#I’m starting grad school this fall | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gojonanami · 12 days

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❝ 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 ❞

❝ PROF GETO BROKE YOUR HEART & NOW YUTA IS HOT ?? ❞

✧ pairing: prof!suguru geto x f!reader (& grad student! yuta x f!reader)

✧ summary: after suguru leaves you broken hearted, yuta's there for you when you're putting your heart back together, and he's not sure when or if he even wants you to tell you how you feel. but what happens when you start to realize your feelings?

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut , fluff, angst, depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader and yuta are grad students, but age is vague, dealing with a breakup, fingering (f! receiving), handjob (m! receiving), oral (f! + m! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, art by @ / polariae (who is incredible and everyone should go follow them now!!)

✧ wc: 12,464

Yuta felt as if he was always running late — for everything.

He had transferred into this university a year into his schooling, he was always running late to meetings, and he was too late when he fell for you.

But he seemed to have good timing in this moment — as he ran into you, as why was it he could always find you effortlessly without trying, but there was no smile on your lips when you met his gaze, but only tears — if only so he could comfort you.

He says your name, as he stops you gently, fingers brushing against your shoulders, as your gaze falls to the ground, “What happened? Are you—”

“Yuta, I’m sorry, I have to go—” but he stops you for a moment.

“If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s completely fine, but can I call someone?” he says gently, he could see the tears slipping off your cheeks, even as you attempted to wipe them away, “I don’t think you should be alone—”

And then you’re hugging him, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I shouldn’t—but I—”

His arms go around you gently, “It’s okay, don’t apologize, I’m here for you,” and he doesn’t know what else to do but stand there with you, as curious gazes of passersby watched the two of you, “come on, let’s go somewhere more private.”

~~~

When had he fallen for you? It was hard to say, but apparently easy to see.

“So did you tell her you like her?” And Yuta nearly spits his drink out when Maki asks him that after one of the student government meetings. She sipped at the can of black coffee, nonchalantly, her eyebrows raised at his sputtering. He wipes his mouth, a slight glare in his gaze, “based on that reaction, I would say no,”

“What are you talking—“ and your name leaves Maki’s lips, and his cheeks flush, ears burning, as he presses his knuckles to his lips, unable to meet her gaze, “was it that obvious?”

“To a person with eyes,” and his gaze snaps to her, a question on his lips, “no, she doesn’t know,”

Yuta slumps back in the chair he was sitting in, as he sets his drink down on the round table, “how can I tell her? She has a boyfriend,”

“One that she doesn’t even see that often,” Maki leans back in her chair, “I’ll give you some unsolicited advice, Yuta — if you keep having these feelings and don’t do anything about it, you’ll regret it,”

But how could he do anything when he already knew you were struggling? It wasn’t enough that your boyfriend was far away, but he didn’t seem to make time to come see you — even on your birthday — but to push his feelings on you on top of that. It wasn’t fair.

So he had to settle on being your friend, just your friend.

“What happened?” He asks again when the two of you get to a secluded corner of campus, a bench far enough away, as you sniffled, wiping your tears and murmuring apologies, “you don’t have to talk about it—“

And you shake your head, “My boyfriend, he, uh, broke up with me,” and he stares at you — your voice wavering as you speak, “I just, didn’t expect that to, you know—“

Yuta tilts his head, speaking softly, “Why don’t I take you back to your apartment?”

So he does, taking the quick metro ride there, as your fingers brush his as the two of you walk beside each other. The silence hangs as comfortably as it can, your eyes straight ahead, as he sneaks glances at you. He wants nothing more than to take your hand, to tell you it would be okay, but he couldn’t — he didn’t want to overstep. It had already been hard enough to contain his feelings when you were with someone — and now that you weren’t — he wanted nothing more than to love you as you deserved to be loved.

But it wasn’t his love you wanted — and it wasn’t what you needed either.

You needed a friend, not a lover, more than ever.

“Thank you for bringing me home, Yuta,” you mumble, shaking your head, “I’m sorry, I’m such a mess — I’m not being—“

“You don’t have to be anything, you’re fine,” he says softly, as you fumble with your keys, “do you want company?”

You give a terse chuckle, as you unlock the door, “I’m not the best company right now, Yuta,”

And he could have told you that you were the company he always wanted, the company he never would say no to — good or bad — but he couldn’t. So he said something else.

“Then I guess I’ll have to make up for it by being very good company,” and you give a watery laugh, shaking your head, as you hesitate, glancing over your shoulder.

“Are you sure?” And he only steps past you into your apartment, as he smiles.

“Come on, I’ll order us dinner and you can put on an…interesting movie again,” and your lips quirk up as you step past him into the apartment.

He couldn’t be more than a friend — not now — but maybe at some point. But he would be happy to just be in your life.

That was enough.

~~~

He wasn’t enough, Suguru sat in the train, the sun long set on Tokyo as he watched the city fade into the distance — as he leaned his face against the glass of the window. He had taken a late train back to Kyoto — one of the last — he could have taken an earlier one, but he had lost track of time.

How long did he stand there?

It felt like hours — minutes had ticked by as such, but he knew it was long enough for him to miss several trains by the time he had left for the station. It was long enough that he saw you disappear in the distance, Yuta assumedly in tow.

It was right — it was what was necessary. That’s what he told himself as he watched the scenery move past him in seconds, but it felt as if time had stood still. He could hear the soft snores and quiet murmuring of the sparse passengers among the train, the footsteps of others as they walked up and down the aisle, and the steady shudder of the train as it ran along to its destination. But still, it felt as if he was still trapped behind glass in that moment, he watched himself drop your heart, watched it shatter beneath his feet, and he didn’t go after you.

Why didn’t go after you?

He asked himself again and again — but the only answer amongst the buzzing white noise that had only served to numb his mind to the pain was that it was necessary.

He had always known you had a bright future — you could anywhere, lecture overseas, do fellowships or a Phd program, or even become a professor elsewhere. But when he had spoke to Yaga, it had solidified in his mind even more so — he wasn’t giving you what you needed and he was holding you back while he was at it.

And the worse part was he knew you would never blame him — not for a minute. You would try to make it work. Long distance, giving opportunities up, or even choosing him over yourself. And he couldn’t abide letting you give up what you wanted for him — even if it wasn’t what you would have chosen. Because he knew you would always choose him.

So he had to be the one to choose you.

He needed to leave you behind, just as he had left Tokyo. He had made his choice, and now he had to live with it — and live without you.

It was necessary. It was right — he shut his eyes, leaning against the window beside his seat, tears burning at the corners, as a tear rolled past hidden behind his hand — so why did it feel so wrong to be without you?

~~~

You didn’t want to wake up.

You pulled the comforter over your head, finding refuge underneath the plush duvet, and wondering if it was possible to stay under here long enough for your problems to disappear. But you knew the pain would remain, but even so, you sought the sweet escape of sleep — if only for a few hours, you didn’t have to feel this heartache, you didn’t have to remember this.

You didn’t have to remember him.

And then there’s a knock on your door, a persistent knock that draws you from the arms of your only oasis under your sheets, and you drag yourself from bed, your eyes aching from your tears from last night.

Fuck, you rubbed at your eyes. You glanced at the couch, finding no one there — when did Yuta leave last night? You couldn’t remember — and you’re dead on your feet as you find your way to the door, opening it without a thought.

And your breath caught.

“Suguru?” you stared, as he stood in front of you, bouquet of flowers in hand. You stumbled over your words as gracefully as you had gotten out of bed, as his arms wrapped around you. You stood motionless for a moment before melting into his touch, tears burning at your eyes yet again, “what are you doing here? Why—“

“What do you mean?” he murmurs, running his fingers through his hair, “you know I can’t stand to spend more than a few hours away from you,” and you’re burying your face in his chest, biting back the urge to sob then and there.

You kept your tone as even as you can manage as you pull away, “Suguru, you said—“

“I know I’m early, but we can just spend some time together before we head out—“

And you’re shaking your head, “Head out where?”

He furrows his brow in confusion, a chuckle escaping his lips, “Did you forget? You’re the one who insisted that we should be early — you kept saying we couldn’t be late,”

“To what?”

“Our engagement party,” he takes your hand gently intertwining your fingers to show you the ring you wore — and you’re staring at it, as he presses sweet kisses to each of your knuckles, “now shouldn’t you get ready? Or are you the one who’ll make us late?”

“Suguru—“ and his lips find yours in a gentle kiss, warmth blooming from his touch alone, your fingers finding purchase on his shoulder. For a second, it’s real and it’s right — Suguru has found his way back to you.

Right?

And his lips part from yours, his fingers brushing your cheek, “I love you,” he murmurs, saying your name again and again and—

A hand brushes your shoulder and you jolt awake, your hand slapping whatever had touched you away, as your fingers grasped at your comforter. You blinked, as your breath slowed, and you had found yourself in bed—

Again.

And another mutter of your name snaps your gaze up to find Yuta standing a foot from your bedside now, his brow wrinkled, holding his hand in the other—

Fuck.

“Oh my god, Yuta, I’m sorry — I was having a—“ you cut off a moment, you didn’t know whether to call it a dream or a nightmare, “just, I’m sorry,” you cover your face with your hands, “I barely remember getting into bed last night,”

He waves you off, “It’s ok, I know you had a rough night,” he offers a small smile, “I had to help you into bed — you were a little out of it, so I just stayed on the couch,”

You groan, wishing you could burrow into the Earth and never emerge, “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again—I’m sorry I made you stay—“

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says softly, “I’m your friend — I’m here for you,” and you swallow, tears burning at your eyes again, “s-sorry, did I?”

And you shake your head before slipping out of bed and hugging him, “Thank you, Yuta, really,” and he wrapped his arms around you tentatively, “I think you’re my best friend,”

You were so lucky to have him — especially when you needed someone the most.

“Of course,” he murmured, and you didn’t not know his heart was aching ever so slightly, “you’re mine too.”

~~~

“Do you want to talk about what happened with…your boyfriend?” Yuta knew the only way you would be able to heal is by talking about it — and that’s the one thing you had avoided doing all weekend. Sure you talked — but about the movies you were watching, about classes, about anything — then what had happened.

You hadn’t brought it up since that morning, you had washed up and it was as if he had imagined what had happened. You made breakfast, you put on a movie, and you joked about his allegedly questionable restaurant choices. But not a word about your dream or about your breakup.

But he knew he had to ask.

You were just coming off laughing at something that had happened in the rom-com you had switched on, and your lips fell into a seamless frown, as if the facade of happiness melted off with his words.

Your gaze falls, arms tightening around the cushion in your lap, a bitter chuckle falling from your lips, “does anyone ever want to talk about their breakup?”

He furrows his brow, “Bottling it up won’t help you heal from it — the only way is to let it out, and I can’t tell you what to do but—“ he bites his bottom lip, your eyes never lifting to meet his, “I know you need to let it out, one way or another,”

You pause a moment, as you press your face against the cushion, “It hurts too much, Yu, I don’t know if I can,”

“It doesn’t have to be now, I just want you to—“

“We were long distance,” and he’s opening his mouth to cut you off, but you shake your head, “you’re right — if I don’t talk about it now, I never will,”

So you told him. Told him how you both had gotten together right before your boyfriend had received a job offer that required him to move, how the two of you decided to date regardless, and how you continued to be long distance even after he started.

“It just got harder to see each other, and he ran late on my birthday but I didn’t care—“ and Yuta tilts his head, “I mean, I did care — but I knew it was temporary. I was going to graduate and move to be with him—“ and your nails dig into the soft fabric of the cushion, “but it didn’t matter. He thought it was for the best — for my best interest — that we break up,”

He furrows his brow. This, the crying and heartache, was for your best interest? “Why—“

“Because he thought I was limiting my options, that he wasn’t a good enough boyfriend — one that I deserved,” you shake your head, tossing the cushion aside on the couch, “but he didn’t understand — I just wanted him—I knew it would be different when we were together—“ your voice breaks, “but he didn’t want to wait.”

Yuta lets you talk and lets you rant and cry — until you’re asleep after lunch, taking a nap on the couch beside him. And he wonders if this is helping, but at least you’re sleeping now — he spotted the bags under your eyes when he saw you wake in the morning — as if you had spent the entire night tossing and turning.

Was this okay for him? He wasn’t expecting anything — aside from your friendship. He didn’t think you were going to wake up and fall in love only because he did what a friend should do. But was it okay for him to be here?

Because he couldn’t quash the little bit of hope that inched its way into the crevice of his heart that maybe you’d heal from this — maybe you would be able to get over this and you’d see him, as more than a friend or a best friend. He wanted to think he would do this even if he didn’t have feelings for you — it would probably be easier if he didn’t.

But the facts stand that his motivation was corrupt — he chuckled, fuck, even the philosophy you had dosed him with, during your meals and student government meetings, was infecting his mind. Motivation mattered — because if you know or expect a reward from doing something, no matter how hard you try, your motivation will always be just that,

And his eyes slide to you — fast asleep as he grabs the throw blanket on your couch and gently places it over you — but he wouldn’t mind being corrupt, if it meant he could stay with you.

~~~

“She broke up with her boyfriend?” Maki raises an eyebrow, placing her drink down, “and you still haven’t told her?” Maki’s judgment pierced through Yuta, even as he couldn’t quite meet her gaze, biting his lip, “what are you waiting for? For her to get back together with him?”

“Maki, I can’t make a move so soon—she’s vulnerable—“

She sighs, leaning back, as she crosses her arms, “Well, you’re a good guy for that, but you need to do something, even if it’s not confessing. You should try spending more time with her, encourage her to open up more—“

“I don’t know — I don’t want to overstep—“

“Yuta,” Maki cuts him off, “you’re a good guy and you deserve to be happy — you spend a lot of time worrying about other people, and not enough time thinking about yourself. If she’s not ready right now that’s fine, but she might not realize she’s ready until someone helps her to,” she tilts her head, her fingers beginning to toy with the straw of her drink, “I just don’t want to see you regret hesitating,”

Yuta’s phone went off — your name flashing on the screen, hey, are you free to hang out and watch a movie tonight? Finally finished working on my thesis proposal for the night!

Maki glances at his phone, raising an eyebrow, “just don’t wait too long, “or you may end up alone, either way.”

~~~

“I told you we should have gotten dumplings tonight,” you grumble, as the two of you take your takeout back to your apartment, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, “I can’t believe the sushi place was closed,” you pout.

And Yuta bites back a smile — his cheeks burn — god, you’re so cute. It wasn’t fair. He knew you were just mostly teasing — only so you could have the pick of the movie tonight — which you knew he’d give you anyway.

The two of you had settled into these weekly movie nights on Fridays, which had a 70% chance of devolving into a weekend of hangouts amidst work for your programs. It had been weeks since your breakup — and your sadness seemed to ebb with each passing day, normalcy seemingly returning.

“We could have gone there—“ and you give a long, over dramatic sigh, shaking your head.

“It’s fine, but if this food sucks, I will be holding this over your head,” you bump him with your shoulder, a smile on Yuta’s lips, and right then someone calls out Yuta’s name. The two of you glance back, and Yuta blinks as he spots his friends.

“Toge, Panda,” Yuta greets them, Toge’s hands raise as he begins to sign—

Hey, who’s your friend?

Yuta replies, before gesturing to you, introducing you by name, “we’re just headed back to watch a movie—“ and he points from the shorter one to the taller one, “this is Toge and Panda,” Panda flashes a knowing smile, adjusting his leather jacket, head tilting as he gives you a small once over. Toge’s lips are covered with his face mask, his dyed silver hair brushing against his forehead —

Panda grins between the two of you, “Ah it’s good to meet you — I heard about you from Yuta, and Maki," he adds, while Yuta shoots him a look that he hopes that you don’t notice, “how’s the work in student government? I hope Maki isn’t working you too hard,” but you seem oblivious to it, only smiling between the two of them.

“No it hasn’t been bad, and Yuta has made it really easy. He’s been a really big help—“ and Panda before leaning over to whisper in Yuta’s ear.

“You have a chance with her, don’t mess it up,” Panda’s elbowing him, before clapping him on the back, his arm slinking around his shoulders, while Yuta tries to will his blush to leave his cheeks, “well we should let them get going, right, Toge?” and Toge nods, and Yuta only knows Toge has a smile hidden under his mask as well, flashing a thumbs up out of your line of sight, while you glance between Yuta and Panda, “you two love birds have fun!”

And Yuta stammered, “We’re not together like that,” he’s shooting a glare at Panda’s back as the two of them walk off, waving. And his eyes snuck a glance at you, but you seemed unfazed, only tilting your head — and shit, his head was spinning, heart doing its best to exit via his chest by banging against his ribs. Did you know? Was it obvious? Was this it?

“I didn’t know you knew sign language,”

And apparently it wasn’t.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, I learned when I met Toge in high school,” he offers a forced smile — but relief isn’t the only thing that floods his system, disappointment comes in waves — because again, here he was, right back at the start.

The two of you continued to chat on the walk back to your apartment, his fingers curled tightly around the handles of the takeout bag as you pulled out your keys, wondering how many more times would he do this — how many more times would he think you realized his feelings only for it to remain unspoken? He was more than okay to stay your friend, but — he watched you open the door to your apartment — would he regret not taking a shot at being something more?

And as you glanced back at him, a smile on your lips, he knew he would.

~~~

You didn’t think it would — but it had gotten easier, easier to be without Suguru.

There were days you still had woken up crying, there were other days you had almost forgotten.

Almost.

But now in hindsight, adjusting to life without Suguru hadn’t been much different than being with him the last few months. Not when the two of you had barely seen each other. You had put away his things, tucked away the memories, and picked up the scattered parts of your life —even though you couldn’t find the piece he had taken with him.

But even so, you had finally felt as if you boarded up the love the two of you had built, one that he had set on fire and burnt the insides to nothing but ash and smoke — the same fire that had you coughing up the broken pieces of your heart — throat burning with his name on the tip of your tongue.

Even so — your fingers found the dragon pendant under your shirt, some things were harder to let go than others.

But it shouldn’t be hard, right? Love shouldn’t present so many obstacles — it should be simple, easy — not difficult and tenuous. And that’s all your relationship had been — only due to circumstance, but sometimes that was enough.

And in your case, it had been too much.

But you knew you couldn’t have made it through without Yuta. Your eyes slide to him, his face illuminated only by the glow of the TV — lights turned off for the best movie night experience. Or at least not as quickly as you did. He was leaning back against the couch, his head leaning towards your side.

You bite your lip. Your mind wanders to what Panda had said — love birds — it hadn’t been the first time someone had commented on the two of you together. How many of your friends had made some comments about Yuta, even the ones in student government (Maki in particular had been dropping not so subtle hints)? How many of them had you brushed off without a second thought?

But now — ever so conscious of his weight beside you on the couch, of every twitch of his fingers, shift of his limbs — you had second thoughts.

You had tried your best to play off Panda’s comment, and Yuta did the same, the two of you had grown used to dancing around this topic. And before you hadn’t thought of Yuta that way in the slightest— not with everything going on — not with your mind still full of Suguru.

But now…His eyes softly lit by the bouncing lights of the movie, until they found yours, and somehow growing even softer, as his lips curled.

“Need something?” When was it that Yuta could make your heart flutter with only a smile? He was a friend — right? Just a friend, but now—

He leans over, your heart squeezing as he does — your eyes nearly fluttering shut, his hand brushing your cheek, only for the barest of touches. And your cheeks burned in the dim light of the TV.

“You had something on your cheek,” he explains, and you nod, biting your lip — as you snap your gaze away, and a small chuckle on his lips, “What is it?”

What was it about him now? His smile was just a smile, his eyes were just eyes, and his presence was only comfort. And now — his smile made your stomach bloom with butterflies, his eyes were depths you wished to swim in, and his presence gave you comfort but in the loneliest of ways — the gap between you both a cliff you stared down, unable to jump.

So you shake your head instead, “It’s nothing,” you smile as you press your knuckles to your lips.

Maybe your head was full of someone else for once.

~~~

“Do you want to grab dinner tonight?” You ask Yuta — a routine for most other weeknights, as you grabbed your bag, as you wait for him outside the conference room as the student government meeting ended for another week, “I heard this new restaurant opened up near my apartment, and we could hang out at my place after—“

“I—“

“Yuta?” A cute girl comes up to Yuta, and he smiles as he greets her, she pulls Yuta aside, as he chats with her just out of earshot, her hand grazing his shoulder.

And your stomach turns, a twinge in your heart as you watch the two — you don’t remember Yuta mentioning her, but then again, Yuta rarely talked about himself, even when you asked. It was like pulling teeth — and now here he was. Now, he was smiling at a girl you knew nothing about.

What was this feeling? You shifted from foot to foot, restlessness settling over your body as you purse your lips as if to prevent unnecessary words from spilling from your lips. Why did you feel so...helpless? Your arms crossed over your chest as if that would hold you together — keep your heart from falling back into the pieces you had meticulously put back together.

Oh.

You watched them talk, as the girl finally seemingly said her goodbye and flashed a small smile your way before disappearing down the hallway.

“Sorry,” Yuta walks back over, a smile on his lips, but you knew that smile wasn’t for you. Not like before, “yeah let’s grab dinner,”

And you weren’t the same either—

“You have nothing to apologize for,” you force your lips to curl, as you walk past him, “let’s go,”

—because you were jealous.

~~~

“Yuta, have you thought about dating?'' Your question comes seemingly out of nowhere one night, right after midterms, and Yuta has to stop himself from spitting out the sip of his tea he had taken, forcing himself to swallow. It doesn’t go unnoticed by you, your eyebrow raising, “you good?”

“Y-yeah sorry,” he clears his throat, hoping his cheeks weren’t flushed red from that, “why do you ask?”

“I was just curious because we’ve talked a lot about my dating life, but nothing about yours,” it was late, or rather early—nearly 3 AM on a Saturday night, the two of you were half asleep on the couch, stuck in a stubborn battle of not wanting to sleep quite yet, “you don’t talk a lot about yourself,”

“There’s not much to say,” he shrugs, and your raised brow tells him you’re not satisfied with his reply, he relents with a sigh, “there was a girl I liked when I was a kid — Rika, we met when I was in the hospital,” and your lips twist into a frown, “I was sick a lot when I was little, and that’s when I met Rika. She lived with her grandparents — her parents both had passed when she was even younger. We were inseparable—“ he gives a soft chuckle, “but then she…” his voice wavers.

“You don’t have to—“ and he’s shaking his head.

“We were playing and she went into the street to cross when a car sped by—“ and he shakes his head, “she didn’t make it,” your fingers knit together, before one of your hands finds his.

“You didn’t have to share that if you weren’t ready,” and he’s offering a weak smile, squeezing your hand.

“I wanted to,” he sighs, as he rubs at his eye, “there’s not much I wouldn’t tell you,” and you supposed that was the difference between him and Suguru — communication that wasn’t limited, a conversation that wasn’t one sided, and honesty — without a price.

“So there’s been no one else since Rika?” you tilt your head, and you swear you see a twinge of red across his cheeks, dusting his features even in the dim light.

“Why are you asking?” he says slowly, it feels as if he’s caught you, as your gaze snaps away, a pout on your lips, as you press your knuckles to your lips — and it’s as if he got a hold of your thoughts, “is it because of Kirara earlier?”

“Oh, that’s her name?” Yuta has to bite back a small smile at your narrowed eyes, unable to meet his gaze, “how do you—”

“She’s a friend from high school — and she’s dating another old friend from high school,” he adds, and your eyes snap to his, “I don’t like her like that anyway — she’s just a good friend, and likes to give me unsolicited advice on my fashion sense,”

Your lips curl, “Well you are a little basic in your—” and he cuts you off with a look, and you’re shifting your body to face him fully, “so if it’s not Kirara, you don’t have anyone in mind? Not even a crush?”

Your question feels like an answer in and of itself — along with the look you’re giving him — the same one he had always given you, when you weren’t looking — longing. But what if he was wrong? What if he was projecting? But he could spend his whole time wondering, and never knowing — or he could take the leap.

He chews on his bottom lip, and he steels himself, his gaze turning back to you, “and if I said there was?”

Were you ready for this? Would you ever be ready for this? Suguru still lingered in the back of your mind collecting cobwebs, on the tip of your tongue like a curse unspoken — and yet your forefront was filled with nothing but Yuta — his kindness, his honesty, his straightforward nature — all things you hadn’t gotten from Suguru when it mattered, when it counted. And it would be easy — there would be no complications — other than the complications that always came with relationships and emotions.

But that was far simpler than what you and Suguru had to deal with.

“Then I’d ask you,” your fingers reaching across a line that was meant to be crossed, but one that perhaps you shouldn’t anyway, “what are you waiting for?” and your hand finds his — his hand smaller than the one you’re used to, but warmer and softer.

“I don’t want to rush—” and you’re shaking your head, as your squeeze his hand, fingers laced together, as your thumb runs over his palm.

“We don’t have to,” you murmur, your gaze finding his, and he’s leaning closer to you, as if with a magnetic pull — and you find yourself attracted and not repelled to his pull, “we can take our time, can’t we?”

And his lips curl into a small smile, his dark eyes nearly consumed by the shadows underneath them, but somehow as soft as they always were — “Is this a dream?” he murmurs, whisper like, as if his words would ripple across the surface of reality until it disappeared within its depths, “I wanted to tell you for so long — but I didn’t know it if was too soon or if—”

“I know,” it had been three months, three months since you had your heart broken, but you were tired of wallowing, of trying to put your heart back together by yourself — you may have filled in the cracks, but maybe you needed someone to cement the parts back into one — and maybe Yuta was the one, “and maybe it is, but I want to try,” you admit, “is that wrong?”

And how could he say it was — when it was all he wanted?”

“No,” his fingertips brush against your cheek, “maybe it’s just right.”

~~~

He shifted in his sleep, a warm body pressed against him, his arms slinking around your own, your face buried in his neck in the best way he could imagine. Your fingers raked through his jet black locks, you pressed a sweet kiss to his neck, and a soft groan left his lips.

“Baby, finally awake?” your lips press a smile against his skin, your finger drawing a circle against his chest, “we have to get up soon, we’ll be late,” you murmur, “and I know how you feel about being late,” your nose brushes against his jumping pulse, “Sugu?”

Suguru groans softly, burying his face in your hair, “Five more minutes,” and you chuckle against him, his favorite sound that graces his ears, his eyes fluttering shut again, as he surrounds himself in your scent — the notes of lavender and rosemary from your shampoo, “just want to spend a few more minutes with you, sweetheart — I need you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You hum, rubbing his head softly, fingers curling around one of the locks of his hair, “I don’t recall you gracing me with five minutes when I was late on that first day,”

He groans, shifting only to bury himself in your chest, pressing soft kisses to the valley between your breasts, nose pressed against the hollow of your throat, the cold metal of the dragon pendant against his cheek, “I wasn’t your boyfriend then,” he’s leaning back only to press a sweet kiss to your lips, again and again — it always felt so right being with you.

“But you’re not my boyfriend now,” and he pauses, before glancing up at you, your eyes glassy with tears, “remember?” your fingers ghosted over his cheek.

RING. RING. RING.

His eyes don’t bother to open as he reaches for his phone, turning off the ringer, before his hand reaches for you, only to find an empty space beside him. He flutters his eyes open, glancing over, and finds your absence beside him.

It had been months, but you still haunted him—and he would spend the rest of his life running from the ghost of what could have been—and pretending it doesn’t hurt.

He turns on his side to look away from your side of the bed — even though it still did.

~~~

You stared at the outfits laid out on the bed — practically your entire closet threw up your complete wardrobe, and even so, you couldn’t find a single thing you wanted to wear. Or rather—

You tossed another blouse onto the pile— you couldn’t find a single thing that didn’t remind you of Suguru. One of these he had said brought out your eyes, the other he had picked out for you, and the other he had taken you out on your one month anniversary for a surprise date.

There were too many memories — and too many that you didn’t care to relive. Especially today, as your phone goes off — I’ll be on my way over soon. Are you almost ready?

Fuck. Yuta was on his way almost and you hadn’t even finished picking an outfit.

By almost ready, do you mean not ready at all? You bite your lip, I know it’s silly but I can’t decide what to wear.

You dig two outfits out of the bottom of the pile — and stare at them — you didn’t like to wear new outfits on a first date, but maybe this would be a fresh start for you. One where you could leave behind some of the memories tied around your ankles like anchors, dragging you down the depths of waters you didn’t want to explore any longer.

Your phone goes off again — You’d look amazing in anything — I’ll be there soon.

Your lips curl at the sight of his text — you choose a dress, tugging your shirt over your head and your shorts down, before pulling the dress down. And you adjust your hair in the mirror, before looking closely at yourself — a glint catching your eyes.

Your fingers ghost over the dragon pendant — you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to take it off. But maybe it was time — and your hands reach around unclasping the chain before placing it in the palm of your hand.

Your fingertip traces over the rainbow colored gems — and he wondered if he even still thought of you like you thought of him. It was so easy for him to leave — so did he put you out of his mind while he was at it? You held the necklace over the trash bin next to your vanity — your fingers squeezing at the chain and pendant, as it dug into your skin — should you toss it away like he had with you?

No —you pulled your hand back — no, you couldn’t. You placed the necklace in the box it came in, tucking it away behind some things.

You heard your phone go off again, as you spared one last glance at the vanity, where the box was hidden away—

Because it still meant something to you. Even if it didn’t to him.

~~~

“You complain about my movies, but the one you chose was much worse,” you say as you unlock your apartment, “that plot line made little to no sense,”

“If you suspend your disbelief—“

You stop, your key hanging from your door, as you stare at him, “I can believe that supernatural powers exist in that universe, but why would the universe entrust these powers to the stupidest people alive?” He snorts, as you continue unlocking the door, as you spare a glance at Yuta who is still fidgeting near your doorway, “you gonna come in?”

“I-well, I thought since this our first date, maybe I shouldn’t since you wouldn’t do that one a first date,” and you blink, your lips curling, as you watch him trip over his words, cheeks tinged pink, “not that anything would happen if I did come in—but—“

You step closer, silencing his words, seemingly stuck in his throat, “You really thought a lot about this, haven’t you?” and your fingers brush his, slowly intertwining with his as you bridge the gap, “I really appreciate it,”

He bites his lip, eyes sliding sideways, as he does, before he’s tilting his head again, “I just don’t want you rush into anything, and I don’t want us to still feel like—”

“Just friends I know,” you smile, “well then why don’t we leave it here for tonight, but call me when you get home?” He slowly nods, but he still isn’t leaving, “Yuta?”

And he steps a little closer, your breath catches, stuck in your lungs, as your chest squeezes when his fingers find your cheek, “Can I kiss you?” And your answer comes before you know it as you nod wordlessly.

His lips curl into a smile, as he leans closer and your noses bump, a small chuckle escaping your lips before his lips find yours.

It’s chaste, at first, until his lips find yours in a firmer kiss. He tastes faintly of the salt and butter of the popcorn he just had, and you can feel him smile against your lips, before you both part.

Your lips curl, “Well that is definitely something I never do with a friend,”

“You sure?” He murmurs and you hum, as your foreheads press against the other’s, as your fingers intertwine and you tug him inside your apartment.

“Maybe just the ones I really like.”

~~~

“You look happy,” Maki notes, as Yuta shows up early to work on a project for student government — it had been a few days since their first date, and Yuta had just gotten a text from you asking if he was coming over tonight. His lips quirked upwards as he told you he’d be there after he finished his work, as his eyes flitted up to find Maki’s, “don’t tell me you actually got the balls to ask her—“ and his eyes won’t quite meet her own, a smile on his lips, “fuck, don’t tell me—”

“We had our third date last night—” and he earns himself a hard punch to his shoulder, as he jolts, staring at Maki, “ow! Why—”

“Three dates and you tell me now?” and Yuta’s rubbing his shoulder, as he frowns, “what’s with the face? My punch didn’t hurt that bad,” she takes a seat, and leans back in her chair, as she rifles through the paperwork,

He shakes his head, “I wasn’t sure if I should be going around telling people — it’s new—”

“Wouldn’t you be happy to talk about your relationship?” And he’s hesitating, and Maki’s chair legs clack against the floor as she leans forward again, “what are you so scared of still?”

What was it that he was scared of? That it wouldn’t work out? That he’d lose you before he had even truly had you? That he’d hurt you? And it was true, he was scared of all of those things, but it wasn’t those things holding him back—

“I saw the way she talked about her ex, the smile she had when she would come off talking about him,” he leans against his hand, elbow propped up on the table, “she always had this smile on her face — just this look that I don’t think I’ve ever seen her have with me—“

“A look doesn’t make or break a relationship, Okkotsu,” Maki says with a sigh, “and she was already in that relationship for who knows how long at that point?”

“I know, but—“

“I can’t tell you how to run your relationship but you have to decide whether you’re in this or not — because if you keep comparing yourself, you’ll never be happy,” and Yuta nods, before glancing at her, “what?”

“How do you know so much about this?” Maki crosses her arms, a slight blush on her cheeks.

“You’re not the only one with a social life—“ but she cuts him off before he can ask more questions, “but this is about you, not me,” she leans forward, “you need to focus on your relationship now, not her old one,”

And he nods — he needed to trust you, otherwise this would never work with his head stuck in the past or looking into the future. Otherwise, this insecurity would seep like poison into his present — and he would lose you anyway.

“You’re right, thanks Maki,” and his phone goes off again, another text from you — I miss you — come soon.

Maybe he just needed to trust you — and himself. But even so, as he typed his reply to you — I’ll pick up dinner on the way. I’ll be back soon. Promise — but why was it so difficult?

~~~

“Ah, Yu,” you murmured against his lips before swallowing your words completely, you were even prettier breathless than he had imagined. Well, more like than he had dreamt. He had resisted the urge to fantasize about you, thinking it would be disrespectful, crossing a line that wasn’t meant to be crossed. But that didn’t mean he could control his subconscious when he would slip into the embrace of sleep.

He’d see you beside him on the couch, and you’d lean over and simply find his lips as if you’d done it a million times before. And he’d melt into your touch with such practiced ease, his fingers skimming over your sides, and he was desperate for more, more, more. He would only slide his hands up your thighs, fingertips brushing against the fabric of your panties before he’d wake in sweat soaked sheets and his cock straining against his boxers.

This was so much better.

It had started on the couch just like his dream, the two of you lying together, cuddling on the couch as the two of you half watched a movie.

“Are you sleepy?” He asked softly, tucking a strand behind your ear, and you shake your head, as you shift closer to him, half of your body pressed against him. He did his best not to shift much, as you move even closer to him, nearly lying on top of him, “what—“

His breath catches as you lean closer, “can I—“ and he’s nodded without a second thought, as your lips found his, and his fingers found your hips. His tongue grazed the seam of your lips before slipping inside, and he eagerly steals your breath from your very lungs. And you’re moving, now lying squarely on top of him, your hips pressed against his, as his already hard cock throbs against your cunt.

He bites back a moan when he feels just how wet you already are, soaking through your shorts and drenching his sweatpants, “Fuck,” he murmurs, as your lips both part for a breath, as he cups your chin, only to press hot kisses to your burning skin, “baby, you taste so good,”

And that’s where he found himself now.

Your tiny gasps and murmurs of his name, as his lips explored what skin he could reach, while his hands slid up and down your body, now warm palms resting above your hips, toying with the hem of your shirt.

“Yuta, please,” the whine in your throat makes the heat grow thicker been you two, the movie fading into but white noise, as he cards his fingers through your hair, “don’t tease me,”

And he’s swallowing thickly, his dick twitching at the thought of taking this further — the two of you had done everything but this step, your hands had grazed under the other’s clothes, grinded against each other as you made out, but one of you would end up stopping it for one reason or another. It was a game of chicken, one or the other seemingly daring the other to take that step — but neither of you had.

But now — as his thumb dragged over your puffy, kiss ruined lips, “Do you want to?” he asks an unspoken question, his resistance weakening to your touches, your fingers ghosting up his chest before one of your hands finds his cheek.

“I do,” you answer, but bite your lip, “I’m just…a little nervous,” and his lips press a sweet kiss to your forehead.

“We can always wait — I never want to make you feel uncomfortable, baby,” he’s featherlight in his touches now, “it’s up to you,” and it was — he would wait for you, as long as you wanted him.

You smile at him, finding his lips in another kiss — he didn’t know it was possible for someone to be this soft, or feel this good — he could taste the sweetness of ice cream you had ate earlier on your lips, but you were so much better than any dessert.

Your fingers rake gently through his hair, “Let’s move to the bedroom?”

~~~

You wanted Yuta — you did. You had for the weeks the two of you had dated. It had been almost two months, and the two of you hadn’t had sex yet. There wasn’t a reason to rush, but there wasn’t a reason not to. The line had been edged to the brink of insanity — for the both of you. There was always seemingly a reason to stop — an early class, a late night, stomach upset — and it always felt like timing was just off. But it wasn’t always just the timing.

It was also you.

Every time you and Yuta got close, each time you felt even an ounce of pleasure, the guilt of Suguru would claw up your throat, again and again. And you were sure Yuta had noticed. But even if he had, you didn’t know a way to explain without making him think you were still in love with Suguru — which you weren’t.

You didn’t think you were. The guilt lingered, like blood dried from a still open wound, scabbed over but not healed, easily reopened with even a scratch or a step. And it felt like with each step you took away from Suguru, you bled more and more — but you didn’t know how to stop the bleeding. You couldn’t stem the bleeding at its source, not when the person you had cut it open didn’t even give you a chance to speak.

And you couldn’t talk to Yuta about it — not when you still hadn’t explained who Suguru is — and what exactly he does for work. Or much of anything else and you didn’t even know how to begin that conversation or why it would be necessary. Does he need to know all of that when you would be graduating soon enough and Suguru would be only a distant memory.

But you hoped Yuta wouldn’t be.

Your fingers laced with his as you led him to your bedroom — as you pull him inside, shutting the door behind you. You gently guide him onto your bed and have him sit while you stand, your fingers cupping his face, as his breath hitches at your proximity. His lips parted ever so slightly, as a pretty pink settled over his cheeks.

“Baby, are you sure?” His lips are half twisting in a frown, eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips and back again, “I don’t want—“

And your lips find his in a soft kiss, pressing yourself between his legs, as your hands find purchase on his shoulders, “I want you, Yuta,” you murmur, you were tired of letting the past dictate your present — you wanted to move forward, “don’t you want me too?” And your lips ghost over his jaw up to his ear, as you whisper in it, while leaving kisses that make his body shiver, wondering if you’ve turned his blood to ice or made it turn to steam with how his skin burned.

“You’re not playing fair” he mumbles, as he buries your face in the crook of your neck, and you laugh, your fingers skimming the back of his neck.

“I’m here to win, we never said anything about fair,” you twirl the black locks resting against his neck, your lips press another kiss to his cheekbone, “you still haven’t answered my question—“

“Of course I want you,” he looks up at you, his need like a spark catching fire on your body, “I always have,”

“Well I’m right here,” you murmur, you tilt his chin up, fingers threaded in his black locks, “what are you going to do about it?”

~~~

Yuta was going to lose his mind — but it’s just as well, you already had his heart.

At your words, he’s tugging you even closer as he moves back on the bed, gaze hot as he watches you move, sitting on his lap — knees on either side of his waist. Fuck, you felt so good against him, plush thighs pressing into his hands already sliding down your lower back and grazing your ass to press you impossibly closer.

“Good boy,” you murmur, and his blood flees his cheeks to his cock, twitching against your clothed cunt, and you smirk, a giggle escaping your lips, “you like that, huh?” you breath against his ear, “my good boy,”

And in an instant, you’re pinned under him, and you’re blinking up at him, smile exchanged for parted lips, as his hands slide up your sides, and he’s leaning down to kiss you. His mouth burns against yours, tongue teasing the seam of your lips, before they part for him.

“Now who’s being good for who?” he murmurs, as he pulls back with your teeth catching his bottom lip between your teeth. He groans, grinding against you, the length of his cock grinding against your clothed slit, “you won't let me have a moment, can you?” He murmurs, a red flush on his cheeks that makes you grin.

“Not as long as you’re with me, Yu,” and god, that nickname for him makes his head spin— it’s already so much — the picture of you spread so prettily for him, your thighs parted under him, shirt riding up, just asking for him to slide underneath, and your bodies pressed together in all of the right places, as if neither of you could get close enough.

And apparently you couldn’t, as you guide his hands to the hem of your shirt, and you’re helping him pull it over your head before tossing it onto the floor. And he sees nothing underneath, your nipples pebbled and hard under his gaze, so pretty for him.

When his fingers twitch, you chuckle, “touch me,” and your words melt away his reservations, as his hands find your breasts, warm palms squeezing and teasing the soft flesh. He leans down and presses a kiss to one of your pert nipples, his tongue flicking the pert bud, drawing a small gasp from your lips, a pretty noise he wants to make fall from your lips again and again. Your head falls back into your pillow, as he switches sides, teasing the one with his lips, while he rolls the other between his index and thumb.

“Fuck, Yuta,” he smiles against you, as his lips begin to kiss down your body, starting with the valley of your breasts before trailing wet kisses down your stomach, until he reaches the waistband of your shorts. And his eyes are flicking up to meet yours to ask silently, and your nod is all it takes for his fingers to dip in and tug the thin fabric down your legs, fingers dragging along the dips and curves of your legs as he does. He bends down to steal kisses to your swell of your hips and the crown of your knee.

“S’pretty,” he’s mumbling, as his eyes find the wet patch on your underwear, fabric messy and soaked through as it cling helplessly to your hard clit, “how are you this pretty, baby?”

“All for you, sweet boy,” you’re murmuring, as you hiss when he’s teasing your clit through your panties, “Yu, fuck—“ he could cum just listening to you — he doesn’t know what he’ll do once he’s inside you—

But one step at a time.

He’s leaning down to press a kiss to it, before he’s slipping two fingers into the elastic to tug it down, with a nod from you. He’s pressing kisses and nips to your inner thigh, relishing in the marks he leaves on you — ones that he and you would only see. And finally you’ve kicked your underwear off, fully bare for him.

“How do you smell so sweet?” he’s whispering, as his eyes drag over your exposed folds, and a whimper escapes your lips, he can’t wait to make you moan. And he’s bending down to drag his tongue over your dripping cunt, a thick stripe that has you gasping, fingers winding their way into his black locks, nails digging deliciously into his scalp.

And you taste even better than he imagined — so good that he's already lapping at your folds, tip of his tongue flicking over your clit — and he hears the wrinkle of the sheets as your toes curl into them. He’s rutting into your mattress, ready to cum in his boxers at how good your pussy feels — dick nearly bursting at the thought of having your cunt around him.

“Fuck, baby,” you’re swearing under your breath, as your body tenses under his tongue, he begins to slurp at your juices. His hands find their way under the soft flesh of your thighs to tug you flush to his lips, “Yu, so good,” and all he can hear are the lewd sounds of his tongue buried in your pussy, working your walls open, pretty walls fluttering around him, “feel so good, ngh, ah—” your eyes find his, and it’s enough for him to blow his load then and there — eyes blown out with lust as they meet his own, your lips parted in lovely pants and moans.

And he knows you’re close, can feel it in the way your walls shudder, and he’s burying himself in your cunt, fucking you open with his tongue while he rubs your clit in quick circles.

“Yu, I’m cum—“ and you cut yourself off with a moan, back arching as you cum hard, his name on your lips, and he’s eating you out through your orgasm, greedily drinking every bit of release you give him. And it’s only when it’s too much, your body slightly shaking, as you gently pull at his hair, that he eases off.

You watch him with half lidded eyes as he pulls away, still between your thighs — lips and chin glossy and drenched in your release. He licks his lips and chin clean, watching you come down from your high, fuck, the way your walls clench around nothing makes him want to bury his face back in your folds.

“So good, Yu, s’good for me,” you’re panting, sweat slicked against your skin, as you’re gently tugging at him, and he obliges, keening at the praise as he slips up your body until your lips find his. You moan, tasting yourself on his lips, a sloppy, messy kiss that leaves him breathless.

And you’re flipping you both over, his eyes dilating at the sight of you, eyes raking over his body, eager hands thumbing at the hem of his shirt.

Your lips in a smirk that leaves his dick throbbing, “my turn, Yu, let me make you feel good,”your hands make quick work of his shirt, tugging it up and over, tossing it in the growing pile of clothes in the corner of your bedroom.

Your lips press sweet kisses all over his chest, fingers teasing his chest, but you have bigger intentions in mind, as your fingers quickly find their way to the waistband of his sweatpants. And with a nod given, you’re deftly tugging it down with a raise of his hips to pull the fabric off and kicked away, leaving him only in his boxers.

You bite your lip when you see the large wet patch from his pre, your fingers teasing his slit through the fabric, drawing a hiss from his lips. He swallows, watching your pretty lips bend down to press a kiss to his cock through the fabric. And it’s enough for him to lose his mind completely, “please,” he whimpers, and you smile down at him, dragging your thumb down his lips.

“Please what?” you ask innocently, for someone whose fingers were grazing his erection the way they were, he swallows as he watches your finger trace up and down his clothes cock, “what do you want me to use? My hand? My mouth?”

And he’s shaking his head, “Anything, just please I need—“ and your fingers dip into the elastic of his boxers, snapping it against his skin, a yelp escaping his lips that makes you giggle, “that’s not nice—“ and he’s gasping when your lips press a hot kiss to his hip, your eyes lidded with desire.

“Who said I was nice?”

~~~

You were going to be the death of him, and with the way your fingers tug down his boxers — finally freeing his cock, slapping against his stomach as it does — it would be a sweet death.

“Didn’t know your cock was so pretty like the rest of you, Yu,” and it was, so long and thick, pearly precum dripping down his flushed length, veins that ran up and down the length that you were far too eager to trace, “can’t wait to taste you,” you’re murmuring, as your tongue flicks down against his slit.

“B-baby, please,” his hand is covering his face, but you reach up to pry it away, seeing the lovely red that settled over his cheeks, lips parted in need as he painted, “please—“

And your fingers wrap around his dick, thumbing the slit and working the precum up and down his length. And he’s moaning your name on his lips again and again, as you kiss his tip sliding your fingers down to his base and squeezing. And when your lips part for him, sliding his length in your mouth, his head falls back against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut as he can’t help but roll his hips into your mouth. And when his tip brushes the back of your throat, it’s enough for him to cum right then and there, but he doesn’t want to — not yet, not until he’s inside you.

He’s easing you off, watching strings of pre and your spit connect you to his aching cock, as you look up at him, and he’s pulling you into a messy kiss, tasting his own pre on your lips.

“I need you,” he’s murmuring, fingers finding your hips, “baby, please,”

You smile, parting from him, “how do you need me?” And he’s swallowing, cock twitching, and he knows he’s one stroke too fast from bursting — so he needs control.

“Lie on the bed, baby,” and you do, easing from between his legs, and onto your back, head against the plush pillows. He parts your legs for you, warm palms squeezing your flesh teasingly, drawing a whine from you, he presses your thighs up, letting them hook around his back, as his skin meets yours. And god, you’re perfect, “how did I get so lucky? You’re so perfect, so pretty,” and he’s slotting himself between your thighs, fingers lining up his cock with your dripping slit, his curiosity getting the better of him as he drags the head up your messy folds still slick with your release, and groans as he watches your walls flutter around nothing, “so good for me, are you ready, baby?”

You’re nodding, “please Yu, I need—” and his tip is sliding into you, his length stretching your walls far too well, and it’s enough for him to cum right there — as your cunt adjusts to his size, dragging against you as he pushes past your entrance. It’s enough for him to cum right there, but he wants it to be good for you both — wants you to hear you praise him again, wants to hear you say his name again and again until you fall apart on his cock.

And finally he’s bottoming out, a moan from both of your lips, your walls fluttered around his length, your head lolls back a moment, before your eyes flutter open and meet his, “S’good, Yu, please, move,” and he’s cupping your cheek, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, before he begins to fuck you slowly.

The echoes of your skin meeting his rings in hie ears, needy walls pulling you back in even as he tried to pull out, sinking deeper and deeper each time he fucked you.

He’s burning, ready to melt at your very touch, putty in your hands to bend and shape at your will, even as you swallow him whole, he’s ready for you to consume every inch of him with your being.

“Feels s’good, Yuta,” you’re moaning, legs around his hips pulling him impossibly closer, “such a good boy,” and his cock twitches, your mixed releases forming a ring around the base of his length, “s’good, need more,”

And he’s groaning, as your wet squelches fill the silence between both of your moans and pants — and you’re close, as he gives a particularly deep thrust that finds the spot that has you seeing stars. Your head falls back, lips parted in his name, “Yu, I’m close — ngh, please—“ and he’s smiling, his cheeks surely flushed blood red, panting, as he reaches between your bodies to find your clit.

“Cum f’me, baby,” he’s murmuring, and you’re nodding, as you fall apart for him, toes curling as you cum hard around him, making him groan your name as he spills his warm seed inside you, pumping slowly as he does. His body slows as you both come down from your highs, and he slowly rolls off of you, running fingers through your hair and pressing sweet kisses, “are you okay?” he murmurs, eyes soft with affection, but laced with concern.

You smile, “I’m more than okay,” you press your face into his chest, and he’s shivering at your touch, pulling you even closer, “I’m with you,” and his fingers run up and down your cheek, before leaning down to meet your lips in a soft kiss.

That’s right, he smiles as he kisses your forehead — he was with you. And the past didn’t matter — when he was in your present.

“I’ll always be with you,” he mutters against your lips.

And hopefully in your future.

~~~

“What are you doing, I thought you were almost done,” Yuta mumbles against the soft skin of your neck, pressing sweet kisses that did nothing but sap the need for productivity from your very veins — leaving only behind thoughts of his touch behind, “baby,”

“Yu, I promise I’m almost done, I just have to send this email about my thesis and you’ll have my undivided attention,” you both had been stuck in the end of the semester rush, trying to find time for each other — leaving you stressed out and Yuta a little needy. That’s what this night was supposed to be for — a chance to reconnect, and yet here you were working. But you had to send this thesis out or you knew Yaga would have your head for delaying your work on your outline for so long — something you would be spending next semester fleshing out into a full thesis you’d be presenting.

He nods, but continues to pepper you with kisses, your skin nearly molten under his touch as his arms wrap around your waist to pull you further into his lap instead of beside him on the couch, “After all the work I did to snag Professor Yaga as my thesis advisor, I cannot let the department head down with my draft,”

He hums, vibrations making you nearly shiver, “I know, I’m really proud of you. I know you’re going to have something really special by the end of the year,” and you shake your head.

“I just hope I make it past the defense — it’s the most nerve wracking part,” you sigh, “a room of my peers and professors staring me down while I discuss the work I’ve done,” you proof read the email for the millionth time — scanning for any errors and make sure the attachment is the correct attachment — and finally click send, and sigh before relaxing into his arms.

“Can I come to your defense?” Yuta asks, perking up, and you smile, leaning back against him.

“Are you sure you’d want to come? It’s going to be just me rambling about my thesis and answering a bunch of questions,” you kiss his jaw softly, nosing the small hickey you left blooming on his pale skin last night, “might not be the most exciting thing,”

“I want to support you, as long as you want me there,” and you can’t help but wonder — would Suguru show up to your defense? The thought makes your stomach churn at the thought of them watching you present, eyes flitting from one to the other. You had doubts he would show himself there — but the only catch was if Yaga would twist his arm. And then what? You had nearly blown your relationship wide open once before when you had ran into Suguru in front of Yuta—

You couldn’t risk it again.

“Let me think about it, ok?” You nuzzle your nose against his cheek, as he frowns, “I just think if I have you there, I might get too nervous—“

He shakes his head, “Whatever makes you comfortable, either way, we’re going to celebrate right after,” and you tilt your head.

“What if I don’t pass?” And he shakes his head.

“If hell freezes over, I think we’ll have bigger problems,” and you snort, “but on the very off chance you don’t, you still accomplished something incredible—“ and your lips find his, and he melts into your kiss after a moment.

“Thank you,” you whisper, “I’m so lucky to have you,” and he curls his lips into a sweet smile.

“I’m the lucky one,” and his lips press against yours this time, meeting yours again and again, until you’re placing your laptop aside, and turning to sit in his lap, “baby,” heat rolls off his body in waves, as your fingers trace down his chest.

“I heard someone wanted my undivided attention tonight,” you smile, before taking your phone and placing it on ‘do not disturb,’ “well now what are you going to do with it?”

He smiles, “Don’t know if we’ll have enough time for everything, but,” he presses a kiss to your jaw, “we can try,” and the two of you are making your way to the bedroom soon enough, unaware that you had gotten an important email that night—

From: Suguru Geto

Subject Line: Regarding Your Thesis Advisor

~~~

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you’re adjusting your hair as you sprint your way to Professor Yaga’s office. This is what you get for staying up far too late with your far too tempting boyfriend. And now you woke up thirty minutes before the meeting, with barely enough time to make it on time, much less breath. Yuta gave you a kiss goodbye, but that’s all he had time for — before you were out the door.

But you finally reached Yaga’s door, catching your breath when you took a second to regain your composure before knocking. You blinked — weird, his door was usually open. And the door opens, but it isn’t Yaga—

It’s Suguru?

It’s Suguru.

You stare at him, wondering if this is another twisted nightmare you had ensnared yourself in, but no — it isn’t. Because even your subconscious couldn’t make a scenario this twisted. His lips parted to say something, but you beat him to it.

“If you’re meeting with Professor Yaga, I can come back at a different time, Professor,” the title slips from your lips without barely a thought, but it carries far too much weight. A flicker of emotion catches on the corner of his lips and in the glint of his eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.

“You’re on time, but I still you did not have the time to check your email before this meeting,” he tilts his head, as you blink slowly, “please come in and have a seat,”

And you do, taking a seat across from him as he sits on the other side of the desk, you shift in your seat, as you take him in for the first time in months — his hair was still long, black tresses brushing against his shoulders, hair half up in a neat bun near the crown of his head; his eyes tucked behind his glasses for once, but you could see the burgeoning beginnings of dark bags under his eyes; and his clothes were meticulous as always — and you spot the tie pin he has — it’s the one you had gifted him near the beginning of your relationship — a joke that you had made about pinning him down in class turned into a gift.

And that makes your neck feel all the more bare.

“Is Professor Yaga ok?” and Suguru sighs, running his fingers through his hair.

“He’s fine, he is sick at the moment — and receiving treatment,” you sigh in slight relief, “so he’s decided to take the rest of this semester off, as well as next semester,” and you sigh, leaning back as you cover your lips with your hand.

“Is he going to be—”

“He has a good prognosis, and his son’s with him, looking after him, so it should be fine,” he says softly, and his lips curl in a small smile, as he flips through the papers on Yaga’s desk.

“What’s with the smile?” and he shakes his head, as he rifles through the stacks of paperwork, until he seemingly finds what he’s looking for.

“Nothing, just noticing that your habit of worrying about others before yourself hasn’t changed,” and you glare slightly at him, pursing your lips, as he slides a stapled stack of papers to you.

“And what’s this—”

“Your thesis proposal,” and you take it, flipping through and grimacing at the red pen, “and my thoughts on it,” you scoff, as you see the familiar picture of his scribbles and notes in the margins of your work.

“It looks like old habits die hard for the both of us,” as you finish flipping through, but your brow knits together as the pieces of news start to fit together like a puzzle — with a very mortifying picture, and your eyes meet his, slowly — the news going as well over as a lead balloon, and crashing down on your head like one, “so does this mean—”

His lips curl in a small smile, “I’ll be taking over as your thesis advisor — for the rest of the year.”

✧ a/n: it was supposed to be the last part and now! we have. one more part since i decided i wanted to flesh out the final arc a little more! one more part of this and it will be all done...:)

✧ taglist: @hatsunemitskislobotomy , @difficultdomains , @diogodxlot , @that-goth-bisexual , @dazailover1900 0, @aliyalala , @ashhlsstuff , @blue041803 , @mwtsxri i , @bblgumfairy , @sukunasleftkneecap , @xo-evangeline , @fiannee , @teatreeoilll , @chalametet , @ryukaver , @d1gitalbathh , @saga3ious , @seventhcinema , @satosugucide , @your-l0nely-star , @sokkasmoon , @deegausserr , @hyookka , @oggsyy , @littlebitb , @higuchislut , @ti-mame , @itoshisins , @cerene-dipity , @onionsoop , @sinlillith , @izzythenaive , @lalacute03 , @rxndou , @c-themoon , @xxrag-d0llxx , @hqtoge , @sugarxlumps , @hopeluna , @actualdeemon , @enchantedpendant , @serendididy , @soulstealercat , @neuviloved , @simply-a-s1mp , @satorusmochis , @maddietries

#sab [mlist]#sab series [prof suguru]#suguru geto x reader #suguru geto smut #suguru geto x you #geto x reader #suguru geto fanfiction #yuta okkotsu x reader #yuta okkotsu x you #yuta okkotsu fanfiction #geto suguru x reader #yuta okkotsu smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction

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complexedandfruity · 2 years

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the vibes are in fucking shambles rn y’all

#this is of course bc of this stupid fall musical i’m working on !!#will go a lil more in depth later bc if i hash it out again i will start crying again & i can’t use power tools if i’m actively crying #grad school #this is my production tag

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occamstfs · 10 days

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Tenor Troubles

Masculinization spurred by a going from a Tenor to a Bass, bit of an odd one but hope you enjoy! -Occam

Max probably should have read his contract more closely. He knew that grad students across the board were getting shafted, but the agreement he has with the College of Fine Arts was some next level exploitation. He prided himself on his voice, being able to sing higher than even most of the Altos he has previously studied alongside. But his degree plan on the already signed contract suggests he is going to be enrolled as a Bass in the graduate program. Clearly there has been some misunderstanding that he’ll just need to work out with the department.

He knocks on the door of his advising professor and without waiting for a come in he bursts through the doors to see the man who is both his boss and professor staring at him less than pleased. Max’s face reddens in embarrassment and before he can even open his mouth to speak, Dr. Reyes addresses him.

“Maxwell is it. I trust you have a reason for barging into my office? I ask that you take more care towards decorum in the future.”

Max stumbles through an apology before getting to the matter at hand. “Y- yes of course I’m so sorry doctor it won't happen again, I swear.” He raises his eyes to his professor’s stern gaze, flinching back slightly as he goes on, “it’s just that, um, it looks like there was some kind of mix-up with my enrollment, I mean clearly you can tell I’m a Tenor right?” He raises his tone slightly and smiles awkwardly as he tries to make it clear to the man across from him that he certainly does not have the range.

Dr. Reyes rubs his beard, briefly covering his own mouth and wiping a smile from his face. “Well now Maxwell, there does seem to be a mismatch between your vocal training, and your preferred classes and yada yada,” waving his hands dismissively as Max’s face stains a deeper shade of scarlet by the second. Reyes goes on, “I'll see what I can do but all these changes take time If you must change your plan it’ll be at least a week. Until then if you could see to it that you fulfill the TA demands asked of you and attend your classes hm? You are under contract are you not?” The image of his signature at the bottom of contract feels burned into his retinas as he starts to reply, “well yes but-” An alarm goes off on the professor’s desk. “Very well Maxwell, if you would excuse me.”

Dr. Reyes makes his way to the next class smiling as he too thinks of the fine print of Maxwell's contract. ‘The student will become what the program asks of him.’ What a dunce one must be to sign that without an inquiry. Giving one last glance behind him to see the small student shaking with rage at the series of events, veins appearing to bulge out of his neck as he thinks about chasing after his professor, almost taking a step before grasping at his head. Max doubles over and grunts, after a painful second he rises once more and sees his advising professor enter a classroom. He exhales through his nose and walks to the concert hall with the undergraduate Bass students, the course he is, both legally and otherwise, compelled to assist with.

The Next Week

Max is inches away from just dropping out. He was well-prepared to be constantly stressed from grad school but the wrench of working with students who don’t respect him and professors that are expecting him to sing alongside the rest of these professional bassists, it’s impossible! Dr. Reyes must be doing some sick joke on him, there is no reason it should be so difficult to fix this! He shouldn’t be graded for the university’s mistake. Beyond the looming threat of flunking these courses for his inaptitude he is also constantly hungry. His stomach rumbles and sends pangs through his body as he sits through each course on vocal instruction. He succumbs to stress-eating assuming one plate must fall and it may as well be his waistline.

Every time he indulges in his hunger he finds weight almost immediately piles on. Alongside his meticulously honed falsetto he has always enjoyed just how tight and small he kept his twinkish figure, though this begins to slip as he finds himself straining his tight pants and his stomach showing through his button ups.

The final issue lies precisely in his private vocal practice, in lieu of the training his program should guarantee. As he goes about practicing the arias and vocalizations that he typically uses as warmups he finds himself struggling to hit the highest notes. He works his way through them slowly and slips up, finding his range is peaking out much lower than it ever should. He grimaces and refuses to deign and see if his range has increased in the other direction. He goes note by note, taking his time to feel the stress and vibrations of his vocal chords. Reaching the pinnacle of the piece he strains to hit the high note and his voice promptly cracks. He feels a tear. He coughs and gasps for air concerned that he has truly injured himself.

When no blood or further pain reveals itself Max finally clears his throat and drinks a glass of water. He tests his voice, “Uhhhh-” forcing his hand over his mouth before even getting a full syllable out. Eyes watering as he hears his voice is unmistakably deeper than it was not a minute ago. This spurs him to action as he storms to the college and bangs on the door of Dr. Reyes.

For his part Reyes is sitting at the desk finishing an email and grinning as he hears the banging grow only more fervent at his door. He finishes his email almost laughing at how effective he is at controlling the man at the door. Knock as he may he could not storm in if he wanted to, as he must desperately. Closing his laptop and reaching to grab a tea bag from within his desk he calls to allow Max entry, “Do come in Maxwell.”

Stomping into the room, unaccustomed to the new weight he carries, which Dr. Reyes is all too pleased to notice. He takes a deep breath as he prepares to shout at the professor, his chest growing as his already prodigious lungs expand. Before finishing though Reyes raises a finger and strikes him passive and mute. “Now Max, why don’t you have a seat.” He clenches his hands with a furor and sits, stewing in his mind while also rapt with attention. “How have you been liking your classes?” Max continues to sit silently watching as the prepare a pot of tea, beginning to forget his ire as he looks on in confusion at the man. Reyes turns once more and rolls his eyes, “Well go on.”

Shaking out of it Max finally starts clearing his throat a few times hoping the voice he has worked so hard to protect and train will return “I, ugh- Sorry it’s ugh!” Dr. Reyes leans against his desk and steeps the tea bag, eyebrows raised with a thin smile on his face. Failing to speak as he so wishes the rage returns to Max and he shouts out, “It’s my fucking voice! I came here to learn and all these classes are just a waste of my fucking time!”

Reyes pours the tea into a large mug and sets it in front of his student, “Now now, if you were having voice problems why didn’t you just say so Max. I am a professional after all! Have some of this and I’m sure it will set you right as rain.” The professor watches as Max grasps the mug and stares into it. He remembers that Reyes was already preparing it when he came in. But it’s not as if his advisor would do something truly untoward right? Sensing the hesitation Dr. Reyes’ eyes darken and he commands, “I did say to drink it did I not.”

Max quickly raises the glass and sips. His eyes remain dark and he continues, “what seems to be the problem with your voice young Maxwell?” Taking a break from drinking he starts to explain all of his troubles to the man who should be looking out for him. Gesturing to his clearly larger body, Reyes notices beyond the weight gain that the sitting man is adjusting himself as his pants begin to grow even tighter, his ankles growing exposed as if his legs were lengthening.

He continues to stumble onward with his recollection, forgetting what exactly bothered him enough to storm in. Reyes half-listens and takes care to refill the tea cup as needed, taking in the physical changes to the man rambling and wondering just how far they will be able to go. Eventually Reyes speaks up, “you were having trouble with your voice, yes Maxwell?”

Max’s eyes glimmer with recognition and he almost jumps with a start, “Yes! That was it I couldn’t sing the part I auditioned with in Nessun Dorma and I was-” His professor interrupts as he takes a big swing at Max’s psyche, “Is that so? What were you doing singing that Maxwell, that’s for tenors.” As if a grenade went off in his mind Max struggles to reconcile and remember what his problem was, did he not audition as a Tenor? But he couldn’t sing high to save his life right? Or no.

Reyes watches as Max’s brow grows sweaty in his inner struggle. He physically raises the cup to Max’s mouth helping him finish the entire pot of tea. Confident that the man before him is far enough gone to only latch on his words, Reyes offers him a bone, “which side of your range are you struggling with boy.” Feeling emasculated by the professor infantilizing him he feels an urge to test his lower range. Reyes sees the resolve in Max’s eyes and challenges him, “Go on, sing your lowest note, now.” Max takes a deep breath and produces a sonorous note sustaining it far better than he would have ever expected himself to.

Reyes smiles and shoots to plant another seed, “Well now Maxwell, I’m not quite sure what the problem is then. Your range seems to be what any trained Baritone’s should be.” The word Baritone echoes through Max’s head as he once more grows paralyzed in his own mind. He ekes out a “B- Baritone?” his voice cracking even deeper as he freezes. Reyes watches as his eyebrows knit together in confusion, they seem to grow thicker as they near each other.

Vocal range and masculinity don’t inherently match one-to-one but the professor is more than happy to allow it, staring as the weight from Max’s stomach begins to slightly redistribute itself, it slides up his chest, straining the buttons near his collar. Reyes shifts to look at Max’s face, eyes lingering on the Adam's apple making itself unmissable on his neck. He sees peach fuzz growing on Max’s upper lip and sideburns. Thoroughly pleased with the acceleration he has achieved today an alarm once more goes off on his phone and he readies to send his protege off.

“Maxwell dear, I thank you for your patience. Of course I know that you’d prefer to be with the other Baritone student’s though I am sure you are learning valuable information working outside your comfort zone hm? I’m sure we’ll have this snafu fixed by next week.” Max just stares in a stupor as he stares at his professor, the empty mug of tea still in his hand before he sets it down to scratch at his tighter shirt. Dr. Reyes offers him a kerchief to wipe the drool from his mouth as he leads him out of his office, “Why don’t you try your warm ups, I’m sure they’ll set you right as rain.”

Just as he did last time he takes one last look at his growing student as he begins to wander down the hall, his pants swiftly turning from slacks to tight capris. He hears the echo of the man humming to himself as he walks down the hallway to his own office hours. He’ll need to be ready for whatever his Bass performance students need right? Can’t have them out showing him even if he’s still working outside his comfort zone. Just one more week of this and he’ll get to show off to the Baritones, once more with his choral cohort.

The Next Week

Dr. Reyes stays abreast of how his star pupil is doing this week. He visits during private lessons and checks into lectures on music theory and rehearsals. He hears the man force his voice to be stronger. After any challenge he hears the man force himself to be louder. When struggling with curriculum, surely impeded by the doctor’s manipulation, he clutches at his head as his body surges larger, tightening clothes that were already sizes too large when he started his education here.

He sees Max looking at his reflection in the mirror of a practice room. He checks his beard from every angle, tilting his head up to see his large Adam's apple and smirks watching it vibrate as he hums. He unbuttons yet another button of his shirt, allowing an even greater view of his pecs as thick chest hair spills outward. Reyes hears his voice power through the soundproofed room as he approaches. He has clearly decided to leave Baritone behind without any prodding as he endeavors to show off his talents despite ostensibly singing to himself.

Dr. Reyes knocks on the door of the practice room and like an eager dog Max falls over himself to answer it. He now stands taller than his professor whose head now lies directly at the hairy pecs spilling from his opened shirt. Max’s eyes glimmer as he looks down to the smug face of the professor. He quickly sits down to lower himself below the doctor and eagerly awaits whatever is soon to spill from Reyes’ mouth.

“I must say Maxwell, you have truly outdone yourself. Truly you hold one of the most powerful Bass voices I have heard in my time.” Max sits quietly, his heart racing with excitement from such kind words. He struggles to stay silent, lest he speak out of turn, though he cannot hide the rumble in his chest as his deep breaths accelerate. The doctor struggles to keep it together as he sees a pulse in the unmistakable, currently growing, bulge in Max’s pants. He briefly wonders if he’s gone too far, before looking back to the man’s face, seeing his eyes still staring directly into him waiting.

Perhaps he can go farther. “Is it not a shame though, my dear Max, that you’re not a true Basso Profundo?” There is a loud tear in the room as Max’s body surges larger. He shoots up inches more in height revealing a hairy stomach and pubes that already spill beyond the bounds of his pants. Reyes hears a catch in his student’s breath and watches as his Adam's apple bulge even further from his throat. His cock bursts the zipper of his pants and Max moans loud and deep enough for the professor to feel it in his chest. Reyes can’t take his eyes from the hair covering his chest grows even darker, curling as each strand grows thicker.

Before losing control of himself and his desires Dr. Reyes forces one last statement through Max’s mind, “You know the department has always wanted a basso profundo coach. How would you feel about being an assistant professor, Max?” In response Max can only sit in awe as a look of what can only be described as pleasure stains his face, mouth lolling open as his eyes grow crossed. His hands clench the sides of his chair as he struggles to not lose control over himself and the professor. Thinking of staining the practice room only makes it more difficult to keep it together.

Reyes feels a hunger within himself as he stares down at the massive man seconds away from cumming all over himself. In time he too will only know Max as the powerful man he is now. At this juncture however the doctor sneaks out of the practice room and heads to return to his office to prepare for office hours, what kind of a professor would he be if he wasn’t there for his pupils after all.

Walking down the hallway he hears the man in the practice room lose control, his voice echoing down the hall before hearing him run out and to the nearest bathroom. He prioritizes increasing the soundproofing of the practice rooms before turning to see the new Assistant Professor sprint down the hallway towards the nearest restroom. Struggling to move swiftly or quietly in his far-too-strained clothing. Reyes returns to the desk and smiles once more to himself as he thinks of a future for himself, his program, and his new star Basso Profundo, before hearing yet another knock at the door.

“Do come in.”

#male tf #masculinization #mental change #muscle tf #hair growth #male transformation

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kookslastbutton · 10 months

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Too Late to Dream ༓ jjk (m) II ch. II

✑ Summary: You did it. You married your college professor. You even bought a house together. Against all odds, everything had fallen into place. But after two years of marriage, you begin feeling something was missing. You want a baby but your husband can’t say the same.

Pairing: economics professor!jungkook x fem!artist!reader

AU/Genre: angst, smut, fluff, marriage au, age gap, series

Rating: M, 18+

Word Count: 5,044

Warnings: 8-year age gap, flashbacks of professor-student relationship (oc was a Masters student), fighting, pent-up issues/desires, jk has daddy issues, mentions of therapy, kookie trying to be a good husband, cute coupley stuff that idk anyone will like but 🥺 👉👈, jk says cawk , idk why this is a warning

Now Playing: Make It Right, Tryna Be, Infinity, It Will Rain, Heaven+

A/N: Hi guys! I'm back! I thought I'd start off with a little flashback and then diving back into the story. Also, big thing–I decided not to make jk a complete butt. I don't want this story to be about "jk finally coming around after treating oc like garbage for wanting a kid". It's more of a we'll figure-it-out-together kinda thing though there will be bumps in the road. Anyway, enjoy 🥰

<< ch.I ༓ ch. III >> | series masterlist

To say falling in love with Jungkook was an effortless, butterflies-in-your-tummy, love-at-first-sight, you-know-it-when-you-see-it sort of affair is far from the truth. In actuality, you and Jungkook met on a very normal basis and had very normal rapport…well, somewhat normal.

Jungkook was your economics professor in grad school and you were merely one out of eighty of his students during the first semester. Surely you'd be walking out with no more than a barely scrimmaged 'A' and remnants of stupid economics jokes he and his colleagues found slapstick funny.

Jungkook always had an interesting sense of humor.

Bottom line? Your life wasn't a drama and you certainly didn't plan on living like it was–especially when your parents were on your tail, making sure their hard-earned money was well spent.

As if being bonked on the head by something called fate, however, Jungkook sent you away with far more than odd jokes and good grades.

Hey, hindsight is 20/20.

four years ago

“Oh, good morning.” A soft, yet hoarse voice strides past you. You view the man, estimating that he be in his early 30s though could easily pass for 25 by his youthful appearance. His hair is black, a bit shaggy but well-kept nonetheless. Silver piercings dangle from his ears and a pair of rectangular glasses rest on his perfectly symmetrical face. This is your professor?

Undoubtedly, what mesmerizes you the most is the striking arm tattoo partially displayed under the rolled-up sleeves of his dress shirt. You remember temporarily considering tattoo artistry in high school but studio arts appealed to you more.

Not like you got to do either though, seeing as you’ve been stuck in econ for the fifth year in a row. You’re parents insisted you get your master’s immediately after undergrad…how wonderful for you.

But back to the man at the front of the room. You weren’t expecting someone so hip and attractive–very, very attractive.

Your stomach churns but you brush the feeling away.

He's your professor for god sake.

The man, coincidentally your professor, quirks a small smile your way and sets his bag on the podium at the front. “Didn’t expect anyone to be here for another twenty minutes.”

“I just got out of another class a couple of rooms down so I’m here early.” You straighten in your seat and return a smile of your own. “It’s nice to meet you Dr. Jeon. I’m Y/N.” You start bouncing your leg up and down, clicking the pen in your hand. Please be right, please be right, you chant silently, hoping you remembered the name correctly.

Jungkook notices your slightly restless state but he doesn’t say anything about it.

“Just to be sure, you are here for ECON 602 right? Macroeconomic Theory?” He unzips his bag and sets his laptop on the podium. Making brief eye contact, he catches sight of the piece of paper directly below your nose. “That’s a beautiful sketch.”

You glance down, moving the paper to the side as if embarrassed. Not many people see your work beyond close friends, and even then you like to keep it to yourself. “Yes, absolutely,” you reply. “ECON 602, 12:15 pm. And thanks, I draw as a hobby.”

Your professor hums, nodding as he connects the HDMI cable to his laptop and lowers the presentation board.“ Dr. Kim is going to be quite jealous when he hears such artistic talent is in my economics class.” He lets out a slight chuckle. “You don’t mind if I tell him, do you? A little competition we have going on.”

You snort at the comment.

Dr. Kim Taehyung was the art department’s most talked about professor. Everyone knew him for his extremely unique perspective, classy personality, as well as his breathtaking artwork. You’ve passed him in the hallways a number of times, wishing you could study under him and dare you say, in more ways than one.

“I don’t mind.” You shake your head. “Are you and Dr. Kim close?” Maybe you shouldn’t be this curious but it was now fifteen minutes until the start of class and no one else had shown. What else were you going to fill time with? Awkward silence while you watch your professor fumble and tap on his keyboard?

“We were colleagues if you can believe that.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Only two years ahead of me in undergrad. When I first started teaching here I had no idea he was here too. But you know what they say __, it’s a small world.”

“Smaller,” you retort. “I feel like everywhere I go I run into someone I’ve known or seen at some point in my life. You just never really know I guess.” When you first entered university, you were counting your lucky stars that most of your high school peers were attending college nearby your hometown. You on the other hand were a good five to six hours from home. Last you checked, however, half of those peers were now getting married or on their second kid. Crazy how some people’s lives change on a dime.

You watch as your professor shuffles a few sheets of paper in his hands, scanning them briefly. “I can relate to that,” he mutters. “Pretty sure we haven’t met before though. Could be a bigger world than we think. Now where’s everyone else? Didn’t all drop last minute did they?” The man lifts his head, flashing a big gorgeous grin. His eyes are playful and dance with mirth.“Not that I would mind if it were just you and I this whole semester.“

“uh–“ is embarrassingly, all you say. He isn’t implying anything by that right? Oh god __, don’t be stupid. As you've established, this isn’t a romance novel and you’re most definitely not the main character.

“You seem attentive is what I mean,” the man says, breaking you out of your daze. “And beyond punctual. Two qualities that I hold in high esteem.” You’d say he had a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth but it was likely an illusion. Your professor has bigger fish to fry than worry about any possible scenarios you’ve concocted in your silly head.

Still, in a moment of sheer thoughtlessness, you say something you regret being unable to retract. “Thank you, I like you too.” As soon as the words fly out you feel the need to run out and bang your head against the wall. Thinking on your feet wasn’t your specialty.

Little to your knowledge, Jungkook finds your mannerisms cute and stifles the temptation to tease. You’re his student, after all, a little professionally please, he repeats to himself.

“So are you from here?” Jungkook asks, choosing to switch the topic before both of you get swallowed into a messy situation.

You shake your head in denial. “I live here temporarily but I grew up about five hours north of here. My parents are still there.”

“Ah, well that’s a bit away. I imagine you miss them?”

You ponder the question for a second, eyes rolling up in contemplation. “From time to time.” Jungkook gives a knowing look. He’s had his share of familial drama and the need for space.

“I understand,” he says. “I grew up ten hours south myself.”

“Wow, that’s…far.” You’re surprised by the distance and can’t imagine it’s an easy commute. You wonder how long he’s been here and more so, if he’s here alone.

“Yeah.” He rests his palms on the edge of the podium, leaning on them gently. The protruding veins in his forearms catch your attention but you pry yourself from lingering. After what you said earlier, the last thing you want is for Dr. Jeon to think you're coming on to him. “Gets a little quiet sometimes but I’ve learned to live with it.”

As if immune to learning from your mistakes you blurt exactly what’s in your head.“So you’re not–“

“Married? Dating? Seeing someone?” Jungkook finishes your sentence like it’s nothing he hasn’t done tenfold times before. “No. I’m not.”

You give a small “Ah,” nodding in understanding before another classmate walks in, putting an abrupt end to the conversation. Jungkook is quick to greet the young man who’s joined but he’s certain he won’t be forgetting your name anytime soon.

present

You tilt your head back, allowing beads of hot water to run down your bare skin. The sound of steady pattering combined with heavy steam relaxes your muscles.

You can't believe you actually told him.

Blurting out to Jungkook that you wanted a baby in the middle of a fight is not how you intended to open up to your husband. But everything escalated so fast that it just came out.

You think back to last night’s events.

Once the movie's credit scenes appear Jungkook feels your eyes burn through him from your lounged position. "You're making that face again," he says.

"There's no face."

"Look," Jungkook cuts shortly. "Will you just tell me so we can deal with it?!"

"Just deal with it? Like it's some kind of nuisance of an issue that needs treatment?" You jump up from the couch and head to your bedroom in a fury, your husband hot on your trail.

"I don't mean to be pissing you off, sweetheart but I know something's up." He follows you into the bathroom, watching you reach for your toothbrush. "Can you please slow down and talk to me?" He grabs the toothpaste before you can, forcing you to stop in your tracks.

"I–I want…I want to be a mom. I want a baby."

"A baby? What do you mean you want a baby?" You see the panic settling in his eyes. Jungkook takes you into his arms, his thumb wipes off some of your tears. "Honey, I'm sorry I didn't know. When you came home from the park I didn't realize that little boy meant so much to you."

You try blinking back your tears but they keep running down your face. He's being gentle with you and you appreciate that but his choice of words tells you his answer is no. It's quiet, subtle, and cuts like a knife.

You break away from him to splash cold water on your face. The coolness calms your nerves. “He didn’t. Never–never mind what I said, sorry. I’m tired and I’m probably not thinking straight.”

It was a blatant lie but just look at your situation. Married for two years, still on birth control, and had no plans to change that. Suddenly one party diverts from the plan fully aware that the other is perfectly comfortable with the current plan.

Yes, you hoped he'd have a slightly better reaction but you don't blame him for his stunned look.

Plus, did you even have enough time to realize what you were saying? Feeling? It could easily be written off that you were simply impulsive, emotionally vulnerable, and so on with the track record you had regarding kids and parenting.

You sigh, bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

Not much else happened after the fight. Jungkook apologized again with his arms wrapped around your waist. He snuggled his nose in the crook of your neck and kissed your cheek too.

It was the usual, it felt familiar and warm but the pang in your head put a roadblock to that. No marriage is perfect. You know that. But you have a feeling you and Jungkook are headed for a steep valley, both on opposing sides.

"Hi.” You’re taken out of your thoughts when you hear the shower door pop open. Your husband steps in, with messy hair and half-open lids. Evidently, still sleepy.

You spare him a glance and quickly reach for your body wash on the shelf. “Hi,” you reply back, voice monotone.

Jungkook moves closer behind you and curves an arm around you. He grabs the bottle out of your hand and squirts some of the soap into his palm. “How did you sleep?”

A small shiver runs up your spine when his cool hand rubs circles against your upper back and shoulder. It still feels nice, you admit. You see some of the soap drip down and hit the shower floor.

“I slept okay. You?”

“I’m about the same.” Jungkook moves his hand a little lower, making sure to cover your whole backside. “I’m really sorry about how I handled things last night. What I said and how I said it was inexcusable.”

“Please, Jungkook you don’t have to keep apologizing about it. I know…and I’m sorry I spurred it on you so suddenly. It’s not how I wanted you to find out.” if at all, you add to yourself.

“Is it still true?” he asks, stopping his movements. “Do you really want to start a family?”

You feel queasy all over again. His tone is serious and if you turn around you’ll likely see the fire in his eyes. So you remain in your position, facing towards the shower head.

“I don’t know…” you finally say after thirty seconds of eerie silence. “But I think I do, I really do. Seeing our friends and other people our age have kids makes me wonder if we’d ever have that. I can’t explain why right now. I know it’s unexpected after we’ve been living a sort of way for so long.” After another pause you continue. “But I know it’s not a mutual thing and that’s…okay.”

“Sweetheart, even if we were to have kids…where would we find the time? The school year’s starting soon and I’m gonna be running ragged at the university next week. You know my schedule. I teach Monday through Friday, leaving at 7:15 am and returning around 4 p.m. You leave for work a little later in the morning but get back at 5 p.m. All our week consists of will be eating a quick dinner together, then I have to squirrel away to my office for the night to review class notes and grade stacks of assignments.”

Though you’re aware of how crazy busy Jungkook gets during the school year, you’re not foolish enough to believe that is the root of his argument.

“Maybe you’re right that we don’t have much time now but Jungkook, we can figure it out. You only teach 9 months out of the year and I can–I can stay at home or we can hire a nanny. And we don’t have to do it right away but–“

“__.” Jungkook turns you around so you’re looking eye to eye. He hesitates to say his next words, fearing a replay of yesterday. But he can’t bring himself to pretend with you. Not on something this serious. “I understand and I want more than anything to tell you I want the same, but I can't lie to you. Being a father, and having a kid, I think it’s wonderful but I just never saw that for myself. I’m so sorry I–”

Your heart concaves into your chest. You absolutely want him to be honest but it pains you to hear. Where do you go from here?

Slowly, you wrap your arms around his neck. Jungkook jolts a bit, surprised by your sudden gesture but welcomes the embrace.

“It’s okay Jungkook.” You settle your head into his shoulder, simply wanting to be close. One tear spills out, then another. “It’s okay.”

“No, look at me __. You didn’t let me finish.” You lift your head from his shoulder. Jungkook strokes your back soothingly before continuing. “If this is what you want, then I’m not going to stand here and be the asshole husband that just dismisses it. But this is a big step.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “Don’t say what I think you are. Jungkook you don’t have to do anything.”

“I’m not saying I change my mind.” Of course, that would be unrealistic, you talk yourself through, preparing for his next words. “However, I am–I am willing to seriously consider this whole thing, babies, diapers, strollers, all of it. But I need you to be sure that this is what you want. And the only way I think that can happen is if we start this slow. Sounds like I’m making some sappy speech huh?”

Jungkook cracks a faint smile.

You look like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop or for him to yell psyche and flick your forehead or something.

But none of that happens.

Instead, Jungkook unwraps one of your arms from around your neck, places a light kiss on your knuckles, and stares deep into your eyes as if making a promise. “I know this isn’t exactly heaven to your ears but I’m just trying to say, let’s not rush to a decision yet, okay? All of this did just get revealed yesterday and I think it’d be unfair to both of us if we scurry past it without thinking.”

Shocked. You’re utterly shocked. You were expecting him to give you a flat-out no or attempt to cover up the issue somehow. While, this isn’t your ideal outcome, if Jungkook is willing to take this seriously, no bullshit necessary, then so are you.

“Thank you, Jungkook.” You smile at him, feeling a tad lighter than you did before. Your heart beats again, slow and steady. “I love you.”

“I love you more than anything __. I married you and I intend to keep it that way.” Jungkook sneaks a wink and you press a kiss to his lips.

“Hey,” you pipe up. “It’s Sunday isn’t it?”

Jungkook nods in confusion. “It is..?”

“You have somewhere to be this morning don’t you?” You wait a moment before an oh-shit expression forms on Jungkook’s face.

As you remember your husband was supposed to be at some fancy gold club today. Like Jimin, a certain Kim Taehyung had his weekly “thing” too. Being close friends, Jungkook was supposed to be there, along with Hoseok.

“‘You're so right. 'M sorry honey I gotta go. They’re gonna kill me." Jungkook gives you one last kiss before slipping out of the shower. "I’ll be back for dinner.”

“Jungkook! Where the fuck have you been? We tried calling you!” Taehyung is the first to speak as soon as he catches sight of the younger man. He has his usual blush pink polo shirt on paired with well-pressed beige shorts.

He looks a little too handsome for golf.

Jungkook’s secretly glad his wife stayed home this time, as he’s fully aware of her mini crush on Taehyung in school. When she first found out they were colleagues he could tell she had borderline stars in her eyes.

“Sorry sorry,” Jungkook says. “I was doing stuff and time escaped me. Plus, I didn’t have my phone near me for a bit. But I’m here now, so let’s get going!” Jungkook walks in front of the two men, heading for the first stage of the golf course. “You guys coming?” He turns around and lifts both arms up.

Taehyung and Hoseok exchange looks before following his lead. It’s unlike Jungkook to be this eager for golf. In fact, he hates golf. And his explanation is a bit…questionable.

As much as Hoseok is a friend, he is also just as much of a psychologist who can't stop himself from practicing his craft when given the chance. “You doing alright?” Hoseok waits for Jungkook to answer, one hand clings around the top of his golf club while the other settles around his hip. "Haven't seen you since Jimin's last dinner.”

"Yeah, I'm good," Jungkook barely replies, watching Taehyung practice and few swings before taking the shot. Like a prodigy, it sinks right in. "Hole in one again man? I thought you painted."

Taehyung glances over his shoulder with a smug expression, cocky smirk, and sunglasses behind his head. "Don't be too jealous of hyung, Jungkookie."

"Fuck off Tae," Jungkook quips back. "I'm not 22 anymore. I have a good job, nice house, and a gorgeous wife waiting for me at home. What do you have? A bunch of golf balls in your pants.”

Hmm, a little more defensive than usual, Hoseok notes. And guarded too, something’s up.

"About that wife of yours Kook," Hoseok drawls. "How she doing?" Jungkook turns towards the man, slight distaste on his face.

“Uh, she’s fine. Thanks for asking. Also, I know what you’re doing and I’m not in the mood.”

"Ah Jungkook, you act like I'm being so malicious.” Smiling, Hoseok continues. “Can't I care about my friend of ten years without such accusations?"

Jungkook sighs and kicks the grass. Hoseok has been one of his closest friends for a long time so if there's anyone worth talking to about his current situation and who'd understand, I'd be him. "Well, I’m not saying much right now but.....__ recently told me she wants a baby. I’m still–I'm having trouble processing it. But I’m trying.”

Hoseok throws a hand behind the younger's shoulder. “That’s big news Jungkook and it’s completely fine that you’re still working through it. Don’t feel like you have to speed up the process either. I’ve known you both long enough to know that parenting hasn’t really been in the cards until now so I’m surprised myself.”

“I think she’s still a little unsure, but something happened the other day and it struck a cord inside her. She wants a family and,” Jungkook steps to the side, and Hoseok's hand slips from his shoulder. “I wish I could tell her I want it too. But I can't lie to her like that. I also don’t want her to bury that desire for my sake, so I told her we could consider it. I don’t know man, I feel like I’m trying to do the right thing but I don’t know if I can do this. Will I ever change my mind? I want to, for her.”

Hoseok looks at his friend with soft eyes, compassion in them. “Unfortunately, this is not something you can foresee nor force. At least not this early. But you’re definitely doing the right thing by not brushing her off. As real as your feelings are about not wanting a child right now, so are __'s feelings. It’s best you listen to both sides.”

Jungkook tousles his hair around. “I just–fuck.”

Hoseok doesn’t need further explanation to understand Jungkook’s predicament. He’s frustrated, blames himself, and is struggling to come to terms with reality. The unknown scares him and he doesn’t want to lose control of what little he has. “I’m sorry, Kook…it’s a heavy load. Why don't you come in for a session sometime? I think this might be something worth talking through."

“You mean therapy? I don't know, I’m about to have a pretty tight with school starting.”

"One hour, forty minutes at least," Hoseok insists. "Why not try it once and if you don't like it, you don't have to do it again. I love you both and as a friend, I want to be here for you. Beats standing around and watching Taehyung kick our ass at golf. Just think about it and let me know. As I said, I'm always here for you bro."

Jungkook nods and reaches a hand out to gently squeeze Hoseok's shoulder. "I'll think about it. Thanks."

"Hey!" Taehyung waves from afar. "What you guys doing still up there? I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes! Don’t forget that last place buys lunch.”

“He’s referring to you Kook.” Hoseok chuckles, slaps Jungkook on the back, and walks down the golf course toward Taehyung. “You suck at golf.”

Jungkook grunts, following close behind. If this were a benching competition he’d be taking home the whole damn meal.

With Jungkook still gone doing who knows what with his buddies you decide to blast your very wide array of music. It’s a good thing you and Jungkook live in your own house or else your poor neighbors would be knocking down the door with the landlord by now. Yes, that may or may not have happened once with you were in college.

Along with the music you stick true to your character and spread your art supplies on your drawing table. You had your own mini studio, thanks to your wonderful relator who helped find you the house. You reach for a pencil, spinning it between your fingers. Maybe you should finish the drawing of the park’s pond.

Mm, you don’t really feel like packing all your supplies and driving over right now.

Deciding to save it for another day, you ponder ideas of what to do instead. Should you try out your new watercolors? You bought them last week and while you weren’t exactly in low supply, if your husband can have a hundred scented candles you can have your paints.

bling–

You snatch your phone hearing the notification bell.

Jungkook: the rest of your morning going well? [sent at 11:03 a.m]

You smile faintly and type out a reply. Sweet to check in you suppose.

__: Fine. How are the guys? [sent at 11:04 a.m]

Jungkook: Whooping my ass but it’s alright. [sent at 11:07 a.m]

Good, you smirk. Jungkook is awful at golf. And he can stand to lose at something like the rest of you.

__: When are you coming home? [sent at 11:10 a.m]

Jungkook: Looking to wrap things up around 4 pm. I think we’re having a late lunch. Miss you. [sent at 11:13 a.m]

__: Okay, sounds good because I was thinking maybe we could go for ice cream when you get back. After dinner? miss you too [sent at 11:14 a.m]

You stare at the screen, waiting for a reply.

One minute goes by…

Two minutes…

Three…

Jungkook: Okay, sounds amazing. But why not before dinner? The place we like closes early on Sundays. I love you! [sent at 11:17 a.m]

Oh shoot, that’s right. You and Junkook have gone to the same ice cream shake since you first started dating. The couple who run it are super sweet, only a decade older. How could you forget?

__: I’m a dummy, yes we’ll go before dinner. I love you too [sent at 11:18 a.m]

Jungkook: Noo, you’re not a dummy! But okay, I’ll see you soon! [sent at 11:19 a.m]

Rejuvenated, you turn off your phone, jump off your art stool and crank the current song up–Runaway by Bon Jovi. Let’s see, you think, tearing a piece of watercolor paper from your drawing pad, what to do.

When the idea strikes you prepare water, paintbrushes, your palette, and anything else you may need for the next five hours give or take. You snatch your phone again and scroll through your photo gallery, hoping to get a good reference photo.

Your best friend’s birthday was two weeks away and she’s been subtly hinting for a painting of her, her fiancee’, and her dog Bear. As her closest friend and well-practiced artist, you think it is best to appease her request.

Jungkook comes home at 4 pm on the dot. Not a minute later. He looks happy, you conclude. Genuinely happy. It looks good on him.

“__!” Jungkook runs through the front door and lifts you up in his arms. He spins you around and you place your hands on his shoulders. This is so unexpected but nice.

“Jungkook,” you struggle to catch your breath. “What’s going on?”

“I just love coming home to you.” He places you back down and grabs your wrist. “Come on, I wanna stuff you full with ice cream.”

“That sounds so weird,” you laugh.

“Why?” Jungkook opens the front door, ushering you to go ahead of him.

“Because…it sounds like you want to stuff me. Like in a weird way.”

“Woman, that cleared nothing up for me.” You hop into the car with stupid grins on your face. You don’t even know what you mean let alone having to explain to your husband. What can you say, Jungkook makes you a little braindead.

“I just mean that you wanting to stuff me with ice cream sounds like the witch from Hanzel and Gretel. You wanna fatten me up to eat me. Or taxidermy,….or Build a Bear.”

“What the fuck honey,” Jungkook curses, backing out of your drive. “Did you get into something funky while I was gone?”

“No what–ugh never mind.” You stare out the window, arms crossed and biting back the need to giggle uncontrollably. Why were you so giddy right now?

Jungkook glances over with amusement. He knows you’re inches away from balling over with laughter. “You know what honey?”

“Hmm?”

“I think instead of stuffing you full of ice cream, I’m gonna stuff you full with something just as good.”

“Don’t say it Kook, don’t. I’m going to bust a gut.” You beg fully aware he’s not about to back down.

“My fucking cawk,” he says, making sure to exaggerate the last part.

You throw a hand over your mouth, tears well up in your eyes and this time, they’re not sad ones.

You pull up at the small, but charming ice cream stand at around 4:20 pm. It’s a decent crowd tonight.

You and Jungkook get out of the car with laced hands. You’ve managed to calm down now, thankfully. As you make your way to the line a small voice catches both your attention.

“Appa!” A little girl with blue ribbons in her hair runs past you. She looks between eight to ten years old. You and Jungkook follow her movement as she leaps up into her father’s arms.

You smile at the interaction. Her father kisses her cheek and chuckles as she shows him her ribbons. She looks like she’s telling a very eventful story.

Beside you, Jungkook stiffens. His eyes set on the pair but you’re unsure what he’s thinking. “Kook?” you say, but he doesn’t respond. You shake his hand, the one laced in yours, but still no response. It’s when you step in front of his view that you get him back.

“Hey,” you say. “Are you okay?”

Jungkook blinks at you and shakes his head a bit. “I’m good, sorry. Not sure what happened there. Must be a bit out of it today. Let’s go get some ice cream.”

A/N: I like this series vv much...thank you to anyone reading :) Lmk your thoughts and if you wanna be tagged comment or send me an ask!

Taglist:

@frieschan @oldermenluverrr @tatamicc @kookswifesblog @llallaaa @sunnybyeol @namtaeh @exactlygreatcoffee @whipwhoops @yoongisducky @ktnj91 @junecat18 @thvlover7 @yoongiworshiper

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no reposting, copying, or translating my work– © kookslastbutton

#btshoneyhive #bangtanbathhouse #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook angst #bts smut #bts x reader #bts imagines #bts fanfic #bts au #fic:toolatetodream #kookslastbutton

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dyhayc · 2 years

Text

A Polaroid Is Worth A Thousand Words

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!Reader (Fluff, Humour, Smut)

Summary: It’s summer break! You, your boyfriend, and your friends go on a road trip to meet with the Byers in California. Chaos ensues

Word Count: 7.9k

Warnings: Self-esteem issues/previous negative body image, MDNI 18+, explicit consent, protected sex, innocence kink, corruption kink, praise kink, a little dumbification, a little hand kink, a little oral fixation, a hint of temperature play, a hint of a choking kink, fingering, piv penetration, semi-public sex, virgin!reader, blatant misuse of a popsicle

A/N: I was inspired to write this because I had to pack for my vacation to a beach area. I know this is pretty divergent from my regular stuff. I try to write fluff only (and honestly this is my first time writing anything nsfw) but I’ve been thinking about this specific scenario a lot and I had a long plane ride so… yea. The intrusive horny thoughts won today

Also most of this was written pre-part 2 so I’m just gonna ignore cannon lmao. I actually haven’t watched it yet (I made the mistake of opening Tumblr because I forgot it was July 1st and instantly saw a spoiler, so I’m aware of… things). This can be considered an AU because I know that it doesn’t match up with s4 pt2 at all

The last sentence is a gift for all the people who miss Eddie

Light wash or dark wash? A dilemma that has taken twenty precious minutes from your life. Space in your luggage is limited, and you’re too indecisive to make a choice. Which pair of jeans to bring isn’t the first tough fashion decision you’ve had to make tonight. Over half of your closet is scattered around you. Clothes on hangers struggle to grip onto every ledge available in your room.

Typically, you’d pick the most comfortable clothes from your closet and call it a day, but you and Eddie made a deal. He’d told you that if ‘86 was his year, it would be yours too. At first, you pretended not to know what he was talking about, but he’d just raised his eyebrow, and you knew he knew.

High school had caused a lot of insecurities about your body, mainly because of your “friends” who were catty at best and downright rude at worst. Every day, they’d rate each other’s outfits. However, when it came to you, they always commented about your body rather than your clothes. There had never been a day where you’d felt comfortable in your skin. Getting together with Eddie was one of the best things to happen to you. He helped you to gain your confidence back after years of suppression. He’d always gone out of his way to help you; it was how you’d met.

It was dark that night. The grey storm clouds looming over Hawkins threatened to release a torrent of rain at a moment's notice. They’d been around for days, intimidating but never actually storming. Unfortunately, luck was not on your side. The rain was predicted to pour the night of your graduation.

Even though graduating is a momentous occasion, the ceremony was boring beyond belief. The school had been too cheap to rent a venue, so the entire class of ‘85 and the accompanying families were squeezed into the gym. The speeches were shallow, it smelled like homecoming, Tammy Thompson performed a horrendous rendition of your class song, and to top it all off: you didn’t even get your diploma, just the holder. Everyone had to return with an ID the next day to get the real thing.

Afterward, you were dying to get home, but your friends wanted to attend some grad party. And by “grad party,” they meant going to an abandoned barn and getting shitfaced with half the class. Parties had never been your thing, much less one where everyone would be so fucked up. Maybe you were naive and wanted to believe your friends cared about you, but you didn’t expect them to be so upset that you didn’t want to go.

Thinking you would be hanging out with your friends, your family had left. To make matters worse, it was sprinkling meaning the storm had finally started. If you walked home, the rain would only fall harder, meaning you would get soaked. You asked your friends to drop you off at home, but they said, “The only place we’re going is the party. You’re either coming with, or you’re walking.”

You walked.

Down the jagged streets, you trekked for a few blocks. It was miserable. Your heels hurt your feet, but there was no way you’d walk through the muck and debris barefooted. Your robes were massive, inconvenient, and so thin the wind blew right through you. You were right about the rain. Effectively soaked, you were sure you’d be sick the next day. The disappointment got to you. What was supposed to be a happy day felt impossibly terrible. Sniffling, you weren’t sure if the water on your face was tears or raindrops.

A pair of headlights blinded you, so you raised your arm over your eyes to block the brightness. Brakes screech as the vehicle comes to a stop. Lowering your arm, you see the driver’s side window roll down. Inside is someone you never expected: Eddie Munson.

He seems as confused as you but leans out the window to shout over the wind, “Need a ride?” Considering your options, walk home and potentially get frostbite or ride in a van safe from the rain, you chose the van. Thinking back, it was stupid to trust a man in a van offering to drive you home in the middle of the night, but in the moment, the thought that he may be dangerous hadn’t even crossed your mind.

Running across the street, you open the door and put your soaked cap and holder into the van. Thank goodness they hadn’t given you your actual diploma; it would’ve been ruined in the storm. You unzip the gown, shimmy out of the thin, itchy fabric, and then sit in his passenger seat and shut the door. Embarrassed about the massive wet spot you’re going to leave, you mutter shyly, “Sorry about your seats, Eddie.”

You realize too late you’ve used his name, despite never talking to him before, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he was distracted by the beautiful and, quite frankly, fancy dress you wore underneath your gown. So distracted, he took a second too long to respond, “It’s fine. This van has seen worse.” Unsure of what he means, you don’t reply and buckle your seat belt. He continues, “So, where are you headed? The party is the other way, y’know.”

You wrinkle your nose as tears gather in your eyes again. Vigorously shaking your head, you declare, “I wanna go home.” His eyes soften when you tack on a weak “please,” to your request.

He nods, “Of course. Where do you live?” You notice how his tone becomes gentler, his energy lowering to match your mood. He accommodates you effortlessly, but the thought only hurts your heart, knowing your friends would never do that for you. Hearing your address, he pulls a u-turn and drives toward your house.

You’re both silent, but he keeps glancing at you. Finally, he voices the words he’d been holding back, “Are you okay?” There’s hesitance in his voice as if he doesn’t know whether or not the question will break the relatively calm air of the ride. You genuinely consider ignoring him for a moment before deciding that would be incredibly rude.

Fidgeting with your fingers, you attempt to summarize your night, “I just- Well, after graduating, my friends wanted to go to the party, but I didn’t. I don’t know why they got mad. I guess they didn’t want to drive over to my house cause it’s out of the way. I live far from school, so I kinda get it, I guess.” You couldn’t help but make excuses for them. You didn’t know any better.

Though you couldn’t, Eddie recognized how toxic your friends were and pointed it out, “Sounds like you have shitty friends. A real friend would’ve driven you anywhere you wanted.” You stare at your feet. Deep down, you’ve always known your friends weren’t good for you, but they were comfortable, familiar. He just voices the thoughts you’ve been too scared to acknowledge yourself.

Internally, you rewatch every moment they’d treated you poorly, every time they’d disregarded your feelings, every time they’d been… shitty. “You’re right,” you say softly before laughing in disbelief and repeating louder, “you’re right. They are shitty friends. I can’t believe I didn’t know.” Turning to look at him, you smile, “Thank you.”

He seems baffled at your sudden realization, unsure if you’re being serious, but he still smiles back. “Y’know,” he offers, “Since you’re now friendless, you’re gonna need new friends.” Your eyes widen in alarm. How could you forget? Seeing your panic, he quickly adds, “Maybe I could be your friend?”

Insecurities bubble in your chest, and you question, “But what if you don’t like me? Like, when you get to know me?” Right as you voice your concerns, he pulls up to your house. Parking in front of your home, he unbuckles his seatbelt and turns in his seat.

“Why don’t we get to know each other right now? I have nowhere else to be.” Almost six months later, you’d found out that he had somewhere else to be: the party. He was planning on making bank from the drunk graduates who wanted to party hard. The funds he could’ve gotten probably would’ve paid for two or three months’ rent.

You agreed to chat, excited he wanted to talk to you. Both of you had stayed up for hours talking about anything and everything. You’d only left because you got so tired your eyelids wouldn’t stay open. For the next few months, you saw Eddie around a lot. You also met your new best friends, Steve and Robin, during that time. Working at Scoops-Ahoy was a fun, positive experience. It was even more exciting when Eddie would visit you, though Steve and Robin teased you endlessly for it. At least, it was fun until the “mall fire,” when you experienced the horrors of the Upside Down for the first time.

When news spread about the disaster, Eddie spent hours searching for you. When you’d finally been reunited, he’d confessed that the experience made him realize he couldn’t deal with the idea of losing you. At first, you were confused and thought he was trying to break off your friendship, but he realized you didn’t understand and told you point-blank he wanted to be your boyfriend. You were ecstatic and rushed to let your friends know about your new relationship. They had been excited for you, though Robin and Steve told Eddie privately that if he hurt you, he’d be in deep shit.

Your first date had been perfect. He took you to a park for a picnic. His cooking skills were… subpar, but it’s the thought that counts, and he had obviously tried very hard to please you. And, if that wasn’t enough, he gave you a polaroid camera. He said it was because he wanted to capture every beautiful moment with you. Your teasing about his cheesiness was to cover the way your heart swooned at how sweet he was.

Smiling at the memory, you search through your things to get the camera. Finding it in your dresser drawer, you grab a bunch of extra film and some colourful markers to shove in your backpack. Even though you’ve successfully packed a few items, there’s still the wardrobe dilemma left. With a groan, you return to your jeans and begin the internal debate again.

It takes a few hours of sorting and a break to eat dinner, but you’ve finally chosen all the clothes you want to bring. Now, all that’s left is your swimsuits. You grab a one-piece to be conservative, though it’s not your style. Going back in, you pull out a few mismatched high-waisted bottoms and bikini tops. Putting those away, you move to shut your drawer but hesitate.

Last summer, you were heading to work when you saw the cutest bikini set in the window of a store. It had a strawberry print and frilly detailing with ties on the top and bottom to adjust the size. That swimsuit haunted your thoughts your entire shift, so when you headed home for the day, you bought it. You were at the peak of your negative self-image then, so you never wore the bikini out. It was pretty, but it drew attention to insecurities you hadn’t felt comfortable showing in public.

You’re still not sure if you have the confidence to wear it, but your promise to Eddie makes you bring it anyway. If this is supposed to be your year, you want to wear your favourite bikini. And, if you have doubts, you can probably ask Robin what she thinks? She wouldn’t lie to you.

Content with everything in your luggage, you head to bed and mentally prepare to be stuck in a car with Dustin for hours. You love him like a little brother, but he does not do well when he can’t move around.

You slept in a little that morning, getting up at ten. Sitting in a car is oddly tiring, so you’ll definitely need that extra rest. Gathering up your luggage, you move it to your door. Everyone agreed to meet at your house, so you can chill in the kitchen until noon. You know they’re not going to arrive when they said they would.

Though you love him, Eddie is a hot mess who arrives at least fifteen minutes late to every event. He calls it “fashionably late,” and you agree, but for different reasons: he can’t decide what accessories to wear, so he’s never on time. Steve always wakes up late but still insists on doing his perfect hairstyle. Robin is just a disaster who can’t stick to a schedule to save her life. You adore your friends, but you also tell them to come an hour before you expect them to arrive. That way, they’re on time even if they’re running behind (and all of them always are). It doesn’t help that they’re picking up people today, which adds even more time to their arrivals.

It’s 12:26 when you hear Eddie’s favourite band faintly through your walls. Walking to the door to greet him, you lean against the pillar on your porch to watch his van pull up. You can hear Eddie bickering with Lucas and Max from your spot fifteen feet away. The second the van stops, Mike jumps out and walks towards you. “Hey,” you greet, “Fighting already?”

He rolls his eyes and replies ‘yea’ in an annoyed tone but doesn’t elaborate on the issue further. He makes a beeline for your kitchen, leaving you outside alone. Eddie is the next to go, and you watch him slam the car door aggressively before lighting up when he notices you on the porch. He throws his arms up into the air and exclaims, “My angel!” as he comes closer. He moves his outstretched hands to cup your face and whispers, “How did I get so lucky?”

You giggle, flustered, and mumble, “I think I’m the lucky one.”

He shakes his head and responds, “Wrong!” Before you can refute him, he leans in to kiss you. You reciprocate the kiss and wrap your arms around his waist to draw him closer. Both of you are too preoccupied to notice the other two kids, Lucas and Max, getting out of the van too.

Max passes you both without a word, but Lucas wrinkles his nose and makes it a point to comment, “Gross. Get a room,” as he goes into your home.

Eddie pulls away and yells after Lucas, “Be careful what you wish for. She lives here y’know!” Lucas groans, and you can hear him complaining to Mike and Max in your kitchen. You’ve never had sex before, mainly because you wanted to feel more confident in your body before doing something so intimate, but regardless, the threat is meaningless. Though, Lucas doesn’t know that. You laugh at your boyfriend, and he looks at you with his pretty doe eyes, currently filled with mischief, “What?”

Amused, you just shake your head and slip out of his grasp. Walking inside, you remember your luggage and turn around. Moving it all to the doorway, you clasp your hands and give him a little pout, “Will you help me?”

He laughs at your antics and starts grabbing your bags, “You didn’t have to pout to get my help, baby.”

Kissing his cheek, you thank him with a grin. While he’s stuffing your things in the back of his van, Steve pulls up. Robin rolls down the side window when you walk up. You greet them and get a chorus of hellos in return. Leaning your forearms on the car door, you tell Dustin the others are inside, so he runs off to talk to his friends. “Hi, Nance! I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Moving her head so she can see you, she smiles and replies, “Yea, it has been a while.” In high school, you ran in parallel social circles. Occasionally, you’d talk, but it wasn’t typical. After everything that happened with the Upside Down, you got closer. Last night, she’d slept over at Robin’s place, where you would’ve been too if you hadn’t procrastinated on packing.

Robin points out, “You’ll be stuck in a car together for a few hours. There’s plenty of time to catch up.”

Dramatically, you sigh and pout, “I wish you could be with us too, Rob.” Reaching into the car, you rest your hand on her shoulder and give Steve puppy eyes.

He cuts in, unamused, “No. I am not gonna be stuck babysitting again.” He points his finger at you, “If you wanna talk to Robin, you’ll have to sit in my car.”

Though you knew he was gonna say that, you still sigh and pat Robin’s shoulder, “Sorry, best friend.” Moving out of their way, they all get out of Steve’s car and disperse. You watch them go inside as Eddie comes up next to you. Grabbing his hand, you tug him towards your house, “C’mon, we gotta call Ms. Byers.”

When planning your trip, you agreed to call Joyce before you left. She wanted to make sure she’d have space ready for all of you to sleep. You’d tried to tell her you’d get rooms at a motel or hotel, but she’d insisted on letting you stay. She’d said it would be too expensive, and, honestly? She was right.

Everyone is in the kitchen area hanging out and chatting, so you go straight to the phone and call your friends in California. Jonathan picks up the line and slurs, “Uh, hello?” It’s obvious he had been asleep moments before. You tell him it’s you, and he responds, “Are you guys heading out now?”

You’re about to reply when Dustin comes up and asks to say something. You tell him it’s not Will on the phone, but all the teens have crowded around, expecting to speak to him. Relinquishing control, you let them do whatever it is they do. You learned early on that it’s best to just get out of the way.

Checking in with the rest of the group, you offer snacks and water if they forgot to pack anything. Everyone seems to be content with their things, though, so you just get water for yourself and Eddie. You know he’ll forget them if you put them on the counter, so you hand him both bottles. He radiates warmth that draws you in, you can’t resist leaning against his side. Glancing up, you see him softly smiling down at you, so you return it in kind.

Mike hangs up the receiver loudly, getting everyone’s attention. “They know we’re coming,” he announces, “We should leave now.” Desperation bleeds through his voice, obviously eager to get to El. You agree and usher everyone out of your kitchen. Heading out to the cars, the group splits into two. Going with Eddie is you, Dustin, and Nancy. Following Steve is Robin, Mike, Lucas, and Max. Ironically, Steve is taking more people even though he has the smaller car, but it had taken a long fight to get to these positions in the first place.

There had been quite a few rules put in place that limited the placements of people:

1. You’re riding with Eddie (that was non-negotiable)

2. Nancy didn’t want to be in the same car as Mike

3. Dustin insisted he be put with you and Eddie

4. Steve threatened not to come if he was put in a car with only younger teens

5. Lucas and Max requested to sit next to each other

The battle had been brutal, taking over two hours. Luckily, you’d been able to make seating arrangements that pleased everyone. People disperse to their respective rides as you slide into Eddie’s passenger seat, putting your backpack between your feet on the floor. The second he turns on the van, you lower the volume. Dustin leans forward with his walkie in hand, “We’re Eagle One. Steve’s car is Eagle Two.”

“When did we decide that?” you ask, confused.

He responds, “In the kitchen,” before turning on the walkie to talk to the other car, “Eagle Two, this is Eagle One, come in.”

Mike’s filtered voice comes through, sounding agitated, “No way. We’re Eagle One, you’re Eagle Two.”

Recognizing the beginning of a fight, you snatch the walkie out of his hand to break it up, “Dustin used Eagle One first, we call dibs.” You turn down the volume and toss it back to Dustin, who leans back in his seat and listens to what Lucas and Mike are saying.

Eddie glances over and chuckles, “Didn’t expect you to side with Henderson, babe.”

You stick your tongue out at him and jokingly say, “I have to throw him a bone sometimes, Eds.” Dustin exclaims indignantly in the background, but you ignore him. Nancy finally makes her way to the van, so you ask, “Everybody here? Are we ready to go?”

Eddie does a head count, though you only have four people, while Dustin calls over to the other car to check they have all their passengers. Confident you won’t leave anyone behind, Eddie pulls out, and Steve follows. Earlier in the week, your friends gathered any relevant maps they had for the trip. You volunteered to be the navigator, so they were all given to you. The route is pretty simple, though. The hardest part of your trip will be finding places to sleep.

The Hawkins scenery passes by for the first fifteen minutes until you merge onto I-80 West. From there, just follow the highway until you arrive in California. The drive should take about 35 hours, split into three to four days, depending on how much driving is done each day.

Watching grass and trees out your window gets old quickly, so you catch up with Nancy. She rests her elbows on the center console while you’re turned in your seat so you can talk closer together. After a while, you’re both gossiping instead, giggling at stupid rumours about Steve. Eddie seems to enjoy them and says he’ll remember to tease Steve about them later.

Both cars need gas, so you take a pit stop. Hopping out, you walk in circles to stretch your legs. Robin joins you and complains about Steve’s music choices. Teasing her, you laugh, “You’re in the loser car. What did you expect?” She glares and jokingly pushes you out of the way to walk inside the store.

Trailing behind Robin, you beg her to buy you an Icee. To your surprise, she does. You thank her endlessly, excited to drink it. Taking it back to the van, you show the slushie off and tell Eddie that Robin bought it for you. He jokes, “Is Robin your sugar mommy now?”

You stick your Icee-stained tongue out at him, and he takes a picture. You’re thrown off for a moment. You didn’t know he took the polaroid camera out of your bag. Huffing, you set down your Icee and try to steal the photo from his hands. He has much longer arms than you, so it doesn’t work out. Sitting back, you whine, “Why do you even want it, Eddie? I brought my camera to take exciting pictures.”

He laughs at your desperation to get the polaroid back and hits your forehead with it, “Every moment with you is exciting, sweetheart.”

The moment is ruined abruptly. “Why are you two being so lovey-dovey?” Mike questions as he settles in where Nancy had been sitting.

You counter, “Why are you being so dumb?” as you snatch the polaroid from Eddie’s hands. The developed picture turned out surprisingly well, so you decide to keep it.

“You’re not the Wheeler I expected,” Eddie comments dryly, also annoyed at the ruined atmosphere. Mike explains that Nancy asked to switch until the next pit stop; you all leave it at that. The last one to arrive, Dustin hops in with a bag of chips, and you’re on the road again.

Instead of listening to Eddie’s mixtapes, you turn on the radio this time. Flipping through channels, you settle on a random choice. There isn’t much of a selection out in rural Indiana. It gets warm in the car, but the breeze feels fantastic when you lower the windows. You all sit in silence as the smell of dry grass and humidity fills your lungs. The wind is so loud it drowns out the radio, but you don’t mind.

A new song starts, and from what you can hear, it sounds familiar. Turning it up, you realize it’s Mamma Mia, and you crank the volume higher. Laughing in delight, you sing along loudly to the lyrics. To your surprise, Eddie sings too. Dustin says something, but you can’t hear it, and you're definitely not gonna stop singing just to hear his most-likely cynical remark.

He gives up trying to convey what he was saying, instead turning up the volume on the walkie. To your surprise, you can hear Robin and Nancy singing along with you from the other car. The song is over, but everyone’s energy is still high. Rolling up your window, you listen to the group singing along with the radio, occasionally joining in when you recognize a song.

The time passes quickly with the new distraction, and soon enough, you’re at the second pit stop. Steve needed to go to the bathroom, so you found the nearest rest stop. Even though it’s going to be quick, you ask Eddie to photograph you underneath a huge tree. He gets one polaroid before Nancy notices and asks if you want her to take a photo of you both. Posing together, she snaps a picture of you and hands back the camera.

When Steve comes out of the restroom, you get an idea and have Eddie ask a stranger to take a photo of your entire group together. Corralling everyone together is a difficult task, only matched by trying to get them to pose for the camera. The end result is worth it, though, the picture is cute, and everyone looks great.

When you return to the cars, Dustin and Mike switch out for Robin and Nancy. Dustin makes it a point for you to be cautious with his walkie as he passes it, claiming, “with great power comes great responsibility.” You promise him you’ll keep it safe as you take it.

Steve is pissed that he’s “stuck babysitting” even though he threatened to ditch if that happened, but Eddie reminds him he’s too far to go back. Aggravated, Steve hisses at the teens to get in the car as he grumbles under his breath. Part of you feels bad, but another part is happy to finally hang out with Robin.

The ensuing conversation is chaotic. Most of your time is spent arguing about stupid things that don’t matter, but you’re grateful because they fill the time. Robin tried to walkie Steve once, wanting to include him in the conversation, but he was still mad, so he ghosted her.

It’s around 9:30 when you stop at a motel for the night. Anyone who has an income helps to pay for the two rooms. Sorting out luggage, Eddie takes both of yours to the room. You two get a bed, Nancy and Robin get the second, and Steve gets the couch. There’s a line for the shower, so you check up on the younger teens. They’re just watching some stupid horror movie, sprawled out randomly on the two beds. Deciding they’re fine, you tease them, “Don’t get nightmares,” before returning to your room.

The water is freezing, so you shower and brush your teeth quickly. You dress in your typical pajamas, one of Eddie’s t-shirts and a pair of shorts. Your movements are sluggish, the tiredness hitting you suddenly. Reaching your bed, you flop down onto the mattress. Eddie’s the last to shower, so you warn him the water’s cold as he walks away. The alarm clock next to the bed glares 10:13 in bright red lettering.

Huffing, you sit up and crawl under the sheets to try and get comfortable. Steve and Robin are already knocked out, but Nancy is still awake. She has the lamp on as she reads a book, but you’re glad for the light. After everything in Hawkins, you have to admit you’re afraid of the dark.

Eddie finishes his shower fast, dumping his towel in a random spot on the floor. You struggle to keep your eyes open as he lies down on his back next to you. Wiggling around, you find a comfortable position resting your face in the crook of his neck. He smells like the cheap bar soap the motel provides, but you still detect a hint of his usual scent underneath. He kisses the side of your head and mumbles, “Good night, sleepyhead,” into your hair. You fumble some words out that vaguely sound like ‘g’night.’

The following two days go relatively the same. The seating arrangements shuffle around slightly, you drive for about three hours, stop at a rest stop, sight-seeing spot, or gas station, take a few pictures, then repeat. When you get bored, you label and decorate your polaroids. You bought a photo album a few weeks ago to hold all the polaroids from the trip.

On the fourth day, you finally make it to the Byers house. It’s almost three am, so everyone just sleeps and agrees to talk tomorrow. You’re the first to wake up, apart from Joyce. The smell of pancakes leads you to the kitchen, where she’s making breakfast. “Good morning,” you say, rubbing your eyes.

She jumps, not realizing you were there, “Oh! Good morning.” Embarrassed, you apologize before asking if there’s anything you can help with. Food is scattered around the counters, and she appears to be having trouble making a meal for so many people. She motions to a cupboard full of pots and pans, “Can you cook some bacon, please? Thank you so much.”

Together, you make bacon, fried eggs, scrambled eggs, pancakes, Eggo waffles (for El), toast, and apple slices. While cooking, the topic of conversation is grim. You’re both recounting your experiences with the Upside Down and all the other terrible shit that happens in Hawkins. You’re grateful for her insight. She has a lot more experience with murderous monsters than you.

The more people that come in, the more chaotic the kitchen becomes. People snatch items from plates and fight to get food first. You’re surprised, but Joyce looks resigned, like she expected it. When El comes down, you give her the dish of Eggos made specifically for her, and she smiles at you. Observing the scramble for food, you decide to wait until everyone’s done before getting some yourself.

“So, what are you guys planning to do today?” Joyce asks, eating some toast. She has to work since it’s Friday, but tomorrow she’ll be able to hang out with you guys too.

“We’re gonna go to the beach for a few hours,” Jonathan informs her.

Lucas admits he’s never been to the beach before, and Max says, “It’s nothing special. Just sand, water, and trash.” That statement sparks an argument about beaches that you’re desperate to get away from. Pulling Robin out of her chair, you bring her to the spare bedroom where everyone’s luggage is. You pull out the bikini, change into it, and ask her if it’s too much.

She laughs in shock and says, “Too much? It’s perfect. Eddie will love it.” Then, she mischievously nudges your side and adds, “It’s sexy. He’ll love it. If you know what I mean.” She raises her eyebrows to emphasize her point and you push her out the door. Her words still give you confidence, so you put a sundress over your bikini and leave the room.

Once everyone gets dressed, you all head to the beach. For convenience, you park next to each other and open the trunks. Grabbing canopies, towels, bags, and coolers, each person brings something down to the sand. You help Steve set up an umbrella so Robin and Eddie can sit with you.

The sun is burning hot on your back so you peel off the sundress and leave it in your bag. Though you don’t notice, Eddie’s eyes are glued to you. His breath hitches at the view of your ass when you bend down. He’s never seen you wear such a revealing bikini before. The simple sight of your exposed skin makes his heart pound.

Jonathan has a cooler of drinks and popsicles that he’s offering to the kids. You ask for a coconut popsicle, and Lucas tosses one to you. Right after you start to eat it, you realize you left your sunscreen in the van. Letting Robin and Steve know where you’re going, you head towards the parking lot.

Eddie showed you a trick to open his van’s door without the key. There’s a dent in the door that will release the lock if hit hard enough. You’re about to attempt it when two hands rest on your hips. Scared, you jump and whip around, only to find Eddie behind you. He laughs as you angrily glare at him. “Sorry baby,” he says softly, kissing your cheek. His hair tickles your nose and you giggle, accepting his apology.

He holds up his keys and opens the door for you. Or at least, that’s what you assumed he was doing. Instead, he reaches inside, himself, and grabs the camera. You know he’s going to ask for a photo, so you whine, “I need my sunscreen, Eddie!” Still, he smoothly talks his way into just one picture.

Resigned, you pose for the camera, holding your popsicle out in front of you. There’s drops of melted ice cream gathering at the bottom, near your hands, but you wait until the camera clicks to do anything about it. Cupping your tongue, you gather the liquid then lick a long stripe up the entire length of the popsicle.

Eddie groans, “Jesus fucking christ,” before placing his free hand on your chest and pushing until your back hits the van. He crowds your space, hand remaining firm on you. His eyes are hooded as he looks into your wide, confused gaze. You hold your popsicle in front of his face and remind him, “it’s gonna melt.”

He pushes the popsicle away using the hand holding your camera. With the other hand, he can feel your heart racing underneath his palm. Your breath comes out in shaky pants as he slowly inches his hand upwards to rest on your neck. Leaning forward, he whispers in your ear, “God, you have no fuckin’ idea, do you?” An involuntary whine slips out, but it’s quickly silenced by a light squeeze to your neck.

“So innocent you can’t even see that I want you, huh? My sweet angel, so good you can’t recognize you’re being bad.” The way he speaks about you is reverant, like he worships the ground under feet. His big brown eyes shine with love and lust. You stare into them until your lips meet, then your eyelids flutter shut.

The kiss is intense, like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. He takes the lead and you let him, unsure of what to do. The tip of his tongue runs against the seam of your lips and you gasp, unintentionally letting him in. He explores until you have to part to breathe. A string of saliva connects your lips as you both gasp for air. He grabs your free hand and tugs you into the back of the van.

Shutting the door and setting the camera to the side, he grips your hips and pulls you onto his lap, your back fit snugly to his front. You feel his lips kissing the crook of your neck. “Do you want to continue?” The words are spoken into your skin. You nod, but he doesn’t move, “No, use your words. I need to hear it.”

“Yes, I wanna continue,” you speak quickly, adding, “please.” You can feel his smile on your skin, apparently pleased with your words. He presses wet open-mouthed kisses down your neck, starting behind your ear. Sliding his hands up from your hips, he slips them underneath the sides of your bikini cups. He massages your flesh before pinching your nipples. The sudden action makes you jolt. He chuckles at your surprise and moves his hands lower.

Fiddling around with the strings on your bottoms, a harsh tug pulls the ties undone. The light taps on your thigh signal you to lift your hips, and he throws the piece to the side. His right hand splays across your stomach and slowly heads downward. Leading with his middle finger, he continues until his entire hand cups you. His finger swirls around your hole, gathering the wetness there. The movement makes his palm lightly brush against your clit, but any stimulation is enough to send you reeling.

You’ve completely forgotten about your popsicle until he reminds you, “Don’t want it to melt, do you?” Stopping all movement, he waits for you to act. Shakily, you bring it to your lips and take a lick. Pleased, he slides his middle finger inside you with one fluid stroke. Forgetting all about your popsicle again, you let out a loud whine and focus on the feeling of his finger against your walls. He thrusts a few times, before deciding you can handle a second.

He runs the pads of his fingers up and down trying to find the spongy spot that’s guaranteed to make your toes curl. You gasp when his fingers brush against it, so he massages that area, purposefully rubbing the heel of his palm into your clit. You try to breathe, but you can’t. It feels like all the air has left your body, like your lungs have decided to stop working.

The popsicle stick is sliding out of your hand and you don’t even notice it, but Eddie does. Snatching it up with his left hand, he coos, “Do you need help, baby?” Unsure of what he’s gonna do, you nod cautiously. Bringing the popsicle to your lips, he tells you to open up. You obey, and he slowly presses it in until you can feel the freezing tip against the back of your throat. Pulling the popsicle stick back, you whimper at the loss. Confident you can handle it, he pushes it in and out matching the tempo of his hand.

The cold constantly grabs your attention as he thrusts it in all the way, every time. Now in the wet heat of your mouth, the popsicle is melting at an alarming rate. You’re trying to swallow it all, but there’s so much it drips down your chin and spills onto your chest. “So messy,” he teases, but you barely hear him, the pleasure from both ends is entirely too distracting. Attempting to ground yourself, you grip onto his right arm with both hands.

You’re getting close when he pauses to pull the popsicle out of your mouth. There’s only a little left on each side of the stick, so he eats it and throws the wood away. He praises you for being so obedient, “Good girl, you did so well for me.” You clench hard at his words and he mentally notes your response before moving his fingers again. You don’t know how he knows, but he asks, “Does my angel need to cum?”

Nodding, you squeeze your eyes shut, hard. Shaking his head, he continues, “You can, if you ask nicely.”

“Eddie!” you whine when he pushes particularly hard with his palm, “Can I please cum?” He hums in thought, pretending to consider your request. Meanwhile, his fingers are moving even faster than before, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Your grip is like iron, now, fingernails digging into his skin.

He concedes, “Well, how can I say no when you ask so nicely? Go ahead.” You see stars behind your closed eyes, leaning your head back onto his shoulder. He presses soothing kisses to your neck and continues his hand motions until you try and squirm away, overstimulated.

You accidentally push back hard against his bulge and you both groan. Helping you off his lap, he gently lays you on your back. Brushing sweat-slicked hair off your forehead, he takes in all the mess on your chest. He licks all the white residue from the popsicle off of you, and you hope silently that he can’t hear your heart pounding hard under his tongue.

“Do you still wanna continue?” he inquires, chin resting on your sternum. You say yes, so he rucks up the top of your bikini. Mischievously, he sucks small marks on the sides of your breasts where the bikini will cover. He notices you watching with impatient eyes and shimmies out of his boxers, sitting on his knees. Lifting up your hips, he rests them over his thighs and gently runs his hands up and down your bare skin.

For a second he appears to be thinking, before he leans over and reaches under one of the seats. You watch, perplexed as he blindly searches, before pulling out a condom. In disbelief, you ask, “Really?”

He shrugs, “You never know when you’re gonna get laid in the back of a van.” You gawk at him, but say nothing more. Watching him put it on is mesmerizing, his hands are so nimble and big. You’re still fascinated as he grips the base of his dick and runs the tip through your folds. “I’m not gonna lie, it might hurt,” he admits, “I’ll go slow, okay?”

You just nod, the anticipation makes you feel afraid to say anything, in fear he’ll turn around and realize this isn’t what he wants. He pushes in entirely in one long movement, kissing your neck because he knows it will help distract you. The stretch burns, you scrunch your eyes at the feeling. Focusing on the crook of your neck, he bites down and sucks to make a mark.

You moan out and clench hard around him. Knowing he’s marking you is so indescribably hot that you can’t control yourself. The rational part of your brain takes over for a few seconds, and you complain, “you’re gonna leave a mark, everyone’s gonna see.”

Eddie laughs, “Well, it feels like you enjoyed it, sweetheart.” Effortlessly, he calls you out on your lie. Flustered, you stutter some lame excuse, but he continues to laugh at you.

Deciding to test the waters, he pulls out partially and pushes back in slowly. When you respond positively, he begins to speed up. The pleasure builds up and you cry out, digging into his shoulders with your nails. “Be a good girl and be quiet for me. Someone might hear you, angel,” he commands, reminding you that you’re in a beach parking lot.

“‘M sorry, I’ll try, promise,” you whimper, wanting to please him. All your energy is dedicated to keeping quiet, but it doesn’t work. With each thrust, you get louder and louder. It’s almost embarrassing how fast your second orgasm builds up, but he just feels so good.

His knuckles brush against your cheek as he coos, “Do you need more help?” You make a noise of agreement, so he slides two fingers into your mouth. They taste slightly like you. Moaning around them, you suck, which makes him groan. He rolls his hips harder, knowing you won’t be able to make noise. Every single time he hits the right spot to make you see stars. Dropping his other hand down, he rubs your clit in tight circles, increasing your bliss. It’s too hard to keep your eyes open now, so you allow them to flutter shut. The loss of sight only adds to the pleasure and you can feel your second orgasm rapidly approaching.

Eddie can feel the way your walls flutter around him. He demands your attention by pushing roughly on your tongue. Your eyes shoot open, and you look at him, vision blurred by tears. “Are you close?” he asks, his tone indicating that he’s expecting something from you. Knowing what he wants, you beg for your release around his fingers. Grinning widely, he commands, “Cum around my cock, I know you can do it. Be a good girl, cum for me.” He says more, but you can’t hear it, all senses consumed by your release. Your orgasm triggers his, and he finishes inside the condom.

Pulling out, he takes off the condom and ties the end, throwing it in the direction of the popsicle stick. You’d chastise him for being so gross if your mind wasn’t so hazy. In a daze, you watch him pick up the camera and take a photo. He takes the nearest marker, a neon pink one, and writes in shaky letters “my angel,” adding a heart to the right.

Finished, he pours some water from a bottle onto his beach towel and wipes the mess off your legs. You flinch when he presses too hard on a sensitive spot. He apologizes, cleaning you with a gentler touch. Eddie pulls your top to its proper place before finding your bikini bottoms and tying them for you. He slips on his swim trunks and nudges your leg, “C’mon, you need to rinse off.” You try to stay on the floor, but he forces you up and takes you to the beach showers outside.

With shaky legs, you struggle to stand so you opt to lean on Eddie, who wraps his arm around your waist. He turns on the water and helps wash the sticky coconut residue off your face and torso. His touch is soothing, and you lean into his hand, closing your eyes. You realize that you’re going to have to go back to the beach, so you mutter, “I don’t think I can walk.”

Turning off the water, he offers a piggyback ride. You perk up, “Really?”

He chuckles at your enthusiasm, “Yes, really.” Kneeling down, he lets you climb onto his back. Before going back to the beach, he stops by the car and hands you his leather jacket, “For the mark,” he says, tapping his neck to show you where your hickey is. You slip it on and wrap your hands around his neck, squeezing tighter and begging him not to drop you when he begins to run. “Special delivery!” he exclaims, setting you down between Steve and Robin.

You instantly drop back, “I’ve never been so glad to be on solid ground.” Dustin calls Eddie away, leaving just the three of you.

Steve has a stupid smirk on his face, which makes you squint at him. After a tense second, he asks, “Yea? You’re not glad about other things?” Realizing he’s pointing to the hickey, you pull the jacket higher on your neck, embarrassed.

Steve laughs, but Robin defends you, “Leave her alone, you knew they were gonna go make out.” She turns to you, “Next time you two are gonna run off somewhere, think of better excuses. Sunscreen and the bathroom are too generic.” You completely forgot about your sunscreen! You groan and drop your head back, covering your face with your hands. At least they think you were only making out.

Continuing the conversation, Steve starts bragging about the craziest places he’s made out. You tune out the conversation in favour of watching Eddie. He looks so genuinely happy here, with his friends, having fun. He catches your eyes and smiles wide. You grin back, content to watch him living happy and healthy.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie smut #eddie munson smut #eddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #fluff #humour #humor #smut #my writing

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okayprocrastinator · 2 months

Text

Thoughts about jonmartin from a future therapist (in grad school)

Half of you are going to hate me and half are going to love me for this, but I need to say it: jonmartin is toxic. Yes, even S5 jonmartin.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the ship as much as the next person, but looking at it from a therapeutic standpoint is so hard not to do (for me lol). I’ll explain:

Jon and Martin’s bond is 100% trauma-based.

In reality, this can go okay if the trauma bond moves from shared traumatic experiences to things the couple actually has in common. But Jon and Martin never have a chance to get their relationship out of the survival stage.

This too might have been acceptable if we hadn’t seen what their relationship was like before the trauma bond. Jon hated Martin, and not just out of a misunderstanding - he fundamentally disliked Martin because of who they both were as people.

Jon only started to like Martin after he was socially isolated from his peers.

As much as I’d like to believe otherwise, this looks to me like a survival technique. Every single person in Jon’s life hated him - except for Martin. It’s only human for Jon to latch onto the one person who wasn’t actively hostile towards him on a daily basis.

His dislike of Martin’s personality didn’t go away, as evidenced by his sniping at Martin’s quirks in S5. He suppressed it so as to cling to the one person who didn’t hate him.

Martin has no boundaries or self-respect.

Martin’s self-esteem is extremely low. Understandable, due to the cast’s behavior towards him throughout the whole podcast. His crush on Jon - despite Jon’s open dislike of him is S1&2 - never wavers.

When Jon commits crimes such as stalking his coworkers in S2, Martin is the only one who stands by him. This is the textbook recipe for an abusive relationship: one person does bad things and the other person is blind to it because they don’t believe they deserve or can have better.

This pattern continues even in S5. Martin does 95% of the communication, often forcing it onto Jon in a variety of ways: arguing, cajoling, wheedling. In a good relationship, Jon would meet Martin halfway, but he doesn’t.

If things are this bad in the height of the trauma, what happens after?

If Jon and Martin had survived after S5, my prediction for their relationship would be this:

Jon would come down from survival mode and fairly quickly realize that he is still annoyed by his and Martin’s fundamental differences. He would become snappish and completely closed off, like he was in S1.

Martin, still unable to see that he deserves better treatment, would cling tighter to Jon the more Jon tries to push him away.

After that, it’s more up to conjecture than anything else, but I don’t think they would fall apart right away. Rather, they would continue this cycle of Jon retreating and Martin’s forced communication until one or both of them has had enough.

In conclusion, I love them both. And I love watching their dynamic, I’m still a huge fan. I just think they need so, so much therapy. Thanks for coming to my TedTalk ✌️

#tma #tma spoilers #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #the magnus archives

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tinycozycomfort · 9 months

Text

rest in the cup of my palms (part one)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter one: drawing from life

series masterlist | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: ellie volunteers joel to model for a drawing class on campus. you find someone worth dreaming about.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut (w individual tags to come), unnecessary descriptions of joel being beautiful, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn, joel miller wins girl dad of the century via unanimous vote (for this chapter) -> masturbation (f), intense feelings of loneliness, existential rumination

word count: 7.2k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: some good ol' work up, necessary to explain the rated r plans i have for them. ive been terrified of writing a series but i'm also tired of editing everything down to be one-shot appropriate, so today we try. im full-swing into my fixation era and on my 'i cant be loved + ive known how to love you for 1,000 lifetimes' bullshit. this fic is as self indulgent as they come, but i hope you can enjoy it! and for those of you willing to trudge through this with me, i love you.

read on ao3

“To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed.”

Susan Sontag - On Photography

───────

A halo of hot light falls through the pane of glass above the sink. Joel’s got one eye pinched semi-shut, trying hard to focus on not burning himself while he drains boiling water out of a pot of pasta.

When he woke up this morning, the blinds on every window in the house had been strung up to the lip. He’d barely gotten a hand around one of the strings in the glass frame above the couch before Ellie appeared out of nowhere to literally slap his wrist, ‘I’m drawing’. Still groggy, he tried to challenge her, ‘Do they all have to be open?’, to which she patiently explained—for what she probably feels is the millionth time—that she needed the extra light, and if she had them all open when she started, they’d need to stay that way until she was done.

So he left her to work, knowing she’s got midterms to finish, walking around with his eyes closed until he felt his way back into his bedroom. He came out once for coffee, and not again until dinner. This is their weekend.

Joel spoons out some of the food into bowls, leaving them to stay warm by the stove before he steps into the dining room. He stops himself half-way, hanging back in the archway to give his daughter another minute as the last shreds of strong sunlight start to wane out.

Ellie’s right where he left her: at the table, cross-legged in her chair with an eraser-less pencil held tightly in her fist. She’s hunched over a large pad of paper, the back of it lifted at an angle under a pile of old books and dog-eared tool catalogs. The sketchbook she uses as a reference guide is propped up on the corner of her left knee, leaned against the edge of the table. She rifles between two pages of it, eyeing some of the quick sketches—visual notes, as she puts it—that she took in class to help her navigate the larger, more detailed version with ease. Silent save for her short huffs of breath, she’s concentrated, wrist-corner lifted to not misplace any graphite. Her process is always the same; a little creature of habit.

She’s wearing her headphones, the cord winding dangerously low, threatening to dip into a cup of water she’d placed in the empty triangle between her lap—the same one he’d seen her with six hours ago. She hasn’t even touched it, still full nearly to the brim. He wonders if she’s gotten up at all. The girl works herself a bit too hard, he thinks, always falls head first into whatever project she’s working on, nothing if not like her dad. The corner of his mouth tugs up so tight it hurts. What is he going to do without her?

He just stands there, feet crossed on top of each other and arms in a twist over his chest, and watches her while she’s not looking, knowing she still gets shy sometimes when he catches her like this. She’s the sweetest reminder of everything good Joel’s ever done; another life he’d gladly offer his own for.

It’s always come naturally—to be what someone needs of him—in a way that transcends reward or expectation.

Joel had been his brother’s primary caregiver first, from birth and then well into their adulthood—always around to bail him out of jail or lend him money he didn’t have. Because he cared. Loved him. He couldn’t ever really say it, always had a problem with the wording, but he knew that at least some of what he wanted to explain had come across. He can see it in the way Tommy is with his own family.

His brother has Maria now, and the kids, and seeing how happy Tommy could be in spite of their upbringing was the first time Joel had ever put his priorities into question. Somewhere in all the caring-for he did, he’d forgotten about himself; the possibility of having his own wife and child and home. He’d always ached for that, deep down, but didn’t even know it was an option until he saw it happen. By that point, he wasn’t sure if he could do any of it, or if he even had the time to start. Then came Ellie.

She entered his life when a close friend of Tommy’s had died unexpectedly and no one came forward to claim her, unknowingly giving him a second chance; one he worked to make count. She was tough to crack at first—also like him in that way—but the love had always been there, waiting its turn after all the awkwardness and misunderstanding and adapting before finally showing its face. She’d needed him then, as much as his brother had all those years ago, carrying on the torch of purpose that Joel so feverishly searched for.

He rolls his eyes at himself; he’s been having too many misty-eyed moments about her lately. It’s so unserious, the actuality of it; of being her dad. Going to work and the supermarket and museums, being there to chaperone field-trips and take one-thousand mostly-blurry photos of her graduation. But it’s been everything to him. He’s desperately clung to the five years of her life that she’s shared with him, and he’s so proud to witness it, but he knows she’s getting to a point where she needs to be her own person. He’ll miss her when she’s only home for summers, then only home for Christmas, then only home once in a while—so he holds on to every bit, and tries not to think about what’s next for him.

He walks closer to her, tilting his head to try and steal a glance of what it is she’s working on. He catches a glimpse of the face of a woman, a portrait from shoulders-up. She’s pretty, with a soft and thoughtful expression, looking downward off the side of the pad. From what he could make out between the movements of Ellie’s hand, she even looks a little shy. His daughter rubs at the cheeks and nose of the girl on the paper, imitating the shadow-less areas where light would fall. Joel is mesmerized by the way she creates so effortlessly, like breathing.

Without moving her head, she pulls a tiny white bobble out from her ear, “I know you’re watching me, weirdo.”

Joel laughs, wet and thick in his mouth with the emotion he’s still climbing down from, “Is this how you treat me when I’m trying to feed you?”

She smiles, he can see the fat of her cheek rounding out even from this angle, “You should’ve just said that.”

Ellie leaves her set-up untouched, just getting up and moving down to an empty seat while Joel goes to bring the food out.

She shifts around in her seat, feet folded again on the flat of it, eating too fast—ill-mannered—and it reminds Joel of all the nights they spent at Tommy’s for family dinner, right at the beginning, back when they’d just begun to become close. When she’d push his patience with her behavior to see if he’d say something, to see if he still paid her mind—he always did, still does, “Jesus Christ, kid. Have I taught you nothing?”

She holds back a laugh, mouth full of tomato sauce, “You love it. I’m charming.”

He snorts, the two of them falling into a comfortable quiet for only a few minutes before she breaks it again, “Speaking of how much you love me, I need to ask you for a favor.”

“Oh no,” He jokes, “What now?”

“Remember those drawings I turned in of you last month?” She starts pushing around the last bite of her spaghetti, never a good sign, but he nods anyway for her to continue, “Well my teacher really liked them. And there’s been an issue with finding people to sit for the drawings. Sooo,” she really drags it out, “I signed you up.”

“What do you mean, you signed me up? For what?”

“To model,” Joel’s mouth pops open in an immediate attempt to oppose, but Ellie’s quicker, “Didn’t you say you’d always support me in school?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Joel finishes his plate and then they’re both just clinking their forks against porcelain for a heavy eightnineten seconds before she gives it another shot.

“C’mon, seriously. I’ll get extra credit if you do it,” She lets out a long sigh like she can’t believe she has to explain anything more than that, “My professor teaches a Monday session for the master’s program and they need people. It’s just one time.”

“Ellie. It’s Sunday. How are you gonna tell me this now?”

“Please, you just sit there for, like, two hours while they draw you and you don’t have to talk. That’s two of your favorite things. Three if you consider that you’d be helping me out.” she looks at him with a sticky-sweet smile, eyes crinkled—like she knows she’s getting away with it.

She might be.

“Why don’t you ask one of your friends to do it?” Joel gathers up their plates from the table to carry them into the kitchen. Ellie picks up their still half-full glasses as an excuse to follow him.

“Because we all have class together tomorrow on the other side of campus. Plus, you’re easy to draw and—”

“Hey.”

She ignores the flat look he shoots her, flipping on the sink, “That’s a compliment, by the way. But really, it’s no effort and you’d be getting me into a good place with my professor ‘cause she’ll be super grateful. The budget’s kinda tight this semester.”

“Then what am I payin’ for, if you’re gonna make me do this stuff myself?” It’s a half-hearted dig—he’s mostly annoyed because she probably already figured out he’s going to agree.

Her little smirk graduates to a shit-eating grin, she knows it, “Best dad ever.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, y’know that?”

“Just because I knew you were gonna say that, I actually signed you up for two.”

───────

Joel stumbles out of the elevator, filing hurriedly through groups of students with a new-found purpose now that he’s managed to make it to the correct floor. Ellie made a point of not mentioning that he had to be at the school at 7:30am until she was saying goodnight to him a few hours ago, because she thought it would dissuade him—she was right—so now he’s running late on top of everything else.

He’s got the little scaled-down, splotchy-printed version of the campus map gripped tightly between his hands. Room 14B is seemingly only two turns and one corner from where he stands—if he’s holding it the right way. He wants to ask for directions, but he feels too out-of-place to set aside his embarrassment. He’s older than at least half the staff, and some of the attendees are even younger, and he doesn’t want to run the risk of looking incapable, as foolish as it is. He wishes Ellie would have just offered to show him where to go before she headed off to her own class.

For someone who prides themselves on their ability to parent, he feels hopeless now without his daughter; not for the first time, but it’s especially harsh considering the circumstances. It hurts something bittersweet, to think about how much more they’ve bonded since he started working less and she decided to live at home her first year of college (though it’s coming to an end sooner than he’d like). Again, too many sad thoughts, and she’s not here, so he trudges on.

He walks in two more circles before he finds the right place—down a fucking hallway and hidden behind a door he didn’t know he was allowed to open, of course. A woman with long, dark blonde hair is sitting at a desk by the door when he enters. She doesn’t look up at him.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sorry I’m late. My—uh. You teach my daughter? I’m here for—”

“Ellie’s dad,” She cocks her head without meeting his eye, “Late? You’re about twenty minutes early, she told me you probably would be.”

She knows me too well, the brat. He chastises her in his mind but outwardly he corrects himself, “Yes, right, sorry. I’m a little turned around.”

“That’s alright. There’s just a waiver you need to sign, and you can get undressed in the bathroom down the hall. I’ll give you a cover-up to wear until I come to grab you.”

Right, he’d have to be naked. He already knew that—sort-of—having seen dozens of Ellie’s sketches from semesters past. He knows the students don’t see it that way, knows that they’ve all drawn the same things so many times they would be desensitized to his nudity. They’d probably all be desensitized to him as well; in their eyes, he was just a reference, as familiar as any of the memorialized piles of fruit or arrangements of glass that Ellie's also brought home.

Still, Joel feels a wash of anxiety come over him. He’s more than comfortable in his body, after putting it through so much, but this degree of vulnerability is severe in comparison to vanity or sex—it’s a state of living he hasn’t participated in for a long time. He doesn’t like to be seen, and being documented—having physical evidence of how he’s interpreted by others—makes his stomach turn. He hasn’t looked in a mirror for more than a moment in months, but it can’t be that bad, right? Ellie’s always given him a favorable light, but he worries she has a bias beyond belief. What if he sees something about himself he doesn’t like? What if everyone’s been able to see it all along?

Caught in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize the woman is still talking, “We have a scheduled break halfway through class. You can leave then. Next week it’ll flip and you can come for the latter half so they can finish.” She slides the form and a swath of black fabric across the table, and almost like she can sense his apprehension, finally raises her head to give him a meaningful look, “Thank you again for doing this. I know it can feel weird, but it makes a difference for them. There’ll be a joint show at the end of the month, too, with Ellie’s class.”

He just offers her a little nod of his head, thank you, signing the form and padding to the bathroom to unceremoniously disrobe in an empty stall.

It’s just two hours.

───────

If they make you take another figure-drawing class, you’re going to scream.

You’d think this far into a second degree, the school board would stop requiring you to take what is essentially the same class every semester. Sincerely, the only thing that changes is how long the session runs and what number follows the class title. It’s getting old.

To be fair, it’s not necessarily that you dislike drawing—it provides a pretty firm foundation for your personal work to stand on—it’s just tedious. Nothing is inspiring about assignment-based work, especially when they’ve decided the only way you can prove your skill-set is to make you draw the same three objects five-thousand ways.

But it’s not up to you.

So here you are again, two weeks from spring break, back in this frigid building after surviving another forty minutes of traffic, body still stiff from fighting the urge to fall asleep at the wheel.

It’s important, you remind yourself, to show up and put your fullest effort into everything, no matter how much you don’t enjoy it. Even if just to prove to yourself you can still finish things.

Coming back to school was an idea you’d toyed with for years after graduating.

There had been a lot of pressure on you to go in the first place, from your parents and your teachers and your nightmare of an ex, because according to them you’d get nowhere without it. After enough pressure and in a need to appease them, you folded and went; suffered every long night and pushed through every period of self-doubt and smiled for every ‘worth-capturing’ moment right up to the end. And then when it was over, gone faster than you could comprehend, you felt like something was taken away from you, even with how low it had made you—the worst kind of stockholm syndrome.

In an attempt to keep some momentum, you were over-eager for more right out of the gate. There was an initial need to continue, because you’d been reliant on academic structure just by the nature of familiarity, and maybe a little ill-prepared to face who you were without guidance. Without the instruction of someone with two degrees and a smoking addiction and no teaching license. Now it sounds silly, but then you spent a few too many nights uncontrollably looking into post-grad institutions or internship programs, googling professors and reading forums for first-hand accounts.

Then, after a year, the thought of continuing got a little less exciting, and you became comfortable in the freedom of nothing after being in school your whole life. So you pretended to research, emailed everyone about how great the options looked, signed up for one-on-ones you didn’t show up for—until people stopped asking.

It was at that point that you finally had the time to process what you were doing and why, and accepted that you didn’t have to have all the answers, despite what everyone had led you to believe. Truthfully, you still had no idea who you wanted to be and that’s okay—living with it and living alongside it weren’t mutually exclusive. You just took time to practice being yourself—sucked up the embarrassment and did the work, little exercises in unleashing yourself onto the world instead of letting every experience be done to you. If you were going to do anything anymore, even something like continuing your education, it had to be on your own terms, to try it all in the effort of self-discovery.

So yes, applying and getting accepted and attending every class—even this one—this time around was for you—to better yourself instead of just filling an expectation. You’re determined to make good on the opportunity.

And it has been better, so far. You even have friends this time around. Okay, two, and one of them is your roommate, but it's more of a support system than what you had going into undergrad.

You say yes now, too; not to everything, but to more than before. Which is maybe how you got roped into getting ‘introductory’ drinks later this evening with everyone, now that more people have joined the program as winter thaws out and it’s easier to commute. It’ll be nice to swap ideas and catch up and maybe even get laid instead of spending hours staring at the ceiling and willing time to pass. That thought alone is enough to keep you here.

It’s just two hours.

The room this semester is a little bigger, at least; probably the only perk that moving up so gracefully from Drawing II to Drawing III had earned you. It’s still unfortunately just another classroom; windowless to protect it from outside influence and drenched in fluorescent light to create a controlled environment. Old, stained art horses form a circle in the center of the space, crowding around a painted-gray wood pallet like an audience. A metal stool sits atop the make-shift stage, providing a seat for the subject. It’s clinical, the way the elements come together; a perfectly disarrayed scene that’s been neatly curated to emulate every ‘socratic seminar’ model you’ve seen in education since you can remember. Always the same.

You’re hoping for someone new today to rest on the chair; the department has been in less-than-preferred financial standing lately, so you’ve seen the same faces interchanged for most of the term.

Your professor is at her desk when you make your way in, greeting you with a grin despite the tired look on her face. A hardworking woman, the shadows under her eyes gave her a beauty you could only explain as determined. You knew she cross-taught for both sections of the department, and you respected her for it. It couldn’t be anything short of a struggle to toggle between those modes of seriousness—to have the patience to answer the younger students’ unending questions and the passion to keep the post-grads engaged.

Moving to get a seat as far on the outskirts of the cluster as possible, you watch as your classmates arrive slowly until all the slots are filled. No one really talks, probably all similarly bogged down by the early start and the cold weather outside. Ian, your friend who’d invited you out tonight, waves at you from four horses down and you halfheartedly nod back at him.

“Good morning everyone, we’ve only got two more classes after this until your week off, so we’ll make this next one a two-parter and have critique on the twenty-first. I want you guys to focus on composition more than anything else,” She turns in her seat to write some names on the board behind her, “We’ll go for two hours then break. If your name’s up here we’ll have a conversation about your thesis. The rest of you can go.”

Thankfully you’ve been spared this time—granted another seven-nights-straight writing the segment of your thesis that was meant to be finished two months ago. Your brain hurts inside of your skull.

You set up your little station, sketchpad raised against the easel, body straddling the drawing horse as you fiddle with some dirty erasers in your pack.

You can hear the slap slap slap of the model’s feet on the concrete floor as they enter—a long gait paired with hard, thudding steps; probably a man by the sound of it. Tall and heavy.

“Okay guys, we’re starting,” She winds up the dial on a plastic kitchen timer and sets it on the edge of her desk, “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be making a few passes throughout and we’ll exchange thoughts.”

You roll your neck, knowing the model tends to take a minute to find a comfortable position, and that people watching didn’t do anything to help. A tempered soundtrack—the poorly contained buzzing of the clock and the moan of the air-conditioning—plays on in the background. Your leg is asleep. It’s cold in here. You count to thirty in your head. That’s enough time, right? You shift again, stretching your arms once more just in case.

Looking up, you peer over the side of the easel to get a quick look at the model’s pose and immediately do a double take.

It is a man.

He’s sitting on the chair, facing the girl a few seats down from you so that you can only see him from a three-quarters view. He has one long, thick leg pushed against the lower bar of the stool, the other one, closest to you, hiked up on the seat, folded so that his knee points towards the ceiling. His arms are crossed, hugging his erect shin with his wide back wrapped over his thigh, effectively shielding the ‘naked’ parts of him from view. He looks shy, but not uncomfortable; either like he’s done this before or he’s accustomed to protecting himself—to hiding.

The frame of his body is captivating; he looks strong but used, little nicks and scars littering his shoulders and hands. Weathered. As you make your way up his torso, you find it’s a similar state of experienced, tan profile and neck bearing the slightest difference in color from the soft of his side, and you can see the faintest curve of a hem-shaped tan-line across the dip in his shoulder. Little wisps of gray-dusted brown curls frame the edges of his face. He’s beautiful in a gentle way, with a dark, heavy brow that leads into the sharp slope of his nose, plush lips pursed like he’s concentrating.

Part of you feels bad about staring, but it’s easy enough to disguise it as working, so you map him with your gaze again and again until you can still see him when you blink. It takes the constant movement of your classmate’s hand sketching something in your periphery to remember you’re being timed.

You choke out a cough, repositioning your body and grabbing some charcoal.

The way you usually approach this task is simple: get down the general gist of the body, careful to keep out the details of the person in favor of capturing light and weight—there’s a graded challenge to be considered, after all.

Yet as you watch him, you decide you can fulfill the requirements in a way that gives him more room to exist. You crop the drawing tighter, paying careful attention to the landscape of his face; the hills of his cheekbones and the valley between his lips. You want to immortalize him.

You’re suddenly deeply concerned with the history that’s woven itself into the shape of him, in what happened to make him look this way. It seems like life has been useful to him, but that he’d had to grow from something to make it so—like he had to work for it. He’s the living manifestation of his own grief and enjoyment and passion, and you want to know all of it.

Countless minutes pass as you take him in and spill him out, fingers moving quickly to recreate the weighted feeling of his posture, exhausted and heavy, muscles held together on the string of bone that runs through the center of his back. You write him down, again and again, flipping to a new page half-way through to get in one last version of him—one for yourself.

You’ve never seen him before, but you see part of yourself in him. He mirrors the anxious peace you’ve been operating under for the last few years, humming with energy but willfully stagnant. It makes you feel seen, less burdened by your recent inability to connect—he makes you want to keep trying.

You wonder if he writes or draws or makes, and if he’d show you. You want to hear him talk. You want to see the other side of him, literally and metaphorically. You want to feel—

The tinny ring of the alarm sounds off, and you’re taken out of the fantasy.

The second drawing is only really half done, but you didn’t make it with the intention of sharing it anyway, so you flip back to the original to hide it..

You try not to watch the man when he stands—remembering that just because he’d been hidden before doesn't mean he wasn't naked the entire time—maybe more for your sake than his. You peek around the room instead, taking a healthy, albeit competitive, glance around for other interpretations of the man; did they see him too, the way you do?

When you look up to take a comparative look, he’s gone. You’re a little disappointed, admittedly, but there’s still one more chance to interact with him, and you can make up for it then. You start to pack up your things in an effort to make it to the parking lot before the crowd. A sudden rise in the volume level in the room tells you that the shock of the early morning has started to burn off. You try to tune it out, so much so that you don’t hear someone walking up behind you.

“Wow.” It’s a man’s voice, deep and smooth. You pivot in your seat.

It’s him, in all his communal-robe wearing glory, even more gorgeous from head on. It’s a pleasant surprise, this reveal; his beauty is evenly distributed, like a handwritten note that extends into the margins or when a movie’s ending is just as good as the start.

“Oh. Hi. Thank you.” You feel exposed, like you got caught doing something bad, even though there are ten other people in the room with even more detailed portraits of him.

“Can I see the other one, too?”

“What?”

“You flipped your page. I didn’t see anyone else do that. Did you make two?”

You just nod, shocked that he was watching you back, peeling back the paper to reveal to him the unfinished drawing. He won’t question it if you don’t give him a reason to.

“Are you gonna finish it?” He asks, eyes rolling over it with an intense curiosity.

“Uh, probably not. I don’t like it as much as the first one.” Maybe lying your way through this would provide better reasoning than ‘I wanted a part of you that no one else could see’.

“Can I have it?”

When you can’t find something to say fast enough, he just continues.

“I’m sorry, is that rude? If you’re just gonna get rid of it, I’ll take it. It just… looks like me. I mean they all do, I’ve been told I have a ‘simple face’,” He coughs awkwardly in acknowledgement of his own tangent, “I just mean to say that it feels a lot like me. If that makes sense.”

“You’re actually very visually interesting.” Is the first thing you can think of, and fuck, did that come out really fucking wrong, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s better if he takes it, if it’ll stop you from fumbling, “But yeah, you can have it.” You pull a little plastic mail-tube out of your bag, ripping the drawing free from its perforated tether and rolling it in on itself.

The edges of his mouth pull up, a cute little thing, free of laughter or judgement, “Thank you. I’m Joel.” One of his hands drapes across his stomach, palm spread over the knot of the wrap—he’s holding himself at length again. Why?

“Hi Joel. You seem to know a fair amount about this whole thing. Not your first time, then?” You offer him your name in return, and he parrots it back—guard still up, still standing too far away.

“It is, actually. The closest I’ve come to this is sitting in the yard for my daughter,” He watches as you slide the drawing into the cylindrical case, “You’re very talented.”

“Thank you.” It feels weird to hear the praise twice, “How’d they get you to pose for no money? I heard the department’s a little strapped. I’ve been subbing in for the undergrads too when I can.”

“My daughter volunteered me, she’s on the other side of the program. Your teacher was giving out extra credit.” He takes the roll when you pass it to him, going out of his way to grab it from the middle, his thumb grazing yours. Your skin heats up where he’s touched it, and you look down at the floor, suddenly nervous.

“Wow, this is the first time I’m hearing anything about that.” You continue to pack away items into your bag, “I’m owed quite a lot if that’s true.”

His face falls in on itself in a wince, “Oh. Didn’t mean to do her in like that.” You can feel him looking at you for a few beats too long, and his eyes narrow like he’s about to say more.

In the same moment, as if summoned, your professor turns on her heel, walking over to your bench.

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay without it. I’ll see you next week, right?”

He shakes a little, releasing his stare, and throws a thumbs up in your direction with his protective hand, “Yeah, see ya next week. Nice to meet you.”

───────

After another four-hour class and a too-long nap and a break for dinner, everyone from this morning joins together in a few cars to head to a bar downtown. You meet up with Ian, who offered to drive as a bargaining chip, because he knows by now that you’d back out if you had to show up on your own.

The bar is dark and divey and perfect for being overly-observant in secret. You’ve warmed up to this crowd enough, but you’re still on plus-one basis with a lot of them, Ian serving as your invitation. You like to just listen to them at first during these outings, strategically planning your involvement so you don’t feel put on the spot when they give you a turn.

It’s a lot like being in class; the group of you occupying a dimly lit corner, a round-table of bodies, with the person in the center alternating as the topic changes. Tonight you stay at the furthest end.

You cling to the single tequila soda you ordered, watery and flat by now with pea-sized ice chips bobbing around in the center to avoid the heat of your fingers. You watch them swim, tipping your cup to see them swirl in a frenzied circle until they disappear.

Some guy from your English class—Andre or Andrew or who cares—is talking at you, making his best attempt at what you think is supposed to be flirting. It’s really just him asking your opinions on his five favorite books, not hiding his disapproval when you mention you haven’t read one or the other.

You watch Ian, who left you twenty minutes ago in search of the bar-top for another drink. He’s caught now on his third conversation on the way back, maybe thinking he’s doing you a favor by taking his time. You try relentlessly to catch his eye instead, and he bounds over without question when he sees you. The glass of wine in his hand is already half empty, and the English-class-guy spooks at the sight of what he probably thinks is competition. So much for that.

“Having fun?” he prods when he slips in the chair beside you, already aware that you are absolutely very much not having fun.

Ian’s a nice guy, and he means well. You met him a week into your first semester—almost a year ago now—at orientation, because your last names were the beginning and end of the line of their respective letters. He was from somewhere in Canada, studying photography with a minor in painting and drawing. He’s maybe a year or two older than you, though you’ve never asked to confirm; tall and long and pretty, for lack of a better word, with big eyes and a permanent split in the little bangs that cover his forehead. He’s the first man in years you’ve been comfortable around, never initiating anything or pushing too hard for your friendship. All in all, no one’s been as welcoming to you, except the person you literally live with, and you’re happy to let him drag you out if it means he’ll continue to look after you the way he does.

“Of course, when have you ever known me to have a bad time?”

“No luck with Adrian?” Adrian. You were close.

“Just likes to hear himself talk, I think. I wasn’t interested in being an audience.”

He hums, “Someone else on your mind?”

“Like who?” You lean the lip of your cup against your mouth.

“Saw you making eyes at the model today,” He teases, nudging you in your rib when you take a sip of your drink so that you keel over slightly. You sputter, unamused with the tactic to get you to fess up.

Was it that obvious?

“Isn’t that the point of the class?”

“Yeah maybe, smartass, but that’s not what I meant. I saw him talking to you, saw you give him a little gift,” He bobs his eyebrows at you suggestively, “Excited for him to come back next week?”

“So I can stare more, you mean?”

“So you can get his number.”

“Ian.”

“I’m just saying you should try and find someone outside our section of the building. No writers, either, obviously.” He gestures to where Adrian is already trying his shtick on some girl from your class.

“He’s a little too old for me, don’t you think? His daughter goes here.” You muse. He’s mostly right about you needing to expand your reach, but you won’t let him off that easily.

“Maybe. But if you don’t care, and he doesn’t care, what’s it matter? He’s not too old to fuck you.” He makes a face and you roll your eyes.

The thought is nice, but you know forging relationships is unlikely when you’re concerned, at least as of late, “I don’t want to spend my night talking about people I’m not going to fuck.”

“Whatever you say.” He slinks out from his seat, mumbling something about a glass of water. A few steps away, he looks back over his shoulder, “You’re not doomed, by the way,” the asshole can read your mind, “You can enjoy yourself without feeling guilty. You’re allowed to like people.”

And then you’re alone again.

It’s like that for another hour, small attempts at chatter and meetings until you realize you’re too tired to fuck anyone, let alone continue to sit upright. Being up so early this morning took more of a toll than an hour nap could fix, and you're begging Ian to take you home. He agrees, spending the trip trying to plan another outing later in the week before everyone’s gone on vacation.

You give him a sleepy goodbye when he pulls into your apartment complex, making sure he’s still going to class tomorrow before letting him drive away. Once you’re inside, slipping quietly in through the front door, you realize your roommate isn’t home. She’s probably still in a late class or at her boyfriend’s or somewhere else. You enjoy the quiet enough to not think about it too hard.

The five sips of tequila-mostly-water has settled into your stomach by now, making you a quarter-second slower when you strip all your clothes off and climb into bed.

You twist under the sheets, and after a while your skin starts to feel too hot, even in the cold air of your room. Breathing deep, you try to think of something boring to get your mind to still, but when you sense the sleep about to take over, it switches.

You see his face behind your eyelids, the man from today, strong and pretty and delicate, remembering all your favorite details—the length of his fingers and the depth of his voice. You curse yourself for assigning this importance to him. He’s just another page in your portfolio, if you even keep him, yet you can feel a slow heat bubble up at your core when you remember the stretch of his body under the robe. It’s okay to be taken with him, you think, he’s objectively gorgeous.

Your conversation with Ian replays in your head—less about his sincere advice and more about how you need to get laid. It’s been too long; maybe you are just horny, and maybe taking care of it just this once could be enough to stop this hollow interest from growing.

You reach a hand down under your blanket, the tips of your digits pushing into the slit of your cunt. You’re wet, arousal tacky and pooled so much that the light pressure you meant to be exploring with is enough to have you accidentally slipping inside. Okay, he’s really hot. So what? Was it really that bad if you thought so?

You dip a finger further in, timid at first; you’re used to keeping quiet for this kind of activity, and even though your roommate was gone when you got here, it doesn’t mean she hadn’t come in in the thirty minutes of rolling around you’d done before giving into your desire. You lay your free hand over your mouth just in case, teeth biting into the meat at the base of your thumb to keep yourself quiet.

You slide in a second finger to the knuckle to join the first, the light stretch of it enough to make you pant. You see him again, hard and soft and beautiful. You think about what his skin would taste like, if he’d let you sink your teeth into the sinew of his neck. It feels weird to know what he looks like without his clothes, and you’re weirdly proud of yourself for holding back from seeing him fully; it's easier to dream about that way. You wonder how he’d present himself to you, how he’d want to fuck you. You imagine him winding a hand around the hinge of your jaw, fingers pressing hard into the soft of your cheeks. Would he be gentle? Would he make it hurt? You suspect either would be too much. You feverishly palm your clit, hips canting in an effort to climax. The pictures flash faster—his cock in your mouth, his tongue in your cunt, the way he’d spit and grip and hold—and you’re coming, drooling over your hand as you hear him say your name in your mind.

You take your hand away after a minute, breath pushing out heavily from your nose. It’s fine, you needed to do it, just one time. No shame in that. It’s out of your system now.

And if you see his face one more time before you fall asleep, it’s probably an afterthought.

───────

By the end of the week, you come to a horrible conclusion.

It starts the next morning when you take your sketchbook out, itching to get a handle on the many writing assignments you’ve been dutifully ignoring, hoping for an outline or a free-flow of ideas. Nothing comes to mind. You draw a little bit to fill the space while you think, just a mess of material on the page, strokes of your hand that leave barely anything behind.

Then on Wednesday you’re at your laptop, typing with one hand while the other one slides against the wood of the dining table, down and around in a loop, mimicking the same shape each time.

And again last night in the shower, letting the shame of a different semi-failed night-out wash over and off of you. You slosh your foot around in the water in the basin below, catching it as it runs down and pools, ankle dragging in a tiny, controlled movement.

It’s not until now that you put it together.

You’re sitting at your desk, with creative materials at your disposal this time, trying to make sense of what it is you’re forming. You find that no matter the medium, your hand automatically makes a single hard line. The same line, from memory. It’s negligible at first, just a light press of pen or pencil or crayon, until it drags down, down, down. It’s not until you lift your utensil that you recognize it. The hook of a nose and the crest of a top lip.

A hard pit forms in your stomach, blood draining from your head to gather in the center of your chest, a blooming sickness of obsession you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re drawing him. You’ve been drawing him. You know this feeling, have participated in this kind of behavior. These are the actions that cause the humiliating dregs of attraction to bleed over into fixation—juvenile and universal and unavoidable. He’s going to be a problem.

#joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fic #joel miller/reader

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hockey-fics · 7 months

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A Love Worth Changing For ~ Nico Hischier

Summary: Your commitment to yourself to stay out of a relationship becomes harder to keep when you meet someone who just might be worth breaking your promises for.

Word count: ~8,900

Warnings: Drinking (quite a bit), implied/vaguely mentioned smut, throwing up, toxic behaviours.

A/N: I kind of hate how this turned out, to be honest. It's not super well edited because I didn't want to read through it yet another time.

You didn’t want to be in a relationship. It was a promise you made to yourself. You wouldn’t get into a relationship until you were done with school. You had high expectations for yourself in your years at university. You wanted to do well, that was a given. Staying out of a relationship would only leave you with more time to study. But you also wanted these years to explore who you were as a person, casually date, figure out what you wanted in a partner and what kind of partner you wanted to be.

It wasn’t hard, at least not for the first few years. Until you decided to go to grad school and decided to keep your commitment to not having any romantic commitment. And then came your second hurdle, when you met Nico.

October 2021

Standing at the kitchen counter you fill a bowl with a bag of chips that you know will go mostly untouched in favour of drinks, but it was the thought that mattered, right? Your phone vibrates on the counter and your eyes fall to your bright screen. A text from Jack. Unlocking your phone you read the message, asking if he could bring a couple friends. Sighing to yourself you reply that it was fine, though you were a little nervous about who Jack was going to be bringing to a party you were already worried might be getting too large.

Before long your apartment is full of people, half of which you didn’t know, tagging along with the half that you did. You’re in the kitchen mixing yourself an unnecessarily strong drink of tequila and orange juice when you feel someone tap you on the shoulder. Turning around your eyes focus on Jack.

“Hey,” you greet, pulling him into a quick, friendly hug. Jack. You met him when you both arrived in New Jersey, him to play for the Devils and you to start your undergrad degree. It was an instant connection, but not the kind your friends had speculated. You understood that he was attractive, you knew that almost everyone seemed to fall for him. But your connection with him felt more like a brother than anything more. “How was your game?”

“It was good…It would be really cool if you would like watch a game once in awhile,” Jack jokes.

“I was busy,” you whine, taking a large sip of your drink.

“Busy with what?”

“Preparing this place to sustain the damage of another party,” you inform him. “And pre-gaming.”

“I see how it is, rather get drunk than come see me play.”

Rolling your eyes you lean back against the counter. “Honestly, yeah,” you joke. Your eyes travel over Jack’s shoulder, to the man standing behind him, hands shoved in his pockets, glancing around uncertainly. “Hi,” you call to him, catching his attention. “I’m Y/N.”

“Hey, uh, I’m Nico,” he tells you, shuffling his way between Jack and some other guy you had yet to meet. “Is this your place?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, hearing a shattering of glass from the other side of the kitchen. “Unfortunately,” you add with a breath of laughter. “I should go deal with that, I’ll talk to you later, Nico,” you tell him, placing your hand on his arm as you slip by him in the direction of the shattering sound.

After helping clean up the mess of broken glass and spilled beer you head back into the kitchen, needing another drink. You find Jack and Nico nearly exactly where you had left them, discussing something with an intensity that piques your interest.

“Am I missing something?” you ask Jack, pouring yourself another drink.

“He thinks you’re hot,” Jack states boldly.

You’re caught off guard by how easily he offers the information, especially when you see Nico elbow him in the side, clearly not wanting him to have said that. “Oh?” you say, turning to face Nico, a playful smile on your lips.

“I, uh,” Nico begins, eyes falling to the ground. “Yeah,” he finally mutters.

Giggling you take a sip of your drink, stepping a little closer to him. “Well, I think you’re pretty hot as well,” you tell him, hoping it would ease some of the awkward tension that had fallen on the conversation.

“This is gross,” Jack mutters, gulping back half of his beer in one go.

“You’re the one who brought it up, dumbass,” you remind him, spinning to lean against the counter beside Nico. “Tell me more about yourself,” you say to Nico.

“What do you want to know?”

Shrugging you glance down to his empty hands. “Do you not drink?”

“I offered to drive him home,” Nico tells you, nodding towards Jack.

“Drive Jack home?” you mutter, eyebrows furrowed. “Jack never goes home after he gets drunk here.”

“Oh, I, uh, didn’t know you two were-,” Nico stammers, shaking his head as he glances over to Jack with an incredulous look.

“That’s not what I meant,” you exclaim with wide eyes. “He sleeps on the couch.”

“Oh,” Nico chuckles.

“So, does that mean you’re going to have a drink?”

Nico shrugs, looking over at Jack, who was already on his third beer. “I still need to drive myself home.”

“I’m sure we can find you somewhere to sleep,” you tell him.

And find him somewhere to sleep was exactly what you did, in your bed right next to you.

When you wake up the next morning your arm is slung over Nico’s chest, your head on his shoulder. Slowly you pull your body away from him, tugging the sheets up over your naked body as you reach for your phone on the nightstand. 9:35 AM.

“Morning,” Nico mumbles tiredly.

“Morning,” you reply, glancing down at him with a soft smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Alright,” Nico shrugs. “Tired.”

“Me too,” you laugh. “Do you want some coffee or something?”

“If you’re going to make some for yourself I’ll have some.”

Climbing out of bed you pull some clothes on, shuffling out of your room to take in the damage from the night before. The kitchen counters are littered with cans and bottles, sticky with spilled drinks. Sighing to yourself you grab a bag, beginning the long process of post-party clean up. Nico is at your side a second later, tossing cans into the bag you were holding.

“You don’t need to clean up, it’s okay,” you assure him, not wanting him to feel obligated to help clean your apartment after a party you decided to throw.

“I don’t mind,” Nico shrugs. “I’m sure some of it is my mess.”

His justification makes you giggle, knowing that he had been one of the only people the night before to ask you where you wanted him to put his empty cans. You finish clearing off the counter together, wiping it down before making a pot of coffee. While it was brewing you stand at the counter, Nico in front of you, his hands on your hips as he looks down at you.

“So do you think I can get your number?” Nico asks.

Running your hands up his arms you rest them on his shoulders, smiling playfully up at him. “Yeah, I think maybe I could give you my number.”

Leaning down Nico presses his lips to yours again, gently and slowly, tugging your hips closer to his body.

“Get a room.”

Pulling back from Nico you look across the kitchen to where Jack was now standing. “You know this is my apartment, right?” you joke, pulling your arms back from Nico. “Do you want some coffee?”

“Sure,” Jack mumbles, leaning tiredly into the counter. “Do you have that girl’s number?”

“Who?” you ask, pressing your palms into the counter, hopping up onto it.

“You know, the one I was talking to.”

“Do you even remember her name?”

“Yeah,” Jack mutters dismissively.

“What is it then?”

“Do you have her number or not?” Jack exclaims, rubbing his fingers over his temples.

“Yes,” you tell him with a sigh. “I’m not giving you her number if you can’t even remember her name.”

Jack lets out a loud groan, shaking his head. “Fine, whatever,” he grumbles.

Nico glances up at you with a look that told you he agreed with your decision. “You remember my name, right?” you joke.

Nico chuckles, leaning up to press his lips to your again. “Of course,” he tells you.

After the coffee is done brewing you pour a few mugs, adding some cream to your coffee. Heading into the living room you curl up on the couch, leaning into Nico when he sits down beside you. The three of you sit in the living room, talking about the night before while finishing your coffee.

Shortly after finishing his coffee Jack decides to get an Uber home, leaving you and Nico alone again. You spend the majority of the day cuddled up with Nico on the couch, watching movie after movie as the hangover slowly begins to leave your body.

“When are you free for me to take you on a date?” Nico asks after the end of yet another movie.

Sitting up you pull your body away from Nico, turning to look over at him. “Nico, I do like you but I feel like I should tell you that I’m not really looking for anything serious right now.”

“Does that mean I don’t get to see you again?”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” you giggle, shaking your head. “I just wanted you to know that.”

“Okay,” Nico says with a shrug. “How about Wednesday night?”

“Wednesday night sounds good to me,” you reply, leaning over and kissing him gently.

Wednesday night comes around quickly and your date goes incredibly well. As does the next date, and all the ones after that. It wasn’t long till you were spending almost all your spare time together.

There was a connection you had with Nico that was undeniable. But you were holding onto your promise to yourself that you weren’t going to get into a relationship.

December 2021

You’re finally packing clothes for your trip home, having just finished your exams a few days earlier. Going home for the holidays was always one of the highlights of your year, when you could finally relax without worrying about assignments or classes or exams. Folding a few sweaters you set them into the suitcase on your bed, a sudden knock on your door startling you.

Heading through your apartment you hesitantly pull the door open, relaxing when you see Nico standing in front of you. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you before you left,” Nico explains, stepping inside. “And I wanted to bring you this.”

Your eyes fall to the wrapped box in his hand. “A Christmas present?”

“Yeah,” Nico chuckles, setting it into your hands.

“Why?” you whisper, looking up into his eyes. “You didn’t have to get me anything, we’re not-.”

“We’re not together, I know,” Nico interrupts, having heard the line from you over and over again at various times throughout the last few months. Not together, just friends with benefits...who also happened to be going on frequent dates.

Sighing you set the present down onto the table by the door, reaching over to take his hands. “Well, thank you,” you whisper, leaning up and pressing your lips to his. “But you really didn’t have to.”

“You’re welcome,” Nico says, pulling you into a hug. “When do you have to be at the airport?”

“Tomorrow morning at eight.”

“I can drive you…if you want,” Nico offers.

Pulling back you smile up at him, fingers running down his arms. “That would be great, thank you. Do you have plans tonight?”

“No.”

“Do you want to stay here tonight?”

A smirk forms on Nico’s lips, his hands finding their way to your hips. “Yes.”

Giggling you lean up, kissing him again. This time you don’t pull back immediately, your arms finding their way over his shoulders. His tongue brushes against yours and you push yourself closer to him, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater.

“Let’s go to my room,” you mumble against his lips before taking his hand and pulling him through your apartment to your bedroom.

“Do you need to finish packing?” Nico asks, his eyes falling to the suitcase on your bed, piles of clothes laying around your room.

“It can wait,” you assure him, setting your suitcase onto the ground. You’re on the bed a second later, letting Nico pull your clothes off. Hands grasping at each other, both knowing that you’d have to go a few weeks without getting to see each other, without getting to touch each other.

Nico makes you finish more times than you ever had in one night, till you’re a shaky, flushed mess. Maybe it was because you would be apart from each other for awhile, maybe he was trying to leave a lasting impression, keep you from wanting to be with anyone else. Whatever the reason, you were more than okay with it.

“I should probably finish packing,” you whisper, head laying on Nico’s shoulder, fingers grazing over his chest.

“Do you need help or anything?” Nico offers.

“No, there’s not that much left to do,” you tell him as you pull some clothes back on.

Nico spends the rest of the evening keeping you company while you finish packing and doing last minute preparation around your apartment. By the time you get to bed that night you know that neither of you was going to end up with an adequate amount of sleep that night. But you didn’t mind if it meant spending more time with Nico.

June 2022

You were prepared to spend the summer away from Nico. You didn’t want to, that much you needed to admit. But you weren’t his girlfriend, he wasn’t your boyfriend. There was no reason for any variation to Nico’s normal summer plans.

So you had said goodbye to him the night before he flew back to Switzerland to spend time with his friends and family. You managed to hold back your emotions till he left and you couldn’t hold the tears back any longer.

You kept yourself busy, picking up extra shifts when you could to keep your mind off of missing him. You knew it wasn’t normal, to have these feelings for someone who you were refusing to be more than just friends with benefits with.

Of course the two of you continued talking, text messages being exchanged when the time difference would allow for it. But it wasn’t until he called you one evening that you were really reminded that whatever was going on between you two was a lot more than what you were willing to say out loud.

“Hey,” you greet as you answer the phone, sitting in your living room, watching re-runs of your favourite TV show.

“Hi,” Nico replies, his voice was quiet but you could hear a slight slur in his words. “What are you doing?”

“Uh, not a lot, watching TV,” you tell him, sitting up straighter on the couch, eyes narrowing as you stare at the other end of the couch. “What are-,” you can’t even finish asking what he was doing before he cuts you off.

“With who?” Nico asks and there’s something in his tone that makes you feel like it’s more of an accusation than a genuine question.

“Nobody…why?”

“You’re watching TV by yourself on a Friday night?”

“Well it’s 6PM here,” you remind him. “But yes, I’m watching TV alone, why?”

“Right,” Nico mutters. “I miss you.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No,” Nico replies quickly. “Yes,” he admits just as quickly, without you even needing to question him on it. “We went out for drinks, I had too many.”

“Well did you at least have fun?” you ask, holding back a laugh.

“Yeah…I wish you were here though.”

Your silent for a little too long, wracking your brain for what to say. ‘Me too’ didn’t feel right, even if it was the truth. “You’ll be back in a couple months,” you finally whisper.

“I don’t want to wait that long,” Nico mumbles. “I want you to come here.”

Laughing softly you roll your eyes to yourself, leaning back into the couch.

“I’m not joking,” Nico states, clearly taking offence to your laughter.

“I can’t,” you tell him, nervously fiddling with a loose thread on your shorts.

“Why not? I’ll buy you a flight, you can stay with me or I can get you a hotel or whatever, it doesn't matter.”

“That’s not the problem, Nico,” you tell him, though if you were seriously considering his suggestion it probably would have been a problem.

“Then what is?”

“We-,” you begin, pausing to take a deep breath. “We’re not together…I’m not your girlfriend, Nico. I’m not going to fly halfway across the world and meet your friends and family when we’re not even together,” you explain.

The silence that follows is so long that you begin to wonder if he was even still there. But you sit in the silence, with each second growing more and more uncomfortable.

“I love you.”

“Nico,” you whisper, eyes welling with tears. You weren’t even sure where your emotions were coming from, but they were beyond overwhelming. “You don’t…you don’t mean that. You’re drunk-.”

“I do,” Nico insists, knowing where you were about to go with your sentence. Maybe he wasn’t as drunk as you thought, but you didn’t want to truly admit that.

“Can we talk tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Nico mumbles.

“Get some sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” Nico whispers. “Have a good night.”

The two of you did talk the next day. But at no point did either of you bring up the night before. Maybe he didn’t remember it. Maybe he no longer wanted to discuss it now that his mind was no longer clouded by alcohol. Either way you were pretty sure it was the best outcome for both you and him.

October 2022

“I like this one,” you say, pointing out a small pumpkin sitting on the edge of a pallet in the pumpkin patch.

“It’s so small,” Nico comments, chuckling as he stands next to you, staring down at the little pumpkin.

Shrugging you lean down, picking it up. “It’s cute.”

“Like you,” Nico says with a smirk, already anticipating your response.

Rolling your eyes you jokingly take a step away from him. “Gross.”

Reaching over Nico takes your hand, tugging you back towards him. “I know you like it.”

Shaking your head you let go of his hand, running it up his arm to wrap around his shoulders. Pushing yourself onto your tip toes you press your lips to his. “I do,” you admit, stepping back from him. “Now pick your pumpkin so we can go home and carve them.”

After Nico picks out and pays for the pumpkins you head back to your apartment, stopping on your way there to pick up dinner and a couple bottles of wine.

“Do you want the shiraz or the zinfandel?” you call to Nico, pulling a couple glasses of wine out from the cupboard.

Glancing over your shoulder you watch Nico set the pumpkins down on the table, a smile on his face. “You know that I don’t know the difference.”

Giggling you open the drawer in the kitchen, rifling through it for your wine opener. “I want to try the zinfandel,” you tell him, jumping as you feel his hands on your hips, tugging your back into his chest.

“Sounds great to me,” Nico whispers, leaning down and kissing your neck gently.

With a quiet, pleasure filled sigh you let yourself melt into him, the warmth of his body radiating into you. “Thanks for doing this with me.”

“Doing what?” Nico asks, letting you turn around in his arms to face him.

“This whole pumpkin thing, I know it’s kind of stupid as adults,” you explain.

Nico shakes his head, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into his arms. “It’s not stupid and you don’t need to thank me, I wanted to do this,” Nico assures you.

“I l-,” you begin, stopping yourself short as you realize what you were about to say. I love you. Swallowing heavily you pull yourself back from him, quickly turning around, fumbling with the wine opener.

“What were you going to say?”

Shaking your head you twist the screw into the cork, fingers shaking nervously. “Nothing, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Nico insists, reaching over and placing his hand on your lower back, trying to get your attention again. “Just talk to me.”

“I said it doesn’t matter,” you snap, struggling to wiggle the cork out of the bottle. As the cork pops out of the top of the bottle the sudden change in force sends the bottle slipping across the counter, red wine sloshing out all over the counter as the bottle clatters onto the counter. “Fuck,” you mutter, eyes welling with tears as you reach for the bottle, quickly standing it back up.

As you reach for the towel hanging on the handle of the oven Nico catches your hands, pulling you to face him. “Slow down,” he says gently. “What’s going on?”

The tears that had welled up in your eyes were slipping down your cheeks now, your hands stilled by Nico’s hands stopping you from wiping them away. “I love you,” you exclaim. “Is that what you want to hear?”

Nico is quiet for a few seconds before wrapping his arms around you, rubbing your back gently. “I only want to hear it if you mean it.”

You don’t answer him. You knew you should answer him. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t bring yourself to say it again, you could barely say it once. “I need to clean up the wine,” you whisper, wiggling out of Nico’s arms.

“You should use the paper towel, you’ll stain that one,” Nico tells you, gesturing to the towel you had originally reached for.

“Right,” you whisper, nodding slowly as you stare up at him. You didn’t know what you had expected out of him after that, but it sure wasn’t cleaning tips. After cleaning up the wine from the counter you excuse yourself to the bathroom, looking at yourself in the mirror. Wiping away the remnant of your tears you take a few deep breaths, eventually managing to calm yourself enough to venture back to the kitchen.

When you step into the room your eyes find Nico at the table, two glasses of wine and the pumpkins in front of him. “What-?”

“You don’t want to carve them anymore?” Nico asks.

“I-,” you begin, walking through the room to sit down at the table with him. “Yeah, I do.”

For awhile the two of you sit in relative silence, the energy in the room feeling tense. But by the time your glass of wine was empty the tension had dissipated.

You knew you loved him. You knew you meant it when you said it. You knew it before but something in that evening only made you love him even more. He didn’t push you. He didn’t make you feel bad. He was there for you, with you, in whatever way you wanted in that moment.

November 2022

“Jack, I don’t feel good,” you whisper, glancing around the packed night club.

Jack turns his attention away from the group of your friends that he was in the midst of a conversation with. His eyes land on you, nodding slowly as he reaches out, placing his hand on your side to steady your swaying body. “Come on,” he mumbles, guiding you through the building and into one of the single stall bathrooms.

You’re only in the bathroom for a second before you’re hovering over the toilet, the plethora of drinks you had consumed that night coming right back up.

“I’m going to get you some water,” Jack tells you, turning to open the door. “Stay here, okay?”

Nodding you flush the toilet, standing up and placing your hands on the edge of the counter, a steady surface to steady your not so steady self against. You turn the lock on the door, leaning into the counter again, taking deep breath to try to keep

Jack returns a few moments later with a glass of water which you gratefully take. After downing half the glass you feel your eyes fill with tears, drunk mind racing with emotions. “Does he hate me?” you mutter, looking over at Jack.

“What?” Jack asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“Nico,” you whisper. “Does he hate me? He asked me to take things further again yesterday and I said no.”

“I don’t know, I haven’t talked to him in a few days,” Jack tells you. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Refusing to be his girlfriend and now you’re crying about him.”

Your eyes fall to the ground, trying to find some sort of valid explanation for him. “I don’t want to be in a relationship right now,” you finally whisper.

“Why? You’re obviously into him,” Jack retorts quickly.

“Because, I’m supposed to figure out who I am in university, Jack. I’m supposed to have crazy, fun experiences with new people and I’m not supposed to find the person I’m going to be with for the rest of my life right now and-.”

“He’s not asking you to marry him,” Jack interrupts. “Why are you worried about spending the rest of your life with him right now?”

“Because I don’t want to get my heart broken, I don’t want to get hurt,” you mutter.

“You’re crying about him in a bathroom,” Jack exclaims, shaking his head. “You’re already hurt.”

“No,” you whisper, sniffling softly, tears rolling down your cheeks again. You didn’t want to admit Jack was right, you didn’t want to admit that everything you had done in the last year to keep Nico at a distance had been for nothing. “I want to go home.”

“You can come back to my place,” Jack offers with a sigh, clearly not wanting his night to be over but also not about to leave you alone.

“I’ll just get an Uber,” you tell him, pulling your phone from your pocket.

“I’m not letting you Uber home alone right now.”

You knew it was coming from a place of concern, but you really didn’t want to be the one to wreck his plans for the night. Whatever those plans were. “Fine,” you mutter. “But I don’t want to force you to go home.”

“Well all your friends are here and they’re also drunk so what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know,” you whine, tipping your head back to look at the ceiling. The tiles are spinning in your mind and your head feels heavy, but you manage to lift it again before the spinning brings on another round of nausea. Your eyes land on Jack, watching him typing something quickly into his phone. You manage to restrain your drunken nosiness from asking who he was talking to, staying silent.

“Nico is going to pick you up,” Jack tells you a few minutes later, making your heart race.

“No,” you exclaim, shaking your head. You couldn’t let him see you like this.

“He’s already on his way,” Jack tells you definitively. “Come on, I’ll walk outside with you and wait for him.”

“Jack,” you whine, following him out of the bathroom anyway. “This is mean.”

“I offered to take you home,” Jack snaps, clearly annoyed with you for making any attempts to help much harder than necessary.

Sighing you follow him outside, the cold night air feeling refreshing to your nightclub-induced clammy skin. “I’m scared, Jack,” you whisper, standing next to him on the sidewalk.

“Why?”

“He hates me-.”

“He’s picking you up drunk at two in the morning, he doesn’t hate you.”

“Yes, he does,” you repeat. “He hates me but he’s nice a good guy and he’s just coming to pick me up because he’s not a shitty person and I-.”

“Shut up,” Jack groans. “Yeah, he’s a nice guy or whatever but he’s not nice enough to get out of bed and come here to take care of you if he doesn’t still like you.”

Just as Jack finished his sentence a familiar car pulls up along the side of the road. Quickly Jack yanks the passenger’s side door open. “Good luck,” he tells Nico as he guides you into the car.

“You okay?” Nico asks as you pull your seatbelt on, refusing to look across the car at him.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you mutter, eyes focusing out the side window, small raindrops beginning to splatter onto the clear glass. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Of course I did,” Nico states and you can tell he’s glancing at you when he says it. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to either though,” he clarifies.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, finally glancing over at him. "I'm sorry for making this so hard, I'm sorry I can't be who you want me to be right now, I like you so much Nico but I just can't be with you right now."

"It's okay," Nico tells you, his own voice greatly contrasting your unsteady, high-pitched tone. "I'm not going to push anything, if you want me around I'll be here. I'll wait for you."

January 2023

New Year's Eve. It was the one holiday that you seemed to never have a single tradition for. You had spent your New Year's Eve in a new location every year, from your bedroom to house parties to bars. This year though it was going to spent at a nightclub. A nightclub with as many friends as you could possibly wrangle into spending their night’s in a sweaty, loud, sticky nightclub downtown…including Nico.

You had gotten to Jack’s place just after eight, having spent the better part of three hours getting ready with your best friends at your apartment. You had to admit though, the time paid off, your outfit giving you an almost dangerous amount of confidence.

“Where’s Nico?” you ask Jack, watching him pour another round of shots.

You watch Jack’s lips curl into a teasing smirk, glancing at you for a second before returning to his bartending role. “Very interested in him for not being with him.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, taking a sip of your vodka soda. “I’m just curious, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Here,” Jack states, handing you a shot glass, filled to the brim with tequila. As you reach to take the shot glass he pulls it away, holding it out of your reach. “You have to promise that you’re not going to end up puking and crying about him tonight.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter, reaching over and taking the shot glass from his hand, quickly dumping it into your mouth. You force the liquid down your throat with a wince, shuddering as you set the empty glass down onto the counter.

“If I hear you say you’re not feeling good I will be finding someone else to take care of you.”

“I’ve never been that drunk in my life before, Jack. Stop acting like it happens frequently,” you whine.

Jack chuckles, opening another beer. “You’re still that embarrassed about it, hey?”

“It was embarrassing,” you exclaim, glancing around the apartment, your interest piquing as your eyes sweep by the front door. Looking back you see Nico, struggling to yank his jacket off while holding a case of beer in one hand. “I’ll be right back,” you mutter to Jack, hurrying over to the door. “Need some help?” you ask Nico, taking the beer from his hand to let him take his jacket off.

“Thanks,” he says with a chuckle, balancing his coat on a stack over a hook on the wall. He turns his attention back you, his eyes gazing up and down your body. “You look hot,” he comments.

You can’t help but giggle at his comment, your cheeks reddening. “Well it took me long enough to get ready so I’m glad I got something out of it.” Turning around you head towards the kitchen with Nico’s beer.

Nico has his hands on your hips, stopping you in your tracks a moment later. “You can get anything you want looking like that,” Nico whispers.

Your breath catches in your throat, your back hitting Nico’s chest as you come to a stop. “It’s nine, Nico. We’ve got at least three more hours to go.”

“And?” Nico mumbles.

Giggling you lean back into him, tipping your head back to look up at him. “And if you keep this up I won’t be able to make it till midnight without trying to get you back to my place.”

Nico chuckles, his hand slipping around to your ass as he moves to walk towards the kitchen. Your cheeks warm even further at the contact, watching him take the beer from you, unloading a few of them into Jack’s fridge.

By the time you get to the club that night you’re a little more than tipsy, knowing you wouldn’t need to spend much money at the bar that night. The night had started with a lot of flirting between you and Nico, but once you arrived at the club you found yourself swept away with a few of your other friends.

Before you knew it you were standing in a group with just a couple of your friends and quite a few men you had never met before. There’s a man standing next to you who had his hands on you more than was accidental. A hand on your back as he squeezed by to order another drink, fingers brushing against yours, body pressing to yours while he leaned in to try to hear something someone said. You didn’t dislike it, you knew he was flirting with you and part of you was enthralled by that, by the attention. But every time it happened your mind would find its way back to Nico.

“Let’s get you another drink,” Peter, who you had just discovered the name of, says.

Your eyes glance down at your empty drink before letting him guide you to the bar with his hand on your waist. You order your drink and Peter pulls out his wallet. The two of you make small talk while you sip on your new drink. He was attractive, you had to admit that. But that’s about where it stopped. There was nothing about his personality that enticed you, but selfishly you did like the attention.

But you’re not able to see where things would go with him because the next thing you know Nico is pushing his way through the crowd to be at your side.

“What are you doing?” Nico asks you, not even acknowledging the man you were talking to.

Shrugging your shoulders your eyes flick back and forth from Nico to Peter and back to Nico. “What do you mean?”

Nico shakes his head with a cold chuckle, reaching down and taking your hand. “Come on, you’re done here.”

“Nico,” you whisper, eyes drilling into his. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t,” Nico mutters, shaking his head. “You know what I’m talking about, let’s go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you state definitively, staring into his eyes as you match his intensity.

“What’s going on?” Peter interjects, catching both you and Nico’s attention.

“I think you should go,” Nico tells him before you have a chance to get a single word in.

“Why?” Peter asks with a cold chuckle. “She clearly isn’t interested in you, why would I go anywhere?”

You don’t even process what’s happening till Peter is stumbling backwards, hand on his jaw where Nico’s fist had just met with it. Thankfully a bouncer pulls Peter back before he can retaliate, Nico frozen in place, just as stunned by his actions as everyone else in that club.

You weren’t happy with Nico’s actions but you turn towards him anyway, grasping his arms a second later. “What the hell?” you exclaim, frantic eyes searching his for any type of answer.

Before Nico has a chance to say anything a bouncer is at his side, nodding towards the door. “You gotta go.”

“I-,” Nico begins before turning in the direction of the door, knowing he wasn’t going to argue his way out of this one.

You watch the bouncer guiding Nico towards the door, realizing you weren’t also being kicked out. You didn’t need to go. You could stay, you could keep drinking, celebrate New Years in this club. But the further and further Nico got with the bouncer the more uneasy you felt. So you let your legs carry you through the club and out the front door, into the freezing night air with Nico.

“Nico,” you call as you watch him walking away from the club, clearly with no real destination in mind.

“What?” Nico snaps, turning back around to look at you. “What do you want?”

“You’re really mad at me right now?” you yell, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to keep yourself warm.

“Yes,” Nico exclaims. “Are you serious right now?”

“I’m not your girlfriend, Nico.”

Nico shakes his head, laughing coldly. “I guess not,” Nico yells. “But whatever, it doesn’t matter anymore, I’m fucking done with this, I’m done with you.”

“Nico,” you mumble, walking closer to him, hoping something, anything you would say could convince him that it wasn’t that serious. “Please don’t say that.”

“No, I’m over this, I’m not going to keep fighting for you if you don’t give a fuck about me.”

“I do care about you,” you yell back at him, your voice hoarse and shaky. “I care about you so much, Nico, you don’t even know.”

“If you cared about me you wouldn’t be trying to fuck other guys right in front of me.”

“I-,” you begin, realizing you didn’t even know what your justification was about to be. Because, to be honest, you didn’t have one. “I’m sorry,” you finally croak.

“Just go back inside, I don’t fucking care,” Nico mutters, slurred words finally giving away his drunken state.

“I do,” you yell, walking closer to him. “I don’t want to go back inside, Nico. I don’t want to leave you…I do care.”

“Why?” Nico snaps, staring down at you intently now that you were standing just a foot in front of him.

“Because I love you,” you exclaim, the words leaving your mouth before you even had a chance to process them.

“Then don’t try to fuck other people,” Nico mutters, sliding his jacket off his arms now that you were close enough for him to realize you were shaking, gently placing it over your shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, tears welling in your eyes. You slip your arms into his jacket, tugging it tight around your body. “Please, I can’t lose you. I don’t want to be with him, I don’t want to be with anyone else. I want you.”

Nico steps back, taking a deep breath as he looks around the night sky for a minute. “Okay,” Nico mutters and you’re sure it’s more to himself than to you. “Do you want to go back in?”

“I’m not leaving you,” you tell him.

“It’s New Years, go be with your friends, I’m the one who fucked up.”

“No, you didn’t,” you whisper. “I mean, I don’t think you should have punched him but I’m not letting you take all the blame for this...Do you want to come over to my place?”

“Okay…sure, yeah, if that’s what you want to do,” Nico says, reaching over and pulling you into him, rubbing his hand along your arm, trying to warm you up.

So the two of you head back to your apartment, spending the rest of New Year's Eve together, just the two of you and a bottle of champagne.

It wasn’t the New Year's Eve you were expecting. It wasn’t necessarily the New Year's Eve you wanted, but maybe it was the New Year's Eve you needed. The wake up call that you had gone far beyond just friends with benefits. Even if you weren’t ready to accept it.

February 2023

Things had changed after the New Year's Eve incident. Neither of you had verbally talked about what had changed but you both knew it had. It was the second time you told him you loved him. The second time neither of you acknowledged it after it happened. I don’t want to be with anyone else. Your words had continued echoing in your mind and you knew you should deal with those thoughts, those feelings.

But you didn’t.

Maybe you really wanted to keep your commitment to yourself, to not get into a relationship till you had graduated. Maybe you were scared to take that step. Maybe you were embarrassed to ask for that after pushing it away for so long.

So you fell back into the routine you had before. Frequent dates and spending most of your time together in between. It was different, yet the routines remained the same for months.

June 2023

“I need a date to the awards ceremony,” Nico says, referring to the NHL Awards that were approaching quickly.

“I don’t think you need a date,” you reply, looking up over the top of your phone to the other end of the couch, where Nico was sitting.

“Okay…I want a date for the awards,” Nico tells you, reframing his statement.

“Okay,” you mutter, accepting his rephrased sentence.

“Are you going to come with me?”

“No,” you mumble, sitting up straighter on the couch.

“Why not?”

Rolling your eyes you lock your phone, tossing it down next to you. “Nico, you know why. I’m not your girlfriend.”

“This is a big deal for me,” Nico exclaims, clearly already knowing you were going to put up a fight about this. “Just come with me as a friend then.”

“You don’t bring just a friend to that kind of event. I know that much,” you tell him.

Suddenly Nico is on his feet, pacing the length of your living room, making it halfway back before throwing his hands up in defeat. “You can’t just be there for me, support me, even once. I’m getting tired of this…whatever this is.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, his words hitting you hard. “I do, I do want to support, I promise.”

Just three days later you’re standing in a fitting room, pulling a dress onto your body. Stepping out of the room your eyes land on Nico, waiting for his reaction to this one. It was the fifth dress you had tried on, Nico telling you he liked all of them.

“I like it,” Nico says, his eyes roaming over your body.

Groaning loudly you turn towards the mirror, adjusting the dress slightly. “Why’d you even insist on coming if you’re not going to give me any input?”

“Because I’m buying it for you,” Nico tells you in a matter-of-fact tone.

“No, you’re not,” you tell him, though it would be pretty helpful for your grad student budget.

“I’m not arguing with you about this.”

“Me neither,” you reply, stepping back into the fitting room to try on another one.

Eventually you narrow it down enough that Nico finally gives his input, once he was simply picking between two dresses. At the till you try to pull your wallet out, Nico’s hand landing on your hands.

“I’m not letting you pay for it, Nico,” you whisper, trying to keep your disagreement out of ear shot of the sales attendant.

“Yes, you are. It doesn’t have to mean whatever you’re thinking, just let me buy the fucking dress,” Nico mutters, his voice carrying an unusually stern tone.

“Okay,” you whisper, eyes widening, stepping back as you watch Nico pull his wallet out and pay for the dress. He carries the bag for you, silence falling between you until you were outside, away from the sanctity of the boutique.

“What’s your problem?” you snap, standing next to Nico’s car, watching him set the bag down into the backseat.

“What?” Nico asks with a loud sigh, slamming the car door a little harder than necessary.

“I don’t know...you’re mad at me for not dating you and-.”

“I’m not mad at you for not dating me,” Nico interrupts. “I’m mad that we are dating and you refuse to admit it.”

“We’re not together,” you state definitively, arms crossed over your chest.

“Okay, whatever, then this is done,” Nico mutters, shaking his head. “Get in the car.”

“I want to go home,” you tell him, yanking the car door open.

“Well that’s where I’m taking you,” Nico grumbles, sliding into the driver’s seat of the car.

The drive back to your apartment is silent, your eyes focused directly ahead of you, the drive seeming longer than you had remembered. Nico pulls into the parking lot, turning the car around so that your side of the car was facing the door, something he had done since the first time he dropped you off at home. Opening the door you slip out, glancing back to find Nico handing you the bag with the dress.

“I don’t want the fucking dress, Nico. I’m not doing this anymore.”

He nods slowly, your words sinking in. “Well what am I going to do with it? Just take it.”

Sighing you reach over, taking the bag from him, knowing it would be easier than continuing to argue about it. “Alright, well,” you mutter, glancing around. “Goodbye…I guess.”

“Bye,” Nico replies, voice strained, eyes barely meeting yours.

You shut the door slowly, walk into your apartment even slower, knowing that if you really did leave it like that it was a big statement. A big statement you weren’t even sure you wanted to be making. But you keep going, till you’re up in your apartment and your eyes are filling with tears.

Your best friend Liv is at your apartment shortly after you tell her what had happened, with a couple bottles of wine and take-out.

“I just don’t get it,” Liv says, sitting on the couch with half a glass of red wine in her hand. “You like him, you two are always together, going on dates. Why won’t you just let him in? Make it official?”

Shrugging you swirl the wine around in your glass, swallowing heavily as another round of tears form in your eyes. “Because I said I wouldn’t, Liv. I promised myself, I would experience things, I would figure myself out before getting into a real relationship.”

“But you’re not doing that,” Liv points out. “You keep saying you don’t want anything serious but you’ve been, what, casually dating this guy for like a year and a half? When’s the last time you went on a date with anyone else?”

Shrugging you try to think back, try to remember the last time you actually even seriously entertained the idea of a date with another man. “I don’t know, last year, I guess.”

“When’s the last time you hooked up with anyone other than him?”

“Liv, I don’t know. It’s been awhile, I get it,” you exclaim, sighing loudly. “I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?” Liv asks, voice gentle and reassuring despite your outburst. “You’ve always been scared of getting hurt. But if you don’t let yourself be with someone you’re never going to even have the opportunity for what else could happen.”

“No,” you whisper, wiping away a few tears that had pooled under your eyes. “I��m scared that I pushed him away…for good this time.”

Liv reaches over, placing her hand on your leg. “You’ve been doing this for a year, I don’t think this has to be the last time…if you’re actually going to let him in this time. But if you’re not, if you’re still not ready, maybe it should be for good.”

Liv stays with you for most of the night, watching reality tv and finishing off the wine she had brought over. You didn’t talk much more about Nico, wanting to get your mind off of the situation for awhile, to let yourself calm down.

You contemplated reaching out to Nico. From hours after to days after. But you didn’t know what to say and he wasn’t saying anything either. So you didn’t say anything at all, till you were only a couple days away from the NHL Awards and all you could think about was Nico telling you that he wanted you to be there to support him.

Pulling your phone out you scroll through your contacts, finding the one you were looking for and pressing the call button.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Hey, um, if I book a flight to Nashville and a hotel and everything can you bring me with you on Monday?”

“To the awards?”

“Yeah.”

“No. What the hell? You’ve been fucking with Nico’s feelings for so long and now you’re going to try to come with me instead?”

“No, that’s not what I mean, Jack,” you mumble, tears welling in your eyes. “I just…I want to be there for him, I can’t miss it, Jack, I can’t. I fucked up, I know I’ve been a shitty person to him and I don’t know how I can change that but I need to see him and I need him to know that I care and I don’t want to lose him and-.”

“Okay,” Jack exclaims, cutting you off. “Holy shit, yeah, okay, you can come. Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, pulling your knees to your chest, staring across the living room at the dark TV, your reflection looking back at you. “I love him, Jack.”

“But you don’t want to be with him.”

“I do.”

“You need to tell him that then. I’ll text you later, okay?”

“Thank you, Jack.”

“Of course. But you really need to figure this out with him because I can’t handle being in the middle of you two fighting.”

“I will.”

You woke up extra early the morning of the awards. Not on purpose, you had an entire day to get ready. But you were too anxious to stay asleep. So you pulled yourself out of bed and tried to spread out the process of getting ready through the day so you wouldn’t have much time to ruminate on everything alone in the quiet hotel room.

Finally you’re heading down the elevator after what felt like the longest day of your life to meet Jack out front on the way to the arena.

“You look good,” Jack tells you as you pull your seatbelt on, adjusting your dress.

“Thanks,” you whisper, your mind so preoccupied with Nico that you were barely registering anything that was happening around you.

When you get to the venue your stomach is churning with so much anxiety you begin to worry you might throw up. “I don’t know what to say to him,” you admit as you walk next to him.

“Sorry might be a good start.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, more to yourself than to anyone else. You force a few deep breaths into your lungs as you follow Jack, till you’re standing just a few feet away from Nico. When your eyes meet you can visibly see the confusion flash across his face, eyes darting between you and Jack.

“What?” Nico begins, Jack stepping back as he says it.

“I’m not getting in the middle of this,” Jack says, hurrying off in the other direction to leave you alone with Nico.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice shaky. “I’m so sorry, Nico. I shouldn’t have pushed you away so much. And maybe this is too little, too late, I don’t know, but I want to be here for you. You can tell me to go, I understand if you don’t want me here.”

“Of course I want you here,” Nico tells you, reaching over and taking your hand, tugging you closer. “I just can’t keep doing this. I want to be with you, I want this to be real and if not-.”

“I want that too,” you whisper, shaky fingers clutching at Nico’s arms.

“What? Why? Why now?” Nico asks, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Because I realized how stupid I’ve been. I was scared, I was holding onto this idea that I needed to figure something out before I let myself get into a relationship,” you tell him, trying so hard to come up with words that would explain everything, make everything okay. “I was waiting for something, some revelation or something, but I don’t even know what I was waiting for because I don’t want anything else, I just want to be with you and I’m sorry that I didn’t just accept that earlier. I shouldn’t have made you wait like this.”

Nico nods as he listens to your rambling explanation, watching your eyes welling with tears. When you finish talking Nico pulls you into him, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “I would have waited as long as you needed.”

Sniffling you pull back, wiping away the tears from your eyes before they could roll onto your cheeks. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be crying like this,” you say with nervous laugh. “I, um, I don’t know what to do now…we’re here to celebrate you, how…where…what happens now?”

Nico chuckles quietly, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours gently. “Just stay with me, you don’t need to worry about anything else.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, taking Nico’s hand in yours, moving to his side. “I love you,” you whisper.

Nico glances down at you, his lips curling into a smile. “I love you too.”

#nico hischier #nico hischier imagine #nico hischier fic #nhl fanfiction #nhl one shot #nhl imagines #nhl fanfic #nhl fic #hockey fanfic #hockey fic #hockey fanfiction #hockey imagines

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haikyuuhoo · 7 months

Text

Writing this simply because today is my birthday and I wanted to be selfish. Also it’s unedited bc I just got home and now I’m gonna go eat dinner <3

You let out a heavy breath as you step over the threshold into your apartment, your shoulders already aching from the weight of carrying around your backpack full of books all day. You drop your keys on the table by your front door and start to remove your bag.

It’s only Monday and you already feel exhausted just from the anticipation of the upcoming week. That, and the fact that the night before you’d gone out to dinner with a group of your friends to celebrate your birthday. Technically your birthday was today, but you were all so busy during the week that it was a hassle to be able to get everyone together at once. Plus, you never really cared all that much about celebrating your birthday, so you didn’t mind the fact that your only plans for tonight were to curl up on your couch with the book you’ve been reading. Really, it sounded like the perfect night in.

You start to head to your bedroom, ready to change into some more comfortable clothes, but movement in your kitchen catches your eye. Your heart nearly stops beating before you register the shock of white hair disappearing behind your pantry door. “Satoru?” you breathe, taking a step in the opposite direction you’d just been intending to go.

Your boyfriend peeks his head back out, and you catch the glint of his eyes over his sunglasses as he smiles at you. “Oh, you’re home already, traffic must’ve been light today!”

Your backpack falls to the floor with a thud as you rush over to him, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug. The little “oof” that Satoru lets out makes your heart flutter—the subconscious dropping of his infinity around you is never subconscious to you. “What are you doing here?” The words are muffled against his shoulder, and you feel yourself melt as he raises a hand to cradle the back of your head and pull you impossibly closer to him.

Gojo had been away for the past two weeks on missions and business, and wasn’t due to come back for another six days. It had momentarily saddened you that he wasn’t able to join you and your friends for dinner the night before, especially with how busy the two of you had been between him always away on missions and you always busy with grad school, but once you were there and enjoying the night it was out of your mind—plus, the money he’d Venmoed you to cover your bill more than made up for it.

“It’s your birthday, did you really think I was gonna miss it?”

You tilt your head back to look up at him, bringing your hands up to cup his cheeks. “But you’re supposed to be working,” you scold. “You know I don’t care when we celebrate.”

“And you know that I do.” He grins down at you. In the three years you had been dating, Satoru hadn’t let your birthday go by without doing something the day of, even if the proper celebration was moved to a more convenient time. “Now go get changed. I was trying to find something to make you dinner, but it looks like you haven’t gotten groceries in weeks.”

You feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as you pull back slightly. “I know, I’ve just been—“

“—busy,” he hums and leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “I know. I’ll just order something from that place you like and we can watch a movie or something. That sound okay?”

Your shoulders drop, some of the tension from the day fading away. “That sounds perfect,” you whisper, and you close the distance between you two to kiss him again.

Gojo’s hands drop to your waist, pulling you flush against him as your hands slip up into his hair.

“I’ve missed you,” you murmur.

Gojo leans his forehead against yours. “I’ve missed you too. ‘S why I couldn’t miss this.”

You smile, pressing one more quick kiss to his lips before pulling away to go change.

Gojo quickly places a delivery order for dinner before he waltzes over to your bedroom—it doesn’t even take him ten steps to cross the distance of your one-bedroom apartment—and leans against the doorframe.

“Admiring the view?” you tease as you pull a t-shirt over your head, your favorite pair of sweats already on as you turn to face him.

“Mmm, I was beginning to forget what it looked like,” he drawls.

You scoff and grab his hand, pulling him with you toward the couch. “Those pictures I sent you yesterday say otherwise.”

The grin that spreads over Gojo’s face is nearly blinding. “And I should’ve asked for more of them.” He stops walking, tugging you back against him and burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You looked so good, baby.” He presses kisses down your shoulder, and you can nearly feel him frown against you as he notices the tension there.

“I’m fine,” you insist before he can say anything, and you move away to go sit on the couch.

“Can’t believe they make you have so many books,” he huffs as he picks up your backpack from where you’d let it fall, instead setting it on the chair at the table where you normally do your homework.

You shrug, grabbing the remote and beginning to look for a movie for you two to watch. “How are those big textbook companies ever gonna make any money if they don’t make a new edition each year and force you to buy it instead of allowing you to get it cheaper from someone who took that class last year?” you quip, making Gojo snort as he sits next to you.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, not even paying attention to the options on the screen as he lets his gaze settle on your face.

“You should let me give you a massage,” he says after a few minutes of silent scrolling, and you raise your eyebrows.

“Dinner and a massage? Gojo Satoru, you might just be giving me the best birthday yet,” you tease with a smile.

And he grins in return. “And I’m not done yet. Plus, who’s to say there’s nothing in it for me? I can’t very well give you a massage with your shirt on can I?”

The laugh you let out makes Gojo’s heart soar, and he brushes his fingers against the bare skin of your bicep as he watches you.

“You leave for two weeks and revert back to a desperate horny teenager, huh?”

“Emphasis on the desperate,” he says as he lifts you up in a fluid motion, carrying you back to your bedroom as your laughter fills the apartment.

Later, when you’re sitting between Gojo’s legs and eating dinner while you watch the movie you both picked, you tilt your head back to look up at him. “Thank you for coming home,” you whisper. It’s dark and you can’t see his eyes through his sunglasses, but you keep your gaze locked there anyway, feeling the way his eyes shift to look down at you.

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “No need to thank me. I’ll come home every year,” he promises, and you know by the way that he squeezes your hand that he means it.

#this is probably trash lol there was barely any effort put in to make it coherent it was simply vibes #literally the best birthday present would be Gojo Satoru standing in my kitchen but I don’t wanna be greedy #gojo fluff #gojo x reader #Gojo Satoru x reader #Gojo Satoru fluff #Gojo Satoru #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #my writing <3

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elisela · 5 months

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an introvert's guide to falling in love on thanksgiving derek x stiles, g, fluff, thanksgiving, 1.6k for @nerdy-stilinski ... just barely getting this up in time haha

It’s not that Derek doesn’t like being charitable; it’s that Derek doesn’t like people. What he does like is cooking, which is why, every Thanksgiving morning since high school, he’s found a reason to make himself useful in the kitchen and just …. not leave.

All day.

Slowly, throughout college and grad school, he was put in charge of more and more of the meal, until the only thing he wasn’t responsible for was the appetizers his mother set out early and kept refreshing throughout the day. He has his timeline down to a science at this point, though the menu has evolved over the years to keep up with the guests his mother invites and the new additions always necessitate some last-minute juggling. He starts with the soups a full week in advance; butternut squash and split pea, made in huge proportions and kept frozen until the night before. Same with the gravy, though he’ll add in drippings for extra flavor just before it’s served. He preps the casseroles the day before and lets them sit until the morning, bakes at least half a dozen pies, and usually goes to bed the night before already exhausted for what’s to come.

But as tiring as it all is, he’ll gladly do it when the alternative is mixing with a bunch of college students he doesn’t know, all of whom don’t have another place to go for the holidays. The kitchen, at least, is his refuge.

A refuge that’s invaded far too quickly the next morning.

He hears the humming first; he’s been able to tune out most of the conversations since he was a teenager, though the more repetitive and annoying noises tend to break through occasionally. And while the humming is definitely repetitive, it doesn’t alarm him until it gets closer, closer, and abruptly turns into a low whistle at the threshold of the kitchen.

Derek grits his teeth and reminds himself that while charity is important to his mother, genuine kindness is more so, and she won’t hesitate to voice any disappointment.

“Does the cooking or the clean-up take longer?” a voice asks, followed shortly by footsteps.

“Not sure,” Derek says, wincing when the potato peeler slips and cuts into his finger. He flips the water on with his wrist, hopefully hiding the blood from sight until his skin knits itself back together seconds later. “My sisters are in charge of cleaning.”

There’s laughter from behind him, and the sound of the wooden spoon he’d been using to brown the butter as it clinks against the pot. “So it doesn’t matter much to you is what I’m getting out of that.”

Derek feels his lips quirk up, despite his reluctance to have his space invaded. “If there’s a single clean dish in this kitchen at the end of the day I’ve failed.” This time, when he hears laughter, he turns around to look at the source of it and almost immediately wishes he hadn’t. If there’s anything that makes Derek a little weak in the knees, it’s pale skin and big, dark eyes, and he looks away before he can take the man in fully and find even more appealing details.

“Need any help getting dirtying them up?” the guy asks. Derek’s about to decline—politely, of course, or God help him if his mother overhears—but then he adds, “Because to be honest it’s kind of awkward being out there, I’m pretty sure everyone knows each other? There are groups, at least, and I was supposed to come with my buddy because we decided it was a Christmas-only trip home this year, only his girlfriend invited him to Tahoe literally this morning and he didn’t tell me until I got here and it also felt awkward to leave, so …”

Derek starts peeling the potatoes again and tells himself to stay strong, but he can feel his resolve crumbling. “I don’t really need much help,” he says; a weak protest, but still true. He does so much of the prep ahead of time that it’s really just managing the timing of it all. The disappointment that radiates from the man is so palpable that Derek caves almost immediately. “But you can cube the potatoes, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, anything,” he hears, and then, “I’m Stiles, by the way.”

Stiles … doesn’t shut up. He talks as he cuts the potatoes in a way that makes Derek think he’s going to lose a finger by the end of the night, an abbreviated life story that gives just enough details to get Derek interested in hearing more. But for every small fact about himself he gives out he asks at least three questions of Derek, everything from his middle name to the first flavor of ice cream he’d ever considered his favorite, and Derek finds himself talking much more than he does to anyone he’s ever met. He doesn’t even realize he’s answering the questions until suddenly they’re knee-deep in an argument over the relative merits of the Wildcat formation and he realizes he’s ignored the timer on the oven going off for a solid two minutes while he details his very short college football career.

“So how’d you get stuck with all the cooking?” Stiles asks hours later, just as Derek’s pulling the turkey out of the oven to rest. He’s holding a casserole dish in his hands and although his body is still, he also seems to be vibrating with energy. “I’m just assuming this isn’t the first time because you seem to have everything under control, whereas I would have probably burned the turkey to get it to cook faster and forgotten like, the rolls or something.”

Derek pauses, still holding on to the roasting pan with both hands. The words send a jolt of adrenaline through him—not the good type, not the type that comes with elation or something equally serotonin-boosting—but dread, and a mild sense of panic.

He couldn’t have forgotten the rolls. He gets the frozen type, bags and bags of them, because once they defrost and rise they only take a few minutes to bake. It’s the last thing he does every year; he takes the casseroles out of the oven and puts four cookie sheets worth of rolls in, and by the time they’re done everything else is on the table.

“I forgot the rolls,” he says, letting go of the roasting pan and twisting to look at the island, where the shelf he typically keeps the cookie sheets on is depressingly empty. His heart feels like it’s sinking, even though he knows at the same time that there’s plenty of food and it’s not such a big deal. “I forgot to take them out.”

The oven door closes, pulling him out of his head, and Stiles taps at the buttons to set the timer. “I can grab them. Where are they?”

“In the freezer,” Derek says, probably too short, because Stiles raises an eyebrow in response. “Fuck, I never took them out. They take hours to rise, it’s too late. Shit.”

“So we go without,” Stiles says, shrugging. “If anyone complains, kick them out.”

He can’t keep himself from frowning. It’s such a simple, little thing, and he tends to get stuck on those at times and the unsettled feeling in his chest can stick around for hours. But then Stiles moves into his line of sight and reaches out, hand closing around his shoulder. “You’re cute when you’re upset,” he says, and grins even though a faint blush appears on his cheeks. “It’s not rolls, but I can make biscuits pretty quick if you’ve got flour and extra butter.”

Some of the pressure lifts off his chest. “Flour’s in the pantry,” he says, and Stiles nods once and turns around, further discussion not needed. Derek still needs to assemble the salads, but he takes a moment to find a clean mixing bowl and the pastry cutter so Stiles can get to work. It takes longer than the rolls would have, but everything is still hot when they come out of the oven, and he can’t even bring himself to care that his sisters will definitely make fun of him for messing up when Stiles breaks off a piece of a biscuit and holds it out for Derek to try.

They’re simple, but good—but even better is the way that Stiles kisses him back when Derek pulls him in, a little overwhelmed by the way the day turned out so differently than he had expected, but grateful.

“Thanks for that,” he says, quietly, when they part, gesturing to the basket Stiles had just piled all the biscuits into. “And everything else.”

“Thanks for letting me hide in here all day,” Stiles says with a grin. “Do you have to stick around for a while after dinner, or can I convince you to get late-night ice cream with me?”

“I could be convinced,” Derek says, picking up the last of the casserole dishes to bring to the table, “but I could also just forget to bring out that cherry pie you’ve been looking at all day and we could keep hiding.”

“Hiding’s good,” Stiles says quickly. “Hiding is great, let’s do that. Just not in here where I assume your sisters will be cursing our names as they clean, so—my place isn’t that far, if you wanna just … hide there. Instead. With the pie. You know, we could always get ice cream to go with the pie, that’s probably the best decision. Do people do a la mode with cherry pie?”

Derek shakes his head and grins, and uses his elbow to urge Stiles in front of him; they’ve only known each other a few hours, but he knows well how easily he can get distracted. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go get this over with and we can find out.”

#sterek #fic #thanksgiving #fluff #eli writes #legit thought of this around 8:30 and started writing it around 10 #just needed to write thanksgiving fluff i guess!

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rosewaterandivy · 9 months

Text

fightin' to get better

modern!eddie x f!reader

summary: eddie does his damndest to get us out of the study to take a frickin' break.

a/n: My blog is 18 +, minors DNI; purely self-indulgent smut and prosaic idolatry here, my usual brand of filth.

🎶 ooh, let you slide up your hand, uh oh, let go all of my plans 🎶

Grad school could suck a dick. A whole bag of ‘em as far as you were concerned. The entirety of your summer had been taken up by this final class— a subject you loved, but far too much reading and work assigned for the condensed semester.

Eddie thought so too.

The man was quick to chime in when you’d had a glass of wine or two and finally extricated yourself from the front room you’d claimed as an office. Couldn’t understand how you would be complaining one minute and then the second he adds his two cents, you’re defending the professor in question.

But then again, you’d always been tender-hearted.

Which more than explained your penchant for collecting strays, present company excluded, naturally.

“That’s it,” he says, fingers working to peel the damp label from the beer bottle. “First thing tomorrow, I’m gettin’ on the horn with this so-called professor.”

“Eddieeee,” you whine, lips falling into a pout. “Don’t do that.”

He leans into it really playing it up, an eye roll and scoff combo, head inclining to rest on your shoulder as he falls on you dramatically.

“Can’t have my best girl pulling all-nighters every other week.”

His voice was softer, not laced with his typical jocular tone. The bright images of the screen dance across your faces in the cool room. Eddie settles against you, warm breath fanning across your chest and neck.

He can see the subtle dark hues beneath your eyes, hates the evidence of your sleepless nights spent in front of the computer, nose buried in a book.

“I know,” you rasp after a beat or two. “I’ll get better baby, I promise. S’just a few more weeks and then I’m army-crawling to the finish line.”

He cracks a smile, unable to hide his elation at your accomplishment— at you.

Eddie Munson and his genius girlfriend, who would’ve thought?

—

So it really shouldn’t be a surprise a week or two later when Eddie wanders into the study to find you up at all hours of the night. Again.

“Babe—”

“Jesus Christ!” You jolt in your chair, startled by the sound, and slowly swivel toward him. A deep breath once you realize who it is, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room.

And, sure enough, your boyfriend is standing there wiping the sleep from his eyes, sporting his Suspiria sweats and looking entirely displeased.

“God Eds, make a noise! You’re like Ruth Gordon just standing there with a tannis root.”

He crosses his arms with a sign, ignoring your barb. Ruth Gordon, with her blue eye shadow and head scarf? Puh-leeze.

“You said you’d be ten minutes.”

You shudder at the timbre of his voice— raspy and low, hitting the sweet spot that sends heat rushing to your core.

“Shit, I’m sorry, babe.”

Glasses discarded and hair askew, you sigh catching the time and start to pack it in for the night.

Eddie is surprisingly quick for someone snatched from sleep and dreaming, he turns your chair away from the desk and fixes you with a look.

The penetrating kind, where he squints and tilts his head like he just can’t figure you out. And yeah, he’s never really understood academia or why the books you’ve had to buy are always so damn expensive. But he does his best to support you, reminds you to eat and sleep more than he’d like because you have the tendency of getting too caught up and distracted.

His gaze softens, “C’mere pretty girl.”

Eddie picks you up and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, despite your protests. Smacks your ass for good measure.

“M’gonna fall!”

“No, you aren’t,” he tuts, “Such a drama queen.”

He barrels through the dark house only to deposit you in the dimly lit bathroom. A shaft of light eeks in from a partially opened closet door, candles flickering on countertops catching their reflections in the mirror.

Right side up again, you pause and take a look around. The bathtub is filling up, bubbles growing in soft peaks of foam, and a bath bomb fizzles away, painting the water in candy-colored hues.

There’s a glass of wine and another of ice water, sweating against the ledge of the tub. An iPad propped up in the corner, your favorite show cued up and ready to go.

“Baby,” you say, turning back to him, voice barely above a whisper. “What is all this?”

He takes a step toward you, the slightest inclination of his chin prompting your hands to rise above your head. Eddie’s nimble fingers find the hem of your shirt and tug it upwards, soft fabric brushing against your skin only to be kissed with damp heat.

“Jus’ wanna take care of you,” he says simply, quietly. As if he’d rather do nothing else.

“Oh.”

His fingers alight on the waist of your shorts, thumbs hooking in and pulling down.

“Hmm.” He says, kneeling in front of you, brow quirked and eyes seeking yours. “Feelin’ lucky today or—"

The heat rises in your chest and neck, hands flying to cover your face while he lazily peruses your bare form.

Not so much luck as it was sheer exhaustion that informed your sartorial choices and distinct lack of underwear today, but you’ll take what you can get.

His breath ghosts along your thighs, muscles tightening inadvertently, the coil in your stomach winding taut.

As you step out of the shorts, Eddie turns off the faucet and herds you back against the sink. A brief lift and you're sitting on the countertop, legs splayed, head falling against the cool mirror behind you.

Eddie buries his head between your legs, and smothers praises between your thighs.

Eddie's pretty sentimental with oral— kissing, kissing, kissing— can't stop his lips from meandering, can't stop his mouth from savoring. He noses against your slit, tongue darting out to taste. A low rumble ripped from his chest as the slick muscle works against your petaled heat, savoring the arousal gathered there.

He gets dizzy off it. Selfish for it. It all goes to his head— whimpers and moans falling from your candy-pink mouth, a prolonged whine of his name.

Left, then right, back over again. Drowsy roaming paths, curving and bending, pleased when you arch into his mouth, forever wanting more. Licks you for hours like you’re the last bit of sweetness in the world, savors it long and lazy and delicate.

"Sweetheart," he sighs, pulling away briefly. Lips ruddy and wet with your slick, smiling slow and dangerous, “You’re fucking delicious, baby.”

You moan on his clever tongue and the sloppy sounds he makes. He's always stunning— eager and devoted to the singular task of lapping at you like a starved man.

Two fingers twist inside before he turns them back and shoves them in his own mouth. He repeats this again and again, like pulling a secret from your body that only he’s allowed to enjoy.

“Yes,” he sighs, “Fuck yes. Fuck—mmm—"

It's as if you're on the precipice of a coming storm, pressure building, and rising, too, in your belly, as he works into your body, heavy-lidded and transfixed on your beautiful face. Deeper until you’re shaking, pulling your legs up over his shoulders, getting him closer, closer, closer.

Your toes curl.

"Eddie—"

You shatter like a splinter of lightning. It bursts across your skin—a bright, brief halo—before it’s gone, chased by the explosion of swollen clouds. He muffles a loud fuck! into the meat of your ass, while his fingers continue to corkscrew inside of you.

He's wet down to his wrist, coaxing vestiges of arousal from you, and rises to kiss your open, panting mouth, your exposed throat. Eddie's lips turned wicked and desperate when he asks, "Think you can gimme another one?"

Nodding dumbly, bath and freshly laundered sheets completely forgotten, you watch as he all but yanks you down further, ass now hanging off the countertop. Swings your legs over his shoulders and dives back in, your cunt now positively flooded due to his velvet tongue.

On the bright side, this all-nighter was exceedingly better than the one you had planned; you wouldn't have it any other way. Well played Eddie Munson.

Well played.

#eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #🏃🏻‍♀️💨#Spotify

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zepskies · 11 months

Text

Never Say Goodbye - Bonus Track #1

Pairing: Dean W. x Female Reader

Summary: The first time you and Dean sensed each other’s thoughts and feelings, you were just kids. It would take years to realize that you both were bonded for life, and even longer to finally meet. [Soulmate AU] (18+)

AN: The "Bonus Tracks" have arrived! AKA: Sequels to “Never Say Goodbye.”

I have two parts in the wings for you, but let's start with Part 1...

Word Count: 4,500 Tags/Warnings: Angst, supernatural shenanigans, death, cavity-inducing fluff (all to come through Parts 1 & 2)

Bonus Track #1: Disturbing the Peace

Dean walked into the bullpen of the Sioux Falls Police Department with a file in hand.

He went into one of the holding cells, where his latest perp was waiting for him with a salty attitude and an untouched paper cup filled with water.

“Jessie Deluca. Thirteen years old, already with two priors for petty theft,” Dean read off the file.

“Wasn’t me,” the kid said coolly.

Dean flashed Jessie a wry smile and sat across from him at the table.

“Sticking gum in the camera lens is creative, I’ll admit. But the nice old man who owns the 7-Eleven recognized your jacket,” Dean said, gesturing at the kid’s dark red hoodie. “Maybe next time don’t dress like a fire hydrant.”

“Plenty of people could have this jacket. Not like it’s Prada or anything,” said Jessie. He was stubborn, crossing his arms in the way only punk-ass kids could accomplish. “Besides, you’re not allowed to question me without my mom here, dipshit. I’m guessing you’ve been a cop for all of what, five minutes?”

Dean’s expression flattened into a more wan smile. “Oh, your mom’s on the way. We’re just chattin’.”

“Well I don’t feel like talking to a dumbass plebe,” Jessie quipped, with all due snark.

“All right, kid, listen the hell up,” Dean said more sharply. His gaze tightened with sternness. He glanced behind him, where he suspected your father Jack was watching. Dean was often partnered up with Jody, but she was out sick today. Which meant he had “the hawk” watching his every move.

Dean leveled the kid with a look.

“Fact is, you’ve got three strikes here, Jessie,” he said. “Now, you were dumb enough to go in with a gun. And we will find where you stashed it.”

Jessie snorted in response.

“…But you’re lucky,” Dean said. “No one got hurt this time. Problem is, at the rate we’re going here, you’re not gonna make it to next time.”

Jessie seemed to pause at that. But after a moment of indecision, he leaned forward on his crossed arms on the table.

“What part of ‘you can’t talk to me’s not getting through your thick head, Hasselhoff?”

Dean frowned, but before he could lose his temper, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked down and realized you were texting him.

Hey, sorry I’m going to be late tonight, you said.

Dean raised a finger at the kid. “I’ll be back.”

Jessie gave him a whatever look. Dean waited until his back was turned to roll his eyes. He exited the holding cell and found Jack on the other side.

“Kid’s a piece of work,” Dean said.

“Remind you of anybody?” Jack asked slyly.

Dean scoffed. “Maybe. I’ll be back, but let me know if his mom shows up.��

Jack nodded, and it gave Dean leave to get back to his desk and call you back. It took you so long to answer that he thought you almost wouldn’t.

“Hey, baby,” you greeted. It brought a small smile to his face.

“Hey. How’s work goin’?”

“It’s ridiculous. Jerry wants fifty new books logged and shelved by the end of the day. And we’re getting a new shipment in tomorrow,” you replied. “…Well, they’re not new. They’re ancient. Transferred from a museum that closed in Boise. But you get the idea.”

Dean’s smile threatened to grow, but it faded when he remembered why he needed to check in on you.

“Is that why you’re getting in late again tonight?” he asked.

“No, I promised I’d help Jason with his applications for grad school,” you said, making Dean frown.

“Who the hell is Jason?”

“Remember? Mrs. Jenkins’ grandson?”

Dean’s frown deepened. “No, that guy? Come on. You already helped him with, uh, cleaning out his grandma’s apartment, right?”

“Yeah, because she died, Dean.”

“Then it was cleaning out his apartment.”

“So he could move into her apartment,” you pointed out. “That he inherited upon her death.”

“And now you’re gonna go over there and share a screen all night?” Dean didn’t like that thought. Not one bit. “I don’t trust him, babe. He’s shifty.”

“Dean,” you tried patiently. “We practically grew up in the neighborhood together. I’m just helping him out because he’s gone through a rough time.”

Dean quieted. He still wasn’t totally on board, but he didn’t want to sound like a needy bitch either.

“All right, whatever,” he said.

“Don’t ‘whatever’ me,” you cajoled. “I’ll see you later tonight.”

“Right.” Perhaps he was a bit grumpy, but he felt justified. Due to both of your schedules, he hadn’t even shared a meal with you all week.

“Okay, I have to get back to work. Bye!” you said, hanging up shortly after. Dean didn’t have a chance to reply.

He sighed, pocketing his cell.

He returned to Jessie, where he noticed the water cup was now drained.

“Having fun?” he asked the kid.

“About as fun as you look right now. What, fight with your girlfriend?” Jessie sassed.

Dean gave him a flat look.

Jessie smirked. “Ah, definitely a fight.”

Dean sighed. “Wasn’t fight, just…you know what, mind your business.”

He discreetly checked his phone again, seeing if you’d sent him any other messages. But the kid had sharp eyes. He peered over the table at Dean’s background.

It was one he’d taken on his first date with you. Really, he’d surprised you with the picture when you two got to the restaurant.

You were trying to fix your hair after the wind had mussed it up. But at the angle he took it, you looked equal parts adorably confused, playfully amused, and sexy in your black suede dress and wind-swept hair.

“She’s hot,” Jessie nodded.

“Shut up,” Dean said, locking and pocketing his phone. “What’re you, like twelve? And still stealing Twix at the gas station? Do better, dude.”

“Too hot for you, even,” the kid continued, as if Dean hadn’t spoken. “Probably downloading another guy’s hard drive, if you know what I mean.”

“All right, smartass. That’s enough,” Dean said, with a more irritated frown.

That was when Jack came into the holding cell, escorting a woman inside.

“Jessie’s mother, Ms. Sandy Deluca,” Jack said.

“Just Sandy, please. You don’t have to remind me about the deadbeat I married,” she said, giving Dean a cursory (but appreciative) once-over. He gave her a thin smile.

He had to assume she was in her forties, but she also looked rough, and smelled like the crusty bowels of a bar.

“And you. What the fuck’re you doin’, huh?” Sandy bat her son across the back of her son’s head. Jessie flinched and withdrew inside, more like the child he actually was.

Dean noted all of this, sharing a subtle frown with Jack. Both men sat down across from mother and son and explained that Jessie was suspected of robbing a 7-Eleven at gun point. The owner saw him take off. And at some point, before Dean caught him, the kid managed to toss his gun.

“It’s only a matter of time before we find it. And if the prints match, that’s it,” Jack said. “Jessie gets booked for a felony charge.”

“He ain’t did it though. You don’t even have him on tape,” Sandy said. “All you got is one senile old man.”

She had a point, but not one Jack or Dean were willing to concede.

“If he admits what he did, we can work with him,” said Jack. “Maybe the felony charge gets dropped down to petty theft, and he probably only does a short stint in juvenile detention.”

Dean stared at Jessie, his thin, boyish face, his sandy brown hair, and shuttered eyes. And maybe Dean saw a bit too much of himself.

He tapped Jack’s elbow beneath the table, earning the man’s attention.

“Well, we’ll let you think on it for a few minutes,” Jack said. He got up along with Dean and headed outside the cell. They were able to look in through the one-way window.

“What’s the matter, Dean?” Jack asked.

“We can’t hold him. Not for long, unless the gun shows up,” Dean pointed out. “He stole, what, thirty bucks in bread, cans of tuna, three Twix bars? He’s a punk, but he’s not a killer. He’s just hungry.”

Jack considered this with a sigh through his nose.

“Yeah. But it’s his third strike on theft. This time he took a piece. Armed robbery, even for a kid…that’s gonna require jail time,” he said.

“Okay, how about this. Why don’t we let him go for now, hook him again when we find the gun?” Dean suggested.

“And maybe we don’t look too hard for it. That what you’re trying to tell me?” Jack asked.

Dean just held the other man’s gaze, leaving the decision up to him. But Jack had come to know his future son-in-law too well for that.

He sighed again. “All right, we’ll let him go. For now. But this is his last chance.”

Dean called his brother on the way home from work, tired, but ultimately in a better mood than he had been after talking to you.

“Hey, Dean.”

“Hey, Sammy. How’s the Big Apple?”

“Musty,” Sam said with a chuckle. “But good. Eileen and I are headed to a Broadway show tonight, to celebrate the end of semester.”

Dean smiled at that. Trust Sam to find his soulmate in a subway station. And trust the universe to land his brother with another hunter.

Or a huntress, as Dean had teased him. A banshee had killed her parents when she was a baby, and had rendered her deaf in the process. A hunter had raised her, and Eileen had continued the family business into adulthood, all the while looking for the creature that had killed her parents.

When she met Sam, however, he of course wanted to help her. He even took a week off school once they tracked the banshee to Lebanon, and helped her kill the thing himself. Now though, Sam had been subtly trying to convince her to retire from the hunting life. To build a life with him.

But, as always with hunters, Eileen seemed wary of fully committing to leave the life she’d always known.

Dean could understand that.

“That’s right! My smart-ass brother got all A’s in lawyer school,” he said. “I should get one of those bumper stickers.”

Sam scoffed. “Right, like you’d tape up the Impala like that.”

Dean grinned. “Anyway, end of semester, huh? That mean you’re coming back home soon?”

“Not this weekend, but the week after. Just in time to help you guys prep for the wedding,” said Sam. “It’s like, what, three weeks out?”

“And counting,” Dean replied. He couldn’t believe it was getting this close either.

“Eileen and I’ll stay with Bobby though. We don’t want to crowd your apartment,” Sam said. “How’s everything going, by the way? How is she?”

Dean huffed. “She’s probably just fine.”

“Probably?” Sam noted. “What’s going on?”

Dean was reluctant to talk about it, but his brother knew him too well to just let it go. He prodded until Dean had no choice but to spill it.

“The wedding’s just got her all over the place. Plus her job’s got her working evening shifts half the week sometimes,” Dean said. “And when she’s not doing that, she’s volunteering herself all over the damn neighborhood…”

Dean chuckled dryly then, realizing how much he sounded like a needy chick right now.

“I don’t know,” he said. “God, I sound like a freakin’ sap.”

“No. It sounds like you miss her,” Sam said.

“Hmm,” Dean nodded. He popped a frozen dinner into the microwave and watched it spin. “Yeah, probably.”

A lot, a voice in his mind corrected. He knew he didn’t have to say it for Sam to get the picture.

“Just tell her how you feel, man,” Sam said. “You know for a fact that there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for you.”

Sharing and caring had never been Dean’s strong suit, by any means, but he knew his brother might have a point this time.

So he waited up for you. For hours.

He started to fall asleep on the couch before he realized what time it was, creeping past midnight. He texted you, called you. It all went unanswered. Dean started worrying long before then, but he tried not to let his mind jump to conclusions.

He cleaned the kitchen and waited. He tried watching the next couple of episodes in season three of Game of Thrones, your favorite show, but couldn’t concentrate on the storylines. He usually had you to explain the complicated plot points and remind him of who’s who.

So he switched over to Dr. Sexy M.D., which you’d tried not to judge him for.

But finally, around 1:00 a.m. on a weekday, Dean felt your presence before you pull into the driveway. He was sitting on the couch, and he crossed his arms when you walked in.

Still, you gave a tired smile when you saw him. “Hey, baby.”

“Hey,” he responded, but you knew immediately that he was off. You saw the tight look on his face, his tense demeanor. You even caught a glimpse of his emotions before he cut you off…which in itself was a tell that he wasn’t in a good mood.

You frowned and set your purse and work bag next to him on the couch.

“What’s the matter?” you asked. Dean raised both brows at you, as if he was annoyed that you had to ask. It wasn’t like you could read his mind.

Well, you could, if he hadn’t closed himself off.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked.

Your brows knitted at his tone.

“You know where I was,” you said. “I was helping Jason—”

“You’ve been with that guy at his house all night?”

You tried to give him a patient look, but you were bone tired. And you hadn’t expected to get the third degree from the minute you stepped through the door.

“Dean, I told you. We were working on his applications to grad school, mostly on his entrance essays.”

“And that really took all night, with no breaks?” he asked. Now with a more suspicious brow raise.

“Of course,” you replied, crossing your arms. “I mean, we stopped to eat dinner.”

But then you raised a finger as something occurred to you.

“And oh! He showed me his new motorcycle,” you said, with excitement that he didn’t share. “Dean, you’d freakin’ love it. I can’t remember what model he said it was, but I told him, ‘My fiancée’s a major gear head. He’d love to get a motorcycle.’ But I’d literally die if you made me get on one of those things—”

“So, correct me if I’m wrong,” Dean said, interrupting you as he got up from the couch to stand across from you.

“You spent all night at some guy’s house. You had dinner with him, and he tried to impress you with his new goddamn motorcycle?”

You considered what he was suggesting, and you had to suppress a grimace. Yeah, it did sound bad, but it really wasn’t.

“It wasn’t like that at all, Dean,” you said. “Jason’s just…he’s feeling a bit lost. He wants to continue school, but he’s not sure if he can do it. His grandma practically raised him, and it’s a whole thing—”

“That’s not your damn problem!” Dean said, raising his voice. “You realize that, right?”

You crossed your arms, leveling him with a frown.

“Okay, you need to take that way down,” you warned him.

Dean took a beat, briefly closing his eyes as he reigned himself in.

“I’m sorry, all right,” he said. And he drew a hand over his tired face. “It’s just…lately, for the past few months, it seems like you’re never here. We’re like ships passing in the night. And if I didn’t check in, I’d never fucking hear from you.”

You sighed, staring back at your fiancée with both hot guilt and a prickle of resentment.

“So, do you like how it feels?” you asked.

Dean sharpened. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying, welcome to my world, Dean,” you said. “I lived that existence for the first two years of our relationship.”

He couldn’t exactly refute that, but it still hurt to be reminded of what he put you through.

“What, are you doing this on purpose or something?” he asked. “You’re punishing me. Is that it?”

You relented then, reaching for his arm.

“Of course not, Dean,” you said. “I just find it ironic that you can’t handle just a taste of what I went through.”

Dean’s lips pursed.

“Until I finish training our new hires, there isn’t much I can do about what my job demands of me,” you said. “But if you want to help me, how about everything I’m doing to plan this wedding? It’s literally a month away, and there’s plenty to do. I feel like I’m going insane with these vendors calling me 24/7, mostly demanding money.”

You covered your face with your hands for a moment, shaking your head.

“Tomorrow I have my final fitting for the dress, after work,” you said. “This weekend I have to finalize the seating chart, make the final deposit on the venue, and a shit-ton of other things.”

“Okay, well I can help with that,” Dean said, trying to take your hand. “All you need to do is ask.”

You gave him a peeved look.

“You see, I would. But the last time I tried, you said you were working late,” you said. “I called my dad to see where you were. Come to find out, you’d left early.”

Shit, Dean thought.

“When was that?” he asked.

“Last week, Thursday,” you jogged his memory.

Shit, he thought again.

What you didn’t know was that he left early that day to pick up your wedding ring, which he’d had customized for you. But he couldn’t tell you that without giving away the surprise.

“Listen, there’s an explanation for that.”

“Well right now, I don’t feel like hearing it,” you said. You slipped your hand out of his and left him to beeline for the shower.

Dean watched you go, silently simmering. Was this what he had to look forward to when you two actually got married?

You and Dean didn’t even look at one another as you got ready for bed in silence.

You were annoyed that he didn’t trust you. A bit resentful that he chose now to complain about you being busy, when you’d tried so many times to get him to help you with the wedding planning process.

But at the same time, as you two climbed into bed without uttering so much as a word, it felt like you won the battle, but lost the war.

And you didn’t feel any better when you woke up the next morning.

Because when you saw the empty side of the bed next to you, but didn’t hear Dean puttering around the apartment, you realized that he’d left for work without saying goodbye.

He usually greeted you with a kiss on the cheek or the forehead; the best alarm you’d ever had. But today, you were forced to wake with your alarm. So you turned it off on your phone and dutifully got up to get ready for work.

Your mind was buzzing with too much coffee on the drive over to the museum, and when you arrived, your phone sounded off in your purse. You checked it and found a text from Jason Jenkins.

Hey, thanks for coming over to help yesterday, he said. I think I’ll actually get into grad school now. These essays are top notch thanks to you.

Your lips quirked with a smile. You replied as you walked into the museum, waving hello to your boss, Jerry, as you went.

You’re welcome! you replied. Dean’s words from last night replayed in your mind, so you decided to keep it brief. But then, Jason replied again.

But I also had a good time last night, he said. You’re just so easy to talk to…would you want to come over for dinner? I make a mean carbonara.

You deflated when you read the text. Goddamn it.

And you knew then that Dean might’ve had a point last night. With a sigh, you raised your gaze to the heavens. You didn’t have enough coffee to deal with this.

But you knew you had to reply.

Look, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression but—

You paused, then deleted that response. You didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but maybe you could say something that made your boundaries clear without making him feel bad about himself.

Sorry, Jason. I’m staying in with my fiancée tonight. But good luck! I’m sure you’ll get into grad school.

With that message sent, you pocketed your phone and continued to your desk in the museum library. It was surrounded by tall shelves of books from all over the world, and you often enjoyed perusing through them when you had down time (not that you had much of that these days).

Jerry came in, wheeling a large shipment of boxes. You gave him a wan smile at the sight.

“Delivery,” he said. “Need these books logged and shelved, please. By end of the day, if you can. Oh, and tell Charlotte we need more toner for the copy machine.”

You playfully saluted your boss. “On it.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I know it’s been a lot for the past few months, but you’re doing great, kid.”

You didn’t appreciate the kid remark, but you did thank him graciously. It was nice to be recognized for your work because you did take pride in it. But right now, as you looked at the ten large boxes piled on the dolly, you really wished you could control + alt + delete this day.

Instead, you sighed and opened the first box, pulling out a stack of heavy books. One of them caught your eye, as it was leather-bound, but bordered with gold, and had hieroglyphic images on the cover. The largest of which was a golden sun, encircling a lion’s head.

You weren’t supposed to touch the books without gloves on, but you were so intrigued that you forgot to slip on a pair before you reached for it in wonder.

The moment you touched the cover, however, a burst of energy swirled around the book—and then wrapped around your hand.

You didn’t realize it, but your mind went hazy as amber rings of magic illuminated your pupils.

Dean got home from a long day of work, sighing when he saw that the apartment was empty.

He felt bad for how things got left off between the two of you last night, but frankly, he was surprised (and maybe a little hurt) that you didn’t reach out to him at all today.

Usually when you guys argued, you were the first one to reach out to him after you both had time to cool down. You could be stubborn about things, just like him, but you were also quick to forgive. And that often forced him to confront his honest feelings.

When his phone started ringing, Dean paused in the living room and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, there! Is this Dean?”

“You got me. Who’s this?” he asked. It was the receptionist at the shop where you found your wedding dress. Apparently, you hadn’t shown up for the appointment of your final fitting, and you hadn’t called to reschedule.

“Well, that’s not like her,” Dean said with a frown. You’d never dropped the ball on anything having to do with the wedding. Not once.

“Let me get ahold of her and we’ll get back to you,” he said. The receptionist agreed, and the moment he hung up with her, he called you. It rang for a while, but ultimately went to voicemail.

A tendril of worry started to grow in his mind, but he tried to keep it at bay when he called your boss next.

According to Jerry, you took your lunch break early and never came back.

Dean’s worry became a living thing after that.

But before he could call Jack and mount a full police squad search, the front door of the apartment unlocked, and you walked through the door.

You looked completely fine in your business casual white blouse, pencil skirt, and heels, but you didn’t have your purse, work bag, or any of the usual things you carried.

Dean hung up with your boss and eyed you in disbelief.

“Well, well. I guess you’re playin’ hookie today,” he remarked dryly.

You gave him a cursory glance, but you all but ignored him on your way to the kitchen. Dean’s incredulousness grew, along with a spark of irritation.

He followed you into the kitchen, where you started rifling through the pantry looking for spices and herbs, of all things. You examined a clear parcel of thyme.

“What are you doing, babe?” Dean asked. “Are you tired? Did you just need to take a beat? Because I can understand that…”

You didn’t seem to be hearing him, so he grasped your hand.

“Hey, what the hell’s going on with you?” he asked. Your brows knitted together in annoyance.

“By the gods, what a nuisance.” You slipped your hand out of his and continued what you’re doing.

Dean felt struck with hurt as he stared at you once again in disbelief.

But then, a spidey sense began to prickle at the back of his neck. This wasn’t like you at all…

You finally seized him up through impassive eyes.

“Pretty,” you remarked, “but the world of men seems to have remained the same. Needy, clawing, and pathetic.”

Dean’s brows furrowed. He called your name uncertainly, but he realized something.

He couldn’t feel you. Not your thoughts, and not even your emotions through the soul bond. It was a gut instinct, but Dean's was rarely wrong.

Whoever was wearing your face, it wasn’t his girl.

You smirked and stepped toward him, drawing near enough to place a hand on his chest. He tensed, knowing that this wasn’t about to end well.

With a burst of amber-hued magic, you flung him across the room.

Dean crash-landed against the couch with a yelp and a grunt. He’d definitely be feeling that in his back later.

He heard the crashing of glass and ceramics hitting the hardwood floor after he fell. When he was able to slowly pick himself up, he saw that he’d shoved the couch into the coffee table, where a vase and a few frames had fallen.

And when he managed to lift his gaze to the rest of his surroundings, he found an empty apartment. The front door was left ajar.

You were gone…

Or at least, whoever possessed you was.

AN: So first of all, sorry for the cliffhanger lol. But Sam's soulmate is revealed! (I was VERY upset when Sam and Eileen didn't get their reunion when Jack brought back everyone after the "snap.")

Like my top note said, this will be two parts. Let me know what you think of Part 1!

Next Time:

Dean searches for you with Sam, Eileen, and Bobby's help. But there's just a few weeks before the wedding.

What could possibly go wrong?

Keep Reading: Bonus Track #2

Series Masterlist

Dean Winchester Masterlist

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