Being the girl Craig's been bringing around and being left in the house with Pope. Coming out from Craig's room where you’ve been laying by yourself for an hour, shuffling by the edge of the couch where Pope was watching tv, ringing your hands in your cute little sleep dress that barely came down to cover the sweet little pink panties you had on, ruffles dipping low down your collar. He can tell you were anxious to ask him something, partly surprised you were even still awake since you had bid him goodnight an hour ago, “Thought you were going to bed.” you huffed, soft nighty grazing your upper thigh as you swayed. “Promise not to make fun of me,” you mumble, shuffling when his eyes fall on you expectantly. “I’m scared of the dark…” “...Okay.” You bit your lip, fingers tugging at the loose hem of your dress, “Do you think you can…come into the room with me? Until I fall asleep?”
With the look in your eye he half expected you to beg him if he were to say no. But he didn't, he stood up silently and you both headed off to Craig's room. He had been sitting in the corner upright when you had settled back onto the bed, but you had quickly asked him to lay beside you, “Just until I fall asleep! I promise.” You did appear a bit embarrassed when Pope slid up beside you, your soft thighs uncovered from the thin sheets, too hot you told him. Hard to believe considering you were wearing next to nothing. When a few minutes had passed and you were still tossing and fidgeting around he sighed, “Never gonna fall asleep if you keep moving around like that.” “I can’t help it! Craig usually helps me fall asleep…” “Alright, what does he do?” “Why?” “Tell me how he gets you to sleep and I’ll do it.” You looked at him, a bit sheepish, the soft curve of your cunt peeking out from under the night dress that shifted up your body, “I don’t think we can do that.” “Why not?” you looked at him through your fine lashes and Pope could feel his pulse quickening. His idiot brother wouldn’t be there to do it, so who else. “Don’t you want to sleep?” You nodded quickly. “Then tell me what you need.”
It’s cute how helplessly you rut against Pope's thigh, fingers furling into the taut fabric of his button down, hips rubbing your cunt back and forth on the muscle of his leg. Your lips break in soft mewls that fall right up against Pope's ear, the thin fabric of your panties sticky with your arousal, cunt dragging against the veil of fabric, the rigid denim of Pope's jeans bumping against the aching bundle. Pope is mystified watching you get off on his thigh, hands bound to the plush of your hips, pushing and pulling you back and forth whenever your movements falter, “Come on, you wanted my help,” he murmurs, your meek whines bubbling up in your throat from the ache in your thighs, “Gotta work your way through it like a big girl.” Your chin juts up and down, rolling your pussy over his thigh, feeling Pope's fingers press against the band of your panties, his eyes flitting over your face wired into a pleading grimace, “What is it? This not enough for you?” “Wanna—mm—wanna use your fingers, can I? Please, just a little,” Pope groans at the whininess of your tone, thick fingers slipping under the pink bow at the front of your panties, “Alright, alright,” he circles your clit once, watching the way your hips stutter into his open palm, “But you gotta do it all by yourself. You wanna cum then you’re gonna ride my fingers until you do, you got it?”
You’re out like a light after that. Soft lips parted as easy sleep came over you, thighs all sticky from where Pope had you ride his fingers, pulling the band back over your cunt as he sat up beside you. Next morning when Craig finally shows back up after fucking off with whatever train wreck he had spent the night with, Popes already out of his room. Sitting up in the kitchen, eyes watching his brother, “Fun night?” Craig winces, high or hungover he can’t tell, probably both. “You should think about getting a lamp in your room.” “What? What are you talking about?” “Your girls scared of the dark, man, it’s just common courtesy.” “...Pope, what the fuck are you talking about?” Turns out, you are very much not scared of the dark.
content warnings/description: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, unprotected (PIV) sex, coming inside, prone bone, infidelity (park is married. he & reader do not care about the sanctity of said marriage), park is mean, relationship toxicity (if you can call what he and reader have a relationship), reader POV, canon-typical medical descriptions
author’s note: idek what to say, lol. there are shark-infested waters over here, obviously, as i wrote this in two days. it might not be my best work, but oh well! if you don’t like it, don’t read, please. otherwise, enjoy!
Though you accepted their invitation to kick back by the pool, as your friends prattle, you find yourself awfully distracted by the older man soaking up the harsh sun rays from the opposite end of the chlorine-water-filled concrete.
His dark shades are on, and from this distance, you can’t tell if his eyes are closed. But, judging from his posture—big arms crossed over his broad chest, feet crossed at the ankles, head full of wet and slicked-back hair leaning back and slightly off to the side of the lounger—you would think he’s asleep.
You have been stealing glances at him since you arrived, about a half hour ago, humming in response to their comments, but your friends just now notice your lack of meaningful contribution to the conversation.
Stop staring, or your face’ll get stuck like that, Hazel teases, jabbing her finger into your side.
Don’t even bother with him, babe. He’s an asshole. A married asshole, Ginger, the older of the two sisters, says, a lounger down from Hazel.
You turn your head, just your head, to face them as they tan beside you, the rest of your body helplessly drawn to him like metal to a magnet; your chest is pushed up and out, your legs are spread apart in what is a tiny bikini. Christ, you’re desperate. And it’s not as if he’s awake to see how your skin glistens with the droplets of water that have clung to your sunscreen-slathered skin after a few splashes into the deep end of the pool, enticingly. Or how your belly and thighs clench just from looking in his direction, a most obvious sign of your attraction.
“I don’t see a ring on his finger,” you argue. “And I’m just admiring the view. There’s a difference.”
They scoff and wave you off, clearly uninterested in your interest in him, and continue their discussion about who’s been their best lay—you try to drown out their noise but unwillingly learn the details of their sexual partners—as you close your eyes to nap in the sun. Assuming what Ginger said rings true, it is best not to involve yourself with a married man.
It appears that he’s not interested in giving anyone, let alone you, the time of day anyway, no matter how hard you try to tell him telepathically that you’re wet and wanting for him. And if he were awake to notice you, so what? He is married and might—or more appropriately should—not want you at all. Who can blame you for dreaming, though? You just want to have some fun before—
Then you feel it. A hair-raising, prickling sensation that starts in the dead center of your forehead, radiates downward, and slices you to your belly, splitting your cephalic, cervical, and thoracic regions in half and leaving your insides raw and exposed.
You open your eyes to his, his brow arched, watch as his pupils dilate and ripple as they scan your body, not unlike that of the pool water. His sunglasses are pushed up to the top of his head now, and he stares.
Right. At you.
Time seems to slow when he stalks over to you and your friends’ side of the pool, casting a looming shadow over you when he reaches your chair and cocking his head in a gesture for you to follow him out and into the nearby apartment building.
You freeze. Just for a second. You didn’t think this would happen. But you wanted it to.
And then you gather your things.
What are you doing? You’re leaving us? Hazel hisses under her breath. For him?
Don’t do it. You’re just looking for trouble, Ginger warns, chancing a glance at the man standing just behind you, his huge hand now heavy on your nape.
“Hurry the fuck up,” he grunts, ignoring and silencing your friends. He squeezes your neck lightly in emphasis, the blunt edges of his fingernails scraping along your tender skin. “Haven’t got all day.”
You look back up at him and nod, quickly stuffing your phone, swim coverup, and towel into your tote bag, and stand up from the lounger, sliding your flip-flops on.
He doesn’t wait for you to catch up to him as he makes his way out of the pool area and walks toward the entrance of the building. You follow behind him like a loyal pup, ignoring what are no doubt your friend’s eyes staring daggers into your back.
You can’t count how many times either of them has ditched you for a date. They will find it in their hearts to forgive you for choosing yourself over them for once.
“That desperate, huh,” he huffs as you stand beside him in the elevator going up to the top floor of the building. The penthouse floor. “You’d leave your friends f’me?”
All you can do is nod, looking down at the floor at your feet shyly. Wiggling your manicured toes in your flip-flops.
He grips you by your chin then, stepping closer, with his thumb and pointer finger, tilting your face this way and that as if inspecting a piece of uncut marbled meat. Up close you take stock of his strong nose and deep-set eyes. The dark circles around them tell you that whatever he does for work, he does not get much sleep. “At least you’re pretty.” Four of his thick fingers find purchase on your cheek, his fat thumb tracing the line of your lips, slowly working your mouth open like a sternal retractor with every fraction of an inch he feeds it in.
“Tweedledee and Tweedledum. They live here, right. They tell you anything about me?”
You’re not sure how to answer when he’s pressing the pad of his thumb down on your tongue, down your throat until you choke on it, tears brimming in the corners of your eyes. But then he pulls his thumb out of your mouth, sucks on what is your saliva coating it, and brushes and wipes the mixture of spit on the apple of your cheek, now sticky with it and a few escaped tears.
You gulp, perspiring. A bead of sweat trickles down from your hairline and traps itself above your upper lip. You lick the salt away, and he watches as your tongue peeks out from your mouth. The elevator feels much too hot, much too suddenly. He looks as cool as a cucumber, though. The corner of his mouth lifts up in the ghost of a smile.
Finally, you answer, “only that you’re not the nicest. And you’re married.”
He doesn’t deny either claim. Instead, he asks, “that gonna be a problem?”
You shake your head. “It’s not for me if it’s not for you.”
He lightly grasps the column of your throat, walking you back until your back hits the corner wall of the elevator. Chest to chest. He tips his head down, lips hovering by the shell of your ear. The mere breadth of him swallows you up, makes you feel so incredibly small.
A predator, you think. You are his prey. Swimming in his waters, a little fish is hanging by its fin from the maw of the majestic great white, offering its company, just hoping it pleases him enough to not get eaten.
“Good,” he responds.
His bed is fitting for him. Large. Luxurious. Indulgent as it is a necessity for someone like him who can afford it and who needs good sleep.
Your palms and knees land on the surface of it, your ass is up and free for him to grope and squeeze and tease the hem of your bottoms, and you take but a second to appreciate the smoothness of the silk comforter. Devoid of wrinkles and perfectly made and fitted to the bed. No gross overhang of the fabric on either side. You wouldn’t be surprised if the sheets beneath were perfectly fitted and crisp, too. The pillows at the head of the bed look as soft as clouds, fluffed and pristine.
He just seems like that type of man. Controlled in every which way. Even from the small peek of the penthouse you got before he dragged you into his bedroom, you could tell that he likes things orderly. Neat. Without room for error. He is as uncompromising as his appearance: short fingernails and clean-shaven, and nary a hair on his head out of place despite having drenched it in the pool. Against your better judgement, you let yourself wonder where his wife fits in all of this. What closet she gets tucked away in or what topmost shelf she’s put on for those “in case you need it” situations. And if he gets frustrated that she isn’t as he wants her to be. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, right? And you wonder if you could be good enough—better than—no, that’s—that’s just ridiculous. This is your first time meeting him. You don’t know him. This is just a one-time fuck.
That’s all.
He pushes you flat on the bed by the small of your back, stuffs a pillow beneath your hips, and wrenches the bottoms of your bikini away and onto the floor. The delighted hum that follows his fingers spreading your cheeks is a good sign that he likes what he sees: inner thighs sticky with molten slick and cunt fluttering and dripping. A second later, and he’s on your back, smothering you with the full force of his weight and pressing you down into the mattress, your face turned sideways so you can breathe, your back to his chest, his heavy erection poking your ass through his swim shorts. Back by the pool, you could tell he was thick and long, but the insistence of his cock against your body, even trapped inside his shorts, sends a shiver down your spine, makes you arch into him.
With one forearm braced by your head, his shorts are pulled down roughly with his other hand, the cool nylon fabric dragging along your backside and the backs of your legs until they are discarded on the floor, scratching lightly against your heated skin. He lifts from you a bit, and as you take a heaving breath, fill your lungs to full capacity with oxygen, you hear him pump himself once, twice—hear a glob of spit leaving his mouth into his hand—thrice before he’s breaching the rim of your cunt—easy like parting ripe fruit, the delicate flesh soft and wet with slick—and on your exhale, impaling you with his cock, to the hilt.
You mewl into the silk, your face hot and brain reduced to sludge by the cock of a married man you don’t know the name of. Who is over a decade older than you. Wealthy and confident and mean. And he chose you. The horny, pining girl who just met him by the poolside today.
His arms wrap around the front of you, one forearm locked just above the swell of your breasts and the other around your stomach, like band clamps holding you in place. He adjusts the arm across your chest to grab handfuls of your breasts through your bikini top, alternating between each and tweaking your nipples to full hardness. He thrusts his hips, the force of which steals the breath from your lungs and rocks the bed frame like striking flint against steel on the bedroom walls.
“Such a tight, wet cunt,” he growls into your ear, his head resting on your shoulder. His lips wrap around your earlobe, and he bites down. Hard. “Doesn’t know any better than to let strangers inside her and fuck her dumb, hm?”
“Oh my God,” you moan. “Oh—oh, fuck—”
His cock glides along your inner walls, punches the soft, spongy flesh of your cervix, and applies consistent pressure on your anterior wall. He is bigger than anyone you have ever had. It almost disgusts you how much you don’t care that he’s not yours, is promised to another: you want this, him, again. For as many times as you can have him.
You drool into the bed from the sheer overwhelm, his weight comfortable but crushing against your back, his cock cleaving you in half. But even getting fucked on a cock too big for you can’t take away the fact that you can’t come like this.
Though your hand will likely fall asleep from the pressure of his body over yours, you arch your back and manage to lift your pelvis ever so slightly from the pillow beneath your hips in an attempt to snake it beneath you and reach your clit.
But before you can, he’s wrapping his fingers around your wrist.
“You’re gonna come like this. Just on my cock.”
“I—I can’t,” you whimper.
“You can, and you will.”
His grip on your wrist loosens, and in an unexpected and intimate gesture, he rests his hand over yours, lacing your fingers together, the remaining arm around your front tightening, pressing you impossibly closer to him. The repeated battering of his cockhead against your cervix hurts, and tears spring to your eyes. But with every drive in and out of your cunt, he prods against that special spot.
“’m gonna come soon. Don’t get left behind,” he grits, then bites down on your shoulder, marking you with the imprints of his teeth.
When he floods you with his release, tacky and thick and potent, stars burst behind your eyelids and you come undone. Unraveling and unraveling until you are nothing. He’s greedy, though. He keeps his pace and doesn’t stop, and you can feel it, feel the dam burst, feel yourself leaking around his cock, all over him, drenching the pillow and bed beneath you with your fluids, “yeah, that’s it. Attagirl,” as he continues to fuck you through both of your orgasms and bully his come as far inside your cunt as he can, to your cervix, as if he’s trying to impregnate you.
Your cheeks are burning. God, you’re humiliated. You’ve never squirted before. And he seems to revel in it.
“Made a mess all over me, Splash.”
He pulls out of you with a hiss, lifting himself off you and shuffling back, and with what energy you have left, you look over your shoulder to watch him, the dark, neatly trimmed hairs on his pubic area soaked with your essence, admiring you as he kneels by the foot of the bed, or more likely, admiring your puffy cunt leaking with his come and your juices.
He clasps his fingers around your ankles and tugs you closer to the edge of the bed, pushes what come leaks out of you back inside your hole with two fingers, and when satisfied that you’re stuffed full with him, proceeds to flip you on your back, hooking the cups of your tiny swim top under the fat of your breasts. He rejoins you on the bed, clambering over you, his knees sinking into the mattress, to take one into his mouth, swirling a nipple with his tongue, his fingers pinching and squeezing the other. You whine and writhe, but soon he pulls off with a wet pop and an angry scowl, brows furrowed. “Damn shame I won’t get to appreciate these more.” He weighs your breasts in both of his hands, jiggling them to his heart’s content.
You shoot him a questioning look, wrapping what you can of your fingers around the thick of his forearm. “We can—we can go again. I don’t mind.” It comes out as more of a pathetic plea than a simple suggestion.
He huffs, leaving you on the bed and standing upright, and glances at his watch. His cock, half hard still, is heavy and hanging against the inside of his thigh, coated in both of your come. That that monstrosity had been inside you doesn’t frighten you as much as it makes you want it again.
But you don’t always get what you want in life, unfortunately.
“Wife’s coming back from lunch with her girlfriends. I’d say in about five minutes.”
“Five minutes?” you repeat, your voice pitched high. You scramble and stand up from the bed, locating your bottoms and pulling them on.
He picks his swim shorts from the floor, and you watch as he pulls his wedding band out from the pocket and slides it onto his ring finger. “You better get outta here.”
You adjust your swimming suit, fixing your top so your tits are covered and your bottoms so an ass cheek doesn’t hang out, until you’re decent and glance up at him. “Okay, well, this was… this was good. Really, really good, actually.” You grow nervous the more he just blankly stares at you, as if he did you the favor of fucking you and now just wants you to leave. And maybe he did do you a favor, but his apathy stings all the same. “Sorry, I never got your name, but—”
“—Brendon,” he supplies, much to your surprise.
You nod, not bothering to offer yours in return. What would be the point. “Thanks, Brendon. Um, I’ll be going now. Take care.” You see yourself out, making sure to grab the tote you left at the door, and try your friends’ phones.
It is your first day as a med student at PTMC, and you have already cried a total of three times.
Near the end of your shift, a man with a severed arm is brought in to north five, and ortho is paged down to the E.D. to check for a possible reimplantation.
You think you might, though for a different reason, cry again when you feel, not see or hear, but feel him.
Your back is turned as the door opens and he strolls into the room. He stands close behind you, ignoring the questioning looks of Robby, Mohan, and Garcia. If it were anyone but him, they might ask if you two know each other. But you get the sense that he is not someone you ask questions unless it is for a good reason. The fact that he deigned to be present with them is more than enough for them to keep quiet.
You don’t have to look back to know who it is. You felt him against you like this mere weeks ago. Your heart beats out of your chest, your pulse spiking. The odds of meeting him, a stranger you hooked up with once, again here, as the attending orthopedic surgeon who works upstairs, it’s—it’s statistically improbable. And yet, you knew back then that he must have had a high-paying and stressful job to afford the luxury of his home. You think maybe the signs were all there. His cutthroat personality, the way he inspected you with such surgical precision back by the pool, the competence and speed with which he made you come all over him, and now he’s right at your back and towering over you once again, and you’re brought back to that moment when you knew you would follow him anywhere.
“What a surprise. It’s nice to see you again, Splash.” He presses a light kiss on the nape of your neck after the others have turned their heads back to the patient and are filling Brendon in on his status. As long as he’s careful, it appears he can get away with anything he so pleases. He is not someone anyone wants to cross. He has the emergency department wrapped around his finger, tucked beneath his thumb, and you along with it because though it should concern you that he is behaving this way in front of your boss and superiors, you go weak at the knees.
And on that same hand, with which he has you caught under his thumb, he squeezes your hip, and you notice he has his wedding band on. Does he keep it on at work for appearances, perhaps?
He whispers against the shell of your ear, as if reading your mind, “wife used to work here. Was right here where you were several years ago. Did a rotation in ortho and switched careers before I could teach her anything. Wonder how long you’ll last.”
It’s strange, because as much as this should suffice as a warning to stay away from him, like Ginger had told you to, it does not. You can admit you’re just as desperate for him as you were when you chanced upon him by the pool. It is an ugly thing growing in your chest, your desire to prove your worth to a man you hardly know. For professional reasons and otherwise. But you want to. And it is just your luck that—
Our new med student here is interested in a rotation in orthopedics, Dr. Park. Maybe you and Dr. Garcia can take her under your wing? Teach her a few things? Dr. Robby asks him just outside the room once the patient and his arm have been approved for reimplantation, before he can slink away.
Brendon turns around and looks you up and down. “Is that so,” he grunts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Maybe. Have to see how she fares down in the E.D. first. Ortho isn’t for everyone.”
Before he walks away, he steps closer to you, leans down, and says, “I’ll be seeing you in the parking lot after your shift ends. Got some catching up to do. Been thinking a lot about you these past few weeks, Splash.”
He leaves you hot in the face, with your stomach tied up in knots, and without another word.
Don’t mind him, kid, Dr. Robby reassures. They don’t call him Park ‘The Shark’ for no reason. It’s nothing personal.
you thought you wanted a divorce, but letting go is starting to feel worse than waiting to be hurt again.
2.5k ♡ heavy dubcon (possible noncon), past infidelity (heeseung), coercion, misogyny, mention of: pregnancy, abortion (not for reader), financial abuse, legal proceedings, blood, analogies involving knife wounds, mention of reader’s hair being pulled, public sex in a bathroom, no(t much) prep, unprotected pinv, breeding kink, lots of ‘baby’, ‘pathetic’.
⚠︎ fairy’s disclaimer: please note the tags. this is not intended to be romantic. reader is meant to be conflicted. could be read as noncon during certain parts. if you don’t like, please don’t read. ♡
your eyelids feel puffy, swollen from the tears shed last night and the ones that you haven’t let fall today. the mediation has gone on for nearly two hours already and noticing your distress, your legal team called for an early recess.
you never wanted it to come to this. that’s what you continue thinking, as you pad out into the hallway that leads to the restrooms and the elevator back to the lobby. if you’re honest with yourself, where you stand now was purely inevitable. you’ve sat in denial for years and today is merely the culmination of what feels like a lifetime of burying your head in the sand.
you’re trying to prioritize the rational components of your divorce like salvaging your financial independence, the house you made a home, any sense of dignity left in your weakened body. heeseung hasn’t made it easy. you knew he wouldn’t. if you thought he’d be an understanding, compassionate life partner, then you wouldn’t have waited this long. you wouldn’t have needed to involve lawyers.
despite trying to keep a level head, you’ve been an emotional wreck. it’s understandable given the nature of the proceedings but it doesn’t help that heeseung has never made anything easy for you. he knows exactly what buttons to push and as much as he became obsessed with figuring out which ones made you crack, you became addicted to breaking for him.
the building’s air conditioner is on too high for your comfort, shoulders hunching forward as you shiver. you’ve been chewing skin off your lower lip since you got up, without even realizing. the taste of blood meets the tip of your tongue but it’s irrelevant to your senses. the air is stale and it stings in your nose when you breathe, sensitive from crying so much over the last few days.
you hear a door creak open, panic fluttering in your throat and your chest feels tight all of a sudden. you start towards the washroom, seeking privacy. you have an hour to compose yourself and you realize taking a few deep breaths in the hallway isn’t going to be enough.
‘running away again?’ he calls for you and you know it’s him without having to turn your head. yet, you do. you spin around, stopping in your tracks. you’ve been staring at him all morning, or rather, trying not to. yet without the conference table separating you, it feels different. the visceral ache in the pit of your stomach returns, nausea and longing so tightly intertwined that you can’t tell the difference anymore.
you wish you didn’t feel the urge to walk towards him but you know you’re not strong enough to run the other way. he makes the choice for you, like he’s always done, closing the distance with fewer steps than it would’ve taken you. his palm cups your elbow with the exact amount of force someone would use on a wife who he knows isn’t brave enough to draw attention to herself. heeseung’s other hand finds the nape of your neck, fingers curling as if to hold you there, but you both know different. you won’t try to flee.
‘why’re you crying?’ he purrs, shifting to cup your cheek instead, thumb swiping away a tear that slipped. a flaw in your poorly constructed armour. ‘this doesn’t have to change anything, baby, you’re still mine. just say the words, i can make this all go away.’ he soothes, letting go of your elbow to grab your waist, his fingers sinking into the softness there.
you swallow a whimper, forearms pressed towards your chest and fists curled, resisting the urge to lean into him and reciprocate his touch. ‘you’re not supposed to talk to me…’ you murmur. your legal team advised you against contacting your husband in any capacity, much less interacting with him directly. you shouldn’t be alone with him, especially not like this.
the scent of his cologne wraps around you like a cage as he dips his head, nose brushing the curve of your cheek. your nerves feel like they’re on fire. his grip on your waist tightens, his breath feels hot on the sensitive skin of your neck like he’s succeeding in crawling back under your skin. maybe he never left.
‘we don’t have to talk,’ he smirks against your neck, you can feel it, his firm chest colliding with the swell of your breasts as his hips press flush into yours. your nails dig into your own palms, squirming in his grasp because your desire to accept his touch is greater than your will to push him away. you hate yourself for it.
heeseung’s lips part, pressing an open mouthed kiss right below your ear. tingles race down your spine, face heating up as he does it again, dragging towards your jaw. ‘see, we’re not talking.’ he whispers into your mouth as he kisses you, slowly at first. his tongue swipes along your lower lip, the tang of your skin and the salt of his saliva merge. your stomach churns and your fingers spread out, palms splaying across his chest before sliding upwards to loop your arms around his neck.
your brain feels blank. the discomfort in your diaphragm melts into your lower abdomen as your fingers interlock behind his head, trapping yourself against him. when he pulls back for a moment, his exhale becomes your inhale as he tilts his head to connect your mouths again. ‘heeseung…’ you whimper. his tongue down your throat silences your protests briefly.
his hand glides from your waist to wrap around your back, holding you tighter against him. he shifts his feet, pushing you towards the wall so your back rests flush against it. his fingers tangle in your hair, the kiss growing hungrier as his teeth sink into your bottom lip. he grabs your thigh and lifts it slightly towards his hip, opening you up to him a fraction more. the hardness of his erection pressing into your core snaps you back to reality. pain, hurt, and a pinch of rational thought flood your mind, planting your palms against his chest and pushing hard. he barely budges.
‘we can’t do this, hee, i can’t do this’ you protest, a surge of emotion rising in your throat as tears well in your eyes again. you want to, more than anything. you want him to hold you again, to cling to him and never let go but the knowledge of what he did rests heavy between you, the scales forever tipped in his favour.
his grip in your hair tightens, pain blooming where the strands pull tight and you wince audibly, eyes squeezing shut as your nose scrunches in response. ‘is this about her?’ he barks like an accusation, as if he’s not the one responsible for ‘her’.
‘god, you love punishing me.’ he patronizes, eyes rolling and the disgusting flicker of annoyance that crosses his features reminds you who you’re dealing with. who you expected to treat you with love and respect, to uphold the vows he read off a page full of words he didn’t write as your mind had wandered to the conversation you’d had with your parents the night before. a boy. not a man.
‘supposed to be mine..’ you whisper, dark lashes drooping with moisture, unable to meet his gaze as you bare your deepest wound for him to see. it’s still fresh, still bleeding, and you don’t trust he won’t stick the knife right back into it.
‘what?’
your heart clenches. he knows, he just wants to hear you say it.
‘s-supposed…’ your breath shudders, shamefully. ‘be me.. you gave it to her.’
you can’t say it. pregnant. your tongue can’t form the word. it nauseates you. you barely knew her name, let alone who she was. seven digits, one paragraph. ‘just thought you should know.’ funds gone from your bank account. you’d been willing to look the other way. the money is heeseung’s, he’s the one who earned it, his name is on the statements. you’d nearly gotten it off your mind when the notification came through on your phone, every word following the previous making your pulse race higher and your heart sink lower.
heeseung’s nostrils flare he takes a slow, controlled breath as though he’s trying to contain his anger. a reaction he shouldn’t be allowed to have, yet does, because if he’s denied something, that just makes him want it more. you’ve already heard him plead his case. he said he did the ‘right’ thing by sending her money for the procedure. he said he’s the one that convinced her. he said he didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to hurt you, that he hates the way she handled it. that you didn’t deserve that.
‘i know, baby.’ he says, and it catches you off guard. you’re used to accusations, to threats, not wisps of validation buried in layers of manipulation and displaced blame. it tastes sour, but still, you swallow.
‘it should’ve been yours.
—
there’s only the sound of heavy breathing and rustling clothes as heeseung pins you against the inside wall of the bathroom stall. his fingers find the fly of your trousers, undoing the top button first before dragging the zipper down fast.
the tips of his digits glide along the seam of your panties, grazing the heat of your folds hidden beneath. he groans against your neck, pressing firmer until his fingertips part your slickness. he circles your clit once, twice, applying more pressure until your breath shudders and what was left of your composure cracks.
‘hee…’ you moan, eyelids fluttering as he dips lower to tease your velvet entrance.
‘baby… you’re so wet for me…’ he whispers in awe. you feel warmth rush to your face, squirming as he lowers the hand that was holding your waist to your hip. his grip tightens there, halting your movements as he pushes his middle finger just slightly into you.
even through the haze of your arousal, you remember why you’re here. not because you love heeseung, not because you need him more than anything, even though those both might be true. you’re here because he broke an oath, at least once that you can prove, and you found yourself unable to look past it. the wound too deep to heal on its own when he keeps opening it back up every time he looks at you.
‘we don’t have time..’ you mumble, reminding him that you’ve been fooling around for who knows how long during a timed recess.
‘yeah,’ he grunts. ‘you’re right.’ this may be the first and only time you’ll hear those words come out of your husband’s mouth in that order. he flips you around so your breasts are flush with the stall. he shimmies your pants down further, attempting to part your thighs roughly with his palms but when there’s too much resistance he yanks your bottoms down to your ankles.
‘hee, wait- i-‘ your protests get caught in your throat as he pushes in, burying himself halfway. you cry out and he clamps a hand down over your mouth. his hips rock gently, easing himself in a little further before he’s able to finally bottom out. your muscles clench and burn, stretching wide to accommodate his size. your breathing is rapid against his palm, fingers curling against the thin wall as you press yourself against it tighter like you’re trying to escape his cock.
‘stop acting like you’ve never taken me before,’ he grits out, tugging your hips back with one hand so your ass bumps against his pelvis. you sob into his palm. it’s been so long and he’s hitting so deep. your toys don’t reach as far when you’re bundled in bed alone, trying to remember the times he made you feel this way and forget how he broke your heart. ‘you’re always so dramatic, fuck, i can’t…’
you imagine if he hadn’t trailed off that he would’ve said he can’t stand you. you’re left unsure whether he knew well enough to bite his own tongue or was distracted by the way your inner walls tighten around his shaft as he thrusts in, withdrawing just to watch your pussy flutter like its afraid he’ll leave it empty.
he begins to set a steady pace, shallow strokes that leave him panting and make your hips tilt instinctively backwards for more. ‘that’s it, baby, you can take it,’ every few thrusts he plunges deeper, your moans vibrating against his palm but when your cunt starts to pulse around him, he slows down again. you really hate him so much.
‘do you want it?’
you’re not sure what he means at first, mind going numb as he brings you towards the edge of release yet again just to deny you. heeseung’s nose nudges at your jawline, affectionate enough but you know him better than that.
‘yeah, you want it, don’t you?’ his fingers find your swollen clit, stroking the bud just right to make your stomach clench and your knees wobble.
‘here’s what you’re gonna do,’ he grits out between thrusts, hips slapping against your asscheeks obscenely. his rough, intentional movements grow sloppier with each pass of his cock through your pulsating channel. ‘gonna to walk back in there-‘ he muffles a groan into the nape of your neck, clearly holding himself back from reaching his peak just yet. ‘tell them… you made a mistake.’
you did make a mistake, you realize that now. you should’ve held your ground out in the hallway, should’ve never let him get you alone like this. you push back against him, his length hitting your sweet spot just right and it makes you mewl involuntarily. you’re ashamed but that doesn’t mean you can’t finish, too. you ignore his attempt at coercing you into changing your mind, your eyes falling closed as you focus on chasing your high.
‘come on, baby, we could be a family.’ he murmurs against the shell of your ear as his fingers work quicker, coaxing your climax forth a little more before they dip below where you desperately need them again.
you don’t remember why you’re fighting him anymore. your whole body yearns for what he’s been depriving you of, but you can’t even name it. you’re not sure he can ever repair what he’s broken, but you don’t think anyone else can either.
‘o-okay,’ you sob, reaching for his wrist to guide his hand back where you need. he obliges for a few brief strokes before he chooses to wrap his forearm around your waist instead, locking you in place as he fucks into you mercilessly.
‘that’s all you wanted?’ heeseung snarls in your ear as he uses your tight cunt like you’re nothing more than a hole to him. ‘you’re so fucking pathetic.’
his words should hurt, but they don’t because he’s right. that’s all you ever wanted.
♥︎ — 18+ only, naoya x f! reader
warnings. infidelity (reader is married to a zenin), naoya is a warning himself, non-graphic mating press and breeding?, brief mentions of zenin clan expectations
naoya has everything to his name — titles and riches beyond measure. all given, nay spoon-fed to him from the moment he was born.
everything except you, of course.
and everyday is a bitter reminder of his damn luck you had to be born from a lowly sorcerer family. one whose name told no great feats but one — your betrothal to a zenin. not to the zenin, of course. just to one of his good-for-nothing incompetent brothers.
still, he relishes in the fact that you’re his to ‘borrow’ even if only for a few measly hours.
that’s a few hours of you on all fours, screaming at the top of your lungs how much better he fucks you than your own husband. that’s hours on end where naoya makes you feel good for being so dirty and impure, when all your life your family has groomed you to be forever pliant to the whims of your husband.
with him, he promises you can be as sinful as you want, and no judgment will come from him.
he fucks you so good, you’ve gone from initially being so creative with the lies you tell your husband to leaving for hours without so much as a warning.
not like your husband wants to do anything about it. after all, naoya always gets his way. as long as you can produce an heir for your husband, you’ve more than fulfilled your duty to him as your wife, and he won’t do so much as breathe in naoya’s direction.
even naoya knows that. but he soon realizes the possibility of someone else’s seed getting planted in your belly.
no time to spare, the minute you enter his chambers, he’s got your legs pinned as far up as you’re able to stretch, giving him unrestricted access to your pussy.
“fuu— fuck.” naoya cranes his neck, eyes squinting and nearly nutting to the thought of knocking you up. “gonna make your belly swell. fuck. you gonna have my babies, yeah?”
“y-yes. f-feels so good, naoya. ‘m gonna ha— fill me up, p-please. fuck!”
since naoya’s little breeding spree, for days, you almost never left his chambers. and at the very least, you know for sure you never have to try with your husband again. because as far as everyone is concerned, once naoya’s seed fills up your belly, and you’ve brought another rare talent into the world, you’ve already played your part well.
DAY 3 of 20 DAILY DRABBLES ⋮ kingsatoru’s blog launch event ❤︎
a/n. I usually avoid anything that remotely mentions pregnancy but with naoya, it seems it’s a must :’)
Summary: your relationship with Baz has spoiled. somewhere along the way he stopped loving you. even so, you still try. during your latest attempt to mend what's broken Pope stumbles upon you at your worst.
Contents: Andrew "Pope" Cody x fem!plus-size!reader, reader is married to Baz, infidelity, smut, unprotected piv, oral f!receiving, body worship, cowgirl position, mentions of insecurities, Baz fucking sucks, angst, dub con? reader has some wine but it's not written with that being the intent
Note: this was a request i got. to be honest, cheating fics aren't normally my thing but it's Baz, so i don't feel tooooo bad. inspiration took the wheel here, this idea just tickled my brain. i think there's potential for a second part but i can be bad with ideas sometimes, so feel free to share any!! credit to @/saradika-graphics for the divider.
Word Count: 3.5k
Ao3 Link: read here!
It's hard to pinpoint when it happened. To definitively determine when love turned to disinterest turned to distaste would mean taking a long, hard look at the past two years. And if you're going to be completely honest with yourself, you don't think you have the strength to relive it all. The arguments and the avoidance. The little remarks about your weight, what you eat, what you wear. The first time Craig had slipped up and mentioned Lucy—when a deafening hush fell over the room, and all anyone could look at you with was pity. Everyone knew and you'd been made the fool.
It's a humiliation ritual you don't wish to partake in, and yet you find that you're putting yourself through one arguably more embarrassing. The relationship between you and your husband has rotted from the inside out, but you still try to throw yourself at him. Pathetic as it is. You want to prove that you aren't beyond loves reach. You had made a day of it—picked up fresh ingredients for dinner, treated yourself to a mani-pedi, and purchased a pretty new set of lingerie.
It's all for nothing. Dinner goes cold, your texts unanswered, and your appetite lost. You pick at your nails as you stare at the empty seat across from you. A seat that has gone empty for so long that you're not sure how you managed to convince yourself that this time would be any different. Desperation? Plain and simple stupidity? Some crude combination of the two, you conclude.
Suddenly, you're hyper aware of every sensation and noise. Lace that itches beneath your clothes. The way the underwire of your bra digs into your skin. A shift in the room as though all the air has been sucked out. Appliances constant undercurrent, a quiet twilling that normally remains unnoticed. The gentle susurration of waves lapping at the shore.
With a sudden jolt, you stand. Beneath you, the chair scrapes against the floor, pushed back by the force of the motion. Briefly, you feel sorry for yourself. It's not an unfamiliar feeling—the urge to shut down and wallow in your sorrows. Then self-pity curdles. Your throat feels tight, and heat swallows you whole.
You feel so angry. At Baz, at the world, and at yourself. There's so much of it. It's overwhelming. Red and hot and filling you to the brim. It licks up and pools tears along your lash line. It brings your hands down upon the table, wreaking havoc on the dinner you'd lovingly made, but let go to waste. Your plate crashes to the floor and shatters on impact. A shout tears itself from your throat.
Raggedly, you take your next breath and the next. Somewhere along the way your heaving breaths turn to sobs. You crumble back down onto the chair. For awhile you stay there, folded into yourself. Until you're drawn to the wine cabinet to pop the cork on a particularly expensive bottle Baz had been saving for the right occasion. Fuck him. You bring your mouth to the lip of the bottle and take swig before pouring yourself a glass. When you finish one you pour yourself another.
Before long, you're standing in front of the full length mirror tucked in the corner of your bedroom. You've lost your clothes somewhere along the way. All that remains is the lingerie you wasted an obscene amount of money on. You're pretty, you think. When you're not so lost in your own head. Though, right now you're a mess constructed of smudged mascara, tear stained cheeks, and an anger that's barely begun to wilt.
With your emotions running high you're not immune to the piercing judgment of an over critical eye. Your eyes first stop at your flabby arms, next they move to your pudgy stomach, and lower to your thighs that look as thick as tree trunks. Earlier, you'd thought the lacy set did a good job at drawing attention away from all your insecurities, but now it seemed to accentuate every part of you that you've learned to nitpick.
When you lift your gaze, you catch movement behind you in the reflection. At first, you think it's Baz, and your first instinct is to cover up. Winding your arms around yourself, you turn to face him, but you come face to face with someone else entirely. Pope. You screech and stumble back.
"What the fuck!" You shout. Thankfully, he pivots and looks away from you.
"Sorry—I… Baz—I wanted to talk to Baz," he mumbles. Your gaze sweeps over him. He's gone pink from his neck to his freckled cheeks to the tips of his ears. His fingers twitch in their usual manner at his sides, and he shuffles around to look at you again. The way his eyes rake up and down your body doesn't escape your notice.
The desire to shrink back into the mirror behind you grows tenfold—to have the ability to poof out of existence would be a blessing, but it's not one you're afforded. So you remain trapped beneath Pope's sharp stare, pinned to the corner of the room. Mustering up enough courage, you meet his gaze head on as if to telepathically tell him to leave, but he doesn't seem to get the message.
"He's not here."
Pope blinks, taken out of whatever place his mind had just wandered to. "Do you know where he is?"
The question of the century. Hell if you know. Well, you might have an idea or two, but you really don't want to go there this second.
"You'd know better than me," you scoff. You feel like laughing. Instead your vision blurs again. Tears come unbidden and accompanied by stinging shame. Pope looks like a deer caught in headlights. His eyes widen a fraction and his posture stiffens even more, if possible. You inhale, choking on the intake of air as you slink towards the center of the room, and sink onto the edge of the bed.
A tiny part of you is relieved that it's not Baz standing there, and you're not sure what to make of it. Pope still makes no move to leave. Even as he stands with one foot out the door. He stares at you. Always with the staring. You sniffle and drag a hand down your face.
"You've caught me at a bad time," you say with a watery laugh. That's all it takes for Pope to take another step. His other foot passes the threshold. He approaches you like you're a wounded animal. Slowly, cautiously, and careful not to startle. The mattress dips as he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed next to you.
He doesn't utter a word—doesn't ask if you're okay or what happened or any of the niceties people are supposed to say when they stumble upon someone crying. He relegates himself to a mere presence at your side. A warmth that permeates into the sliver of space between you. An absence of judgment. Somehow, he knows it's exactly what you need, or he's just wholly unequipped to handle his brother's crying wife. The latter, probably, but you appreciate it anyway.
What happens next is not a conscious decision—the distance between you narrows. One body seeks another, taking shelter from a storm. Your head falls to his shoulder. You can feel him tense up at the contact. There's a moment where time comes to a standstill—where the room absorbs a stillness unbroken. Neither of you move closer, but you don't withdraw either. Pope inhales abruptly as his shoulders draw taut. Then he relaxes, one arm curls around your waist, and he pulls you into him.
You cry. And cry. You cry your heart out until your throat is raw and your head aches and there are no more tears left to be shed. Pope holds you the entire time, his strong arms coil around you as you wet the collar of his shirt and the crook of his neck. His scent swathes you. A combination of detergent, sweat, and something a little woodsy. It's oddly soothing.
One of his hand splays over your back, rubbing gently up and down. Your sobs quiet, turning to an occasional sniffle. Even so, not once does he urge you from your place curled into his chest. He makes no move to rush you or push you away, but eventually you do pull back. His head tilts, taking in what you can only imagine to be a sorry sight.
"I needed that…" you croak, your voice scratchy and worn thin, "thank you."
A hand comes up to your face, cradling one cheek with the utmost care. His thumb brushes the apple of your cheek. It feels far too intimate to be considered appropriate, but then again none of this is exactly orthodox, is it?
"Baz is an idiot," he says. His gaze holds yours, and you glimpse a drop of anger in those pools of hazel. "He's blind if he can't see what's right in front of him."
"And what is it that you see exactly?" You ask before you can think better of it. His throat bobs, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. With one sentence you've opened Pandora's box.
"I'm no good with words," he admits, jaw ticking as he debates his next ones, "want me to show you?"
You shouldn't. You really shouldn't. No, especially not with Baz's brother. You should unwind yourself from his embrace, and create all the distance you can. You should tell Pope to leave, and bare the burden that you let it get this far at all—endure never being able to never look him in the eyes again, and never being able to hold a conversation without the shadow of this very moment looming over you.
"No, we—we can't." You shake your head and begin to move away. "What kind of person would that make me?"
"It would make you human," he says and it gives you pause. Five simple words derail you from doing the right thing. He says your name, and it's like you've fallen back under a trance you'd momentarily broken. "If it were you and I—if we were—I would never take you for granted."
Fuck. You can feel your resistance crumble like a physical wall. And in the dust, debris, and wreckage of it all, you run straight back to him. You're weak. You're only human.
"Kiss me." It's over. Whatever infinitesimal amount of restraint you had left cannot be regained. You want to blame it on the alcohol buzzing in your veins, but you know you can't pass the whole blame on just that. You need this, and you want it bad.
"You're sure?" He takes a measured breath, but his willpower is shrinking too. Any hesitance is merely a courtesy towards you, and the worry that he might fuck it all up.
"Yes, I'm sure, right now, but don't let me second guess this or I'll change my mind."
Not another moment is let slip by. Pope's hands are on you. They never strayed far, lifting to frame your jaw and coax you closer until his lips are on yours. He's kissing you. You can hardly believe it. Pope is not cold and domineering like you expected him to be. You discover a shivering, shimmering warmth. Passion that bleeds through after broiling beneath the surface for too long.
He urges you closer. In answer, you burrow your hands in his curls and allow him to steal back the distance between you. You're drawn onto his lap, body pressed flushed to his. A groan rattles from him. Reluctantly, he comes up for air. He looks ready for rejection. As if the kiss will have turned you against whatever this is, but he is quicksand and you've already sunk far too deep.
"You're so fuckin' beautiful." His voice cracks like the words themselves have desperately been trying to claw their way out. It leaves you wondering how long he's been harbouring these sorts of feelings—the kind he shouldn't have for you, but can't shut out. The look that crosses your face must give away your doubts. "You are."
He doubles down, pushing you flat to the bed and wrenching your legs open by shoving the broad stretch of his shoulders between them. A shudder flutters through you as he inches towards your waiting heat. He noses at the sheer fabric that hides you, and takes a deep breath, completely shameless in his desire for you—for every part of you.
"Pope…!" you gasp. Your legs tremble, threatening to knock together in an attempt to shut him out. He doesn't let you. His arms loop your thighs, keeping you locked in place and flayed open for him. Reality disperses with one slow swipe of his tongue over the front of your panties.
His eyes darken. He corrects you. "Andrew."
"Huh…" you hum, brain slow to process his meaning.
"Don't call me that," he clarifies, "call me by my name."
He doesn't return to your weeping center. His attention diverts elsewhere. The scalloped edge of your panties has rolled down, leaving nothing to conceal the swell of your stomach. A low, burgeoning groan rumbles from him as he lays his head there, turning to pepper kisses over the stretch marks that sprawl across the fat at your hip.
Everything about you is supple and soft and divine. Yet, at the same time, he makes it out to seem as if there is not enough of you. Rough pads of his fingers skating along every curve and roll, dipping into cushiony flesh. Gripping, holding, scooping you up, and committing the lush feel of you to memory. He mouths at you. Lips chart a damp trail down to your plump mound—your wet and wanting cunt perfectly gift wrapped in lace. He hums, deluded enough to believe it's just for him.
The prettiest sight. A view that he never wants to give up and that few are deserving of looking upon. Dipping his head forward, the next thing you feel is the heat of his mouth on your covered cunt. Pope devours you through your lace. A combination of his saliva and your spit darkens the material.
Gentle, titillating flicks of his tongue broken up by muffled moans. His avoidance of your clit is deliberate. The phantom touch of him so close to where you need him, nose barely bumping the bundle of nerves, but it's not enough. Not even close. You're not sure how much more you can take. Anticipation that borders on frustration. Your hips cant upwards, coveting what he's purposefully and so unfairly refusing to give.
Finally, he caves and retreats fractionally, so he can peel your panties away. You moan in unison when his lips wrap around your clit with unfettered hunger. "Ah—! Andrew, fuck…"
You're so lost that you almost miss it. The sweetest sound—the tiniest whimper muffled against your sopping folds. He grinds his aching erection into the mattress below, strong hands grappling at the thighs that sandwich his head. Each pass of his tongue over your clit brings you higher. Nerve endings firing, electricity pulsing, coercing you over the edge.
It's a drop in a pond. Ripples that wash over you and curl your toes. He works you through your orgasm, and just when it seems like he'll never let up, he pries your thighs apart and removes himself from between them. He stands from the bed, and begins to unbutton his shirt. Shrugging it off, his shaky fingers go to his pants.
He's big—bigger than you're used to, and you don't have to say a thing. He can glean it from your expression. It puffs his chest and pulls a small smirk onto his lips.
"I want you on top of me," he says, moving back towards the bed. You make a small, warbled sound as you try to make up some excuse as to why that's a bad idea, but he's having none of it. He lays down and guides you over him. Your legs bracket his hips. His cock makes it's presence known, twitching against your inner thigh.
Your heart beats in your dripping cunt. Copious amounts of slick wetness assist the slide of his cock, shaft gliding along your seam and fitting flush to you. Your hips rock, slipping the length of his drooling cock between your folds. All heat and zero percision, only neglect scraped raw into desperation.
On one pass, the head catches at your entrance, sinking just barely inside before slipping free. He bites back a moan. After a couple more rolls of your hips, it notches there again. This time you let it happen, keening at the stretch as he sinks inside your tight heat. You have to take a moment to adjust.
Steadying yourself, you begin to move. You feel powerful. There's a sense of control to be had here, where in every other aspect of your life it has spiraled beyond you. So you cling to it, as miniscule and insignificant as it might be. And Pope revels in it, in the privilege of being privy to this side of you. He looks damn near reverent of. You're like a goddess above him—bouncing on his cock, taking what you need.
You're not sure you can remember the last time you felt this way. Like you're someone to be revered, worshipped, held tenderly, and loved. Have you ever felt this way? Has Baz ever made you feel this way? Maybe Pope is the first. Maybe he will be the last. It doesn't matter. You simply need to tuck yourself into this moment and forget about everything else. So you do just that.
The rise and fall is addicting. As mesmerizing as the jiggle of every plush and pillowy part of you. You take him so beautifully, cunt stuffed full of his chubby cock, clinging to him each time you lift up. He grabs handfuls of your soft tummy before settling his hands on your plump hips, dimpling the flesh. He begins to guide your rhythm where you start to falter.
"Yeah… I've got you," he utters breathlessly, "just like that. Mhm, up and down, sweet girl."
His thick fingers find your clit, pinching it gently before massaging firm circles over it. You're there—right there—teetering, teetering, gone. His name is a prayer on your lips followed up by an encore of the sweetest sounds he's ever heard. Arms, thick and corded with muscle, encircle you and tug you down to him as your body shakes apart.
"Fuck… nghh—" he curses, punctuating each thrust upwards with a grunt. He's chasing his own release now. Sweat beading his brow and sheening on his neck. You bow your head into the junction where his shoulder meets his neck, tongue darting out to lave at the damp skin. He groans, hips stilling as his cock pulses inside you. "So good—did so good… so fuckin' perfect. Gorgeous girl."
The litany of praises flitter past your ear. You're floating, mind foggy and vision hazy, completely fucked out. He holds you as you drift. The exhaustion of not only this, but all your emotions and outbursts from earlier has caught up to you. It pulls you under.
Guilt doesn't sprout until the morning, rising with the sun that pours into the bedroom. It takes a moment for your mind to catch up, but it all comes rushing back. You're arm flops out to feel for Pope, but the space beside you is empty. You can't even be sure the whole thing wasn't some sort of fever dream—a product of your sever loneliness and whatever mental break you had been experiencing.
Groggily, you sit up and unclasp the itchy lace bra you're still wearing. You pad over to the dresser, and throw on a t-shirt and shorts. The house isn't completely silent you realize as you amble down the hall. In the kitchen, Pope stands by the sink. He's doing the dishes. The table had been cleared, the shattered plate swept up. In fact, the whole house looks tidier.
He flicks the faucet off, and turns to face you. It well and truly hits you then. What you did. How frustratingly right this all feels. Domestic and warm. Wanting this to last, but knowing it can never be—knowing it will never be, and you've let yourself have a slice of it. You will have to live having had a taste of what you can't possibly have.
"You need to leave, Pope," you say, and you hate yourself for it. You despise the expression it pulls onto his face. The slightest quiver of his lip, and the confusion in his eyes. You don't feel like you have a choice, so you rush to shut him out. "You can't be here."
He doesn't protest. He doesn't say anything. Pope only nods then leaves like you asked him to. You're not sure if that hurts more or less. Would you have preferred him to fight it? To say something? To pull you close and kiss you again? Either way, you've brought the aching emptiness that follows his departure upon yourself. There's no one else to blame.
♡ your ultimate guide to A+ special edition: “do you have a crush on someone, but they’re taken?” ─ ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊
your ultimate guide to A+ (without the effort!) ~ a totally not suspicious tutorial by yn ♡ a soft, step-by-step guide to becoming the girlfriend of your bestfriend's boyfriend (special edition!)
𓊆박성훈 x fem reader𓊇 you're my boyfriend, you're my boyfriend. i'm reborn after meeting you. i'm sorry but i took him from you, i love it. i'm your–i'm your–i'm your other girlfriend, between you and me, shh it's a secret. ─ my friend's boyfriend, DIA ⫶ 𐔌masterlist꒱
𓆩♡𓆪 ... hello ... first of all, i am so so sorry my writing is so shit, i haven't been in the right state of mind and honestly was so close to stop writing & leaving tumblr but it was just my moment of vulnerability... i'm so sorry for the unanswered texts and asks! i promise i will get back to it asap... ^3^ i wanted to try something new @ format with this fic, so i hope you guys see my vision! this will most likely be a non-committed series! it's cute, isn't it? <3 might rewrite but lmk what you think!!
word count 4.5k
warning advisory infidelity, cheating (emotional + physical), manipulation, pursuing someone taken, yn is an asshole, loss of friendship, morally gray characters, yn has no remorse at all, friendship betrayal, non proofread!
♡ your ultimate guide to A+ (without the effort!) ~ a totally not suspicious tutorial by yn ♡
q: yn! i like this boy, but he’s my bestfriend’s boyfriend :( he’s so hot and kind and i just don’t think that she should be with him! he obviously deserves so much better but i don’t know how to tell, or show it to him! what should i do?
special edition: “do you have a crush on someone, but they’re taken?”
if the answer is yes, then this guide is for you!
we all know that the good, handsome, hot, kind, perfect ones usually are taken—at least when you first notice them… he has a partner. she’s pretty, she’s fine, she’s… there.
you see them together at parties, her hand looped through his arm where it belongs—he smiles down at her the way boyfriends are supposed to, but sometimes—only sometimes his gaze drifts across the room and lands on you for a heartbeat too long..
but here’s the thing—”taken” isn’t, and never will be a permanent state! and i know that because i’m the best at ensuring that it’s not ♡ it’s just a current one, and current states can shift if the conditions change.
besides, girls help girls, don’t we?
sometimes we just help ourselves to what was already halfway ours and the ending usually goes one way, right? the sad, heartbroken one—or the happily ever after one.
we’re usually the latter.
so here’s a guide on how to steal the one for you—without making it obvious that you are the problem.
WARNING—you WILL 98% lose your bestfriend, but remember our goals, girls! the boyfriend, not the friendship! keep your eyes on the prize ♡
are you close to him? if not, first thing first—befriend him!
“oh—sunghoon?” you lifted your voice high just enough, startled to see him. your eyes were wide, small gasp, head tilting slightly for that extra touch of surprise.
sunghoon turned, eyebrows raising when he registered that it's you.
“yn?” a soft laugh escaped him, half–confused, half–amused. “what are you doing here?”
you blinked, holding up the limited–edition volume you’d been clutching since earlier. it’s your most treasured possession—kind of, but that’s beside the point. “to get it signed, obviously,” you chuckled, tilting the book so he could see the cover.
your smile was easy and teasing when you watched as sunghoon’s eyes trail the cover. “i never knew you were into this series too.” you continued, putting your hands down. sunghoon glanced back at you, something warm flickering in his expression.
“yeah, been following it for years…” he murmured, the corner of his lips twitching into an amused smile. “i didn’t know you liked it.” he continued, emphasising the you just enough that it felt personal.
you shrugged, letting a soft laugh slip out. “that’s just because nobody i know enjoys it! sooha definitely doesn’t, so i just have myself to talk about it with.” you hummed, words were light and playful, but you held his gaze a second longer than necessary.
sunghoon huffed a quiet laugh, looking down at his own copy for a moment. when he looked back up, his voice was lower, almost conspirational. “yeah—she doesn’t,” he shrugged, wetting his lips. “which collection hooked you?
you stepped a little closer—because the line shuffles forward (and something else)—and angled your book toward him so your fingers almost brushed when you pointed to the page you’ve bookmarked with a thin silk ribbon.
“tomie…” you murmured shyly, heat rising up to your cheeks. “and i don’t like it performative–way, okay? i just…” you trailed off, biting your lip gently. “i like how she’s beautiful and terrifying at the same time. she’s so fascinating—especially the part where she comes back wrong over and over.”
you glanced up at him through your lashes, voice softening.
“you?”
sunghoon smiled, chuckling. “i couldn’t tell. you’re opposite of her in a good way—” he said, looking at what you wear. yeah—you are opposite of her. white babydoll top, polka dot skirts, and calves–high socks with your mary janes…
everything’s sweet, delicate, doll–like.
he met your eyes again. “right—anyway, i like fragments of horror. blackbird’s in it, so it’s really really good.” he paused, then added quieter, almost like an afterthought he didn’t mean to say out loud, “but i also like shiver… didn’t bring that one today, though.”
your eyes lighted up—perfectly timed, perfectly genuine.
girls! always, always, always seize any opportunities that come your way!
“shiver? oh my god… i’ve always wanted to read that one!” you let your lips part adorably just slightly, like you’re surprised and delighted all at once. you glanced down at your own book, then back up at him, voice soft and a little shy—faux.
“i could never find a copy that wasn’t insanely expensive. i’ve been looking forever.”
never push and never ask! just let the words hang there, hopeful, like a question you’re too polite to voice.
and let the rest unfold.
sunghoon looked at you for a second longer than necessary—then he smiled. “i have it,” he said simply, nodding.
“i could… lend it to you. if you want.”
your heart fluttered and you tilted your head, fingers lightly tightening around your book. “really? you wouldn’t mind it, sunghoon?” a tiny laugh escaped you, sweet and grateful. “i’d take such good care of it, i promise.”
he shrugged. now that he knows what kind of girl you are—surprisingly chill, calm, easy to talk to—sunghoon allowed himself to soften. “it’s just sitting on my shelf. so it’s better if someone actually reads it.”
tip#1: don’t be too much, too pushy, or too obvious! have patience—good things take time.
you smiled, now hugging your book against your chest. “thank you so much, sunghoon. that’s really sweet of you. maybe you can pass it to jaeyun—? we share lots of classes together.”
sunghoon held your gaze before he nodded—the noise of the line and the crowd fading just a little.
“...yeah,” he murmured, nodding. “i can do that.”
quite easy, isn’t it? you don’t need a grand plan or fake an entire personality. stay true to your roots and just have a common ground with him. it won’t look like you’re flirting or trying too much to be around him.
fake it till it’s real! it’ll start with the interest, but it will develop into something more, something deeper, something more personal. trust me—been there, done that! soon enough, it’ll feel like the most natural thing in the world.
p/s: the tomie book i have? it actually belongs to my brother~ :p i’m more of a cardcaptor girl ♡
2. become the better listener!
the pros about liking your bestfriend’s boyfriend is that nobody knows her better than you! so be there—text him whenever your bestfriend rants about her problems and time it perfectly.
don’t be suspicious—boys aren’t as dumb as we thought…
“hey… she was just telling me about what happened. are you okay?”
sunghoon was on the far bench, the one half–hidden by the willow tree, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. his dark hair was messed up like he’s been running his fingers through it too many times to count.
he looked so tired…
“i’m so sorry for calling you out right now.” he sighed, running his hand along his face. you shook your head, sitting next to him but just close enough that your hoodie almost touches his’. “don’t mention it, you’re the one who came so far to my park.”
for a minute, neither of you spoke. just letting the wind in the leaves and distant teenagers laughing somewhere in the park. eventually, sunghoon cracked.
“she just… twisted everything i said. i wasn’t even mad, i just asked if we could talk about it calmly, and suddenly i’m the bad guy for bringing it up.” he rubbed a hand over his face again. “i don’t even know what i’m doing wrong anymore.”
you hummed, staring down at your flats. “tell me your side.”
sunghoon’s head lifted slowly. he cocked an eyebrow, surprise flickering his face—he genuinely didn’t expect anyone to ask. not her, not his friends—and definitely not his girlfriend’s bestfriend.
“...you want to hear it?” he asked, almost cautious. you met his eyes, nodding. “mmhm.”
see—men aren’t used to being asked, to being believed at first. especially not when the story has a villain assigned, and especially not when he’s ranting it to his girlfriend’s bestfriend with the thought that she will side with her!
but that’s where you come in.
because the villain in this story is neither of them! if we’re being real, isn’t it us?
he exhaled, slumped on the bench.
“it’s stupid, really. she saw some texts from a girl in my study group,” he shook his head, bitter laugh escaping. “but she’s convinced i’m hiding something. all because the girl texts me so late asking for resources.”
sunghoon paused, glancing at you like he’s waiting for a judgement.
you didn’t give it.
“she went through my phone while i was in the shower and found nothing, obviously. i confronted her ‘cause—cause why would you go through your boyfriend’s phone if you claim you trust him?” his voice cracked slightly on the last word.
“now she’s mad because of that.”
another silence.
you let it sit for a little while, just humming softly to let him know you’re listening. then, comfortingly—”that’s… really unfair to you.”
tip #2: never call the girlfriend crazy, or toxic. don’t badmouth her!
sunghoon’s shoulders visibly loosened. he looked at you again like he’s trying to find the catch that’s not in your eyes… oh, you got it… it is unfair for him.
“thanks,” he said quietly. “...i… i get it, to an extent that she’d have suspicions but i told her there’s nothing i’m hiding, yet, she doesn’t believe it.”
you gave him a tiny smile. “just give it some time. explain to her that it’s not like that, and let her be in her thoughts for now.”
on the surface, it’s perfect bestfriend advice. but underneath laid the permission to pull back and to stop chasing for her reassurance. you purposely seep and frame it as patience—when really, you’ve planted the seed that trying harder for sooha might not even be worth it.
and sunghoon took the bait—nodding slowly, absorbing like it’s a sensible thing he’s heard all day, especially with all the bullshit around him.
“yeah… maybe you’re right.” he exhaled, the burden hopping off his shoulders. “you can’t force someone to trust you anyway.” sunghoon continued, shrugging as he lightly kicks a pebble in front of his shoes.
you nodded, pursing your lips. “that’s on them, not you.”
another beat of silence follows.
sunghoon looked at you—really looked—and something quiet and comfort passed over his face. it’s like a relief, a gratitude, and a tiny flicker of warmth.
“you always know what to say,” he said, almost to himself. even if the truth was that it’s what he wants to listen, and not something you truly mean.
but that’s beside the point.
you let out a soft laugh, looking down at your hands, stretching them. “i just hate seeing you upset.”
he didn’t reply right away, just humming in agreement. what else was there to say, anyway? it’s when the wind picks up and you shivered slightly—that sunghoon speaks up.
“you cold?” he asked, already shrugging out of his windbreaker before you could answer.
tip #3: always refuse and play hard to get!
you started to protest—it’s okay—but sunghoon’s draping it over your shoulders, warm from his body, smelling faintly of his cologne and the night air.
“better,” he said simply.
there’s a high chance of him texting you to ask if you’ve reached home safely~ and he’ll thank you for lending him your ears to listen to his problems! if you’ve reached this point, congratulations! you are one step closer to stealing your bestfriend’s boyfriend!
3. create private air & become the contrast!
i’ve decided to combine these two tips because it’s something you do simultaneously! it’s twice as deadly and half the effort.
by now, he’s already comfortable with you. but that’s not enough just yet… we need to turn that comfort into something he craves for!
“sunghoon! are you still at the library?!”
you heard the rustle of pages, the zipper of his bag. “yeah, i’m just packing up. why? everything okay?”
“oh, thank god,” you exhaled, relief dripping from every syllable. “i think i left my ipad on the table—the pink case with little star stickers on the back. i’m already at my apartment and i have no idea how i forgo—”
you rambled, frustration and self disappointment laced in your tone. it’s cute! it’s human—it’ll make him want to fix it.
“yn—it’s okay,” sunghoon chuckled, slinging his bag around his shoulder. “i have her with me now.”
you let out a tiny, breathy laugh. “you just saved my life, by the way. i have that presentation tomorrow and i’d be dead without it.”
sunghoon’s quiet for a second, and you could almost picture the small smile tugging at his lips. “it’s really no big deal. i’m leaving the library now anyway.”
you bit your lip, then softened your voice even more.
“would you… maybe be willing to drop it off? i know it’s out of your way, but i’d feel so much better if it was here tonight. i’ll transfer you the bus money—or buy you coffee to make up for it.”
another soft chuckle from him. “yn, i pass your building anyway,” he said, like he’s already decided he’s going. “but coffee sounds nice. i’ll keep your word for it.”
you smiled to yourself, biting the inside of your cheek. “i’ll buzz you in, just come up on my floor.”
sunghoon came by exactly the next fifteen minutes and you opened the door looking really fucking grateful, eyes bright. “hey…” you breathed, pushing the door a little wider. “thank you doesn’t even cover it…”
he shrugged, handing it over. your fingers brushed his as you take it, pressing it against your chest with a smile. “safe and sound,” he said, running his fingers through his locks.
you nodded, muttering another small and soft—thanks again—before your eyes flicked to the side, then back at him. “oh—i baked cookies, if you wanna have one. i can’t send you back out without something warm.”
sunghoon only hesitated for a second.
“yeah,” he said quietly, already shrugging off his bag. “five minutes sounds good.”
five minutes turned into an hour.
sunghoon sat on your couch, legs stretched out, tea steaming between his hands—talking about everything and nothing at the same time. you curled on the other end, knees tucked under you, laughing at his stories, asking questions that made him naturally open up more.
here’s the secret bonus point of liking your bestfriend’s boyfriend—you can act the contrast of her. just do the opposite effortlessly. she interrupts, you listen until he’s finished. she demands detail, you let him share what he wants (because let’s be honest, you’re not his girlfriend yet, who cares about details?)
she fills silence with drama, you let him be safe in your silence.
when sunghoon finally stood to leave, he looked lighter than when he arrived.
“thanks for the cookie and tea,” he said at the door, leaning slightly against the frame. “and for… this.”
you smile teasingly. “this what?”
sunghoon playfully rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “listening to me and all that.” you shrugged, telling him it’s not a big deal and that he can always come up to you for anything. sunghoon nodded, fingers brushing the doorframe.
“text you when i’m home?”
you both know it’s coming.
private air: officially created. contrast: full felt.
now your boy just spent almost an hour in your world and didn’t wanna leave it! if i’m being honest, if you’ve reached up to this point, you can almost already hit it off.
i’ll let you guys in on something~ the tension is there. you feel it everytime your fingers brush, he feels it every time you laugh at something he says. it should hum under every conversation and every shared glance.
trust me!
but here’s the secret~
if you want something more than just hitting it off—something that lasts, something he chooses completely, something he can’t imagine walking away from…
don’t rush the spark and follow this next step ♡
4. let him make the first. real. move.
it’s a thursday in late november.
sunghoon texted you an hour ago—asking if you’re still up, and that he kinda needs to get out of here for a bit.
you replied with always up, and door’s unlocked if you want quiet.
sunghoon showed up just twenty minutes later with his hoodie pulled up, cheeks pink and flushed from the cold, eyes tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. he kicked off his shoes and dropped onto your couch like how you would with someone you’re close with.
you sat on the opposite end—always—just close enough to feel him, but far enough that it didn’t make you look like a slut that wanted her bestfriend’s boyfriend.
for a while, the two of you just talked. nothing really important, and about everything that doesn’t involve sooha. he’s tired partly because of her and studying—so you quickly averted the conversation into something else.
you showed him the new playlist you made, leaning over to hand him one airpod. your shoulders touched, but neither of you moved away.
“you always do this,” sunghoon said quietly, dropping his head back on the backrest of the couch. you tilted your head slightly, both confused and amused. “do what?”
the boy shrugged, exhaling, eyes dropping to your lips for half a second before flicking back up. “it’s like you have this energy to make things feel okay… or something,” he said, looking up at the ceiling.
“it’s just easy talking to you.”
tip #4 important!: do NOT confess. do NOT tell him your true motive! this is NOT a moment of vulnerability! let him make the first move but play along!
your heart was loud in your ears, but your voice stayed soft.
“well, your presence makes everything fun.” you replied cheekily with a small giggle, shrugging like it’s not a big deal even though it means the world and more to you. sunghoon huffed a small chuckle, eyes crickling at the corners.
he shifted on the couch, letting a quiet groan as he stretched—arms stretching high above his head, hoodie riding just a little, before one arm dropped lazily behind you along the backrest.
his fingers didn’t touch you though.
“i think it takes one to know one, though,” he murmured, voice low, teasing—but there’s something else beneath. something steady and serious that makes your tummy pools with heat.
the room was quiet except for the soft hum from the tv and faint sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.
sunghoon’s gaze dropped to your mouth for a second—then back to your eyes, searching.
you didn’t say anything, eyes fixed on your lap before you moved your head to look at him. don’t say anything, don’t lean—just hold his stare, soft and open, letting him know that—
sunghoon’s hand moved first, sliding from the backrest to the nape of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair. he pulled you in, not rushed, and the kiss started soft.
a brush of lips, warm and careful, like he’d been thinking about this for some time—longer than he’ll ever admit, and when he did it, he’s still thinking about it.
when you parted your lips just slightly, welcoming him, sunghoon exhaled against you and deepened it deliberately—shifting to face you, knees brushing against your bare one. “hngh—” you let out a soft moan, his lips on yours tasted faintly like the cinnamon tea you shared earlier.
your hands slid up his chest, curling into his hoodie, feeling his racing heart against your palm where he also let out a soft breathy moan. your lips molded and melted against his; sunghoon’s tongue flicked over your lips to ask for permission,
and that’s when you—
pull back.
slowly, gently, enough that your lips barely separate but still close enough that he could just dip for another kiss. your forehead still resting against his, breaths mingling in the small space between you.
his eyes fluttered open, dazed and confused, eyebrows furrowed.
you huffed—small, soft, a little shaky. “hoon,” you whispered, letting your hands fall on his wrist. your fingers traced down his arm, then rest on his thigh. “we shouldn’t…”
he froze, but didn't pull away. sunghoon’s thumb brushed your cheek, almost pleading. he almost leaned in for another kiss—when you pulled back entirely.
you tucked your hair behind your ear, looking down at your lap, trembling just the right amount like you’re guilty of it. “...maybe you should go home…”
the words hang in the quiet space.
“what?”
no worries—! remember when i said we’ll end up with a happy ending? i’m not finished with my guide yet~
here’s the truth that ties everything together:
one thing about guys is that they only realise how good something is when they’ve lost it. or when they’re terrified they’re about to.
that’s why this final tip isn’t just a trick…
it’s the endgame.
5. the push and pull game.
after that kiss—after you pulled back and asked him to go home, and closed the door behind him—you didn’t disappear.
you just faded. kinda.
sunghoon texted you like nothing changed the next morning, and you replied like usual—except it took you almost five hours to reply with one word, and it took him 2 seconds to reply to you instantly.
he wanted to call, but you rain checked him with the excuse of heading to bed early.
you never went to bed early.
the third day, he tried again.
sunghoon texted you about that one upcoming horror movie you mentioned before, and asked if you want to watch it together this weekend. you replied five hours later with a simple, “sounds fun! let me check my schedule and get back to you!”
you never got back to him.
day five, his texts got a little longer.
he asked if you were okay, and that he hadn’t heard from you much… he also hadn’t seen you around… you replied to him the next morning with another excuse of being swamped with work and family stuff.
except, you still liked his stories. still replied—eventually, never with questions, though, just answers to his texts. you still posted stories with your friends here and there.
just never him.
by day eight… his texts started carrying weight.
sunghoon: i can’t stop thinking about you.
sunghoon: i know you said we shouldn’t, but can we not pretend like it didn’t happen?
you read it but left it on delivered for the next seven hours.
yn: i think about it too. but nothing’s changed.
yn: i don’t wanna be in the middle.
day ten, you purposely missed call him. when sunghoon called you back, you didn’t pick up.
day twelve, the messages turned raw.
sunghoon: this is killing me.
sunghoon: i can’t talk to you like before and i hate it.
sunghoon: can we talk it out??
yn: i miss you too but i don’t know how to do this halfway.
and then sunghoon’s slammed with another radio silence from you again.
two weeks. fourteen days of minimal replies, excuses, and purposeful distance. fourteen days of him feeling the full weight of what life without you actually feels like—and fourteen days of sunghoon reflecting what he truly wants and doesn’t.
he found himself fighting with sooha even more when she asked what’s up with him being so gloomy these past few days? he slept less and stared at your call log more than he’d ever admit.
every time he got a notification, it felt like a punch when it’s not from you.
day fourteen, he broke. your phone buzzed at 02:00 a.m.
sunghoon: i ended it.
a pause, another text.
sunghoon: can i come over? please?
you waited fifteen minutes—just to get him on the edge, long enough for his heart to drop (yours did, though)—then replied.
yn: come here
he was there in nine minutes. hair messy, eyes red–rimmed, breathing hard as he ran his way all the way here. you opened the door in your nightgown, socked, looking small and soft and everything sunghoon had been aching for.
he didn’t speak at first—just stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and pulled you into his arms tightly because he couldn’t afford not being with you again.
“i couldn’t do it anymore,” he whispered against your hair. “couldn’t breathe without you. couldn’t pretend i didn’t want this—want you.” sunghoon buried his face into the crook of your neck, having to bend down to match your height.
you smiled unknowingly, wrapping your arms around his neck. you felt him shaking a little, full of relief of finally having you again. “took you long enough,” you murmured, soft and teasing.
sunghoon laughed—kissed you like a man who’d just realised what he was worth.
ta-da~ this really is the end of guide ♡ happy ending is yours now, forever!
try these guides and tips out and let me know how it goes, girls!
best of luck,
yn xoxo
miss_kikilala: WORKED LIKE A CHARM. you’re a genius ily forever!! 100% lost my bestfriend but nothing more i want than his boyfriend so whatever ( ;´ - `;) i lovelovelove him so much ugh your guide is dangerous in the best way possible <3
bobababy: followed exactly what you did, and he broke up with her just last week! he said he never realised how happy he’d been talking to me rather than being with her. thank u thank u thank uuuu <3333
ikuekiss: this was hard t-t using these tips rn except he’s my sister’s fiance and he’s older! i’m still trying to look for more interests we can share together since i don’t know shit about football t-t … wish me luck girls!
bunnyhoon: yn i owe you my ENTIRE relationship! just had out two monthsarry last week!
yurillit: day 11 of minimal replies and he just sent me a voice note that’s literally TWELVE minutes long of him saying how much he misses my voice and how empty his days feel without our talks… i’m shaking hold me!!
preyel replying to yurillit: fumbled my minimal reply on day 8 because i want him sooo bad… i thought i fucked it up, but he showed up just a few minutes later begging me to tell him everything i said over the texts to his face! got lucky but pls be strong…
heemunch: omg yn! your guide is literally magic >w< i did the forgotten item with my lipstick at a group hangout and now he’s been texting me goodnight every single night… the push and pull is killing me (it’s so hot it’s crazy)! update coming soon!!
sweetieyn (pinned) 📌 : reading these is making me kick my feeettt i’m so proud of everyone (∩˃o˂∩)♡ just remember to never chase! always attract ♡ keep the updates coming, i live for these success stories ♡ who’s next? what problem should i solve~?
The excerpts in the story are from ‘The Master And Margarita’ by Mikhail Bulgakov | Read it if you haven’t, it’s fantastic!
A/n: my first Harry fic yay! written for ‘fic workout’ game, hosted by wonderful @iamasaddie Aly! I know how much you love this book (I’m in your walls) so your pictures and you inspired me to write this little thing. Hope you’ll like it<3 Kisses to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing<3 Dividers by saradika-graphics
MASTERLIST
Harry had seen you many times before he really met you. In his building’s elevator or in the hall, you were always accompanied by your husband, though it didn’t look like you were in his company. Always on his phone, with an air of pompousness plastered on his face, he treated you more like his shadow, insignificant and mundane.
Harry would greet you both with a polite nod, meanwhile wondering how you ended up with such a man, living among the wealthiest people of New York with their fake smiles, fake tits, fake everything. You seemed to be different. You were real.
“And I was struck not so much by her beauty as by an extraordinary loneliness in her eyes, such as no one had ever seen before! ”
The first time Harry saw you alone in the elevator, you had a volume of “The Master and Margarita” in your hands, one of his favorite books, and he grasped the opportunity to start a conversation.
”Are you enjoying it?” he asked, smiling at you from behind a bouquet of pink roses he was holding.
You gave him a blank look and he pointed at the book with his chin.
”Oh, the novel? Yes, very much.”
“Do you like my flowers?”
When Harry quoted Margarita’s first words to the master, your eyes lit up and a soft laughter escaped your lips. That sound was more beautiful than anything he’d ever heard.
“I do!They’re gorgeous. Are they for your …?”
“My date,” he said out loud, thinking that you were more gorgeous than any flowers. He wished he’d give them to you instead of the woman he was feeling nothing for.
The doors opened and the two of you stepped out into the hall.
“What are your favorite flowers?” Harry blurted out the first thing that popped in his mind, hating to let you go already.
“Peonies,” you answered, pressing the book to your belly. You were nervously spinning a wedding band around your finger when you said quietly,
“I’m going to the park across the street. It’s beautiful there. You could join me some day…to discuss the book. If you’d like.”
“I’d love to.”
“and I suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, understood that all my life I had loved precisely this woman! ”
Harry’s holding a huge bouquet of red peonies with one arm, trying not to drop them on the elevator floor. His other arm is wrapped around your waist, his thumb rubbing your soft skin over the waistband of your jeans.
“Stop, I’m ticklish,” you giggle, wiggling under his hand. “And there’s a camera.”
“I don’t care,” he whispers in your ear and pulls you close. “I’d take you right here if you let me.”
You turn your face to him, your blown out eyes sparkling with need, and Harry reaches for your lips, but you push your nose into the bouquet a second before he can kiss you. His voice is strained as he rasps against your temple,
“I miss your taste, baby. Every second I’m not licking your sweet pussy, I die a little.”
“My god, Harry,” you whine, clinging to his side. “Tonight. I’ll come tonight.”
“Will you stay forever?” His eyes are full of hope and you press your forehead to his and whisper,
“Soon.”
He finally catches your lips and kisses you passionately just before the doors slide open on your floor. You breathe in the peonies one more time and Harry promises,
“They’ll be waiting for you at my place.”
When the elevator starts moving up to his floor, Harry readjusts his hold on the heavy flowers, smiling to himself. It’s ok that he can’t give them to you openly yet, he’ll wait until you are ready. What’s a few days when he’s been waiting for you his entire life?
Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!💞
꒰ NSFW 18+ ꒱ — based on this.
au: boyfriends!dad!dean
dean winchester has rough, calloused hands from hunts— the repeated motion of loading his favorite shotgun and pulling the trigger is permanently embedded in his skin. dark brown stubble peppers his chin shaping his jawline in a way that’s nearly artistic. crows feet highlight his eyes, the wrinkles gathering at the corner signifying his age. each time your boyfriend’s dad winks at you, your mouth waters as his fine lines crease around his eyes.
those calloused hands run up and down your spine as he moves past you, bodies bumping and colliding into one another in a way that might seem innocent, but the two of you know it’s not. your boyfriend is oblivious to the way you ogle his father. your boyfriend just doesn’t understand his dad hydrates your core in ways that he could never. your boyfriend never questions your late night trips with his father… why would he?
you follow dean out the door, delicately walking behind him as he paves the way to the impala. when you’re finally in the parking lot of the grocery store, miles away from your boyfriend, dean doesn’t need to tell you to get in the backseat. you know the drill— you know how this works as if it was second nature. and by the time he slides the tip of his cock up and down your slit, your cunt weeping to be filled by dean, you have already forgotten your boyfriend.
“gonna sneak into my bed tonight, aren’t ya? can tell by the way your cunt is squeezing me you’re gonna need another round,” dean will whisper as he pounds into you.
maybe he’s no better than john.
