel the need to hide you from the entire world and lie about it in such a - douchebag way.
This hurt you though. His team can call out a liar faster than anyone and they would have said something if they thought he was lying. They would have defended you. The wouldn’t have egged him away and joked about you like you were some embarrassing one night stand.
You expected respect and decency and got dishonesty and asshole attitudes instead.
After the weekend of pitying yourself you realized you needed to stop. This wasn’t your fault. He has issues of his own. Issues he needs to work out and come to terms with on his own. Why should you feel anything for a man trying to hide you? Lying to you? Lying to his friends ABOUT you. Reassuring yourself helped but didn’t help the ache in your heart.
Were you ready for this? Were you ready to throw it all away? After all it could just be a misunderstanding. A misinterpretation. It could be your fault. Maybe you were clingy.
No.
No. Absolutely not. You weren’t going to try to defend his actions.
Right now, there's not much that we agree on. Sit down, if you need someone to lean on.
You called him.
“Hello?” he answered right away. “Where have you been are you okay? I was gonna come over and check.”
“Don’t come over.” You cleared your throat and blinked away tears.
“Then please come to mine. I have to talk to you, I missed you.”
He still has no idea. He doesn’t have a clue what you overheard on the phone. All the pieces of the puzzle you put together. All that you’ve realized in the past 3 days.
You rolled your eyes. Any other day you’d think his obliviousness was adorable but right now it only made you want to punch him in his stomach for lying to you and wasting your time.
“I’ll be over to give you your things.”
And you hung up.
That was so hard for you to do and you had hot wet tears running down your face to prove it. No matter how many times you tried to brush them away they just kept on going down.
Fuck him.
A shower and a change of clothes later you were finally ready to see him.
Honest, if I'm coming to your place, it's to say it to your face...
In your car you tried to talk yourself out of it. You told yourself to just forget the phone call over happened and just go back to the way things were. At least you here happy then...at least...sort of. You were okay. You were happy with him. The time you spent with him was enjoyable but you were tired of being his therapist. You were tired of being his dirty mistress. You didn’t want to be lied to or lied about. You were over it.
When you got there he rushed you in the house and looked down at you confusingly.
You had never been inside his place. The only time you were ever really here was when you were inside waiting in the car so that he could change his shirt.
“I thought you were coming tomorrow?”
“I came now to give you your things.”
“JJ will be here soon, you should probably leave. Why did you bring this stuff?”
“They’re yours. They shouldn’t be at my place.”
He looked confused but took the box from your hands anyway.
“I’m leaving.” You simply said and turned towards the door. The sooner you were out the better.
“Can I at least have a kiss?” Spencer asked in the cute voice he knew you liked.
You closed your eyes. “Sorry Reid, but no. I don’t want to seem needy or suffocating, ya’know? Makes it easier to break things off.”
Color drained from his face as he realized what you were talking about. He couldn’t even come up with an excuse other than a - “No, baby I -“
You put your palm in the air facing him telling him to stop.
“It’s okay. I was just someone you visited...like a grandmother. You shouldn’t miss me too much. We’re not even friends, right?”
You walked out of the house.
You walked out on him. Your heart was beating out of your chest. He was always the one to leave. He was always the one to say goodbye.
I've decided that I'm not your fucking friend.
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taglist: @hotchsbabygirl @pinkdiamond1016 @thefemalestorywriter @sizzlingclamturtlesludge @samyilf123
#spencer reid x reader#criminal minds#spencer reid#criminal minds imagine#spencer reid angst#spencer reid criminal minds#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid imagines#criminal minds self insert#spencer reid smut#spencer reid x reader smut#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x you#spencer reid fanfiction#dr spencer reid#dr. spencer reid#spencer reid x oc#spence reid#spencer reid headcannon#spencer reid x reader insert
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I love your writing. May I have Loki x Reader? The reader is a sweet, delicate dreamer. Loki has come to conquer the world. He saw her and wants her to become his Queen of Midgard. He kidnapped her. She pleads with him to let her go while she is tied to the bed. He caresses her hair and says she will love him (he doesn't want to use the scepter on her).
***Can I have White Reader x Loki, please? Loki just escaped from the Helicarrier. He saw the reader who is a sweet and innocent creature. Loki doesn't want her dead when he will start battle. Loki kidnaps her and locks her up to keep her safe. When he wins, Loki tells her that she will become his queen.***
Hi! I decided to combine the prompts and make the reader plus-sized. I hope you enjoy!
His Match
Pairing: Dark!Loki x Plus-Sized Female Reader
Summary: You’ve tried to live by your grandmother’s rule of being kind to others, even when the world gives you the middle finger. What if a Norse God decided reward you by becoming his Queen?
Word Count: 1,745
Rating: 18+/Mature
Warning: Kidnapping, Implied Dub/Non-Con, Angst, and some Violence
A/N: Thanks goes to the amazing @angrythingstarlight for beta reading this!
Loki was walking around New York City, scouting Stark Tower making sure the final preparations of his plan was perfect when something, or rather someone, caught his eye.
She walked out of what looked like a women’s clothing store with a forlorn smile. She was plumper than the average female Midgardian last time he frequented the realm. His eyes did not miss the enticing curves that lied beneath her clothes despite her efforts to ensconce herself into the background.
She was a vision.
Her eyes met his for the briefest of moments and it felt like time stopped. His heart quickened in his chest and a rush of blood surged to his groin.
He had to follow her. His Elskan.
“Barton, tell the others I’ll be out for a few more hours. Proceed as planned.”
–––––
He found you entering a rather destitute apartment complex. Its lights and foundation were a bit unsound and gave off a seedy ambience.
Loki grimaced at her living conditions. When he ruled Midgard, she would have only the best.
Casting a simple concealment spell, Loki entered her fairly small apartment. She began mixing ingredients together for what looked to be ‘chocolate chip cookies’. He smiled as he inhaled the sweet aroma knowingly; Asgard had only recently started consuming the sweet. She soon laid out a batch of thick, scrumptious cookies with a satisfied expression.
They reminded him of better times when he and Thor would sneak into the kitchens and swipe confections from under the baker’s nose. Loki chuckled at the memory; those were the days.
Not ten minutes after she placed the last cookie onto the cooling rack did her phone ring. It was her mother. Loki felt dread coming off his Elskan in waves.
Loki could only make out bits and pieces of the conversation, if you could call it that. Her mother constantly nagged her about her weight, life choices, and her ‘pathetic’ attempts to get over her ex-boyfriend. His heart broke as he saw tears begin to fall and the croaking of her voice as she bid the odious creature goodnight.
Several minutes after she cried herself to sleep, Loki entered his Elskan’s bedroom. He spied her diary on the nightstand and decided to read a few pages.
He was fuming within two minutes.
How dare that caustic pig sow treat his Elskan, her own daughter, in a such ghastly manner! Her ‘perfect’ sister always slighting and reminding her on how ‘she’ll never be good enough for anything’ and her father’s callous indifference to her cries for help and solace only added to his rage. Combined with the way her ex-boyfriend, the repugnant gnat, treated her (he cheated on her with someone who ‘wasn’t built like a blimp’ and ‘the only thing you thing you had going for you were your tits’) and he wanted to speed up the invasion just to watch the horror become engrained onto their faces.
And yet, she endeavored to treat everyone with kindness harkening back to your grandmother. She strived to be the one light in one’s otherwise miserable existence.
Well, she can be his light as his Elskan and Queen.
Loki took a deep, cleansing breath. He needed to stick to the plan. When he conquers Midgard, she will be their queen. She will grace the undeserving masses with her elegance and beauty and he will worship her every chance he got.
He just had to make her see it that way.
Gently, the light forest green glow of Loki's magic flowed from his hand to the crown of her head like a halo. He leaned in and kissed her cheek with a smile as he left.
He hated to leave her, but he had a realm to conquer. Though he hoped she’d enjoy the introductory gift.
––––––
You were in your grandmother’s living room; spacious yet comfy with all of her quirkiness and splendor included. It was odd since you haven’t been in her house since your parents sold after her death seven years ago. You tearfully smiled remembering all the good times you had with her, the only member of your family you gave you any true warmth or love.
Her piano was in the corner, barely aged a day with all the music sheets, pens, a light scratches you came to know and love. You took your seat and started to play the piano version of one of your favorite movie themes.
You were so engrossed in playing, you failed to notice someone materializing into your dreamscape.
“What a lovely tune! What is it called?” A smooth, honey-tinged voice broke your concentration.
You turned your head and saw what had to be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. He was tall (6’ 10” / 2.08m) easily towering over any man you’ve ever met. He had smooth alabaster skin, light rose undertones with a little blue-red just under his eyes. His cheekbones were immaculate, somehow looked sharp and soft at the same time. He had thin lips with a fair plumpness to the bottom one. His slicked-back, shoulder-length Ponzu/Shadow Purple hair kissed his lean, battle-hardened physique (if the way he’s filling out his outfit was anyway to go by). All of this deliciousness was clothed in a casual Palm Green suit with a Glossy Black tie and shoes.
It took you a full minute to stop ogling him, “Wha-What did you say?”
“I apologize for disturbing you, my lady. I asked what you were playing.” His voice had hints of mirth which was odd considering his appearance. Most people in his league would give you a thinly veiled sneer of disgust, but he seemed genuinely interested.
“Um, well, it’s called Merry-Go-Round of Life from the movie Howl’s Moving Castle. It’s a favorite of mine. I used to play it all the time until…” You trailed off, not wanting to revisit how your grandmother died.
“You do not have to tell me if it brings you such displeasure.”
“Thank you, um…”
“Loki. Please, call me Loki.”
“Loki,” he inwardly moaned at the way you said his name, “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. Please, continue playing.”
And you did for what felt like hours, all while your sexy dream companion asked about your hopes, dreams, anything he could think of really. You in turn asked him about his life and interests; you even laughed at a story of his brother having to dress like a bride to get his hammer back.
You soon became enamored with Loki. It was refreshing to be noticed with actual interest, not ridicule or pity. He seemed to taken with you as well, if his gentle caresses and not-so-subtle lustful glances he gave you were any indication.
You were glad this was just a dream. You didn’t want your heart to break like last time.
Loki was about to lean in for a kiss when everything faded to black.
–––––
You jolted up from the mattress and screamed once you realized you weren’t in your room.
No, this room was…spectacular for lack of better word. It had high ceilings, large windows, ornate chandeliers, and magnificent balcony. Luxurious dark greens, gold, and black covered the room in splendor. Extravagant pieces of furniture dripped with precious stones metal worthy of queens or royal mistresses of old.
“What is this place?”
You tried to leave but was forced back onto the bed by a force field. You tried to take calm breaths just like your therapist taught you in order to make an escape plan.
No sooner did you calm down than the door open to reveal-
“Loki!”
Only Loki was wearing radically different clothing; looked like he walked right out of a fantasy epic. And yet, his smile was enchanting.
“What am I doing here? I need to go back home.”
He tutted in response, “That would not be wise, Elskan Mín. This world is mine now and this is safest place to be.” He was right. His brother’s team of desperate souls were no match for his cunning and Chitauri Forces. Midgard’s pathetic leaders gave up in less than an hour once their beloved ‘heroes’ were defeated, broken, and laid bare before them.
“You can’t be serious, Loki. I need to leave.”
“And go where? Like I said, this realm is mine now. That rat poison of a dwelling is no more and I have dealt with your ‘family’ as needed.” Loki smirked at the memories. It gave him extreme joy squeezing the life out of that worthless pig of mother, breaking every bone in your father’s body one by one, and leaving your ‘perfect’ sister alive with partially rotten skin. Not even the scavengers or maggots would find or want the remains of the scurvy insect of an ex-boyfriend, though he was still alive..just barely.
Well, at least until he decided on how to destroy the blight of creature.
Though he did make sure to leave two of your real friend were treated well. You needed to have someone to talk to while he was away.
You gazed into his Spearmint colored eyes in one last attempt, “Please Loki! If you love me, you’ll let me go!”
For a split second, you could’ve sworn you saw hurt in his eyes and he glided across the room. You back hit the headboard in you sad efforts to get away from him.
“Elskan Mín, I promise to always love, cherish, and worship every part of your glorious body. You will become Midgard’s queen and my goddess. No. One. Will. Ever. Demean. Or. Slight. You. Again.” he punctuated each word of the last sentence with soft, open-mouthed kisses to your face, neck, shoulders, and collarbone.
You tried to fight him, but it felt so good. His touches sent shots of lightning to your core; plus his lips and fingers were cook to the touch provided excellent contrast to the spike in heat.
You started crying realizing how pathetic this was, to have the first person to profess such feelings be a kidnapper. You were actually contemplating whether or not he was telling the truth.
Loki sensed your sorrow and kissed your tears away. “I know this might be ‘difficult’ at first, but you will love me in time.” He hoped he did not have to use the scepter.
You thought about your dream and all of the effort he was putting into this. It was frightening, but it came from a place of love.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to stay.
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#loki (marvel)#loki x reader#marvel loki x reader#dark loki#loki x female reader#loki x plus-sized reader#mcu imagine#dark!loki#dark!loki x reader#marvel fanfiction#mcu au#loki imagines#loki imagines angst#mcu fanfiction#his match#oge answers#tom hiddleston
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Amoreena | Chapter Three
Chapter Three
summary: Heaven is a real place and it's located exactly 14.6 miles away from the FBI, Quantico Headquarters. Off behind a small park, under a fantastical willow tree surrounded by wildflowers, in every colour young minds can imagine.
Don't forget, heaven also comes with angels.
Warnings: fluff, hurt/comfort, depressed spencer, reader has a daughter, falling in love, strangers to lovers
word count: 2.8k
from the beginning <3
Y/N set him up with a pair of her father's old pyjamas, giving him a spare room to sleep in for the night instead of the couch, she figured he'd need privacy in the morning and not a 7-year-old attacking him at the crack of dawn. He was so grateful for their day together, hugging her goodnight and slipping away into the room to think about everything.
He took a moment to just sit on the bed, looking around at how she decorated. It was pretty plain, just a bed and some light green walls. Books gaining dust in the corner, clothes and blankets folded on top of the dresser against the wall, the only personality was the photo on the night table and the quilt on the bed.
There was a reason it wasn’t used anymore. The photo on the table was of her grandparent's wedding, it was black and white and older than him. They looked happy and in love, her grandmother was a spitting image of her, no wonder they were so close.
It made him feel a little emotional to know he was in this room. The memories it had with her, the connection to her grandma that she clearly wanted to keep. Otherwise, this room would be used for something other than housing the man they met at the park for a single night.
She was trusting him in this space, leaving him alone for the night to deal with his brain on hyperdrive, giving him the opportunity to stare at the ceiling as he remembered the day in glorious detail.
Drifting off into a peaceful slumber quicker than he figured he would.
—
He awoke to the feeling of someone holding his face, the soft touch of flesh on his cheeks. He fluttered his eyes open into the early morning sunshine, “good morning cutie,” Y/N whispered.
“Am I dead?”
She smiles as she laughs, leaning down to press her forehead against his shoulder, he wraps his arms around her on instinct, holding her as close as the night before.
“You looked like an angel,” he whispers an explanation.
She pulled back then, returning her hand to his face as she looked at him, “you’re beautiful in the mornings too.”
“What time is it?”
“7:30,” she confirmed with a small smile. “Amoreena is feeding the baby goats with her poppy, she’ll be in for breakfast in a few minutes if you want some cereal. My grandpa’s stuff is in the closet if you wanted something cozy, it’s a foggy one out there.”
He was so in love with her at that moment, nothing but happiness and wonderful words left her mouth. She was more euphoric to him than any drug, rushing more serotonin to his brain than any one-night stand managed to do, and he hasn’t even kissed her yet.
He noticed then she was in her pyjamas, a cute nightgown like his own mother would wear when he was a kid. Cows jumping over the moon displayed on the chest, it was adorable. She was everything to him.
“I’ll see you downstairs?” She says as she stands, removing her hand from his face as her fingers lingers on his skin, he didn’t want her to leave.
“Yeah,” he smiled, watching her leave as he sat up.
He put his slacks back on making sure he had his lactose pills in the pocket, a red sweater from the closet and a brown ranch hat. Wanting to fit the part of Farmhand while he was with them, and to see if it would make Amoreena laugh at him.
He kept a travel toothbrush in his satchel for times when he was sleeping in places he didn’t belong. Using the bathroom and making himself look as presentable as possible, he really, really wanted them to like him enough to keep him around.
Y/N was packing Amoreena’s lunch in the kitchen when he finally wandered in, taking a moment to look at what he was wearing. She smiled at him, placing her hand on her heart, “My grandpa loved that hat, you look great.”
“Thank you,” he says softly as he takes a seat at the counter, watching her carefully cut the crust off a sandwich.
She has a special sandwich cutter, pressing it into the bread and revealing the two dinosaur-shaped halves. Putting them in a little baggie and adding them to her pile of healthy snacks in Amoreena's lunch box.
“You’re the best mother,” the compliment rolling off his tongue without his permission.
She blushed lightly, “thank you, I try.”
Like a herd of elephants, Amoreena was running up the porch steps and swinging the door open, causing the chimes to bang off the wood before it eventually smacked the house.
“Gentle!” Y/N called down the hallway, “don’t get mud on the floor.”
Amoreena took her boots off neatly, hanging up her coat and cowboy hat before joining Spencer at the counter. “Good morning, Spencer!”
“How’s the kingdom this morning?” He asks out of pure curiosity, greeted with the purest response from her.
Amoreena’s eyes lit up like she didn’t expect him to believe in her fantasy world. What she didn't know was how easy it was for him to call this the kingdom, a far off land of true freedom and happiness. It was a little perfect world that didn’t feel real to him yet.
“It’s great, you’re so nice,” she sighed, laying her head on the counter. “Can I have some lucky charms?”
Y/N smiled, “sure, you know where all the bowls are big kid.”
Amoreena stormed around the kitchen, pulling out two bowls and spoons, not asking if Spencer wanted any but placing a bowl in front of him any way. “You need breakfast, it’s important.”
“Of course, Lady Amoreena,” he said softly, digging the pill from his pocket and placing it on the placemat. “Can I have something to drink?”
“Orange or apple?” Y/N smiled, opening the fridge door and waiting for his choice.
“Orange, please.”
“See,” Y/N looked at Amoreena, “even adults use manners.”
It made him laugh as she rolled her eyes at her mother with a fake sigh. It was nice to see that they had a mutual respect that was strong enough to play around like that, It was admirable to see them be friends, not just family.
“I’m going to get changed for the day,” Y/N announced then as Amoreena got situated back at the counter. “Be good, shout for me if you need me.”
Then it was just him and Amoreena eating cereal in silence.
She picked out all the marshmallows first, eating them before the cereal, and then finally drinking all the milk from the bowl, he has never seen a kid eat that fast.
“Was it good?” He laughed to himself, watching her wipe her mouth on her pyjama sleeve.
“The best,” she smiled back at him. “Are you going to be here a lot?”
“I don’t know yet,” he was honest. “But I’d like to be.”
“It would be nice, I've never had a dad,” she said it like it was nothing. Like the weight of the words weren’t supposed to knock the wind out of him.
“You know,” he speaks before he even thinks it over. “I never had a dad either, my mom raised me all by herself. She's my best friend in the whole world, she is the reason I love books and why I love the world, you’re lucky to have someone who has a heart big enough to love you for both parents.”
“You’re lucky too then,” she smiled back. “But you’d still make a good dad regardless.”
“Thanks,” he whispered, smiling softly as she put her bowl away and ran up the stairs.
—
Amoreena gave him a big hug at the bus stop, waving to him from the window as he stood with Y/N at the end of the driveway, his phone non-stop vibrating in his back pocket trying to take him away from the most perfect moment in his whole existence.
He finally looked at it when the bus pulled away, 8 texts from Penelope and 4 calls from Derek. It looks like they all knew he quit, and they want to see if he was okay. He sighs, putting his phone back in his pocket, taking Y/N’s hand instead, walking back to her house.
“I called to take the day off when I was changing, told them Amoreena got me sick,” she says lightly as she bumps her shoulder into his.
She was now wearing a light green sundress, it flows in the breeze as she walks, stepping in front of him to skip lightly, twirling around as they walk, she makes him smile uncontrollably. Then she’s letting go of his hand and running off into the field, Spencer chasing after her cautiously. Rubber soles of his shoes slipping on the dewy grass as he follows.
There’s an open field behind the barn, cows wandering around the far edges as the fog starts to settle its war with the sunshine. She stops then, catching her breath and waiting for Spencer with an arm out for him to walk into her embrace.
Holding him in the sunshine in the middle of her kingdom.
“Whatever the light touches is yours,” she whispered the words from the lion king, “If you’d like to be mine?”
He wanted to answer, but his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing against her hip. She reaches into his pocket and takes the phone out, answering it without breaking eye contact.
“Ex fed, Spencer Reid’s phone,” she smiled.
“who is this?” A males voice asked.
“Spencer’s girlfriend,” she answered, “he’s fine. If you’d like to see for yourself and join us for tea in the garden?”
“Um, sure, you’re at some farm right?”
She looked at Spencer confused, “yes?”
“We’re pulling up now.”
“What?” Y/N turned around as she noticed the line went dead, a car rolling down the driveway and following the path all the way towards the barn.
“FBI remember,” he laughed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she leaned in and kissed him softly, he held her there for a moment, knowing his friends would be staring at the display of affection they were putting on.
He almost wished he could have seen it from their point of view. How she pulled him in, dipping under his hat, holding his cheeks in her hands as she pressed her lips to his softly. The view behind them was impeccable, the fields of wheat blowing in the early sunlight as he held her hips.
When she pulled away he could swear he saw a halo around her head, smiling at him with love in her eyes, matching his own. He pushed his hat up as he rested his forehead on hers, “I’ll be yours.”
“I figured,” she smiled, taking his hand and walking with him towards his friends.
“Hi,” he waved at them.
“What has happened in the last week since we’ve spoken?” Derek didn’t skip a beat, holding his arms out as he shook his head.
Penelope rushed around the car towards him, “why did you quit?”
“I’ll go put on some tea, meet me out back?” Y/N said softly, tapping his shoulder as she slipped out of his grasp and passed them all.
“I can’t do it anymore and you know why,” Spencer whispers. “I’m done, Derek, I need a life, a family, something to make me actually want to get up in the morning before I whiter away to nothing.”
“Okay,” he nods, reaching out to pull him into a hug, “you deserve that.”
Penelope hugged him too, the both of them wrapping their arms around him in the middle of Y/N’s land, he knew they’d understand. He just wish they all didn’t have to feel like this, like he was letting them down.
“Come on, you’re going to love Y/N,” he changed the subject, fixing his hat again as Derek laughed at him.
“Since when did you want to be a farmer?” Penelope teased him.
“Cowboys are like FBI agents right?” He smiles, leading them towards Y/N’s backyard. “Um, seriously though, I met her at the park on Saturday.”
“It’s Monday…” Derek added in a concerned tone.
“I know, it’s insane but we’re both tired of waiting for the right time, so we’re making it the right time, she has a kid and a life and she works at a library, she’s calm and beautiful and everything I need,” Spencer explains, stopping abruptly so that Y/N wouldn’t be able to hear him. “Fuck it, y’know?”
Derek’s face lit up, Penelope shook his arm as she giggled, “yes! I support this, fuck it and be happy.”
“Way to go pretty boy,” Derek patted his back, “I always knew you’d do it.”
It was nice to introduce them, Y/N sat close to Spencer as she learned all about the last 15 years of his life. Funny stories like the time they scared him in the dark at a crime scene, how nervous he used to be, even showing Y/N photos of him from over the years with the weirdest haircuts, she couldn't believe how cute he used to be. Gushing to his friends about how perfect their weekend together had been so far.
He got to know her more than too, learning with Penelope and Derek as she shared parts of her life. She was only 35, she actually has 7 siblings who have so far produced 4 nephews and 11 nieces for her, Amoreena being the oldest of the bunch. She’s lived here since she was a baby, born in the room she sleeps in actually.
Her whole life existed in this kingdom full of love and life. She had a huge family and enough love to keep it growing forever, it was her perfect world and now it’s his too.
It was the best morning of his life, watching his best friends and the women he knew was going to become the love of his life, mingle so gleefully. They were all free now, living in the real world where things were good and happy.
He wanted to stay there forever, but they decided to head out around 9:30, leaving Spencer and Y/N alone in the backyard finally. He turned his phone off then, tossing it onto the table and pulling her into his lap.
“I think we need to talk about this,” he said softly.
“About what?”
“How it’ll work, the rules for me being around Amoreena, I don’t want to jump right into stepdad mode and piss you off or be too distant and make you think I don’t want to be here,” he worried out loud. Giving her a glimpse into his mind and how it worked.
“I don’t mind you falling into the role of her father, you are a lot like Steven,” she looked at him softly as she spoke, her fingers trailing along his jaw lightly.
“Her father?”
“I tell people that yeah, but I don’t know,” Y/N admitted, not a care in the world about who he really was.
“You’re a literal ray of sunshine,” the words fell from his tongue.
“I don’t like being unhappy, so I choose not to be,” she admits, biting the inside of her cheek as she smiled at him. “And I think I’d be the happiest with you.”
“I'm glad you feel it too,” he whispers, leaning in and pressing his lips against hers again, softly as the first time.
“I’m also scared,” her words touch his lips ever so softly, “I’ve already lost too many people, please don’t leave me.”
“My girlfriend died in front of me,” the words are harsher than he expected them to be. but she had to know that he understood. Loving someone, planning a life with them, and watching them get ripped out of existence is the hardest thing someone could recover from, but they were doing it.
She pauses, “so you know what it’s like?”
He can only nod, “I understand wanting to keep something special and safe and failing.”
“Seconds are just as good as firsts," she whispers, leaning in close enough to kiss him. Resting her forehead against his, "if not better because you value what it can become.”
“I’m falling in love with you,” he announces without a second thought.
“Good,” she finally kisses him, resting her lips against his lightly before speaking again, "because I think I fell in love with you a few days ago."
He can't help but kiss her again and again, holding her in his lap as he spread kisses over her face. Her cheeks, her forehead, her chin, the tip of her nose, both eyelids and finally her perfect lips. It's soft and gentle like the first one, holding him softly as their lips brushed together.
Kissing in the sunshine for as long as they wanted without a single distraction or care in the world. She was exceptional, her life was perfect, he was so unbelievably happy to be sharing it with her. To be granted access to the happiest place on earth, his own little slice of Heaven with the two angels that kept it running.
tag list: @shemarmooresfedora @spookyspence @spencers-dria
#spencer reid#spencer reid smut#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x you#spencer reid self insert#spencer reid request#criminal minds smut#criminal minds imagine#amoreena
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The Perfect White Flower--and Other Nonexistent Things
a/n YALL THIS IS PROBABLY DUMB BUT I HAD THIS IDEA ABOUT A HARRY STYLES X READER FIC THATS BASED ON THE PLOT OF JANE THE VIRGIN AND I WANTED TO WRITE IT SO BADLY I MADE THIS ACCOUNT
disclaimer--wont follow the show exactly
Pairing: Harry Styles x latina! reader (a key factor of the show revolves around the lead being latina, and im latina and honestly love writing for us but anyone can still read and understand/hopefully enjoy and the fic doesn’t involve any physical descriptions:))
Series Summary: Y/n l/n has had the world figured out since she was a child. She won’t be a writer because it’s risky, she’ll just focus on school and becoming a teacher. She’s never been a child, because her mother had her at sixteen and hasn’t aged a single year since. That’s part of the reason the promise she made to her grandmother means so much to her--if she doesn’t have sex before marriage, her child will never have to grow up as quickly as she did. And Harry Styles is at the top of the world--his music has never been more successful, he has a lovely girlfriend, and he’s never been more in demand. He has everything in the world...except a child, and through a series of unbelievable events--y/n might be his only chance to have one. Ever.
Chapter One Summary: Who knew getting a pap smear on two hours of sleep and three cups of coffee was as bad as having unprotected sex?
There’s something dangerous about taking public transportation in LA. And no, I don’t mean it in the ‘there are bad people in the world’ type of way. I mean it in the ‘I live in one of the casual influencer, celebrity, tourist hubs of the world and each time I step onto the bus I find myself mesmerized by all the stories I see in them’ way. Kind of pathetic, I know, but sometimes a child with blonde pig tails or a woman streaming on instagram live will catch my eye and the urge to pull out my lap top and start something I’ll never finish.
I know that writing isn’t some kind of disease. But I can’t let myself fall in love with it the way I want to. There’s nothing wrong with writing a short story or two, but trying to write a novel? That’s impractical. It will distract me from school, from the four year plan I’m almost done with.
Sighing, I brave taking at my surroundings. I deserve this today, after the anonymous, rude costumer at the hotel today, I need positivity. No one is particularly inspiring. The bus stops and I watch out the window. At first the crowd is ordinary, and then i see them...paparazzi. Flashing cameras from all angles, grown men violating all rules of personal space. It never sits right with me, but I guess it’s just part of living in LA. The bus starts moving again. When it stops again, I see even more paparazzis, but their cameras aren’t flashing. Good for whoever escaped that.
The bus door opens and I snap my attention back to my computer screen. I rub my eyes as I stare at my word document. How is there more that needs to be edited? This professor is the harshest grader I’ve ever had, and my friend, Gisa, is kind for giving me even more notes. But I’m exhausted. Two tests and an essay due before 12:00. And it’s...11:38. Great--I have to upload it the second I’m at my doctor’s office and have WiFi again.
I spend some time highlighting and rewording sentences, and once I’m done I reward myself with more people watching because I deserve it and I can’t fall asleep here. I’m kind of invested in the girl live streaming her bus ride...maybe she’ll say her instagram handle.
But when I look up, she’s not on the bus anymore. Almost no one is. An elderly couple is sitting towards the back. A woman with a toddler sit two rows in front of me...and there’s now a man directly across from me. I blink for a moment, imagining a story for someone who’s face I can’t quite see beneath such dark sun glasses. His dark waves and strong jaw do most of the imagining for me--he deserves a mystery, a dramatic one with a happy ending and just enough romance to keep the people interested. A good romance, too--not too sappy. Enemies to lovers, maybe. A mysterious stranger that’s not really a stranger because something about him is just...familiar.
He turns his head and I drop my gaze immediately. There’s no doubt he caught that, but I still pretend to edit the title of my essay. “You’ve been typing stubbornly since I first got on the bus.” There’s an accent--of course he’s english. But it’s more than that, I’ve heard that voice before. I’ve been...soothed by it. And--oh my god, I’m sitting across from Harry Styles.
Okay, don’t freak out. Don’t freak him out. He’s probably on here to escape the the whole ‘oh my god, you’re Harry Styles!’ thing.
“What are you writing?” Harry Styles just spoke to me. I greeted my one direction poster every single day in middle school, and Harry Styles just spoke to me. Okay--relax, breathe--it’s only weird if you make it weird.
There’s a kind of curt curiosity to his question. He could have been ruder, considering how blatantly I was staring at him. “I um...an essay.” I’m temped to turn the screen so that he can see I’m telling the truth. Though he wasn’t hostile, a part of me is paranoid that he thinks I am writing about him. It’s a fair assumption, for all he knows I’m drafting a tweet about who I saw on the bus this morning or preparing to send something in to some gossip girl-esque blog. “It’s due today at noon and normally I’m way more on top of things, but I had this last minute doctor’s appointment rescheduling because my usual doctor is out of town and--” I cut myself off before I can tell Harry Styles that I’m ovulating and that if I don’t go to my OBGYN now, I have to wait an entire month and I’ve already been off birth control longer than I’d like. I might not have actual sex in my near future, but my cramps have been extra terrible. “An essay, I just finished an essay.”
He nods once. Maybe he feels bad for so thoroughly startling me into such a rambling, because the corner of his mouth tilts upwards. A soft smile adds even more grace to his features, I focus on the dimple that appears in his cheek. “An aggravating essay, I take it, considering the death glares you’ve been giving your laptop screen.”
I smile at his polite humor. “It’s for the harshest grader on campus. She took three points off of my first essay freshman year because I spaced my bibliography wrong.”
He cringes in sympathy. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I hum, proud of myself for not letting him know that I know who he is. The bus stops, I can see my doctor’s office behind a few paparazzi. “This is my stop.”
Harry nods once, ducking his head slightly. A tiny part of me feels sympathy for him; from what I’ve gathered, he genuinely loves his fans and the relationship they have, but it must be draining to never have a moment of privacy. Especially when it’s people who care more about selling your picture than your mental health.
I linger on the bus’s step, watching the men with large cameras look around. “Excuse me, are you guys looking for Harry Styles?” Most of the men disregard me, but one looks at me. “I know he’s near here because I’m a really big fan and my friend just texted that she saw him.” This gets me the attention I wanted. “He’s at Northfield--a cafe like three blocks down. I just know that if she got a picture with Harry in like a magazine or something she’d totally lose it--in a good way, and she’s been having a bad time so if you see her can you try to make it happen? Knowing her she’ll be at his side, she’s blonde, shortish hair.”
The men seem skeptical, but I guess they realize that this is the best lead they have. I think the fact that I gave a reason to justify selling Harry out for no reason helped. They disperse together, heading at least three blocks away from Harry. I don’t know if I’ve actually helped him, but I hope I have.
“Essay girl.” I freeze, half cringing. Did he hear that? That’s embarrassing. I consider darting away, but decide that would just make me cringe more. So I turn on my heels. “You...you forgot your phone.”
He just saved my life. “Thank you.” I take my phone from his outstretched hand, ignoring the slight thrill that runs through me when our fingers brush. “You’re my hero--the last thing I needed today was to run all over the city searching for my phone.” I finish the awkward admission with a partial laugh.
“Least I could do,” he mumbles, “especially considering what you just did.”
...He did see that. “Oh um--it was nothing, I just kind of made a connection and assumed the only reason you’d be on a public bus is because you were trying to avoid some things, and you make really great music and a lot of people happy, so you deserve that break.” Why does it feel like I’ve been talking forever? “Anyways, thanks for the whole phone thing, and I hope I got them off your tail.”
My joke seems to somewhat land. His lips part, like he’s planning on saying something else. A timer on my phone interrupts him. I instinctually look down--great, the alarm on my phone warning me that I’m only ten minutes away from being late. “I’m late.” I turn towards the bus’s exit. “I gotta go, but thanks again, and I hope you have a good day.”
I disappear after that, still not sure that that whole thing wasn’t some kind of hallucination. Did I just meet Harry Styles? He...he gave me my phone. Harry Styles has touched my phone. I can’t wait to tell Gisa, she’ll lose it.
I’m still thinking about Harry Styles when I finally reach my OBGYN’s office. When I get there, things are a lot more hectic than I thought they’d be. Many people crowd the waiting area and the receptionist’s desk is clearly understaffed. Two young girls are trying to address multiple upset pregnant women and take phone calls at the same time, all while practically buried in a sea pf paperwork. Wow, I didn’t realize that transferring was such chaos. One of the girls waves me over and barely checks my name before shoving a form towards me. I fill out as quickly as possible.
I upload my essay quickly after checking in. Who knows, maybe Harry Styles’s blessing will get me an A? A third person in scrubs emerges from the back after a moment and ushers me into a room. I tell myself to focus on going over the facts I need for the test I have to take in a little over an hour. Or to focus on the fact that I just met Harry Styles. But instead, I feel my heavy eyelids fall shut.
I don’t know how long I sleep, but I know that I wake up during the middle of a doctor’s sentence, “...I know I’m not your usual, so I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
“Hm...Yeah, yeah I’m comfortable.” She nods once, her wide eyes slightly red. “But I do have a class today in like an hour, so I was wondering if this was going to take longer because of the office’s move?”
“Oh, no,” she shakes her head. “Just because Dr. Rodriguez gave us no notice before deciding that she no longer wanted to work here...or in the country. Or even live in the US, despite the fact that we just signed a lease on a place together...” Tears well in the stranger’s eyes, pity settles in my stomach.
“That sounds incredibly complicated, I didn’t mean to rush you.”
She blinks twice, her expression blanking as she fights against the pain of what’s clearly a terrible break up. “No, no--you have every right. Today is your day and if..honestly, if you’re strong enough to go to a class after this, and do what you’re about to do by yourself, then I’m strong enough to get through today.”
Um...didn’t realize a pap smear counted as something that needs moral support, but I’ll chalk it up to her heightened emotions. “Thanks.”
She snaps on her medical gloves. “No, thank you for your patience. Now lay down.”
I do as told, preparing for a sensation I haven’t often experienced. A moment passes and I know she’s started. She’s moving away from me much faster than expected. Oh--I guess pap smears are a lot shorter than I expected.
“That’s it?”
“Yep,” she hums, pulling her gloves off. “Now just take it easy, and hydrate.”
Weird...but that’s like general doctor advice. “Thanks!”
--
I’ve never wanted to keep a secret from Gisa, but sometimes I really regret telling her I met Harry Styles. It’s been almost a month and I find my mind wandering back to the moment in which our fingers brushed more than I should. Sometimes I let myself wonder what he might have said if my phone hadn’t rang. I was probably just imagining the way his lips parted, but my ind refuses to let it go.
“...You know it’s kind of sad, I read an interview in which he spoke about the fact that he has some genetic condition that makes it hard to have kids. He has so many godchildren, and I feel like he’d make such a great father.”
I try to keep up with Gisa’s words, but the dull ache in my head makes it feel so far away. “Yeah...he seemed really patient.”
Gisa nods, turning to face me. “You alright, you’re looking kinda green?”
“Yeah...” I reach for my canvas bag. “I think I just...I probably just need some water.”
My hand grazes the metal of my water bottle and then the corners of my vision blur into blackness. I sway, Gisa’s hand is on my shoulder...and then it all goes black.
--
I sit uncomfortably on the hospital’s cot. Gisa is a traitor for telling my mom that I fainted. I knew she’d just drag me here--hispanic mothers, they either believe they can cure you with vic’s vapor rub or they want you in the ER. No in between.
“I know you didn’t want another test, but you’ve been throwing up in the morning for days and now you’re fainting.”
“Fainted,” I correct, “it happened once.”
“C’mon, mija, it’s just one doctor’s appointment.”
Speaking of, an ER nurse returns. “Fainting and nausea spells explained,” he says, glancing at his clipboard, “you’re pregnant.”
My mom and I can’t help but exchange a look before bursting into laughter. Pregnant. If I’m pregnant then the second coming is here. “That’s impossible, I’m a virgin.”
He glances at my mom, “maybe we should have this conversation in private.”
“No, what you say in front of me you can say in front of my mom.”
My mom raises an eyebrow. “Y/n, did you and that guy from your english class--”
“No! No, we did not. I am a virgin and there’s no way I’m pregnant.” I glare at the nurse.
He then ushers me to a bathroom so that I can provide a urine sample. After I’m finished, he shows me a pregnancy test strip. “Pink means pregnant.” I bite my tongue as he tests the strip in my sample. He pulls it out and it’s...it’s bright pink.
“I’m calling my doctor, because this has to be a mistake. It has to be like a hormonal thing.”
“Exactly, pregnancy hormones.”
I glare even harder, calling the doctor that I saw last week. “Hello, Dr. Ash? I was wondering if I could get a consultation because I’m in the ER and some crazy doctor is trying to tell me I’m pregnant.”
Silence on the line for a long second. “...I actually cleared my calendar for you.”
#harry styles#harry styles x reader#harry styles x y/n#jane the virgin#jane the virgin AU#lot#hslot st louis
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All yours, Babooshka.
Tags: Yelena x fem!reader, soulmate!au, fluff with a bit of angts, historically completely incorrect, happy ending.
TW: depiction of war, brief mention of sex, homophobic slur a few times, suicide.
Synopsis: War is no place for loving, it never was, but maybe you could love her again in the 21 Century, i mean, only if you could stop feeling so overwhelmed by her only existence, but no matter what, you can't stop something that's meant to be.
Notes: one, i don't like the part 4, it just feels lazy to me, and two, i'm not a native, so please tell me if i made a mistake <3
Part one: When she was beautiful.
Yelena Armanovna, as strong as ten soldiers, the jewel of the battlefield, once was just a kid, her land was destroyed by the war, and as the only child of the house, she was forced to join the army, or else die there, she became a soldier, and she desired that the war wasn't real, that she hadn't being born into this world, that no one had.
Everyone knew that she didn't talk a lot, most of their fellow soldiers didn't even knew where she came from, or if she was even from Russia, the only one she talked to was a nurse, her name was y/n y/ln, and like Yelena, no one knew about her origin, the nurse was way more talkative than Yelena, but she was assigned to other areas, staying with older soldiers, child soldiers, or severely injured soldiers, she was called by the child soldiers "angel", because of her comforting aura in hard times like those.
These women wouldn't be able to meet eachother if it wasn't for the near-death experience Yelena faced one time. She got shot by a hidden enemy, fainted from the blood loss and was taken to the nursery right away, they couldn't afford to lose her. That's when you saw the look in her eyes, that look, and you knew that death was upon the jewel of the battlefield, and you knew that if she died, everyone else will die, you tried as hard as you could to stay cool during the surgery, but you were breaking, because of all the hope that was layed on her shoulders, she was the hope of everyone else in that place to return home someday, even if Russia didn't won the war, her strenght will keep a few alive. So there you were, assisting the surgery of the one that could do something to keep everybody safe and triying to act like it didn't meant a thing. At the end, she survived, and with her, the dreams of returning to your home, you were the one assigned to take care of her, and you were going to make sure Yelena survived.
Part two: Uncanny how she remind her of her little lady.
—"¿Yelena Armanovna?" You asked to the blonde girl laying on the bed.
"Yes" she answered without taking her deep eyes out of the book.
You told her that it was your bed she was in, pointing at your last name on the post-it next to the bed, then showing her the same mark on the bed across the room where it said: "J. Armanovna".
"Ah, i hate when they misspeal it, it's Yelena with a "Y". Well, sorry, but this is the only bed i can sleep in, i'm kinda tall, you can use mine, i will give you a cookie for your kindness." She concluded with a little smile, you notices how her voice was way sweeter than you could think considering how menacing her looks were.
At the end you decided to let her keep the bed, thinking it wouldn't mean anything, how wrong you were, now you could look at her sleeping without moving from the bed, and you did it, you thought it was so creepy and you wanted to stop, but you couldn't, why? Why were you obsessed with the sight of her closed eyes and dry lips at night? Why did she gave you this insane feeling of comfort and loss at the same time? It was so uncanny.
No matter how weird It felt, you couldn't escape from Yelena, she was your roommate, and your classmate in some of your classes, on top of that, she was quite nice, a very smart lady with a pleasent personality, so you had no excuse to be mean or distant whenever she asked about your day, or started a small talk when the professor was late. Along with that sort-of friendship, you also knew Yelena's group; a beautiful girl with raven hair named Pieck, a blonde sarcastic man named Zeke, sometimes his brother Eren, and Hanji, a very excentric and funny person. These people were good friends to you, more than you expected, and that confirmed you: there was nothing wrong about Yelena, and you had no reason to be disturbed by her… Well, to be honest, there it was a little thing that made you upset, Pieck said that Yelena liked Zeke, again, you had no reason to be mad, but you were anyway. Why did you felt so attached to this lady? Why did you did what you did?
It was 2:00 am, you couldn't sleep and you were so ashamed of being doing what that thing, what thing? Writing a love letter, a love letter to Yelena, with a pseudonym, with the first word that popped into your head: "Babooshka". You put perfume on the paper, and you signed it under that name, a scented letter, when you were finished, you let the envelope under your bed, and let it on Yelena's locker.
Part three: How she was before the tears.
She woke up, feeling dazed and almost disappointed for being alive, when Yelena saw you, she recognized you for the stories of her colleagues, "Angel?" She guessed.
"Hello", you smiled and giggle a bit for that nickname, "My name is y/n y/ln, and i will take care of you until you are better"
"If i'm with you means i'm already dead, you only take care of the ones that are almost there." Yelena asserted with a careless attitude.
You wanted to protest, but it was meaningless, you wouldn't make her upset in her state, "May i ask how is your wound feeling? Are you in pain?" You kept that polite and sweet smile on your face.
You kept taking care of Yelena, she healed way too soon, her body wanted to stay alive, but you couldn't say the same thing about her. You got to meet the real jewel of the battlefield, she told you her story, and you told her yours, you two knew everything about eachother, likes, dislikes, and sad pasts. You noticed how Yelena cried softly whenever she thought about her life before, her life before the tears, before the war, when she felt happy. And you also noticed that you could erase that tears, the touch between your soft hands and her ser face, was something magical, something that nobody could understand in that moment, but you two? You knew everything about it, about that love touch, those secret beautiful instants you shared.
You were the one crying when Yelena got better, you were joyful for her recovery, but you knew that she had to go, and after that, you were going to lose her forever, or so you thought. "We can send eachother letters, and we can meet at night." She reassured you while you were laying on her chest, skin to skin, she kissed your forehead and caressed your cheeks with her strong and graceful hands, you purred at her cuddled your body in hers, you liked to kiss her scars, she had so many, it showed how determined she was on the battle and you liked that, the eyes and body of a soldier, and the heart of a suave lover, Yelena was always elegant, her movements could been rough and beastily, but she was soft and neat, whether i'll be fighting, talking, or embracing you. You could say with pride that only you knew this side of Yelena Armanovna, the subtle dominance she always established on her manner mixed with the chivalry and dulcet, that made the blonde woman truly enticing and amusing to anyone with enough luck to discover it.
You knew that your letters to Yelena couldn't be too suspicious, so you took advantage of the fact that no one knew a thing about her, "Babooshka", was the pseudonym you choose, because everyone was going to think that it was from Yelena's grandmother.
Your first letter to her, was this one:
"My dearest Yelena, even though i promised that i wouldn't miss you too much, you have been away for three days and i'm already feeling the lack of your touch, and missing your dark eyes that make me shiver every time. I always thought that i would die without having loved, but you prove me wrong, i love you, i love every part of you, if i could picture perfection, it would be you, your laugh, your hair, the way you talk about home, everything about you would fit the word "perfect".
I swear to God and every star on the sky, that someday i will marry you, someday i will call you my wife, and you will be fully mine, and i will be fully yours. I know that you may think i'm silly because of this wish, but i know in my guts that i will become your wife, no matter how many years or Centuries i have to wait to do it.
All yours, Babooshka."
When Yelena read the letter, she felt nothing but joy, she couldn't use words to describe how in love she was with everyone of your words, and giggled at the idea of marriage, of course she would marry you, she would marry you all the times that she could, she will make you hers every time, and she would submit herself to you every time.
The two lovers kept sending and receiving love letters, and meeting at the comfort and hacen of the night, with only starts and the moon herself as a witness, sharing the intimacy of loving, not always touching two bodies, but the touch of two souls, two tormented souls who found love in a hopeless place.
It has been almost a year since the letters and secret meetings started to happen, Yelena and y/n couldn't be more in love, but tragedy was upon them. A soldier named Floch, started to notice the letters, and one day, he intercepted one, the love words were obviously not from Yelena's grandmother, and with fear of the jewel of the battlefield getting courted by a man who could get her pregnant and useless, this soldier tried to trace the letters, he spend days getting up triying to catch the mailman, and when he did it, he noticed that there wasn't an adress, so it must have been another soldier. After waiting for the guilty one to put the letter on the mail box, he saw y/n y/ln, the nurse, the angel, being a witness of how Satán corrupted the two women into a sapphic relationship, he ran into his superior's arms, showing him the evidence and warning him that given the nature of the letters, he may be grossed out by the devil's pervertion in the two women.
The superior gave orders of keeping Armanovna here, and taking the nurse away, into a convertion field.
Yelena was lucky to hear it, and she ran the fastest that she could into the critical patients nursery, where Y/N was. "Babooshka", she whispered at your ear while grabbing your arm yo take you away, you followed her into the woods. "What happened?" You asked with confution, you saw the look of pure fear un Yelena's eyes.
"They are going to tear us apart, they are are going to take you away, they will torture you there", she was ay the edge of crying, and so did you.
"What can we do?" You couldn't think anything, you were all feelings
"Die, that's our only option, if we run away they will find anyway." The tall one tried to stay calm, failing
"You can't die, you mean hope for everyone!" Your conscience was heavy, you couldn't let Yelena die for you
"Y/n… You are the love of my life, if they take you away, i will kill myself anyway, i can't live without you, i can't just survive anymore, i need to live, when i'm with you i'm alive." Yelena wrapped you in a hug and you felt the tears falling on her face.
At the end, you agreed, Yelena already had a little bottle hidden in her uniform, you both took sips until the bottle was empty, and you kissed and felt eachother like never before, because it was the last time, those were your last hours of life. You passed away after two hours, you were sleeping in Yelena's arms, while she was singing a lullaby from her hometown.
She started with a cracked voice; "I know i do not have silver or gold like many others,
but i promise that i will wrap my bride in silk" she stopped to cry a little.
"and i will love her with such depht,
that all my lacks she will forget,
and she will love until the end… "
Yelena cried louder, and before falling asleep, and looked at your corpse with adoration.
I'm all yours, Babooshka.
Part four: Babooshka
She woke up, ready for the exams, dressed with her usual suit, and put a lucky charm on her pocket.
She was getting to class when she remembered, "my lucky pen is in my locker", so she went to get it, and saw a letter that fell sloppylly on her perfectly organized locker. She looked at the envelope and read "Babooshka", It clearly wasn't from her grandmother, one, because she would have written in "the tongue of mother Russia", two, because she was a bitter old woman that didn't write her, never, not even on her birthday, and three, because it was on her locker, not the mailbox. She opened it go find a love letter that has essence of a known perfume, she received the letter with a strange delight, smelling it and making a place on her locker for the piece of paper.
These letters came one by one every week, and she knew they were from y/n, but Yelena couldn't help to love the letters, and she wanted to keep collecting more and more.
She decided to shoot her shot after two months, when you two were studying together, she kissed your lips out of nowhere, leaving you completely confused and flustered.
"I- i thought you liked Zeke…"
"Oh, i did" Yelena acted so shamelessly "But then you came."
"Do you say that a lot?" You asked annoying trying to shield from your notorious blush
"No, just you, Babooshka. I don't know why, but you make me fee… alive? I feel so close to you since i saw you."
You didn't know what to do, you felt the same way, and you were way too nervous to think a witty reprise.
"Why did you choose the pseudonym Babooshka?" Yelena have been wanting to ask you for a long time.
"For real? I don't know, it just, familiar? I guess"
"Ok, then" she smiled and pulled you closer
"I'm all yours, Babooshka."
#yelena headcanons#yelena#yelena aot#yelena x reader#yelena snk#yelena supremacy#yelena fanfic#aot fanfiction#babooshka#Babooshka songfic
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Sharing this from a FB group that I am in. I was very moved by the article and felt affinity with the experiences shared. A really sweet read.
Here is the article if you don't want to click on the link (I know it is a little long, but well worth your time to read!):
The letter I received ten years ago was unsigned and bore no return address. Clearly its author did not expect, much less want, a reply. A message in a bottle, from no one to no one, that letter still remains the most bizarre form of communication. It asks nothing but to be read, promises nothing but to share a few facts and feelings, and, seeing that it must have been dashed off on a lined yellow sheet that seemed hastily torn out of a pad of paper, the author would not be surprised if, after skimming through it, the recipient decided to crumple and lob it into the closest dust bin.
The letter is one page long. One page is enough. The handwriting is uneven, perhaps because the author had lost the habit of writing in longhand and preferred the keyboard. But his grammar is perfect. The man knew what he was doing. I assume he was writing the note by hand because he didn’t want traces of it on his laptop, or because he knew he was never going to send it as an email and risk a reply. Now that I think of it, he probably didn’t care if it even reached its recipient, a local Bay Area reporter who had mentioned my novel about two young men who fall in love one summer in Italy in the mid-1980s. The reporter eventually forwarded it to me, minus its envelope with the postmark. It took no time to see that all the author of the letter was looking for was a chance to blurt out the words he couldn’t dare breathe elsewhere.
My book had spoken to him. His letter spoke to me.
So here it is: dated April 16, 2008.
I came upon Mr. Aciman’s book while on a business trip back East. Not the type of book I am normally able to read, so I bought a copy for the flight home. I think I’m glad I did.
You see, I was Elio. I was 18 and my Oliver was 22. Though the time and place were different, the feelings were remarkably the same. From believing that you are the only person who has these feelings, to the whole “he loves me – he loves me not” scenario, Mr. Aciman got it right. I was particularly impressed with the attention he gave to the morning after Elio’s and Oliver’s first encounter. The guilt, the loathing, the fear. I felt it too much. I had to put the book down for a while.
But in the end I was able to finish the book before we landed at SFO. Which was good, because I couldn’t take the book home. Unlike Elio it was I who married and had children. My Oliver died from AIDS in 1995. I’m still living a parallel life. My name is not important. His name was Dwight.
Instead, I kept the letter. I kept it for ten years.
What moved me was not just its sobering matter-of-factness or its hint of downplayed sorrow, but the associations it provoked in my mind. It reminded me of those short, clipped messages to loved ones, written by people about to be shipped off to the death camps who knew they’d never be heard from again. There is a chilling immediacy about their hurriedly scribbled notes that say everything there is to say in the fewest possible words — there wasn’t enough time for more, no smarmy pieties, no hand-wringing, no treacly hugs and kisses before the tragic end. It also made me think of the moving phone messages left by those who finally realized they were not going to make it out alive from the Twin Towers and that only their family’s answering machine was going to take their call.
“My name is not important,” he writes, almost as an apology for remaining anonymous; yet the author drops quite a number of hints about himself — hints he likely knows will stir his reader’s wistful curiosity to know what made him write the letter in the first place, what he hoped to accomplish, and if writing did indeed help. The letter itself allows us to see that he travels for business. We also sense that he probably lives in the Bay Area and that he travels not infrequently to the East Coast, since, as he writes, he is “back” in the East. And we know one thing more: that he simply needed to come out and tell someone that a man called Dwight had been his lover when the two were young. The rest is a cloud. We’ll never know more. Writing has served its purpose.
We write, it seems, to reach out to others. Whether we know them or not doesn’t matter. We write to put out into the real world something extremely private within us, to make real what often feels unreal and ever so elusive about ourselves. We write to give a shape to what would otherwise remain amorphous. This is as true about authors as about those who want to correspond with them. Over the years, many have written to me either after reading or seeing Call Me by Your Name. Some tried to meet me; others confided things they’d never told anyone; and some even managed to call me at the office and, on speaking about my novel, would eventually apologize before bursting out crying. Some were in jail; some were barely adolescents, others old enough to look back at loves seven decades past; and some were priests locked in silence and secrecy. Many were closeted, others totally out; some were widows who felt a resurgence of hope if only by reading about the loves of two young men called Elio and Oliver in Italy; some were very young girls eager to meet their long-awaited Oliver; and some recalled former gay lovers whom they’d occasionally bump into years later but who’d never acknowledge what they’d once shared and done together when both were schoolmates and neither was married. All were keenly aware of living a parallel life. In that parallel life things are as they perhaps should be. Elio and Oliver still live together. And no one has secrets there.
Unlike Dwight’s lover, everyone who took the time to write to me did not withhold their names, but all had, at one point or another, withheld something very primal. They withheld it from themselves, from a relative, from a friend, a classmate, or colleague, or from a beloved who would never have guessed what troubled longings seethed below their averted gaze whenever they crossed paths.
Some readers wrote to tell me they felt that my novel had changed them, and given them new insights into themselves; some felt it was urging them finally to turn a new leaf in their lives. But some couldn’t go so far and, despite their perfect command of language, confessed lacking the words to explain why they were so moved by my novel or why they felt an unresolved longing for things they’d never considered or desired before. They were experiencing an upwell of emotions and of ungraspable might-have-beens that were asking to be reckoned with because they seemed more real than life itself, a sense of themselves that beckoned from an opposite bank they’d never known was there and whose potential loss now was a source of inconsolable grief. Hence their tears, their regrets, and the overpowering sense of being lost in their own lives.
And yet, they said, theirs were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of recognition, as though the novel itself were a mirror for readers to watch their own emotions laid bare before them. These responses made me aware that Call Me by Your Name does not call attention to anything readers didn’t already know, nor does it bring new truths or revelations; all it does is shed new light on things that were long familiar but that they never took the time to consider. It would be so tempting to say that they are reminded of their forgotten first loves; the truth is that all loves, even those that occur late in life, are first loves. There is always fear, shame, reluctance, and not a tiny dose of spite. Desire is agony.
Everyone who’s read Call Me by Your Name understands not only the struggle both to speak and hold back their truth but also the shame that comes whenever we want something from someone. Desire is always cagey, always secretive — we’ll tell everyone we know about the person we crave to hold naked in our arms, but the very last one to know this will be the person we crave. Same-sex desire is even more guarded and watchful, especially in those who are just discovering their sexuality. Awkwardness and desire are strange bedfellows at a young age, but shame and inexperience are just as paralyzing as fear when we watch them tussling with the urge to be bold. You’re torn between the raw horniness that makes you dream scenes you hope to forget as soon as you’re up and the scenes you pray you’ll dream again and again — if dreams are all you’ll have. Silence and solitude exact a cost that leaves us emotionally wrecked. At some point we need to speak.
So “is it better to speak or die?” asks Elio, the narrator of Call Me by Your Name, quoting words penned by the sixteenth-century Marguerite de Navarre in her collection of tales known as The Heptameron. Marguerite was the sister of King Francis I and the grandmother of Henry IV, himself the grandfather of Louis XIV, hence she was plenty familiar with court intrigue, gossip, and the risks of opening up to someone who may not welcome what’s in our heart and could easily make us pay for it. Not everyone who has written to me has dared to speak their hearts to those they loved. Some have sought silence — slow, lingering droplets of quiet desperation taken every night before bedtime until they realize they’ve been dead and didn’t even know it. Many have written to me with the feeling of having missed their chance when someone tethered his rowboat to their jetty and simply asked them to jump in. “Some sentence or thought on almost every page,” writes a reader, “triggers tears and knots my throat and chest. Tears well up in my eyes on the subway, at my computer at work, walking down the street. Perhaps I am weeping in part because I know that at my age there is virtually no possibility of experiencing anything remotely comparable to what Elio experiences with Oliver.” Someone else writes, “Reading Call Me by Your Name made me feel a love I never had.” A happily married 50-plus colleague took me aside and said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this much in love in my whole life.” “I'm 23,” tweeted someone else, “and have never felt such love, until I read Call Me by Your Name. I feel like I lived it.” “Elio and I are essentially the same age,” writes a teenage girl. “I have never really experienced his environment of the Italian summer…My experiences have only taken place halfway between nature and smog, however I have felt the same tension, fear, guilt and overwhelming love that you express perfectly through both Elio and Oliver…Finding myself in Elio was something I never expected and I’m positive that I won’t experience anything quite like it ever again. The first girl I ever loved remains…the only girl I have ever loved and though everything she and I shared…lives now as a secret between two friends.” “I finished reading Call Me by Your Name a couple of days ago,” writes someone else, “and wanted to let you know how much it affected me. It felt like a narration of my thoughts that I had systematically buried long ago.” And finally this from a 72-year-old: “I was fascinated by the idea of parallel lives where would I have been if I had gone with him, where would I be if I traveled alone? Maybe the point is just what do I do with the gift you have given me during the remainder of my life.”
There are at least 500 more such letters and emails.
Some find themselves weeping at the end of the film or the novel, not for what happened long ago or for what did not and might never happen in their own lives but for what has yet to happen, for the terrifying moment when they too will soon have to decide whether to speak or die. This from an 18-year-old: “[Your novel] gives me hope that one day I will meet someone whom I desire so badly that I’ll actually find it in me to make a move, the way Oliver is that someone for Elio. Maybe my Oliver will also turn out to be someone that I realize I love as well as desire.” She was crying for a week, as was this 15-year-old young man: “I stopped reading…because I didn’t want [the book] to end, didn’t want the wounds that you caused me to close, I didn’t want to overcome, for some reason that I have yet to find out. I wanted to stay a wreck, emotionally and mentally fragile….My mother handed me tissues because she had never seen me cry like this. I had finished your book and ‘moved’ is too weak a word to express what your book had done to me. Here a week later and it is literally all I can think about, not my midterms coming up, but…Elio and Oliver and if it is better to speak or die. You answered questions I didn’t even think I had.”
Indeed, the whole novel seems to enable the outing of all manner of feelings, feelings from Elio’s relentless inward journey and obsessive self-examination that readers are invited to identify with. Through Elio’s unfettered introspection they too feel exposed and sliced open like a crustacean without a slough, now forced to look at itself in the mirror. No wonder they are moved. The mask that is torn off their faces is not just the mask that conceals same-sex desires from themselves and from others. Rather, it is the realization, through Elio’s voice, of what they truly feel, who they truly are, what they fear, what bears their signature, and what coy little shenanigans they go through to read others and hope to reach them. Some identified with some effusive sentences in my novel so much that they had them tattooed on their bodies. They even attach photos of these tattoos. People have also tattooed peaches on themselves!
But what moves most people — and this is as true now as it was when the novel first came out — is the father’s speech. Here he not only tells his son to nurse the flame and “don’t snuff it out” after his son’s lover has left Italy, but that he too, the father, envies his son’s relationship with a male lover. This speech tears away the last vestige of a veil between reader and truth and is a moving tribute to the irreducible honesty between father and son.
Most readers have written to me about the scene because the father’s speech rekindles the very difficult moment when they decided to come out to their parents — or, as is often the case with people 60, or 70 or older, it reminds them of the conversation they wished they’d had but never did have with their parents. This is the loss no one forgets and from which no one recovers after seeing Call Me by Your Name. It bears the very essence of that precious and life-defining might-have-been moment that never happened and never will.
Here is the speech:
“Look…[y]ou had a beautiful friendship. Maybe more than a friendship. And I envy you. In my place, most parents would hope the whole thing goes away, or pray that their sons land on their feet soon enough. But I am not such a parent. In your place, if there is pain, nurse it, and if there is a flame, don’t snuff it out, don’t be brutal with it. Withdrawal can be a terrible thing when it keeps us awake at night, and watching others forget us sooner than we’d want to be forgotten is no better. We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything — what a waste!...
“… {L]et me say one more thing. It will clear the air. I may have come close, but I never had what you had. Something always held me back or stood in the way. How you live your life is your business. But remember, our hearts and our bodies are given to us only once. Most of us can’t help but live as though we’ve got two lives to live, one is the mockup, the other the finished version, and then all those versions in between. But there’s only one, and before you know it, your heart is worn out, and, as for your body, there comes a point when no one looks at it, much less wants to come near it. Right now there’s sorrow. I don’t envy the pain. But I envy you the pain.”
I received the anonymous letter sometime in early May 2008. At the time, I was staying at my parents’, because my father was suffering from throat and mouth cancer and was already in hospice care. He had refused radiation and chemotherapy, so I knew his days were numbered; though morphine was clouding his mind, he was still lucid enough to bandy a few quips about a host of subjects. He had stopped eating and drinking water because swallowing had become very painful. One afternoon while I was stealing a nap, the phone rang. A reporter I’d met in California had just received a letter, which she wanted to share with me. I told her to read it over the phone. After she’d read it I asked if she felt she could mail it to me. I wanted to show it to my father, I said, and explained he was dying. She felt for me. We talked about my father for a while. I told her I was trying to make it up to him these days, and that he too had been exceptionally easy to be with. How was it growing up with him? she asked. Tense, I replied. Always is, she added. Then the conversation ended, and she promised to mail the letter soon.
After hanging up, I got out of bed and went in to see him. Over the past few days, I had made a point of reading to him, which he liked a great deal, especially now that he was having difficulty focusing. But rather than read to him the memoirs of Chateaubriand, one of his favorite authors, and feeling buoyed by the letter I’d been read on the phone, I asked if he’d like me to read from the French translation of Call Me by Your Name, the galleys of which I had just received from Paris that very morning. Why not, since you wrote it, he said. He was proud of me. So I began to read from the very beginning, and soon enough I knew I was opening up a subject neither he nor I had ever broached before. But I knew he knew what I was reading and why I was reading it to him. This made me happy. Perhaps it made him happy as well. I’ll never know.
That evening, after the rest of us had dinner, he asked if I could continue reading from my novel. I was nervous about arriving at the father’s speech because I didn’t know how he’d react to it, though he was the kind of father who would have given that very same speech himself. But the speech was two hundred pages away still, and that would have taken many, many days. Perhaps I should skip some parts, I thought. But no, I wanted to read him the whole book. My father didn’t last long enough to hear the father’s speech. And when the letter finally arrived from California, he was already gone. His name was Henri, he was 93 years old, and he inspired everything I’ve written.
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