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tarjapearce · 4 months

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Heathens (Pt. 1)

Priest! Miguel O'Hara x Nun!Reader

art by @maxro_art on IG (Her Deliverance AU is ❤️❤️🤌🏻)

WARNINGS: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. If you're sensitive regarding religion, please don't read this. Masturbation in holy places, explicit language, wet dreams, Female anatomy, oral ( F receiving) Gentle Dom Miguel, Corruption kink, overused tropes cause yeah, a tinge of yandere undertones if you squint, mutual lust, Not Proofread ~

Summary: Father O'Hara had a little lamb ~

A/N: Another for the Miguelverse ~ Reblogs and comments are much appreciated c:

Main Masterlist

From all the places you could've find solace from war, The house of God was the least of lieus in your list. Not that you had a choice.

Family long gone after unsuspected explosions decimated your town, followed by constant tragedies such as losing friends along the way either by enemy and merciless hands or sickness. In the end, it was only you. You had outlived them all despite your short age. And now, they lived crammed up in your memories.

Happy, smiling and very much alive. Sometimes you'd see familiar faces on stranger's bodies. Grief had slowly nested within your soul and when all hope seemed lost, the chapel had saved you from what surely would end up in your premature death.

The blackest of black matched the crispest white you had ever seen, they were all donned in their beatific robes, prayer beads dangling at every gentle step they did. And there it was, epiphany unfolding itself before your experienced in horror eyes. It was your call.

All the answers to your laments and aching heart were sent as them. Nuns of the Mistbourne Parish. A church located in the outskirts of a now rundown by conflict Nueva York. The church that now played a major role in taking in as much people within their sacred walls, before they could be dispatched to a more adequate place.

Without hesitation, you had joined. And now, six years later you still remained with them. Early twenties had settled right for you as a nun. Ever devoted, compassionate, and diligent.

As time went on, the main city was reconstructed, burying it's dark tragedy under freshly built towers, hiding the pain under the rugged carpet full of concrete and wire homes, like nothing ever happened. Like if war had never stepped upon it and gave it a much needed renewal at people's lives expenses.

But no matter how many changes time brought, life in Mistbourne's Parish remained the same. Untouched by the technological advances from the outer world. There was always something to do, as simple as it was. And so far, you've been satisfied with it.

The only alterations worth of mention was your holy family expanding.

A new couple additions to the staff. More sisters, an eighty percent of them were beyond fifty. You were the youngest, their child. After all some ended up raising you within the house.

And him. The new priest.

The tallest and bulkiest man you've ever seen. As much as staring was considered rude and borderline a sin, it was unavoidable to do so, when his rusty brown eyes fell upon you. Their color unique, like he was. Never in your life had you seen someone like him, or another man besides the butcher and the guard. He had definitely been a regular man before coming here.

The soft weary expression lines in his sharp countenance revealed his own fair of lived experiences.

He towered over you, crisp white dot on his black rimmed neck line, parading his status with modest pride, and golden praying beads dangling on his narrow hips, you held yours while asking forgiveness for keep staring.

"Father."

Father O'Hara. In his mid thirties, broken family also torn by war, wearing his vows in the shape of a ring on his right hand.

"Sister"

His voice deep yet gentle, like a lullaby. His steps took him away to his own residence. The rectory outside the church.

It made sense as to how some workers were renovating it in the past few weeks. The parish last priest had been sent off in sacred duties, only to realize later that he had killed a man. Cops and detectives surely made a show out of it.

Dark times, according to Sister Lianne, one of your mother figures. But now, Father O'Hara had taken his place, erasing all traces of the previous man with concise and pithy actions.

He took his role seriously. Said masses on sundays, visited the sick, baptized people; but his most popular feat was to hear the confessions. The most intimate secrets revealed to him by either your fellow sisters or people from the town that came to expiate their sins in hope to be forgiven.

You'd sometimes run into each other, bumping casually in the narrow wooden floored halls, you'd often apologize, only to reciprocate a polite smile on both ends. He'd sometimes help you out by carrying things a bit too heavy, or you'd help him out lighting up the altar for his speech.

Yet, his hands in one occasion took an accidental taste of your body dimensions underneath your beatific robes, while preventing you from falling down the stairs. He'd scold you for being careless and carrying things that obscured your sight.

After many sorries on your behalf, you returned to the cells and went straight to your own dorm, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

His hands felt burning upon remembering the dents of your form, the curve of your waist and certainly the warmth that irradiated from you, so so close from his.

Unexpectedly it had brought memories from his past. His old life where he'd have his lovely and temporary companion for the night impaled deliciously with himself before war and hell broke loose. Before he was forced by the subversives that raided his town to create a new fake identity in the spot as they heard him speak spanish or fight a war he hadn't started, much less would end. And so, his life as Father O'Hara begun.

Odd enough, the sudden and thoughtless choice had granted him peace after witnessing so many terrors his fellow human could be capable of. His need of help has always been stronger than anything and when he finished licencing some sacrifices were required.

Poverty vows weren't an issue since his previous life had been modest yet good enough to go by. Little difference between his current lifestyle.

The obedience vow took him a little longer to fully yield. But he accomplished it to a T, just to avoid more trouble. He faked it until he made it.

His chastity vow had been a quite the challenge to perfect, but no matter how much the temptations paraded before him in the many parishes he was assigned to, he didn't give in. His libido had been sapped out of his body, like a campfire after completing it's useful cycle.

Not because of his brand new sanctity invested by holier-than-thou elders, but rather a broken mind full of grievance and other negatives that always haunted him. The gunshots and bombings too fresh in his mind.

It had been years since he touched someone in a way that wasn't holy. Since he had provoked things in someone else that clearly would make him go under the laicization from the clergy without second guessings.

Until he held you the other day.

Both of your eyes too enraptured in eachother that had sent an igniting spark to his spine. Reviving all those inactive nerves he thought his existencial toll severed long ago. His eyes had gave a brief rake over your face.

Wide and round eyes staring back, both in awe and surprise straight into his soul. Nose flaring softly just like your mouth, whose bottom lip trembled at the little erratic breaths your lungs exhaled upon being in physical contact with a man for the first time in ever, while cheeks bloomed with a not so discreet flush. And your body heat.

Jesus all mighty.

It was dangerously tempting. For a brief moment his past self had taken over, but quickly vanished upon hearing steps. Earning you to fix your crucifix and cowl nervously and him to fist his hands to refrain himself to take another taste and fix his collar and cassock.

To his conclusion, the robes you wore did not match what was underneath. He noted much, but having you wear that loose habit only fuelled his now active and sinful imagination. An opposite from your habits' purpose.

Priest life was hard, and the Celibacy vows were his biggest damnation. Mind often plagued with 'I shouldn't have done this.' 'This is ridiculous' 'Fucking idiot' 'Why did I even lie about this?' But even so, priesthood was better than ending up dead or mutilated by mines somewhere in the battlefield, in the middle of a war he didn't started, much less would end.

Government later was forcibly recruiting all those men, be them widowed or married. It didn't matter. War wasn't for him. Neither Priesthood.

But he'd bear it. He'd bear it until he was put in another parish church full of older and witty ladies he'd definitely wouldn't lust after.

----

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The sweet voice behind the confessional punctured walls, perked up his ears. He had memorized a lot of things, your voice included.

"I... I haven't confessed in weeks. But it grows me concerned that... my mind is somewhere else."

Silence. You were met with silence as expected, it also encouraged you to keep talking.

"A man has flooded my thoughts and no matter how much I try to occupy myself, he's there. Leading me to temptation and sin."

A man?

His brow quirked as he slanted over the little wooden division between you, to hear better and take a peek on your face. The only men he could think of was the guard, the butcher and himself. The only men inhabiting the same area as you.

"How does this man tempts you?"

"He... He visits. In my dreams I mean and..."

A low 'forgive me, God' echoed in your stall. His throat dried and his hands rested on each side of his knees, gripping at the fabric of his pants.

"He does things I know I shouldn't partake in... But, it feels too real."

"You sound scared. Does it frightens you?"

"Very much so. But it is a strange sort of fear, Father."

"What kind of fear then?"

It took you a long pause to muster

"A fear of him stopping his visits in my mind."

He gulped.

Your hands took the crucifix and held it tighter, "For him to stop doing such sinful things to me, even in my dreams."

"Have you sinned in the carnal affairs?"

"N-No. I would never. I've never engaged in them, Father."

His groin twitched, as a hand raked over his scalp. A shaky breath that was forced to come out in silence. Only when he thought you couldn't be more innocent, there you were proving him wrong.

"Ever?"

"I promise to you with my life, I've never."

"I must know" He wetted his lips with his tongue, "What kind of things does this man does to you?"

"W-What?"

Your spine straightened up instantly, eyes wild, staring another hole into the already punctured division. Cinnamon color in his skin, the only brief glimpse you managed to see. But even so, his gentle yet cornering voice brought you down from your initial jump.

"I need to know, so I can dictate a penance."

The flush on your cheeks returned, burning bright upon remembering the all too lucid dream you've been having about your secret man. That, even though visited frequently, you still didn't know his face, just his body as it smothered yours wholy in a constant merciless and scorching rut.

All what you remembered was him feasting between your legs like a starved man. His hands maneuvering your soft mounds to then give a gentle squeeze.

"His hands are the ones that bring the sin, Father."

"Explain yourself"

His voice was sultry, buttery rich and smooth on the other side of the stall. A subtle order. To your dismay, that same demon had a similar voice tone. Alluring, speaking to you in a foreign language it had you mewling and asking for forgiveness every time you remembered, cause you had begged the faceless man for more.

"He touches and... t-tastes places I shouldn't allow no man to delve in." With a thick gulp you continued, "His tongue is... marvelous."

His eyes widened for a second as his hand hovered over his crotch

"Marvelous?"

"I feel the biggest sinner by admitting this. Please, do forgive me."

"Accountability is part of the process."

He tried to sound as professional as he could, but little did you know his mind was torturing his already crumbling resolve with such vivid details. Celibacy wasn't a problem, until now. Hearing such sinful words coming from such a unsuspecting thing like yourself, a virgin that is, made his old self to re-emerge.

Disguising himself as a sheep, while he fought through his holy learning years to tame his wolfish appetite.

There were plenty of ewes in the flock , but so far the only one that made his mouth water was you. A perfect little lamb. And now, this. We're you set to making him break his vows?

No. You weren't. He was reaching his limits to break celibacy and you were just having wet dreams about someone that definitely made him wonder about your past life. A past lover? No. Not even that. A possession? A demon? No. Definitely not.

He had heard things whenever on lunch duty. Mindless talk that revealed more to him from others and you than they intended to. You, a nun. Picked up from a ravaged village nearby and raised within the nuns, meaning, you had zero idea of what pleasure meant.

He believed, but wasn't a complete blinded idiot to faith. Your body was asking for physical and forbidden relief. Just like his.

But again, the golden band around his right hand not only forbid but also was the perpetual reminder of what was a stake.

"I know, Father. But... this man has such power over me that has pushed me to sin. He... he has pushed me to take such vulgar matters in my own hands."

Maker's mercy

His cock twitched harder and he was unable hold back and gave a firm squeeze while biting his lip to quiet himself at the long forgotten and heady pleasure that was drowning his body in an alarming rate.

As if done of being fed lies and a quick and sloppy handjob for ages. It was disgusting how easy was to sin, how well his body ached and reacted to such stimulus. How effortlessly his old habits had caught up to him.

He was the one that needed a penance now, cause he couldn't shake the image of you spread with your legs wide open, naked, sliding your fingers in between your weeping folds. You'd certainly have your mouth shut or lips bitten to avoid having anyone hear you.

He had closed his eyes while his jaw clenched, occasionally sweeping his tongue over his lips to keep them moist.

"Say it. Say your sin."

He commanded in a voice that had your cheeks flustered and your pearly nub a throb. His hand half squeezed half stroked over his clothed groin. Swollen and needy cock begging to be set free and properly taken care of.

"I..." A dry gulp and your hands went to your crotch, begging your nature to behave. Cheeks impossibly red.

"I've enjoyed touching myself after dreaming a man... f-fucks me, Father."

The word 'fuck' coming out your delicious looking yet pure lips, had his teeth gnawing at the insides of his cheek, self control harder to keep under the leash. It barked, howled even demanded for more explicit details.

Instead, he sighed quietly and cleared his throat. The sudden noise had you gripping the skirt of your habit in shame.

Miguel didn't say much besides the prayer of absolution and a couple of more prayers as your penance. The same right hand that was squeezing his cock was now being kissed by you, to confirm your forgiveness. Plump, warm and soft lips caressed his ring finger.

And once you were gone, his hand took control on its own, slid under his soutane to stroke himself. If you felt like a sinner, he was the devil himself.

The vice like grip in his own cock made him shudder, sensation foreign yet so welcoming after years without it. A little whine escaped past his gaping mouth, exhaling pecaminous breaths as he stroked like teenage boy that just discovered masturbation for the time ever. Sloppy, desperate and wet motions echoed in the now sullied stall.

He fisted his hand tighter, thick fingers coaxing a much needed release, hips rutting into his choking hand. Quiet whimpers and an array of curses flew out his mouth.

His flushed tip swayed and shook under his own rough ministrations while his jaw clenched, he clawed at the chair when hot and thick spurts of his cum dribbled down his hand and wrist before time; pooling in the hollow of his palm while earning a gutural growl that dissolved into a shaky whimper, as he curled against the wooden and punctured wall for a brief lapse of seconds to regain his composure.

"Fuck..." He had to lay against his chair to keep the light-headedness at bay, drowning in his own made pleasure, panting like he had run a marathon for hours.

He shouldn't have lied back ago. And definitely shouldn't have become a priest. He was soiling their already tainted reputation. His old self was back to stay.

He cleaned up his hand under his robes to then leave to change. He was given a glimpse as you were picking up some harvest in the orchard while he was making his way back home.

---

Window's glasses echoed with the soft rain. The parish has been quiet during weekdays, but busy for you. As winter approaches the harvest must be picked, the grains sorted and the meats stored.

You saw Father O'Hara less and less, and when you did, they were mere glimpses. He was as busy in meetings with other priests, or preparing for the mass that was now given twice a week.

If you weren't in the garden or the laundry, you were in the choir.

Lingering yet brief gazes chased each other. He had heard some nuns speaking about him, some had wonderful things to say, saying that he had been one of the most efficient priests the church has had.

Others mentioned between hushed and bashful whispers about his physical condition and how they caught him go for runs at crack of dawn a couple of times.

And you, just wanted to go to confession again and ask for forgiveness. Not to spill the advantures you had in your dreams with a man that oddly resembled like Father O'Hara, but to unleash your heart's desires to wonder what was beyond the parish.

It was your life, all you've ever known so far. But one of those trips to the city during a beneful visit to another location, had left you amazed. How could a world so different like yours could be considered bad and straying?

But again, vows. Your vows bound you, and once broken, there was no turning back. But right now all that mattered was to get to the dorms. The rest was out in another visit to the city, you were to stay to finish your tasks in the kitchen.

Weather changed so abruptly that one moment you were taking the last basket of vegetables inside, to then run for the dorms to seek refuge. But they were far and the only thing in sight was Father's O'Hara rectory.

It was either getting a terrible fever from the cold and unforgiving rain or ask him to lend you an umbrella to mitigate the glacial numbness spreading through your body. Another reason you barely went out during these days, rains in the countryside were merciless.

Miguel was tending his own garden when the rain begun drenching. Even more when the thunders broke the peaceful white noise. He removed his soutane and shirt off leaving his inner vestments free, but the desperate knock on his door made his undressing ritual to stop.

While quirking an eyebrow, he approached the door and opened it. Eyes widened in surprise upon seeing you, soaked through your bones. lips blue and shivering from the cold.

"P-Please-"

"Jesus. Come in."

He ushered you in, then rushed to get a towel. A frown in his face deepened upon hearing your teeth clatter, clothes stuck to you like a second skin.

"C-Can I... borrow your... u-umbrella?"

Without much though he smoothened the towel against your face, drying it.

"An umbrella? Really?!"

A vehement shake of your head, while trying to get him off you.

"You're freezing cold, the dorms are too far for you to leave. Don't be stubborn."

"I... I don't h-have clothes."

You mumbled through rattling teeth while your eyes darted hazily over his naked torso. He sighed.

"Unbelievable. You're freezing to death and you're worried about clothes. Get them off, I'll put them to dry."

He grumbled while taking more logs into the fire to what would be his living room. If it wasn't for the glacial and biting freeze that refused to leave your body and the foggy thinking in your brain, your cheeks would be beyond red. Crimson even from such simple act.

A weak nod you gave. Your hands stopped bracing your shivering body to focus on removing the cowl and headdress. Releasing through shaky motions your soaked hair that wasted no time to stick on your face and neck.

The next was your crucifix, and praying beads, the tempo you removed them could make a slug to easily win the race, this alarmed him greatly. He had seen what hypothermia did, way before turning himself into this holy persona.

Without much thought, he peeled off your habit that weighed you down.

"Qué mierda más pesada" (Such a heavy shit)

He held you by one arm as he removed the outer layer off. Your eyes drooped and he gave you a little shake.

"Hey, hey, look at me."

Eyes concerned raking over and it dawned on you. Those eyes, the same beautiful and unique eyes were the same that visited in your dreams.

A difficult gulp rolled down your throat as Miguel kept undressing you while grunting. Wet clothes were a pain in his beatific ass. Shivering dicreased, but your lips remained blue, a new shade of purple drawing over them.

"I-It's so cold" You mumbled through laborious breaths.

"Course it's cold. You're soaked! What were you even doing?"

The way he scolded you felt like someone you've known for years was giving you a lecture. So casual, homey, normal. It was Miguel O'Hara speaking, not Father Miguel. The ever gentle and patient man you've been helping.

"Jesús bendito, con cuánta cosa te vistes." (Holy Jesus, so many layers.)

He murmured while pushing you to his chest as he removed the dress that covered your underwear. It felt like a heatless body had been thrown over him, but the warmth irradiating from him felt heavenly. Your form instinctively nuzzled your head on his chest. He had to stop to gulp at the sensations

Even though his mind slapped itself, His couldn't help but wander over your shivering and weak body.

"W-Wait"

A small dark patch hovered above the joint of your legs. Taut peaks followed by lovely areoles ever standing and shivering under the flimsy white fabric of a short nightgown that proved even harder to remove since it clung to you like a second skin, refusing to abandon your body.

He peeled you off of everything despite your protests, but was sufficiently prude to not look over your naked form. A minute too slow and it would be late. Like the young boy in his arms, that had died out of cold once the subversive groups arrived in the forsaken town, they had forced him and the rest to go through a frozen river. He made it, but the boy didn't.

His mind wasn't in the tip of his cock.

That will come later.

But his brain had only one single purpose right now. To keep you alive but for that he needed keep you warm.

Despite the recklessness of his actions, he pulled a freshly folded duvet around while pulling you ontop of his chest and sat together near the fire. Hands moving to dry your hair as much as he could. Your skin was full of goosebumps, frosty to touch, that relished into any source of heat available. His torso, the duvet and the raging bonfire made your head spin.

It felt like his hands, rubbing some life back into your arms while he shielded your body, embracing your form with his torso and limbs. Like a paramedic on duty. Your cheek smooshed against his solid chest, it made him shudder with your own coldness but eventually the body heat treatment would be effective.

"Sorry" it was all you managed before your teeth shuddered again, and his fingers caressed your neck, placing a new wave of delicious heat on your skin.

"You'll be fine."

Your body was slowly but surely returning to it's temperature. Miguel remained there, basking you within his body, fingers gingerly caressing as much cold skin as he could under the duvet. Even his breath provided a little heat. Your erratic breaths collided against his skin, earning a discreet shudder from him.

You had drifted off to limbo, trying to sleep a bit, but unable to completely do so. Not when a man, the Parish Father nonetheless, was holding and nursing you back to an acceptable temperature with his own.

"Father O'Hara..."

Miguel's ears perked up upon you mentioning his name.

"It's Miguel."

He mumbled while drawing lazy circles on your lower back. The fire and the duvet had kept you toasty to curl even more towards him. Teeth no longer clattering.

"Thank you, Father."

"Stop."

His eyes rolled in annoyance, as his hands stopped caressing your skin to then rub his face.

"Stop calling me that."

"But that's your-"

"I don't like it."

He grumbled while looking down at you.

"Call me Miguel."

"I can't do that. Feels too disrespectful."

"I'm not Father O'Hara here, understood?"

You nodded

"Are you cold?"

"I am. Not as before but yes. Has it stopped raining?"

His own smell was making your mind a puddle, some of that fragrant incense remained etched on him.

"No. Just got worse."

You sighed while resting your head on his chest. Heartbeats a mellow lullaby.

"I'm sorry for all of this."

"You were cold and soaked." He pointed dully and bored.

The duvet was brought closer to your chest while staring at the flames. Fingers tracing a lazy and mindless pattern in his abdomen.

"I was picking up the last batch of harvest when rain poured on me."

Your toes curled in as a soft breeze flickered the fire and he tilted his head to watch you closer.

"Now I'll have to explain why there isn't enough corn."

"We'll go by. It's ok."

"Are my clothes ready yet?"

A snort that would be translated into an 'Are you kidding me?', your brow furrowed.

"You'd be lucky if they get dry during the night."

Another defeated sigh. But a sudden thought however made your cheeks burn faintly.

"D-Did you see me naked?"

"No."

Oh.

There was a silent pause before you spoke again. Curiosity tempting.

"Have you seen other women naked?"

He huffed playfully while pushing your hair away from your lovely and sweet face.

"Yes. I was a regular man before all of this."

His fingers curled up in his hand, morphing into a lazy fist

"Do you miss it?"

"Would be a liar to say if I don't."

"You... You've had sex before?"

He chuckled while with an open palm, took a taste of your skin, deliberately roaming your lower back. You shuddered.

"I did. Plenty of times."

Your audible gasp made his eyes droop hazily in a smirking grimace.

"I was told it felt marvelous."

You looked up at him and he pulled your chin upwards, he really had to keep his restrain under a leash to not take you here and there, instead, he cupped your face and hovered his lips over yours

"Do you want me to teach you, Sister?"

He was the demon. The very same one that visited in your dreams and left you a soaked mess. A little too late you'd noticed that he wasn't wearing his vow ring. It was placed somewhere else you truly couldn't care less at the moment.

You only nodded.

"Use your words, dear"

"Please", you gulped, "Teach me."

It was in that moment that he sealed your lips with his. Your first kiss ever. Chaste and sweet at the beginning that slowly turned into this obscene display of his mouth assaulting yours with his tongue in between gentle licks and bites of his lips.

A shaky whine then a whimper escaped your throat upon feeling his hands skimming down your spine. He only let you go when you tapped out for air.

"How often am I on your mind, pequeña?"

Finally the demon in your dreams had turned into a reality. Eyes were closed, unable to look at yourself melting under his touch. Nipples perked against his chest.

Plump and hot lips caressed yours but they stopped. Hands pulled you upwards, Miguel turned you around so your back was now colliding with his chest.

"You're still cold."

Cheeks grew impossibly red while he slowly peeled off the duvet out of your body, leaving you bare before him. You gulped as he moved your hair to a side and slowly kissed up and down your neck.

His hands were unable to resist any more and cupped your mounds, like in your dream. Calloused palms, rough against soft breast.

"Qué maravilla. Is this how your dream goes?

Legs smothered together, a little strip of hair etched to your pubic mount. He hummed in appreciation to then part your legs above his. Cunt pulsing at the coolness of air brushing past it.

Both of your legs dangled ontop of his as you remained nested above. Your heart beat at the playful moves his middle and index finger pulled on your nipple as his free hand darted over the joint of your inner thighs. You could feel him trembling underneath, the restrain made his breath hitch.

Your own turned erratic once more as he slid three fingers in between your folds. A shy Ah escaped your lips while he used two of them to part the outer labia

"Look at that, little one. Is that what you touch when thinking of me?"

Drunk eyes darted between your legs and his skillful hand, the engorged and pearly clit peeked out as one of his fingers flickered slowly. Focusing the right amount of pressure in it that had your moans shaky. He paused to adjust his fingers as they caressed and rubbed as much flesh as they could.

Mouth etched to your ear. Deep and needy breaths fanned behind you

"So so pretty. Look at that"

He made a show of his fingers coating themselves in your slick. One of his digits hovered over your entrance, slowly it disappeared inside. A muffled groan echoed in the void space

A wet and shlicking sound came from his ministrations, head unable to move, too enraptured into watching him sliding in and out. Skin bloomed with a new wave of goosebumps as his tongue licked your neck and earlobe, rewarding you for taking one finger deliciously, that he licked up clean before going back to rub at your clit.

"Want to add another?"

A breathless and hissing yes.

You didn't know who was with you right now since Father O'Hara couldn't. Your brain still refused to believe they were the same man. One preached and talked mass every Sunday, the other had your head spinning while his fingers explored your insides with such gentleness it only increased your whimpers and need for something more and bigger within you.

"Does that feel good, Hm?"

A dumb nod while more escaped your mouth repeatedly

"More?"

"Please!"

How could he deny to such petition? Even most when you were gripping him so deliciously and pulsating with every stroke he delivered in, grazing at your sweetest spot.

"Like this?"

He increased the tempo and your breath hitched, hips moving to meet his fingers aiding them to reach deeper and deeper.

Breaths turned into short and shallow pants, blood rushed to your cheeks. One of his digits pushed past between your lips meeting your moist muscle that wasted no time into kissing it. All you could hear was yourself and your weeping pussy that demanded for more.

But they weren't enough. Brain was sent into an override when the climax washed over you. All the pent up need and lust drowned you. Strong pulsations dictated the contractions that trapped and milked Miguel's fingers. Mind split in two in a shattering and core shaking spasm.

Mouth gaped, eyes heady and drunk with blind hot pleasure, body convulsed while an array of mumbles and clumsy curses flew out of your mouth to finally end with a delicious quivering cry.

"It's okay, shh, it's okay, pequeña." He cooed you through it while kissing your neck. Heart pounding in your ears.

It took you a moment to breath properly. How could you have missed this? How could you remain so ignorant to this? Alienated from something you were often told it was dirty and condemning.

He had only touched in the right places and you were melting. But why stopping there? You knew he also wanted you, his hard on pressing over your lower back, begging to set free.

"M-More"

He shook his head with a proud smile

"Can't do that, preciosa"

A capricious whine came through your throat, "Why not?"

"Cause, as much as I'd love to take you until you recite the bible backwards to me, you know what could happen."

"You don't want me, then? Why stopping now?"

"Far from that. And we must be discreet. Wouldn't want you to be whipped by Sister Lianne."

He took your hand and kissed your wrist. While his other limb pulled you closer to him.

"I am the only one that shall leave marks on you, my dear. Is that clear?"

"Yes, but-" He took your chin in a gentle but firm grip.

"Is that clear?"

You nodded with a pout.

"Lay on the bed."

"What? "

"Lay on the bed, so I can taste you."

Miguel could fulfil that fantasy. With Bambi-like steps you pushed yourself up and walked over his bed. Plush surface welcomed your body under a creak.

"Spread them."

Toes curled up for a second before spreading them open. Clit already tingling with a foreign yet needy sensation.

He kneeled before you, like he did every day he worshipped the Lord. But this time it wasn't God, but you. Nose nuzzled over your inner thighs while taking a whiff of your scent. Tantalizing and so alluring for his own senses.

Slow and deliberate kisses were placed above your flesh, the strip of hair that decored your pussy, to finally sink in between soaked folds.

The mewl you gave only made him feast upon you. Hands grope the sheets by instinct as he spreaded you further.

His tongue lapped and curled at your hole, slurping it without refrain and inhibitions. Devouring it like it would be his last meal.

Your dream had felt too vivid, yes, but this was completely different. This was in a whole new different level. His corruption had tainted your soul and it was gladly welcomed into your arms.

Legs twitched and shook while your head was thrown back, chest heaved with shallow breaths, unable to breath properly as his tongue was set into fucking your drooling hole.

The way his tongue fucked, dribbled and guzzled your cunt had you mewling and moaning the filthiest things you didn't think possible you could get out.

Good was an understatement, heavenly was a measly word to compare what you felt like. It was maddening and he gave you no rest.

Have you ascended? No. He just wrapped your supple thighs around his head, preventing you from squirming too much, holding your hips in place as his sloshing and assailant mouth gave you no rest.

You hadn't recovered completely from the other orgasm when a new one had approached. Lurking around your senses.

His name was moaned, over and over and when your hands were done of clinging onto the sheets, you held onto his hair. Silky and smooth chocolate locks slid under your fingers.

Eyes peeked over you, and he had to pause for a moment to squeeze his cock. Aching and weeping for him to let him free and make you his. But that would come later.

That would come much later when he had more leisure time and when he'd get protection. As much as he wanted to wreck your snug cunt, he didn't want you to be whipped and shamed like another nun was when the higher ups found out she was pregnant by an outsider.

"Miguel"

His name on your lips rich and tasty, like him.

Your voice snapped him out of his trance to immediately go for your clit. Plump lips pursed and captured the engorged nub. While his hands pushed your legs up and folded them, giving a complete access to your pulsating pussy.

He slurped and souped while his tongue teased. Wet laps sent jolts through your spine each time he tasted you.

Too much. Too good and too soon, yet he didn't stop. He shook his head like a mad dog subduing it's prey and that move alone had you gushing over his mouth. He quickly gobbled it all down.

You whined, cried and blabbled, even tried to pull his head away but he delivered you a last stroke with his tongue to then lick his lips clean.

"Please"

You mumbled through blown breaths as he watched you with a lust blown glare.

What had he done out of you?

"Greed is a sin, my dear."

What had he created?

"But if you're good enough, the wait will be worth it."

His little lamb was so willing for him, aching to be tainted, corrupted even more. And his task was to banish such whims.

He'd given you a taste of what laid ahead. A promise of a much unholy reward if you followed this path with him. But your resolve had been made the first time you came.

He'd be your first and last. There wasn't any need for another to teach you what he was compliant to demonstrate.

You'd be his to fuck. His to tame and corrupt.

You'd be his.

---

Taglist:

@plumplumpurin

#miguel o'hara #t writes✨#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #miguel o hara #miguel ohara smut #priest miguel #Miguelverse #spiderman 2099 masterlist #spiderman 2099 smut #priest au #afab reader #Miguel O'Hara x AFAB Reader

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holylulusworld · 4 months

Text

BFG (1)

Summary: He’s new to town and just your type…

Pairing: Reacher x Plussized!Reader

Warnings: size kink, flirty reader, objectification of Reacher, language

BFG masterlist

“Fuck me, that guy could break me into two halves,” you sigh dreamily as the new face in town steps into the diner. “What a man.”

You lick your lips. He’s tall, and you mean tall when you say it. If anyone wants you to guess, you’d say he’s at least 6’5.

“Y/N, what was the price of the peach pie again?” The new waitress asks. She’s pretty and friendly but her memory is not the best.

Maybe she just smokes too much weed. You don’t blame her. This sleepy little town does this to you. If you don’t take drugs or drink, you spend the time dreaming of a different life.

You sigh again, this time out of frustration because you must take your eye off the thick hottie and turn your attention toward Sally Ann, the new waitress.

“It’s…” You tell her the price while dipping your head to glance at the newbie's ass when he passes the counter by. “Damn him, he’s thick too. What do you weigh, baby? Two hundred and fifty pounds?”

“Miss,” Sally Ann almost whimpers when this mountain of a man asks her about the peach pie. She looks a little lost, and you gladly jump in to turn his attention toward you.

“You can come over here,” you tap the counter. “This spot looks like you’ll fit in.” You grin as he chuckles at your bad joke about his size. “The seat is extra-large. One of our regulars needed a little extra space and cushion.”

“I guess he was tall too,” He asks while plopping down on the larger seat. The seat creaks under his weight and you hope he didn’t break it. Even though, you wouldn’t mind if he tries to break you.

“In size, not height,” you shrug. “That’s what I heard. This was before my time, and he died some years ago. This means, the seat is all yours now, sweetie.”

“Sweetie,” his laughter is deep and rich as he tries to not blush at your flirty banter. “No one ever called me sweet.”

“What a shame,” you pat his hand. Fuck. It looks like his hand is as big as one of your plates. “So, tell me,” you lean closer to whisper, “are you a BFG or are you a bad guy.”

“BFG?” He cocks his head. “Oh…” He chuckles again. “I’m friendly, don’t worry. I only get mad if you want to…”

“Fuck with you?” You cockily reply and mirror his smirk. “Hmm…I don’t think you could handle me, sweetie. I’m too much of a woman for most of the guys in town.”

His eyes scan your body at your words. He hums and drops his eyes to your ass. “I can handle any situation.” His face remains stoic, but his eyes give his dirty thoughts away. “Can I have a slice of the peach pie, ma’am?”

“Only if you never call me ma’am again,” you point a manicured finger at the giant. “People called my granny ma’am.”

“You don’t look like a granny to me,” he waves his huge hand to brush your concern off. “More like you are stranded in a place you don’t belong.” Ah, he tries to analyze you while checking your ass and tits out. “You’re not here for long.”

“Just like you,” you wink at him. “I’ll get you your pie now, and you better eat it up. It’s the best in town.”

“I bet he can break a bone only by grabbing you too hard,” Sally Ann watches the newbie eat his pie. “I wouldn’t want him to touch me. He looks like a brute.”

“No, sweetie,” you let your eyes wander from his broad shoulders, down to his wide back and further to his perfect ass, “he’s the kind of guy knowing how to handle a woman. I don’t think he underestimates his strength. The only problem is, he’s too big for my bed.”

“What?” Sally Ann squeaks. “Don’t tell me you want to take him home.”

“I’d take him anywhere he wants to go,” you nonchalantly admit. “It’s been ages since a real man tried to put his hands on me. This man over there has hands as big as our plates. He knows how to touch a woman.”

You bite your lower lip when he dips his head to look at you. He smirks and lifts the now empty plate. “Can I have another one?”

God, how you love a man who can eat. “Sure, sweetie,” you make your way toward him, swaying your hips on purpose. He glances at Sally Ann who looks a little scared. “How do you like your pie? Do you want some whipped cream too?”

He shrugs. “I’m not picky.”

“You can be picky,” you wink at him. “I won’t let you leave this town hungry and unsatisfied.”

His eyes darken at your words. “What can you recommend? What’s your specialty?”

“I asked you first,” you hold out your hand. “I’m Y/N, what’s your name?”

“Reacher,” he gruffly replies, but his hand takes yours. It’s huge in contrast to your hand, but warm and surprisingly gentle. “I’m here for…”

“You don’t have to tell me.” You hastily say. “I know you are not the kind of man answering questions. If you promise me to not cause trouble at the diner, you are always welcome here.”

“I can’t promise to not cause trouble but,” he squeezes your hand, “I promise that I’ll try not to cause trouble at your diner.”

“You know that this is my diner? How?”

“Sally Ann over there and the other waitresses always look at you for confirmation. The guests show more respect to you, and you don’t keep the tips. You put the money into the tip jar the waitresses share at the end of their shift.”

“You’re quite observant, Reacher.”

“I assume you took over the diner from your,” he searches your face. “Grandmother not so long ago. You still try to figure things out, but your pie tastes great.”

“She died six months ago. Granny left me her house, and the diner,” you sigh, and drop your gaze. “I left my well-paid job, and life behind. She was always good to me, and I didn’t bring it over me to sell the diner.”

“What was your job?” You’ve got the feeling the conversation turned out to be an interrogation.

“Aw, sweetie,” you wink at him, “if you want to know more about me, buy me dinner first.”

He watches you walk away, wondering if you have anything to do with the crime he investigates. Reacher shakes his head. No. You don’t look like a killer. And he doesn’t think for one second that you can break a guy’s neck.

“Hi, what can I do for you?” Sally Ann asks. She’s still intimidated by Reacher’s size or rather his cheer presence at the diner.

“Where’s Y/N?” He cocks his head to look for you.

“I don’t know. She looked pissed and went to the back entrance.”

“I-“ he gets his wallet out to throw money onto the counter. Reacher follows you out of the back entrace, searching for you.

“Whoa, watch your step,” you push your hands against his firm chest to stop him from running the poor dog over. “Hey, that’s his spot. You are not allowed to leave through this entrance.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighs. He's relieved that you are not on the run, because you are the killer. “I was looking for you. I didn’t want to piss you off asking about your job.”

“Huh? I didn’t leave because you asked me about my job,” you point out. “I saw that bastard from across the street chase this poor guy away. He was only looking for food.”

“Someone tried to hurt the dog?” He squares his jaw. “Who? What did they do?”

You crouch down to add water to the feeding bowl. “The owner of the fancy new restaurant across the street. He always shoos away the kids and pets. I don’t like that man.”

“Restaurant across the street. Got it,” he looks like he makes a mental note. “Is that little boy your dog?”

“He only comes around to get free food,” you smile as the stray feasts on the food you bought for him. “I wanted to take him home, but I guess he likes his freedom. He checks in once in a while to let me know he’s still alive.”

“A stray,” Reacher watches you pat the dog. “Maybe he’s scared of settling down. Someone must’ve chased him away before.”

“Hmm…” You nod thoughtfully and pat the dog’s head. “I only want to protect him. If he runs around town the guy from across the street will hurt him.”

“He won’t.” You feel his hand squeeze your shoulder. “I got a few things to take care of in town. Do you know a cheap motel?”

“I got a spare room I rent out,” you hastily say. “I mean, you could have it. It has got a bathroom too. You can use the kitchen if you clean it afterward. If you help me repair the sink, you can have it for free.”

He nods and holds out his hand to help you up. “I can’t tell you when I’ll be around.”

“Don’t worry,” you grab his hand to write your address on his hand. “You can come around anytime.” His eyes widen when you put a key in his hand next.

“You trust me enough to hand me a key to your home?” He looks surprised. “You’re a little careless.”

“Believe me,” you pat his chest, “I’m not careless, nor dumb. I know exactly who I let inside my house.”

Reacher quirks a brow at your words but doesn’t ask what you mean. You turn your attention back toward the dog, and he’s got work to do.

He will start with the restaurant owner across the street.

Part 2

All works tags

@yolobloggers

@shikshinkwon

@miraclesoflove

@mogaruke

@shatteredabby

@soryuwifeyxx

@letsdisneythings

@i-love-superheroees-blog

@thevelvetseries

@anaelsbrunette

@sabascio

@goodgodimaweirdperson

@that-place-called-middle-earth

@wally-darling-hyperfixation

@zxph-yr

@belovedcherry

@matsumama

@emoryhemsworth

@buckybarnesplumwhore

@coldmuffinbanditshoe

@princesssterek

@xoxabs88xox

@wandering-spiritash

@riathearora

@the-loml-got-nailed

@greeneyedblondie44

@gh0stgurl

@charmed-asylum

@fallen-wolf22

@thegirlnextdoorssister

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@black-rose-29

@caplanbuckybarnes

@wykkedwitch

@sexicherri3

@loki-laufeyson-1054

@liloxclu

@km-ffluv

@bubsonnobx

#jack reacher #reacher x reader #jack reacher x reader #plussized reader #female reader #jack reacher x you #BFG (1)

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spidernerdsblog · 2 years

Text

baby spider

Summary : your son seems to have inherited his dad's powers.

Pairing : dad! Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings : fluff

You swayed in the middle of the nursery humming a soft tune to your almost two year old boy in your arms. Ben had his head nestled on your shoulder as he suckled on his thumb in his sleep. Making sure not to wake him up you gently laid him down on his crib and pulled the blanket over him.

You stood there taking your time fawning over your baby boy who was growing way too fast to your liking. It feels like yesterday after twenty two hours of labor the nurse had handed him to you wrapped in a soft blanket. Peter who was there beside you the whole time had tears in his eyes when he held him for the first time. He had kissed you as he told you how much he loves you both and thanked you for giving him the most precious gift of his life. And now you chase your little man around the apartment as he runs wild on his little legs.

“My sweet boy.” you cooed leaving a soft kiss on his forehead.

You have taken up a work from home job so that you can take care of Ben as you sit down on your computer to reply to your mails and get some work done.

Peter returned from his job after some time as you walked out to the living room.

“Hey,” he pressed a soft kiss on your lips.

“How was your day?” you asked, grabbing his coat and hanging it on the rack.

“Good for once Mr. Jameson was in a good mood today.”

“Shocking!” you gasped in mock surprise.

“I know.” Peter chuckled. “Leave all that, how was your day? And where’s my boy?”

“Just the usual stuff.” you shrugged. “Ben is taking a nap but I should go and check on him. It's almost his dinner time.”

“Yeah you go I’ll freshen up and start with preparing the dinner.”

Since day one of your marriage Peter has been quite adamant to make dinner every night and you let him ‘cause apart from the delicious food he looked like a wet dream when he worked around the kitchen especially shirtless. And why would you deny yourself from such a view?

“Ben?” you twisted the door knob and walked inside the nursery to find the crib empty. “Oh my god! Peter!”

Peter had just finished changing into his t-shirt and sweats when your panicked shriek made him rush to you. “Y/N what happened?! Are you alright?!”

“Ben is missing Peter!!” you said with panic stricken eyes.

“What?!”

“I-I had put him in his crib, he was sleeping but now he is nowhere.” your chin trembled, a sob breaking out of you.

“Y/N, calm down.” Peter touched your shoulders.

“Peter, where did he go? He’s so small he can’t get out of the crib on his own.” you blubbered as fear gripped on to you. “What if someone took him knowing that you’re spiderman?”

“That’s impossible honey. We will find him, don't worry.” he kissed the top of your head reassuringly as he thought of what he should do. And just then the familiar sound of giggles of your baby boy reached your ears. Both you and Peter quickly jerked your heads up and your eyes went wide. Your toddler on his fours sticking on to the ceiling.

“Holyshit!” Peter cursed under his breath as you cried out “Ben!”

“Mama.” he said with a gummy smile on his face.

“Baby how did you get up there? Come down to mommy, it's not safe.” you raised your arms in the air towards him.

“Y/N, he doesn't know how the powers work.” Peter whispered in your ears.

“This is all your fault!” you turned to him accusingly.

“My fault?? There was a fifty percent chance of him inheriting the spider genes and you knew that.” he argued.

“I don’t know anything” you shook your head petulantly. “Just bring down our son from up there right now!”

“Ok, ok relax I’ll get him.”

“Stay right there sweetie daddy will come to you.” you cooed to your son who was looking down at you with his big brown eyes and then turned to Peter who was still standing by your side. “Peter! What are you waiting for? Get on the ceiling!”

“God you’re so bossy.” Peter hopped up on his feet, his fingers sticking to the ceiling as he got on to his hands and knees and slowly crawled towards Ben.

Ben, too small to understand, thought his father was playing with him and crawled away giggling. “Daddy, no catch me.”

Your heart was in your throat as you watched Peter reach for your baby boy as he crawled away further.

“Ben, wait.” Peter said.

“Ben, my sweet boy please don’t move. You’ll get hurt.” you tried, standing in the middle of the room helplessly. But he didn’t listen and moved to the edge of the ceiling and started to crawl down the wall. You quickly crossed the room and stood near the wall. As soon as Ben came in your arms length you scooped him in your arms.

“Oh god.” you smothered his face with kisses. “Don’t you ever do that again.” a single tear sliding down your cheek.

“Mama, no cry” Ben wiped your tears with his small hand as Peter dropped down on his feet by your side.

“You really scared us buddy.” Peter patted his head gently.

“I is hungwee.” Ben said, pouting out his bottom lip.

“I know my baby spider, let's go I made your favorite dino nuggies.” you smiled.

“Nuggies! Yum, yum.” he squealed in excitement, making both you and Peter laugh.

“Yes and no more crawling on the ceiling.” you said.

..................................................................................

(A/N : the crappy edit is mine lol that pic is so cute but I had to change the background. Let me know your thoughts.)

Reblogs are appreciated ❤️

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #dad!peter parker #peter parker oneshot #peter parker imagine #peter parker fluff #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #tasm!peter parker #andrew garfield #andrew!peter parker #andrew garfield x reader #andrew garfield smut #peter parker smut #tasm! peter parker x reader #tasm!peter smut #spiderman fanfiction #tasm! peter parker fluff #peter parker fanfiction

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murmiss · 18 days

Text

Living with a monster guy.

(inspired by the anime 'Monster Musume no Iru Nichijou')

Pairing: TF141/you, maybe Kortac/you.

Warning: Possible mistakes in words,OOC,This is all purely my personal vision of the characters.I will not say that this is a full-fledged fanfiction, more a sketch of the idea.

summary:Hybrids and humans began to live in peace and harmoniously. You're just a girl with a damn lonely and boring life, but your friend, the head of the interspecies exchange department, decided to add a little tin to your life..

Part.1

A few years ago, a great secret was revealed to the world: the existence of hybrid creatures is real. Lamias, Harpies, and even fairy, mermaids were no longer myths and legends, but became common creatures for mankind. Now, going to the store, you can meet not only the neighbor's grandmother or a former classmate, but also a beautiful fairy choosing a herbaceous tincture with the aroma of roses, or maybe a centaur occupying the grocery department, with a grocery basket in her hands. So, hybrids have tightly integrated into our ordinary life, have become friends, colleagues, and even defenders. Defenders? You may ask. That's right, hybrids have obvious advantages over humans:speed, high jump, flight, fire breathing-and these and many other abilities were used in the army, the police, even in volunteering! Werewolves are good at finding people under rubble, they are strong and have an amazing nose that can smell the target they need for several kilometers.

There were also special groups created from hybrids with exceptional outstanding combat skills. One of them was the Task force 141, the most famous group in narrow circles.It will be discussed.

-Tess, you have no idea how lonely it can be, Girly...- you mumbled to the blonde sitting next to you. Tess Oskott is one of the employees of the interspecies exchange organization. This organization is responsible for ensuring that some types of hybrids (and, concurrently, almost all) have at least one owner who would monitor the well-being of his ward and ensure compliance with all the rules.

-And what about Cullen?-Tess asked with a chuckle, leaning back on the bar stool.

- Cullen? I've never seen worse assholes in my life!- you hiccuped, complaining in a genuinely indignant voice about your recent beau.- He talks for fifty minutes about his wonderful work, then made me pay the entire bill and asked me more "Let's go to you or to me?"

-Oh, it sucks -a friend laughed in response, smiling significantly, looking in your direction.

- I know how to help you, dear-Tess's self-confident smile did not mean anything good, for sure not for you.

- No zombie hybrids!- you moaned, getting to your feet and not taking your eyes off this cunning fox. Tess was up to something, but fatigue weighed on your shoulders, forcing you to run away as quickly as possible.After a short chat, you and Tess parted, she went to the office, and you went home.

Opening the door of your small house, you stumbled inside and kicked off your heels at the entrance, staggered up the stairs, opening the first door and casually throwing off your bag by the bed, plopped into the arms of soft and much-desired furniture.Sleep enveloped you almost instantly, taking you somewhere on a fabulous journey through the beautiful open spaces. You're riding a horse across wide fields, the wind is in your hair, and the horse is neighing and saying, "Pretty girl, wake up." You smile weakly, but at the same second it dawned on you: is the horse talking??! And as if at the behest of that bad man, you open your eyes, wanting to look into the eyes of this shameless intruder of your sweet dream. Next to the bed, Tess was leaning over, dressed in her strict black suit, holding a folder of documents in her hands. Workers walked nearby and dragged some furniture into the house. You jump to your feet and let out a cry of incomprehension.

-What the fuck, Tess!?

-calmly, sleeping beauty, I fulfill your wish, then you'll thank me again -the woman winked and immediately turned on the boss mode, rushed towards one of the rooms, saying in a growling bass voice, "I said the bathroom needs to be expanded! We are also expanding the doorways"

- What?? Do you mean to expand the bathroom?- you rush towards your cozy shower room and see a completely dismantled room. A disappointed groan escapes from your lips when you say "Fuck" in a smacky and disappointed way

Before you know it, workers are turning your house upside down, spoiling all the comfort...

"So, miss, you are participating in the 'hybrid exchange' program, your house has been improved in order to create more favorable living conditions for hybrids."

-What the fuck is so official, Tess? In the sense of hydrides?

"Shh, listen further. You have been honored to become the host for an elite group of handsome men, that is, hybrids.".

-What do you mean?-You asked, raising one eyebrow, but the creatures that suddenly appeared in front of you threw away all questions.

A man of large build, tall, with particularly strong-looking hands came into the house. With your eyes, you unconsciously traced every curve of his muscles hidden under his T-shirt, almost drooling. A black T-shirt with a print of some kind of rocker band, gray skinny jeans and sneakers - a simple image that fit him wonderfully.. Oh, a face with rough features, a scar above the left eye, gray eyes with a blue tint, stubble, thick eyebrows, a mohawk, and that self-confident smile! Tess definitely wants you dead, because this man was definitely hot.A light dreamy sigh escapes from your lips as you shamelessly examine the man in front of you. Tess nudges you in the side, whispering in your ear with a smile.

-Wait, it's too early to melt into a puddle, that's not all

When you hear a quiet hiss, you abruptly turn your gaze to the front door, quietly buncha crawled into the house. Stop.. Crawled in? Oh no.. You see Lamia crawling into your house, cursing at the narrow passages and the cold floor along the way, squinting in your direction in disbelief. Following the Lamia came, or rather, flew, a Harpy- a man with dark skin, a charming smile and the purest plumage. Well, in the end, with a slight alarm, a man with dragon wings came in, he turned from side to side, trying to get comfortable, and accidentally flicking a flower vase with his wings.. Your favorite one! You let out a plaintive moan, but while doing the inhale-exhale-inhale exercise, you managed to squeeze out a smile.

-Umm... oh.. uh.. Hi?- you say uncertainly, greeting them. The man with the wolf ears and tail smiled again, showing his sharp teeth and confidently saying, "Oh shit, Gas, I won. Our hostess is charming."

Charming? Damn, after the bar, you didn't even bother to wipe off your makeup, let alone change your clothes, and this dude is telling you that you're "cute"? It all looks like a dream or a violent comedy, and the director of photography here is Tess. The woman, noticing your bewilderment, patted you on the shoulder and threw something simple like "we'll call you later", busily left the house.

So you were left alone with four hybrids, not knowing what to do.

#call of duty #captain price #fanfic #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap cod #captain john price #price x reader #tf 141 x reader #poly tf141 #gaz cod #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #gaz x you #ghost cod #cod x reader #cod

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143-iloveu · 4 days

Text

Credit for all photos goes to the original owners. I do not own these images.

MDNI - Not all of my works are NSFW, but I do not want minors interacting with my blog just to be safe. All NSFW content will carry a Mature Community Label. Ageless and empty blogs will promptly be blocked.

Constellations

Idol!Felix X GN!Reader

Tooth-rotting Fluff

Content Warnings - None

Word Count - 548

When your exhausted boyfriend comes home from dance practice and falls asleep in record time... you can't help but admire him.

©️ Please don't repost or translate my works on other platforms.

Fifty-five seconds.

That’s all the time it took for Felix to fall asleep once his head hit the pillow - a new record. You decided to count purely out of curiosity. He’s been heading to dance practice before dawn for the last four days, and Lord knows the boys don’t wrap things up until they are beyond exhausted. He hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep this whole week.

As he drifts farther into dreamland, his tense muscles are finally given a chance to relax. His lips are forming a sleepy little pout, and a trail of drool is forming at the corner of his mouth - his signature face whenever he’s burnt out. He looks so peaceful lost in his dream. Your heart flutters at the sight. You could swear that you found your heaven within Felix. What selfless deed had you performed in your past life to be given the chance to be with such a sweetheart?

You’re quick to take advantage of the opportunity to admire the beautiful man who’s lying before you. His blonde locks are fanned across his forehead, some falling in his eyes. His breathing is slow, chest rising and falling in time. But the thing that always pulls at your heartstrings is seeing the freckles on Felix’s angelic face. It’s as if God painted constellations across his cheeks just for you to cherish.

You lay in bed next to him, attempting to count how many individual freckles you can see.

‘One hundred forty-three,’ you think to yourself.

That’s the farthest you’ve ever gotten.

Suddenly, Felix rolls further into you, burying his face in your chest and wrapping a strong arm around your waist. He holds you tight against him, and you can feel a small smile spreading across his lips. He must have felt you staring and rolled over to hide his face. He’s always such a shy baby whenever he catches you staring at him with hearts in your eyes.

He’s trapped you within his grasp, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You have only a single complaint; you weren’t finished counting. You sigh, accepting that your mission has failed. There’s always tomorrow. Although, you’re certain his freckles are infinite, just like the number of reasons to love him.

“Sweet dreams, my freckled prince,” you whisper.

He hums in response.

“I love you, Yongbokie,” you say gently against his temple before pressing a kiss to it.

“I love you too, Y/N,” he mumbles against your chest.

It feels as if you see God every time he says your name, intoxicated by the sound of it falling from his pouty lips. If his love were a religion, you’d be a devout worshipper. You’ve got him, and he’s got you; until the end of time.

He gives your waist a small squeeze before looking up at you with the cutest sleepy eyes. His lips are puckered, silently asking for another goodnight kiss. You happily oblige. A smile crawls onto his face, and he shifts to get comfortable again. He quickly falls back asleep, a light snore escaping his lips. You lay there truly appreciating the fact that you can call this man yours. Without him, you’d be completely lost. Soon, your exhaustion drags you off to join Felix in dreamland.

A/N: I am so freaking soft for Lixie. I wrote this one-shot in a couple of hours but went back over it hundreds of times since writing it. It has sat in my finished works folder for over a year, and I'm finally ready to let it see the light of day. I hope you love this as much as I do!

-Ashe 🦊🐺

©️ Please don't repost or translate my works on other platforms.

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morallyinept · 6 months

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Summary: Joel Miller comes back into your life unexpectedly after a gap of thirty years, and stirs up all kinds of memories and longing. Now, as you're stationed on an outpost for five days alone with the man you stupidly let go of all those years ago, you have a chance to confront him about your past life together and all the things you wished you’d said and done.

But Joel’s different now, and you know you need to tread carefully. Joel Miller is not the same man you once knew in another life.

A slow burn romance set in the post apocalyptic world, approx. twenty or so years after the initial Cordyceps outbreak.

Pairing: Post-Outbreak Joel Miller x MatureF!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. However reader is of a similar age range as Joel; in her late forties/early fifties. Joel is slightly older at 56.)

Chapter Word Count: 3.4k

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☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: Descriptions of an animal kill. You and Joel start to open up to one another. Brief mentions of smut. Tiny. 🤏🏻

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Previous Chapter

He comes up behind you, running his nose and fingers through your hair entwining it; curling it and breathing you in deeply.

A soft hum escapes him and it sets your skin alight, immolating you before him. The fire consumes all of you, head to toe. After all this time, he can still do this to your body.

You're here. You say softly.

Your words are left undecided whether they lean into astonishment or ruminate in the neighbourhoods of grief.

I never left, darlin’. Not really. He reassures you.

You feel his hand; that large formidable palm, emanating an intense heat of his own from the centre of it, across your collarbone where it rests over the ebb of your quickening heartbeat.

I was always in here… He presses his lips to the side of your throat.

Joel...

You stir in the cot; the itchy blanket warming your skin. Unconscious thoughts of him are interrupting your circadian rhythm, knives thrown at a target.

The dream clouds your eyes opaque, dissipating slowly where Joel is still in love with you and anything is possible. Flesh eating monsters don't exist here. Nothing can get you, and as you come to, you remember where you are, bleakly.

You remember that it’s not a dream, even though Joel is really here with you in this plane again. You’re not sure what outcome is worse; to reside in a dream where Joel wants you that isn't real, or to live in a horrific reality where he’s flesh and blood real, but doesn’t want you.

Both options come with the same extra-large serving of pain drowning in grease slopping over the side of your plate.

As you open your eyes fully, the shack is dark, save for the sliver of pale light in the corner; the moon shining in from the night and illuminating the side of Joel’s face from the cut out.

A small candle flickers dully on the table in front of him that barely glows, although creates shadows around the wooden beams.

Joel’s in the wicker chair reading. You try to be still. Try not to alert him that you’re awake and just watch him.

He looks ethereal; at peace as he looks down into the pages, losing himself inside a make believe world that pulls him from this terrible one for a much coveted reprieve.

He licks the tip of his stubby right thumb as he turns the top of the page delicately; his eyes moving across words and painting images in his head.

After a while, a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips and he turns another page. You just observe, from the confines of the stifling, musty blanket as Joel lives and exists in another world, and you couldn't be more elated to see him thrive and flourish there.

Even if it’s without you.

“How long ya gon’ keep starin’?” Joel asks aloud, as he turns the page, and you smile as you’ve been rumbled.

Unsure exactly how he knows. But then he used to do that, knew when you were faking being asleep whilst he was curled around you. You’d hear him tell you through a silk whisper that blew hot and heavy in your ear, that he knew you were awake, as he slipped his hand down the front of your panties and made you moan his name as he wrote it on your clit with a slick coated finger.

“What are you reading?” You ask, feeling the sweat clammy on your neck and the throbbing ache register between your legs.

Joel holds up the book and it’s an old copy of Little Women with a heavily creased spine.

“Interesting choice.” You muse.

“I’ve read all the books here over. Just passin’ the time.” He concludes. He still continues to read as you sit up and stretch.

“Sure you have,” you smirk, pushing the blanket off and grateful for the reprieve.

"S'a classic. Shut up."

"Is it okay to have the candle burning? You said no light." You ask after watching it dance inside it's waxy rim. You can still see it's gloaming orb when you close your eyes; a fading orange dot sizzling behind them.

"Ain't got bionic eyes to read in the dark yet," he retorts and you smirk. "S'fine."

You glance over to the clocks and see that it’s almost three AM. “You should’ve woken me, I slept far too long.”

“Ya looked like ya needed it,” Joel shrugs. His eyes dart to yours from over the book. Two dark, glass marbles in the tiny light.

“Well, I’m up now. Get some rest, I’ll take over,” you say standing. Your back cracks and you groan as it eases.

After a beat, Joel tosses the book on the table. He passes you and you sink into the wicker chair, warmed from his body heat, yawning.

You glance out at the vacant valley through the cut out; the moonlight illuminating the dips and rolls of the hills and it’s peaceful, almost serene.

You look up at the craters on the moon and wonder for a moment if Kelper's looking up at the sky right now too.

Joel rolls over to face the wall in the cot. He leaves the blanket off and keeps his boots on.

He can smell you on the pillow; the faint dying scents of your sleep, your warmth caressing the side of his face.

He closes his eyes and tries to remember what you feel like, what you used to feel like in that small ebb of time when you were his.

Before his weak, traitorous hands let you go.

He’d heard you in your sleep. A small snuffle escaping from your nose and then a gentle moan that rolled up from the bottom of your vocal chords to taunt him as you dreamt.

It reminded him of a sound that you would make for him in another life.

Sitting in that damn wicker chair, across the room from you, which felt like miles in distance, he was forced to listen to that beguiling melody as it flowed from your lips to taunt him. He was unable to do anything about it, leaving him reeling.

Left the maddening thoughts of getting into the damn cot with you, and wrapping you up in his arms and squeezing you so tightly, gasping for breath and dying at his feet.

But Joel knows he's a coward underneath, spent of conviction. He knows you'd probably push him away; he would. It's been too long for him to dwell in the territory of possible desirability.

He's not the same young, athletic man he once was when you knew him. Is he even desirable to you now, with his shot to shit knee that creaks and cracks, and a back that won't co-operate most of the time?

He's gotten old, and even in the world before he was constantly fighting to stay alive, he might've been in worse shape. He surmises that he probably would've had a heart attack by now, despite Sarah berating him constantly to eat better.

He remembered you then; the both of you back then. How brash and confident you were. How you made him confident.

Now, Joel is a just husk of a man, empty. Lost. It's like he was a person back then that he never knew, not truly.

What could he possibly offer you now?

He grounds down on his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut, willing with all his might that you will leave the muddy bog-soaked ground of his mind, let him have some fucking respite.

In the chair, you glance over at Joel, his broad back presented to you clothed in dark green plaid; his arms folded and his knees bent. He still sleeps the same, you muse.

Except you're not draped over him, absorbing the undulating warmth you know he emits.

Your eyes wander over the soft curve of his ass swathed in tight denim that’s frayed in places around the pocket on his cheek, and you remember all the times you’d squeezed it. Playfully when he’d embrace you, forcefully when he’d fuck you. You’d grab onto it, wanting him deeper inside you as you came; both of you panting, clawing, never getting enough.

Come for me, darlin'. God, I wanna fuckin' feel ya come...

It was never enough and so fleeting. You were young, foolish. You took it all for granted that it would last forever. The bittersweetness of it all cuts sharp across your tongue.

You clench your thighs together; a deep, laboured breath flows out of you that you don't know Joel can hear.

It makes his heartbeat quicken and he adjusts his head lightly on the pillow.

He wishes he was lying on his left side, so he could block your tempting sounds out with the deafening din that pulses in his right ear constantly now. But if he was, he knows he'd not be able to resist peeping at you, the same way you did with him.

You reach forward, picking up the book and open it. Figuring you may as well simply pass the time too.

Joel jolts in the cot; a shunt of his body stirs him awake out of a pitch black, dreamless sleep. His forehead bumps against the wooden wall, pulling him out of the viscous oil of it.

Realising what has happened, he turns over his shoulder and sees that you're not in the wicker chair to mock him. He knows you would.

Although that relief is swallowed up by immediate concern as he hears a gunshot pelt from outside.

Flying up out of the cot, he notices the rifle is missing off the stand. Rushing to the window, he can see you a little ways down the track as he peers through the cut out.

“Fuck!” He mutters and takes off out the door. It clatters on its hinges behind him.

You aim the rifle and fire, smirking triumphantly when you fatally hit the buck on your first shot.

The kickback into your shoulder throbs, but it’ll be worth the bruise when you sink your teeth into the tender meat later; your mouth waters thinking about it.

You’d spotted it moving in the silence of the early morning light as you stared out the window watching the night morph into the inky dawn hues. The only sound to accompany you was the occasional snuffle from Joel’s nose as he slept.

It was a small tan dot, moving furtively in the underbrush, and as you sat forward in the chair, the oncoming light making your vision clearer, you realised it was a buck and not a wayward infected coming to ambush you.

It was instinct, fuelled by years of intense hunger that knew no bounds, that had you up out of the chair chasing this opportunity like dark voodoo had entranced you. It was too good to miss; silently removing the rifle from the stand, and creeping out the door so as not to rouse Joel.

Kelper would be proud, he taught you well. You know your way around a gun and the sticky, bloodied bones of an animal carcass with your eyes shut. Such are the only talents or skills needed in this world now.

You begin striding over to the lifeless buck, feeling mighty pleased with yourself, when you hear your name being hollered like thunder cracking across the sky.

You turn toward the fracas. Joel is tearing down the hill towards you, his fists clenched and looking frantic.

“Ya fuckin’ crazy?!” He hisses, trying to contain the loudness of his voice around the valley, and failing somewhat at it.

“Well, good morning to you too-” You start, but are cut off by a very red-faced and pissed off Joel.

“What the fuck d’ya think ya doin?” He snatches the rifle from you, seething.

You can only watch as he tears it from your hand. “Joel-”

“Firing a fuckin’ gun out here, ya wanna let any infected know we're sittin’ waiting’ for em?!”

Oh shit.

You realise your mistake immediately as the fury on Joel’s face strips you of your blood making you cold. His nostrils flare, his mouth is a hard, thin line under his grey flecked moustache. His chest heaves like he’s about to keel over.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, shit. I didn’t think,” you say, feeling small as he towers over you.

“What'd I tell ya, hmm? We gotta trust one another out here. Ya get a stupid fuckin’ idea, ya run it by me first!” The cords in his neck visibly strain as he tries to quell his anger bubbling through him. It makes him shake, you notice.

You cross your arms and sigh. Despite his anger, the castigation from him is starting to fray your own temper. “You’re right, I fucked up, Joel. I’m sorry. Just, calm down.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head fast and running his hands through his mussed, dandelion streaked hair. He breathes out; a small whistle exiting his nose after he sniffs in deep, tasting some faint composure on his tongue.

You scowl at the buck’s corpse, feeling so foolish and lambasted like a little girl.

You don’t remember Joel having much of a temper. Out of the two of you, you were the hot headed one and he was always so mellow, even when you were tearing out his heart.

But of course, the world has changed since then, and looking at his glowering eyes, you can’t help but wonder what else he has endured through that has naturally fanned this fire within him to blaze.

Deep down you know you’ve been reckless and put you both in danger; worse than that, put the whole mission and everyone tied to it in danger.

And all for the sake of some fucking venison.

An onslaught of tears start to prickle and blur your vision; you try to blink them back in earnest.

“Hey,” Joel steps towards you. “M'sorry I snapped,” he says more gently; the harsh lines in his face melting away into his cheeks.

You step back, away from him, and you don't know how much that tiny movement of you flinching shatters him. A sledgehammer to the crudely sewn up heart that's barely beating most days inside his chest cavity.

“It’s okay.” You shake your head, breathing in deeply and blinking them away. Endure and survive. Endure and survive. “You were right to, I deserved it. It was a fucking dumb idea.”

“No.” He shakes his head too. “I just…” He trails off as he catches sight of the young buck in the tree line. “That what ya shot?”

You nod, smiling a little. “Figured it would be better than the cans. A treat, you know?"

Joel baulks and a small bewildered smirk creeps over his lips that he tries in vain to quell. No, he can’t be impressed right now, he has to be hopping mad at you.

Has to be angry because otherwise he'll want to wrap his arms around you and comfort you. Give and feed you mutinous praise at how fucking strong you are now.

Look at you. You're incredible; he knew it the moment he saw you outside The Tipsy Bison, in your amazonian audacity. You were alive, which meant you were strong, had grit.

Stared death in the face and gave it the finger with blood in your teeth and fire in your belly. He's proud. Secretly, he's so fucking proud of you.

"How'd ya learn to shoot? When I knew ya, ya couldn't aim for shit." Joel queries.

His mind is transported back to a hazy, neon time that smells of cotton candy and balsamic fried onions, where he's laughing at you as you try, and fail miserably, to shoot stacked bottles at the fairground.

He took over, and with only one shot, you were cooing at him and clutching a stuffed penguin you'd named Wilson, or Wilbur, or some stupid shit like that.

He doesn't know that you still had that daft penguin right up until Outbreak day. Or that you cuddled up close to it in your melancholy when you missed him.

You smile as you both glance at the buck; dead, glassy eyes staring back at you both.

"Survival instinct, I guess. Point and shoot, otherwise you die, right?" You shrug bitterly.

He nods gently. It's a lesson he knows only too well. His grip tightens on the rifle.

"And later on, Kelper... He taught me a lot."

Joel scoffs and shakes his head. You see his lips visibly roll back over his teeth. "M'sure he did."

"Careful. One might think you're jealous, Joel." You tease.

"M'not." He grits, looking away.

"Liar." You tease. "It was never like that between us. We love each other, but we're not in love. He's gay, Joel." You confirm into the air, convincing him, and unsure why you feel the need to.

"And if he wasn't?" He queries, despite himself.

"Maybe..." You say. "Probably. Doesn't matter." You know it's futile to wrangle the with the what if's. Everything happens for a reason. If Kelper was meant to be yours, he would have been.

He wasn't yours. Just like Joel. You bite down on the inside of your cheek until it stings.

He shrugs. "I should've taught ya." He mutters into the air. "Back when we were…"

The thought of you having to learn the hard way creates a blockage somewhere, stops blood flowing freely. It clots in the artery as he see's your panicked face behind his eyes; hears your wails as you fight back, terrified no doubt. He feels your fear as it builds up, causing pressure, swelling.

His fist goes to his chest as he clears his throat. "It shouldn't have been like this, any of it." Joel shakes his head.

"I sometimes think it's a nightmare that I can't wake up from." You agree. "I don't know how I even got here. How I made it. How any of us did. It's all such a blur." You surmise, bleakly. "Time is so different now. Years feel like only days ago."

He slings the rifle onto his shoulder uncomfortably.

You look down at the wild grass. "Pointless thinking about it though. We just keep on. Endure and survive." You conclude.

"S'a good mantra, I guess."

"It's why I'm still alive." You confirm.

"I thought 'bout ya." Joel says quietly after a few beats.

"Yeah?" You look at his face quizzically.

Joel nods starkly as his walnut browns meet yours.

"I thought about you too." You look back at him.

"I mourned ya." He swallows, eyes dark, and you see his jaw twitch as he grinds on his teeth.

It hits you in the gut, ricochets off your spleen and passes out the other side.

"I hoped ya got out, that ya were safe. That someone was looking out for ya. But I really thought ya didn't make it. And then seeing ya… in the commune. As clear as fuckin' day. I thought I'd finally cracked. Lost it fully for a moment."

You listen, rooted to the spot on the grass as he speaks with an emptiness to his voice. You struggle to hear him though over the crashing waves of your heartbeat thudding in your ears.

Joel turns back to you and sighs softly as he looks down at you. You look up to meet his eyes again; the red in yours fading away.

“M'glad to be proven wrong." He confirms. "Y'always were a firecracker."

You smile at him not really knowing what to say. You just feel your fingertips throb and twitch.

You want to reach up and touch him so badly. Feel that silky, rough scruff and trace the lines of his face, reading the ridges and craters of his pores like braille. Run your nose across the prominent hook of his, dip your tongue back into the inkpot of his mouth and paint canvases with all of his colours again.

You want to tell him the same, that you thought he was dead too. That it killed you to know he could be gone from this world forever.

That a part of you died, and never came back, the day you left him.

"Wait for me,” he says through a voice you don’t recognise. “I need ya to wait for me next time, okay?” He nods over to the buck.

You nod back at him slowly like you're in a trance.

He steps forward and this time you don’t step back, the gap getting smaller between you. It’s enough to strip the air from your lungs despite being outside and breathing it in. But there's no clarity in the dappling bokeh as it all fades out around you.

Joel’s lips part, like he’s going to say something else, but doesn’t.

You desperately want to know what he wants to say. You want to yell it at him to tell you. To tell you that he missed you everyday as much as you missed him. To tell you that he wished you had knocked on his door.

You want him to split you open, pry the meat out from in between your ribs and feast on it. Devour you until there is nothing left.

From the way he looks back at you, with those dark eyes becoming vortexes spanning across the universe, you can tell he wants the same.

It’s in every look, every breath; every beat of his unworthy heart. It’s just that he doesn’t know how to reach out and take it, or if he should. Or if you really want him to.

He used to know your signals once upon a time, he could read you, memorise your story. Now, you’re a blank paperback that he opens to be met with a daunting nothing.

And you realise the longer you stand there, the more paralysed you’ve become too. Like you've forgotten how your limbs work.

All you can think about is re-tasting the colourless salt between your naked, sweaty bodies. You want him inside you with every fibre of your being. Shit, it's been too long.

Decades, a passage of time that you can't comprehend, and yet he can still leave you breathless, wanting.

He pollutes your thoughts even when right in front of you; he's cerebral. The frenetic pounding of the blood rushing in your veins makes you lightheaded.

You watch, enthralled, as the Adam's apple in his tan throat somersaults, and Joel’s stepping back and breaking the hypnotic spell.

“C’mon, help me carry this back up.” He throws the rifle over his shoulder again when it slips down, and you finally remember that you’re no longer static and growing roots in the soil.

You both pick it up; he handles the head and you take the hind. Blood glistens in the fur behind its ear and it mesmerises you for a bit. Rubies in soft, wet velvet.

"I think I knew that you'd made it." You say, finding some chalk in your throat. "I mourned you too... Kelper, he had this idea that we should lay everyone we loved and lost to rest. It was kinda beautiful, to let go." You say, recalling the silk, tattered ribbons you tied onto the tree branches. One each for everyone gone. Your mom, your friends, colleagues.

One for Joel.

"But deep down I guess I knew that you would still be alive, somewhere."

Joel looks at you as he steps up the hill.

"You're too stubborn to go down." You smile.

He smirks. "Old habits die hard."

"Thank God for that." You confirm.

You can hear his breaths getting heavier as you both feel the weight of the buck on the incline.

"S'a shame we don't have any rosemary. Red wine. Could'a made a fine meal outta this." Joel sighs into the air. "Spiced pears for dessert... Nice."

You snort. "You mean I could. You can't cook for shit, Miller."

He laughs, you can see his broad shoulders heaving despite not hearing it. "I've learnt a few things here or there 'bout survivin'." Joel confirms, a dip weighing in his voice.

"Mmhm."

"I'll prove it. When we're back, I'll make ya somethin'."

"Really?" You baulk, grinning. The warmth from those words nestles against you, all snug and inviting.

He shrugs and throws you a wry smirk. "Sure. Twenty year-old canned beefaroni. My specialty."

You laugh. His shoulders heave again as you both reach the top of the hill to the shack. Your arms ache, but the warmth from his laugh soothes it.

"That's a real nice sound. Missed it." Joel says quietly, but you hear it and it warms your face.

"We'll be neighbours in Jackson, how weird is that?" You say casually, but it makes your stomach flutter.

Joel smiles. "Fuckin' weird."

You laugh again.

"Don't be comin' over to borrow a cup of sugar. Don't have any." Joel throws over his shoulder.

"Then what kind of a neighbour are you?" You smirk.

"Useless."

"Doubtful." You conclude softly.

You both reach the top of the hill and round the back of the shack to where the stable is. You can feel the sweat beading on the back of your neck again, and Joel's audibly wheezing a little.

"I'll hold you to that, you know." You challenge as you both put the buck's carcass down just outside the stable. "The cooking for me thing, I mean. I'd like that."

You both stop and regard one another. Joel's eyes are shining and he's trying not to blush. But you can see it, and it's the most fantastic thing you think you'll ever see.

His lips spread into a smile that creates a dimple in his cheek that you remember all too well. You used to kiss it.

"S'a date." Joel mumbles at you with pink cheeks, as he holds open the door to the shack.

To be continued...

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disappointmentofthefam · 2 months

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Love? Love. (part one)

(Andy Barber x reader)

summary- recently split from his wife, Andrew Stephen Barber, aka, Mr hotshot ADA daddy dilf, lives with his 14 year old son Jacob. All he has known since the tender age of 17 is Laurie, and their baby boy. Will his life change when a bright eyed and bushy tailed y/n moves in the house right opposite to his? More importantly, will it change for the better or the worse?

*contains adult themes, smut and age gap (reader is a senior in college, Andy is in his early thirties)*

Andy's sleep is rudely cut short by the whirring engine of packers and movers mixed with the commotion of workers walking back and forth, setting up the furniture.

His face grimaces as soon as he opens his eyes,

at seven fucking am on a sunday! fuck off!

Apparently-as he later finds out-a new family had just moved in the house opposite to his. From what he had heard from his best friend(and neighbor), Sam, the family had a son of around Jacob's age which was about perfect since Jacob was a shy kid and wasn't exactly Mr. popular with kids his age. maybe he would find a friend in the new kid

By the next weekend, Jacob and the kid, Tyler, were already friends and today Jacob had invited his friend to play video games together.

"Daaaaddd", Jacob whines, "Please don't embarrass me!"

Andy gasps dramatically ,"Are you ashamed of your old man!", he even goes as far as to clutch his chest, right where his heart is, "i knew this day would come, i just thought it would be fifty years from now when i am bound to a hospital bed and shit my pants every time i try to say a word with more than three syllables"

As Jacob rolls his eyes, laughing, the doorbell rings, "whatever old man, just behave or i won't buy you diapers when you're all old and 'bound to a bed'".

Tyler shyly greets Andy and the boys disappear into their boy cave. Andy decides to settle down for a movie from the comfort of his couch. He can already imagine what Sam would say if he found out about Andy's weekend plans

are you seriously wasting all that good-good on a couch? Let's go out man , find you a pretty girl, you need to get out of this 'grandma' routine

Sam wouldn't get it ,he was married, happily so, and had a baby girl with the woman of his dreams. "Between the two of those pretty girls, i don't stand a chance"- he'd say

It wasn't that easy for Andy to navigate the modern dating world, there were too many 'what ifs' and not enough 'why nots' for him to fall in love again

what if he's a one night?

what if he catches feelings and she doesn't? what if he finds someone perfect only to find out he's incapable of feeling love again?

oh shit, worse yet- what if he was a reboun-

His thoughts are interrupted by the ringing doorbell, jesus can't a man watch the godfather for the millionth time in peace?

"Hi, Mr. Barber"

Andy's breath hitches, "Hi there"

"I would shake your hand but mine are full", she giggles.

Andy's heart does a backflip at her laugh as he shakily reaches out to take the four tupperware boxes from her.

"I'm y/n", she gives him a sweet smile, "I'm Tyler's sister and we just wanted to thank you for inviting him over, god knows we needed the break! Teenagers, amirite", she looks up at him with those big doe eyes.

Snapping out of the trance, Andy invites her in, "Come in............uh",

"Y/n"

Andy's chest is filled with a warm, fuzzy feeling

Names are so intimate, Y/n, while he asks her to come in, Y/n, he asks her to sit, Y/n, as he brews her a cup of coffee.

Andy, as her eyes sparkle when she realizes the movie he has on, Andy, as she tells him she cooked all the treats she brought him tonight

"So", Andy strikes up the conversation as they settle on the couch, "i've heard that you tutor children?"

"Oh, yes, It's just to earn a little before i graduate, besides, my god complex is fulfilled while teaching people", she jokes.

Andy doesn't remember the last time he was so interested in a conversation that wasn't about work or crime, or both, really.

An hour later, they are way past formalities, talking about everything and nothing, as if they were old friends.

Her mouth agape, she looks at him in utter disbelief, "He got away with it?" ,Andy can't believe she's so engrossed in his work stories, Laurie had always told him to keep his work where it belonged-in his office.

"Tyler and i should leave now, it's getting late, mom will be mad if we're late for dinner"

Andy's heart sinks why did she have to leave

"Alright sweetheart", he says lowly, "it was a pleasure to have your company".

Y/n smiles bashfully 'sweetheart'

did he mean it? no way! he must have a thousand women worshipping at his feet, he's the fucking ADA, he's single, he's hot and don't even get me started on that smile-

Focus Y/n!!

Andy notices the hitch in her breath, the sudden tint on her cheeks and the way her shy eyes try to look anywhere but at him

a straight up filthy image crosses his mind-

you, laying naked on his bed, all spread out for him, whining as he sucked between your petals

you, closing your eyes bashfully as the head of his thick cock lines up with your wet, tight hole

he would have no qualms with slapping your face lightly, "look at daddy while he's fucking you open"

"look at me baby, look at who's making you feel so good"

he'd kiss your pouting lips, "my dumb little baby can't think with daddy's cock inside her, ca-

okay Andy, She's a smart and beautiful twenty-one year old girl, she must have boys falling at her feet, the last thing she'd want is you.

As she and Tyler leave, Andy can't help the stupid smile on his face

"dad?, you good there?"

Andy snaps out of the trance, "yeah kid"

"phew! With that shit eating grin, you almost had me convinced that you had shat you pants"

OH THIS LITTLE ASSHO-

author's note: heyyyyyyy girlies, i purposefuly made the first chapter short and vague so i can take the story forward as you'd like me to! Please do leave suggestions!!! nothing is off limits to me

#andy barber x reader #chris evans smut #chris evans x reader #andy barber smut #chris evans fanfiction #ari levinson x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #chris evans characters #lloyd hansen #loyd hansen x reader

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mybworlds · 3 months

Text

CHAPTER 6

status: ongoing

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: your life is full of 'must'. You live with your overprotective mother who controls every aspect of your life. You have a dream, to write romance novels, but love - real love - you haven't found yet. Your mother has even decided what you must do in your free time: play music. One day, however, when you go to your music teacher's house, you will have an unexpected encounter and from that day on things change…

Masterlist

rating: 18+ explicit (minors, DNI)

Before to start... thank you for your support, if you like it pls leave a like/comment/reblog it, if you don't like it don't be rude and keep going. Please remember English is not my first language, so please be merciful!

Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner

You put the key in the lock and you come in your house, you take off your scarf and coat, your boots and you wear your slippers, then you go to the kitchen, but you freeze on the door: your mother is half - naked on a chair in your kitchen.

You turn around and pretend not to see anything, but she must have seen you from the corner of her eyes because she jumps and tries to get dressed clumsily.

The man, perhaps in his mid-fifties, looks at you surprised and upset at being found with his intimacy on show.

"Honey." your mother says, coming toward you.

You back up and make to go toward the door, but your mother stops you by making you turn toward her "Honey, he's a friend. And-- well, I thought you were at work tonight, I thought ..."

"What?" you say for the first time using an icy tone with your mother "How long has this been going on?"

"Almost a year." she replies "I was going to tell you about it sooner or later. I was just waiting for the most opportune moment, but I would have told you, believe me."

"I don't care." you blurt, releasing yourself from her grip and running to get your boots on.

"Where are you going?"

You don't answer her, you put on your coat and scarf again, take your keys and then open the door, think about it for a moment and then turn to her "One thing you have to tell me though, when did you see each other if you're always in the hospital?"

"He's a colleague, honey. And we sometimes used to see each other there, but other..."

You nod "So, you told me to go to the hospital, you were actually with him."

"Listen to me..." she's about to say, but you go through the door and slam it behind you, run down the stairs, and take the main street again.

It's almost ten o'clock at night, it's freezing.

You slip your hands into the pockets of your jacket and start walking.

You don't know where to go, you don't know what to do.

You're not upset that you found your mother in a compromising situation with another man, after all, your father and your mother are as good as separated, he left home that you were six or seven years old so she has every right to rebuild her life.

You still walk, you don't know where you're going.

What hurts you is to think about how many lies there have been in your life, all the obligations you had to follow, even your mother's abuse, how much responsibility she has thrown on you all this time, how many "you must" had to follow and never transgress, but what hurts you the most is her absolute search for truth from you; sure you have omitted things from her lately, but you think that if you had told her all the truth you would never have met Joel or Jack, you wouldn't have begun to get out of that bubble filled with lies in which she forced you to live.

You are so immersed in your thoughts that you didn't realize you were standing in front of Joel's house.

Your eyes pinch for the frost, you hope he's there, you want him to be there.

You knock.

Just once.

You don't have the courage to push.

After a couple of minutes, you see him open the door slightly, holding the latch still on the door, then he realizes it's you, he closes the door again and then throws it wide open "What-- what happened to you?" Joel asks you, widening his eyes with a worried look.

You don't know the look on your face at that moment, but you're definitely torn.

You see him put a rifle down next to the wall and then immediately close the door again.

You'd like to ask him what he's going to do with that, but that's not the pressing question; you have a thousand thoughts in your head, each one more confused than the last.

"Hey, look a' me!" he says, turning towards him and taking your face in his big warm hands, "What are you doing here at this hour?"

You swallow, but you don't know where to start.

"Wait, take this off." he says pointing to your coat "And go by the fireplace, you're freezing."

You nod, "Gimme." he says taking your coat "D' ya want something warm to drink?" he asks again.

"Yes." you reply, nodding.

He opens wide his eyes "Something serious must have happened to answer me yes, sweetheart. Go that way, I'll be right there."

You obey by entering his living room and approaching the couch, you see he was carving wood, no precise shape yet, but your gaze does not linger too much on the carving wood as much as on the crackling fire.

You get closer and the chill you felt up to that moment gives way to shivers and then to intense heat. You squeeze into your shoulders and close your eyes, perhaps you've bothered him.

"Sit down." says Joel behind you, you turn away "Something that warms you right away is just the whiskey, but I don't think it's..."

"It's all right." you say interrupting him.

Joel says your name and then approaches you "You're upset, I don't think tasting whiskey is a good thing."

"It's okay. I'm an adult, I can drink. I'm not a child, Joel," you tell him in a serious tone of voice.

"Will you tell me later what happened? I don't like your dark face," he tells you.

"All right, but there's not much to tell," you say, cutting short.

Joel still looks at your face for a moment and you - still feeling his gaze on you - look away from him and back at the fire. He quickly returns with two glasses, you see him set them down on the coffee table and pour a half-finger of whiskey into both glasses, and then he hands you one.

You sniff that golden liquid first, it's strong, very strong, it almost pinches your nose, then you bring your lips close to the glass and drink a small amount. It stings, you cough.

He, on the other hand, drinks it suddenly and smiles at your reaction.

"Gimme the glass, I'll take it over there."

"I'm not done yet," you note.

"Sweetheart, will you tell me what's going on? You've been acting strange since you came in. D' ya want to tell me?" he tells you, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand.

You sigh, then barely squeeze the glass in your hands and tell him, "Sorry to bother you. I see you were carving something, maybe I disturbed you."

"Baby, you never disturb. You could have come even in the middle of the night. Maybe you should have waited about ten minutes, but I would have let you in anyway. Whenever you want, my house is always open."

You nod with your head down "Thank you."

You take another small sip feeling a warm, burning sensation in your throat.

Joel doesn't speak; he waits for you to say something about it.

You tell him everything, all your thoughts, how you felt, what you thought as you walked through the semi-dark and semi-deserted streets of the town, you tell him about your emotions and how you felt betrayed by your mother.

He says nothing, takes your glass in his hands and lays it on the coffee table and then takes your face in his hands again "My poor little one." he tells you as he strokes your cheekbones with his calloused thumbs "Life with you is just unfair." he comments, you feel your eyes tingling "Now, however, it's up to you to decide what you want to do, how you want to react and live your life. Whether to react by destroying your life or to react and live your life the right way."

"And will you help me?" you ask him looking into his eyes.

"I don't know if I'm the best person for the job, but I'll certainly try," he replies, still stroking your face with his thumbs, while you place your hands on his and kiss him.

You quickly realize you've done something very stupid, he will now pull your face away from his and he will tell you not to do that again, and you will feel even more stupid for having made that gesture.

But, he doesn't push you away; he kisses you back. It's a slow kiss, nothing passionate or overwhelming, it's not impetuous, but it shakes you to the core. His lips are so soft against yours. He doesn't deepen the kiss, he follows your rhythm, and when you open your mouth, he always waits for you to make the next move. Move that is not long in coming. Your tongues started a slow dance, he doesn't overdo, he doesn't do anything beyond the rhythm you are setting. Your breaths mingle and you can't help but think about how you tried to push away the thought of him and instead you came right to him for comfort.

He gently pulls your face away from his, you stay for a while with your eyes closed, forehead to forehead, your breaths crashing against each other's faces, "D' ya regret?" he asks you.

"No. Are you?" you ask him, opening your eyes and looking into his eyes, wanting to know immediately what his thoughts are on the matter.

"No." he answers you right away "I was asking you because I thought you cared about that boy, John." he adds looking you in the eye and moving his hands away from your face.

"Jack." you correct him.

"Whatever" you sigh "So? Do you or don't you care about him?" he asks you.

"Joel, the truth is, I don't know. With him -- I had a good time with him today, I had a wonderful day. We talked, we laughed, we joked, time flew with him and everything was perfect." you see him nodding with a low gaze and his hands on his hips "He's such a good guy" you see him tapping his foot on the ground and hear him breathing deeply "and he asked me to see him again."

"So why did you kiss me and not him?" he asks you point-blank, completely displacing you "If you were so good, then you should have kissed him, not me. Don't you think?" he asks you again.

You nod your head low "Yes, maybe, but ... it didn't feel right, that's it."

"Why did you kiss me? Was it to try to see if you cared about him -- or what?" he asks with a nervous tone.

The truth is you don't know why you did, what you wanted to prove to yourself, what you hoped to understand with this kiss, you never imagined Joel would ask you these questions that you yourself should have been thinking about before and instead, reacting on instinct, you found yourself in a situation that was difficult to understand first for yourself and then for the man in front of you.

"You want the truth, Joel?" he nods "I have been fine with you from almost the very beginning, you opened my eyes on so many things and you are the person who welcomes me and makes me feel at home like no one else, with you I feel strong and protected."

"These words I already know where they lead," he comments, "they always end with a though you are not what I want, from my life I want something else, don't I?"

"Don't compare me to her!" you blurt "If she yelled at you this I can't help it, but don't compare the events nor the people!" you continued raising your voice for perhaps the first time in your life.

"I'm not comparing anyone at all, you're the one who dragged me into this shitty situation," he spits between his teeth, looking at you hard.

"You want me out of your life? Whatever." you explode, turning your back on him and making to go get your coat. At this point better anywhere else than standing there with him, you'll just spew nastiness at each other that maybe you don't even really think about each other.

Before you reach the door, however, Joel grabs you by the wrist with one hand and pins you by the shoulder with the other "I can't let that happen. I'd--" you hear him sigh and then rest his forehead against the back of your head "actually, I don't know what I want either. I want you to be happy, but I'm afraid you could never be happy with someone like me around. You probably, well-- need someone else. And maybe this someone else is Jack himself, maybe," he adds.

"You see, there are two of us who are confused." you say "Maybe we just need to put some distance between us, maybe it will be good for us and help us clear our minds." you propose, but you already know it's gonna be impossible.

"D' you want me to be your music teacher only?" he proposes, loosening his grip from your wrist and shoulder.

"Joel," you turn toward him, "I don't know if we can go back and pretend we're just a teacher and his student. I don't know if I can think of you as just that anymore. The truth is, when I'm with you, I can't think about Jack. You completely erase him."

You are going on a dangerous ground, you know, but you have to be honest. You've always been honest unfortunately, and you have to be honest now more than ever.

"Baby girl, I don't want to make this harder. This kiss was beautiful and--" Joel sighs, he was about to say something but evidently restrained himself "I don’t want things to change or to be complicated because of it; so," he says moving a strand of hair behind your ear, "we're going to try to pretend that nothing ever happened. Good for you?"

You don't want to lose Joel, so it's okay.

It has to be.

Although it means to ignore everything, including the heartbeat when you see him.

"Okay." you find yourself saying, but you're sure your eyes are sad.

"Okay." he says stroking the contour of your face with a finger and then adds after a few moments, "Come back in front of the fireplace so you can warm up a little more. I'll go find you a blanket. Maybe you can sleep on the couch tonight."

You only nod, exchange another long look, and then he goes upstairs disappearing from your sight.

You, on the other hand, go over by the fireplace wondering why you were so weak from kissing him and leading him on only to backtrack immediately, clutching your shoulders and breathing deeply: you saw in his eyes the anger, the disappointment you gave him and that certainly reminded him of something very unpleasant happened a while before.

Tonight you were hurt and you hurt, a worse evening cannot exist.

The next day, a timid light invades the living room of the Miller's home, you find yourself opening your eyes slowly and looking around, on the coffee table there's a small wooden sculpture - the one Joel was carving last night - in the shape of a guitar.

When did he make it?

Didn't he sleep?

You sit up taking off the midnight blue blanket Joel gave you just before he took leave and went upstairs. He treated you courteously, but you felt as if he had already wanted to distance himself from you, and you are really sorry about that. You didn't intend to hurt him or bring to his mind old, painful memories.

You get up and take the small guitar in your hands, then notice a very small note placed underneath the same small guitar, "This is for you."

"Thank you." you whisper, turning between your fingers the small guitar.

Then, you go to the kitchen, you want some coffee, some water, but you don't know if....

You find there another small post-it note posted on the refrigerator, "If you want to drink or eat, help yourself. The bathroom is on the second floor at the far left."

His hospitality makes you feel even more guilty, he's so sweet and you were so mean to him. You wish you hadn't been hit by Jack's sweetness; you wish you had been hit by Joel right away. You sigh and grab a glass, open the refrigerator and see that it's in a terrible condition: there is a bottle of water, a package of eggs and a lemon only. You pour yourself some water, and then you have an idea: you're going to shop for him. Or rather, you're going to help him shop for groceries.

You drink a glass of water and make yourself a cup of coffee. Then, you make one for him, too, and you go upstairs. Up the stairs is a landing area with two side cabinets. On one of the cabinets there is a framed photo of Joel and Tommy.

Once you get upstairs, you immediately notice five rooms: two have the door open, therefore, you see inside them a room full of sculptures, guitars and other paraphernalia whose use you ignore, in another there is a small studio with a desk and a worktop, the other three rooms have the door closed therefore you imagine that one is the bathroom and the other the bedroom, the third you don't know what could be there, maybe another bedroom. On the left there's the bathroom - as he had written to you - and one of the two closed rooms must be Joel's.

Knock. A couple of times, softly.

Then, you hear footsteps and finally the door opens: curly brown messy hair fall on his forehead, his eyes swollen with sleep, he's wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of very short shorts. At that moment you don't feel like you're looking at a forty-seven-year-old man, but a man of at most thirty-nine or forty.

"Good morning." you say unable to take your eyes off of him and the way he showed up at the door.

"Hi." he greets you with a sleepy voice, gives you his back and walks back to the bed sitting down again "You get any sleep?" he asks.

"Yes." you reply staying at the door.

"Come." he tells you and you enter slowly looking around noticing to the right a small walk-in closet, a shoe rack in the corner, a chest of drawers sits underneath a front facing window, with a carving of an eagle, a lamp, a candle, and two photo frames on top depicting Joel and a little girl, but you decide not to dwell on the pictures. In the middle there's a double bed, an armchair, two bedside tables. A small wall shelf has more books, binoculars, and a clock above it.

"D' ya wanna somethin'?" he asks.

"I brought you a coffee. I couldn't find the cup, so I put it in a plastic cup for you," you reply, handing him the coffee.

He looks at your face, then he gives a small smile and takes the small glass in his right hand.

"So smooth." he says, but you doubt he refers to the coffee because there's no record of sugar or sweetener in the house "Sit down." he still continues by resting his hand on the bed and gently patting the mattress inviting you to sit.

You sit at a short distance from him with your head down, not sure if he wants to talk about what happened last night or not.

"What d' ya plan to do now?" he asks you, and you look up at him questioningly "'bout your mother, I mean." he clarifies.

You sigh "I'm disappointed in her, but I can't just cut her out of my life," you reply, looking through the window "I'll have to talk to her sooner or later. I can't let whatever happened just happen. It's not fair," you add.

"So, you leaving now?" he asks you.

You look at him "If you think that's going to get rid of me, it's not!" you reply, smiling back at him "Get dressed, let's go shopping!" you add as you get up of bed.

"Shopping?" he asks confused.

"Yeah, y'know, those things people use to eat." you tease him.

"Witty!" he says shaking his head "I haven't been grocery shopping since..." he's about to answer, but he probably he can't remember exactly.

"I see." you cut short "I'll help you." you add "Come on, bear!" you exclaim teasing him.

"How dare you." he says, but you know he's joking. You know his tone of voice, when he's joking and when he's not.

You stick your tongue out, smiling at him and walking out of his room.

While you are waiting for him, you pick up your phone and notice you received several calls, texts and voice mails from your mother. You don't know if skip it or read and listen her texts, but then you decide not to stiffen up completely: you don't want to become hard and calculating like her.

"Honey, I know you don't want to talk to me. I know you feel betrayed by my attitude and my lies. We always promised each other to tell the truth, but I failed. I haven't had the courage to tell you about Leo and me, I don't know why-- maybe because I know deep down I'm not doing the right thing for me or for you. Leo is married and he will definitely not be the one-- he will never leave his wife, but I can't do this without him, that's the truth." your mother says in a voice mail "I feel guilty with you for two reasons and because I betrayed your trust by not telling you about him, but maybe for you I also betrayed your father. Honey, there is something about him I never had the courage to tell you. I will tell you about it, when that time and the memory hurt less too, I swear. Your father and I loved each other so much, but by now I don't know where he is or if he will ever intend to come back. I wouldn't know where to track him down, otherwise I think our separation would have been made official by now." she continues in a second voice mail "Anyway, I hope you are with someone who loves you and can make you feel protected, maybe someone who doesn't betray you or make you feel betrayed like I did. I love you." concludes the last voice mail, and hearing those words causes an ache in your stomach and a knot in your throat.

Joel appears at your side, you give him a long look, he doesn't say nothing. He doesn't ask you to explain, he doesn't comment, he nods only and squeeze your hand in a gesture of mute understanding.

How could you consider him as your music teacher only?

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nobuverse · 7 months

Text

@burdenedreverence said: “That right there’s a ghost.”

Out of context things I’ve said while playing Skyrim

He's not a true heroic spirit, so there's no going back to the throne for him. Fergus, in this state, was nothing but a fragment of a story to bed told; one not yet holding enough recognition to become a true hero. But he's also not exactly human.

He can only guess this is what's landed him in this situation right now - caught between one world and the next.

The stranger - who can feel is also not human, is at least kind enough to confirm his suspicions when he asks what that thing he sees is.

"Ah...I think I understand. I'm....I'm dead, aren't I?"

Not too surprising, since his last memories were of tossing himself in a pot of boiling tar. ...hopefully everyone else made it out alive. Hopefully his older self had turned out to be as amazing of a person as everyone else claimed he could be.

#canon thing he did btw throw himself in that pot to merge with his older self...somehow #argartha was a ride dont question it #A man's Life is but Fifty Years! It is but a Dream! { Asks }#Remnant of Agartha [ Fergus Lily ]#burdenedreverance

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lavenderhhaze · 6 months

Text

DEAD BUTTERFLIES

pairing: Minho x fem!reader

wc: 5.9k

about: Minho wonders how he's supposed to go back after all this. Back to his shared apartment, to a stranger's mouth — a dead butterfly pinned under glass, watching as life unfolds before him.

warnings: toxic relationships, drug and alcohol abuse (sleeping pills and other pharmaceuticals), parental abuse and neglect, cheating, unrequited love, underage drinking and smoking, making out, unhealthy coping mechanisms, generally flawed characters

Aug'98

Minho has always smiled with silver teeth, bruised knuckles and bleeding lips staring back at him in the mirror until he couldn't recognise himself anymore.

And this time, he was grateful — barely half a drink in, not even tipsy. A head of silver hair and wild, crazy eyes. Fucking insane, is what his last girl had called him. There isn't much softness left within him. His eyes are sunken, his hair longer, curling at the nape of his neck.

If he tells the truth, he couldn't picture your face anymore. It's fuzzy and blurred, smudged like the edges of Hyunjin's favourite charcoal sketch.

He does, however, remember how you liked your coffee, your first kiss, throwing rocks at your window because he has always been too scared to say what he really feels, how you liked the snow, your texts and whatever the fuck it was that you made him feel — barefoot on your porch and it was ten in the morning.

He had thought little of '96 and '97, because he was young, with the world in his palm — he thinks little of time, as May soon melts into June. It's August and he has thought of little else but you.

And fuck, still, he smiles with the same silver teeth — all smart and casual, warm and tart, "Good evening, Sweetheart." As if something of you isn't stuck with him, like a splinter. But he'd lie to you. He doesn't love you anymore, he'd lie to you well, and get away with it.

Although his insides are churning, it's never his heart that's bleeding, not his hand in yours — it's a stranger's and he's glad. It has been six hundred and fifty six days since, his heart has only been growing and growing; until his ribs hurt. He hasn't really counted.

Minho is grateful he's the one you're staring at, doe eyes wide open; and he wonders if you're just as terrified as him. Grief catching up to him on a sunny street after running from it for years and he can only surrender.

"Hi Minho."

It's been two years since he last kissed you, two years since he has seen you smile one of those blinding and warm smiles. You're dead to me, Min. And it's been even longer since the last time Minho let his walls crumble.

"It's been so long," he says, but really he's just defeated. The day has been too long, and now even longer. His eyes wander in search of someone, looking anywhere but at you — as if he hasn't spent months dreaming of you.

The sun and your shoulders and his voice. It's all you, you, you. He feels the music in his chest — loud, too loud, and you smile. He's worried because it's a little too reminiscent. You could be cold, but he'd be colder.

"You've got your boyfriend on you," he comments, casually. But really, it's bitter and he hopes you catch on. Because decaying daydreams and throbbing hearts for eyes are too much to hold in his throat.

You clear your throat, eyes wandering back at that man you arrived here with. The red lights shine brighter over you, a stop sign asking him to cave. But has Minho ever cared?

"We're not really dating," you say, index and middle finger coming to fiddle with the pendant hanging off of a thin gold chain around your neck. It's a butterfly. And he has the same.

"You bullshit more than you did two years ago."

You scoff and he watches as the silver moonlight creeps into the cracks in the room. It holds on your shoulders as you sip your drink, "You never believe me."

"You never give me a reason to."

It's too quick, too sharp, too sardonic. And Minho curses at himself, sipping away at his whiskey on rocks to slow down his mind. He has always been like this — leaving doors open for people who will never knock again, hanging on to maybes and what-ifs. His heartbeat always too loud.

Your boyfriend invites himself, cutting into the brittle silence, hand around your waist and a kiss on your cheek. It doesn't hurt, not much and still Minho grips his drink tighter.

"Who's this?" He asks, a quick smile at Minho. All dark hair and sharp jaws and big arms. Minho couldn't take him down if he wanted to.

"A friend," you say, sharing a quick glance. He wonders if it would hurt more if you had said ex-boyfriend. But it never really went that far. But for a while it was love, wasn't it? For him it was love. "He's Minho. And Minho, this is Chris."

He raises his eyebrows in greeting, surely that was enough. And he wants to go back to being seventeen — being the half-grown grown up he's always been, with you. The glass in his hand is somehow colder, so he grips harder, his knuckles white.

The air is thick with tension and Minho walks a tightrope on a stretch of sea and sand. You only remind him of the ocean and he remembers smiling down at you and hoping he'd be your first and last everything.

Chris clears his throat, looking at you and then the bar. He glances back up at Minho, "Nice to see you, man." And he excuses himself.

He's leaving and everything is collapsing in Minho's chest because again, he's alone with you. He watches you loosen your grip on your drink after spending your life in tightened fists and your eyes are so bright tonight.

"I missed you," you say, your voice soft and your eyes sharp. Your fingertips stutter in their fiddling, eyes wet — the closest he's seen you to tears.

"You've learnt to lie, sweetheart. But not really better than me."

He hasn't ever tasted words more venomous and he can't look at you just yet. So he focuses on the crowd of hunched shoulders your boyfriend has dissapeared into. As if just two years ago, you both weren't just tragedy-stricken hearts with cherry-stained lips and sugared teeth.

"I'm not lying."

"Right," he says, all tart and humorous, but really he wishes what you say is true. His hand slips into his pocket and he brings a cigarette to his lips. He has never smoked as much as he does when he thinks of you.

Minho waits for you to protest, because you did when you cared. Because he wants to feel less like an abandoned porcelain cup with a chipped handle, drunk on your promises until they sting at the back of his throat. He can't look at you just yet, he tells himself. Not yet. He'd promise the world to you in a heartbeat if he did.

"Can you give me one?"

He blinks, watching you and then your boyfriend — to prim and proper to have ever held a cigarette. Minho has always been like this, tending to self destruct as if he's watching a trainwreck from a distance. He picked up smoking at twelve — stealing one and two from his mother's handbag until he was buying full packets himself.

"Your boyfriend will fucking beat me up."

"He's not my—"

"You don't have to do this."

You nod, arms folding and withdrawing within yourself at his sharp tone. He knows you can see it though — he's all open wounds with no intention of getting better.

He is a stop sign shining bright at your face: caution, step back, there is blood in places where there shouldn't be.

"How have you been?" you ask, cautious to overstep but you already have, and he hasn't ever cared.

There is a lump in my throat, the size of a cherry pit that I haven't managed to swallow since I was fifteen.

"Fine," he lies, trying his best for a smile though it wavers, "I mean, as much as it could be."

His ego has always held him in its first, fingers clawing around his throat keeping him from saying what he really means: I fucking miss you, come back to me. He watches you sigh, possibly exhausted from everytime you've tried to start up something only for him to shut it down.

"Really?"

Your eyes light up — an unadmired cityscape, at the possibility of him opening up. And fuck, he remembers with full force — your patience towards his unsolved heart, and nothing else tastes so bittersweet.

"Not really."

And then he sees it — maybe relief? He can't quite point it out. He doesn't know the intent, only the tilt of your jaw and the curve of your smile and he wishes you'd cling to his shirt and tell him you've been the same.

"It's been a trainwreck, you know?" you say, fingers tracing the rim of your drink because you can't quite look him in the eyes yet. "The last two years. But I feel like I'm getting somewhere."

"With your Chris?" He can't help how sour his tone is, but you take it lightly — with a laugh which reminds him of windchimes and seaside breeze.

"With Chris. With college. With everything, Minho."

He only nods, not pointing out the trainwreck you had left behind in the seaside town you never looked back at. Balmy nights, warm skin and cool cotton, damp earth and cheap beer left long forgotten.

"You want to get some air?"

"What about Chris?"

"Fuck Chris."

August stands before him, stretched thin — long, golden and reassuring. Almost permanent. The month he finally got to sane. His cigarette hangs between his lips, hands shoved in his pockets. He couldn't touch you. He couldn't touch you and return to his shared apartment, back to a stranger's mouth — unfazed and careless.

You say that you've been happy lately, wallowing a little selfishly in whatever of that is remaining, knowing it might not last very long. And he's proud, really. A part of him is the happiest because he's made the right choice. If he really squints, he can see himself in your eyes — staring back at him with hope. He hasn't seen that in years. He should be running the fuck away from you.

Minho wants to get better, hand on heart. But the chant of tart sleep and Tylenol pulls him back with fists knotting in his hair. And he wants to, for you. For you and whatever else is remaining of himself. He wants to sink his teeth into life until his heart stops beating and you'd smile and say that you're proud of him. He'll get it right next time, he says, sinking back into his bed. His hands fumble the nightstand for the remaining sleeping pills. And there is no you. There is no him.

"Minho?"

"Yeah?"

His heart is frantic — a dying moth hiding away in the corners of his cracked ribs.

"I missed you, really."

All tartness and sarcasm gone, he hasn't ever faced life so bare — asking to get hurt with no frankness to hide behind. Sincerity, both cold and sober. And he could only cave.

"Yeah?"

Oct'95

It's October and Minho lingers on your driveway, freshly seventeen with his face still young, breathing your name with his tongue touching the roof of his mouth.

Two summers ago, the weather had been perfect — the sea and the black glossy sky, the remaining suns heat heavy on your heads. And at the end of each day, walking home with a fever of happiness, as if he had someone to return to.

You unlock your door, peeking at him before rushing to lock it shut behind you. You shush him when he says your name a little too loud and then you're walking barefoot by his side, your shoes hanging from his crooked thumbs because you love the pebbled path at the turning.

Sometimes you'd sit on that flat stone ledge with your legs crossed, talking about Chris — top grades, Cheshire smile and this sort of charm he'd never figure out. And Minho liked to smoke a cigarette. He stole them from his mother's purse, she let him because she hardly cared. It started with the Calpol she slipped to him when he had a toothache, or when she wanted to sleep. Later it would be the cigarettes, and finally the pills.

You seemed to mind the cigarettes though, but you never complained.

Today, he hangs his legs off the ledge and turns his back to the breeze. It's an excuse to look at you, partly, but he'd never confess. He flints his plastic lighter, you had drawn hearts on it last week. And you cup your hands around his, watching the white end burn red.

"Close your eyes," you say and it's like warm wine going straight to his head. So he complies, waiting and patient.

You knot a white bracelet about his wrist, smiling so hard he wonders if your cheeks hurt. Drifting birdsongs and low flying dragonflies. Then you raise your wrist, showing a matching bracelet around your own. "So that you don't forget me, yeah? Happy fucking birthday, Minho."

You were so intense, so serious. He admits finally, it scared him a bit. You go back to talking about Chris and Minho only wonders how slowly the summer months drift by. Blush coloured clouds, coral skies and the world dusted in rose pink. A handful of months and you'll be far away.

He holds the smoke in his mouth, tapping the ash at his feet and leaning forward, watching the loose shape of your fingers as you fiddle with the bracelet on your wrist.

"Do you think my mom will really care? If I leave a few months early?"

Minho can only nod, so absent-minded. It is always cold, when he wanders back to the off-white tiles of his bathroom, with dirty porcelain fixtures and corners he could never quite get clean. He wonders if it's the smoke that sticks to the walls, casting that pale yellow gleam of paranoia. His mother doesn't care, not really. Only slipping a bill on the cold granite, asking for another pack.

He touches his thumb to the bare skin at the base of his throat, but he's looking at you. "Paint," he says, "You should get it clean."

"Shit," you squint at your shirt, at the smudge of blue paint rubbing off of wood.

Your mother's rules and his mother's absence seems so far away, miles from the secluded beach. His thumb burns when he touches the blue smudge — the shape of a crescent on your white shirt. It's teenage, he figures, spicing your blood and making you reckless and stupid.

"Let's get it clean," he says, reckless and fucking stupid. Taking your hand and the stolen key to the boathouse — all started wood and felted roof, like a garden shed. It bolts shut on the inside, and the only light is the moonlight slipping through the slats, smelling of wet-suits and fresh paint.

"Happy birthday, Min," you say again, and this time it's sweeter, sticking to him like nectar. He rubs at your stained collar with the little paint thinner left. You smell like oranges and fresh begonia — your perfume, he'd come to find out. Your clementine earrings dangle by his fingers, catching the little moonlight.

"Thankyou," he says, simply. But it's a slow rumble from the bottom of his throat. You're so close and he's ash-hands and honeyed-tongue, made of teeth and spidery orchids.

"Happy birthday," you repeat. And he sees flowers in your hair and stardust in your eyes — wild like a dream is wild and bright, so fucking bright. Your bracelet catches the low-light, glinting at him and demanding.

He shouldn't be doing this, ever. Last night, he dreamt of the rise and fall of your breath. But in this dream-like state, forgiveness comes easy. It's the want to be wanted that has always been so natural to him.

Red rimmed eyes and smoke, knuckles bruised this pale yellow — the shade of tulips, spidery fingers that remind you of orchids. And the cigarette is just an excuse to face you. He'll find you behind his eyelids when you're less than a feet away, the burning in his throat when you talk of Chris. So he'll sit beside you, all quiet and trembling, choking on his own smoke and despite it all, he'll love you anyway.

"Thankyou," he whispers again, quiet and shaky.

Nov'95

Winter is a pendant hanging off of your throat, and your silver necklaces look like they're pressing too hard against your throat. He likes the way you look against the starless night — a little scattered rather than the mostly assembled.

"Mom told me that all guys think about is sex."

"Yeah?" he chuckles, heaving a heavy exhale before looking back at you, "Does Chris think only about sex too?"

It's 3 a.m, far too late to return home by any means other than your open window. And Minho drives down the highway, stealing glances at you, pretending it's secretive. You're in the passanger seat and it's still summer inside, with the window drawn wide open, hand on your fist with your eyes weighed down by exhaustion.

"Not Chris," you decide, closing your eyes because the wind is too strong, "I don't think so."

You listen to Frank Ocean because he decided to choose the music for tonight and his ring-clad fingers drum along the beat on the stearing wheel. His hands are shaky, and you frown, eyes following when he runs it through his hair and it returns to the stearing wheel.

"You should stop smoking," you say, still frowning.

It's the pills. It's the fucking pills. He's screaming but he pretends he hasn't heard you. Pretending he doesn't stain everything he touches red on accident.

Your head tips up to look at him, not waiting for an answer because you know he never will. Cardinal moths with snow brushed wings nesle in a warm corner in his ribs. Minho feels whole. Complete.

Dec'95

Minho spends Christmas night with you again. You find him on the backstreets, leather jacket and boots and this wandering gaze. Your eyes are heavy when he links your arms, shivering when his skin meets yours. You look at him unsure, with this little bit of nostalgia and he's terrified.

Neon signs blare bright yellow, shining down at you with a halo surrounding your head. The baseline from the backstreet clubs makes the walls shake and he's only holding on tighter.

"It's your last Christmas here," he whispers, voice low, timid. Scared.

His heart is a blue lick of fire curling in his stomach. Don't go, it screams at you — steely and unoffering. His mother says he offers more that he can give, as if he's a dust cloud waiting to disappear. But his mother has never looked this close, never getting past the sight of teeth.

His mother had said there was an angel in the attic behind the stairs when he was seven. He had slipped on the carpet and landed on glass that year, splitting his foot open under the attic stairs and there was no angel swimming in the blood.

"I want to go away," you say, holding his hand tighter.

You trade confession for confession, only that his dies in his throat. He remembers summer like a splinter in his teeth — empty beer cans on porch steps, orange ladybugs curling on windowsills and strawberry stained lips.

This town was never a place for someone like you.

Jan'96

For Minho, things have always been okay eventually, not everything. You will never be. But he's learnt to be okay with that. It's one of the times he puts up a really good fight and still loses, he holds on really hard until there is no choice to let go. Then he lights himself a cigarette, sits across from you, and convinces himself that he's okay with it.

His mother always said he never had ambition but it's not quite true. His ambition has always been quiet — to exist, and to exist peacefully, drowned out by cans and cans of beer if that it what gets him to shut up.

But all that goes to hell when he's here, watching you, ringed fingers raising a cigarette to his mouth that hasn't shut up about you since you wished him a happy birthday.

"I think about it a lot."

Minho raises his brows, eyes of murky waters choking and chortling with dirty hands around his wrists. "About what?"

You frown and it's almost disbelief, if he hadn't noticed the corners of your lips curling upwards.

"You never listen to me."

"You're right," he shrugs, leaning further back in his pretend nonchalance. "You need to be more interesting."

You gasp, muttering an inaudible asshole under your breath before you return to what you were saying.

"I was thinking about you."

"Me?" His heart slows until it's at a halt, his nerves are aware. Very much aware of you. What do you think about? His scraped knees, the blood under his band-aids, split lips, split knuckles, spilt heart? It's just boyhood. It's just an excuse.

"Do you drink that often?"

"Sometimes," he says, waving around his cigarette hand for emphasis. Your face shines through the smoke and he can't bite back that smile. "When the world gets hard to live in."

"You should take me with you sometime," you say, a little bold, a little vulnerable. You tap your fingers on your knees and it's that sinking feeling as if he's being eaten alive.

"Does your world get hard to live in?"

"Sometimes," you shrug and he sees that smirk falter,"I've got my special little problems."

"Like what?"

"Like my mom, like boyfriends, like irregular periods, stuff."

Minho wrinkles his nose at the mention of boyfriends. It's an antic, but you laugh. You miss the faint blush spreading on his cheeks when he asks: you and Chris —?

"No," you roll your eyes, but there's a playful flick when you look again, "Not yet, at least."

It's his pretty boy antics, is what you call them. The way he looks at you now, all damp-eyed and nostalgic. But there's love rushing through his heart, there is always love rushing through his heart, ready to run in the rain with screaming confessions. When he says awestruck, he means you. When he thinks of you, he means terrified.

Feb '96

The moonlight reflects off the edge of the ocean like a sharpened blade, and the gleam catches Minho's eye, a little painstakingly. His imagination has been getting morbid. He sees scars on the sand, water spilling out and gathering at his feet until he's standing in a puddle of blood.

There is an attempted bonfire not too far away. He can see a middle aged man with thinning hair slotting driftwood and shoving crumpled up newspaper underneath. The driftwood seems too cold and wet to catch a fire, but again, Minho has always been a pessimist.

"You said you wanted to drink, right?"

And then there's you, wringing your hands in front of you — and Minho wonders if it's nervousness or excitement. It's too dark to see your face and still he can feel your eyes shining back at him. All diamonds and star-flecked and human, and he is almost jealous.

"So you were listening to me."

He grins, a little lopsided; before pulling out his thin metal flask from the pocket of his jacket. It's both his pride and the moonlight catching on the steel, gleaming off at you and you smile until your cheeks hurt.

A column of smoke rises from the pile of driftwood, white and clear — a smudge against the inky black sky, with no wind to disperse it.

"No I wasn't, this is for me."

You pay no attention, grabbing at the flask until he's letting go. It's the eagerness in you that makes him feel a lot older on the inside, he's still learning to appreciate his breathing.

He watches you twist off the cap. "It's whiskey," he says, when you look up at him with your eyebrows raised. You pour it in the cap, taking and apprehensive breath and following it up with a few small sips. You grimmace, but raise the flask again, chasing after that warm feeling that travels from your throat to your stomach.

"It's good," you say, eager and so bright. With you, the sky is still golden; the street lights come alive and the drizzle is still light. "It's got to be twenty one year old single malt. Aged in oak —"

Minho smiles, stealing back his flask for a sip before you go further. He's teasing and testing, when he raises a single brow, "Really?"

"I can hear the Scottish sea from this one."

His smile is wider and he takes another sip, "Because this is the cheapest fucking whiskey you can find around here."

Your smile drops, reflecting off the bonfire in slow, gradual stages. You snatch back the flask, his warmth still residual on the thin metal from when his fingertips touch yours.

"Oh, fuck you, you know that?"

It is the sound of distant church bells, and for a long time it's just you and him and the rush of salt air. For a while, Minho wonders what it would mean to die here — in the same town that had grown its roots in his stomach, boasting more than what it offered.

"What if you leave with me?"

He hasn't really thought that far, growing old and sipping cheap whiskey from the metal cup you hand him. If he left, he'd bring the town with him. He'd bring the train tracks and the rocks under which he hid his cigarettes right with him. He'd come back, fall into faith or fall out of love or fall into something else entirely.

For you, the town brought misfortune. But he could be young and flighty, smoke while listening to the city river, but he couldn't escape what part of it grew within him.

He scoffs as if it's a joke, as if everything has been, "Why? You want me with you?"

"Yes, Minho."

It's sincere and that is what scares him. It is fearless and bold to confess, but it's a joke. Everything has been.

He grins, throwing back the remaining alcohol and hissing at the burn in his throat. It's screaming at your sincerity — because he's weak and hollow, but that doesn't matter.

"If it's not me staying here, then who is it?"

You blink at him, confused and he sees the shade of a peach tree, lemongrass and clean kitchen tiles with his radio playing jazz music. He sees acceptance in a rented apartment somewhere in the city, facing a brick wall but he has always been too in love to care.

Your breath trembles and you swallow harshly, looking away. He wonders if the flush of your cheeks is really the whiskey.

"I'll never understand why you feel the need to bleed for other people, Minho. But I'll never stop being grateful that you did."

March'96

The storms have begun in a way that reminds Minho of summer — everything does, because summer reminds him that you could have been something. You were something — even if it was only a beginning, just a whisper in his screaming world.

It was something, but you're someone who likes to set fires and he can only wait out the storms, and he can't allow himself to make a home of this. Because this is all he has.

"Remind me why it had to be a fucking department store again."

"Because," you start, drawing it out with all intented dramatics. "I haven't had department store beer. And I'm the one leaving next week."

It sounds more permanent when you say it like that. You're the one leaving next week. Next week. Six days. And Minho is scared he'll spend the rest of his life chasing your shadow in grocery store isles. That's what he keeps doing — recycling promises like plastic bottles. There is just so long you can stay here, purging those promises with dime store whiskey and pawn shop cigarettes.

"You've never had department store lunch?"

You shake your head, holding on to his sleeve as you struggle to keep up, "I don't know why. Mom just never took me there."

Strange, he thinks. Because that's all his mother seemed to do. He had the aisles memorized — alcohol on the first right, packed lunches on the third aisle and the freezers further down.

"It's weird, I know."

He frowns. It's not much weird as it is strange. Nothing experiential about stale lunches and shitty beer. Would it taste much differently in the city? The tinted windows now frosted up and lined with finger prints. You wouldn't miss much. You wouldn't miss him.

"I think it's nice. It isn't anything special anyways."

"How so?"

Because you mean everything to me. Because you're the light that rests in his stars and the love that hides in his teeth, the light escaping his thick curtains. And you'd pretend to be harsh, and angry. But you'd tread so softly and touch so tenderly.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "It just is."

Minho picks up the cheapest beer cans and you treasure your microwaved rice. It's a part of the ‘authentic experience’ as you had declared. It's the terrace again, with its bare cemented walls that scratch against his t-shirt, red and orange chalk smeared on the walls in attempted graffiti. Six days, the heat is clawing on him, gathering like the overhead clouds as you gladly open your microwaved lunch.

"It's not bad—" you start, frowning when you take your first bite, already defending your decisions.

"Yeah well, it's not good either," he scoffs, staring at the gradually darkening sky. And something in it weighs down in his chest, stinging at the back of his eyes. He wonders if you'll stay if he asks you to.

"You're just a pessimist."

He is. So he indulges in his beer instead, scowling deeper at her first sip, "It tastes like piss."

"It's a part of the experience," you chastise.

All he does is stare at the grey hue draping over he sky, bleeding into the distant buildings. He can't tell where it ends. There are cement pieces lodging in his heart when he thinks about six days later. Orange chalk rubs on his forearm like a flame licking up his skin — it hurts to breathe so he swallows haggardly.

"Min?"

He hums, too scared to speak.

"Talk to me."

He focuses on the tinted windows and the heavy sky. It'd rain soon, washing away the remaining bits of chalk and cigarette dust littering the rooftop. Minho is scared that a year later there will be a different boy sitting cross-legged across from you, smelling of a different brand of cigarettes.

"What will you miss when you're gone ?"

He's not in love with you. He knows what it means to play with fire when he's made of paper. He feels every word like teeth to his skin. He feels his dreams rot underneath his fingernails. He's both too much and not enough.

"Your shitty beer, the sea and you."

"Your turn."

He's not in love with you. He's just a teenage boy, wallowing in his remaining boyhood. He has a scar on his stomach that runs an inch too deep. He's no less afraid of dying than he is of losing you, and that scares him too.

"What are you scared of?"

Minho frowns, glancing back at you and lingering for too long, "Nothing much."

Everything, he swallows, he could never give that much away.

Off to the distance, there is a café — nothing much, except for a small white house with a front porch and a faded sign with the distinct shape of a coffee cup hanging from the eaves. Minho frowns at the crowd of tourists, wondering what it would mean to be normal. The beer tastes bitter on his tongue.

"What are you thinking about?"

Your voice breaks his trance, his frown lightening when he meets your eyes. That canted smile and his promise to protect what's precious. It comes with the realisation that there will never be more of summer than there is now — there will never be more of you than what he has now.

He could complain, of course. How can you live in the city for so long? It is terrible in its winters and summers, and springs. The fall would last two weeks. But he'd known your taste for difficult men — smelling of Newport cigarettes and dried blood.

"Nothing."

"Chris asked me if he could drive me to the city yesterday."

The sky darkens from grey to black, inky and inviting — reminding him of October. The earthy scent of petrichor lingers in the air and he doesn't miss the way you're shoulder quivers, shaking off his jacket and slinging it on your shoulders.

"Yeah? What'd you say?"

Minho wonders if he'd get that dream again tonight, the one with ash-stained cheekbones and teeth of splintered glass, smiling through a mouthful of bloody teeth— following him through the worst of his days.

"I told him no."

"Why?"

"I want you to drive me."

The night is so still he forgets to breathe. It doesn't matter much, he's was choking on the feeling of being temporary. But he knows the your smoke would still linger, even with you gone.

His voice is gruff and shaky, he feels the shape of his words in his throat, "Really?"

"Really?" you say, a little angry but mostly disappointed. He's never seen your eyes this damp, beaded lace shimmering in the moonlight. "Why can't you figure me out, Min? Why do you have to make me say it all? I like you more than him, that's all. And I wish I had fallen in love with him. But I didn't. I fell in love with you."

He tries to speak, but it's only an exhale, taking forever to get over. You'd never know him. But you'll think you do. And that's enough for him.

Your frown only deepens, shrugging off his jacket and wrapping your arms around yourself. It is March unfolding itself with a mess of aching limbs and hearts stretched too far. "Will you get that look off your fucking face? You'll make me cry. At least talk to me, Min."

He holds his jacket over your head, hiding you from where the drizzle meets you. His hands strain to find your face, when he'd kiss you. Petrichor clings to your hair and his jacket, your skin warm under his palms. He feels dreamy and distant — unreal. It's his summer but dark, with begonia and unkept promises, shadowy and melancholic with you smiling into his mouth.

Your lips taste of orange chapstick and he grins when you hold on tighter, "Drop that fucking jacket and hold me with both hands."

"But we'll get wet."

"Can you stop thinking for once, Min?"

He drops his jacket and wraps his free arm around your waist, grinning all the way through. Your chapstick has smudged, leaving orange flecks surrounding your lips.

At seven, he had found a butterfly on his window with half a wing missing. And he'd cupped it in his hands, held it secure against his sweater — terrified of the wind. He had clampered up the telephone stand, knees scraping against the unpolished wood, still drowsy off of Tylenol and called the animal helpline he had memorized. He was instructed to clip off the other wing to match the first one.

It died in a glass jar on his desk three days later. Too much sun, they had said. Too much love, he understood.

He'd climb in the jar if you ask him, he'd tear off his other wing himself. He'd wonder if Icarus was more than his fall. He'd try to make it charming when it's not, he'd wonder why he's not falling in love.

"I love you," your voice is deep and sincere and you press your cheek against his neck. It his real blood gushing through his veins — terrible, insecure anburdened, but alive.

"I know," he sighs, smiling into your hair — but it's sad. He'd hold his breath, close his fists and wait. He'd try to let go, but he can't. He doesn't know how to let go. No one taught him to let go. "But, it'll pass."

Aug'98

"Yeah."

Minho is still tipsy off of that old whiskey, not like three years has done much to sober him up. He still tastes you in the air, like it's '96 all over again. But he'd do it much better this time, he swears. He let you fuck him at nineteen and he'd let you fuck him again at twenty-one.

It's an awful sense of deja-vu, with you and the air too cold on his cheeks. You and Chris's borrowed leather jacket hanging off of your shoulders. It's awful because he's already forgiven you, because he's already done the hard part — told you where it hurts and begged for you to fix it. Because Minho keeps doors open for those who will never knock again.

"I missed you too, really."

He feels small, standing there and making a gift of his confession. It is guilt raking his throat on the inside. It is perhaps fear, or his nerves, or this awful self fulfilling prophecy he is turning into.

And that was the last of Minho's mistakes — letting you in, again. His hands finding you and your hands his shoulders, heart heaving and his breath accelerated beyond measure when you kissed him again. It is the smell of oranges and begonia that meets him again, and the taste of Coca-Cola when your hand winds in his hair. That is how it felt — inappropriate but instinctive.

He smiles into your mouth, feeling your clementine earrings dangle by his cheek and you only hold him tighter and kiss him harder.

Minho admits, he's jealous of your restraint — of you not touching him until he touched you. He's so jealous of everyone who gets to say it out loud — of Chris who gets to hold your hand and kiss you knowing it is where he belongs.

He sighs heavily, leaning further away to get a look at your eyes. Do you remember the beach? Is it twisted to want it back? His forehead finds yours as his hands hold your face — your cheeks wet, when he kisses you again. Once. Twice. And then he wonders if he'd let himself say more this time. Or he'd just drink more whiskey and go somewhere other than home.

"Your boyfriend is waiting on you," he says, smug and smiling, but really his heart is swelling from the moment you chose him, again. Even if it's only temporary.

"Fuck Chris."

Let the tide not be stronger than us, he hears.

He feels young and clumsy and ridiculous, teeth clashing into yours and giggling when your fingers find his collar — almost angry. Angry like the last eight seasons of grey buildings and self pity and moving into the city hoping something would change.

Angry in the way he pushes the leather jacket off your shoulders because it reminds him of Chris and how he could never catch up.

"Min, are you crying?"

He blinks back, a little confused but mostly frustrated. He is crying, hot tears warming his cheeks and then the rose flush of embarrassment when you cradle his face.

He shakes you off, eyes ringed with red because he's losing his mind — the city screams your name and he's too scared to leave, too in love to cover his ears. Maybe in the grand scheme of things, two years is nothing at all.

"Min—?"

He kisses you again, harsher, stronger and angrier— teeth clashing and biting. It feels more like an excuse, knowing you're not on his side, gliding over the seam of your mouth. You're not on Chris's side either, you're not anyone's infact. And you ease his understanding, holding his face closer to you and kissing him back with the same fever through his salt tears. It's always been this easy.

Minho wonders if it's really raining beyond the parking area, turning the grey of the buildings into watercolour bloom — because that's how he feels, his hands sliding underneath your blouse to feel warm skin under his freezing palms. He's very aware — aware of your blouse snagging on his fingertips, the alcohol rushing through his blood-streams, so loud that he could feel it in his ears. Aware of the fact that he's doing something absolutely stupid, that he could never remove from himself.

He stops when the rain does, removing himself from you and pressing his lips to your forehead. There are no words to follow with, nothing he can really say. It's mostly sadness — sadness shared, enough to drown him out. Maybe love does go bad, rotting on the top shelf of his apartment, screaming and then cradling him to sleep.

He fixes your blouse, reaching to pick up the leather jacket and slinging it back on your shoulders, when all you do is stare back at him.

"I'll miss you again," you say, when he rakes his fingers through your hair, attempting to fix the mess he made. Th crow's feet deepen near his eyes — he looks older, much older.

But will you miss me like I'll miss you? Will you wonder how I've changed since you've been gone? Will you keep being my home if I leave my heart behind?

He smiles, but it's sad and sardonic, because he'll always be like this — staining things red on accident, things that do not belong to him, "You can't do this to me, you know that?"

Perhaps it is that he's gone crazy. Or he's far too drunk. But pity feels the same no matter where it punctures him.

You sigh, deeply.

"You're dead to me, Min."

Minho feels that deep rooted sadness again, setling somewhere between his ribs. The moonlight makes his shadow small, and he feels like a child again. Your smoke will linger, the way it has in the last two years. And he wonders how he's supposed to go back after this. Back to his shared apartment, to a strangers mouth — a dead butterfly pinned under glass, watching as his life unfolds before him.

A/N: Six whole months in the making but we're back. So many murakami references again. Thankyou to that one ask that started it all. Asks, comments and reblogs — any sort of feedback is greatly appreciated!

#skz angst #skz fluff #skz x reader #stray kids angst #stray kids x reader #lee know fanfic #lee know x reader #lee know imagines #skz fanfic #skz scenarios #skz imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids fanfic #lee know angst #lee know fluff #bang chan x reader #stray kids fanfiction #skz x you

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the-rad-menace · 1 month

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I know that a lot has changed about how relationships between men are typically portrayed since 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea was written, but there's some real chemistry between Captain Nemo and M. Aronnax.

Like if someone wanted to do an adaptation and make it a romance, there's so much to draw on.

Aronnax upon meeting Captain Nemo:

"The second stranger merits a more detailed description. I made out his prevailing qualities directly: self-confidence—because his head was well set on his shoulders, and his black eyes looked around with cold assurance; calmness—for his skin, rather pale, showed his coolness of blood; energy—evinced by the rapid contraction of his lofty brows; and courage—because his deep breathing denoted great power of lungs. Whether this person was thirty-five or fifty years of age, I could not say. He was tall, had a large forehead, straight nose, a clearly cut mouth, beautiful teeth, with fine taper hands, indicative of a highly nervous temperament. This man was certainly the most admirable specimen I had ever met."

Aronnax and Nemo develop a relationship of great respect and admiration for one another - throughout the book, he seems reluctant to leave The Nautilus, while his companions are continually plotting their getaway. Aronnax even thinks that the worst outcome of a failed escape would be hurting the captain's feelings! 😩

"The idea of failure in our bold enterprise was the least painful of my anxieties; but the thought of seeing our project discovered before leaving the Nautilus, of being brought before Captain Nemo, irritated, or (what was worse) saddened, at my desertion, made my heart beat."

Captain Nemo brought Aronnax to see the sunken city of Atlantis. Just the two of them. Insanely romantic. And Aronnax's reaction to seeing the city is a desperation to know Nemo's thoughts and feelings in the moment.

"Whilst I was trying to fix in my mind every detail of this grand landscape, Captain Nemo remained motionless, as if petrified in mute ecstasy, leaning on a mossy stone. Was he dreaming of those generations long since disappeared? Was he asking them the secret of human destiny? Was it here this strange man came to steep himself in historical recollections, and live again this ancient life—he who wanted no modern one? What would I not have given to know his thoughts, to share them, to understand them!"

That's love, baybee.

In conclusion, kissing a man could have saved Captain Nemo.

#20000 leagues under the sea #jules verne

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chiefbeifongcanrailme · 2 months

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It's Not Tenzin

Here’s my submission for day 7 of Lin Beifong’s Week. You can also find it on AO3.

Pairing: Lin Beifong x 😏

Rating: G

Art made by JadeLotus💚

Poppy and Lao's ceremonial annual Beifong reunion had been reinstated after decades. Ever since Lin waved a white flag on the family drama, it was meeting after meeting almost every month. Whether it was Suyin’s dance recital or Huan’s exhibition or the plethora of hobbies Wing pursued before its disastrous showcase, Lin was obligated to attend. But the breaking point was when the ticket vendor at the Republic City train station asked Lin if she wanted to buy a monthly pass to Zaofu. That was it. This family had been seeing each other a little too much our Chief was fed up.

And that’s how the annual Beifong reunion came about. Once a year, at a predetermined location, the entire Beifong clan would gather, exchange pleasantries, and well, unpleasantries, and most importantly, were exempt from the remainder of the clan’s activities. "For the rest of the year, voluntary participation only," Zaofu's matriarch had said.

At nineteen years old, Lin couldn’t care less about Suyin’s rampant gossip sessions, but at fifty-eight years old, Lin realized she could care even less about the same.

After a riveting game of power disc in the morning, followed by tea and snacks courtesy of Suyin’s fantastic chef, Lin found herself feeling fresh and rejuvenated. For the first time, she wasn’t counting minutes until she could be back in Republic City.

Little did she know that feeling would be wildly short lived.

Toph and Suyin, amidst conversation, took their seats beside Lin. Su giggled at something her mother said, forcing Lin to repress the grunt that her sister’s shrill voice induced.

“You’ve hated that sound ever since you were six years old,” Toph began.

Lin raised an eyebrow.

“That’s because I was born when she was six years old,” Suyin said, giggling again.

“And you say I remember nothing of your childhoods,” Toph remarked.

Lin didn’t want to engage. Rewinding Beifong memories had always been a risky move- and Lin didn’t intend on drowning after all these years.

“Anyway,” Suyin said, as if reading Lin’s mind, “I was just telling mom about why Bataar’s new interest in—”

“Mmmm, didn’t you tell me all about that last night?” Lin tried cutting her off.

“Oh no,” Su smirked. “This was something that happened last night. You see, it all started because Bataar was missing me in bed since I was with—”

“Suyin, you’re my daughter and I tolerate you in that capacity, but I cannot listen to your sexcapades with that tendril of a man any more than once a day. You already ruined breakfast.”

Lin had never been more thankful for her mother’s quippy interruptions.

Unfortunately, that too would be short lived.

“However,” the blind woman continued, “Zuko was asking me about you, Lin and your sexual life.”

Lin almost choked on her tongue.

“Her sex life?” Suyin echoed, appalled.

“Romantic life. Same thing,” Toph said with a shrug.

“I hope you let him know that there’s nothing to know,” Lin replied with a frown.

“Oh, I would have,” Toph said with a chuckle, “but you see, I don’t lie.”

Lin gawked at her mother. Suyin nodded from side to side, quickly trying to study the expressions on the women’s faces. There was something she didn’t know and that was plain wrong. Suyin had to be in the know about everything and everyone’s business. This was utterly unacceptable and in her own home no less. But as if reading her daughter’s mind- if she could ever read anything- Toph pulled out a dilapidated piece of paper from her pocket. Handing it over to her youngest, she said, “Well then, explain this.”

Suyin gazed at the letter. Her eyes would’ve fallen out of their socket at the sight of a gossip so juicy- something she couldn’t have imagined in her wildest dreams.

“I recognize the handwriting!” she gasped.

Lin moved closer to her sister, face painted with concern over an ambiguous letter, sole anxiety and no heart pumping blood through her veins.

“What is—”

Suyin gasped louder. “Lin! Are you having an affair with Tenzin?!”

“No!” she exclaimed, snatching the letter. Her eyes followed the scripture unorderly. Where was this letter from? Why was it in her belongings? How did her mother, of all people, find it? But most importantly, the penman and contents of this letter rattled her as her vision glazed through it quickly. Realization struck like lightning, forcing her to bite her bottom lip with fear.

“Who else would call you their beloved and use hackneyed words like ‘I love you more than anything, why won’t you believe me’ or—”

“It’s not Tenzin!” Lin reiterated through gritted teeth. “Where did you find this letter?” she glared at Toph and slammed the paper on the table, visibly harrowed by its contents.

“More importantly, who is so in love with our Chief Crankypants?” Suyin asked.

Lin slapped her forehead when Toph burst out laughing. Suyin sneakily grabbed the letter and opened it back up to find the answer to her own question.

“So, who is it?” Toph asked.

Suyin couldn’t help but hold in her smile as she read through its entirety. Lin didn’t even bother interrupting her as she covered her face with embarrassment.

“Lin,” she said softly, “this is probably the sweetest, most tender love letter I have ever read. But it doesn’t say who it is. They’ve signed their name as ‘your smarter half’ and if that isn’t Tenzin—”

“It's NOT Tenzin!” her voice resounded the room.

“Who’s not Tenzin?”

The Beifong ladies looked up at the sound of the new voice. It was Asami, and behind her, came General Iroh, Avatar Korra and Detective Mako. Now that Bolin had become a Beifong, this had become an extended family reunion.

Lin groaned.

“My sister’s mystery man,” Suyin said with a giggle.

“Mystery man and Lin Beifong!” Korra cooed, bending a gust of wind underneath to prop herself close to the table.

“Korra, please.” Lin grumbled.

“Yes, Korra. Please!” Toph offered jauntily, encouraging the Avatar.

“Where did you find this letter?” she asked again, in a sterner tone.

“I found it hidden in a pillowcase in your bedroom.”

“My bedroom?” Lin asked, wondering if the room in Suyin’s house qualified as ‘her’ bedroom.

“Your old bedroom back at the Beifong mansion in Republic City, obviously.”

Lin rolled her eyes, and Toph didn’t miss it. “Evidently, I couldn’t read it when I found it so I brought it here for someone to read it out to me! Just be grateful I took it to Suyin first.”

As Lin narrowed her eyes, trying to decipher what her mother meant, Korra read the letter out loud to the group to catch them up with its contents.

“Chief!” Mako cackled. “I didn’t realize you liked your men sappy!”

“I mean, she did date Tenzin.” Bolin added.

“IT’S NOT TENZIN!” came the loud response, causing Bolin to convulse in his spot.

“Who is it then, Chief?” Korra laughed.

Lin glanced through the room with apprehension. When her eyes met Asami’s she relaxed and gave her a meek smile.

“Let me start here- when Tenzin was away visiting the air temples with his father, we weren’t exactly together,” Lin entwined her fingers together, thinking on how to proceed. Being caught totally unawares by this letter into a nook of her past made it difficult to relay. “So, at the time I was seeing someone from school. We had a bit of an on-again-off-again relationship and—”

“Gosh, Lin! Who is it?” Suyin cried with excitement.

Lin brought one hand up to silence her and continued, “Asami, before your father met Yasuko, he and I were... Well,” she shrugged. “But believe me, your mother was the love of his life. He told me so himself.”

Tears would've broken through Asami’s eyes at the mention of her father but thankfully she was smiling. Although she deeply missed him, she discovered happiness in the idea of connecting with someone else with whom she could reminisce about her father's memories.

“I’m sorry, Asami,” Lin said. “Your father was a wonderful man.”

“This took a weird turn,” Toph mumbled.

“Mom!” Su nudged her mother.

“He made his mistakes but, there was so much good in that man.”

Iroh was now gently rubbing Asami’s back as she nodded along.

“And Su,” she said, turning to her sister, “you recognize the handwriting because I saved all of Hiroshi’s notes from school for you. He was a brilliant student and I wanted that for you. Whatever little you did end up studying were all his brush strokes.”

Suyin smiled and squeezed her sister's arm affectionately. Korra placed the letter back in front of Lin and gave her a smile too.

“It’s good to remember the dead,” the Avatar said. “Grief is the expression of love in the face of loss; as we shed tears for what is gone, it's equally important to commemorate the love that once was..”

“I miss the less spiritual Korra,” Toph scoffed.

Asami chuckled out loud though. "Yes, Korra, that's right. If you're ever up for it, Chief, I would love to learn more about your time with dad during his school days."

"You can come talk to me anytime," she smiled.

As if to annihilate the saccharine fest in the room, Toph groaned. "I was hoping this would've been a scandalous letter from your mafia boyfriend from back in the day." Everyone gasped, as the blind woman continued, “Because I already told Zuko about your reunion with that firebending menace."

"What—”

Lin cheeks were pinker than a dragon bird spirit.

"That's why I brought this letter to you first," she said, turning towards Suyin. "You don't want this letter getting in her current boyfriend's hands. I hear he's the jealous type."

Now all Vaatu broke lose and getting the name out of Lin’s lips. She couldn't be in Republic City soon enough.

#lin beifong #chief beifong #linbeifongsweek

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thevillainswhore · 10 months

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A Second Chance: Part 2

Pairing: Ex-Husband!Nick Fowler x Ex-Wife!Reader

Summary: Love just wasn’t enough to keep your marriage together - Nick’s restless ambition to get the promotion in his career ended up driving an everlasting wedge between the two of you, and resulting in divorce. But when you come back home to New York after three years away in London, can Nick win back your heart?

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: more flashbacks, more angst in this one too I’m so sorry 😭

A/N: headers made by @saradika , unbeta’d so pls let me know any mistakes I might have missed! hope you enjoy x

Although Nick was used to this lifestyle, it never got any easier to be a part of. He may have traded being the director of the CIA to become a businessman, but he was still interconnected enough with the agent community to have to announce his presence.

He gives himself a reminder to ask Elsie to fetch him a stiff drink of whiskey as soon as they’re inside to get him through this torture, already picturing her smirk of amusement at his unease.

Speaking of, he sees her keep an eye on him from the sidelines, catching his gaze and giving him a cheeky thumbs up in response to his grumpy face.

For a sweet fifty year old woman, she sure was an asshole.

Almost pulled off his feet, his walking nightmare forces his arm to loop with hers, all but dragging him down the carpet to take pictures.

If he didn’t have an image to uphold, he’d already be ripping her a new one. It wasn’t that he desperately needed her, but the advice given to him by his publicist to have a date wasn’t exactly one he could reject.

Rebuilding Nick’s name the last three years hadn’t been easy. At first he really couldn’t have given two shits about what people thought of him - the aftermath of losing you taking over his mind and his behaviour wasn’t pretty. He was pictured out drinking most of the days, heavy bags under his eyes when the paparazzi caught a glimpse of him. It was a miracle the CIA allowed him to keep his job for them six months of hell.

That’s when Elsie stepped in. An old family assistant hired by his father to help get Nick’s life back on track - a beacon of light in redirecting the path he was taking. If it wasn’t for her, he really didn’t know where he’d be right now - certainly not with his own company, he knew that for sure.

Not that his father really cared, Nick already knew how his dad viewed him - weak, a failure, in definite need of some help. Even worse when Nick witnessed how he reacted to his regret of the upcoming divorce.

“Son, you’ve got the promotion, you’ve got the life I always dreamed of for you. Now quit your fucking sulking over some pussy you could get anywhere else and man up.”

His father just wanted Nick to make the family name shine.

It shouldn’t have been at the cost of you, though. Never at the expense of having to lose you. He realises that now.

Elsie, however, genuinely cared. She wanted him to succeed because it was good for him. No ulterior motive. Just as someone who’s seen the harsh reality of his life from afar. Her first matter of business for him - leave the CIA and start fresh.

Pictures are taken as he walks down the carpet, a few words are given in answer to interview questions - the usual. He speaks about his growing business, plans for the future. He chooses to ignore those scavenging to get the tiniest ounce of information about you out of him and move on.

The doors to the entrance of the convention were in sight and Nick couldn’t be happier to see the end of the blinding lights and the whiny brat attached to his arm.

His haven was just within reach, just a couple more steps until he could start climbing the stairs to a lesser evil.

Until sudden screams from paparazzi and interviewers hold him to his spot.

Nick looks to Elsie to see if the commotion is worth holding back for, only to see her eyes widen and her mouth fall open in what can only be described as shock and dumbstruck.

He’s only seen that look on her face two times - first being the one time he broke down in front of her and trashed the entirety of his home in his depression of missing you. The second when he finally got the courage to show her the only photo he had left of you and him after he ruined the others in his rampage. The most special day of his life where you gazed into his eyes, wearing the most stunning white dress, like he hung the moon and stars for you.

If it were possible, he swears he would.

Nick braces himself to slowly turn around, unsure of what he’s going to find, only to see the very woman who still held his heart in all her radiance at the other end of the carpet.

It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. Across the room from each other, him in pure wonderment of you as you’re glowing in your element, totally unaware of his presence, with all eyes on you.

Signs were always a load of bullshit to Nick - a superstition that gave people hope in their time of need. He never believed in them. But if the black dress you’re wearing, too similar to the one you wore eleven years ago, isn’t one? Then Nick isn’t sure what is.

And as if his prayers have been answered, you look straight ahead through the chaos to see him for the first time since you left three years ago - the image of you serving him divorce papers still fresh in his mind.

Attempts to fix the relationship between you were never ending on your side. Suggestions of couples therapy had gone ignored. Getaways to escape reality planned to then be pushed back by him to a later date - always too busy and never able to let work be at the back of his mind for a single day. All options had been accounted for. You put every ounce of your love into figuring out how to pull back the pieces of your marriage that had fizzled out. But you were exhausted and the fight in you had left a long time ago.

So, you had made the decision you never wanted to consider without good enough reason, with a heavy heart that you refused to keep putting in the line of fire.

The divorce papers you gently placed on his desk had shook Nick to his core, regret seeping into your skin as you caught the genuine horror in his features, mouth gaped open with a loss for words.

It was almost too late for Nick to reel himself back to the present by the time you were walking towards him. Half way down the carpet, ignoring everyone else calling your name and full focus on him. The luckiest man in the world to have a crumb of your attention.

Heels lining up to his dress shoes, you stand millimeters apart from each other, time stopping as he soaks in your appearance as though it’s keeping him alive. He still wasn’t sure if he was dreaming. If he was, he never wanted to wake up.

“Hey, you.” Your satin voice is music to his ears. Deprived of your ambience for too long and it all of a sudden felt like he could breathe again. He’s missed everything about you - the desire to reach out and touch you overwhelming his senses.

“Hi” it feels so underwhelming to say with a decade of history behind the two of you. But by the sparkle in your eyes and tiny upturn of your lips that only he could notice, Nick knows you understand the severity that one greeting holds. A lifetime feeling like it’s passed since he last laid his eyes on you and God, were you beautiful as ever.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”. You speak as though you're both old friends catching up. Everyone around you knows that couldn’t be further from the truth, the both of you know that couldn’t be further from the truth. But that didn’t matter when the dreams that have haunted his nights are coming to life in front of him, his fantasies of getting to see you again happening in real time. Nick can only dumbly nod as he imagines how stupid he must look to you.

Though, he should know you better than that. He should know that you only ever saw the best in him - that no matter how silly in love he looked, you adored him.

“How have you been?” curiosity weaves through your question as you tighten your lips, that cheeky smile you’re trying to hide slipping through anyway.

Without you? Terrible.

Is what he wishes he could say. But he would never let you feel guilty for that, so instead he answers, “I’ve been alright, life’s been a little busy. Hardly any free time but you know how it goes in this business.”

You laugh, “yeah, I guess being the director of the CIA does have its downsides”. As soon as the words leave your mouth you realise the implication of them, your face falling and your eyes so damn apologetic trying to portray that you didn’t mean how they came out.

Luckily, Nick knows there’s no malice in what you said. There’s not one mean bone in your body and he wants to ease your worries. “Ah it does. But I’m not the director anymore. I um-, I actually stepped down to pursue something else”.

“You-… you stepped down?”

The surprise in your voice is refreshing for him. It would’ve pained him two years ago for you to have the expectation that he wouldn’t do it, but he’s grown since then - understands how he behaved in the last year of your marriage and the scars it left you. He simply confirms “I did, sweetheart”.

You fluster at the pet name. He must still have some of that charm that won you over in the first place. The thought makes him feel young again - that bright eyed, ambitious agent who was head over heels in love with you. Some things never change.

“So um-, w-what are you doing now?”

“I’ve created my own private investigation company from the ground up. Thought I could at least use my skills for something useful. We’re currently in the number one spot with local competition with plans to expand business into Europe within the year.”, pride shines through Nick.

You take a minute to recompose, both from the shock of seeing him tonight and the information dump you received within minutes of each other. Taking the bait to look into his eyes, those azure blue eyes that are desperately calling out to you, you softly murmur with conviction, “I’m proud of you Nicki, truly.”

‘Nicki’. A name, laced with so much love, he hasn’t heard in a long time.

The guilt rushes in as he tries to remember the exact moment he last heard you say it in that teasing drawl of yours and comes up short. He’d neglected you for a great while towards the end of your marriage, ache in his heart ever present whenever his mind transports him back to your defeated face when he begged you not to leave.

His promotion had changed him - the greed of his ambition to be at the top interfering with your marriage. The constant missions he was offered became priority - king size bed feeling bigger than ever before when only one of the two occupants slept in it for the past year. Walks around the garden surrounding the home you and Nick had renovated together as lonely as could be when you reminisced on the picnics he would plan in the summertime - an excuse to make love to you in the tall grass towards the lake.

You couldn’t even remember the last time Nick had touched you - all the more painful when you found out he had been recently partnered up in Paris with Mace. An ex fling who held no boundaries in letting Nick know how much she missed him.

You couldn’t do it anymore.

“Don’t do this to me baby, please, don’t do this to me. We can work on it, on us, you know we can. Look at me angel.. look at me.” He grabbed your face and tilted to look into his bloodshot eyes.

“Do you want me to get on my knees and beg? Because I will. I’ll get on my fucking knees for you right now and beg if that’s what it takes for you to stay. I can’t do this without you, none of this means shit to me if you leave. I’ll quit, I’ll tell them the job can get fucked and we can go back to how we were. I’ll change, I’ll do anything, baby, I’m begging you. Just please don’t go. I need you.”

The sorrow on Nick’s face had crushed your soul. You didn’t want this. You never thought in a million years that this was where you and he would end up.

But you couldn’t trust his pleas, the sweet promises too late to mend what had been broken.

“I’m sorry Nick, but I just don’t believe you anymore… I need this, I need you to sign the papers. This is me asking for one last thing from you. Please.. let me go.”

Your gentle, affectionate smile reserved only for him brings him back and reassures his mind that you would never hold it against him. You know exactly what he’s thinking and your eyes tell him so much more than words ever could.

Stop blaming yourself.

Too kind for this world, and definitely too kind for him - your only weakness.

Your tender moment is broken with a stomp of a foot and an ear screeching whine, the easily forgettable presence beside you only becoming noticeable with her cry for attention.

“Nicki-“

“Don't you ever call me that.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Mixtures of shock from both you and the girl, leaving your mouths falling open: her reasoning probably from having someone put her in her place and yours from the protectiveness he places on a name given to him by you.

If Nick notices the rubbing of your thighs underneath your dress, he doesn’t say anything.

After a couple of seconds have passed, his date crosses her arms and looks over to you with venom lining her features as she spits to Nick, “care to introduce me?”

Totally disregarding announcing who the hell she is (unsure himself), he instead focuses on the only person worth talking about. “Um, this is…” he trails off not knowing how to even begin explaining how you know each other, the title of ‘ex wife’ doing no justice to how much you mean to him.

You notice his struggle and decide to help him out, “oh me and Nicki go way back, don’t we, honey?”.

Oh, that tone takes him back for sure.

Nick lets out the biggest smirk, “Yeah, I guess you could say that, îngerul meu.”

There’s a small pause between you as you take in how easily you fall back into the other's charms.

“You look good Nick, really good.”

“Look who’s talking sweets, you always did know how to get me going in a black dress.”

Electric. The passion between you holds no bounds, even after all the time apart. The teasing back and forth. Intense eye contact. A crowd of people around you that you pay no attention to - way too invested in each other to care about anything else.

The abrupt clearing of a throat reminds you that the brat is still here, forgetting about her once again. A lipstick stain on her teeth gets your attention and you visibly cringe. That pink was not doing her any favours.

You look back at your ex-husband, “well, it’s been a pleasure seeing you, Nick. I really hope to bump into you again soon.”

“Is that a promise?”

Your eyes light up, the shared memory holding a special place in both your hearts. You shake your head, amusement in your smile and a thumping heart. He can see the battle going on in your mind - the debate between your head and your heart on whether to run into his arms or force yourself to hold back. You choose the latter, moving to make your way up the stairs with a departing wave, “Bye Nick.”

Panic settles in his chest as the idea of you walking away from him once more makes his head spin.

His heart still breaks when he remembers how tender you were to him, even after all the pain he put you through. Bags only filled with items of sentimental value standing next to you in the hallway.

“I’m not mad at you baby. You gave me the best of you for seven years and that’s more than I could’ve dreamt of…” you took a couple of uneven breaths in composure, needing it to hit home for him exactly why you were doing this, “but somewhere in the last year you got lost, and I can’t damage myself any further trying to bring you back.”

You saw the recognition in his face where he stood, the mental beating he gave himself for not rectifying the marriage sooner. But there was no love lost between you and your overly kind heart had you tell him so.

“I love you, I love you so much and I’m scared of the lengths I would go for you Nick. That’s why I have to go. Because I keep putting you before myself and it’s killing me. It’s not fair to me anymore. I’ve got to start focusing on myself now, do you understand that?”

He did. He understood. The nod he gave as confirmation the only way he could communicate without making this any harder for you.

It was all he could do but watch, a passenger in his own body, as you slowly slid your engagement and wedding ring off your trembling finger and reached for his hand to bring it palm up between them. The sob he let out recognition that he knew what was coming, that this was the end for the both of you.

With reluctance, you dropped both pieces of jewelry into his palm, gently closing your hand over his to squeeze three times before letting go. A final ‘I love you’. He let himself get lost in your eyes one last time, relishing each and every memory you’ve had over the years as he shot you a shaky smile - it’s okay, I know you have to do this.

Tears cascaded down your cheeks, as you stepped forward to place your hands on his cheeks, smoothing your thumbs over his overgrown beard before giving your husband one last slow peck on his chapped lips.

Both of you pull away and touch your foreheads together, savouring the last moments with each other before you separate for good to set out on your own journeys in life - the only time you will have been apart from each other in almost a decade.

Stepping away with your head down, eyes still closed, you turned away from him. The deep breath you took gave you the strength to grab your bags, zone your vision on the door and take the first step to start this new phase on your own. A taxi waiting outside to take you to London for your job transfer at Shield’s new headquarters.

You heard the aftermath of the door closing behind you. The thud audible from outside was enough to imagine the way your husband had crumbled to the floor, legs giving out to fall to his knees in despair.

His cries and whimpers haunted you now and for the rest of your days without him to come.

Nick gets out of his head when you stop on the second step and before going any further, you turn around to face the girl again, honing in on her mouth.

He knows that look - you’re going for the kill.

“Oh! sweetie, before I go, you might wanna wipe the lipstick from your teeth. Can't have you going in like that and ruin poor Nicki’s reputation now can we?”

The embarrassment that colours her cheeks is priceless. Too stunned to do anything else but whip her compact out to viciously scrub the tacky hot pink staining her teeth, missing your smile of victory in rattling her.

Turning to Nick, you throw him a wink and climb the remaining steps to enter the event, sway of your hips hypnotizing him as you fade away.

Always looking after him and always teasing him. He doesn’t remember the last time he smiled like this.

He doesn’t remember the last time his cock was so hard either.

He shakes his head in astonishment. His little firecracker, no different than you were before. He couldn’t believe you were back.

Holy shit… you were back.

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