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thelightsandtheroses · 11 months

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sing fever to the form | frankie morales x female reader

Summary: Fake dating Frankie Morales seemed the obvious solution to both of your problems, until you caught feelings and now everything is a mess. Pairing: Frankie Morales x female reader Warnings: language and explicit content, 18+ blog - minors do not interact, a little angst with a happy ending romcom style,no physical descriptors, no use of Y/N or specific age mentions for the reader. Word Count: 6.3k Notes: the fic title is from one of my absolute favourite songs which features on every single playlist i ever compile (fever to the form by nick mulvey). I also owe a huge thank you to the lovely @mvtthewmurdvck for her support on this one 💕 i think without her, this would have probably languished in my drafts.

In the cold light of Benny Miller’s bathroom, you come to the conclusion that you’ve made several mistakes. The worst one of these, the one that set the rest in motion like dominoes, had honestly seemed like such a good idea at the time. It appeared such an obvious solution to the numerous questions, interrogations and unspoken pity that you were encountering. You could never have expected this.

You’d moved to Florida for work some time ago and while you had friends and a great career, your love life was definitely lacking. People picked up on it and while no one directly said it, you felt you were continually judged. Sure, it was all well and good that you had a nice job, but if no one’s dating you - well, what’s your red flag?

Between that and the fact your parents kept asking about whether or not you were dating, or if you’d met anyone nice at work, it started to weigh on you. Was there a problem with the way you were living - was it you? Your loved ones seemed so disappointed that you weren’t dating and putting yourself ‘out there in the world’. You tried to tell them the dating pool was not great, that the apps were awful and the only guys you ever seemed to attract came with so many of their own red flags that they could have lined the whole of your street. You’d dated enough bad guys already, you didn’t want to date any more.

You just needed some space.

Frankie was your friend and he was experiencing similar pressures. His friends were asking him when he’d start dating again and he was grappling with a new status as a single father. So, he also needed a break, needed to remove some of the noise from those around him.

Fake dating might belong in the movies, but it seemed an obvious solution to both of your predicaments. For a while, it was perfect.

Frankie is the ideal fake boyfriend, he’s better than any you could have ever imagined. In fact, he is probably the best boyfriend you’ve ever had, which is part of the problem. Most of your previous boyfriends hadn’t been the best, and suddenly here’s Frankie, acting like the perfect man for you?

Of course, you ended up falling for him.

It might have seemed a good idea back then, only now you’re hiding in a bathroom, fighting back tears and berating yourself as the BBQ you’d been looking forward to carries on outside. You’re so stupid. This is a dumb game. It isn’t real.

You’re not supposed to catch feelings.

But you have.

“So, how did we get together?” Frankie asks, leaning his head back against the sofa so you can see all the freckles on his neck above his hoodie.

“Um…” you chew your lip, take a gulp of your drink, “I have no idea.”

Frankie’s house is the sort of home that has comforting chaos and mess to it. His daughter’s things are strewn around the living room, an aviation manual rests on open pages on the coffee table next to you and a pile of battered paperbacks are stacked next to the sofa. The walls are a warm yellow; surprisingly comforting and bright. It’s a stark contrast to how Frankie presents himself outside of his home - cool, collected, a little quiet.

His home feels lived in. You always feel comfortable here.

“We could say that we just realised one day, hanging out, I mean crazier things have happened. A big story would stand out. KISS principles an’ all.”

“What did you just say?’” you ask. “Did you just say kissing principles?”

“Kiss?” He shakes his head. “Keep it simple, stupid! The way I see it, the only way for us to get away with this is to keep it realistic, boring almost so people don’t ask more,” Frankie says thoughtfully.

“Ah, so hooking up with you would be boring? That’s good to know.”

“Oh, carinô, if I kissed you for real that is not the word you’d use …”Frankie trails off, mischievously raises an eyebrow.

“Ergh, you can be so arrogant,” you tease, “Okay, fine. We had a sudden movie like realisation and what - we just got together and then what did we do?”

“Well then, y’know, by that point, you couldn’t exactly walk away.” Frankie smirks salaciously.

You throw a sofa cushion at him.“I think I hate you, Frankie Morales..”

“No, no that’s definitely not what you said.”

“So,” Frankie pauses, runs a hand through his hair. “We should agree what the boundaries are, when we’re with others.”

“Others?”

“Yes, when we’re with our friends. It needs to be believable, right? And I’m sorry, but if we stay like we are now, around my friends, then they’ll know it’s fake in five minutes.”

“Why?”

“I did an online quiz with my ex and um, physical touch is my love language,” Frankie says sheepishly.

“You do know that whole love language thing is bullshit, right?”

“No, it’s not. Jessie said -”

“She’s wrong.”

“Regardless, the quiz said that - ergh, fine, whatever. So, what’s the plan there? I don’t want either us to feel uncomfortable though, okay.”

“We’ve been friends a long time,” you say lightly, “This won’t change that. We can figure this out.” It’s not like you’ve never hugged Frankie or he hasn’t put an arm around you before. How hard can it be - you need people to believe you?

“Also, I am not lying to my kid, or getting her to lie for me. We need to keep her out of it, tell everyone else we’re taking it slow with her until we know it’s serious, okay?” Frankie looks at you with a suddenly serious expression. Oh god, he’s a dad and this is stupid and complicated and you can’t involve her in this and you’ve just been discussing the physical boundaries in this stupid game and this is ridiculous.

It was a pathetic idea of yours.

“Maybe we shouldn’t -”

“It’s fine. We just keep her out of this.”

“Okay, that sounds sensible.”

“So we’re really doing this then?” he asks with a shy smile.

“Yeah, I think we are.”

It’s Frankie. What other choice was there when it came down to it? It’s Frankie with his deep brown eyes that have mastered the puppy dog expression and his shy smiles. You care about him and all of his insecurities, doubts and vulnerabilities you’ve learned over the years. They make him tangible, real, and truer. Perhaps you always liked him and you didn’t know. Maybe you did and subconsciously thought this was the only way you’d have him which is why you’d pursued such a ridiculous idea. Perhaps you had thought this would be like the movies, that he’d confess his love for you and you’d drive off into the sunset.

You’re now accustomed to the way his hands skim your back or waist when you’re with friends, the way he leans closer to you and you can feel his breath against your ear when he whispers sweet nothings in his low voice, smell the laundry detergent on his clothes.

He’s so convincing.

No one has ever questioned whether it’s real with the two of you. You don’t think it would ever cross their mind that the two of you are fake dating.

Your body and mind certainly doesn’t think it’s fake anymore.

You sit on the edge of the bath and try and try and pinpoint when you realised you felt this way. You’ve both been flirting with danger for weeks; the way you’ve let him trace shapes on your side when he pulls you close, how you lean into the crook of his neck, play with the ends of his curls when you’re out with friends. You tell yourself it’s just to make it look real, to make this situation look authentic.

You’ve certainly fooled yourself.

You’re not even sure when you realised this. One moment everything was like normal and then it wasn’t. Perhaps it’s your fault, you have always been a dreamer. You’ve always walked through life fantasising that this will be the moment when everything changes, when you suddenly fit in and someone will like you or fall in love with you. Given the way your mind works, it was inevitably a stupid idea to even try this with Frankie.

It’s been overwhelming at the BBQ today; the gentle touches, the way he looks at you and you almost believe it’s genuine. It wouldn’t normally bother you so much, but now you’re aching for it to be something it can’t be and it’s all too much.

You couldn’t help looking at Frankie throughout the BBQ; wanting to count the freckles on his neck, to run your hands through the curls hidden by his hat as you notice the ends peeking out at the nape of his neck. You’re always taken with the broadness of his shoulders too, his hands.

You’re completely doomed.

You can’t do this anymore. It’s not fair, it’s a betrayal of your friendship with him. It’s a betrayal of his trust because agreeing to do this fake dating was an exercise in trust, one you are failing.

You’ve been thinking about it for days. The reason you feel so safe with Frankie is because it’s not real, because you weren’t supposed to have to give your heart away. It was just meant to distract people so you could breathe again. You’ve seen too many romcoms and movies, you’re too much of a dreamer to have ever let this work without getting messy. You thought you could be detached and objective, but you can’t.

It’s you, you’re the one who has screwed up.

So you go downstairs, make your excuses and leave.

You’ve been fake dating for two weeks and this just might be your best relationship ever. You can’t decide if that’s sweet or perhaps the most depressing thing you’ve ever admitted.

You’re in Frankie’s car on the way to Tom’s birthday, playing with the handle of the gift bag you’re holding. The sun is out, Frankie’s playlist is setting the scene and you feel so happy in this moment.

“Don’t be surprised if they say something about us,” Frankie says casually as he changes gear, “The guys have been giving me grief since I told them about us. Well, since I told them about what we’re saying about us, anyway.”

“I thought the idea was it would stop them giving you grief?”

“Oh, this is much better than it was, trust me,” he says, laughing as he looks at the road ahead. With his sunglasses on, no hat and a loose t-shirt he looks more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him. Frankie strikes you as a tightly wound coil, he’s just got that energy. He’s calm, not something or someone you are afraid of, but you recognise the way he thinks, see the nervous anticipation in his eyes before he smiles at one of his friends on a night out.

You see the same thing in yourself.

“You know, I can’t believe this is working,” you say cheerfully to Frankie, “My mom has even stopped sending me those news articles about people who meet their soulmates later in your life.”

“Your mom was sending you those?” Frankie asks, raising an eyebrow.

“She means well,” you say placidly. “My parents have always had a lot of expectations for me.”

“Shit.” He reaches over and squeezes your hand. “Well, I can promise you that you’re the best fake girlfriend I’ve ever had.”

“Likewise, Frankie, likewise.”

You don’t mean to ghost Frankie after the BBQ. It’s just you’re not sure what to say to him. I’m sorry, but I think this fake dating is getting a little too authentic because I might be falling for you?

You can’t do that to him, can’t embarrass yourself with your stupid crush either. It’s better to just ignore the messages, pretend it’s not happening and bury your head in the sand.

Of course, Frankie knows where you live, so you shouldn’t be as surprised as you are when he turns up at your home.

“So what’s going on? I texted you,” he says with a forced casual voice as he leans against your kitchen counter. He’s wearing a loose t-shirt and jeans, his usual hat discarded next to him. He runs a hand through his hair and looks over at you.

You don’t want to look at him properly, so you focus your attention on your kitchen tiles instead . You really need to mop the kitchen floor later.

“I think, I think this thing has run its course.”

“Oh, really?” Frankie looks surprised, almost sad, when you dare to look at him, “I thought this was working well for us both.”

“A little too well,” you mumble under your breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

You sigh.

“Hey, cariño, talk to me.”

“It’s just us, Frankie, you don’t have to call me that right now.”

“Why, do you not like it?”

You exhale again with exasperation and shake your head. Just make this easier on me, you think, stop muddying the water. When you meet Frankie’s eyes he looks perplexed though, concerned and his brow is furrowed.

“What’s going on?” he asks, arms folded as he looks over at you. “Talk to me.”

“I think we should stop with this fake dating arrangement. I mean, the idea was just to do it until my friends and my parents were off my back and until your friends were off yours, and they are. So, let’s call it a win and move on.”

“Did something happen?” Frankie asks. “You meet someone?” There’s a strange tone to his voice, almost wistful.

“No, no. I just - I don’t think we should keep doing this. I mean that girl asked you out last week at the bar and because Will and I were with you, you said no.”

“She wasn’t my type anyway and that’s what this is about? Come on!”

“I’m - I’m clearly holding you back and that’s not what this was supposed to be.”

“Is this what you really want?”

“Absolutely,” you lie brightly, smiling as widely as you can. “We’re friends and we’ve helped each other out so let’s bow out of this gracefully. We can say to the others - we can tell them we realised that we’re better off as friends.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Okay?” you repeat, disappointed that he’s just giving up, that this really is it.

A small part of you was holding out hope for Frankie fighting back, for him to declare his love for you, take you into his arms and then for the two of you to have the most passionate, intense sex of your life right there in the kitchen. That’s what happens in the movies and books. It’s all meant to end with a kiss.

Only he doesn’t do that.

He just quietly acquiesces to your demand that this ends now and when he smiles, as though his acceptance will make you happy, he shatters your heart into a million pieces.

You have no idea how your friendship will recover from this. You have no idea how to watch someone else love Frankie in the future, to watch him put his hands on someone else or look at them like he looked at you and know it’s real for them but wasn’t for you.

“I should probably go,” Frankie says, his gaze fixated on the floor.

“Oh, right. Well, I’ll see you around.”

The story of your breakup spreads quickly. Your friends are disappointed, they tell you it’s obvious you both liked each other, they ask if you’re sure you can’t work it out? Your parents are clearly disappointed, but at the same time you catch a glance of relief on your mother’s face when you tell her.

“He’s complicated,” she says, taking a sip from her cup of tea. It’s your mom’s first visit in months, a visit you had originally planned during the fake dating misadventure.

“Complicated?”

“He’s a single father and the job he has? Being a pilot isn’t like a regular 9-5.”

“He makes his hours work for his kid, and none of those things were the reason we broke up”you say defensively. “And at my age, most people have previous relationships and baggage so I don’t think that makes him any more complicated than anyone else I could meet.”

“You don’t, darling, you don’t have any baggage.”

“That in itself is clearly a complication,” you say, rolling your eyes like a petulant teenager. “I mean, you and Dad hated it when I was single. You were always asking if I’d met someone, or if I was looking and -“ you trail off and stare at your hands on the table. Your nail varnish is chipped. Rouge Noir, the classic vampy red you always put on when you’re feeling blue, when you need a confidence boost. It’s not working for you right now though.

“We just want you to be happy,” your mom says, gently taking her hands in yours. “Whatever that looks like.”

“I am happy.” It’s meant to sound assertive but it comes out more like a question as you speak. You’re happy, dammit. Or you were before everything went wrong.

“No, honey, you’re in the middle of a break up and it’s obvious you still feel something for him. Are you sure - are you sure it’s over? You told me you were the one who ended things.”

“Yeah, I did. I don’t think - I don’t think it’s a good idea, mom. I’ll get over it. I have this big work project and then that trip and the apartment move soon, so I’ll be fine.”

You’re not sure of anything now. You thought stopping the arrangement with Frankie would save your friendship, but it didn’t. Now you don’t have him at all and it fucking hurts.

You are so angry and sad and confused. This is all your fault for getting feelings that you’d laughed at the possibility of months ago. You’ve lost him anyway and it’s caused a great chasm in your heart.

How can you be mourning something that wasn’t even real in the first place?

When you became friends with Frankie, he introduced you to some of his friends from his military days. While you didn’t exactly get on with all of them, Tom is aloof at best, Benny and you had become friends over time. In the wake of your fictionalised break-up, you’ve lost those people too. You’ve avoided Benny’s fights, wanted Frankie to have his friends without the bother of you. Besides, you’ve been focused on work. You had a trip away for a few days and then you had a big project, presentations. Work has been something to throw yourself into.

It’s a good plan, but Benny keeps texting you and personally invites you to his next fight.

You and Frankie have both said you’re still friends so what’s the problem?

I don’t know if it’s a good idea.

Just come to the damn fight, would you? Liv keeps asking after you.

You decide you should go at least once to show your face. You can do this, you can handle one night. You like Liv, Benny’s girlfriend, and you can say hello and then vanish quickly after the fight ends. If you’re careful with the seating set up, you might not even see Frankie or have to talk to him at all.

The bar is crowded and while Will, Santiago, Tom and Frankie all greeted you when you arrive, it feels different. Stilted somehow.

It’s almost how it would feel if this was a genuine break up, if this was real. You suppose it is to Santiago, Tom and Will.

You sat with Benny’s girlfriend, Liv, for the fight. She squeezed your hand sympathetically when she catches you looking over at Frankie.

Frankie still looks the same as ever, you think as you cast your eyes over to where he is in the crowd. He’s wearing his usual hat, the one you’ve teased him about for years but can’t picture him ever giving up, with well fitting jeans and a jacket. He looks infuriatingly good.

Before the fight Frankie had moved so he was next to you and he looked like he wanted to say something to you before the fight began. Panicked, you quickly moved next to Liv instead and so you were sitting on the other side of the group to him as you took your seats.

Crisis averted, you thought. Only now, you can’t stop wondering what he might have said to you.

“I can’t see why you can’t get it together,” Benny says, taking a sip from his bottle of beer. The two of you are standing together by the bar, waiting for the rest of the group’s drinks. Benny’s mostly fixed up from his fight, with just a small red stain on his forehead between the steri-strips and bruises. You think the other guy must look a lot worse.

“Wait, what did you say?” you ask.

“I don’t see why you and Frankie can’t work it out. I mean, look at him,” Benny points his bottle towards your friends, to where your attention had just been. Frankie’s standing on the edge of the group, arms folded, hat rigid. He looks uncomfortable.

You shouldn’t have come here tonight.

“We tried and it wasn’t a good fit. It wasn’t going to work out,,” you say flatly, repeating the line you and Frankie had agreed on.

“Look, you might have fooled the others, but you can’t fool me.”

Your stomach sinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I know you guys were fake dating at first.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You could barely keep your stories straight about how you got together when I asked,” Benny says softly. “You kept adding details and I noticed Frankie shake his head whenever you did that.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? Does Frankie know?” You’re mortified for him, you know how embarrassed he would feel if he found out that Benny had guessed all along it was fake.

This really can’t get any worse.

“‘Cause you two obviously liked each other. I assumed that you’d figure it out along the way. I thought you had, but then -” Benny trails off.

“You know when you assume, you make an ass -”

‘Oh sweetheart, don’t even finish that sentence.“ Benny exhales. “How are you holding up?”

“It’s what you said, it was fake and we ended it and it’s all fine now.”

“Bullshit,” Benny exclaims, his southern drawl even more pronounced.

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

The bartender interrupts by finally handing you the rest of your drinks and between you and Benny, you take them and rejoin your friends.

‘Cause you two obviously liked each other.

Benny’s words echo in your mind. He didn’t say because you liked Frankie, but because you both did.

Frankie doesn’t like you like that though, you know this. He’s clearly just a very good actor.

You end up the one handing Frankie his drink, no doubt due to Benny’s meddling. Your hands brush against his as he takes the bottle and you can’t help looking up at him, noticing the unreadable expression on his face.

Will coughs loudly and you quickly take a step back.

“It was a good fight, Benny,” you say awkwardly, hoping he’ll take the change of subject.

“I need a smoke,” Frankie says, hunching his shoulders as he walks away from the group.

The room instantly turns cold.

You awkwardly pull the edge of your jacket down, wishing the ground would swallow you up. Santi, Tom and Will are staring at you and you can’t be here. They hate you, they’re judging you.

This is so fucked up.

“I’m uh, going to go.”

Liv makes a motion as if to stop you, but she doesn’t, and Benny’s looking at you with real disappointment but that doesn’t stop you either. You’re getting good at running away now.

You’re too afraid to look behind you and see whether they’re looking at you as you walk away.

Frankie’s standing by the parking lot when you finally weave your way past the crowds and bloody fighters to reach the exit.

He looks surprised to see you. Just seeing his face makes your heart ache because you’ve lost him, you’ve lost him and you didn’t want to.

“I’m leaving now, so you can go back in” you say flatly.

“I was just having a smoke,” he says defensively. It’s an obvious lie, you both know it.

“Sure, Frankie. Look, you can’t just stomp off like that. You can’t leave me in that position with everyone. It’s not fair.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of things we don’t discuss, lot of things that aren’t fair,” Frankie says bitterly, tossing his cigarette to the floor and stamping on it a little too vigorously.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What’s going on with you? This wasn’t meant to affect our friendship. I never, ever would have agreed if I’d known,” Frankie says firmly. “You were my friend and I still wanted you to be but you ghosted me and ended our deal. That’s fine, but we didn’t go back to normal after. We just - it’s like you hate me now.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Just would you tell me what I did wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why -”

“It was too real,” you whisper, folding your arms around yourself and leaning against the brick wall.

“What? What did you say?” Frankie asks, moving closer.

“You know, the faking it thing. It was too real, it was confusing me. And I - I didn’t want to ruin everything but I still ruined it all. Story of my life.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” You think, somehow he’s going to break your heart even more tonight and you didn’t think that was possible..

“I just - I got confused.”

“How did you get confused?” he asks in a low voice, taking another step closer to you.

“Don’t, Frankie, don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?” he asks, dramatically throwing his hands in the air, “I can’t understand you. I mean, this was your idea and then you ended it and now you don’t even want to be friends? I don’t know what I did but -”

“You did nothing, Frankie. It’s me, not you.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Clearly something happened. Can’t you just talk to me? I’m fucking miserable here. You were supposed to be my friend and I miss you.” You hadn’t thought that your actions could have hurt Frankie, you thought you were protecting him by doing what you did.

You feel even worse, a sick feeling rising in your stomach.

“It got muddled in my head, okay, it felt like it was real and I couldn’t do that to you, so that’s why - that’s why.” You falter at the end of your sentence as all of the adrenaline and energy from your body fades away..

“It got too real for you? What are you saying?”

“That I like you. That I ended up liking you more than I should, you obtuse jerk!”

Frankie pauses then takes another step closer. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, a slight smile on his face that you can’t make any sense of.

“It’s embarrassing, Frankie. We made an arrangement and I caught feelings like an idiotic teenager. I’m just daydreaming my life away again.”

Frankie is so close to you right now, he braces his hands against the wall as he stands right in front of you.

“You caught feelings, huh?”

You notice a familiar smirk on his face and then he’s kissing you.

Frankie’s kissed you before; it’s been part of the facade after all, but not like this.

This kiss is everything. It sends molten heat down your core, renders your mind completely blank. All the anxiety, all the internal dialogue is gone for once. The silence is blissful as you can feel your heart pounding, take in the soft texture of Frankie’s shirt as you fist it to pull him closer because now he’s with you like this, you can’t let him go.

It’s not an aggressive kiss, it’s not teeth clashing or fury. It’s not exactly gentle either. Frankie kisses you with care; like he’s trying to take you apart right here and now with just a kiss.

In just one minute, he’s ruined you for other people. No one else could kiss you like Frankie does.

“I told you, if I kissed you for real it wouldn’t be boring,” Frankie mumbles, moving his attention down your jaw and neck to your collarbone. You can feel the velvet softness of his lips, the heat of his breath.

“Oh fuck you,” you joke.

”Well, baby, I think I’m trying. Not here though, we can do better than that.”

You both laugh. The tension breaks for just a second as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, laugh into his neck, breathe him in.

“C’mon, you had to know I liked you. I just, I just thought you deserved someone better than me -” Frankie starts.

“That’s bullshit,” you argue. Frankie is kind, thoughtful and funny. He’s also so competent, multi-skilled and as you’ve just learned, an excellent kisser. Frankie has that quiet and collected energy you’ve noticed in a lot of ex-military people too. He flies planes and helicopters for a living. He’s your friend. How could you deserve any better than him?

“Can we get out of here?” Frankie asks, “Talk, not talk, I don’t mind. I just - I want to be with you right now. God, I missed you.”

“Okay. I really fucking missed you too,” you say, kissing his shoulder lightly before leaning back against the wall.

He doesn’t stop touching you the whole way to your apartment. He’s either holding your hand or touching your leg. If he has to temporarily remove himself to make a turn or change gear, he’s immediately back with you as soon as possible. You wonder if he’s worried you’ll leave or vanish if he’s not actually touching you, if he’s also wondering if this is really happening..

His car stereo blares uncharacteristically cheerful music by the latest pop sensation and you raise your eyebrows when he looks over at you.

“It’s her favourite album by her favourite singer and school’s been rough for her the last few weeks so this cheers her up,” he says defensively, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel, “I think I can probably hear it even when it’s not playing now.”

“Sure, but your daughter’s not in the car with us. Is she, Frankie? You could have switched it over.”

“I keep forgetting to change the CD,” he whines unconvincingly. “This car’s old.”

You make your way to your apartment, his arm around you, fingers entwined with yours the whole time.

As soon as you close the front door, he’s pushing your back against the wall, cupping his hands around your face to kiss you deeply.

You move your hands up to meet his and then move one of your hands down his chest.

“Your heart’s racing like crazy,” you mumble as he kisses a particular spot on your neck.

There’s always a moment of fear at a junction like this. What if the sex is bad - what if you’re just not compatible this way? But you need him, you need him with you, in you and the two of you are both too far gone to focus on that now.

Your friendship is changed anyway. There’s nothing more to lose.

He places his hands on your hips, pulls you away towards your bedroom.

“I want you so much,” he says.

“I want you too,” you reply, dazed between kisses as he navigates you to the edge of your bed.

He ghosts his hands down to the edge of your top and you move to desperately pull it off you.

You watch him take in the sight of you in your bra, take in the smile on his face. He looks at you with something like reverence; as if he can’t quite take it in that you’re real and you’re with him. Part of you wants to glow under his gaze and the rest of you fights panic, because this feels different, it feels real. You’ve never been looked at like this before.

You’ll do anything to keep this moment.

He gently unhooks your bra, moves his kisses down from your lips to your neck to your collarbone to the curve of your breasts and then down again.

His hands fumble with the button of your jeans and you’re desperate for him.

“What do you want, baby?”

You, you think, I just want you.

”C’mon, tell me,” he coaxes.

“I just need you. I want you to - ”

“I’ve got you,” he says, calmly lifting your hips to remove your jeans, to touch the hem of your underwear - and could you have not put better underwear on this morning?

You open your mouth to say something but then he comes back to meet your lips as he moves his hand inside your underwear. You’re already slick with wanting him, he slides a finger inside before tracing circles over your bundle of nerves to make you gasp.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispers as he continues taking you apart.

“Frankie -”

“I’ve liked you for so long, I just thought you didn’t want me that way. I’d take anything you give me - friendship, I mean fake dating. I thought it was as close as I’d get.”

“Frankie, how could I not want you that way? You’re - you’re Frankie.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m going to show you.”

You feel your orgasm building and clasp your hands over his shoulders, into his hair. You shut your eyes and then it’s gone.

“Frankie?”

You open your eyes to see him take his finger into his mouth then mischievously smiles as he moves back and off the bed. He moves you so your legs are over the edge of the bed and then. He gets on his knees.

You take a deep breath He kisses the inside of your knee, traces kiss up your thigh until he meets you. You sit up slightly on your elbows as he looks up to meet your gaze with a dazed smile before he turns his attention to you.

Frankie Morales knows exactly what he’s doing between your legs but in case, you tell him how good he is anyway. He takes you apart with expert precision, gets you back to the precipice of pleasure all too quickly and guides you over the line.

“Do you want to -” he asks breathlessly as he comes back to you afterwards and kisses you. You can taste yourself on his lips, can feel his hardness pressing into you.

“Yeah, I do. I have uh - condoms in the bathroom cabinet.”

“Give me a second.” He kisses you briefly and you shut your eyes again as he goes to the bathroom. You try and catch your breath back and get your legs to stop trembling.

Why are the condoms so fucking far away? You still desperately need him, still need to feel him.

When Frankie comes back, he kisses you hungrily before he slides the condom over his length.

“Fuck, to think we could have been doing this the whole time,” he says before he’s sliding inside you.

There’s nothing else at this moment. It’s just you and him and the way you dig your fingers into his back with your free hand and the way your other hands is entwined in his as he moves inside you, the two of you desperately exchanging sweet nothings to each other, groaning each other’s names.

Your heart is racing and the blood is pumping in your ears. You watch the expression on his face just before he buries his face in your neck, sure he can feel the way you’re tightening around him, can surely feel how close you are too and then just as he takes you to that place one more time, you hear the way he moans as he joins you.

The next morning you watch Frankie pacing your balcony as speaks on the phone to his daughter. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling at the ends, and he has a mug of coffee in his other hand. He turns and smiles at you.

Just twenty four hours ago, you never thought Frankie could feel that way about you. You were resigned to your mistakes and your losses.

You were wrong.

He hangs up the phone and you walk over to join him on the balcony, your mug of coffee tightly clasped between your hands.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” he says, putting his phone in his pocket and wrapping his now free arm around you as he takes a gulp of coffee.

You take a sip of your own coffee.

“I was just thinking,” Frankie says, “so, I guess the story we came up with before was true, right? We just realised how we felt about each other one day - and okay, it might have taken some fake dating to get us both there - but no one else needs to know that.”

“No one else needs to know that.”

You definitely need to tell Frankie at some point that Benny has figured everything out, that Benny clearly pushed you two together last night. You probably owe him a thank you, but you’ll never tell Benny that.

“So, what do we do now?” There’s a lot you need to discuss, figure out, but you just want to be with him. Surely that’s enough for now.

Frankie grins. “Well, I don’t need to be home until the afternoon so I’ve got some time right now.”

“I’m sure we can think of some things to fill that time.”

Frankie laughs. “Definitely.”

Tag List

All Pedro characters: @harriedandharassed @pedrostories @hiroikegawa @pedrosaidsheispunk

#frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #triple frontier #frankie morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction

430 notes · View notes

kingofbodyrolls · 5 months

Text

Learn to Love Again (m) | myg

Summary: People always leave. They become beautiful stars shining bright in the night sky. When life hands you lemons, you’ve been told to make lemonade, but that is hard when your soul and heart is breaking apart. When you rescue a tiny cat and meet a handsome stranger in the cafe, you finally feel yourself healing – but when they too leave, how are you going to learn to love again?

Pairing: Yoongi x reader (female, mainly called pet names so no ‘Y/N’).

AU + genres: Hybrid!au (shapeshifter!yoongi), strangers to lovers, slice of life, heavy angst, a lot of sadness and grief (I’m sorry!), dark vibes, smut and fluff and some humor sprinkled in there too.

Rating: Mature/explicit/R18 – this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.

Word count: 19,4K

Disclaimer: I do not own BTS or know them personally and this work of fiction is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only. The actions and personalities described in the story do not reflect those of BTS— it’s just fiction. Also, if you would kindly read the tags/warnings before reading, that would be lovely: and if you don’t like whatever is described in the tags, just hit return and find something else to read. Thank you 🌸

Warnings (general) + triggers: Heavy angst, extreme heavy sadness and grief, death of minor characters, mention of previous character death (parents and siblings), mentions of su*cide, mention of m*rder, su*cidal thoughts. Mention of past car accident. Mention of past domestic abuse. Mirrors 👀👀

Warnings (explicit): unprotected sex (please stay safe!), choking, oral (female receiving), nipple and breasts play, one-time use of a degrading word (otherwise petname), hair pulling – I guess it’s pretty vanilla with a slight sprinkle of spice 🤭

Author’s note (1): I know it sounds hella sad (and it is), but it is also very sweet and heartwarming too 💜 I wanted to venture into the darker stuff again, and embrace all the feelings and sadness that I felt a few weeks ago (I’m fine, well I’m getting through it at least).

If you are triggered by any of the warnings, I suggest that you skip this. It’s not that explicit though, but the heavy subjects are still there and they feature in it a lot.

Also, the quote “people always leave” features a lot in this and I only now realize why I find it so familiar – it’s a famous quote from Peyton Sawyer from One Tree Hill.

Author's note (2): It’s only partly edited, so I’m so sorry about any mistakes or weird wordings (English is also not my mother language). When I read it again, I felt sad and like the whole thing is crap (why do I also feel like this adgadfjkhs), BUT, I still like it, it’s a piece of my heart in there… I can’t just let it sit in my docs to collect dust. So – I’ll just post it early and never look at the thing again (expect for the cover, because damn I’m so happy with how that turned out 🥹).

Taglist: @keshiadeija @viankiss @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad If you prefer to read on AO3 you can also find it there 🙂

The heavens are weeping again, unleashing a torrential downpour that drums heavy on the windows. Just like the heavy beating of your heart and the tears that just won’t stop falling down your cheeks.

For days now, the world has languished in this disquiet, a foreboding atmosphere that has draped itself over every moment, casting a shadow even before the haunting ring of the call that echoed through the silence.

A searing, heart-wrenching call that etched itself into the fabric of your existence, standing out as one of the most agonizing moments life has ever dared to deliver.

Caught off guard by the unexpected twist of fate, it blindsided you, sending shockwaves through your core and leaving you utterly rattled, as if the very ground beneath your feet had shifted without warning.

Your conviction in her well-being crumbled as swiftly as a sandcastle against the tide.

In your last encounter, she radiated joy—her infectious happiness casting a brilliant glow over her words as she spoke about her new job, her blossoming romance, and her boundless love for life.

A tear, heavy with the weight of the contrast between then and now, traces a lonely path down your cheek.

The echo of her laughter, the sparkle in her eyes, and the unbridled excitement that made her hands tremble with anticipation haunted your memories.

It's a heart-wrenching juxtaposition between the happiness she projected and the sorrow now etched into the fabric of your own emotions.

She wasn't just a friend; she was your confidante, a steadfast companion through the labyrinth of years and experiences. Your best friend.

In the tapestry of your friendship, she emerged as the resplendent thread, the one who consistently outshone the rest.

Even on her darkest days, she radiated a brilliance that surpassed the ordinary, a celestial glow that left an indelible mark on your heart. To you, she wasn't just a friend; she was a luminous star, a breathtaking celestial entity whose untimely descent felt like a cosmic supernova, casting a blinding light that left everyone in its wake awestruck and forever changed.

Like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, the day she chose to end her own life blindsided everyone.

The abruptness of her decision, the finality of calling it quits, left a haunting question echoing in the hollow chambers of your soul—why?

The puzzle remains unsolved, the enigma of her despair a perplexing maze you can't navigate. Outwardly, her life seemed like a canvas painted in hues of contentment, yet the invisible struggles eluded comprehension.

Despite the deep conversations that usually wove through the tapestry of your friendship, the darkness she harbored never surfaced in her words. Her choice to shroud her pain in silence remains an unfathomable mystery, a tragic paradox that still elicits a profound sense of bewilderment.

The haunting ‘what if’ lingers, an elusive specter of regret—what if she had shared her struggles with you?

The possibility that your words could have been a lifeline is an uncharted sea of sorrow. The uncertainty, the unfulfilled potential for intervention, claws at your conscience like a relentless tempest.

In the wake of this unanswered plea for connection, tears cascade down your cheeks, each drop bearing the weight of unspoken conversations. The dampness on your collarbone, where your shirt clings uncomfortably, is a tangible reminder of the storm within.

A mere few days have crawled by since that fateful call, the kind that alters the very fabric of reality.

The echo of your friend's voice reverberates through your memory—a seismic revelation that shattered your world. As the words unfolded, you crumpled to the floor, the phone nearly slipping from your trembling grasp.

A gasp caught in your throat, a palpable surge of emotion crashing over you like a tidal wave.

In that harrowing moment, your heartbeat quickened, each thud resonating with the weight of sorrow and anger. The air itself seemed to constrict, tainted with the bitter aftertaste of an impending storm. The onslaught of emotions clawed at your chest, a tumultuous dance between sadness and anger, each one vying for dominance in the chaotic symphony of your soul.

Powerlessness wraps around you like a suffocating shroud, the absence of your brightest star leaving a void that seems insurmountable.

In this moment of staggering loss, the future unfolds as a vast expanse of uncertainty. How do you navigate a world without the radiant glow she once brought to your existence?

Yet, as the weight of grief presses down, a resilient ember flickers within. Acknowledging the inexorable march of time, you realize that her memory, like a cherished constellation, will be a guiding light in the night sky of your life.

In the tapestry of your emotions, she, alongside your parents, becomes one of the celestial beacons you look up to during moments of sorrow or when life's burdens become too overwhelming.

You step out onto the balcony, enveloped by the velvety embrace of the dark blue sky.

The resplendent moon takes center stage, surrounded by a constellation of bright companions that twinkle in the vast expanse of the night. The beauty of the cosmos is a bittersweet solace, a celestial dance that captivates your gaze.

The night sky has always held a captivating allure for you, but in the wake of the profound loss of your parents, it transcends mere beauty.

It becomes a sanctuary, a cosmic tapestry where memories linger among the stars. Each celestial beacon now carries the weight of cherished moments, transforming the night into a sacred canvas where the brilliance of your loved ones continues to shine, casting a radiant glow that lingers in the quiet moments of contemplation.

The subtle hum of your phone reverberates in your hand, a clandestine messenger that disrupts the tranquility of your thoughts, setting loose a cascade of emotions.

The screen lights up with a message from a friend, its arrival like a seismic tremor in the landscape of your contemplations, shaking loose the delicate balance you've tried so desperately to maintain.

Yuna [20.31]: Iseul’s funeral is on Saturday. We’re all going. U coming?🌹

Dread settles in the pit of your stomach like a heavy anchor – the thought of attending the funeral feels like navigating a tempest of emotions you're not sure you're prepared to weather.

The prospect of confronting tears, raw emotion, and the grieving presence of her family looms before you, casting a shadow over the already somber occasion.

Yet, duty intertwines with reluctance; you were her best friend, after all.

The expectation to pay your respects becomes an unspoken mandate, tugging at the seams of your resolve despite the storm of discomfort that brews within.

Tears have become an unwelcome torrent on your phone, transforming the smooth surface into a slippery terrain that complicates every attempt to type.

The screen blurs beneath a watery veil, mirroring the tumultuous cascade in your own eyes. Distraction clings to each droplet, making it not only challenging to navigate the phone but also to see through the emotional downpour that clouds your vision.

But against the deluge of sorrow and the weight of grief, you summon the strength for a brief reply, a fragile lifeline tossed into the turbulent sea of emotions.

You [20.46]: Yes🌹

With a heavy sigh, you gently lay your phone face-down on the nightstand, as if shielding the illuminated screen from the weight of the world you've just momentarily set aside.

How do you navigate this desolate landscape that life has become?

The void feels more palpable now, a haunting echo of emptiness that had lingered even before.

It's as if the very essence of existence has been drained away, leaving you grappling with the profound question: What is the point when the world around you continues to crumble, and people around you just keep dying?

At Iseul's funeral, you navigated the somber scene alongside your friend group, bracing for the emotional maelstrom that awaited.

The atmosphere unfolded exactly as you had anticipated — a tableau of tears, grief-stricken family members, and the embrace of mournful hugs. Conversations echoed with memories of Iseul's radiant spirit, each word a bittersweet tribute to the bright and bubbly soul that once graced your lives.

Amidst the collective sorrow, the air hung heavy with the weight of loss, weaving a tapestry of emotions that spoke to the indelible impact Iseul had left behind.

It was agonizing, bidding farewell in the harsh reality of acceptance. The harsh truth of life unveiled itself – an unrelenting cycle of departures.

Yet, amidst the crushing finality, you find solace in the enduring promise that even though everyone leaves, the stars above will forever bear witness to her presence, a cosmic constellation of memories that will continue to illuminate the canvas of your nights.

Work persists in its mundane rhythm, the monotony punctuated only by the forced smiles you offer customers as you brew their coffee or recommend delectable treats in the cafe.

For you, work has forever remained a sterile landscape, devoid of passion or purpose. The unfulfilled yearning for a meaningful career tugs at the edges of your consciousness, a persistent ache exacerbated by life's unrelenting cruelty—your unfinished degree in astrophysics stands as a testament to dreams deferred. Maybe you’ll go back to school – you don’t know.

Your thoughts are abruptly shattered by a brash intrusion, a man’s voice slicing through the ambient noise with an unwarranted familiarity. “Hi, pretty,” he drawls, snapping your attention to the present, “can I get a black coffee, a muffin, and your number, please?”

The audacious request hangs in the air, leaving a charged pause that crackles with a blend of amusement and annoyance.

You stifle a silent scoff, a careful veil to conceal the simmering irritation within, though the indignation is palpable.

This flirtatious interlude is far from novel—far from the first time someone has attempted to weave charm into the fabric of your workday. Yet, a discomforting truth lingers beneath your composed exterior: you disdain these unwarranted advances, a sentiment you've carried with you each time such encounters stain the ordinary canvas of your work.

Forcing a smile that feels more like a fragile mask, you locate a muffin, navigating the familiar routine with practiced efficiency.

As you approach the coffee machine to craft the requested brew, you gather both items and, with a subtle sigh, slide them across the counter.

Your words, delivered with a polite cadence, carry a hint of firmness as you say, “Here you go. Apologies, but my number isn't on the menu.”

Turning men down has become a skill honed through the crucible of experience, a necessity etched into the fabric of your being, especially after the wreckage of your last relationship.

It wasn't just a breakup; it was a tempest that left you bruised, not only on the surface but also in the recesses of your soul.

To declare a dread of relationships, despite the quiet longing that flickers deep within, would be an understatement—the mere thought evokes the echoes of a tumultuous past, a cautionary tale etched in both physical and emotional hues of black and blue.

Despite the man's disapproving frown, he begrudgingly parts with his payment, snatching his coffee and muffin.

As he vacates the space, you extend a tight-lipped greeting to the next customer, the forced smile a delicate masquerade concealing the intricacies of emotion churning beneath the surface.

Day after day unfolds in this relentless routine, a relentless loop where, despite the suffocating weight of depression, you muster the strength to haul yourself into work.

The struggle is an unspoken battle, fought in the silent recesses of your soul, and each morning becomes a victory against the persistent darkness that threatens to engulf your spirit.

You maintain a lifeline to your friends, weaving a narrative of your somber mood and emotional tumult, acutely aware of the significance of vocalizing your feelings rather than succumbing to the perilous grip of silent suffering.

Recent conversations with your friends have taken an unexpected turn, steering into the realm of your dating life or, more accurately, its conspicuous absence.

Their fervent advocacy for you to reenter the world of romance echoes in your ears, their well-intentioned pleas urging you to cross paths with someone great and amazing.

However, you find yourself standing at the crossroads of uncertainty, unsure if you're ready to navigate the labyrinth of love once more.

Despite your reservations, you indulge them, allowing their words to wash over you like a waterfall of unsolicited advice, all the while steadfast in your understanding that a man is not a prerequisite for happiness or the completeness of your life—you've long recognized your ability to stand firm and flourish on your own terms.

An entire season has unfurled its tapestry, and while the vast void persists within the caverns of your heart, there's a subtle transformation underway. Amidst the lingering shadows, a sliver of the sun's warm rays threads its way through, gently illuminating the emptiness.

The caress of warm weather and sunlight manages to coax a faint lift in your mood, a subtle thawing of the emotional frost.

Yet, amidst the burgeoning warmth, there's a yearning for the crispness of cold, the kind that invites the comfort of wool sweaters and socks, beckoning a desire to cocoon on the couch and lose yourself in the embrace of solitude.

After withstanding the relentless onslaught of your friends' persistent prodding into the realm of your love life, you've yielded to the chorus of their well-meaning badgering. With a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, you've made the bold decision to reenter the intricate dance of the dating game.

The prospect of discovering 'the one' remains shrouded in uncertainty, a delicate balance between the promise of profound connection and the potential peril of heartache from those who might not treat you right.

However, the ambiguity of the journey doesn't deter your resolve. To remain passive is to forfeit the chance at something extraordinary.

The echoes of Iseul and the silent encouragement from your departed parents reverberate, urging you to embrace life with all its intricate hues. Their unwritten wish for your happiness becomes the compass guiding your path, compelling you to take the plunge and give it your all.

You yearn for a life where the pursuit of happiness isn't punctuated by the haunting inevitability of departures and loss. You grasp the harsh truth that people leaving or departing through death is an inescapable facet of existence, a relentless current in the river of life.

Yet, the recurring tide of sorrow that washes over you each time someone departs feels burdensome, a weight that anchors your spirit. It would be a cherished reprieve if the ebb and flow of life's transitions didn't carry with it a relentless undertow that threatens to drag you down each time.

Your dating escapades have unfolded like a series of misadventures, each rendezvous more perplexing than the last.

One suitor wielded an aggressive tone that eclipsed any potential connection, while another was so absorbed in self-interest that your voice seemed but an echo in the conversation. Then there was the one who sought solace in your company to mend a broken heart, an unwitting participant in their quest for emotional repair.

With every disappointing encounter, your hopes wane like the dying embers of a once-bright flame. Yet, undeterred, you persist in the pursuit of connection, a resilient soul navigating the unpredictable seas of dating with unwavering determination.

Amidst the tumultuous sea of advice from your friends, the suggestion of a night out clubbing emerges as a potential remedy to jumpstart your dating life—a one-night stand, a shortcut to reclaiming agency over your love life.

However, the proposition fails to align with the essence of who you are. The neon-lit allure of the club scene doesn't resonate with your soul, and the idea of a fleeting encounter doesn't hold the promise you seek.

Nonetheless, you find yourself engulfed in a pulsating sea of sound, the music in the club roaring, the bass reverberating through the floor and into your bones.

The atmosphere is a maelstrom of heat and sweat, a suffocating embrace that intensifies your regret for being there.

Yuna, exuding an air of confidence, takes charge and orders a round of drinks for the group. Meanwhile, Nari's eyes scan the lively chaos of the club, a vigilant matchmaker on a mission to uncover potential matches for you.

Her finger extends with a pointed certainty toward a mysterious figure—a dark-haired man sporting a sleeveless shirt, the canvas of his arm adorned with an intricate tattoo sleeve. His dark eyes, scanning the crowded expanse of the club, carry an enigmatic intensity, hinting at a captivating allure that goes beyond the surface.

Your laughter carries a blend of amusement and skepticism as you dismissively remark, “Nah, he's giving off major fuckboy vibes.”

Amidst the cacophony of pounding music in the club, Nari practically shouts in your face, her words punctuating the beat as she insists, “Maybe that's exactly what you need!”

The intensity of her proclamation, a fervent plea for spontaneity, reverberates in the air, a challenge thrown into the whirlwind of the night's possibilities.

You shake your head, a firm yet polite rejection lingering on your lips, “No, thank you.”

Just as the tension subsides, Yuna appears with a tray of drinks, a timely distraction. Gratefully, you accept your drink, savoring the sweet and sour concoction that dances across your palate, momentarily providing respite from the charged atmosphere of the club.

The night unfolds in a rhythm of measured indulgence—a few drinks to chase a gentle buzz, steering clear of the edge of intoxication. Your gaze scans the crowd in search of potential matches, but amidst the pulsating lights and swirling music, none captures the elusive spark that ignites a genuine interest.

As the night deepens and the rhythm of the club starts to fade, you bid farewell to your friends, the weight of the evening settling in your bones.

Stepping out into the nocturnal air, you're greeted by the relentless cascade of rain, a torrential downpour that catches you off guard. Damn it, you realize, a surge of annoyance coursing through you, you didn't bring an umbrella.

Embracing a sudden burst of defiance, you make a split-second decision, a resolute ‘fuck it’ echoing in your mind.

Stepping onto the sidewalk without the shelter of an umbrella, you surrender to the unrelenting rain. In mere moments, your hair clings to your skin, and your clothes succumb to the downpour.

As you navigate the labyrinth of alleys and pass by numerous apartments, a peculiar low noise infiltrates the ambient hum of the rain. What is that sound?

It's a subtle yet persistent calling that arrests your movements, compelling you to strain your senses in an attempt to decipher its origin.

It's not just your slightly tipsy mind, is it, playing tricks on you?

The cadence of the noise feels like a desperate plea, an ethereal call for help that beckons you into a mysterious dance between reality and the unknown.

Undeterred by the absence of street lamps, you navigate a shadowy alleyway nestled between looming apartment complexes. The darkness cloaks the path ahead, but you press on, an intrepid explorer drawn to the mystery that lies beyond the veil of obscurity.

As you draw nearer, the enigmatic noise crescendos in intensity, a haunting melody that pierces the quiet of the alley.

Your steps quicken, and with each stride, the source becomes clearer. Could it be emanating from the depths of the dumpster?

A sense of déjà vu wraps around you, as if this eerie scene has been lifted from a cinematic reel. The dilemma tugs at your curiosity, tempting you to peer into the abyss of the dumpster, a choice that hangs in the balance.

Yet, before you make a decision, a glimmer of relief washes over you.

Nestled snugly beside the dumpster, a small ball of fur captivates your attention, its presence a stark contrast to the ominous shadows.

A silhouette emerges from the darkness, and as you inch closer, the mystery unfolds into a shivering, meowing figure—a black cat.

The frailness of the tiny creature tugs at your heartstrings, and you find yourself hunching down, extending a tentative invitation with soft calls, coaxing the small, ebony bundle to bridge the gap between its vulnerability and your outstretched hand.

The black cat fixes its gaze upon you, eyes mirroring a blend of uncertainty and wariness, as if it's attempting to decipher the intentions behind your outstretched hand.

The black cat stirs from its initial hesitation, uttering plaintive meows that seem to echo its distress. As it rises, the stark reality becomes evident—malnourished and shrouded in fear, it moves tentatively towards you. Each step seems to echo a history of abandonment and struggle. With aching slowness, the feline inches closer, navigating the wet ground with trepidation.

Softly, you beckon the malnourished feline closer, the words “Come here, you poor thing” carrying an invitation laced with compassion.

As the tiny creature inches nearer, its pitch-black eyes become an intense focal point, a gaze that transcends the physical realm, peering into the depths of your soul. In that poignant exchange, a silent pact forms—an unspoken promise of comfort and understanding between two beings, each seeking solace in the other's company.

As the fragile black cat draws near, an echo from your past resurfaces—the cautionary words of your mother reverberating in your mind. ‘Black cats bring omen and death,’ her voice, etched in childhood memories, had warned.

Yet, confronted with the stark vulnerability of this shivering, lost creature in the cold summer rain, you find your resolve tested.

Against the weight of your mother's superstitions, compassion prevails, and you make a conscious decision to offer refuge. You haven’t got anything else to lose, but yourself.

The cat's purrs resonate in the quiet alley, a melodic response to the tentative connection forming between you. Meows become a symphony of trust as it finally caresses your hand, a delicate dance of vulnerability.

With a newfound intimacy, it leans into your touch, climbing up your arm to find refuge in your lap. Despite your jacket's damp embrace, you pull the shivering creature closer, enfolding it tightly against your chest.

“I’ll take you home and get you some food.”

Rising from the damp alley, you cradle the tiny black cat in your arms, an intimate embrace that transcends the physicality of the moment. As you navigate the journey home, each step becomes a testament to the newfound connection—its fragile heartbeat resonating against your chest.

As you finally reach the sanctuary of your home, both you and the shivering cat are thoroughly drenched from the relentless rain.

With a twist of the key, you unlock the door to your small apartment, ushering in a breath of warmth that contrasts sharply with the damp chill outside.

In a choreography of relief, you kick off your sodden shoes, the cat nestled at your feet. Unburdened by the weight of the rain-soaked coat, you hang it on the rack, a visual symbol of the transition from the stormy world outside to the comforting refuge within the four walls of your home.

“I'll find you a towel and dry you off,” you promise to the cat, your words a tender reassurance before your feet. With a sense of urgency, you hasten to the bathroom, a quest for a towel becoming a mission to provide comfort to your newfound companion.

As you return, traces of wet footprints mark the path from the entryway to your living room, leading to the sight of the cat perched regally on your couch.

The unexpected image elicits a sense of awe within you, a silent marvel at the fortuitous encounter that has unfolded. With the fluffy towel in hand, you join the tiny creature on the couch.

With gentle strokes, you tenderly dry the cat with the fluffy towel, the rhythmic purrs and meows resonating like a melody of gratitude.

In this intimate act of care, a bond forms between you and the feline, its response a testament to the shared understanding that has quietly blossomed.

The dampness of the storm may linger outside, but within the confines of your home, a warmth permeates, forged through the simple yet profound act of offering comfort to a fragile soul.

Persistently, the cat continues its chorus of meows, its nearly obsidian eyes fixed on you with an intensity that transcends mere feline curiosity. In the silent exchange, a profound question lingers in the air—what does it want?

The gaze carries an almost pleading quality, an unspoken plea that invites you to unravel the mysteries hidden within those enigmatic eyes, and in doing so, embark on a journey of connection and understanding with this small, mysterious soul.

A revelation flickers in your mind like a sudden burst of light—food!

The realization washes over you, and a spark of understanding illuminates the unspoken hunger behind those pleading eyes. “You're starving, ain't ya?” you murmur, the words a bridge between the two of you, an acknowledgment of shared needs and the beginning of a silent commitment to provide not just shelter but sustenance to this small, hungry soul.

In a hurried dance between care and necessity, you dart into the kitchen, swinging open the fridge door to unleash a blast of cold air.

The realization that your wet clothes might lead to an impending cold nudges at you, urging a brief pause for self-care. As you contemplate changing into dry attire, the cat, now a nimble companion, weaves around your feet, a symphony of meows echoing its anticipation of the impending feast.

As your gaze sweeps across the contents of the fridge, a flurry of questions dance in your mind—what do cats like?

In a moment of culinary improvisation, you spot the remnants of yesterday's fish. A hopeful assumption takes hold—cats like fish, right?

Without a second thought, you snatch the container, crack it open, and ceremoniously place it on the floor.

The cat descends upon the fish with a voracity that borders on desperation, consuming it in a whirlwind of seconds.

You observe in silent fascination as the cat devours the fish with an almost primal fervor, each bite a testament to the depth of its hunger.

As the cat lifts its gaze, those dark, fond eyes fixate on you, a silent expression of gratitude that transcends words, forging a connection that lingers in the air like the sweet aftertaste of an unexpected bond.

You retrieve a bowl, fill it with water, and place it on the floor. The cat, having satisfied its hunger, wastes no time. It immediately dips its tongue into the water, each lap a testament to the thirst that had accompanied its hunger.

In the quiet aftermath of the cat's meal, you find yourself engaged in a one-sided conversation. While it laps up the water, you speak to it with a hint of longing, as if expecting the feline to reveal its name with a mere glance. “I don't know what your name is…” you muse aloud, your words hanging in the air like a silent plea for connection.

In the exchange, a profound yearning takes root—a desire not just to care for this creature but to unravel the mystery that shrouds it, beginning with the revelation of a name.

Hmm... A whimsical idea takes shape in your mind, and with a voice full of hope, you share your musings with the feline companion. “I don't know, maybe I'll give you one!” you exclaim, the words tinged with the excitement of a newfound connection.

Testing the waters, you propose a couple of names with a hopeful lilt in your voice. “Shadow?” you venture, eyes fixated on the cat, seeking any flicker of recognition.

Yet, met with a stoic demeanor, you playfully offer another option, “Licorice?”

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, but the cat remains unfazed, engrossed in its culinary pursuits.

Embracing a sudden surge of inspiration, you think of a name that dances on the edges of whimsy and mischief. “You look like a 'Loki,' like a God of Mischief!” The words tumble out with a playful chuckle, a nod to the elusive charm that shrouds the feline.

To your surprise, the cat interrupts its feast, casting what seems like a dumbfounded expression your way.

A moment of shared acknowledgment hangs in the air before the cat resumes its meal, leaving you to wonder if, in that fleeting pause, you've glimpsed the spark of recognition in its enigmatic eyes.

An impromptu burst of enthusiasm seizes you, and with an abrupt yell, you christen the cat in a moment of whimsy. “Kitten!”

The exclamation is so sudden that it startles the cat, prompting a small leap in surprise. “That's your name. You're so small, like a little kitten,” you playfully jest, mimicking the affectionate cooing one might give to a baby.

In the imaginary realm where cats understand human whims, you half-expect a hypothetical eye-roll, as if the creature were a miniature human indulging in the theatrics of a quirky naming ceremony.

In the wake of your spontaneous naming ceremony, Kitten darts away, a streak of fur and energy leaving you in its playful wake. A fleeting attempt to follow its swift movements reveals the futility of keeping pace with this agile companion.

An earnest plea escapes your lips, “No, don't run away, Kitten!” A plea that halts not far from your bedroom, where a sudden idea takes root. “We're going to bed, and you can even sleep in my bed.” The promise hangs in the air, an invitation that sparks the cat's curiosity.

Without hesitation, Kitten races back to you, weaving through your legs and darting into the bedroom. It watches itself in the mirror in front of your bed, before it in a graceful leap, lands on the bed, transforming this impromptu offer into a shared moment of warmth and companionship.

A soft chuckle escapes you as Kitten, with a graceful twirl, transforms into a snug, fluffy black ball. It settles onto the bed, a picture of contentment and trust, the rhythmic rise and fall of its breathing echoing in the room.

In the sanctuary of your bathroom, the day's residue fades away as you delicately remove stained makeup and indulge in your nightly skincare rituals.

With a sense of quiet reverence, you return to the bedroom, mindful not to disrupt Kitten's serene repose. Nestled in bed, you prop yourself up, the rhythmic routine a prelude to the tranquility that envelops the room.

As you surrender to the embrace of sleep, the ethereal presence of the black cat becomes a silent companion in the journey between waking and dreams, a guardian of the night's secrets.

In the intimate company of Kitten, you find solace in the honesty of your own reflection. “He wasn't really for me, Kitten. I don't know why I keep going on these dates. They amount to nothing.” A sigh punctuates your admission, a subtle echo of the unspoken search for connection that seems elusive in the realm of human encounters.

As you delve into a shared meal with your newfound family member – Kitten, you stuff your face with delicious food in an attempt to keep your minds off your failing romantic life.

Kitten responds to your words with a series of gentle meows, a seemingly agreeable chorus that resonates in the room.

Over the past few days, he has transformed into an impeccable listener, absorbing the tapestry of your thoughts with silent grace.

In the quiet moments of your soliloquies, a yearning surfaces—a desire for more than a feline confidant, for words that echo back with advice and wisdom.

Yet, despite this unfulfilled wish, Kitten's silent companionship remains a source of profound comfort, his presence weaving seamlessly into the fabric of your daily life, a testament to the unexpected connections that emerge in the quiet interludes of solitude.

Consistent as the rhythm of a heartbeat, Kitten is there, a patient sentinel awaiting your return from the hustle of the day.

His presence becomes a cherished routine, an embodiment of comfort that transcends the mundanity of the everyday.

As you settle in front of the television, Kitten gracefully claims his place in your lap, his form snuggling into the contours of your warmth.

The scene unfolds like a silent ballet, a dance between two beings finding solace in the quietude of shared moments—a testament to the profound bond that has blossomed in the intimate spaces of your daily life.

On a day marked by what you'd deem a successful date, you decide to bring the guy home to your apartment.

Kitten welcomes you with joyous meows, but the moment his obsidian eyes lock onto the man, a palpable shift occurs.

The cat's once-hospitable demeanor morphs into a display of territorial assertion—he hisses, claws unsheathed, a guardian of the sacred space that has become both haven and sanctuary.

Unfazed by Kitten's display of discontent, the man follows you into the bedroom, a trail of unresolved tension lingering in the air. However, as you attempt to navigate the fragile balance between human relationships and the silent protests of your feline confidant, Kitten stalks in with palpable anger.

Kitten's claws assert their protest on the man's pants, a silent plea echoing through the room. “I'm so sorry about my cat. He's not usually like this,” you hastily apologize, attempting to navigate the tumultuous intersection of human connection and feline territoriality.

In the midst of the uneasy dance, the guy gently guides you down onto the bed, a kiss bridging the gap between words left unsaid and the uncharted landscapes of desire.

In an unforeseen twist, Kitten catapults onto the bed, launching a surprise attack on the poor man's back with unbridled ferocity.

The room erupts with a sudden commotion as the guy yells in pain, Kitten swiftly retreating to the shelter of your startled embrace.

Frustration and pain tinge the man's voice as he vehemently declares, “Fuck this. This isn't worth it! Your cat is a fucking psycho!”

The words hang in the air, a bitter testament to the unexpected turbulence that has unraveled in the wake of Kitten's feline intervention.

With an angry storm, the man storms out of your bedroom and through the front door, leaving behind a charged atmosphere and the unresolved echoes of a connection unraveling at the seams.

As the storm of emotions settles, Kitten finds solace in your lap, a contented purr resonating through the room—a feline sovereign basking in the aftermath of his territorial triumph.

Meanwhile, you remain seated, mouth agape, an image of stunned disbelief etched across your face.

You address Kitten with a scolding tone, attempting to impart a sense of reprimand into the air. “You can't do that, Kitten!” you assert, a firmness in your voice attempting to breach the language barrier between human and feline.

Amidst the aftermath, a hesitant chuckle escapes your lips, a soft attempt to diffuse the tension that lingers in the air. “Also, you're gonna leave me single forever if you do that,” you jest, the words bearing the weight of both humor and a subtle unease.

In the ambiguous space between laughter and contemplation, you grapple with the conflicting emotions stirred by Kitten's unexpected display of protectiveness—a complex blend of gratitude, amusement, and the uncharted territories of understanding the intricate dynamics of companionship with a creature whose language transcends the boundaries of words.

A solitary figure with raven-black hair occupies a corner table in the cafe, his presence shrouded in an air of quiet mystery that tugs at the edges of your memory.

Intrigued, you've stolen glances at him, an unspoken connection sparking curiosity within you.

The man, seemingly lost in a world of words and sketches within the pages of his journal, emanates a strange familiarity that dances on the fringes of your consciousness.

As he sips on his coffee, a poignant picture of solitude and anticipation, you can't help but wonder about the untold story woven into the fabric of his contemplative gaze. Perhaps he's a poet awaiting inspiration, or maybe, like you, he's caught in the delicate dance of anticipation, waiting for someone who may never arrive.

His long, pitch-black hair cascades in soft curls, framing a face adorned with dark, expressive eyes. The fair and creamy complexion of his skin, paired with lips tinged with the aftermath of fervent bites, adds an air of mystery to his features. His hands, adorned with prominent veins, move with purpose across the pages of his journal, translating the thoughts within his mind into tangible strokes. Clad in a black leather biker jacket and ripped jeans, he emanates a ‘bad boy’ allure that might not align with your usual preferences, yet there's an undeniable handsomeness that transcends the surface. As you observe, the truth unfolds—looks can be deceiving, you know.

As the hands of the clock inch towards the conclusion of your shift, you notice the enigmatic man with the pitch-black hair has vanished, leaving only the echo of his presence lingering in the now vacant corner.

The air is charged with the unspoken allure of an encounter that slipped through the fingers of time.

Packing up your belongings, you carry the weight of curiosity with you as you embark on the journey home, where the enigmatic enigma of Kitten awaits.

Kitten, sensing your return, greets you with a symphony of affectionate meows. Your hand instinctively reaches out, weaving a tapestry of gentle pats and strokes, an unspoken language shared between human and feline. With a contented sigh escaping your lips, you murmur, “Happy to be home.”

In the quiet sanctuary of your apartment, you find yourself recounting the day's enigmatic encounter to Kitten, the words lingering in the air like a shared secret between kindred spirits. “I saw the loneliest guy today, Kitten. It felt like he was waiting for someone, but destiny stood him up.”

As the words escape your lips, Kitten's attentive gaze reflects an unspoken understanding, a silent pact shared between you and your feline confidant.

Your fingers delicately dance behind Kitten's ears, a gesture that elicits a symphony of contented purrs, resonating within the confines of your quiet haven.

The next day unfolds like a familiar scene, the cafe's atmosphere steeped in the aroma of coffee and the rustle of pages turning.

Once again, the mysterious black-haired man graces the corner with his presence, accompanied by a steaming cup of coffee and the enigmatic dance of his pen across the pages of his journal.

Your curiosity, a flame flickering in the recesses of your thoughts, draws you to the edge of decision — to approach and unravel the mysteries that cloak him. Yet, an invisible barrier holds you back, a silent pact with yourself not to disturb the solitary poet whose verses remain unread.

The elusive man, shrouded in the mystery of unread words, remains a realm unexplored, as each coffee order becomes a bridge guarded by your coworker.

As the day unfolds, the mysterious man persists in his corner, a captivating enigma that draws your attention like a moth to a flame.

The rhythmic ballet of your daily routine continues, an intricate dance of serving customers while stealing glances in his direction.

In the quiet recesses of your mind, a burning question simmers – who could possibly stand up this captivating soul, adorned with the allure of dark hair and an air of mystery that commands the room?

After days of observing the silent saga of the man and his solitude, a week of unbroken routine, your empathy swells like a rising tide.

A magnetic force compels you to bridge the distance, and against the backdrop of the cafe's ambient hum, your feet, as if guided by an invisible hand, carry you to the table where he patiently awaits an absent companion.

With a mix of curiosity and compassion, you settle into the chair opposite him, breaking the invisible barrier that held you apart.

As your presence disrupts the solitude he had grown accustomed to, his intense gaze, reminiscent of a predatory feline, lifts from the pages of his journal to meet your own. The sharpness in his eyes feels like a calculated assessment, causing a subtle tremor to course through you. You gulp.

“Hi,” you start, the uncertainty palpable in your voice. Attempting to mask your nervousness, your fingers run through your hair, a feeble defense against the anxious tide.

“I’ve noticed you here alone for the past few days, and I just—” Your words stumble, caught in the rush, but before you can continue, he interjects with a voice sharp as a blade, his eyes piercing through you like he can unravel your deepest secrets.

“Are you stalking me?” The question hangs in the air, and his gaze feels like an X-ray, laying bare your darkest thoughts. Your body seizes, frozen in the penetrating gaze that seems to pry into the very recesses of your soul.

Why does his voice carry a hint of familiarity, resonating through the air like an echo from another time?

His very presence, too, feels like a distant memory, even though you're certain you hadn't laid eyes on him before he entered the cafe a week ago.

A subtle smirk plays on his lips, a realization dawning on you that he's asked a question. As you attempt to gather your thoughts, you find yourself choking on air, grappling to string together a coherent response.

“I'm kidding. I know you work here,” he chuckles, and you release a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. Your shoulders ease, and in an instant, you respond with a soft smile, a subtle connection forming in that shared moment of relief.

“Are you waiting for someone?” you inquire, and a smile graces his face, revealing gleaming white teeth and pink gums. He looks cute. Dangerously so.

“Nah. She just arrived.” Your eyes light up. Finally, his date has shown up! You start to rise from your chair, eager to make space for his companion. He looks up at you, a curious expression on his face, and asks, “What are you doing?”

“Making room for your date?” you quip, utterly dumbfounded.

“Date?” he asks with a raised brow. You nod, adding, “The one you’ve been waiting for.”

“But I’m already looking at her.” Your mouth hangs wide open; did you just hear him right? Is this a pickup line? And why on earth is it working?

You chuckle nervously, the sound a stark contrast to his calm and cool demeanor.

You ease back into your chair, and the conversation flows so naturally that you feel like you've known him for years.

Upon returning home, you excitedly share the details of your day with Kitten, recounting the encounter with the handsome man with his curly hair and piercing eyes. While you stroke Kitten and he purrs contentedly, you express your perplexity about the strange sense of familiarity the man emanated, despite being certain you've never met him before.

Kitten twirls and purrs in your lap, savoring the gentle strokes as you recline on your couch.

“I can't help but wonder if he'll be there again tomorrow,” you muse, your voice a soft melody to the room, accompanied by Kitten's content purrs.

He returned to the cafe the next day, and the next and the next turned into weeks.

He dedicates every moment to his secluded corner, and during your breaks you find solace in the cadence of your conversations. His name, Yoongi, resonates with the soulful poems that he breathes life into with his well-worn guitar. You’ve never heard him play or sing, but you look forward to the day you might.

His question pierces through the hum of the café, abruptly pulling you from your reverie as you delicately nibble on your muffin. “Are you heading home for the summer break?” he inquires, the unexpected interruption leaving a sweet and curious taste lingering on your lips.

As his question hangs in the air, you lock eyes with him, realizing he might not grasp the gravity of his inquiry.

There's a momentary sag in your shoulders, a silent acknowledgment of the pain that lies beneath. Gathering the strength to respond, you share a piece of your past, “No. My parents died when I was young.”

Regret casts a shadow over his striking features in an instant, and you witness a profound apology escaping from his lips.

“I'm holding up okay. It's a tale from a while back. A car accident took my parents, leaving just my little sister and me as survivors,” you share, a poignant sadness threading through your words, your eyes misting with the memories.

He tenderly offers words of comfort, a soothing balm for your weary soul, and you allow him to lift the heaviness that clings to your spirit.

You beam at him, grateful for the warmth that radiates from his kind soul, a presence you've grown to cherish over the past few months. “And you, any exciting plans for the summer?”

“I might have to go home to my parents for a bit, but I’m not sure yet,” he shares, absentmindedly running his fingers through his soft black locks, a gesture that makes you yearn for the touch of your own hand in that sea of darkness.

“I'm telling you, bitch!” Nari slaps Yuna's thigh, a bit too enthusiastically, causing her to flinch in pain, as Nari adds with a sly grin, “She's head over heels in loooove.”

You roll your eyes at both of them, their playful banter fading into background noise as you savor the drink that Yuna ordered for you.

You've navigated downtown, finding refuge in a cozy establishment where the ambient tunes, board games, and drinks create the perfect backdrop for reconnecting with your friends.

“I swear, I'm not head over heels or anything,” you insist, batting away their teasing with a playful smirk, all the while sipping on the drink that Yuna ordered for you.

“He’s just nice,” you add with a soft smile.

“You sure do talk about him a lot,” Yuna adds in a chuckle as she rubs her thigh.

“Well, he's an interesting person, and the conversations just flow,” you reply with a grin, downplaying the significance, but your friends exchange knowing glances that hint at their suspicions.

Nari takes a sip of her drink, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Speaking of crushes, your little companion, what's his name again? Kitten?”

You passionately defend Kitten, your eyes sparkling with affection. “Don't bring Kitten into this! I adore him,” you gush, wearing your love for the little furball as a badge of honor.

Nari shares her romantic wisdom, her words dripping with affection. “Cats are fine companions, but you should find a man who can bring you warmth and happiness,” she says, her eyes practically turning into hearts if this were a cartoon. You can't help but chuckle at her earnest advice.

Yuna playfully nudges your shoulder and suggests, “You should totally ask out this Yoongi guy. I mean, come on, you practically light up every time you talk about him.”

You pause, a moment of uncertainty hanging in the air. “Maybe,” you finally reply, your words carrying the weight of contemplation.

Nari's enthusiasm rings in your ears, a bit too loud in the cozy ambiance. “You don't have anything to lose, only more to gain!” she almost shouts, her excitement reaching its peak. Her words, fueled by a touch of intoxication, linger in the air, leaving you to ponder as you consider whether it's time to call it a night.

“Okay. I’ll ask him tomorrow.”

As you step into your apartment, Kitten greets you with an extra dose of affection, weaving himself between your legs and trailing you with heightened attention. Tonight, he appears more attuned to your every move, purring and twirling around your legs with an endearing neediness. Settling down, you can't resist his charms and find yourself seated, offering gentle strokes to his fur-covered frame.

As you wrap up your nightly routine and slip into your comfortable pajamas, you turn to Kitten with a question that has become a familiar part of your routine.

“I'm heading to bed, Kitten. You joining?” Kitten promptly leaps onto the bed, taking his customary place by your side.

However, tonight, there's a lingering sense of affection in his actions. He showers you with gentle licks, a gesture that brings a smile to your face. As sleep gradually claims you, your dreams are adorned with vivid images of obsidian eyes and a dark, star-studded sky.

As you awaken from a restful sleep, the absence of Kitten by your side strikes you like a sudden jolt.

Your initial response is to sit up, calling out for him, yet there's only silence in return.

The quietness, once comforting, now carries an eerie weight as you realize the profound impact Kitten has had on your daily life.

The room feels emptier, and a sense of unease settles in, disrupting the peace you've grown accustomed to.

A wave of melancholy washes over you, creating a heavy ache in your chest as you scan the familiar corners of your apartment, desperately searching for any sign of Kitten.

The unanswered questions pile up in your mind, a torrent of worries threatening to drown you. Did he, too, decide to leave, slipping away like others from your life?

The uncertainty gnaws at you, pushing you to venture into the quiet streets, hoping against hope to uncover the fate of your feline companion. Each step is a mix of trepidation and determination, a journey into the unknown to retrieve the missing piece of your daily existence.

A sense of desperation tightens its grip as you scour every nook and cranny, but Kitten remains elusive, leaving you with the bitter taste of vanishing hope.

The echoes of your unanswered calls hang in the air, blending with the growing unease that clings to you like a shadow. The once familiar spaces now feel like a maze, and you can't shake the sinking feeling that your luck is slipping away, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. The haunting question persists: where could he be, and what could have taken him from your side?

With a mixture of determination and trepidation, your feet instinctively carry you back to the cafe.

The familiar chime announces your arrival, drawing the attention of your coworker, who casts a puzzled look your way. The early hour has caught them off guard, their raised eyebrow mirroring the questions that dance in your own mind.

As you scan the cozy confines of the cafe, a subtle panic begins to creep through your veins. The absence of Yoongi creates an uneasy knot in your stomach, but you reassure yourself, clinging to the hope that he might stroll in later, as he often does.

The hours drag on, each passing moment heightening the anticipation. As the door chimes with every newcomer, a flicker of hope dances in your chest, only to be extinguished when it's not Yoongi.

The day becomes a symphony of disappointment, and the subtle hope you clung to begins to dissipate, slipping through your fingers like elusive grains of sand. The cafe, once a haven of warmth and comfort, now feels eerily empty without the presence of his familiar silhouette.

As your shift draws to a close, a heavy sadness settles over you like a thick fog. The absence of Yoongi, who always brought a touch of warmth to the cafe, leaves an emptiness that echoes through the familiar surroundings. The unanswered questions linger in your mind, and a nagging worry creeps in — what could have kept him away?

The air is charged with uncertainty, and you can't shake the feeling that something might have happened to him.

A sudden realization hits you like a wave, as you recall Yoongi mentioning the possibility of traveling to his parents for the summer break.

The initial sting of disappointment transforms into a pang of concern. Questions swirl in your mind like a tempest – did he leave without saying goodbye? Why didn't he share his plans with you?

The uncertainty gnaws at your thoughts, and you grapple with the unknown, desperately seeking solace in the memories of your time together.

A disquieting sensation twists in your stomach, an ominous premonition casting a shadow over your thoughts. The unease tightens its grip, leaving you with an unsettling sense that something may have befallen Yoongi.

Your mind races through various scenarios, each more distressing than the last, as you grapple with the haunting uncertainty that looms over his absence.

Regret echoes through your thoughts like a haunting refrain. The absence of contact details with Yoongi leaves you grappling with the repercussions of a missed opportunity, a seemingly insignificant detail now carrying the weight of your uncertainty.

A sense of loss and yearning wraps around you, intensifying the void created by the absence of a farewell. The realization dawns that in the midst of budding connection, you failed to secure a bridge to traverse the distance that now separates you.

Each step on the journey home feels like a weighted march, the heaviness of unspoken goodbyes sinking into your bones.

Sorrow, like a relentless tide, floods your heart, consuming it with an ache that echoes through each footfall. Familiar pangs of longing claw at your chest, constricting breaths into fleeting gasps.

It's as if the very air you breathe carries the weight of an unfinished story, leaving you to navigate the foggy terrain of uncertainty, the poignant residue of an incomplete connection lingering in the spaces between each step.

A tempest of thoughts unleashes in your mind, a whirlwind of self-doubt and abandonment. The notion that he, too, might have slipped away like others before him wraps around your heart, squeezing it in an unforgiving grip. The ache is palpable, resonating through every fiber of your being. It's an anguish that cuts deep, a symphony of hurt orchestrated by the haunting possibility that echoes in the chambers of your wounded heart.

In the intricate tapestry of your time knowing him, he wasn't just a passing figure; he had etched himself into the mosaic of your life, becoming a fragment that held the essence of friendship.

You step into the sanctuary of your apartment, liberating your feet from the constraints of shoes, and collapse onto the couch, surrendering to its plush contours that cradle you in a cocoon of solace.

In the midst of trying to regain control of your racing breaths, a subtle vibration resonates from your pocket, drawing your attention like a lifeline. Retrieving your phone, you cast an intrigued glance at the illuminated screen, revealing an incoming call from Yuna.

With bated breath, you answer the call, the familiar cadence of Yuna's voice instantly arresting your senses.

An unexpected wave of emotions surges through you, freezing you in the moment as her words weave a narrative you weren't prepared for.

The weight of her words hangs heavy in the air, a heartbreaking tremor in her voice as she struggles to regain composure.

“Babe,” she utters, the tearful plea slicing through the silence like a dagger.

You can feel the gravity of the situation intensify as she reveals, “It's Nari,” the name echoing with a sense of foreboding that pierces through the air, leaving you breathless.

Dread hangs thick in the air as you muster the courage to ask, your voice trembling with fear and concern. “What about Nari?”

The words escape your lips, each syllable a hesitant step into the unknown, and as you sit up on your couch, a sense of urgency grips you, rendering you more alert than ever before.

The weight of Yuna's words crashes over you like an unrelenting wave, drowning your senses.

“She's gone,” Yuna sobs, her cries echoing in your ears.

A sudden chill grips your entire body, and the world around you blurs as your vision turns white.

Tears well up, threatening to spill over, and an indescribable ache settles in the core of your being. It feels as if the ground beneath you has shifted, leaving you suspended in a surreal and devastating moment.

Your voice quivers as you manage to break through the numbness, the question escaping your lips like a fragile whisper.

“How?” you repeat, the word catching in the tightness of your throat. Tears cascade down your cheeks, each drop carrying the weight of an ocean, a torrential release of the overwhelming emotions within you.

Your friend's voice wavers with sorrow as she delivers the painful revelation. “Apparently, she was sick and didn’t tell anybody…”

Each word, heavy with the burden of the unspoken, echoes in the emptiness of your apartment.

The truth, a bitter pill to swallow, lingers in the air, and you find it hard to comprehend the reality of the situation.

The walls of your sanctuary, once comforting, now press in on you, transforming your home into a claustrophobic cage of grief. The world outside seems to blur, and all that remains is the weight of disbelief settling on your shoulders.

The longing to share your grief with Yoongi intensifies, yet the barrier of not having his contact details becomes a painful obstacle. Your emotions, already tumultuous, now surge like a tempest within.

Frustration and sorrow intermingle, a chaotic dance that you try to contain.

As the weight of the news presses down on you, your nails unconsciously dig into your skin, seeking an outlet for the overwhelming emotions that threaten to consume you. The physical pain becomes a tangible manifestation of the emotional turmoil churning within.

The abruptness of Nari's illness and passing hits you like an unforeseen storm, leaving you grappling with disbelief.

Memories of her last moments flash vividly, and you question the cruel twist of fate that snatched away someone seemingly healthy. The sounds of inconsolable sobbing echo in your ears, and only then do you realize that the mournful cries tearing through the air belong to you.

“Are you alright?” Yuna asks you in sobs.

The weight of grief presses down on you, suffocating and relentless.

As the tears stream down your face, each one carries a piece of the pain that now resides within you.

“No,” you whisper, the word a feeble attempt to encapsulate the magnitude of your despair.

Your body curls inwards, seeking solace in the fetal position, as if you could fold away the anguish.

The phone lies beside you, a lifeline to Yuna's distant sobs, but it offers little comfort compared to the absent warmth of Kitten, whose presence could once bring solace to even the darkest moments.

The weight of Yuna's words hangs heavy in the air, a shroud of truth that you're forced to confront. “Babe, she had cancer and didn't want us to know… She wanted to live a happy life until the end,”

Yuna sobs again, and though her intent is to offer solace, the revelation feels like a cascade of heavy stones on your already burdened heart. The bitter sweetness of her desire for a joyful life juxtaposed with the pain of her silent struggle adds another layer to the grief, leaving you to grapple with the complexities of Nari's hidden battles.

“Yuna…,” you cry, the anguish in your voice echoing the profound pain that seems to squeeze the very life out of your heart.

“Why does everyone leave?”

The question hangs in the air, more rhetorical than expectant, as if you're not seeking an answer from Yuna but grappling with the cruel patterns of departure that life has woven into the fabric of your existence.

Each departure, like a thread pulled from the tapestry of your world, leaves an unraveled piece that never quite knits itself back together.

“I–, I don’t know,” she stammers through her tears, the weight of the unknown echoing in her voice, mirroring the uncertainty that now shrouds both of your lives.

“Promise we’ll be there for each other,” you declare, the weight of the words hanging in the air. It's a poignant plea, an acknowledgment of life's unpredictable twists. You understand that you can't ask for an eternity, but in this moment, you're determined to hold onto each other as tightly as time allows.

“Count on it,” she vows, her response flowing effortlessly, a testament to the unspoken bond between you two.

Despite the tightening in your throat, a glimmer of happiness sparks within you at the assurance she just gave.

Why must life be so fucking cruel, robbing you of everyone you hold dear?

An overwhelming urge to reconnect with your sister washes over you, a deep yearning fueled by the ache of prolonged silence between you.

“I want to call my sister,” you manage to say through your sobs, a desperate plea lacing your words. “Will you be alright, Yuna?” you ask, your concern breaking through the waves of grief that surround you both.

“Yeah. I mean, I'm fucking sad, but go ahead and call her. Can I come to your place tomorrow?” Yuna's voice carries a subtle plea, a shared understanding that neither of you wants to be alone in the midst of sorrow.

“Yeah, I'd love that,” you respond, your voice carrying the weight of grief and the faint glimmer of gratitude for the companionship that awaits tomorrow. As you attempt to dry your tears with a throw blanket on the couch, the room feels emptier than ever, and the ache in your heart persists.

“See you tomorrow,” she says before the call ends.

The hollowness in the room deepens, and you draw in a shaky breath, your gaze fixed on your phone. The background image captures a moment frozen in time, featuring you, Nari, and Yuna.

God, the ache of missing her intensifies, and you can't shake the heaviness in your chest.

You tighten your grip on the phone, each tear that escapes your eyes a silent testament to the pain in your heart. Determination wells up as you locate your sister's number, fingers tracing the familiar digits, ready to bridge the gap that time and distance have carved between you.

The rhythmic ringing echoes through the emptiness of your apartment, each tone a reminder of the solitude that now envelops you.

Anxiety gnaws at the edges of your thoughts as you anticipate the warmth of your sister's voice, a comfort you desperately need. Yet, the unanswered calls amplify the distance that separates you. With a heavy heart, you decide against leaving a message, the weight of unspoken words settling as you slump back onto the couch.

The sudden vibration of your phone startles you, and as you glance at the screen, the sight of your sister's name sparks a mixture of relief and anticipation. With a soft sniffle, you muster the strength to answer, “Hey, sis,” your voice laced with a blend of vulnerability and longing, reaching out across the digital expanse to bridge the emotional gap that separates you.

A chill courses through your body, rendering you motionless, as a deep, resonant voice resonates through the phone, catching you off guard.

“Hey,” his voice echoes through the phone, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your trembling hand clutches the device, and you find yourself holding your breath, caught in the sudden intensity of the moment.

“I'm Detective Kim,” he introduces himself, his voice echoing through the line. It carries a calm demeanor, yet beneath its surface, you detect a subtle undertone of sadness, adding a mysterious depth to his words.

This can't be good, you murmur to yourself, the words barely escaping your lips as a chill courses through your veins, turning your blood to ice once again.

“Are you Jiho's sister?” The detective's voice remains steady and calm, but beneath the surface, you sense an undercurrent of gravity and anticipation.

“Yes,” you reply, your voice catching in a sob as you struggle to contain your tears. The ominous feeling intensifies, and you can't shake the sinking realization that a detective is the one answering your sister's phone.

The air becomes heavy with uncertainty and fear.

“I'm deeply sorry to be the bearer of this news,” he begins with a sympathetic tone.

You inhale sharply, bracing yourself for the impact of the words that follow.

“Your sister has passed away.”

The world seems to shatter around you as the weight of his message settles in, leaving you breathless and heartbroken.

In that devastating moment, it feels as if the very foundation of your existence crumbles.

Your body and soul plummet through a void, each passing second an agonizing countdown to the inevitable impact that will shatter you into a million irreparable pieces.

The weight of grief bears down on you, and you're suspended in a free fall of despair.

You become acutely aware of your breath, or the lack thereof, as if the air itself has turned into a suffocating force, triggering a torrent of violent inhalations, each one a desperate attempt to grasp onto a reality that has just slipped through your fingers.

A heavy silence envelops the room as the detective imparts the devastating truth, each word landing with the weight of a sledgehammer on your fragile emotions. “She was killed,” he utters, the somber notes in his tone resonating like a funeral dirge, casting a pall over the already dim reality of your world.

A suffocating wave of panic crashes over you, rendering your extremities numb and your breath caught in the grip of invisible hands.

The room seems to close in as the detective's voice on the phone becomes a distant echo, his words lost in the disorienting whirlwind of your own mental tempest. It's a struggle to comprehend the standard condolences and procedures he details, as if reality itself is slipping through your trembling fingers.

Fucking hell. Is this hell?

In the wake of your parents' departure, you believed you had tasted the bitterest sorrow, yet today eclipses that agony without a shadow of a doubt.

You cast your phone aside on the couch, retreating to your bedroom, collapsing onto the bed. The anguish within erupts into violent sobs, an unrelenting torrent of tears flooding from your eyes, your entire frame convulsing with the weight of your grief.

You bury your face into the softness of the pillow, muffling the guttural scream that tears from your lungs.

The sound, a primal release of anguish, reverberates within the confines of your room. Screw the neighbors; right now, the universe needs to bear witness to the rawness of your pain.

What the fuck is up with this world? Everyone around you dies! Everyone leaves!

You can’t take it anymore.

As you surrender to the torrents of grief, you hope that tears might offer solace, a fleeting relief that could pave the way for much-needed sleep. Yet, despite your desperate attempts, the embrace of slumber eludes you, leaving you trapped in the clutches of your sorrow-soaked thoughts.

In an impulsive surge, you opt for a nocturnal stroll. Snatching your jacket, you step into the silent night, the residue of dried tears blending seamlessly with the ones that refuse to cease.

The moon above, a silent witness to the turmoil within, as your footsteps echo the rhythm of a heart weighed down by grief.

As you traverse the familiar streets of town, a magnetic pull guiding you to a cherished park, your sanctuary. Swiftly, you arrive and gingerly settle your weary frame onto a weathered bench, the cool night air offering a gentle caress to your battered soul.

As your gaze ascends to the enchanting tapestry of the night, a celestial dance of stars unfolds above. Tonight, the cosmic expanse seems to cradle the spirits of your sister and Nari, their luminous presence illuminating the vast darkness, a celestial reunion among the constellations.

As your tears persist, you fix your eyes upon the star-lit canvas above. Each gleaming star appears like a radiant jewel, casting an ethereal glow across the night. The beauty is undeniable, yet a poignant sadness lingers in your heart.

Compelled by an unspoken yearning, you embark on the solemn task of counting the stars, each one a celestial tribute to the cherished souls who now adorn the heavens.

The question echoes in your mind: Why?

Why do they blaze with such brilliance, akin to a dying star igniting in a final, magnificent burst before consuming everything in its cosmic embrace?

Your heart pounds violently against your ribcage, each beat echoing through your chest, and the air feels elusive, slipping away as if you're caught in a suffocating grip.

Life reveals its cruel nature, leaving you to grapple with the relentless question: Why does everyone leave? Why does the world around you crumble, stealing away those you hold dear?

An emptiness envelopes you, a void so profound it swallows every ounce of light. Darkness creeps in, and an irresistible urge emerges, coaxing you to surrender to its consuming embrace.

Perhaps it's time to release your grip on reality and join the celestial dance of those who have departed before you?

As the tears flow, perhaps this haunting void within will dissipate, bringing an end to the relentless ache that permeates every fiber of your being.

As the weight of loneliness bears down on you, an insidious desire to surrender, to slip into an eternal slumber, creeps through your shattered heart. The yearning for an endless sleep, where the fractured pieces of your soul find solace, consumes you. It's as if the very essence of your being is crumbling into irreparable fragments.

The fragments of your soul lie scattered, and the daunting question echoes in the hollow chambers of your despair—can you summon the strength to mend them once more, to piece together the shattered remnants of your being?

In the depths of your despair, a resolute realization surfaces — a quiet but unwavering knowing that, despite the relentless cruelty, you're not ready to surrender to the void. Life, as brutal as it may be, still holds threads of resilience within its intricate tapestry, and you find an ember of strength glowing amidst the shadows.

You divert your gaze downward, focusing on your hands nestled in your lap, choosing the tangible reality of your own existence over the distant allure of the star-studded night.

You harbor too many aspirations to surrender to despair. Your desires paint a vivid canvas of dreams: to find solace in the embrace of a kind-hearted partner, secure a fulfilling career, and relish the simple joys that life offers. Nari's silent battle with illness inspires you to embrace life with the same gusto, celebrating its moments without the need for validation.

In the midst of your fragmented existence, amidst the shattering pain, you crave it all. Yearning for the entirety of life's tapestry, even when it feels like it's unraveling.

Despite life's cruelty, there's an undeniable allure in its intricate beauty, compelling you to seek solace and embrace the stunning contradictions that define your life.

Amidst the tear-stained path, your resolve solidifies.

The decision made, you tread back to your apartment, the silent witness to your inner turmoil. Each step echoes with the weight of your emotions, a symphony of sorrow playing in the background.

The sanctuary of your home beckons, promising the respite that only sleep, albeit restless, can bring. Sleep, like a long-lost friend, embraces you swiftly this time. Grateful for the solace it brings, you sink into its comforting arms, the reprieve from the turmoil of the day unfolding like a gentle lullaby.

The chime of the doorbell resonates through your apartment, and you're roused from the depths of sleep. Yuna, true to her word, stands on the other side, a beacon of support in your time of need.

Embraced in a tight hug, tears stream down both your faces, the shared weight of grief transforming the silent embrace into a powerful testament of mutual understanding and shared sorrow.

Seated on the couch, you engage in a heartfelt conversation about the unpredictable journey of life—its highs and lows.

As a comforting silence settles between you, you reach for the remote and, with a flicker of distraction, decide on a mindless show. Wrapped in the embrace of shared grief, you find solace in the soft glow of the television, its images casting a gentle veil over your weary souls.

That night, Yuna stays over, a comforting presence that feels like a blessing in the midst of your overwhelming grief.

In the vulnerable hours of the night, you pour your heart out to Yuna.

Tears flow freely as you share the ache of losing your sister, the void left by Kitten's absence, and the fear that Yoongi might be gone forever. In the solace of shared sorrow, you find a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows.

In the tender embrace of Yuna, you find solace. Her comforting presence is a lifeline in the storm of grief, holding you close as tears cascade. Though she's often your pillar of strength, tonight you yearn to reciprocate, to be the support she's always been for you. It's a quiet understanding, an unspoken pact between friends navigating the unpredictable currents of life.

In the quiet depths of the night, as you share your pain with Yuna, a flicker of determination ignites within you. You yearn not just for solace but to become the architect of your own joy. The realization dawns that your happiness lies in the unwritten chapters of your own journey, waiting to be explored and embraced. It's a moment of self-discovery, a commitment to forge your path to happiness, independent and resilient.

With the dawn of a new day, you decide to embark on a journey of self-discovery.

Despite the weight of sorrow lingering in your chest, you resolve to savor life in all its transient splendor—embracing its beauty, acknowledging its ugliness, and reveling in every nuanced shade in between.

Each moment becomes a canvas, and you are determined to paint it with the vibrant strokes of resilience and newfound appreciation.

With unwavering determination, you approached your boss at the café, advocating for a shift in your work hours. The goal? To rekindle the pursuit of knowledge, to step back into the world of academia and reignite the spark of astrophysics that had once fueled your passion.

As the prospect of returning to school looms on the horizon, you recognize that the journey ahead is both a challenge and an opportunity—a chance to sculpt a future that you can genuinely be proud of, with each completed course marking a triumph over self-doubt and a step closer to the constellations of your dreams.

In the wake of that poignant night where two cherished souls departed, a few months have quietly slipped away.

In a tender gesture of support, Yuna encourages you to embrace the prospect of love once more. Unlike before, hesitation has no place in your heart this time.

With newfound courage, you step into the realm of dating, a journey tinged with both vulnerability and hope, as you navigate through the tapestry of emotions woven by the threads of the past and the promises of the future.

Life, a relentless journey, doesn't yield to simplicity, yet within its intricate folds, a subtle transformation occurs. It doesn't unravel swiftly, but with each passing day, it stitches together a mosaic of improvement, a gradual emergence from the shadows into the dappled light of a better tomorrow.

With each sunrise, a symphony of healing orchestrates within you, crescendoing into a melody that resonates louder, and you find solace in the fact that every dawn gifts you a version of yourself stronger and more resilient than the preceding day.

As winter unfurls its icy embrace, you find solace in the familiar touch of your cherished wool coat, the cozy sanctuary of fluffy sweaters enveloping you like a hug from a dear friend, and the softness of warm socks cradling your every step.

With a steaming cup of tea in hand, you dive into your studies, the brisk air outside contrasting with the warmth that courses through your veins.

Embarking on the journey to reclaim an unfinished chapter of your life, returning to the hallowed halls of academia, you revel in the triumphant echoes of resilience as you strive to complete the narrative you once set in motion.

As you tread homeward, the city draped in the melancholy hues of twilight, a fleeting silhouette dashes through the alleys, a phantom of darkness.

For the briefest moment, memories of Kitten's playful escapades dance in your mind, a bittersweet symphony of nostalgia.

A sigh, heavy with the weight of longing, escapes your lips, yet you trudge forward, navigating the shadows toward the warmth of your home.

In the intimate glow of your kitchen, you conjure a culinary masterpiece, a symphony of flavors orchestrated only for yourself. The sizzle of ingredients harmonizes with the rhythmic beat of your heart, a ritual of self-love that has become your refuge.

Many a time, you've crafted these delectable creations, some shared in the company of fleeting dates whose presence, like autumn leaves, brushed briefly against the canvas of your life, but leaving no lasting imprint on your heart.

Midway through the mundane task of stowing away dishes, a subtle and mysterious hum reverberates through your abode, originating from the vicinity of your door.

The air is suddenly filled with a familiar, distant melody—a soft and rhythmic meowing that sends a jolt of excitement through you.

Abandoning your chores, you rush to the door, fingers fumbling with the lock, and there, in all his glory, stands Kitten!

In a flurry of warmth and relief, you scoop up the cold, shivering Kitten into your embrace, quickly closing the door behind him. His meows echo gratitude, and a tender lick against your cheek seals the unspoken bond that time and distance failed to break.

In a million moments, you never fathomed seeing him again. Now, as he rests in your arms, elation courses through you like a celestial symphony, leaving you over the moon with sheer happiness.

His return is a testament to a bond beyond time, a friendship that defies the measure of days. It's not about the duration of his absence; it's about the joyous truth that he returned to you, stitching the fragments of your heart back together.

You rush to your cabinet, your heart pounding with both relief and excitement. Grabbing a can of cat food, you swiftly prepare a feast for Kitten, watching as he eagerly devours the meal, his hunger echoing the void his absence left in your life.

As you stroke Kitten's fur, you can't help but ponder on the mysteries that shroud his disappearance. His body, while not emaciated, carries the silent tales of his adventures.

You yearn to unravel the chapters of his feline escapades, wishing you could converse with him, share the unspoken hardships, and assure him that he's found a forever home in the warmth of your embrace.

In a breathless whisper, you confess, “I've missed you so much,” the weight of your longing carried in the tenderness of your voice.

A solitary tear, a testament to the emotions flooding your heart, escapes and dances down your cheek, mirroring the joy of a reunion long yearned for.

As the echoes of your affectionate words linger in the air, Kitten responds with a gentle purr, a harmonious melody that intertwines seamlessly with the sound of him relishing the meal.

Amidst the soft cadence of Kitten's purring, you find solace in the familiar presence of your feline companion. With a sigh, you decide to share the intricacies of the tumultuous journey you've undertaken since his absence. “So much has unfolded, Kitten,” you whisper, your voice a gentle reassurance, “a lot of shit, but also a lot of good.”

As Kitten finishes his meal, he responds with a symphony of content purrs, gracefully padding over to where you crouch. With a playful nudge against your legs, he seems to convey a silent acknowledgment, a shared moment of warmth and connection between old friends.

In the span of a few days, the void that Kitten's absence left has been filled with the comforting rhythm of his presence. You've poured out your heart to him, recounting the events and emotions that unfolded during his time away, as if catching him up on the chapters of your life.

Kitten, with his attentive eyes and soothing purrs, seems to understand more than most, providing a silent anchor in the storm of your experiences.

As you sink into the soft embrace of your couch, a contented smile plays on your lips. With Kitten nestled beside you, you share a profound realization that has taken root in your heart: ‘I live, so I love.’ The words hang in the air, a testament to the resilience you've found in the face of life's unpredictable twists. The TV hums with background noise, but in that moment, the simple joy of companionship fills the room.

In the quiet solitude of your apartment, you confide in Kitten, the loyal companion who has witnessed both your joys and sorrows. “I don't think he's coming back,” you murmur, a tinge of sadness lingering in your voice. As if attuned to your emotions, Kitten responds with a gentle meow, a feline reassurance that transcends words.

In the rhythmic cadence of your words, a sense of vulnerability emerges. “I know, I know. I don't need a man in my life. I get that,” you confess, your voice carrying the weight of self-awareness.

The clinking of utensils against pots and pans provides a subtle percussion to your thoughts as you continue, “But Yoongi was special, you know? Like he just got me... and I just wish for him to be happy doing whatever he's doing.” The aroma of dinner fills the air, mingling with the unspoken sentiments swirling in the room.

As you delicately feed Kitten some steamed broccoli, the notion of reuniting with Yoongi lingers in the air. “If he comes back, you should meet him – I'll introduce you!” The words spill from your lips, carrying a hopeful melody.

As you reminisce about Yoongi, a fond smile plays on your lips. “He's such a wonderful person. And handsome? Oh, his hands,” you begin, tracing the air with your fingers as if you can feel the texture of his presence. Memories flood back, each detail etched in your mind like a cherished photograph. “Long fingers, veiny hands,” you murmur, the words infused with a hint of admiration that even surprises you. The love for this man reverberates in your voice, a quiet confession to the depths of your feelings.

Kitten's melodic meow serenades the room as he gracefully weaves between your feet, his tail coiling affectionately around your calves like a comforting embrace.

“If you meet him, please don’t claw his back out like you did with that other guy. Yoongi is nice.”

With a heavy heart, you confide in Kitten, the weight of your worry evident in the rhythmic tapping of the spatula against the sizzling vegetables. “It's been nearly half a year, and I can't shake the feeling that something might have happened to him,” you murmur, the crackling sounds of the kitchen offering a somber backdrop to your uncertainty.

As the warmth of the meal envelops you and Kitten, you sit together, a silent companionship settling over the room. The simplicity of this moment strikes you, and a quiet realization unfolds – you love your life just as it is.

In the shared silence, you feel a sense of wholeness, a testimony to the goodness found in life's simplicity. Though your heart may still ache at times, you've come to accept that, too, as a part of the beautiful complexity that makes life what it is.

You're keenly aware that time is the remedy for healing, a gentle but persistent force that gradually eases the ache until one day, the pain will be a distant echo of what it once was.

Your weary limbs protest against the demands of a full-time class schedule and cafe shifts, revealing the hidden challenges of your daily grind. Fatigue clings to you like a shadow, and an involuntary yawn escapes.

With a wearied sigh, you address Kitten, your loyal companion in fatigue. “Ah, Kitten, today's been a battle. I'm going to bed early today,” you murmur, dragging your exhausted body to the bathroom in a nightly ritual.

Upon returning to your sanctuary, you find Kitten, already nestled in his customary spot, a comforting presence in the silent embrace of the night.

Sinking beneath the cozy duvet, you surrender to its tender embrace, the fabric cocooning you in a haven of softness. With a gentle pat, you acknowledge Kitten, “Thank you for being here,” you murmur before succumbing to the enchantment of dreamland.

As consciousness tiptoes back into your awareness, the remnants of dreams linger like elusive whispers in your mind. Gently awakening, you open your eyes to find the absence of Kitten.

Your eyes widen in astonishment, and your body tenses as you absorb the scene unfolding before you—a man, peacefully lost in the realm of dreams.

Your gaze follows the cascade of long, slightly curly, obsidian hair that drapes over his shoulders, tracing the contours of his creamy white skin. The play of morning light reveals a well-defined back, drawing your eyes down the elegant curve of his spine until they come to rest on a small, soft, plum-like ass. The realization hits you like a bolt— he's completely naked!

Why is your heart orchestrating a rapid symphony, each beat echoing in your ears like a thunderous drumroll? And what in the world is a naked stranger doing sprawled across your sheets as though he belongs there?

He slumbers in serene oblivion, emitting soft, melodic sighs that weave through the air, his chest gracefully ascending and descending in rhythmic dance with each tranquil breath.

Wait.

He seems familiar.

A gasp escapes your lips as you take a closer look, and the realization hits you like a bolt of lightning – it's Yoongi!

Shock and disbelief intertwine in your chest as you stare at his peaceful slumber.

Confusion and a hint of panic surge through you as your mind races with questions.

Why is Yoongi in your bed, and why on earth is he naked?

How did Yoongi end up here, and where is Kitten?

A myriad of questions spins through your mind, a turbulent storm of curiosity. As you ponder the mysteries, you belatedly notice Yoongi stirring, gracefully shifting to lie on his back.

Your face burns with embarrassment as the realization dawns that he's still completely naked. Heat rises to your cheeks when his half-erect dick brushes against his stomach, prompting you to instinctively shield your eyes, flustered by the unexpected sight.

You wrestle with the dilemma of whether to disturb his serene slumber or let him continue resting peacefully. The soft innocence in his sleeping form makes the decision more challenging, and you lean towards allowing him to bask in the tranquility of his dreams undisturbed.

Gently, you drape the comforting warmth of your duvet over him, a shield against the chill of the room. With nimble movements, you extract yourself from the bed, careful not to disturb the delicate balance of his slumber.

Confusion seizes your thoughts as you grapple with the surreal scenario—Yoongi peacefully nestled in your bed. You wrack your brain, questioning every sober memory, desperately trying to unearth the missing pieces that would explain his presence.

You step into the kitchen, a fleeting sense of unease prickling at your skin as you scan the room for Kitten, but he remains elusive, leaving a trace of uncertainty in the air.

A twinge of melancholy washes over you as Kitten remains elusive, but you console yourself with the hope that he might return, his absence merely a temporary void in your otherwise comforting routine.

You embark on the simple yet intimate act of preparing two steaming cups of coffee—one for yourself and one for the unexpected visitor who occupies your bed.

You seize a handful of aromatic coffee beans from a vintage jar, letting the rich fragrance envelop you as you crush them under the steady hum of your machine. With precision, you measure out the perfect amount, combining it with hot water, allowing the concoction to brew into a comforting elixir.

While the coffee brews, your mind races with bewildering thoughts about Yoongi's unexpected presence in your bed. Puzzlement clouds your senses as you contemplate every conceivable scenario.

Did he let himself in? Was there some mysterious way he could have gained access?

With a touch of anxiety, you even venture to your front door, checking for any signs of unauthorized entry, only to find it securely locked, shrouded in an eerie silence.

You're grappling with the perplexing mystery of Yoongi's appearance in your bed, as if he materialized out of thin air, defying all logic and reason, leaving you spellbound by the inexplicable magic that seems to have woven its way into your ordinary reality.

In the quiet chaos of your thoughts, Yoongi's presence offers more questions than answers, an enigmatic puzzle that seems to defy the ordinary. The absence of Kitten only adds another layer of mystery to the unfolding scene.

As the coffee machine dings, disrupting the contemplative silence, you're left grappling with the surreal conundrum before you, seeking clarity in the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

With the warmth of freshly brewed coffee in your hands, you reenter the bedroom to discover Yoongi, now alert, draped in your duvet, a captivating silhouette in the soft morning light.

Your greeting falters as you nervously stammer, “H–, Hi,” setting the two mugs of coffee on your nightstand. Yoongi's gaze, sharp and feline-like, traces your every move, creating a palpable tension in the air.

An unfamiliar nervousness grips you in his presence, an unusual sensation considering your usual ease around him. Perhaps it's the fact that he's naked, his gaze akin to a predator eyeing down its prey, intensifying the air with an unspoken tension.

“Hey,” finally breaking the silence, he greets you with a low grumble, scratching his head and letting out a lazy yawn.

His body exudes a captivating blend of softness and defined muscles, a captivating sight that—

His voice, laced with a teasing smirk, breaks the tension. “Can't stop staring at my dick, huh?”

Your throat tightens as you realize you've been caught in the act, silently observing him. Panic sets in – does he think you're a freak now? Fantastic.

You let out a nervous chuckle, deliberately shifting your gaze away from the obvious bulge in the duvet around his lap. “What are you doing here, Yoongi? And why are you naked?” you inquire, genuinely puzzled.

He chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down your spine, and you can't help but feel a tinge of unease. “You haven't figured it out yet?” he teases, his words hanging in the air, leaving you in suspense.

You must resemble a walking question mark, because his chuckles only intensify. It's as if he finds your confusion amusing, and you're left standing there, desperate for answers in the midst of his enigmatic laughter.

In a soft tone laced with a smirk, he utters, “Kitten.”

Your gaze fixates on him, bewildered. Kitten? Is he referring to your cat?

Your jaw drops as he gracefully emerges from the bed, the duvet cascading off his frame. In his unabashed nudity, he strides toward you.

He inches closer, the proximity almost causing your lips to collide. A surge of warmth courses through you when he delicately tucks a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.

“I’m a shapeshifter,” his revelation hangs in the air, the weight of it palpable, and as he locks eyes with you, searching for any flicker of discomfort, the truth settles. Before you can process it fully, he leans in, capturing your lips with an irresistible surge of passion.

His lips, soft and inviting, embark on a slow yet passionate dance, as if reuniting with a long-lost lover. Responding eagerly, you part your lips, allowing the kiss to deepen, and in that electrifying moment, your entire body succumbs to a sensation akin to melting butter.

You yield to his touch, molding your body to his as you sense the undeniable hardness of his arousal intimately pressing against your core.

Fuck.

In the midst of the heated moment, you draw back slightly to meet his gaze, the question hanging in the air, “So... you're Kitten?”

He offers no verbal response, just a low, affirmative hum, before plunging back into another intoxicating kiss.

You surrender to the sensation, feeling the firm grip of his hands on your waist as they journey upward beneath the fabric of your well-worn shirt.

His touch ignites a trail of sensations, tracing a path across your body, sending electric shivers as he lifts your shirt, gently grazing against the contours of your breasts.

Under the intensity of his gaze, your body responds, a flush of heat spreading through you, your nipples hardening in response. He emits a low, satisfied hum, as if relishing the effect he has on you.

Effortlessly, he works to level the playing field, swiftly undressing you as if in a race against time. With a purposeful tug, he eases your shorts down, a silent declaration of his desire.

Bare before him, clad only in a simple black panty adorned with delicate pink hearts, you can't shake the vulnerability coursing through you. A sudden urge to conceal yourself washes over, a reaction to the raw exposure in this intimate moment.

“Don't shy away, you're stunning,” Yoongi murmurs, his firm grip on your hips drawing you closer to his naked body. The undeniable heat of his arousal presses against your core, a tangible reminder of the desire smoldering between you.

Gratitude escapes your lips in a hushed tone, your cheeks tinged with a warm blush.

“Now, let’s get these off you, yeah?” with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he hooks his fingers inside the fabric of your panties, teasingly tugging them down. He pauses, seeking your consent, before sensually sliding them all the way down your legs.

As he slides your panties down, a sudden awareness of your arousal hits you, intensified by the cool rush of air against your heated core.

As they fall to the floor, Yoongi swiftly snatches up your panties, bringing them to his face to inhale the intoxicating essence of your arousal, his eyes darkening with desire.

Why does that look so utterly sinful, setting off a delicious rush of arousal coursing through your veins, leaving you breathless in its wake?

As the intoxicating scent of you envelops him, he murmurs, “Damn, you smell good,” his eyes dilating with an unmistakable hunger.

“I wonder if you taste as good as you smell.”

In the raw vulnerability of your shared nakedness, he guides your body back to the bed, gently laying you down, his presence a magnetic force, hovering above you.

He immerses himself in the expanse of your neck, a symphony of sensations unfolding – a delicate ballet of tender kisses, followed by the electrifying nip of his teeth grazing the juncture between your neck and shoulder.

You moan in unabashed pleasure, your hands instinctively seeking refuge on his chiseled pectorals, anchoring yourself amidst the rising waves of bliss.

Yoongi's gaze shifts to the mirror positioned strategically in front of your bed. “I've been meaning to ask,” he smirks, locking eyes with you, “why do you have a mirror in front of your bed?”

You squirm beneath him, breath catching.”'It's part of my wardrobe panels,” you admit, your voice a fragile melody.

He chuckles, a low and enticing sound, his smirk dancing on his lips. “I don't think that's why the whole panel is mirrors,” he says, sitting up slightly. His finger traces a slow, teasing path from your collarbones to your breasts, sending shivers of anticipation racing through your body.

He leans in, his breath sending a shiver down your spine, and in a deep, low voice, he murmurs into your ear, “You're a dirty one, aren't you?”

His degrading words make your breath hitch instantly, and you involuntarily clench your thighs together. As you shake your head in disagreement, he just smirks, unconvinced.

His chuckle resonates in the room as he asks, “Do you enjoy watching yourself in the mirrors?” Sitting up, he moves to the foot of the bed, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark.

He gracefully steps out of the bed, casting a predatory gaze as he hovers over you, an aura of irresistible allure surrounding him.

With unwavering determination, he declares, “You're going to watch yourself in the mirror as I fuck your pussy with my tongue.” In a single, fluid motion, he seizes both of your thighs, pulling you to the foot of the bed, sending a thrilling jolt through your senses.

Despite the heat coursing through your entire being, a light chuckle escapes your lips. However, the mirth dissipates as you lock eyes with the intensity in Yoongi's dark gaze.

“Sit up,” his command echoes through the room, and as he gracefully lowers himself between your legs, a thrilling anticipation courses through the air.

From your elevated position, you admire the tousled chaos of his hair, a disheveled masterpiece that only enhances his captivating allure. His eyes gleam with a mischievous spark, a silent promise of the intensity that is about to unfold.

You seize his cheeks with urgency, your voice dripping with desire, a fervent plea escaping your lips, “Fuck. Yoongi, please eat me out.”

He moistens his lips with a teasing chuckle, descending eagerly towards your already soaked center.

He expertly widens the gap between your legs, creating a perfect haven for himself before delving into your pussy with fervent devotion.

With a tantalizing finesse, he starts with a subtle stroke of his tongue along your folds, gradually ascending to the apex of your clit, eliciting a fervent moan that echoes in the room.

As waves of pleasure cascade through you, your fingers instinctively entwine in his tousled locks, gently pulling as he skillfully devotes his attention to the exquisite dance of his tongue and lips on your pulsating core.

Gasping for breath, your anticipation mounts, every nerve tingling with pleasure, as Yoongi's rhythmic strokes across your intimate folds propel you toward a climax, your toes curling in ecstasy.

Pausing momentarily, he murmurs in appreciation, “You taste even better than you smell, Kitten,” his words sending a shiver down your spine.

You're on the verge of asking him about the nickname ‘Kitten,’ but his tongue explores your folds, leaving you breathless and unable to form words.

Your question dissolves in the heat of the moment, the building climax taking center stage as you lose yourself in the pursuit of pleasure.

Lost in the waves of ecstasy, you can't resist the urge to surrender, closing your eyes as Yoongi works his magic with undeniable expertise.

“No, no, no. Look at yourself in the mirror, Kitten.”

“Why do—” before you can finish your question, it fades away on your tongue as Yoongi plunges back into pleasuring your core with a renewed intensity, leaving your thoughts swallowed by the whirlwind of sensations.

As you glance at the mirror, you catch a glimpse of your own blissful expression, framed by Yoongi's tousled black hair nestled between your thighs. The sight is nothing short of breathtaking, a sight of pleasure that leaves you utterly captivated.

The provocative scene unfolding in the mirror intensifies your arousal, your breath hitching in tandem with the escalating desire pulsating through your veins.

“Yoongi, I’m—” your plea catches in your throat as Yoongi skillfully responds, his hand finding your pulsating clit, heightening the pleasure while he continues to ravish you with his insatiable tongue.

His fingers dance in rhythmic circles over your throbbing clit, coaxing the tension from your core. As the knot unravels, a wave of blissful release washes over you, leaving you breathless and trembling in its wake.

Ecstasy courses through your veins, your toes curling, muscles tightening, and in that moment, an unexpected surge of pleasure hits you like a sneeze that never comes. You release a symphony of moans, surrendering to the intense climax that Yoongi skillfully orchestrates with his talented tongue.

He continues to suck, savoring every drop of your essence, an insatiable thirst in his eyes matching the fervor of the intimate dance between your bodies.

As the intensity peaks, you gently tap his shoulder, signaling him to withdraw. He complies with a sensual slurp, leaving you breathless and tingling with the echoes of pleasure.

A mischievous grin stretches across his face as he licks his lips, “You're incredible, Kitten.”

You arch an eyebrow, curiosity coloring your tone, “Why do you keep calling me ‘Kitten’? You’re Kitten.”

He erupts in laughter, a symphony that resonates through the room, his chest rising and falling with the melody of mirth, and in that moment, he's a captivating masterpiece.

“Do I really look like a Kitten to you?” he inquires, a playful glint in his eyes as he gently nudges you back onto the bed.

Your words stumble as you search for a response, “Not really,” you admit, offering him a small yet tender smile.

“But you look cute and sweet, like a good Kitten,” he murmurs, his hands exploring the curves of your breasts.

A low moan escapes your lips as he teases your nipples with a playful twist, igniting a fresh surge of desire that pools in the growing heat between your thighs.

As you ache for the feel of his throbbing length, you attempt to grab hold of him, but like a fleeting mirage, he skillfully eludes your touch, leaving you yearning for the intimate connection that inches away with each evasive movement.

“Nah. I just want to fuck you silly,” he rasps, eyes tracing every bead of sweat on your flushed skin, reveling in the primal rhythm of your hurried breaths.

“If you want to, that is?” he teases, his voice a sultry whisper, as he takes control, guiding himself between your legs with a confident hand that promises a morning full of pleasure.

As you feel the weight of his gaze, you gulp, wondering how, in that heated moment, he could question what you crave. It's undeniable – you want him, and the intensity of your desire hangs in the air between you, palpable and unspoken.

Your breath catches as you respond, the words tumbling from your lips in a heated rush, “Fuck, yes, Yoongi. I want you inside me, now,” the urgency in your voice betraying the intensity of your desire.

A low, rumbling chuckle escapes him, the sound sending a shiver down your spine as he replies, “Please” with a teasing glint in his eyes.

“‘Please’ what?”

“Say ‘please’.”

You huff, incredulous at his audacity. The desire in his eyes is undeniable, and he seems to enjoy the game. Part of you rebels, tempted to be a brat just to irk him, but the need for his touch overrides any resistance. You crave his intimacy, aching for his dick despite the defiance lingering in the air.

“Fuck this,” you grumble, frustration evident in your voice. In that fleeting moment, you catch a glimpse of Yoongi pulling back, as if reconsidering his stance.

“Please! Don’t leave,” you plead desperately, your sincerity laid bare. The smirk on his face deepens, as if savoring the intensity of your plea.

“Please fuck me, Yoongi.”

His satisfaction evident, he rewards you with a swift kiss before aligning himself with your eager entrance, anticipation humming in the air.

Your arousal has reached a point where there's no discomfort, just a perfect fit as he slides into you, your wetness welcoming and enveloping him seamlessly.

He hisses as he eases into your warm, tight walls, and you can feel him doing his best to restrain himself.

You release a breathy huff as he fully penetrates, his balls gently meeting the warmth of your folds.

He lets out a guttural groan as he steadies himself, withdrawing only to plunge back in with an intensity that sends shivers through your body.

In this intimate position, with him above you, every nuance of his pleasure is on full display—the way his nose scrunches in delight, his soft lips occasionally nibbling the bottom one in sheer ecstasy.

Between each thrust, he can't help but express his amazement, his voice low and husky, “Damn. You're so tight.”

You know. It’s been awhile.

As he moves within you with an increased rhythm, his hands find your breasts, skillfully massaging them in sync with his fervent thrusts, creating a symphony of pleasure that courses through your entire body.

Ecstasy courses through you, and in the midst of your fervent pleasure, you can't help but release a breathless exclamation, “Fuck, Yoongi!”

Every skillful thrust seems to find its mark, synchronized with the enticing dance of his fingers on your hardened nipples. Pleasure envelops you, clouding your thoughts in a haze of ecstasy.

Your pleasure intensifies as Yoongi skillfully pinches your nipples, eliciting a symphony of moans that harmonize with the rhythmic dance of his passionate thrusts.

Sensations ripple through you, and the desire to reciprocate Yoongi's pleasure builds within you. You yearn to give him the same ecstasy he's generously bestowed upon you.

Amidst the rhythmic cadence of Yoongi's thrusts, a bold request escapes your lips. Your gaze, laced with desire, meets his, and with a subtle plea in your eyes, you softly murmur, “Yoongi—, I want to ride you. Please.”

With a devilish grin, Yoongi withdraws from your embrace, reclining on the bed, his eyes ablaze with anticipation.

His voice, laced with desire, sends shivers down your spine as he commands, “Then you're gonna watch in the mirrors as you fuck yourself on my dick,” reclining with his head angled towards the mirrors.

Mounting him, you position yourself strategically, both of you reflected in the mirror—a tantalizing image of entangled limbs, the intensity of the moment etched in your heaving, sweat-glistened bodies.

Grasping his throbbing dick, he hisses in anticipation as you deftly align your eager entrance with his cock.

With a fluid motion, you descend onto his rigid cock, your velvet walls enveloping him in a tight, intoxicating embrace.

From below, Yoongi savors the view, his gaze lingering on the contours of your face, as if committing every detail to memory.

You guide the rhythm, your hands finding stability on his sculpted chest, setting the pace as you ride him with a mix of determination and desire.

Your movements cascade, a slow dance that gradually builds momentum, each rise and fall carrying a symphony of pleasure and anticipation.

As you gaze upon your reflection, the flush of arousal paints your cheeks, your disheveled hair framing your face like an unruly halo, and your breasts dance in perfect harmony with the rhythm of your passionate movements.

The person in the mirror seems like a stranger, a sensual revelation you never knew existed within you. The mirrors, always present but never before utilized for sex, now reflect a version of yourself that’s both thrilling and new.

Heat courses through your veins, an intoxicating blend of arousal and empowerment, as you observe your own uninhibited reflection. With newfound vigor, you escalate the rhythm, riding Yoongi more vigorously. His appreciative groans and tender gaze mirror the intensity of the moment.

Unbridled desire takes over as your hands instinctively find their way to Yoongi's neck. Without a conscious thought, your fingers glide over the warmth of his skin, gently encircling his throat.

An electrifying jolt courses through you as you sense Yoongi's involuntary twitch within you, and you catch the ragged rhythm of his breath.

Panic courses through you, and you hastily retract your hands, realizing with a shock that you had unintentionally exerted pressure on Yoongi's throat. “Oh my God! I'm so sorry!” you blurt out, your apology a mix of concern and embarrassment.

“It's fine, Kitten. I like it,” he reassures you with a devilish grin, seizing your hands and guiding them back around his neck, his eyes sparking with a hint of mischief.

You shoot him a concerned glance, pausing your movements to ensure he's okay. Once he reassures you with a nod, signaling his approval, you dive back into the rhythm you had before.

With a newfound boldness, you tighten your grip around his throat, drawing out another satisfying twitch from him. His reaction sends a surge of pleasure through you as he hits that sweet spot, causing a kaleidoscope of sensations that make you see stars.

Your unrestrained moans fill the room, a symphony of desire that intertwines with the rhythmic sounds of your bodies colliding. The sight of Yoongi unraveling beneath your touch fuels a primal arousal, and you revel in the raw passion that courses through every fiber of your being.

“Fuck!” you pant.

“I’m gonna come,” you confess, the words escaping on a ragged breath, as you impale yourself on his dick. You’re body trembling as you hold the moment, savoring the anticipation before the inevitable plunge into ecstasy.

With a tender touch, you withdraw your hands from his throat, leaning down to kiss him. Your lips meet his in a dance of passion, tracing a path from his mouth to the very spots your fingers had claimed on his neck moments ago.

His low, guttural groan harmonizes with the rhythm as you ascend, reclaiming your perch on him. The dance begins anew, your body moving with purpose, riding the waves of pleasure set in motion by each calculated bounce on his throbbing length.

Yoongi's hands eagerly envelop your breasts, his fingers dancing with the rhythm of your fervent movements. With each descent onto him, you feel a surge of pleasure building, the shared pursuit of ecstasy driving you both towards the brink of blissful release.

His fingers deftly find your sensitive nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. The sensation is so intense that a fractured, high-pitched man escapes your lips, your back arching involuntarily in the exquisite dance of pleasure and pain.

As your walls instinctively clench around his pulsating dick, you witness the pleasure etched across his face, a delightful scrunching of his features that mirrors the ecstasy coursing through both of you.

“Yoongi, I’m com—,” you gasp, a desperate plea laced in your voice. Your words are unnecessary; the vice-like grip of your walls and the erratic cadence of your breath already convey the impending release that hangs thick in the air.

“Come all over my dick,” he smirks through a groan, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Watch yourself fall apart in the mirror.”

How can this man ignite such an intense flame within you? The knot in your stomach tightens once more, and as you surrender to it, a primal, drawn-out moan escapes your lips, echoing the depths of your desire.

With unyielding eyes, you lock onto your own reflection in the mirror as ecstasy courses through you, marking the moment you climax on his d*ck. Your rhythmic bouncing falters, but Yoongi, sensing your need, seizes your hips and propels the pace, driving you deeper into the intoxicating whirlwind of pleasure.

Your mouth hangs open, breaths rapid and erratic, akin to the aftermath of a sprint, while every inch of your body throbs with the residual heat of a fervent blaze.

“So beautiful—FUCK!” he moans, powering into you with an astonishing velocity, sending shivers down your spine.

His hold on your hips tightens, your hands finding refuge on his sculpted chest for support. Your body teeters on the edge of weightlessness and grounding, as if you'd unravel if Yoongi's firm grasp on your hips faltered.

Despite the fatigue washing over you, a surge of determination courses through your veins. Summoning the last reserves of your strength, you entwine your fingers around his neck once more. You sense the impending release in Yoongi's every movement, and you're determined to be the catalyst that propels him over the edge.

The moment your grip tightens around his throat, a powerful surge reverberates through his dick within you, sending intoxicating waves of pleasure coursing through your body. It's an electrifying sensation, making every touch between you more intense and satisfying.

With an intense squeeze, you lock eyes with Yoongi, a plea in your gaze. “Fill me up, Yoongi.”

In a primal release, he surrenders to the moment, thrusting into you with an erratic rhythm, coating your walls with the warmth of his climax.

“Ahh,” he pants, the rush of air filling his lungs as you release your grip on his neck, both of you engulfed in the aftermath of shared release.

You watch him in amazement as his fervent thrusts subside, and he eases into the embrace of your bed, a portrait of passion painted across his beautiful face.

As he gradually softens within you, you take the initiative to lift yourself off him, both of your essences clinging to your skin, a residue of your shared passion that you welcome without reservation.

As you recline beside him, a soft chuckle escapes your lips, a shared breathlessness enveloping both of you. The air in the room is charged with the echo of passion, leaving a tangible energy that binds your entangled forms together.

Breathless and sporting a satisfied grin, he turns to you, his eyes filled with a post-passion glow. “Fuck that was incredible,”' he murmurs, capturing the shared intensity of the moment in the curve of his smile.

An undeniable contentment colors your voice as you respond, “Yeah,” savoring the echoes of pleasure that linger in the air.

Suddenly, a spark of realization ignites within you, propelling you to move with swift purpose. You crawl back on top of him, a burst of energy that startles him, like a surprise in the midst of shared afterglow.

“Why did you leave me?” you inquire, a tinge of accusation laced with the bitter notes in your voice. “Without a word or a farewell. Why did you disappear without a trace?”

His eyes widen momentarily before giving way to an expression of anguish and sadness. A tug at your heart intensifies, as his face alone tells a story you fear can't be good.

He begins with a heavy admission, meeting your eyes with earnest sincerity, “My brother died.”

Your words stumble out in a rush, “Oh, God! I'm so sorry!” The unexpected revelation leaves you fumbling for the right response.

His words flow, carrying a weight of anger and grief, “It's alright. ButI felt so much anger and grief, you know?” he explains, “so much so that I couldn't shapeshift and was stuck in my cat form.”

You exhale a soft ‘aha’ at his words, and the realization washes over you— he was grappling with his own demons, just as you were.

“When I'm consumed by intense emotions, I lose control of my ability to shapeshift, and, and—” You witness a tearful welling in his eyes, prompting you to gently cup his cheeks, reassuring him that it's okay.

“I just wanted to be alone and I didn’t want to burden you…” A few tears spill from his eyes, and you tenderly catch them with your gentle fingers.

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, finding solace in the curve of his neck, where his soft minty scent envelops you like a comforting embrace.

“I am so fucking sorry you had to endure that. I understand, truly. But you would never be a burden to me,” you express, gazing into his eyes with a tenderness that echoes your sincerity.

“I want to be there for you,” you declare, your own tears mirroring the empathy in your eyes.

“Ah, shit. I didn’t mean to cry. But, you know, I understand,” you say, your words accompanied by a wry smile as tears trickle down your face and onto Yoongi’s cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Kitten. I know. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

He seizes your cheeks, tugging you into a tender and unhurried kiss. Time loses its grip, and you're oblivious to the remnants of his seed mingling with your essence, creating a slippery trail between your pussy and his still-slick pelvis.

Lost in the rhythm of your kisses with Yoongi, you surrender to the moment, where every touch feels like a missing puzzle piece seamlessly falling into place.

The two cups of coffee are long forgotten.

Authors note (3): Thank you so very much if you have made it this far 😭 I know this story is a lot – I’ve been dealing with a lot of different stuff for many years, and some of it just got to be too much a few weeks ago, and this story popped into my head. It was therapeutic to write. I don’t know if people will like it or not, but in the end, that’s not what it’s about. It will just exist here.

If you struggle with any of these subjects or emotions, you’re always welcome in my inbox – I’m not a trained psychologist or anything, though! But sometimes it is better to voice your feelings, than struggling in silence. Everybody’s welcome 🫂

I hope you’re doing well. Thank you for you 💜

#yoongi x reader #myg x reader #yoongi smut #bts x reader #bangtan x reader #bangtan smut #yoongi fanfic #reader: female #au: hybrid #au: strangers to lovers #au: fantasy #au: shapeshifter #au: slice of life #au: cafe #vibe: angst #vibe: smutty

272 notes · View notes

semisolidmind · 11 months

Note

The monkey husbands surrounded by dead bodys: man this protecting the monk stuff is easy! Why are you guys having such a hard time

Reader: I don't believe they are trying to kill people

Monk: because killing is wrong!

The husbands: KiLlinG is WrONg

Reader: why can't you both behave for once

Is this right?

(i actually had a lil peice of dialogue in my notes that's similar to this)

"This journey is about delivering the sacred texts, and becoming respectable monks!"

"Ahah, yeah, like that's gonna happen. Also, I may not be an expert, baldy, buuuut I'm pretty sure Buddhist monks can't get married. And peaches over here has already snatched us up, soooooo..." says Wukong, rolling his eyes.

"Hah!" Macaque laughs. "Oh, whatever shall we do, brother? The human girl has sullied us, caused us to stray from the path! Now we'll NEVER get to starve ourselves and beg for the rest of our lives!" Mac falls to the ground, an arm thrown dramatically over his eyes.

Wukong laughs as Macaque "languishes" on the ground. Reader is unamused.

"Please ignore them."

Turning from his dramatic brother with a chuckle, Wukong gives the monk an unimpressed look.

"Anyways, baldy," the monkey king says as he drapes himself over readers shoulders, "You may as well stop preaching. I, for one, don't wanna hear anymore about...whatever nonsense you were spouting earlier. It's getting on my nerves."

Macaque materializes next to Reader, opposite to Wukong. "I've resorted to listening in on the court cases in hell just to tune you out. They're surprisingly interesting in comparison."

"Be polite, please." Reader huffs.

#bad end wukong #twice as bad au

380 notes · View notes

writefightandflightclub · 3 months

Text

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Four (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running?

Genre: a LOT of angst, some smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+. Minors or ageless blogs interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list).

Author’s note: Ooh I really hope you enjoy this one! As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. I so love to hear your feedback and chat more about this story! ILY :-*

Word count: 5.3k for this part.

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

The rest of the evening passes in much the same way as the rest. You rejoin the group out front, Benny injecting some much needed fresh energy into the pack. He regales you all with tales of his most recent fights, delivers excruciating detail about his latest training regimen, and proudly shows off pictures of his new puppy.

“Why am I looking at a picture of you, Miller,” Frankie jests as he holds up the screen to reveal an adorable golden retriever.

If anyone notices that Santiago seems quieter than he had earlier in the night, they don’t say it. If they realise that you are engaging in very purposeful, overblown interest in Benny’s chat, it doesn’t get called out. There are a few exchanges between the two of you and Santiago that simulate old patterns. Lend weight to the pretence that things could even return to normal between you and him, given a little more time.

Still, every time your eyes glance off of one another there is this intolerable heat, and you find you still can’t meet it head on. At times, your gaze is dropped hastily into the sand. At times, your eyes needle Frankie pointedly so that he might come to your aid, even if he does simply shrug and clasp the neck of his bottle a little more tightly.

You know Santiago. And in a sense, contradictory as it may be, the hardest thing is how easy it would be to fall into your old patterns. Eventually, you begin to wonder if this tension and this awkwardness -this disconnect – is simply manufactured, in a way. Your heart’s tactic to keep him at arm’s length. A defence mechanism, because you ran away from a whole continent and yet you still fear ending up right back where you started if you can’t extricate yourself from him.

At some stage, you tire of the beer-addled chat, and especially of Tom. Even more so of the effort of trying to make everything feel normal, whilst at the same time fearing what might happen if you could actually achieve that. What it would mean. You announce to the group that you’re going to take a long soak in the tub, and you head upstairs to the main bathroom, languishing in the sweet-scented bubbles, and attempting to wash the burdens of the day from your body, along with the gathered sweat and sand and smoke. Of course, you seem entirely unable to scrub this urge humming beneath your skin.

When you eventually emerge there is a hush over the house, a cocooning darkness in the hallways – and you realise that at least some of the group must have retired to bed already. You’re tired, sure; but you’re still a little buzzed and not sure that you could sleep yet. You certainly don’t like the thought of staring at the ceiling, thinking about who might be lying awake too on the other side of your wall.

“Hey. Cat. Everyone gone to bed?” you ask Frankie softly as you see him round the stairs to the landing in his socked feet, his footsteps purposefully softened.

“Yeah, chiquita.”

“Already? Such old men,” you snicker gently. “What the hell happened?”

Frankie’s subdued throaty chuckle cuts pleasantly through the dark. “It was a long drive,” he defends playfully; then, his tone shifts, an injection of caution evident. It puts you on edge. “Pope’s still out there though, if that helps.” Frankie must feel you bristle, as he raises his palms in the air in surrender. Or, more than likely, absolving himself of any responsibility. “Do with that what you want.”

“Mmm-kay,” you say as nonchalantly as possible, and, from the sidelong glance Frankie throws at you, you know he isn’t buying it for a second.

“You two okay? Something happen in the kitchen?”

A flare ignites under your skin. You remember a different kitchen entirely. Not the one downstairs. Instead, you recall the hot, close air of the Colombian night. The flash of cool metal against your flushed skin as Santiago pressed you back and-

“-It was fine,” you lie tersely, and before Frankie can wheedle anything further out of you, you quickly hook your arm around his neck for a distracting, albeit halfhearted, goodnight hug. “’Night, Cat. Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” With a grunt, he offers a quick, friendly kiss to your cheek, his scruff tickling up against you.

“Yeah. G’night,” he returns, looking as tired as he probably feels. And, as you part ways in the hallway, Frankie watches with resigned interest at the fact you don’t similarly retreat to your room. That instead, you shuffle onward towards the mouth of the stairs. “Don’t let the Pope’s bite.”

And then, with Frankie’s nonsensical and yet somehow apt warning ringing in your ears you head downstairs, meandering through the quiet house until you reach the exterior.

You are arrested in the doorway at the thought of experiencing Santiago alone all over again, but at the same time, that is exactly the thought which propels your feet over the threshold and out into the balmy night air.

You find him there, stretched out on his back in front of the dying embers of the fire, knees folded and pointed up to the sky. An orange glow is cast over the contours of his chest where his button-down shirt now falls completely open, the wire of his headphones snaking down and around his torso. He looks peaceful like this at first. Relaxed and loose, his chest rising and falling soporifically with his breath. His eyes are closed and he has his headphones in his ears, his fingers gently drumming and tapping where they rest against the softness of his bare stomach. Your eyes follow his happy trail, until the thatch of hair disappears beneath his shorts, now tugged tight over his thick thighs.

You note the appealing cushioning around his middle forming rolls as he shifts marginally - to better prop his head up on a second cushion. He looks beautiful. Tranquil, at first glance.

That is, until you see him tug in a huge breath, his ribs flaring with it. Until you watch him pinch the bridge of his nose before letting out a slow, sad exhale.

You know in that moment that you should without a doubt turn around. That you should go right to bed, even if that does result in staring at the ceiling for hours with the image of his gorgeous body seared into your mind. But, you can’t do that.

Instead, you already know exactly what you’re going to do. You’ve known since before you came downstairs.

Truth be told, you’ve known since before you came to the beach house at all. You’ve known since your new fella asked you to be exclusive and you said “no”. You know, because you don’t know what’s good for you.

“Santiago,” you say to announce yourself. “Mind if I join you?”

He pops a bud from his ear and opens his eyes. Somehow, he doesn’t even look surprised to see you standing there.

He blinks at you wordlessly for a moment. He could say no, of course, but you know that he won’t.

Because he doesn’t know what’s good for him either.

He doesn’t respond to you at all in words. Instead, he rises, shifting to the corner of his tartan blanket, arranging himself cross-legged with a groan. He pats the opposite side invitingly, gesturing for you to join him.

You hesitate. The setting, down on the sand on that measly square of wool, seems already far more intimate than the looming camp chairs had.

“Warmer down here,” Santiago encourages, as though reading your mind through how well he can read your body, evident tension snaking through your limbs. “Come and get comfy.”

Okay.

You hunker down, both legs folded to one side and your weight propped on the opposite arm. You take in the setting for a moment. The beach, shrouded in a blanket of dark. The sound of the waves shushing, and the gentle crackle of the fire.

It would be calming, if the silence between the two of you wasn’t so taut. Still, you know Santiago will shortly reach to fill the silence. He always does. You don’t even have to wait all that long.

“Good to see that Benny’s still… as Benny as ever.”

“Yeah. Good to see some things never change.” You look at his lips.

“His latest training regimen sounds pretty brutal, huh?“

“Uh huh.” Your eyes trail wantonly down his torso, and it’s not lost on you that he sucks his stomach in a little when your gaze drops to the soft rolls of him there. You’ve never seen a whiff of insecurity on the man before now. He’s confident as a rule - or so you thought. It’s appealing though, the softness of him. Sexy. You want to tell him that, but you don’t. Instead, you simply allow the soft smile to radiate over your face unfettered, your eyes warm and fond.

“What are you listening to?” you nod down to his phone, headphones still strung from it and one bud remaining in his ear. Wordlessly, he passes you the spare bud and you slot it in, allowing the droning sounds to wash over you. Voices talking, and smatterings of financial and investment jargon. You quickly get the gist of it, and just as quickly relinquish the bud back to him.

Your nose wrinkles. It’s not what you were expecting, honestly. “Financial podcasts?”

He tilts his head to the side. Looks suddenly as old and mature and serious as you’ve ever seen him. “Gotta think about the future sometime, right?” He says it lightly, but even so, you are somewhat hurt by it. Hurt that he’s never managed to envisage any kind of future with you.

“Right.” You nod, as neutrally as possible.

He looks at your mouth.

You note the brief fleet of pink tongue along the swell of his pillowy lower lip.

You both let the silence hang there for a moment, full of possibility, and again, you know he will fill it. After all, you made it clear, right? You told him: don’t. Even if you want precisely what you asked him to deny you. “Did you see that documentary about the octopus on-”

“-I can’t get off anymore without thinking about you, Santi.”

You interrupt him, and his jaw hangs slack for a moment, his eyes bugging out of his head as he fully registers your statement. Apparently, you don’t want to talk about Benny. Or podcasts. Or fucking octopi. You don’t want to fill the silence with meaningless chat.

With Santiago, it had always meant something. You don’t want to stop that now.

You let the words fall into his lap, and you aren’t even sure what reaction you were expecting. Therefore, you don’t even feel any particular type of way as you watch the multitude of emotions and stunted responses play out one by one across Santiago’s features. “Jesus, honey,” he eventually croaks.

Then, his second-hand embarrassment finally jars you too. In a delayed flush of self-pity, you bury your face in your hands. “Fuck. How pathetic is that?”

Santiago’s agape mouth finally closes then, a hard swallow bobbing down his corded neck. Your own self-deprecating laugh finally causes his face to split into a bemused and tentative grin. It is short-lived, however, his thick brows quickly drawing down. “You know. You’re giving me fucking whiplash over here, cariño.”

“Shit. I know. I’m sorry. I just…” You tug your knees up to your chest for whatever comfort it can offer. “Honestly? I don’t want to talk about Benny, or whatever else. I love the guy but I… I missed you. I missed you and I just want us back. I want us to be okay, you know?” Santiago’s face twists in a mirror of your own, as if he doesn’t even know how possible that is anymore. “And, I don’t know how else to do that anymore – to make us okay - without… without that. I don’t know how to stop wanting you.” As you keep talking, your voice seems to break into a thousand pieces, as if sand in your throat is grinding it down, eroding the body and timbre of it away. “I try. I try, Santi, and it… I never…”

Your name rises from his throat, and the sound is tired in his mouth. He knows what you’re asking him; and he doesn’t even seem surprised. “It’s a bad fucking idea.”

“I know.” He’s not even wrong. “I know it is, but I… I don’t care anymore.” Emotion weighs down your tone. Makes it heavy. “It’s like a wound in me - the way we left it - and I just need…” Your eyes flicker and flit everywhere as you reach for the word, dancing around the scene, around his face, like the licking, greedy flames.

You can’t find the word, the concept, the sentiment, but, as you search, Santiago’s voice filters through to you, certain and resigned. As though he understands perfectly what you crave after the wound that he left that night. “You need healing.”

Your head whips towards him and you nod slowly, with conviction, searching his face for any sign that he might give it to you. For any sign that he might be able to repair you. He had hurt you, yes. But his fire was so hot that you think he is the only thing capable of cauterising the wound he left in his wake. The only one who can ignite you enough to heal you, as selfish and misguided as your desire may be.

However, Santiago’s demeanour remains calm and cool even in the face of your desperation. You see only a vestige of desire dancing in his eyes now, as though all you had might truly be in the past. “You wanted out, remember?” he says thinly. With regret. He smiles even thinner than that. “No need to repeat your old mistakes, huh?”

“I wanted out of that life, man. You were never a mistake.”

“Heh. Don’t be so sure. If you know what’s good for you-“

Unconsciously, and with ill-timing, you shift on the mat in discomfort, rolling your spine to try and release some of the niggling, tight muscles – another old injury which continues to plague you long after the fact.

“Still got that damn tweak?” Santiago asks, seemingly grateful for the diversion.

You nod. “Mmm.”

“Want my fingers?”

You look into his eyes, mellow in the dancing light. How could you say no to that? “Please.”

“Come here then,” he encourages, shifting position to the edge of the porch step, his thighs spread wide apart and leaving space for you to settle on the sand before him. “Let me help you,” he insists, tipping up his chin, and his eyes softer and brighter again.

You hesitate, but you can’t find it in you to decline the invitation. Can’t possibly find the strength to say no to his hands on you. To some relief, even in this form. “Turn around. Back to me, hermosa.” His voice is soft, so soft. Rough and undone around the edges like this frayed edge of land you perch on.

You settle before him, and, just as he had promised, his fingers and his hands begin to inch over your body, on top of your clothes, seeking to unravel the knots. To bring you some relief. He used to do this for you all the time – always took care of you like this, and it’s bittersweet to recall a different, more innocent way his hands used to touch you. He would do this for you after training. After a mission. In the field. At the mouth of your tent when camped out in some desert or field or jungle. In the back of a Humvee on the way to the F.O.B.. At Benny’s fight nights when you’d had to sit in those shitty plastic chairs for too long. Whenever and wherever you needed it.

His hands always knew how to fix you, long before you learned all the ways they could take you apart like a weapon in his palm. “Santiago,” you keen, as the pad of his thumb works into all your sweet spots. You don’t know what his name is in your mouth. A plea; a promise; a prayer; a poem. Perhaps all of these at once.

“I know,” he soothes. “I know, cariño.”

You close your eyes against the sudden tears you find threatening at the corners of your eyes. Knowing his touch again is everything you wanted, and, despite yourself, you are eminently glad it is happening like this. That he is giving, instead of devouring you, for if he did the latter, you don’t know that there would be anything left for him to take.

His touch like this though, deft and tender, reveals that perhaps, there’s another way. That maybe, instead of burning you, Santiago could merely warm you. Maybe his flames only hurt because you had dared to get too close. Maybe you could simply learn to stay at arm’s length, where he had always attempted to keep you anyway.

Still, that’s all very well, but… his touch - as it skims down your body - is enough to subsume you. It is a tide swallowing hot shores. It is a relief. A balm. Healing.

“You’re so tight,” he complains gruffly, and you wonder if he is simply being careless, or whether his words were chosen ever so deliberately to remind you. To remind you of him praising you for that very same thing, under other circumstances.

Regardless, Santiago shifts then, shuffling his hips closer towards you. His thighs -either side of your torso - boxing you in a little more tightly. Then, he braces one hand carefully against your shoulder, the other digging and kneading into your knotted muscles at the spot he always knew how to help you with.

You moan for him, willingly, as he takes all your tension and melts it like butter.

“Santiago,” you keen, and there it is again. A promise; a prayer; a poem.

A plea.

You hear him swallow thickly. Hear him exhale a sound like sea trapped in a seashell, his face dipped closer towards the shell of your ear in this new position. His breath continues to quicken as he manipulates your body, pliable under his sure hands, his warmth practically coiled around you like the fire around its fuel.

“Do you want my fingers?” he repeats, voice now flecked with grit, even as he remains slow and languid, not whipped into any frenzy. “Tell me.”

A stone plummets through your belly, sinking heat through your core at the mere suggestion he might touch you there too.

“Mmmph,” you plead – a strangled affirmative wrung from your chest, and Santiago’s hand reaches around, calm and slow and tantalising. He winds his arms between your legs and his index finger trials along the seam of your shorts, up towards your clit like he’s following a carefully laid fuse line. Like he knows precisely how to detonate you, and all he needs is a spark. “You want my fingers here?” he purrs, and you moan his name, throwing your head back into the crook of his shoulder. “Want me to help you like this too?”

You submit an unintelligible string of sounds to the air, which you hope he recognises as an affirmative.

“Sssshhh,” he soothes, as his fingers deftly flick open the button of your shorts and you squirm in search of his friction. “It’s okay. I got you. I got you, cariño.”

You sigh out a broken, guttural noise now, rolling your mound against his palm as his girthy fingers travel eagerly below the waistband of your clothing. Barrelling towards your want without dwelling on the implications even for a moment. On what this might mean. On what this may fix or further fracture.

It is too much to think about that, and it is enough to know that you need some relief.

Specifically, the kind of relief you have not been able to give yourself. The kind of relief you have not been able to find from elsewhere. The kind only Santiago knows how to give you. The only kind Santiago knows how to give you.

“Fuck. You’re soaked,” he praises, all rusty-voice and practiced fingers, and with the ease that the thick pads of him glide through your folds you know it is true. “Holy shit, come here.”

You would oblige if you were not so loose-limbed already; and so, in the next moment, Santiago is dragging you up towards him, settling your ass in the space before him on the porch step, so you sit a little higher. He is shucking your shorts and panties down and hooking your thighs over his parted, sturdy legs to spread you wide open. To give him better access to you so he can give you what you need.

Your hands clamp down on his thighs like claws, your back flush against his chest and your head still languishing in the apex of his neck, feeling the steady rhythm in his shoulder as his arm reaches between your legs. With his other arm he simply gathers you up and holds you close to him, until the warmth of his skin seeps right through to yours.

“Fuck! Santi,” you keen, voice ragged with need already as his fingers tease and circle where you need him. “More. Please, I need more.”

He does not disappoint. He plunges a girthy finger into your heat, and the lack of resistance is telling, your cunt opened up and eager for him as the heel of his hand rocks a steady rhythm against your clit. He goes slower than you would like, but it turns out to be the exact pace you need -two fingers now- dragging molten heat through your core with each curl and pump and scissor he applies to your giving walls.

“Ohhhh. Fuck!”

“I know, baby. This is what you need, isn’t it? I know.”

He does. He does know. He knows every damn inch of you and how to make you sing.

“That’s it. I’ve got you. Don’t come, Princesa. Not yet.”

That’s easier said than done. Especially as his rough voice - all honey and grit - filters into the shell of your ear. As the fleck of his stubble rasps against your neck as he sucks an angry mark into your skin. Your core flutters in straight-out defiance of his orders then, and he feels you clamp down on him, tightening around his fingers. “Ah ah,” he scolds. “Hold on to it for me. Gonna get you there. Don’t worry. I got you.”

Christ, you slosh around him as he makes you molten, and you feel his thighs begin to shake beneath yours. You feel his insistent hardness pressing at your back. “Fuck, princesa. I missed this pussy. Holy shit.”

“Santi. I- I can’t hold on.”

His thumb massages circles into your swollen, needy clit.

“No, baby. Hold on for me. I know you can, huh? Don’t even think. Let me give you what you need.”

“Mmmphhh,” you moan out like a woman possessed as Santiago builds you up.

He chuckles darkly into your neck, and smothers his spare palm over your mouth. “Shhhh. Quiet, hermosa. No-one else can take care of you like this, huh? I got you now.”

The way he’s touching you, fingers speared inside your wet heat, is everything you’ve needed for so long. God, you’ve so needed him to help you like this. And now, he’s finally giving you relief. It’s welcome, and it’s good; but you still have enough about you, even in this state of becoming putty in his lap, to realise that he’s not giving you everything. You turn your head, tipping your lips wantonly up to him, but he won’t kiss you. His arousal presses insistently at your lower back but he isn’t making any move to get himself off. It seems obvious, even in this state of coming undone, that even as you lose yourself he won’t allow himself to get lost in you; not entirely.

He’s navigated some extreme terrain in his time, but perhaps his feelings for you really are a jungle far too dense for him to navigate.

Still, you certainly do not feel any lack, even if you get the sense he is holding back. It would be hard to feel any lack at all with his thick, warm fingers buried in you up to the knuckle, stroking and curling with precision against your swollen arousal, coaxing hoarse moans from your lips which he buries in the meat of his cupped palm. The pad of his thumb rubs haphazardly -almost roughly- in circles over your clit, puffy with need. Your thatch of hair is soaked, and your plumped folds are slick with your pearly, moonlit juices.

“Holy fuck,” you rasp as Santiago’s fingers draw a broad circle deep inside your walls, stretching you open and sending a delicious spiral of bliss through your core. He curls his fingers against your g spot, rocks his palm roughly against the mound of you, and God, it’s so good. You’re on the edge, but you still find you can’t quite let go.

You don’t need him to give you everything, but you do need him to give you just a little more of what you’ve been craving. Just a little more healing.

“Santiago,” you plead, tears of emotion and bliss and disbelief and sadness balling in your eyes. Relief at the fact you get to feel his touch again, and despair at how long you may next endure the lack of it.

However, as though he senses what your body is telling him, that you are getting far too in your head by now to let go, you realise Santiago knows exactly what you need to get out of it. He always does. Always knows how to help you. “Mmpph,” you moan as he wraps his hand more tightly around your mouth and nose, playing with your air supply - just enough to provide a gentle thrill. To offer this simulation of a loss of control just long enough that you feel a secondary surge of adrenalin and arousal building within you. You gasp as he releases his palm and you suck his fingers easily into your mouth, wanting to feel full of him wherever you can. He obliges by shoving them deeper, over your tongue.

“That’s it,” he praises, soothes, encourages, feeling it coming before you do, reading the signs in your body. Almost immediately, pleasure blooms out from your middle, completely engulfing you.

You screw your eyes shut tight and you can barely even focus on his fingers pulsing in and out of your wet, suckering heat, or on this string in the middle of you being drawn so tight it’s about to snap. Instead you focus on him. On the warmth and sturdy form of him at your back. On the way he knows just how to touch you – where, and when, and how. The way he soothes you and relieves you. The familiar scratch of his stubble against your cheek. The soft, sweat-tacky rolls of his bare stomach cushioning your back, skin-on-skin where your t-shirt has ridden up your back. His meaty thighs. The familiar press of that hard promise up against you. But most of all his warm, sandy voice, slipping into the shell of your ear like the sounds and shushing of the sea.

Hermosa. Cariño. Princesa.

His words melting out of you like liquid pearls and making you shine.

He praises you, and the sounds of him slip inside you just like his fingers, a smooth glide like the surge of the tide devouring an aching shore. His touch relieves the ache, the burn, the fire, the hurt, as you find your release. You gush over his hand, your mouth open with a hoarse, hollow moan, silently echoing the roar of the sea as your whole body becomes liquid on top of his.

He holds you, and he works you through it, tears squeezed from your eyes with each wave of bursting, engulfing pleasure which radiates through your core – not blistering like the heat of your fire, but gentle and soothing.

Your breath is ragged now. You have the feel of a tide between your legs.

You are sated, and yet you want more of him. You may feel healed in some ways, but your whole body still sings for him like a wound.

He stays inside of you. Feels you for a moment, with a shuddered, satisfied moan you feel vibrate against your back before he draws his fingers out, painfully slow. You shudder too, your core still fluttering for him, and you would reach for him if you weren’t still boneless. Would seek to satisfy him too.

“Fuck. I missed your fingers,” you purr.

“Uh huh,” Santiago says, a little too morosely for your liking, and he unslots himself far too quickly from around your form. Far too quickly he comes to standing, leaving you feeling cold and alone on the porch stairs, shorts shunted down past your knees, exposing you to the night air.

“Don’t you want… something for you?” you ask in confusion, in hope, eyeing the bulge tenting at his crotch and the way his hand is hung curled at his side, his fingers still shined from you. You enjoy all of that, but you certainly don’t enjoy the heaviness bedding down on his brow, and you reach to pull up your shorts as quickly as you can, the moment of relief fast-retreating, like the deceptive tide.

“No,” he says firmly. “That was just for you.”

You bristle at the implication in his words, your momentary bliss falling quickly away.

He did you a favour.

You were the one undone by your desire – your want. Not him. You were the needy one who couldn’t be without him. Couldn’t even get off without him. And damn. Here he is, slow and controlled and, for the better part, seemingly unaffected.

You know that’s not wholly true – that he does still want you, but your eyes still swim when you wonder if his desire is subdued compared to what it used to be. If it has lessened.

Don’t you cause this frenzy in him anymore? This quickening, like he does with you? Is the flame burning in your chest -or your loins- not catching, any longer? Like the dying embers of this fire, is it almost out?

Could there truly be an end to this?

Soldiers. Friends. Lovers.

What next?

You had, at least, assumed something would be next.

And so, as you regard him, stoic and impassive, you can barely even look at him. “You’re right, Pope. This was probably a bad fucking idea.”

Of course it was.

You should know better than to think you can take a piece of him without wanting to devour the whole. After all, you could never see him in fragments – only all at once.

Had that always been your mistake, thinking that he could ever give himself over to you completely? He’s far too afraid of getting lost, even if he does hold the map to your heart in the palm of his hand. Strange then, because the palm of his hand is also where he has become so accustomed to yielding a weapon. Maybe for him, love and pain were always destined to feel the same.

You push past him, and you feel a pit open up in your middle.

“Goodnight, buddy,” you say, your tone surprisingly sour so soon after that. “Thanks a bunch for the fingerfuck.”

You guess the mindfuck came along for free.

You don’t want to hurt him. Don’t want to be bitter and to deepen this gulf between you all over again. But, apparently, you just can’t help yourself.

You don’t know what’s good for you.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #santiago pope garcia #oscar isaac #ride or die series

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drmaddict · 10 months

Text

Dear Diary

Summary: Jason got his hands on (y/n)s diary. Of course, nothing good can come of this... or maybe it can?

Word count: 850

Warnings: angst, but lots of fluff after

Authors note (Warning: looong Authors note):

When I was about 13 or 14, my then best friend tricked me.

She had sent me a link through a chat. It was one of those online fortune-telling sites. Ask a question about your future and I'll give you an answer.

Complete bullshit, of course, but I always found them funny. What do you do when you're 14? You ask if you have a chance with your crush, or possibly that cute guy who's always in guitar class.

What I didn't know was that on the other side, my friend was sitting with one of her friends, laughing her ass off.

They went on and on about it. I always valued my privacy. I was very shy and insecure.

When they made fun of it in front of me, my confidence and trust was broken. It has never really gotten back together since.

The whole thing still weighs on me in my mid-twenties. I never talked about it until now.

Unfortunately, my story didn't have a happy ending, but what are fanfictions for?

I was sitting in the cafeteria, listlessly looking at my food.

The guys were euphorically talking about the next DnD campaign when all of a sudden Jason Carver appeared at our table.

The grin on his face did not mean anything good.

"King and Queen of Freakland."

"Get out of here ball boy." growled Eddie.

"Why so hostile? I've got some good news after all. At least you finally got a chance to get laid. The way I see it, nothing more than languishing has happened yet."

Jason pulled out a small, green book from behind his back. My book. My journal. My chest tightened so violently I should have imploded. I felt sick to my stomach. Stiff as a board, I sat there. I should have knocked it out of his hand, but I was just a useless statue.

He flipped open the book and began reading aloud so loudly that the entire cafeteria could hear.

He strolled through the rows and read out my thoughts. Thoughts I never told anyone.

"He always listens to me. Even when I'm interrupted, which is really all the time, he asks again and listens to me. For someone who likes to talk so much, he's a really good listener."

He flipped a few more pages. I wanted to dissolve.

"I wonder what his lips feel like."

Turning pages.

"His eyes are beautiful. Like chocolate or coffee. He's never been this close to me before."

He put on a stilted sugary-sweet voice.

"And for all of you wondering who it is that turned dear (y/n)'s head - You shouldn't have a crush on Eddie Munson, but of course I'm an idiot who does."

The crowd laughed and silent tears ran down my eyes. Since Jason was still the center of attention, I quickly and silently slipped outside.

I heard Jason groan painfully, but I just kept running.

Now, if I was quick, I could just sign out at the secretary's office and say I was sick. It wouldn't even be a lie. I'd be gone before anybody saw me again.

"(Y/n). (Y/N)!" shouted Eddie from behind me. I heard his shoes hit the linoleum in quick strides. "Now wait."

A hand grabbed mach my shoulder and turned me around. I tried to wriggle away, but alas, Eddie was stronger than he looked.

"Here." He held my journal out to me.

I grabbed it without looking him in the face. I quickly wiped away the tears, but I wasn't fooling anyone.

I felt small and stupid and humiliated. "Thank you.", I whispered in a broken voice.

"Don't cry over this idiot."

I shook my head and tried to turn back around, but he didn't move away from me.

"I hate it when you're miserable."

"It's okay."

"No it's not okay!" He turned my head with his big hands that I practically had to look at him. "I don't want the girl I have a crush on to feel bad. I don't want her to cry."

I looked at him out of wide eyes. What?

"You always listen to me too and you're always nice to everyone and you have beautiful eyes and you smell insanely good. Do you even know that?"

His warm eyes looked at me as gently as I've ever seen him.

"Don't listen to that idiot! He has no right to do something like that, even though he might think he does." He grew quieter and sadness was in his eyes. "I'm sorry he's going off on you like this because of me."

I shook my head. "Eddie... No... Jason goes after everyone when he can, doesn't he?"

I looked down at my feet again. "Are you serious?"

"With every word."

"It doesn't feel real."

He laughed. "Come on we're going to math. Then the harsh reality will have us back.... Besides, I need motivation to go, and it's really always you." He smiled at me. "You look cute when you think... And a little hot how quickly you solve this tangled mess of numbers." He grinned. I blushed.

"You don't have the homework, do you?"

"Well, I was thinking I could possibly copy it off you.... I'd offer you dinner for it too.... Friday at 8?"

"Are you trading math homework for a date right now?", I laughed, still tearful.

"To be honest, the date's free.... You could also kick me in the balls and it would still be standing." He grinned at me, but uncertainty was in his eyes.

"Friday at 8.", I said and pressed my assignments into his hand.

He gave me a tight squeeze. "If I hadn't just broken Jason's jaw, I'd almost have to thank him."

"You broke Jason's jaw?", I asked in shock.

"Edward Munson to the principal's office immediately!", an angry voice rang over the loudspeakers.

He sighed and handed me back my notepad.

"I'll see you around. Don't forget about me while I'm in prison.", he grinned.

Quick as a flash, he pressed a kiss to my cheek. A glow of red settled over his skin.

"See you?"

"See you."

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x yn #eddie munson x y/n #fluff #fluffy

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blondeboyfriend · 1 year

Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈

[ PAIRING ] DIO x f!reader [ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] This is for @cherrykamado's Scumbags Collab. Thank you so much for letting me join and giving me an excuse to write a morally reprehensible insert! I mean... she's not that bad. (Yes, this is a repost.) [ SYNOPSIS ] A strange man has an even stranger proposition. [ WORD COUNT ] 6.5k [ CONTENT ] Canon AU, y/n is a stand user, innocent people get killed, size kink (y/n is implied to be on the taller side though), fingering, finger sucking, oral sex (f receiving), rough sex, blood, knifeplay, creampie.

“I think we’re being followed,” your date said nervously.

It was just past midnight, a brisk night in your city. You had spent most of it languishing in various bars with some guy, one whose name you didn’t bother to remember. He was a momentary meal ticket, one to be tossed aside the second you were bored.

So far he had proven to be overwhelmingly uninteresting, talking mainly about his job as a security guard and being a single father to four children. Under any other circumstances you would have ditched his ass, but you were plagued with hunger. You planned on goading him into buying you some street food once he shut the fuck up.

“I think you’re tripping,” you replied, voice full of smug confidence.

There was no way you were being followed. Earlier that evening you deployed your stand, A Deal With God, to keep watch while you made your way through the city streets. The extra layer of security allowed you to relax in the absence of surprises. It was like having an extra set of eyes to see through… Sometimes even more than that, as your stand’s true form was a glowing cluster of iridescent black wings with three indigo eyes at the center.

“I’m serious. Some jacked blonde guy.”

“You sound insane,” you said as your palms began to sweat. “C’mon. Let’s go eat something.”

He shook his head. “I’m not hungry. Why don’t we go dancing?”

You frowned, but decided to play along. You stepped into a high-end nightclub, and immediately got assaulted by flashing lights and the indecipherable, mechanical squelches of some acid house remix.

“Oh my god, I love this song,” your date cheered.

You rolled your eyes and mumbled something about going to the bar. A complete lie as you were actually going to the bathroom to figure out a new game plan. You brushed past a few people before glancing out the window, spotting a tall, foreboding figure leering at you from the other side of the street.

You briefly glared and slipped away into the bathroom, shutting yourself away in a stall. You took a seat on the toilet and held your head in your hands.

“Head’s killing me. Just wanna eat,” you whined, snapping your fingers.

A Deal With God appeared in the cramped stall, its large eyes fixed on you. It looked about as weary as you did.

“Figure out if that weird guy in the street was actually following us. I don’t think he was but… fuck it. Might as well be sure. Not like you got anything better to do, right?”

“Veeerrrrry trrrruuuue,” it drawled after turning into a mirror image of you.

You very well could have sent your stand out in its true form, but you worried that one day you’d come across someone that could actually see them when they were a mass of wings and eyes.

A Deal With God turned around and kicked the bathroom stall door open, and marched back out into the club. You carefully shut the door and resumed your previous position, trying to relax. You thought about your empty fridge and bare cupboards, cursing yourself for not going grocery shopping earlier that week. Paying for your own food was always an option, but you preferred to spend your money on things that lasted, that were more tangible.

You groaned. “Fuck it. I’ll go buy my own damn—”

Before you could even finish your sentence A Deal With God kicked the stall door in, making it fly off its hinges. The door hit you square in the nose.

“What the fuck?!” You said, wiping away the stream of crimson blood dripping from your nostril.

“Th—there—I—I saw.”

“You saw what?!”

“Th—th–the man.” You could barely understand a word it was saying as its teeth chattered away. “He found me. One second he was outside, the next h—he was behind me.”

The poor thing dropped its human facade before simply disappearing into the ether.

“Shit,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Shit!”

You stumbled out of the stall and scanned the crowd for your date and the strange man. They were nowhere in sight and you made a beeline for the exit. You ran down the street, still pinching your nose even though it didn’t help in the least. The cold breeze stung your skin and heightened your anxiety. Everything around you felt like a threat.

The vast nature of the street made you uneasy so you sought refuge in a more sequestered area, ultimately settling on an alley. Your eyes darted around, checking for any unwanted presences, before slipping into the darkness.

“How did he sneak up on me?” You asked no one in particular.

You snapped your fingers and A Deal With God appeared before you. Its numerous eyes looked terrified and wet.

“Stop being scared,” you said, knowing full well your stand’s demeanor was your own doing.

But what could you do? You were utterly spooked. You didn’t have a lot of enemies, but you weren’t exactly a magnet for pleasant people. There was no way the man following you held good intentions. And the more you thought about it, the less safe you felt in a poorly lit alley. Who would’ve thought?

A Deal With God fluttered about before peering out into the street. It turned to you and used one of its wings to gesture towards a nearby nightclub. It seemed like a decent enough place to disappear.

You tore across the street as fast as you could and barrelled through the club’s entrance. You were surrounded by a thick haze of tobacco and cloves, and you could feel the rumbling bass emanating from the large speakers positioned throughout the space. It wasn’t nearly as abrasive as the first one.

Before you could even sigh in relief you spotted the strange man across the room. Initially you felt paralyzed with fear, like your legs were going to give out from under you. Every hair was standing on end. Your stomach was eating itself, churning away into nothing.

The man smirked.

Of course he was positioned by the only exit, essentially cornering you inside the club. You found it in you to move and bolted up the stairs, hoping you could lose yourself in the crowd and make your way out a window.

You were disappointed to see the upper floor wasn’t nearly as populated as the other. Suddenly you felt a chill climb your spine and a pair of large, cold hands on your shoulders.

“There’s no point in running from me,” the man whispered in your ear.

His hushed tone was like a siren’s song, dragging you out to sea.

“I just want to talk. That’s all.”

He spoke to you like you were a child, though considering how scared you were it wasn’t a bad course of action.

He whispered. “You seem smart. You’re capable of having a little talk, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” you said shakily. “What do you want to talk about?”

Your words were stilted and it left you feeling powerless.

“I’m interested in your special ability.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He dug his talon-like nails into the flesh of your shoulders. “I’m certain you do.”

“And what if I don’t want to talk about my special ability?”

“Trust me. You will.”

His tone was threatening. Your eyes darted around, hoping someone was showing some form of concern for you and your current situation. But not a soul seemed to care. You swallowed hard, it was like a rock had wedged itself in your throat.

“I wanna talk here. I’m not letting you drag me off somewhere.”

If you weren’t so scared, you might have laughed at your remark. Depending on his intentions you would not have minded if the beautiful stranger dragged you off into the night.

He released you from his grasp and walked ahead of you towards the corner of the room furthest from the stairs. You followed after, staring at his statuesque shoulders, muscles barely contained by his cropped black shirt made of indeterminate mesh material.

“Okay, what?” You asked, desperately trying to hide your nerves.

The man leaned against the wall. “Tell me about it.”

“Can you give me, like, a prompt? A question? Some direction? What do you want to know?” You sneered, putting your hands on your hips.

The man was growing frustrated with your attitude. You could tell and you weren’t sure if you wanted to maintain your faux bravado. Was rousing the weird man for your own sick pleasure worth potentially dying by his hand? You didn’t know what he was capable of. And it’s not as if you were having much fun.

“Why are you being so hostile? It’s unbecoming.”

You exploded. “You were following me around like a fuckin’ creep! Tell me you wouldn’t be a little on edge if you were following yourself around!”

He raised an eyebrow in amusement. “I suppose you have a point.” He stood closer to you effectively boxing you in. “Funny you mention that considering you’re capable of following yourself around.”

You backed up, bumping into the wall. The man seemed to have no concept of personal space. Though you had to admit it wasn’t completely unwelcomed. The longer you looked at him, the more you felt yourself craving his touch.

His golden blonde hair seemed to move on its own, ebbing on incomprehensible breezes. You noticed not a window was open nor was any fan blowing the hot air around the room. There was no way what you were seeing was real.

“Yeah, and?” You asked, trying to shove your racing thoughts out of your mind.

“How long have you—”

“Ever since I was a kid. Can I ask why you care?”

He brushed a few errant strands of hair from your face, his fingers were soft and the color of fresh cream.

You felt like his red eyes were staring right through you. “Go ahead.”

You smacked his hand away. “Why do you care?!”

“I already told you.”

“I don’t remember.”

“How could you not remember? I literally just told you.”

“I don’t know. You’re not very memorable,” you lied.

He narrowed his eyes and exhaled. “I said I was interested in your special ability. I could use someone like you.”

“For what? Something fucked up?” You taunted, anticipating some disgusting act. “You gonna force me into depravity?”

His annoyance was palpable, filling the room and drowning you in it.

“If that was my intention, I wouldn’t have wasted my time talking to you.”

You felt like a coyote with its paw rotting in a trap.

“Good point. M—may I ask what you need me for?” You asked, forcing a smile.

“I’d rather not discuss that here. Come with me to my suite.”

He spoke so plainly and with such confidence. He annihilated any defense mechanism you had, rendering them useless. If any other person dared to be so bold, you would have kicked them in the taint. But he was different, otherworldly even. The longer you looked at him, the more you felt compelled to stick around. You had never encountered someone so alluring, someone capable of bewitching you with ease.

“I promise I won’t hurt you,” he said.

Apparently the trepidation in your face wasn’t something you could mask.

“Nah, like… I know.”

His lips curled into a foreboding smile.

“Let’s go,” he purred, placing his hand on your back and guiding you out of the nightclub.

His hand was cold, the chill traveling through your jacket. Once outside you tried to get the attention of a cab driver with little luck. Much to your chagrin a drunkard positioned right next to you managed to hail one with a simple wave of his limp hand.

The blonde seemed to take personal offense and grabbed the man by the back of his collar and tossed him aside like he was a mere rag doll. The drunk’s limbs flailed as he was sent through the window of the nightclub. It all happened so fast and you nearly got lost in the chaos. If it weren’t for the blonde pulling you into the cab you likely would have stood there in shock, mouth agape, until the cops showed up.

“Whoa, whoa!” The frightened driver cried out. “What the actual fuck was that?”

You looked expectantly at the strange man, curious as to how he would explain away his behavior.

“Drive.”

“Wh—what? Dude! You can’t just do some shit like that and expect me to be okay with it!”

“Why not?” He laughed.

“Because it’s fucked up! You could've killed the guy,” the driver said, pointing at the bleeding body hanging halfway out the nightclub window.

“And? Was he important to you?”

“No. I don’t know him. But I don’t have to know someone to think what you pulled was rude!”

“It was more than rude,” you said matter-of-factly. “Not that I’m complaining. I’m just happy to be out of the cold.”

The blonde smirked and scooted closer to you, eschewing his seatbelt.

He redirected his attention to the terrified cab driver. “Drive or I’ll kill you.”

“Dude, can you at least tell me where?!”

The blonde clenched his fist. “... I guess.”

The drive was spent in relative silence. The nervous cab driver flapped his jaws on occasion, posing benign questions. He quickly clammed up after receiving a few glares from the strange man through the rear view mirror. Paying attention to their tension made your stomach hurt so you focused on the barren trees that lined the city streets, their leaves rotting in rusted gutters.

“I feel like fall came faster than usual,” you pondered aloud.

Neither of the men responded, too wrapped up in their own bullshit.

The barren trees ceased, soon replaced by evergreen ones unnatural to the concrete cityscape. You sighed, unsurprised by the fact your stalker was posted up in a ritzy area. However you were still wowed by the luxurious hotel and its sprawling design as the cab pulled up to the curb. The alabaster facade glimmered under the everpresent streetlights. You contemplated getting the strange man drunk and robbing him once he passed out in a haze of whiskey.

“That’ll be forty bucks,” the cab driver said, craning his neck around to look at the two of you.

Rather than pay the driver, the blonde jammed two of his slender fingers into the man’s neck and sucked the life out of him. You stared wide-eyed and mentally begged your body to move, to jump out of the car and run back to your boring date.

“Let’s go,” the blonde murmured, exiting the cab.

You stepped out and whined as the autumnal breeze chilled your bones. Despite the blonde’s apparent cruelty, he wrapped an arm around you. It didn’t do much considering his body was cold to the touch, but you appreciated that he hadn’t opted to kill you for shivering.

“Aren’t you cold?” You asked.

“Not really,” he responded, not bothering to look at you.

He led you inside the hotel and into a gilded elevator. The interior was mirrored, forcing you to confront your situation. You looked positively miniscule next to the hulking blonde. You weren’t a tiny person by any means, but the strange man was just that big.

“You never told me your name.”

“I didn’t, did I?” He said coolly.

“Yeah. It feels, um, weird not knowing it.”

“There’s a subset of people that delight in lacking that kind of information.”

You gazed up at him and grimaced. His red eyes met yours. The elevator pinged, alerting you of your arrival, and the doors slid open.

“It’s Dio.”

The suite was beautiful with floor-to-ceiling windows, giving a breathtaking view of the city. You only knew this because you peaked behind the thick, ornate curtains that shielded the room.

Everything was concealed in darkness, the only light coming from the world beyond the window through the little crack you created. Dio was quick to slink around, lighting candles, to give the suite a warmer touch.

“You got a migraine or something? A hangover?” You asked, coming out from behind the curtains.

“Sure.”

You inhaled the cloying scent of sandalwood. “Liar.”

He smirked and took a seat on a chaise-lounge, essentially draping himself over it like a fancy throw blanket. He beckoned you near. You sat on the very edge, keeping some distance.

“Do you know anything about Anubis?”

“That dog god guy?”

“In a sense.”

“Yeah, uh, I don’t know a damn thing about him.”

“Hmph. What about art theft?”

“... Again, not a damn thing.”

“Are you much of a reader?” He said, sitting up.

“Depends.”

He got up and returned with two books: Rogues in the Gallery: The Modern Plague of Art Thefts and Teach Yourself Egyptian Mythology.

He stood over you smugly. “Read these and we’ll talk once you’ve finished them.”

“You want me to read two books right now?”

He yawned and stretched his arms over his head. Your eyes lingered on his chiseled abdomen.

“You can do it,” he said, walking away. “I believe in you.”

His words did little to inspire you, especially because he punctuated them by closing the door to his bedroom. You felt shut out and vulnerable. How were you supposed to read two books come morning?

Lucky for you Dio slept through the day, giving you ample time. He traipsed out of his room as you scanned the final pages of the required reading. He was in a pair of burnt umber-colored silk shorts that left little to the imagination.

“You must have been tired,” you said as you closed the book about art theft. “This book was boring as shit, by the way.”

“I know. I didn’t even bother finishing it.”

“Then why have me read it?!”

Dio’s expression practically screamed, Because I fucking could. He smiled and resumed his place next to you on the chaise.

“Hush,” he said, holding a finger to your lips. You thought about biting it off. “I’m trying to steal a shamshir.”

“A what?”

“It’s a type of sword.”

“Should have made me read about swords then,” you muttered.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Is it like… your swor–I mean, shamshir?”

“Absolutely not, but it should be,” he said, his voice sickly sweet. “I’ve heard a great power is bound to it.”

“I see.”

“And I’d like to possess that.”

“Uh-huh.”

You were barely paying attention to his words. All you could focus on was your throbbing clit and the wet spot blooming in your underwear. Everything about him exuded sensuality. The simplest movements, things that were not inherently sexy, sent you spiraling. You wanted to please him, to crawl into his arms and melt into him. You were completely at his will and you hoped he didn’t realize that.

“And I find it to be aesthetically pleasing.”

“An aesthetically pleasing shamshir for an aesthetically pleasing man. How quaint.”

“Oh, you find me to be aesthetically pleasing?”

“Why else would I come over?”

“How naive of me to think you came because you wanted to help me.”

“I never said I wouldn’t help.”

“So you are helping me,” he seemed to command.

Dio dragged his fingertips down his chest and along his abs before slipping them underneath his shorts.

“I also never said I’d do it for free.”

“Hmph.”

Dio stared into your eyes.

“You have,” he lazily held up two of his elegant fingers, “two options. I either pay you or I fuck you.”

“What about both?”

“No. It’s one or the other.”

“Are you really that good in bed?”

He gave a coquettish pout. “I’ll never tell. You’ll just have to take a chance, won’t you?”

Money was a fleeting notion in your life, more of a concept than something tangible. You usually kept yourself afloat by living off of eager to please boyfriends and rich women that thought you had a nice ass. A steady job was out of the question; you could never allow yourself to be tied down. Nothing could beat the high of being free. It came at a price though. Your rootless life wasn’t stable and frequently left you out in the cold.

You knew taking the money was the right decision, the smart one, the good one.

But you were never one to make good decisions, sound ones doused in logic. No, you were a idiotic hedonist deep down in your black hole of a soul. You sought out ecstasy in the shadows, always looking for an opportunity to submerge yourself in murky waters of desire.

Dio interrupted your minor moral dilemma. “Usually when they take this long it’s because they want to fuck me.”

He briefly tugged down his shorts, revealing a few wisps of dark pubic hair at the base of his cock.

“There’s no need to be shy,” he said, pulling you into his lap.

He had one hand on the small of your back and the other gripping your nape. He brought his face close to yours, his gaze hungry and expectant. Your stomach was fluttering; no one had made you feel like this before. You could barely form a coherent thought, too distracted by his touch. His hand slid down your back before settling on the crest of your ass.

Your eyes were trained on his lips as he spoke. “Why don’t I give you more time to think about it, hm?”

Words tried to fight their way out of your mouth, ones that begged him to act now. But you were silent, only giving Dio a slight nod.

He abruptly stood up, causing your body to collide with the floor. Your limbs a mere jumbled heap at his feet.

“We’ll break in tonight,” he said, staring down at you. “I’ll pay you once Anubis is in my hands.”

Dio’s suite wasn’t far from the museum. It was a short walk, a few blocks at most. There was little fanfare which left you vaguely disappointed. You had hoped it’d be a bit more exciting, more sexy. In your mind robbing a museum seemed like the sexiest crime, but the experience thus far was… pedestrian.

Even your inconspicuous outfits were yawn-worthy. You thought a man with such luxe taste would have more flourish, but no. He wore black 501s with a tasteful hole in the left knee and a tight black turtleneck. A ski mask rested on the crown of his head like a beanie. You had to admit it was practical and he wore it well.

“We’re close. Pull your balaclava down.”

You quickly yanked yours down, obscuring everything but your eyes. It smelled like Dio. You borrowed one from him along with a chunky black cashmere sweater that looked more like a dress on you. You had the sleeves folded up countless times so you could actually use your hands freely.

He pulled his down and let out a little sneeze as the fabric covered his nose.

“Bless you,” you giggled.

“... Thank you.”

The two of you took shelter behind a tree and scope out the employee entrance which sat at the back of the drab building.

“Kinda unimpressive. I didn’t even know this was a place, and I was born and raised here.”

“They don’t have anything of much importance.”

“Except that funky sword you want.”

He sighed. “Yes.”

The plan was to slip in through the back of the building. You would be going in alone, but only far enough to have Anubis’s location within your stand’s range. Dio didn’t mention where he would be exactly, but you assumed he’d be skulking around the entrance and keeping watch.

As the two you broached the museum’s parking lot a wave of nausea enveloped you.

“You’re not gonna leave me out to dry, if I get caught in there… Right?”

“You won’t get caught.”

His distinct lack of an answer did little to set you at ease. Your legs were shaking as he picked the shoddy lock. It was almost comical how easy everything seemed to be. The absurdity of it all wasn’t lost on you.

Once inside the situation didn’t feel as precarious. You deployed A Deal With God, letting your double stalk around the museum.

When seeing through your stand’s eyes you were rendered somewhat immobile, or at the very least distracted and sitting down. Invoking auto-pilot was an option, but standing around and doing nothing would have done nothing for your nerves. You decided to find a corner and take a seat.

The layout of the museum was a breeze to navigate. Dio hadn’t been lying when he reassured you how simple a task robbing the place would be. There wasn’t anything cool on display. Just poorly maintained antiquities and depressingly dusty tapestries that should have been under glass. The halls were dead quiet, disturbingly so. Every step you took felt like it carried the weight of the world.

“Oh thank fuck,” you whispered when you spotted a series of swords mounted on a wall.

You fast-walked to the display only to be greeted by the distinct lack of a shamshir.

“No.”

You stepped closer and carefully eyed each sword on the wall.

“C’mon…”

None of the blades were even slightly curved. You panicked and called off your stand, your consciousness returning to your physical body. You slowly pushed the door open and looked for any sign of Dio. Surely he would know what to do.

“Did that bitch leave me?” You whispered, unnerved by zero signs of the blonde.

But then you heard a familiar voice.

“Uh, sir, the museum is closed right now. I’m going to have to ask you to vacate the premises.”

Your eyes darted in the direction of the voice. You saw your date, the one from the night before, the father of four, lover of acid house, clad in a beige security uniform.

“Hey, wait. I’ve seen you bef—”

Before he could spit out his sentence Dio punched his jaw clean off. Your throat dried up, almost like you swallowed a bunch of cotton. You could barely remember how to breathe. You weren’t the biggest fan of your date, but he didn’t deserve to die.

A small squeak fought up your throat and alerted the blonde of your presence. He turned to you, red eyes seeming to glow from the slit in his balaclava. He cocked his head to the right, before asking, “What?” with a soft tone of voice. If he hadn’t done something so ghastly seconds before it would have been cute.

“Anubis isn’t there. It’s gone.”

“Oh,” he said. “Did you check the storage?”

You hated how casual he said it, how he made it sound like such an obvious thing to do even though you hadn’t discussed it previously.

“... No.”

He shooed you away and dragged your date's body out of view.

“What the fuck,” you whined as you shut yourself back inside the museum. “What the fuck am I doing.” You couldn’t even manage to say it like a question.

You resumed sitting in your previous spot and sent out your stand. The storage room was in the depths of the building down a spiral staircase. It was rusted and the metal squealed with every step. Once down you flipped a lightswitch and hoped there wasn’t a closed-circuit camera running somewhere.

You opened various cabinets and peered under plastic tarps covering poorly maintained sculptures. You felt a jolt of electricity when you finally came across Anubis. It was beautiful in its scabbard with its gold hilt and red jewels.

You sighed in relief and decided to let A Deal With God handle the rest, again returning your consciousness to your body. You could have cried when your stand presented the shamshir to you.

“Nice,” you said, admiring it.

You stood up and took it from your stand’s hands. You knew the right thing to do was to hand it right over to Dio, but you wanted to sneak a peek at the blade unsheathed. You pulled off the scabbard and marveled at its double-edge.

“... Is it ringing?”

You held the sword close to your ear and heard a distinct hum emanating from it. It didn’t take long for it to sound like it was calling out your name. You found yourself transfixed by your reflection in the blade.

I am the god of the stand Anubis, he who is upon his mountain. Lord of the sacred land. You have unsheathed me and now you will wield me.

You rubbed your forehead. There was no way the sword was talking to you.

You are now my body. In return I will make you a master swordsman.

Becoming a master of the sword never crossed your mind, but suddenly it felt like it had been a lifelong goal.

Not a soul will be stronger than you! Use me and kill!

You felt yourself swelling with pride, with validation, with incomprehensible joy. You felt like electricity was running through your veins, like you were unstoppable. You thought of your poor date and how Dio maimed his flesh without a care.

It enraged you, his entitlement. Why did he think he deserved to wield such power? He wasn’t fit to even gaze upon Anubis. Only you were worthy enough to slaughter with its exalted blade. To bathe in the blessed blood that would weep from your victims’ wounds.

You returned Anubis to its scabbard and set out to take down Dio. You found him outside, looking up at the sky. He turned his attention towards you.

“Ah, so you found it then?” Dio said, adjusting his balaclava.

You stared at him, eyes transfixed on his neck. You couldn’t wait to swing the blade through his skin and watch his pretty little head fall to the floor unceremoniously. You unsheathed Anubis and admired its blade.

Kill him. He is nothing in comparison to you. You’ll slice through his flesh like a hot knife through a pat of butter. Slaughter him! Do it now!

You raised the blade and went to slice Dio’s head off. However in a blink of an eye it was as if you were never holding Anubis in the first place.

“Tsk, tsk,” Dio said, returning the blade to its scabbard.

“Huh?” You said, looking down at your empty hands. “Wait…”

“I should have told you to keep it in its scabbard. My apologies.”

You tried to remember what had happened, why you felt a hint of vexation, but your mind was tabula rasa. “Di—did… Was I doing something?”

He placed his hand on your shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

You were thankful Dio’s suite wasn’t far from the museum. The whole experience left you exhausted. Once inside the hotel he took it upon himself to carry you up to his suite. He laid you down on his bed, giving you permission to sleep beside him. You started to undress yourself as he reflected on the night’s events.

“I didn’t realize how formidable Anubis was at possessing people,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head.

You yawned. “Is that why I tried to kill you?”

He nodded and unzipped his jeans before kicking them off, revealing that he skipped wearing underwear.

“Damn.” You exhaled to regain composure. “Well, fuck. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize. It’s not like you would have been able to defeat me,” he teased, stroking his flaccid cock.

You looked up at him, his appearance like that of a god. He looked so handsome illuminated by candlelight.

It was true you stood no chance against him in a fight. He could crush your skull with his bare hands if he willed it. It left you a confusing mess of fear and passion. You wanted to be by his side even if it guaranteed you an early death or prison time. There was no need for self preservation so long as he remained ethereal.

He caught you staring at him and simpered. Your cheeks were hot with embarrassment. He leaned over you and left you shrinking in his shadow. He ran his thumb along your jaw, his cold touch a welcome sensation.

“You’re so cute.”

He rubbed your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb before forcing it into your mouth.

“Suck.”

You rolled your tongue along the underside of his thumb.

“Good girl,” he cooed while stroking his cock.

It was girthy and of considerable length. The skin was smooth and pale, almost as if it was made of porcelain. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, completely overwhelmed by its presence.

He pulled his thumb from your mouth and got on top of you. He rubbed your clit through your underwear. The muscles in your thighs contracted. A small whine fell from your lips. You could feel his erection brushing up against your body. His dominance lorded over you, engulfing you and holding you hostage. He pushed your underwear to the side and slid two fingers inside you. He curled them, pressing up against the walls of your cunt.

Dio pressed his lips against your ear and purred, “It’s like you were always meant to be beneath me.”

You laughed nervously. “I guess.”

He let out a pleased hum and kissed your neck.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” he said as he sat up.

Dio licked his fingers clean before pulling off your underwear. He stared down at your aching cunt with pity. He lowered himself and positioned his face in between your legs. With a single swipe of his tongue you were utterly mesmerized. He gave your clit slow licks with a soft tongue. You felt like your heart was pounding against your chest.

You watched as he arched his back while he ran his tongue between your folds. His ass was magnificent.

You threaded your fingers through his blonde hair and rubbed his head, letting your hand rest on the base of his skull.

“Feels good,” you babbled.

He looked up at you, gaze radiating warmth. It was the first time he’d ever granted you such softness. It quelled your anxiety and you were able to let yourself relax, something you had not done since Dio came into your life.

You felt weightless, like you were floating above the clouds. The pleasure was insurmountable as he sucked on your clit, lapping up the sweetness of your arousal. He began to rut against the bed, driving his cock into the mattress. He moaned, his vocalizations vibrating against your cunt.

“Fuck,” you whimpered as he flicked the tip of his tongue against your throbbing clit.

Dio chuckled before giving your clit a kiss. He got back on top of you and grabbed ahold of your chin, forcing you to look him dead in the eye.

He smirked and asked, “Do you think you’re ready for me?”

“Yes,” you said in a rather pathetic tone of voice.

You were desperate and there was no hiding it.

He sank his cock down into your cunt. You wrapped your arms around him and held onto his upper back as he began to thrust. You could hardly catch your breath as he drove his cock deeper inside. Gone was the brief bout of tenderness, it was as if he couldn’t stop himself once his pleasure came into the picture.

“Ah—i—it’s too much,” you said, eyebrows knitted together.

“You can take it,” he grunted.

You clenched your jaw and tried to breath through the pain. It wasn’t that you didn’t like it, you just weren’t expecting it. No one had ever been so rough with you before. Most of your partners treated you like you were made of thin glass, but Dio manhandled you like you were made of diamonds.

He pulled down your bra revealing your breasts. He grabbed a hold of one, pinching your nipple between his fingers.

“Dio!”

He shushed you and began to suck on your neck, grazing it with his inhumanely sharp teeth. You yelped and all he did was chuckle. He started to fuck you harder, groaning as he bottomed out. You locked your legs around him, holding onto him like your life depended on it. You dug your nails into his back as his thrusts became more urgent. You gazed up at him, falling apart at the seams. He stared at you, almost as if he was plotting something.

Dio groaned. “Hold on,” he said, pulling his cock out of you.

He reached for something under the bed. You couldn’t imagine what he was searching for. Maybe a vibrator. Maybe a last minute condom. You really didn’t care. You were so close to coming all you wanted was him to be fucking your limp body into the mattress.

You were shocked when he pulled out a dagger. His eyes held a devilish gleam. You swallowed hard, trying to come to terms with your impending demise. You must have looked terrified because Dio started explaining himself.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I’m going to cut you.”

“Th—that sounds like it’ll hurt.”

He slid his cock back inside you. “You won’t feel a thing, my pet. It’ll be quick. I just need you to bleed for me.”

You nodded and focused on the sensation of his cock kissing your cervix. He bit down on the inside of his bottom lip and slashed you across the chest with the knife, leaving behind a superficial cut. Warm blood beaded out from the thin cut, sitting on your chest like tiny jewels. He let the knife drop to the floor.

Dio lapped up the blood flowing from the cut, moaning as he savored the taste. He was right. You felt no pain. It wasn’t anything close to that. It was ecstasy; you couldn’t register it as anything but delight.

You held his head close to your body as he continued to drive his cock into your glistening cunt. You felt like every cell in your body was singing, screaming out in euphoria. Your breathing grew laborious, and you caught yourself almost laughing as you ascended further and further into the heavens.

When you finally came you couldn’t help but think every moment in your life led up to this very one, that this pleasure, this rapture, was the end of it all. Nothing would top this, no one would ever make you feel this incredible again.

Dio gave your wound one last lick. “You’re mine now, you realize that don’t you?”

He tossed his head back as he filled your cunt with his cum. He collapsed on top of you and buried his face into the crook of your neck.

“You’re coming with me to Cairo. You’ll be of great use to me there.”

“What will I get out of it?”

“Me,” he replied proudly. “All you’ll ever need is me.”

Egypt didn’t sound so bad. You didn’t have any friends or family around. Nothing tied you to this place; you couldn’t even think of a single reason why you stuck around so long. You would have been lost without Dio. You never would have realized your power. Through his greatness you saw your own.

“All I’ll ever need is you,” you quietly repeated to yourself.

#dio brando x reader #dio x reader #jjba x reader #jjba smut #jojo's bizarre adventure smut #dio brando smut #dio smut #x reader #reader insert #.fics #.jjba #.dio

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affectionatelyrs · 4 months

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WIP Wednesday

FRIENDS! HAPPY WEDNESDAY! I've been... not very active on here lately. I won't divulge my life troubles to y'all but I miss all of you greatly but I'm back (I think) and better than ever (that might be a lie) to give y'all some content from a fic that I've been PLANNING SINCE SEPTEMBER. It's been languishing as an outline for a while and I finally don't have any excuses to not write it... so here we are

Thank you to @anincompletelist @inexplicablymine @firenati0n @wordsofhoneydew @ships-to-sail @kiwiana-writes @hgejfmw-hgejhsf and @getmehighonmagic for the tags today! :)

SO WITH THAT BEING SAID... here's a snippet from what I'm for now calling Walk and Talk! :) It's a college AU wherein there's minimal plot just vibes but also not uhhhh Alex and Henry walking out of class together every day and getting to know each other through it all but also Alex is like the literal fucking sun absolute sunshine boy and Henry is so gone it’s not funny (I quite honestly don't know how else to explain this except I consider it to be written in an IRL epistolary style maybe idk stop asking me questions I'm just a girl)

Henry watches the boy maneuver his way through the seats with rapt attention, even after everyone has turned their own back toward the projector screen, which confuses Henry to no end. This boy is much more interesting to watch. Much more beautiful, too—Christ. And then, inexplicably, he plops down into the seat right next to Henry’s, despite there being over a dozen other open ones that wouldn’t require anyone’s personal space to be invaded. Not that Henry particularly minds this, though. He tries to pretend that he isn’t overtly staring by acting as though he is taking very intense, very important notes when he realizes that he doesn’t actually have a pen out, and that his hands are merely hovering over the table while he gazes intensely at a starkly, obviously blank piece of paper. Henry blinks once, twice, before hearing a quiet huff of laughter from beside him. Then, there’s a hot pink pen being slid between his fingers, and Henry has to use his higher-brain powers to make sure he holds onto it, lest it go rolling across the floor and straight into jegging-girl’s coffee spill. Before Henry can get out any words of gratitude, the boy winks at him, whispers, “Don’t worry ‘bout it, babe,” and then immediately, emphatically shoots his hand up to answer one of the professor’s questions. He does a small, triumphant nod upon getting it right, leaving Henry to wonder when he had any time to pay attention to the material to make such an accomplishment possible.

OPEN TAG but also tagging some lovely people under the cut

@happiness-of-the-pursuit @welcometololaland @whimsymanaged @everwitch-magiks @read-and-write- @rmd-writes @anchoredarchangel @three-drink-amy @tintagel-or-cockleshells @indomitable-love @orchidscript @dumbpeachjuice @daisymae-12 @gayrootvegetable @leojfitz @leaves-of-laurelin @littlemisskittentoes @lizzie-bennetdarcy @cultofsappho @cricketnationrise @nocoastposts @myheartalivewrites @matherines @cha-melodius and @onward--upward

#wip wednesday #affectionately writes #rwrb #red white and royal blue #rwrb fic #rwrb fanfic #firstprince #first prince #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #alex and henry #rwrb fandom

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archie-sunshine · 5 months

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Survey Says-!(18+ RODIMUS/EVERYONE)

Chapter 1.5: THE FORBIDDEN NON CANON DRIFTROD CHAPTER (Rodimus/Drift)

Rodimus is NOT bitter about the results of the crew satisfaction survey, in fact, he’s fully prepared to change! He’s determined to change his crew’s minds, and what better way to do so than to get to know them- in the carnal sense that is.

There are no problems with this plan in Rodimus’s mind. There are many in Ultra Magnus’s. Magnus engages in some unfortunate(for Rodimus) damage control as head of Cybertronian Resources. Rodimus is not easily deterred.

Read on AO3 Here! Other chapters here!

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FIC TAGS: Rodimus/Everyone(But y’know, not like. EVERYONE. Just a lot of various background characters and also more specifically with some others), Takes place post dark cybertron, but pre the whole ship disappearing thing and the mutiny, smut, Chastity, denial, Rodimus is a slut, Ongoing humiliation, HR Violations as comedy, Ultra Magnus is clueless, sticky sexual interfacing, comedy, sexual comedy, dubious consent (if you squint and tilt your head), contains illustrations

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Authors notes: THIS! CHAPTER! IS! NOT! CANON! I wrote this bc im in driftrod brainrot, and bc i had a really funny idea for it. This takes place directly one day after the first chapter, in an au where most things are the same but drift doesn't get kicked off the lost light

CHAPTER TAGS: Rodimus/Drift, knifeplay(??? does it count if accidental), desk/office sex, possessive sex, rodimus is an oblivious switch and assumes drift is a bottom, drift is a top, getting caught

Rodimus wouldn’t say he was seething. Of course he wouldn’t! Because he would never admit to anyone that absolutely anything Ultra Magnus had done was getting to him.

Well. Almost no one.

Rodimus released the knife he’d been using to gouge images of Ultra Magnus exploding into his desk, letting it clatter to the tabletop as he leaned back and groaned in frustration. It had only been a cycle since the beginning of his punishment, but Rodimus was NOT having it. He had to keep up his meetings, it was the best idea he’d had in decacycles and he wasn’t about to throw away all his good work just because Ultra Magnus hated fun.

There was an itch in the back of his processor. It wasn’t even that he was cycled up or aroused in any way, it was just the fact that he couldn’t even if he wanted to that made him… skittish. Skittish was the right word. Rodimus offlined his optics and wracked his mind to think of who might maybe, possibly be cool enough to keep quiet to Ultra Magnus about helping him with his situation.

Who was he kidding, it was obviously going to be Drift.

Rodimus was lounging impatiently in his chair. He had pinged Drift ages ago, what was taking him so- Ah.

Rodimus winced at the sound of tires squealing against floor tile and indignant shouting, gathering himself up out of his languishing to lean nervously over his desk towards the approaching sound. His office door slid open, and there Drift stood, chassis heaving with the apparent exertion of speeding through the halls, a sword already in hand.

“What’s the- *hah* What’s the situation?” Drift wheezed, glancing around the room and awkwardly shifting out of his stance when he realized the two of them were alone.

Rodimus made a mental note not to send Drift messages like ‘Need you now. My office. Help.’ again. “...Heyyyyyy, buddy-” Rodimus started, trying for a casual smile.

Drift sheathed his sword, his nervous look melting into affectionate exasperation. “... It’s about the magnetizer, isn't it.”

“YES! Fine, primus, yes it's about the magnetizer.” Rodimus huffed, throwing himself back in his chair and letting his legs fall open as Drift casually locked the door and approached the desk. His amica rounded the desk and leaned on it, pensively stroking his chin as he looked down at the magnetizer attached to him.

Rodimus glanced away, disregarding how the other mech’s contemplative look made his tanks twist. He swatted away the imagery of Drift being his knight in shining plating, come to relieve him from his terrible prison, reminding himself that this was, in fact, humiliating and stupid. Thanks again Magnus. Rodimus’ finial twitched a bit under Drift’s gaze. He cleared his vocalizer meaningfully.

“Hm?” Drift blinked, seemingly pulled from his own thoughts. “What?”

“Wh- Do you think you can get it off? Do I need to ask? I assumed it was pretty fragging obvious what I want?!” Rodimus squinted at his amica incredulously.

“Oh!!” Drift shook his helm, before quickly correcting himself and nodding. “Y-yeah! Sure, I’ll give it a try!”

Drift had caught Rodimus in some pretty unflattering scrapes before. It came with the territory: Rodimus was often suicidally impulsive and unflappably self confident. When the crew satisfaction survey had come around, Drift had known it could mean only the worst for his amica, though he’d never admit that to his face. He’d hoped that Rodimus would take it well, and outwardly he certainly did! He’d been proud of him for that.

… And then Rodimus had shown up in Drift’s habsuite with a mostly empty bottle of high grade dangling from his digits and his optics full of tears. It was impossible to say the right thing that night. How could he say no to anything with his amica weeping in his arms like that? He’d thought he’d just been babbling, so he’d nodded and listened, laughed and told him what a good idea it was to frag his way through the whole crew to change their minds.

If anything, Drift was responsible for not stopping this from happening. In his eyes at least.

“AND! UGH!! He goes- ‘I’ve heard you interfacing in two supply closets’- OKAY first of all, creep, peeping tom, that’s gotta be some mark on his record too, right?” Rodimus ranted.

Drift had to admit Rodimus’ ability to bitch in the stupidest positions was in some ways admirable. It was at least amusing. “Uhuh, yeah.” Drift chuckled, gnawing at his lower derma as he worked one of his ankle blades under one of the support bars on the magnetizer.

“Right!? And he says- oh you’ll hate this- he says he saw the transfluid trail that I left after I fragged around with Powerflash-” Rodimus sat up a bit, jostling his panels just a bit too close to the point of the extra knife Drift was handling. Drift’s fuelpump nearly stopped, and he turned his free servo to pinch Rodimus’ thigh plating. “OW!”

“Stop. Moving. I’m gonna cut something off and you’re never gonna forgive me.” Drift whispered, leaning his elbow bodily onto Rodimus’ thigh and beginning to work at the latch at the top of the device. He refused to let himself be distracted by the way Rodimus’ thighs twitched every time he brought one of his knives down towards his panels, nor did he react to the way the panels in question were beginning to heat up.

“Well couldn’t you have used- I don’t know- TOOLS? Instead of KNIVES?” Rodimus hissed petulantly.

“Couldn’t you have elaborated on what you needed more than ‘HELP’?” Drift whispered back calmly, not bothering to look at Rodimus’ likely aghast face. He could feel it in his field anyway, and he didn’t need to be distracted by his endearingly upset expressions. He slid the fine edge of the dagger under the latch of the magnetizer carefully, stalled by Rodimus’ quickening venting making his frame quiver.

“Pff…. Pfft…. Yeah. Probably.” Rodimus admitted finally, a tiny bit of shakiness in his voice. “Uh- is there uh-” He cleared his vocalizer.

“You’re shaking, Roddy-” Drift observed.

“NO- I’m not even- Shut up-” Rodimus blurted out.

“Try to hold still okay?” He brought a soothing servo up to rub gently over his belly. He ignored Rodimus’ vents hitching, ignored the heat of his frame, ignored the strangled little whine Rodimus let out when Drift nudged the knife a little further under the latch. It didn’t give. Drift frowned. “I’m gonna give it- Okay, hold your vents I’m going to do something and theres gonna be sudden movements-”

“Drift- Sudden movements and my junk do not go together!!” Rodimus whimpered out. The strain in Rodimus’ voice made Drift’s spark wriggle in concern… and, to a lesser degree… No, nothing else, just concern. Drift cleared his processor. He could feel guilty about any of his thoughts later, Rodimus needed help.

“Okay- well- I think I need more leverage anyway.” Drift sighed, carefully sliding the pocket knife out from under the latch and standing up from the chair he’d been sitting in.

“Leverage-?” Rodimus began to ask, cut off as Drift swiftly straddled Rodimus’ waist where he laid on the desk, leaning down over Rodimus’ panels and deftly grasping the handle of the knife Rodimus had been using to carve drawings into the table. “Oh- Okay- alright, cool, don’t warn me before you do stuff, it's fine.”

Drift ignored him and began to work the blade under the latch. It slipped a few times, bumping into the edge of one of the support bars and leaving a superficial scratch in the paint above Rodimus’ panels. Rodimus reacted with a hiss as if he’d really been stabbed. “A-ah- careful!!”

“I’m being careful!! You could do with sharpening your knife more, it doesn’t slip if it's sharp.” Drift scolded.

“Oh so I’m the aft for not sharpening my drawing knife?” Rodimus sniped.

“I think you’re the aft for not just using a stylus and datapad.” Drift teased, catching the edge of the latch and carefully wiggling the blade back underneath. The desk knife’s length gave better leverage for the task at hand, but it was still a struggle to pry it up. The modesty panel’s plating was delicate and thin, the knife he was holding could easily pierce it. Drift bit his derma, worrying it between his dentas as he carefully angled his elbow and began to pry.

“...aaaaAaahh- h-hey- careful-!” Rodimus whined out again, his legs tensing up but his abdomen remaining perfectly still. Drift appreciated the effort it took for him to keep still, he had to admit he would be the same were there a knife pointed at his array. Drift slowly brought his free servo up over Rodimus’ hip, using his thumb to help shimmy the knife a little deeper under the latch. Had Rodimus always been such a whiner? Drift readjusted himself, wriggling his hips and settling into a more comfortable position. “A-ahah-” Rodimus gasped out.

“Be shoosh, I’m getting there…” Drift cooed out absently. He was focused on more important things than Rodimus’ childish whimpering, like not cutting his panels off, or making sure that Rodimus couldn’t feel the warmth gathering in his panels. He refused to stop making those… stupid… distracting noises. It was making things harder than they should have been and Drift’s internal dialogue was getting mean, they had to get this over with.

Drift adjusted himself again, sliding his knee joints back until they were almost under Rodimus’ armpits and leaning over to get closer. He could feel more of Rodimus’ heat this way, which was, of course, secondary to him being close enough to properly pry the magnetizer’s latch up with Rodimus’ desk knife.

“D-Drift-” Rodimus breathed out, barely loud enough for Drift to hear. He laid his servos hesitantly against the other bot’s thighs.

“I’m almost there, Roddy.” Drift answered without letting him finish. He felt the knife’s tip make contact with something. Bingo! He jammed his thumb between the flat of the blade and Rodimus’ plating.

“W-wait- Maybe-!” Rodimus yelped out, cut off as Drift pushed down hard on the handle and the magnetizer popped off with a ZAP!

“Wahey-!!” Drift cheered. Several of the smaller knives still bracing the bars of the magnetizer tumbled down onto the floor, along with the magnetizer itself, which bounced away before coming to a stop against the wall. Drift shuffled forwards a bit on his knees as he sat up and looked over his shoulder “That wasn’t bad, now was it you big-”

Snkt-!

Drift froze. Rodimus stared up at him, pinkfaced with energon in flushed embarrassment. Drift glanced around, coming face to face with exactly what he expected. Rodimus’ modesty panels had popped open the second they were freed. He wasn’t exactly doused but he was certainly dewy, his protoform half plump and spike housing open.

“... ‘m sorry-” Rodimus started, voice strangled with shame.

Drift’s intake felt dry. “... Are you that pent up after one day?” He mumbled.

“... I keep it pretty regular, man, I dunno-” Rodimus mumbled bashfully. Drift chuckled, running his servo fondly over Rodimus’ thigh as he tucked the desk knife into one of his drawers. By the time he leaned back, Rodimus was making a pained noise as his spike began to pressurize.

“... Well how about we move our one on one up, huh?” Drift purred coquettishly, cringing internally at his stupid joke. Rodimus huffed out a laugh.

“I suppose I could clear my schedule.” Rodimus answered, stroking his servos down over Drift’s thigh plating, meeting to grasp possessively at the protoform by his hips and modesty panels. Drift sighed, his optics flickering offline. He savoured the feeling. Rodimus’ hands were always warm and wanting, eagerly waiting for Drift’s go ahead. The waiting was new… and not unwelcome.

“So… You said that when you’re doing these one on ones…” Drift began, drawing his servos up to Rodimus’ open array. He felt the other mech’s chassis quiver. “... its whatever the other mech wants, eh?”

Rodimus steadied his vocalizer for a second, rubbing Drift’s hips gently. “You got it! Because I’m incredibly gracious and selfless like that.”

Drift hesitated for a moment. There was a heat in his tanks forming, the kind he pushed down whenever the two of them fooled around. He knew what Rodimus liked, he liked it too… but… Drift drew two digits gently through the lips of Rodimus’ valve. The implication was enough.

Rodimus’ voice was strained, words coming out in a breathless whimper. “Y-yeah- We- uh.. We can do that!”

Drift grinned, laying a grateful kiss against Rodimus’ spike. “Thanks, Roddy.” He dismounted his amica with a flourish, hitting the floor between his thighs and giving a proud little grin. “I can already feel my approval rating going up.”

Rodimus scoffed out a laugh. “As if it could get any higher, you can’t get enough of me.”

Drift chuckled warmly, leaning forwards and wrapping his digits around Rodimus’ spike. “Guilty.” He sighed, drinking in the gentle part of Rodimus’ dermas and the dimming of his optics. He brought his free servo up off Rodimus’ thigh to his valve, rolling the pad of his thumb over his node tenderly. The shiver Rodimus gave at the gesture made him salivate.

Focus.

Drift released Rodimus’ spike and leaned back. His own panels slid back easily, his spike pressurizing out to push against the plush mesh of Rodimus’ valve. He took hold of the base of his spike, bracing his free servo against the desk and teasing the tip of his spike between his lips. Rodimus moaned lowly, propping himself up on his elbows to watch Drift’s servos work, his face still flushed.

Drift swallowed dryly, keeping his vents under control. Rodimus’ fans were already flipped on, a steady breeze of framewarmed air filling the room. Drift’s tip met with the first calipers of Rodimus’ valve, his optics flickering off and dermas parting as he began to press further in.

“A-ah- Drift?” Rodimus breathed. Drift shivered at his tone, light and breathless, as if he were only half there.

“What is it?” Drift asked, digging his digits into the desk to keep himself in control. He could already tell Rodimus was so soft and tight, even just the first calipers and his outer mesh pressing against his tip made him feel breathless with need.

“... You do like when I spike you right?” Rodimus mumbled bashfully. Drift’s optics came back online, locking with his amica’s. Suddenly keeping his breath felt pretty easy.

“... Roddy…” Drift chided, beginning to draw his hips back. He was stopped as Rodimus’ legs came around to squeeze his waist.

“I-I just didn’t expect you to- uh- y’know- want this sort of thing-” Rodimus averted his gaze. Drift blinked, squinting at his faceplate. He… He didn’t really assume that the first time they’d fragged- When Drift had let him- and he thought-

“... Roddy, did you assume that because-” Drift stammered for a moment. “You- because I bottomed that I-”

Rodimus faced him again, looking equally confused. “You’re not a bottom?”

Drift searched for any amount of sarcasm in his field and came up dry. He distantly felt his optic twitch. He twisted his faceplate into what he hoped didn’t look like a forced smile. “Nope!” He gritted out. His servo came away from his spike and gripped into Rodimus’ thigh tightly.

He took no malicious pleasure in driving his spike into Rodimus’ valve as hard as he could. The pleasure he took was all entirely arousal as the pompous, idiotic- ahem- wonderfully talented and handsome mech below him dropped his intake open and let out a punched out cry. It was just as tight as he’d thought, soft with silicone and warmed protoform, each caliper perfectly calibrated, each node grinding and sparking with charge against those in his spike. Drift hoped his moan didn’t sound like a snarl, but from the bewilderment in Rodimus’ expression, it likely came out more feral than he’d meant.

It was getting much too hard to care about what he meant as he dug his hands tight into the protoform around Rodimus’ hips and began to thrust. There were a thousand things he wanted to say about the gathering coolant on Rodimus’ golden chassis, about the twitch of the pistons in his spread thighs, about the curl of his dermas as he moaned out in pleasure. He said, “You s-should get to know me better~” Instead, and leaned his frame to curl over his amica’s possessively. He had no untoward feelings surrounding Rodimus’ plans save for the regret that he had caused it, but in that moment as he hunched over him, he couldn’t help but feel feral in his jealousy.

His hips pistoned away, the loud clank of their frames meeting filling the room. Rodimus shakily grabbed at Drift’s finial and drew him into an openmouthed kiss. It was searing, their overheated frames exchanging steam as their glossas mingled. Drift wormed a hand between their bodies, taking hold of Rodimus’ spike and beginning to stroke. He greedily swallowed the mewling groan Rodimus let out into his intake. He swiped his thumb against the tip and massaged the protoform with his digits, cruelly teasing the oversensitive mesh. Drift couldn’t help it. He felt buzzed on the noises Rodimus was making alone. Every whimper and keen set Drift’s plating ablaze. Long pushed down urges bubbled to the surface, urges to tease, bully, ruin. Drift’s engine rumbled low with want.

Rodimus pulled back with a gasp, a string of drool connecting their dermas for a moment. “P-primus, you’re- ah- e-eager- huhh?”

Drift leaned in, nipping as gently as he could manage at Rodimus’ neck cabling. “Says the one who’s spike popped out in my face the second the magnetizer was off.” He purred, mouthing up his cheek kibble to run his glossa along Rodimus’ audial. Rodimus shied away from the touch with an annoyed hiss. Drift snickered. He always hated when Drift did that. He snapped his hips forwards, his tip jabbing hard against Rodimus’ ceiling node.

Rodimus groaned out, his helm tipping back and exposing his throat. Drift swallowed the drool accumulating in his intake and grabbed hold of Rodimus’ legs, bending them forwards towards his chassis. “A-ah- nnh- Drift-” Rodimus complained.

Drift adjusted his calves over his shoulders and pressed in. The noise Rodimus made sent arcs of charge down Drift’s spinal strut. The look on his face was immaculate, brows knit together in mild discomfort only outweighed by the desire and need in his field washing over Drift in waves. His mouth lolled open, unable to close as he moaned out in enjoyment. A bead of oral solvent ran down his jaw just so.

Oh Drift was going to be a monster about this.

His amica’s legs hiked up and his valve cycling and warm with need, Drift began to thrust again in earnest. He felt greedy, mouthing along Rodimus’ exposed neck and groping at his slender waist as he got his fill. He fragged like it was the last time he’d be able to, fans blasting and engine growling.

Primus, why didn’t he do this sooner? He brought one hand down between them, skipping past Rodimus’ spike and thumbing at his round, blinking little node. Rodimus howled, digits digging into the table, thighs squeezing even tighter around Drift’s waist.

He needed this warmth, this tightness. Drift’s optics blazed with uncharacteristic possessiveness. He dragged Rodimus down into each thrust, their hips meeting with a clank and an ever loudening smack as their soft arrays made contact. He leaned over him, itching to tell him how soft and wet he was, how good he looked splayed out for him, how much he knew Rodimus was a desperate little spikeslut.

“F-frag, Roddy, Y-you’re so amazing-” He babbled out instead. Rodimus arched his back and whined as if he’d been burned. His valve cycled down tight against Drift’s spike, eliciting a breathless groan. He could feel his edge fast approaching. He dimly wondered how long he’d be able to keep Rodimus for. Long enough for a second or third round he hoped.

“O-Oh s-slag- Drift I’m-” Rodimus whimpered out. Drift’s finial twitched, surveying the perfect spot on Rodimus’ neck to sink his dentas into.

He was beginning to lean down to make his move when he heard the distant beep of an override key being used.

The light of the hallway spilled across the scene. Or- at least the light of the hallway that could eke past the imposing form of Ultra Magnus did.

Drift froze. Rodimus, craning his neck to look, also froze. Ultra Magnus sighed disappointedly.

“... Well on the bright side-” Drift said, hoping to break the silence as they walked stiltedly along the hull of the ship, boltgun in hand.

“What the frag is the bright side here, Drift, go on, slaggin enlighten me.” Rodimus bit back. Stupid magnus, stupid universal override key… STUPID DRIFT! Rodimus apologized to the internal hypothetical Drift in his brain, then verbally, to the actual Drift that he’d taken a tone with. “Sorry.”

Drift chuckled, kneeling down next to Rodimus and bolting the patch of plating into place. “The bright side is, now you don’t stick out so much.” He joked, leaning back and motioning at the matching yellow magnetizer now attached to his modesty panels.

Rodimus rolled his optics and went back to bolting.

He’d have to ask Drift when it was all over how he made emergency warning yellow look cute.

#transformers #my art #valveplug #my fic #driftrod #survey says #drift #rodimus #mtmte #/nsfw #maccadam

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ruumirmir · 4 months

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𝘈 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘗𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦'𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘛𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴

Part I Part II

ੈ♡˳ Author's◇ note - Haha what if I pretended my shamelessly OCfied male reader was a character :))) Here's to me doing everything possible to build up my "reader" lore. Everything except actually drawing and naming him 😭 If you're curious about previous posts regarding my mans, you could skim over These!! Me when writing this: im gonna make up SO MUCH BULLSHIT about snezhnaya and the other harbingers.

𝘝𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 : ENG - Stephen Fu (Noe Archiviste from Vanitas no Carte) JP - Kento Ito (Dan Heng from Honkai Star Rail)

𝘉𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 : October 19 (Libra)

𝘈𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 : Northland Bank of the Fatui

𝘝𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 : Hydro

𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 : Cygnus Venatici (The Hunting Swan)

A senior branch manager of Snezhnaya’s Northland bank. As a fatuus, he is formally well-known as the Venator Dux, who mans the Snezhnayan Order of Gold and Exchange founded by the Ninth Harbinger. He hunts in pursuit of the Tsar's vision, but his loyalties are far removed from her.

𝘝𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦-𝘖𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴

𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰 Ah, the renowned traveller, in the flesh. A visitor to each of the seven nations, while your reputation has run across the continent twice over. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. If you've heard of the Snezhnayan Order of Gold and Exchange, that'd be me who's in charge of it. I am one of the agents within Lord Regrator's primary circle of officials, so you may address me as Venator dux.

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘵: 𝘐𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 I've been in my respective position for over a decade now, and for the last four years, have come across choice tales surrounding your name. A big fan of your work, really! Lord Regrator has had his interest piqued for a while now... so for the sake of civilized peace and alliance, let's get along... shall we? Try not to cause any trouble and I might consider putting in a good word for you.

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘵: 𝘋𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘉𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘬𝘴 A large bulk of my work is centered around days of scrawling pen over paper... but really, one can only digest hefty documents for so long. I've had my fill for many years on end-... now, I'd prefer to partake in more physical tasks.

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘵: 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 I fear the new batch of rookies are growing too lax in their combat training… perhaps it was my uninspiring teaching method today. As a Venator, it simply won’t do to disappoint them. Traveller, would you help a man out and join the session today? The trainees could do with a fresh perspective on things.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐𝘵 𝘙𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴

No shelter to be seen... here's to praying that you don't catch a cold. Oh don't worry about me, I seldom get sick.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘛𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴 I've always wondered how the real clap of thunder would feel in comparison to a shock of electro. Unless you want to volunteer for that, watch your step.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐𝘵 𝘚𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 Eh... I've seen it once, I've seen it a thousand times. That being said, the nights that are covered in an impossibly slow curtain of snowfall are some of the rarer times I stop to admire it.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘶𝘯 𝘐𝘴 𝘖𝘶𝘵 Finally. Some real warmth to my face. I am but a simple man, languishing like a wilted flower in the absence of our sun's blazing gaze.

𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵 Actually... I think I might just prefer the miserable winter cold over this.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘐𝘴 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 What's with the aggressive breeze today? Does the Anemo archon have bills to pay?

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 Good morning. I was about to stop by the city lake on my way to the bank and feed the local geese. You can come along if you'd like. Keep your distance from Tatiana though. She bites.

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘰𝘯 On a slow lazy day, I'd be waking up around noon. Fortunately, the weekend is right around the corner, so I can do just that.

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 Although the Northland "bank" closes to the public by evening, the building itself stays open till midnight for other classified affairs. So I may as well make the most of my break time before I'm needed again.

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 Oh, I must've lost track of time. It's quite late into the night, so before I go, let me walk you back to whatever establishment you're staying at... Oh, uh- I'm... not sure I heard you correctly. You said you live... inside... a teapot...?

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘚𝘯𝘦𝘻𝘩𝘯𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘯 𝘖𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘎𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘌𝘹𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 It was the very first decree of order at the hands of Lord Regrator when he came into power as a Harbinger many years ago; to inaugurate a faction dedicated to rearing the potential he painstakingly carved into the foundations of the Northland bank. It is just as the name implies. An executive body responsible for developing economic policies and providing regulation, consulting, and forecasting of socioeconomic and business development, ranging from simple roadside shops to production factories-Oh, have I lost you? Haha... don't apologize, I've seen that expression a couple times before. In simple terms: we help run the nation's cycle of mora, trade system, and citizen’s businesses.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘶𝘯𝘵 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 4] The title bestowed upon me, Venator Dux, signifies not just leadership but mastery over a successful hunt- or in some cases, a successful business strategy. The master hunter requires a discerning eye, a mind that can decipher the intricate patterns woven by our adversaries. Information is our ammunition, and knowledge is the silent arrow that strikes before the prey even realizes the hunt has begun.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘜𝘴: 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘈𝘳𝘵𝘴 Various forms of dance and song are the lifeblood of Snezhnaya’s festivals. During fall, you’ll find multiple dance troupes and clowns passing each village, town, and city to perform. I personally look forward to the dancers.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘜𝘴: 𝘓𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘺 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 6] Your little companion has stuck with you since day one? Truly? That is… a highly admirable trait, one that I will always stand by. Loyalty is not a mere pledge, it anticipates the unspoken desires of another; a commitment that transcends the superficial bonds of allegiance. I keep this ideal close to my heart... for only a single person.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 I was hesitant to use a delusion in the first place, so frankly, I’m glad to have been gifted this for whatever reason I was found worthy of. However… Lord Regrator harbours an uncanny dislike for my vision. It’s not something that has been brought up, but I can read between the lines.

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦 You didn’t hear it from me, but I encourage the employees at the bank to keep a list of all the infuriating and rude customers. It’s to spice up all the sparring and combat practice sessions by naming and dressing up the dummies as people they’d like to kick- Ha!

𝘐𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 This wintry climate is harsh and unsustainable for various flora and fauna. The Charmomila flower doesn’t care about any of that. They’ll grow in obnoxious places if they want to. The real deal comes from the summer butterflies that feast on its nectar. After a while their wings turn a beautiful honey-yellow, which are harvested and brewed into the sweetest and most expensive nonalcoholic beverage you’ll find around here. I enjoy a glass of one semi-regularly on work mornings.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘈𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘦 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 6] He will have my sincere respect, always. Lord Regrator has built his empire up from a scratch in the dirt, something impossible to do were he a lesser man. His sacrifices of blood, sweat, and tears has bled into the policies that the bank stands on today. Money breeds imbalance and power, which in turn grants freedom and recognition if you are on the right side of the coin. Regrator is a utilizing man and he guards what’s his, zealously. He will take and take until his arms sag with the weight, and uphold his promise to give out the correct equivalents because he lets his value of fair exchange lead him like a vice. For as long as he stays true to his greed, I will be the hand that reaches forward to grasp what he desires.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘋𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘶𝘮 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 6] Lord Regrator expects a strict level of decorousness from everyone working under his name- from me to even the most forgotten grunts. It's nothing outrageous of course. You would only ever see the metaphorical boot-licking than a literal one. I find it a bit much sometimes but the public eye is nothing to scoff at. Especially to a man of his status. The Snezhnayan dvoryane make up more than a third of the Northland Bank's clientele- not to mention the stakes a couple of them have invested. And if there is anything that those feather-headed fools care about, it's posh theatrics. *Sigh* Still... I quite enjoy falling in step with Pantalone's politesse. He has a beautiful manner of speech that I've never been able to measure up to.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘎𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 6] …Why do I feel like you’re trying to fish for critical information...? Fine- I'll concede. It's your head on the line anyways. Lord Regrator is a big player in the system of underground businesses that connect Nathan and Snezhnaya. Technically it could be called a black market, but it’s mainly run by a small council of social elites from both nations. There are occasional hosted auctions, that my lord targets to buy out priceless artifacts from. I’m talking about lost pieces of history and endangered caged beasts over items with resell value. Now… with that being said, as long as this secret remains safe… so do you. It’s always me who’s dispatched to make sure it stays that way.

#➳❥ Ooh Lover Boy #pantalone #genshin #genshin impact #fatui #fatui harbingers #pantalone genshin #genshin impact headcanons #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #pantalone x reader #pantalone x male reader #genshin impact fatui #➳❥ Rumour writes #➳❥ rumour says #genshin imagines

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halfmoth-halfman · 1 year

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may i interest you in some more fic recs????😉

the second half of my may fic rec list!! if you wanna see more more of my fic recs and favs, i have em all on my recs blog, here!! please note the navi page is still under construction!!

and of course, if you have any fic recs of your own, feel free to send em my way here or on my sideblog - i love finding new fics and writers!! 💜

may fic recs pt. 1

John Price

missed you - @thanksbutno98

✧ everything i wanted and more omg this is the treatment price deserves tbh. man deserves to relax and be pampered like a princess. such a cute fic that filled my need for fluff perfectly!!

bloodstained honesty || part two - @a-world-with0ut-dr34ms

✧ had me on the edge of my damn seat good lord. saw this line “Price?” and had to stop reading to do a lap around my living room, this fic had me stressing tf out but in the best way possible.

puppy love || five | six | seven | eight - @writeforfandoms

✧ price. puppies. perfection. am i sad to see this series come to an end? yes. but it was fantastic from start to finish and i know i will absolutely being coming back to read this again and again.

languish - @moriflos

✧ you ever read something once and then decide that once isn't enough and just spend an hour reading it over and over and over? that was me with this fic. idk how to describe the way you write, i was so drawn in, craving more. "But for now, he can only watch as his heart returns to him in ashes-" just uuuggghhh i love it.

rise and fall of tides - @queenquazar

✧ moon/moonlight is such a cute callsign, i was already hooked before i started reading. and when i got to the actual fic?? stunned. the entire dancing scene had me smiling and blushing, i love the way you write price and moon and their relationship

ode to a conversation stuck in your throat - @yeyinde

✧ i don't think there will ever come a day where i'm not left in absolute awe by one of lev's fics. everything is literal poetry and this is fic is no exception. i can't describe the way it makes me feel, like i've been given the christmas present i've been waiting all year for

sad girl - @guyfieriii

✧ new price fic from the writer who inspired me to start my mob!au???? say less. the way you write price is so just aslkdakljs the way you write in general is just alsdkjal. i literally do not have words for how much i love this

karma - @stormiwaves

✧ honeypot mission!!! we love to see it!!!! "The dress was karma, filthy karma that Price deserved." yes girl, get it!! jealous!price isn't something i see often, but i loved the way your wrote it here and that ending?? 👀🔥

untitled - @ghostaholics

✧ i👏🏼love👏🏼soulmate👏🏼au's👏🏼 and this has me going absolutely feral. the phantom pain for his injuries, the journal, the angst, the panic, that ending??? if there is ever a full version, please know that i will lose my mind, it will be an immediate fave just like this is.

choices and consequences - @ghostandsoap

✧ this one hurt real good. the talks about guilt, the choices you have to make, the job, all of it was done so well. this was so wonderful and heart-clenching, i loved every bit of it.

our remains - @halcyone-of-the-sea

✧ i just- i mean- what else is there to say but

handsome stranger || part 8 - @alittleposhtoad

✧ not only did this fic make me hungry for soup, it made me kick my feet and twirl my hair. so much fluff and right up my ally, i binged this series and loved every single bit of it.

fair game - @guyfieriii

✧ got me blushing and sweating like a sinner in church and staring at my phone like

turn me to ashes - @guyfieriii

✧ when you said angsty little piece, i was not expecting to have my heart ripped out be left with a gaping void in my chest. i know i love a good angst fic but god damn if that didn't reach into the pits of my soul and destroy any feeling of happiness i had when i started reading. 10/10

price headcanons - @soapskneebrace

✧ the perfect piece of softness to make me feel better after the absolute heartbreak of the previous fic. the characterization is 100% on point here, one of the best i've read and so so so sweet.

price holding his first-born child - @daisies-daydreams

✧ big tough military men holding and being weak over little babies is my jam. it's the fluff, the sweetness, the soft domesticity of it all. the way he reads the book to her, i'm so weak for this fic.

a drink from her cup - @lunarvicar

✧ that post that inspired this has lived rent free in my mind for so long, and i was ecstatic to see you write something for it. i'm so down bad for this man and for your writing and the way you write him.

gem amra kheli - @guyfieriii

✧ i don't think i've ever talked about how much i adore the way you write banter, the little back and forths and comments between price and reader. everything just feels so real, so grounded and i'm completely obsessed

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

cult of vagabonds || ch. 3 - banshee bluethroat | ch. 4 - finch's frenzy - @halcyone-of-the-sea

✧ i'm screaming. vomiting. scromiting profusely.

"I hate you."

"I know."

how dare you do this to me.

reveries of a lost lamb - @halcyone-of-the-sea

✧ what's it like to be able to be one of the best writers on earth? i seriously cannot comprehend the sheer amount of talent and ability you have at writing the most captivating and emotion evoking fics i've ever read.

A golden sunrise, tangled fingers; gentle lips.

“I think I love you.”

i'm deceased.

aiaigasa (相合傘) - @captainpriceslover

✧ i read "Your part of London smelled like wet pennies that evening." and was instantly sold. the rest of the fic was so fantastic, the perfect dose of sweetness i needed, i love gaz and the way you write him so much!!

white flag - @writeforfandoms

✧ you cannot stress me out like this!! but also please continue to stress me out like this!! also the little nicknames for price and gaz had me laughing so hard, esp price.

it's over - @itsohh

✧ i really loved this, i don't think i've seen a lot of fics with gaz that really talk about what he's gone through and how missions affect him and this one does it incredibly well. serious, yet heartwarming, i adore it.

Multiple

dead disco || chapter 4 | chapter 5 | combat baby - @peachesofteal

✧ never before have a i read a series that has captured my attention so much that willingly skipped out on lunch to read it. i couldn't stop, i am in love with this fic, the writing, the characterization, everything about it. there isn't a single flaw to be found here.

how they wake you up in the mornings - @nia-writes

✧ this was so cute, and the addition of the different scenarios for how the characters would wake you made it all the more better. i was blushing, laughing, anxious, constantly giggling about FOAP. such a fun read!!

soulmate au - @itsohh

✧ i've said it once and i will say it again, i love soulmate!aus!! and god the angst in these just raked me over the coals. angst is something i love seeing in soulmate fics and this was so expertly done, my heart still hurts when i think about it

touching their cheek for the first time - @runicarbiter02

✧ absolute cuteness all around, like a cuteness overload. each one fit so well, but i'm gonna take a second to really talk about the love of my life, Roach, being included in this and how this has become an automatic fav just for that.

physical touch - @siilvan

✧ tbh i came to this for the gaz hcs but it was so good that i immediately read the rest and damn near screamed when i saw roach on there. so cute, and adorable, and absolutely perfect i loved every bit of this!!

kiss headcanons - @mangowafflesss

✧ such a cute idea that you did amazing on!! i love kisses and kiss fics and i think you absolutely nailed it here. honestly me and reader are the same because i too would just like to smooch the 141 boys all over.

getting into an accident and being hospitalised while the team is deployed - @daisies-daydreams

✧ slipping while getting out of the shower and needing to have your jaw hinged shut?? reader's just like me fr. this was very sweet, a lovely little dose of fluff with a sprinkle of angst

Simon "Ghost" Riley

silk series || silk ties - @uselsshuman

✧ i screamed. shrieked. went through a rollercoaster of emotions when this series updated. it was everything i wanted, more than everything i wanted, just so unbelievably beyond expectations!! and this:

“Stay with me for now then.”

stay with me forever wtf

no more || chapter 6 - hypnosis - @lethalchiralium

✧ we love a man who wants to apologize but man we gotta get ghost into therapy or st 😂seriously though, this was fun and the little back and forth about having a dad had me giggling

a bath - @blackssuunn

✧ i can't- i literally can't- this is too fluffy, too sweet, too perfect. i'm in awe of your writing "His eyes burn a little. Not a single drop of soap entered them." i'm speechless.

pomp - @bits-and-babs

✧ we stan anti-monarchy simon LOL so great and thos poor guards stuck at the doors. i went from blushing to cackling in like two seconds

tones - @blackssuunn

✧ soft lovely dovey simon is my favorite and you write him so incredibly well. the way this man is absolutely whipped for his partner, i adore it and i adore you for writing this

between dreams and sugar - @halcyone-of-the-sea

✧ i think i'm addicted to your angst, i keep happily going into these angst fics like i don't know i'm about to have my heart shredded into a million pieces. was there a happy ending here? yes. but it still hurt and i still loved it!!

feverish simon confesses to you - @angelltheninth

✧ this is such a cute trope that i don't read that much of, but i loved every bit of this! so much cuteness and let's be real, ghost is def the type of guy who would try and wait out an illness even if it was life-threatening 😂

footprints in the snow - @bittersw33t-lotus

✧ hello??? this was one of the sweetest things i've ever read??? i'm such a sucker for soft!simon esp when he's still a little shit and you've written that so perfectly

happiness series || you belong with me - @lethalchiralium

✧ i swear i'm totally normal about this series i'm not i totally don't immediately go feral every time it updates i do and i totally and definitely don't drop and ignore everything to reread the entire series with every new chapter i won't apologize

untitled - @lunarvicar

✧ the way you write simon and the way he shows love and how he cares has me so weak and how he teases is so aldkasjdkljk he's an asshole and i love him and i can never get enough of the way you write him

simon & rain little headcanons - @mvtthewmurdvck

✧ aaaahhhh simon and rain!!! i've missed these two and when i tell you i sprinted to read this!! i love the way your write their dynamic/relationship and just how real and fun it feels!! you're literally so good at writing ghost, i can't even deal with

sassy series || ch. 3 excerpt - @peachesofteal

✧ i have never wanted to read a full chapter so bad in my entire life. this excerpt is like a the most delicious little appetizers and i'm vibrating with excitement for the full meal!!

Valeria Garza

oh to be consumed by you - @sleepiexx

✧ i want to be consumed by valeria omg. i didn't even know vampire!val was something that i wanted-no, something that i needed-and this fic just came out of nowhere and hit me over the head in the best way possible.

#moth fic recs #fave fics #monthly fic recs

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thatfanfictionchick · 1 year

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You're supposed to panic at the disco

╔═══°∴,*⋅✲══〖✰〗══✲⋅*,∴°═══╗

Epel and Leona

Rating: Everyone

Warnings: Panic attack;

Word count: 734

Notes: So yeah @insertsomthinawesome had yet again clobbered me with feels with a Whumptober piece that has languished in my drafts. Enjoy!

╚═══°∴,*⋅✲══〖✰〗══✲⋅*,∴°═══╝

They had a joint lesson with the upperclassmen and Epel just wanted it to be over. Everyone else in his class always got so nervous, especially if it was a day Leona bothered to show up, and it had a way of getting on Epel’s nerves. Maybe it was because he was in the Spelldrive club and knew firsthand that Leona was way more bark, er, roar, than bite, but he got secondhand embarrassment watching the other freshman fall over themselves trying not to do anything that might be considered even slightly offensive.

The delicate melody of breaking glass drew his attention. Michael, another freshman, was clutching his hands to his chest and backing away from Leona with fear etched in every line of his face. It was pitiful, and Epel waited for Leona to say as much, but the words never came. In fact Leona was oddly still and quiet, his unfocused eyes staring at his hands. Epel shoved his lab supplies onto the closest table and moved closer, his concern quickly mounting. “Leona?” he said softly. Leona flinched, a low growl erupting sharply from his throat that made several students nearby scurry away. Epel paused and stared. Leona was trembling from head to foot, his ears pinned back and sweat beading on his forehead. He was still staring, confused and unresponsive, at his shaking hands. “Leona,” Epel took a slow step forward, holding his own hands out palms up. “Look at me?”

Finally he got the housewarden’s attention. Epel gently took one of Leona’s shaking hands in his own. “Can ya come with me?” He led Leona out of the classroom, away from the murmuring crowd, and into the hallway. Fortunately it was easy enough to get Leona to sit on a bench. He was still shaking, his body painfully tense and his breathing rapid. “It’s okay,” Epel said quietly. He kept hold of Leona’s hand. “Ah’ll stay with ya until ya feel better.”

What was the matter with him? Leona didn’t know, and that made him feel all the worse. His heart was pounding so hard. You never really think about your heart beating. You don’t feel it. Except he was feeling it. And he could feel how hard he was clenching his teeth. His back hurt from how tense his muscles were and as the seconds ticked by he realized he was probably holding onto Epel’s hand way too tight but Epel wasn’t complaining.

It seemed to take ages until he was calm enough to take a deep breath, until the roaring in his ears that distorted all the other sounds abated. Suddenly instead of feeling stiff his whole body felt too limp and he tried to shake the fog out of his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he muttered. He’d never wanted a nap more in his life than at that moment.

Epel chewed on his bottom lip and responded slowly. “Ah think yer havin’ a panic attack.”

“I’m inclined to agree.” Epel jumped. Leona was one thing, but how he didn’t notice Professor Crewel standing next to them was downright shameful. With a flick of his magic pen Crewel had their labwear replaced with their uniforms before fixing Epel with a sharp look. “Felmier, escort Kingscholar to the nurse’s office.” His gaze slid to Leona and though his eyes may have softened the tiniest bit his voice remained firm. “It is not a request.”

“Sure.” Leona was beyond tired. He was completely drained, an unshakable exhaustion settling into his body. He didn’t have it in him to put up a fight right now, even if he’d wanted to. He got to his feet feeling unsteady but shrugged it off; tails were useful like that. He shoved his hands into his pockets and waited for Epel to stand and lead the way.

“Leona.” As he went to walk by Crewel stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “The mind is just as important as the body. There’s no shame in taking care of yourself.”

“Right.” Leona mumbled. He knew it was true, but that didn’t disperse the uncomfortable knot in his chest. From up ahead Epel offered him a small smile.

“We’ll get you through this, Leona.” Suddenly Epel’s face split into a wide grin, his eyes bearing a certain country-wild glare. “And ah’ll punch the snot outta anybody who gives ya a hard time!”

#twisted wonderland #twst #whumptober i guess #twst leona #twst epel #Epel has so much moxie I adore him #will throw down with no provocation and I support him #gets the slightest notion that somebody's talkin shit about Leona's panic attacks and 👊💥#lights out beach #Vil's mad about all the fights until he gets told why and then he's just like 'carry on I see nothing'#maybe Rook is like 'Vil must maintain plausible deniability we tell him nothing'

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abarbaricyalp · 4 months

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Hi! Not sure how it works, but for the Whumptober event: #15 for SamBucky?

Oh it is so embarrassing to be answering this so late. I have literally been working on it (off and on) since October. It never strayed from the top of my WIP pile. I just...gestures vaguely Thank you so much for sending in a prompt and I'm so sorry to have taken so long. I do love a good "Leave me alone, I'm fine" whump. I went with "Makeshift bandages" but I'm sure you can find "suppressed suffering" and "I'm fine" if you squint.

Putting Bandages Where Stitches Should Be

CW: Injury, violence, blood, etc

Read on AO3

Steve was right again. Sam hated it when Steve was right. It was making an indisputably bad day even worse.

"Don't go out today," Steve had said, all puppy-dogged eyes that morning. "I've got a bad feeling."

Him and his bad feelings. He called it a soldier's intuition and Sam called it a soldier's paranoia. But, dammit, he was usually right. That couldn’t be a byproduct of the serum, could it?

But it was a beautiful fall day and they needed groceries something fierce, so Sam had rolled his eyes and called him paranoid and headed out.

It had been fine for several hours, Sam wanted it noted. Just a normal day of errands. Hell, no one had even recognized him. He even tried a new coffee drink.

With a hysterical kind of laugh, Sam realized he hadn’t even made it to the grocery store yet. Probably a good thing since the car was now languishing in a parking lot somewhere and it was only going to get warmer as the day went on. What time was it, he wondered. Had Steve realized something was wrong yet? That paranoid intuition would be real handy right about then.

Sam leaned back against the dingy wall and tried not to think about how badly he was sweating against it. It was going to start mildewing. He still couldn’t figure out where these guys came from. The parking lot had been almost completely empty. There’d been no one else near him. One second, he was loading up a bag of new blankets into the back of the car, and the next someone was hitting him upside the head and dragging him away.

He knew they had to be trained at least a little. They were quiet and fierce. Nothing that Sam couldn’t normally hand, but there had been no fighting through the early wound to his head. Actually, it was still pulsing, each heartbeat a new throb of bruise-ache against his skull. The longer he sat here, the further the ache traveled, reaching for his temples, his ears, his eyes.

He closed his eyes, as if that would stave off anything at all, and listened to the ambient noise of whatever not-so-safe house he was being held in. He’d seen neither hide nor hair of his attackers since they’d thrown him into the small room. He assumed it was an apartment and this was some bedroom or office. It was clean, the carpet was almost soft. There were worse places, he thought. And with it being carpet, maybe they weren’t looking to make him bleed. That’d be nice.

He knew other people were around. He could hear them pacing around the other side of the door. His head hurt too much to concentrate on what they were saying. They were speaking German, which he didn’t speak, but it gave him a good feel that this was probably Hydra. It made the apartment even more confusing. What would Hydra want with Sam that involved just keeping him thrown in an empty office?

There was a cacophony outside then, snarling and the sounds of blows landing on bodies, bodies falling to the floor.

“Ich habe es dir gesagt!” he heard someone shout. “Er ist der Winter Soldier!”

Someone was shitting Sam. Instantly, all of the minor irritation of the day flooded over the actual concern of having been kidnapped by neo-Nazi assholes. If he’d said ‘this day can’t get worse’ this is the exact outcome that would have made it worse. He’d take bleeding over this.

There was more fighting and then the door was wrenched open and a very bloodied and bruised Winter Soldier was kicked into the room, landing hard on his face and wrist beside Sam.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Sam said, just to get it out there.

Barnes turned over onto his back, keeping his hurt wrist against his chest. He looked up at Sam, scowled through the blood on his face, managed to glare while both eyes were almost swelled shut. “I ain’t thrilled to see you neither, birdbrain,” he coughed. He turned back onto his side to spit out a glob of blood that landed on the knee of Sam’s jeans.

“Asshole,” Sam snapped and tried to clean it off, even though it was already a lost battle. “I take it you fought back,” Sam guessed.

“I take it you did not,” Bucky shot back and it felt more like an insult than an actual insult would have.

Sam scowled at him. It had been months since they’d seen each other. Sam couldn’t even say what city or even country it was that he’d caught up to Barnes in. It hadn’t been a long meeting. More or less just enough time for them to grapple and exchange a few threats before Barnes shook Sam’s tail again. At first, Sam took it as a personal failing that he kept losing Barnes. He was too ashamed to admit to Steve that he’d caught up with the reanimated best friend but let him slip away. Then, as time went on and Sam caught him more often, he placed all of the blame fully on Barnes. There were times, he knew, when Barnes let him catch up. These happened only often enough to keep Sam in the cat-and-mouse game. There were times, he also knew, when Barnes fully didn’t expect Sam to have found him. Two months ago was one of those times. Barnes had seemed healthy and adjusted. He had his own place and there was fresh bread on the table. Small miracles.

That did not explain why Barnes was in New York or anywhere near it in order to get the shit beat out of him by Hydra goons and dragged into whatever this was.

Barnes shoved himself up by the elbows and spit more blood out. So much for keeping the carpet clean. “So what the fuck did you do to land us here?”

“This is not an ‘us’ situation,” Sam objected with a snort. “What did you do to land you here?”

“Fuck all,” Barnes answered. He leaned against the wall next to Sam, tilted his head back to avoid gushing more blood from his nose. Sam had seen him hurt before, but he’d never been around for the fall out like this. He was like some stray dog, sleeping off the worst of it and trying to lick clean all of the rest. “You told me it was an emergency.”

Sam looked away from a smear of blood on Bucky’s neck to frown at him directly. “I did not reach out to you. And what kind of emergency could possibly make you come all the way back to America?”

Bucky’s head lolled over to him. A muscle worked in his jaw and down his neck as those obnoxious eyes scanned over Sam’s face. “You said Steve was hurt. Bad.”

“I didn’t. He’s not. That’s all it would’ve taken to get you back here?” he asked, just a little offended that he’d been traipsing around the world and digging huge chunks into his sleep deficit when there was a magic code to bring Bucky back on his own. And all it would take was Steve landing himself in a hospital again.

Bucky half waved him off, turned his head away again. “Someone must’ve really wanted me here.”

“I cannot fathom why.”

They sat in stony silence for too long. Sam much preferred being alone, he decided. At least then silence was just silence and not this crackling energy between them. Barnes broke the silence by coughing wetly again and spitting out more blood and tissue.

“Christ alive,” Sam sighed. “What’s going on with you?” He reached out without any fanfare to hold Bucky’s face and examine the injuries there. There’d been no time for any of them to heal, not that Sam would’ve been able to tell through the blood. “Hold still,” he ordered and reached for the hidden knife in Bucky’s bootheel that he knew was there.

“How?” Bucky asked. Sam was surprised to only find curiosity in his voice and not anger.

“I’ve seen you take it out before. Just had to hope it wasn’t something Hydra taught you and knew to look for.”

“Nah, that one’s all Brooklyn,” he said with a tired sigh. “Well, kind of. I adapted it.”

Sam rolled his eyes. The old-timey Brooklyn posturing was the same whether it was Steve or Barnes, evidently. He cut the sleeve off of his shirt and used it to begin cleaning away some of the blood on Bucky’s face. It was slow going without water, but Barnes was remarkably quiet during the entire thing. He let Sam work without fussing. His eyes remained focused and sharp, bright even in the dim room. He was more enjoyable when his eyes looked like this, instead of the dead shark stare he got in the middle of a fight.

Not that Sam was going to admit Barnes was ever enjoyable to be around.

“What do you think this is about?” Sam asked to distract Bucky from the fact that he was about to set his nose back.

“Clearly they wanted the both of us–Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky shouted and shoved Sam hard enough that Sam actually rocked back and lost his balance, sprawled across the floor. Sam subtly rolled out his shoulder–it was definitely going to bruise–before he sat up again and glared.

“I didn’t think you wanted the rugged crooked nose look,” he defended without any real belief in the words. He was actually kind of worried about what the serum would do to a persistently crooked nose.

Bucky rubbed from the bridge of his nose into the soft, squishy bruises around his eyes. Already, impossibly, the color was draining from the outer edges of the bruises. Sam hated him for it.

“Clearly they wanted both of us,” Sam agreed and rolled his shoulder again. “But…they don’t seem keen on cutting off fingers.”

“Not yet,” Bucky grunted.

“They gotta know we won’t talk. You won’t talk. Don’t you think it’s kind of playing with fire to bring you here? I mean, you’re not even drugged.”

As if his words were a reminder, Bucky eyed the door. Sam knew he could take it out of the wall if he wanted too. He also knew that whoever these assholes were, they had enough manpower to bring Bucky in bloodied and rough. He figured Bucky was doing similar calculations in his mind.

“Why us?” Sam prompted again.

“Steve,” Bucky grunted. He leaned back against the wall and drew his knees up to his chest. “They wouldn’t bother to hunt me down, wouldn’t take that risk, for anything else. They probably think if they have both of us, they have twice as much leverage.”

“Maybe they couldn’t decide which one he was more likely to come for,” Sam suggested, only a little sarcastically.

“That man would rend the Earth apart for you,” Bucky said as simply as he would talk about the weather.

Sam tried not to blow over again. Bucky believed that. He wasn’t just saying it to be a shit. “Have you been watching us?” he asked, instead of asking for a thesis on why Bucky thought that so assuredly.

Bucky cut him a look. It was dampened by the bruises. “I had to keep making sure neither of you had gotten yourselves killed yet.”

“Yeah, you’re a real shining example of how to do it right. Show back up on American soil for two minutes and instantly get captured,” Sam snarked back. He needed to put some distance between his current situation and the fact that Barnes thought Steve would ‘rend the Earth apart’ for him. “Come here and let me look at that wrist.”

“Is this how you were with the pararescue?”

“Good at my job? Yes.”

“So damn pushy,” Barnes corrected. But he shifted how he was sitting so they were almost knee to knee and then held out his arm. “It’ll heal on its own,” he said. “I’ve had worse.”

“Or I can just wrap it and you don’t have to worry about rebreaking it later. Do you know how many carpal bones there are? You keep fucking them up, or the tendons attached to them, and you’re gonna be in a world of hurt for longer than you need to be.”

“There are eight,” Barnes said, just to be difficult. “Should I name them all for you too?”

Sam took half a second to glare at him before returning his attention to Bucky’s wrist. Barnes was long fingered, which was something Sam knew logically. He’d seen him handle weaponry. Seen him fight. Still, it was different when those fingers were laid out across his forearm, a little swollen, a little curled in, but still so damn pretty. Sam had never met someone with pretty hands before. He’d expected Bucky’s hands to be gnarled and scarred from a lifetime of fighting and training and abuse, but they just weren’t. The serum helped, he assumed. He wondered what they had looked like on the man from all of Steve’s stories. Had they looked like this, even working on the docks all day and boxing his way through the nights?

Everyone Sam knew who’d ever worked around boats had hands that were rope-burned and muscled and suntanned. He’d half expected Bucky’s to be similar. Instead, his hands were…not soft, exactly. But clean and smooth.

He pushed his thumbs into Bucky’s wrist, dragging them down his metacarpals. Barnes hissed in a breath and his eyes darted away from Sam’s ministrations. Sam returned his thumbs to Bucky’s wrist and then pushed down into his ulna and radius. He didn’t react as strongly to that, so Sam focused on the carpals that were up high in his wrist. (Down low? He could never remember how to orient the body)

“Where does it hurt?” he asked, probing for the misaligned bone but coming up empty.

“Everywhere,” Barnes ground out. “It fucking hurts everywhere.” But he didn’t yank his hand away, so Sam kept at it. Finally, finally, something snapped as Sam pushed his thumbs down into Bucky’s wrist for an umpteenth time. Bucky swore colorfully and snatched his hand back at that, rubbing his own fingers over his wrist while new curses came out.

“Let me wrap it a little,” Sam offered, holding his hand out again.

Bucky looked at him like he bit. Sam had read all the notes about the Winter Soldier. How medical treatment was administered. When the Soldier cooperated and when he didn’t. The Soldier could handle inordinate amounts of pain. Bucky Barnes, it seemed, did not feel like keeping the habit alive.

“It’ll be fine without a sling,” he insisted. “It already feels better.” And then, from between his teeth, he added, “Thank you.”

He was still bloodied, hair matted all to hell. He looked like some kind of wild man. Actually, he kind of looked how Sam expected to find him at the beginning of the Great Barnes Search and Rescue Mission. He came forward again, beginning to wipe at Bucky’s face one more time.

“You’re disgusting to look at,” he defended when Bucky tacked a lazy glare on him.

“Just admit you wanna touch my face, Wilson,” Bucky shot back.

Sam accidentally reopened a wound, so he tore off a piece from his demolished sleeve and stuck it to the gash like toilet paper on a shaving knick.

“You’re so dumb,” Bucky sighed as his eyes closed. Then he pitched right into Sam, almost completely boneless.

“Barnes?” Sam barked as he fought to get his hands under Bucky’s body enough to lift him again. “Do not fucking pass out,” he ordered, possibly irrelevantly. “Barnes,” he snapped again, and gently smacked the better, less bruised side of his face. “You didn’t say you were concussed. You didn’t say you had more injuries.” He yanked up Bucky’s shirt, prodding his belly and ribs for any signs of internal bleeding, but came up short. Just a bunch of outside bruises, maybe a crack in his ribs. He wrenched open Bucky’s mouth to check for signs he’d been coughing blood, but didn’t find any of that either. He was just about to shove his fingers down Bucky’s throat to look for a blood clot when his eyes fluttered open again.

He took a few seconds to recognize his surroundings–distressingly still and relaxed about waking up in a room he didn’t know–and then he reached up for Sam’s wrist and pulled his hand away. “Why were your fingers in my mouth?”

Sam rolled his eyes while he waited for his heart to stop thundering in his chest. Just his luck. Find the prodigal best friend and watch him die before Sam could drop him at Steve’s feet. “You basically begged for me to,” he scoffed. “Sam, please, you’ve just got such good fingers. I need them in my mouth.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, then grimaced. So it probably was some kind of concussion. At least Sam didn’t have to worry about blood clots. “What’s happened? How long was I out?”

“Nothing. A few seconds,” Sam answered. “Don’t do that again.”

Bucky saluted from halfway up his chest. “Whatever, man. I’m just tired.”

“I don’t care what you are. Keep your eyes open.”

The door opened then and a tall man, dressed like a movie villain with tall dark boots and a long dark coat, walked into the room. He had Sam’s phone in his hand and it was trilling with a waiting phone call.

“You don’t keep a passcode on your phone?” Bucky asked drily.

“Of course I fucking do,” Sam snapped back.

“Gentlemen, please,” the man said with a stifled German accent.

Steve picked up just before it would’ve gone to voicemail. “Sam, hey, I was about to send out a rescue party.”

Bucky looked at Sam pointedly, which Sam ignored. It was just a joke. He hadn’t been gone that long. Probably.

“Mr. Rogers,” the man in the coat greeted. Sam could practically feel Steve go still on the other side of the call. “I seem to have acquired not only your friend’s cell phone, but him as a whole person. And he came along with another friend.”

He snapped a photo of Sam and Bucky. Bucky barely flinched at the flash, but a few seconds later, he was still blinking and shaking his head, like the light was still in his eyes. The bad guy du jour tapped around on Sam’s phone and Sam heard it buzz in on Steve’s end.

Steve was quiet, contemplative for a few seconds. Then he said, “You have Sam and Bucky?”

“Yeeesss,” the man agreed with a lilting exaggeration. “I didn’t know they came as a pair.”

“They don’t, usually. But now that you do have both, good luck.”

And then the little shit hung up the phone. Even the asshole German guy stared at the screen in disbelief. Another man appeared in the hallway. He cast a nervous glance towards Bucky, whose eyes were shut again, before redirecting his attention to his boss.

“What’d he say?” the man asked. He was fully American. Jersey, maybe.

“Bad connection,” the other man ground out before stalking down the hallway. The second man hurried to keep up. The door remained open.

Sam nudged Bucky’s ribs. “Stop it,” Bucky grumbled without opening his eyes.

“If you pass out again, I’m not waking you up this time,” Sam lied. “What did Steve mean?”

“I think he meant we can handle ourselves. I just need to…” He grimaced. “I just need to rest my eyes for a little while. Then I’ll be good to go.”

“The door is open now,” Sam pointed out under his breath. “Come on, you don’t have some kind of super hearing where you can fight with your eyes closed?”

Bucky raised one eyebrow in consideration. It stressed a gash across his brow. “I can fight in the dark,” he agreed.

“I’ll keep anyone from hitting you in the face again,” Sam promised. “But we have to go now.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes open and leveled a calculating glare on Sam before he nodded. “Alright,” he agreed, which felt like a miracle in and of itself. He pushed himself to his feet and then leaned back against the wall as he pressed the heels of his hands over his browbones.

Sam stood as well and put a hand to Bucky’s elbow. In all their brief encounters, they didn’t get much time to touch each other, unless they were brawling over nothing but ego. Bucky was actually…kind of soft beneath Sam’s fingers. And warm. He was certainly not the sharp edged, battle ready soldier Sam kept finding. He felt real and alive. And he was still trying to blink his eyes open.

Sam curled his fingers tighter around Bucky’s elbow and pulled him out into the hallway. He scanned the unit for any sunlight that he could use to orient himself. Without speaking, Bucky pulled him to the stairs. They made it most of the way down before the wall of the stairs gave way to an open railing and they were spotted by more assholes in black.

“Y’all coordinate these outfits beforehand or y’all keep changes of clothes here?” Sam asked before he threw Bucky into the crowd of assholes.

He tried to keep his promise about keeping punches away from Bucky’s face. They landed damn near everywhere else. Sam had underestimated how many people there were–numbers growing from three to five to nine until he lost count. Bucky was holding his own, putting men down two-to-one to Sam, climbing to three-to-one. Sam tried to catch glimpses of the rest of the house. There was a wall of windows, covered in curtains and pasted over with film or paper. The rest of the room looked like a dining room or something. Behind them was nothing but more room and dark walls.

“Find the front door,” Bucky snapped when Sam’s eyes went to the window again. He smashed someone’s head down on the banister with enough force to crack either bone or wood. “I’m not jumping through glass.”

Sam rolled his eyes and then ducked away from a Goddamn hammer. He wrestled it away from the man wielding it, then threw it at the window to shatter it open. “There you go. No need to jump,” he said breathlessly. He turned just in time to catch someone around the waist and throw them into the wall before they could get the drop on Bucky, who was, if Sam had to guess, wrenching someone’s arm out of socket.

Bucky got a gun from somewhere and made fast work of everyone else in the room, but not before the guy who Sam had thrown into the wall smashed Sam’s head into it in retaliation. On the opposite side from the open wound Sam was already contending with, of course. Why shouldn’t the bruises match?

“You’re bleeding,” Bucky said, cutting through the ringing, violent silence that had fallen over the house. He wiped away the blood that was pouring over his own eye, completely oblivious to the irony. “Jesus, you’re bleeding a lot. What happened?”

Sam stared at him a little dumbfounded. “Are you serious right now?”

Bucky tsked away his bitching, yanking Sam over to examine his forehead like a collector looking at diamonds. “Gross,” he decided and then ripped the collar of his shirt off like it was nothing, along with a chunk of the bottom of it. “Don’t move,” he ordered as he folded the fabric over on itself a few times and then pressed it tightly over the wound on Sam’s head. He used the collar of his shirt to tie the fabric down.

His fingers were absurdly gentle as he worked. The warmth that had radiated off of his body was gone now, fingers cool against the bruise-hot burn of Sam’s skin. Sam didn’t realize his eyes had fallen shut until Bucky gently touched his other cheek and tilted his face down just a little. “Don’t die,” he said.

Sam didn’t have the energy to glare at him. “Pot, kettle,” he managed to say. He pulled Bucky’s hand away from his face and looked around the room. “You know this wasn’t everyone.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got the rest handled,” he promised and held up a grenade.

“What the fuck?” Sam asked, staring at it like he’d never seen one before. “Why did someone just have that on them?”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s not even a good one,” he said disappointedly. “There probably isn’t anyone else here, but at least no one will be able to come back,” he offered. He crossed to the window and removed the remaining glass with his metal arm, still looking at it like it was personally offending him.

They helped each other through the window with the unspoken agreement not to mention it again after this. Both of them had enough blood dripping in their eyes and rattled brains to warrant it just this once.

“You handled yourself pretty well without your wings,” Bucky offered as they walked away from the house. “How big do you suppose that window is?”

“I was trained before I had the wings,” Sam pointed out sharply. He glanced over his shoulder to reassess the broken window. “Four by six, you think?”

“Sure, the whole thing, but what about the cleared part?”

“Two by three? Four?”

Bucky regarded the grenade in his hand and the distance between them and the house. “I can do that,” he decided.

They walked a few meters more before he turned fully, pulled the pin of the grenade, and then threw it with an accuracy that would have more Cy Young winners seething with jealousy. Not to mention the distance and force of it too.

A few seconds later, the house exploded. Bucky was right. It wasn’t a very good grenade.

Sam looked around the wooded area they were in, a marginal field around them before the trees started up again, which was probably best because of the fire now. “So, where the fuck are we?” he asked.

“And how the fuck do we get home?” Bucky finished with a ridiculous perturbed set to his lips.

“Ah, shit, that asshole still had my phone,” Sam groaned when the patting of his pants came up empty. He knew Steve’s number by heart, but he didn’t imagine Bucky had his phone on him either.

“We could go see where he went,” Bucky suggested. “That explosion was not cool enough to take out any of the cars.”

“Neither one of us is in any condition to go track someone down.”

“Could be fun.”

Bucky was already looking at him when Sam glanced over to see if he was being serious. “You wanna try to live out the last third of an action movie?”

“Second third at best,” Bucky scoffed with a wave. “Lots more adventures ahead of us. The Winter Soldier and the Falcon has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“It would absolutely be The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. Captain Good-Looking and The Grouchy Soldier. Angel and Asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky interrupted, reaching for Sam’s hand. For just a second, Sam’s heart may have stuttered in his chest. But all Bucky was doing was unwinding the bandage Sam had put around his wrist earlier so that he could patch up the sluggishly bleeding gashes on Sam’s knuckles now. “Come on, Pilot Hyperbole. We’re losing daylight.”

“The Falcon and the Hound Dog,” Sam added, following Bucky as they skirted the smoldering building to find a car.

They drove away into an easing sunset.

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#sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #captain america #sambucky fanfic #the falcon and the winter soldier #writing #whumptober2023

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