#and then i keep hearing people who got it mild or are sick with something else going 'well its not like it matters anymore lol'

[lazyjellyfish300]

Mom and Dad are fighting on Christmas 🎄⛄🖤

Miguel O'Hara x wife reader

TW: MINORS DNI, angst, relationship and marriage troubles, fighting, insecurity, jealousy, postpartum, talk of divorce, mild smut at the end (p in v, idk to me it's mild, I've seen worse) word count 3.3k

Credit to the gif owner keezinemugstudent! 🙏🏽

Synopsis: your marriage to Miguel is on the brink of collapse. He wakes up and tries to fix it on Christmas. Jerry Maguire inspired. 😁

Valentine's Day spinoff sequel

I tried to write something angsty. Hope everyone had/is having a good holiday season! ⛄

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Miguel's in the doghouse and he knows it. You requested a separation after you reached your limit. The kids were sick in the weeks following Thanksgiving and before Christmas and he spent the whole time working late and coming home at suspicious hours in the morning, leaving you drowning. You and the kids were piled in yours and Miguel's bed when you'd hear him come home, the front door closing and his familiar footfalls dredging down the hall, pausing only at the fridge before passing out on the couch. Oh you hated him right now. The resentment had creeped in and poisoned the marriage inside and out when he became exceedingly obsessed with work.

Protecting the stability of the multiverse was a huge undertaking, but, like all things in his life, Miguel took it to the next level. But when it came to his personal life, he was grievously lacking. The passion where you two would do it twice a day and couldn't keep your hands out of each other's pants? Ancient history. The small pecks you'd trade in the mornings were a thing of the past. Gone were the days you two would text all day and go out for dates. You didn't so much as get an "on my way home" text, instead letting the sound of his car pulling in the driveway be your confirmation of his return. You two were more roomates at this point than husband and wife.

Traditionally, on Christmas Eve after the kids went to bed, you two would take that time for each other, eating the cookies for Santa that were conveniently your favorite kind, placing the presents you two carefully shopped for and wrapped (well, mostly you wrapped), under the tree. A hysterical giggle would escape your lips at the milk mustache on Miguel's face. Then you'd two get busy on the floor in front of the fireplace, fighting back laughter as you tried to keep your moans down, every year struggling a little bit more than before because your knees weren't what they used to be before taking it to your bedroom for one more round before the chaos of Christmas morning began.

He was perfect in the beginning. The romance between you two used to be at an all time high. He was a nerd in the same friend circle when you knew him in high school, wickedly smart, the guy who won the Robotics and Math Olympiad comps and got visits from Ivy League college STEM departments, eager to scoop up his talent. Sure, he was cute, but when he went to college is when you heard he had a major glow up and became kind of cocky. You heard about how he became Spider-Man and was pretty much the greatest thing since sliced bread in the eyes of the people, saving lives and fighting villains and all. You knew how the opposite gender seemed to malfunction and forget how to act around him, so you stifled away your tiny crush you had on him for years in the smallest crevice in your brain in a forgotten folder, never thinking it'd see the light of day.

When you saw him at your high school reunion, you decided to be brave and remark on how they're playing Nickelback, which he shrugged and said he actually enjoyed them, to which you sheepishly admitted that you really enjoyed them deep down too, you just couldn't resist making yourself the person to talk shit, since there's always gotta be one hater when Nickelback comes on. A canon event, if you will. This earned a tiny side smile from him, a chink in his stoic armor. After 8 beers, some flirty jests, and a little backseat rendezvous in his car, that became the last night that you two spent apart.

You were a single mom and he was a single dad. He had Gabi who was now 10 and you had Marcus who was now 6. Then you two had little Anthony together who was now 2. At first he was at all the doctors appointments, all the parent teacher conferences, he knew what the kids were doing in school. He did bed times every night, reading in a silly voice with Gabi and Marcus both balancing on his lap while you rocked baby Anthony, smiling when you heard the kids giggling from the other room. You'd walk in after baby Anthony fell asleep in his crib, your heart melting as you saw this handsome giant of a man usually known to be cold and serious to everyone else, turn into the doting husband and loving father you knew him to be. Now, years of the monotony of every day life, pressures of raising a family, and the dying egalitarian attitude you two had as partners snowballed into your own version of Gottman's four horses, leading your marriage to Miguel into apocalypse.

At first, he welcomed the separation as you two battled in the kitchen.

"You wanna separation, fine, I'll do you one better. I'll fucking leave! Felicia's better company anyway," he smirked.

There wasn't real truth behind his statement, but he knew it would hurt you when you heard it. He'd be lying if he said Felicia wasn't an attractive woman, but, she simply wasn't you. He had learned his lesson on cheating years ago when he fumbled his relationship with Gabi's mother.

Ouch. But his words could be daggers when he wanted them to be, and he knew just how to twist them into you. Of course it was Felicia. Felicia, the gorgeous Black Cat recruit from work. Her silvery hair that halted midway down her back and startling blue eyes that could drown any man in them. She didn't have kids either, a life with her promised excitement, passion, and freedom. She was witty and funny and had a way of making anyone in her vicinity listen when she spoke. And to add insult to injury, she had a killer body.

After giving birth, you became so busy, and with reassurance from Miguel that you were still beautiful to him, you let your desire to get your body to "snap back" sit on the back burner. Signs of motherhood and postpartum marked you with purple stripes running vertical on your soft belly and a new plushness to your thighs. Basically, Felicia was a complete 180 from the woman you were, which made the sting of his words that much more unbearable. He took your vulnerabilities and threw them in your face.

"Oh so you admit it, finally! I know there was something going on between you two. Makes sense. She's a gorgeous woman, right? She can fucking have you then. What, are you in love with her?"

Miguel rolled his eyes, annoyed with the superficialness of your statement and your obsession with looks, despite him reassuring you many times that he wouldn't look at other women.

"I'm not in love with her, but she doesn't nag me all the fucking time like you do. I bust my ass every day for this family so you don't have to work. I don't know who this new woman is that I'm looking at right now and what she's done with my wife, but it's not the woman I fell in love with. It would be nice if you could show me a little appreciation once in a while."

You felt your blood pressure rise.

"Appreciation.... APPRECIATION, are you fucking kidding me?! I was up all goddamn night with Gabi and Marcus. I run this fucking household all by myself. I quit my fucking career to stay home and raise your kids. Do you not understand how lonely that is?"

"I'M LONELY!!! " he yells, triggered, the feelings bottled up, fizzed over and hurtled at you like a cork on a champagne bottle. "How do you think I feel? I got women at work practically throwing themselves at me but I don't do anything about it because I'm a good husband. Meanwhile, my own wife doesn't wanna fuck me. I'm a prisoner in my own fucking house."

Your eyes almost slipped from their sockets from rolling them so hard. He seemed to want a cookie and a gold star for just being loyal, the bare minimum.

"Oh, so you wanna fuck them? Go ahead! Maybe I'd fuck you if you actually gave a shit about me and not like I'm some damn fleshlight you use to get off!" You hurl back.

He left and checked into a hotel down the street.

A few weeks had passed and it was now Christmas. You were getting used to being separated but your heart still ached in your chest. You couldn't go on doing life, when the one person you did life with was nowhere to be found. You couldn't listen to your favorite songs, eat your favorite foods, or even look at your own children without being reminded of him. Gabi was his spitting image. Same with Anthony. Even Marcus, who was his stepson, started adopting Miguel's mannerisms. The way he'd scratch his head while he did his math homework, deep in concentration.

It was Christmas evening at your mom's. You joined the other women in your family, your non-politically correct Aunt, your soft spoken sister-in-law, your mother with a don't-try-me attitude, and your younger sister with a sass to rival your mother's. You were all complaining about the men in your lives, your aunt rattling off about her 3 ex husbands but, 'hey she collects alimony from two of them so she can't complain!', your younger sister complaining about the frat guys at college who just wanna get in your pants, your sister in law who's silent the whole time (your brother treats her like a queen), and your mom about your asshole dad with an erratic mother who was incapable of cutting the apron strings and made her life a living hell. The kids are laughing and playing in the basement, eagerly trying out their new Nintendo Switch Santa left under the tree.

"I'm here for my wife."

Your feminine council meeting is interrupted by an unwelcome masculine figure. It's your estranged husband, Miguel, the coffee-colored strands of hair that hung over his forehead starting to wet from the snowflakes that melted under the warmth of the room as he stepped inside, a look of regret and longing embedded in his eyes that you hadn't seen since your earliest days of knowing him.

His strong hands dangled at his sides in fists, his chest heaving up and down. His navy blazer bearing dark water stains from the melted snow. He had a revelation at work. He and Peter B. stopped an anomaly that was terrorizing the streets of Queens in Peter's universe. The battle was close, almost a little too close to where he lived, putting MJ and Mayday in direct danger. After the job was done, the moving and emotional reunion between Peter B., MJ, and Mayday was his epiphany.

As the little family reveled in their joy and relief of evading the ultimate disaster, the only thing there for Miguel at the point of his return was the inanimate, empty, thin walls of his apartment and the thoughts of you, his severed family, that inevitably haunted him. He needed you back. He needed to apologize and fix it now.

He ran from your house to your mom's in the snow and all. It was the first Christmas Eve he spent not in between your thighs and buried deep inside you. It was the first Christmas morning he didn't wake up to Gabi's blueberry pancakes and Marcus tackling him while Anthony screamed in delight. It was going to be the first Christmas night without his family by his side, an uncomfortably obvious empty seat at the table he rightfully belonged. Next to you.

Sometimes you don't know the value of something until it's gone. Sometimes life gets in the way and you forget to appreciate the person in front of you. Why did I treat my wife like garbage when all she ever wanted was for me to ask how her day was? Why were we on our way to winding up like both sets of our parents? Doomed to repeat the cycle of divorce and hurt. Doomed to lose your faith in love and marriage like all the maternal figures in your family before you did.

Now here he was, in the living room while your mom, sister, and aunt moved towards each other, eyes squinting, three pitbulls willing to jump in on your behalf while your sister in law just stayed frozen in place. He was in enemy territory and he needed to choose his words carefully.

"Not here Miguel..."

"YES here. Right now." He says in a firm voice. "You're not getting rid of me, woman."

You scoff, almost amused by his sudden urgency and painting you like you're the one who wanted this family to be broken apart.

"The kids are downstairs..." you start to say, hoping that the mention that innocent ears could be prying into the adult conversation would help him simmer down.

"I'll see them in a minute." He says flatly.

"I miss my wife...."-he chokes on the last word, wife.

"And I want her to come home." He knew at any time his words would give way to the reservoir of tears built up behind it.

You stood there, incredulous.

"I don't want to come home to an empty apartment. I don't want my own bed. I'm ashamed it took me losing you and the kids for me to wake up. And, I'm so so sorry. I'll do whatever I can to be better. To be a better man for you and the husband that you needed. We both got caught up in real life and focused on the kids so much that we lost each other. Well, this is me trying to find my way back."

Your lips parted slightly as your breathing became heavier. This was all you ever wanted to hear him say. Stop neglecting the love between you two that laid dormant, a plant starved of sunshine. For him to finally shake off the stubborn shackles that was his ego and express himself to you. Let him allow you back into his heart, no longer as a guest, but a permanent resident.

"You're... you're everything to me. And I'm not leaving here tonight until you let me know if you'd allow me the opportunity to get hurt by you again," a tear rolled down his cheek, his scarlet eyes yearning, his hands pining for the feel of you. As though the madness of not having you alone could stop his heart from beating, stop his world from turning, rearrange life as he knew it into a hollow existence not worth seeing.

Your own reservoir could not be held back any longer and started to roll down your cheeks. He managed to peel back the walls you built with his apology, revealing the woman underneath who just missed her husband.

He steps closer to you now, eager to bridge the rest of the space between your bodies.

"You still love me?" he asked softly.

Your chest heaves, shoulders raising then falling sharply, feeling yourself crack with exasperation under his burning gaze as you softly answer,

"Never stopped."

He grabs you and pulls you into him, his embrace is tight as though you'd disappear if he dared to break it. He tangles a hand in your hair and presses his cheek into your head, his eyes closed, drinking in the scent he'd been away from for weeks. You bury your face in his chest, trying to make yourself small and allowing his frame to swallow you whole, not minding his wet shirt and blazer that still have a slight chill on them from the storm outside, allowing your body heat to seep into his. You both began to rock back and forth a little bit, still locked inside your hug. It was as though the passing of time had evaporated and it was only you two in the room, nevermind your family witnessed the whole thing.

After several long moments, you pull apart and he offers you one of his dazzling smiles, one you hadn't seen in months. The kids have made their way upstairs and shriek with excitement when they see their dad and Miguel bends down to scoop them up. You smile and stand beside your mom who scoops you into a side hug. With her blessing, Miguel stays and celebrates the rest of Christmas with you and your family.

Gabi, Marcus, and Anthony are now all tucked in. The sugar from the chocolate they consumed all day had worn off, making them crash hard in their beds. You and Miguel are cuddled up on the couch watching the fireplace, taking some needed time as a couple. You stroke his strong arms that are wrapped around you with your fingertips, watching the way the flames leap and spark in the air when they crackle against the charred wood. You look up at him and feel a wave of desire wash over you that you had pent up for months as you study his chiseled features and the way the fire's glow highlights his skin.

"Should we end this Christmas with a bang?" You ask, pun fully intended.

Miguel looks at you tiredly, trying to act like that wasn't a witty remark but he lets out a chuckle. "I'd love to," he whispers.

He takes both your cheeks in his large hands and brings his lips to you immediately. They're soft and full. You feel yourself melting into him every time he sandwiches yours in between them. He reclines you backwards, slowly, until he's on top of you. He lets the weight of his body and hips come down on you little by little, making you arch your back, so your body can better receive him.

Once he lets you taste his tongue, you open your mouth wider, permitting him to deepen the kiss, tossing kindle onto the growing flame between you two, and it's not the one in your fireplace. You take your turn to dial up the heat, seizing his bottom lip in a gentle nip from your teeth, earning a low groan from Miguel and a tightened grip on your hair.

As you continue your steamy makeout session, he begins to hump gently against your clothed body, a nonverbal plea for the wet friction only the inside of you can provide.

After your frantic hands strip each other of your clothes, you've transitioned so you're straddling him in the lotus position, goosebumps popping up all over your skin as your bare body meets his, a high pitched gasp escaping you as you sink down onto him, his mouth falling open and his eyes shutting closed as he breathes in your ear,

"God, I missed you, baby."

You whine into his neck as you coil your fists in his hair. His hands fly to the soft flesh of your sides, using them to move you up and down, his haggard breaths making you weaker and weaker by the minute. You hum,

"I missed you even more."

The next move of his hips is harder than you anticipated, causing your brain to go fuzzy with pleasure.

"How much?" he exhales in a sultry tone.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you all week,"your tone turning into pleading as you feel yourself approaching your limit.

Miguel can't help but feel himself lose his mind a little bit at your words and at your reaction, sensing you won't be able to hold on much longer.

He lays you down, while still keeping himself inside. He slows down to a more sensual pace, breathing in the sight of your wild hair clinging to the couch cushions, evidence of him hitting you in all the right spots every time the inner corners of your eyebrows squinch upwards and your lips fall open.

His loving eyes burn with worship of your body and how well you're doing as he runs a thumb along your chin then pulls down your bottom lip, leans in and mumbles quietly into your mouth,

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. O'Hara."

-------

🖤

#miguel o'hara #spotify #miguel x reader #miguel atsv #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara #across the spiderverse #fanfic #miguel o'hara angst #Spotify #miguel o'hara smut

[alamari-chibi]

It's funny having people pretend covid is done with and it's just now that all the immunocompromised people I know are finally getting it (including myself, a month and a half removed) because it makes it really obvious that non-compromised people's actions were directly protecting us and now that everything's lifted everywhere it's biting the most vulnerable people in the ass

#personal #ignore me #coronatime #like i was out for 6 days and i got 2 points and work and have no pto now #bc of it #and also i had a fever so high i literally couldnt move for 3 days without being dangerously dizzy #and then i keep hearing people who got it mild or are sick with something else going 'well its not like it matters anymore lol' #like god i am so tired of having to be vigilant while these hooligans disregard my entire existence as an inconvenience #and i get sick with the other shit too and i keep seeing customers dragging their children around with these nasty wet coughs #like you literally spent 2 years learning that masks keep you from getting other ppl sick but as soon as it isnt covid it doesnt matter ? #im just annoyed by ir #anyway i hope i never get it again bc i was dead for 6 days with the super mild variant theres no telling how i wouldve gone with OG covid #which still exists #even if ppl like to act like it doesnt #mmmmm

[carolmunson]

wish i had a river (part two)

here it is, the part two i said i wouldn't write. if you missed it, here is the first part - wish i had a river this is very much an eddie munson fanfiction, it's mostly from his perspective and follows his story through his eyes and actions. 'you' are mentioned and seen in this fic, but for the most part, it's all eddie all the time. cw: minors dni, adult themes, some smut references. angst. hurt/comfort. lots of mentions of poverty/hunger, sleep deprivation, all around eddie having a bad time. cigarettes/mild drinking but nothing inherently like -- bad? idk. unpopular ship mentioned. i did NOT proof read this.

The alley behind Macy's was a safe haven. Cold, a blue black, poorly paved, with nothing but the dumpters of other stores and the rats to keep him company. Eddie nursed a cigarette on his third smoke break of the night, two bad customers away from a total nervous breakdown. His anxiety built higher every day, every rush, every icy road report -- more people yelling, more people stressed out, more car accidents he'd have to clean up. Wayne's been in an out of the doctor's office more often and it's looking like he might have to retire early. The cigarette loses it's flame and he curses under his breath when he goes to light it again, the nicotine soothing his lips and tongue with a slow steady burn.

You never got to decorate cookies together on his impromptu 'sick day', you hadn't returned any of his calls. Not that he thought he was off the hook or anything, but he did basically write you a fifty two page love letter. If he had the time he'd come by your apartment to apologize in person but at this point exhaustion had started to over stay it's welcome. He could barely make it to the pharmacy on his nights off to get Wayne's medication. The guys at the auto shop could tell something was starting to go very left, 'cause why was the youngest guy there the one who couldn't keep up anymore?

And Eddie really couldn't keep up anymore.

At least his commission in the shoe section was doubling daily.

The cold bites his cheeks while he finishes his cigarette, tossing the butt on the dirty, uneven pavement and crushing out the flame with his work shoes. He rubs his eyes, heavy and swollen with lack of sleep, with scrubbed fingernail hands and sighs. Just another hour and he can go home, just another hour and it's not a closing shift, he can go home at seven like normal people with regular jobs.

He drops his coat off in the cubby area upstairs, stopping in the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. He inspects himelf, eyes half closing in disappointement while he does -- he looks like a shell of himself. He hadn't picked up his guitar in months, didn't turn the radio on anymore -- opting for silence since it was so rare for him to hear between Macy's, the shop, and Wayne's breathing machine at night.

He takes his hair down, shaking out the curls that had at least dried into waving perfection last night, and gives it a shake before putting it back up in a neat ponytail. His bangs sit on his forehead, a few strands framing his now gaunt face. He practices an awake smile in the mirror before he completely deflates -- one bad interaction, one rude look, one snap from a boss, and he'd lose it. The rawness sat in a lump in his throat, a grenade of tears ready to blow if the pin is even so much as nudged.

The door to the back rooms squeaks open on its hinges, revealing the never ending click of boots, heels, sneakers, and men's shoes on the sining tile of Macy's walkway floors. In the beginning, the scent of the perfume section across the way and the bright lights of jewelry used to be an assault on his senses -- but as Wayne says 'You can get used to anything.'

"You good, Ed?" he hears, and turns his head -- it's Angie. Angie is his favorite coworker because she makes the best and meanest jokes about people. If it wasn't for some nights closing with Angie he would've left this job a long time ago. He'd been keeled over in laughs with a duster in his hand so many times that it almost seemed wrong to abandon her there.

"Yeah," he furrows his brow at her, "Should I not be?"

"Some pretty boy's been looking for you," she says, nodding over to the boots section, "You got another business I don't know about?"

A grin stretches across her frosted red lipstick'd lips, crinkling her overlined and spider lashed eyes. She's what Eddie and the guys at Forest Hills would have called 'trailer park pretty' if she was thirty years younger.

"They would be so lucky, wouldn't they?" Ed smirks back, eyes following her nod and landing on a head of beautifully coiffed chestnut hair, "Harrington?"

Steve's eyes perk up like a golden retreiver, a winning smile spreading across his face with a flash of white teeth in it's wake, "Hey, Ed!"

Angie gasps when she realizes who it is, "Oh shit! Is this the guy that --"

"Shh, shut up Ange," Ed huffs, waving her off while Steve comes up to approach him.

"Hey dude, I was hoping you were here. I uh, got a pretty big collection to get tonight so I figured -- you know, I'd come say hi and ask for your help." It's frustrating how pleasant Steve is. How warm his demeanor radiates to others, his candor, the way that he stands. It's annoying that a denim button under a cozy green sweater looks good on him. It makes Eddie sick that he can pull off wire-rim glasses and still look his age, that he smells like spice but not in a cheap way. A twinge of fear shook in his chest when a seed of assumption planted itself in his head -- was this why you weren't answering his calls? Was Steve Harrington smothering you with Christmas spirit every night?

"Yeah, man, sure," Eddie responds like the world isn't sitting directly on his shoulders, which -- he observed -- were not nearly as broad as Steve's, "How can I help you?"

"I need like, four pairs of Moon Boots," he shrugs, "Guess they're in style again? My sister's and nieces want matching pairs so like -- two in a size 8 and then, if you have it, two in a size 4 kids?"

"What color? We have white, purple, black, some metallics," Eddie lists on his fingers, "Well, maybe not black -- those probably sold out already."

"You got silver? Pink, maybe?" Steve shrugs, "I'm just trying to get these wrapped by tomorrow."

Christmas Eve. Ed had almost forgotten.

"Let me see what we have and I'll bring it out," he offers. He wants to ask about you but it seems too obvious. You must have talked about the fight or about him in general, how else would Steve know he worked here? How else would he know to come looking for him.

Moments later, Ed comes out with four boxes, "I have two in silver and two in pink -- so it looks like your nieces will be matching and your sisters will be matching. Does that work?"

"Oh shit, that's perfect," Steve smiles the same winning smile. Eddie wonders for a moment what it feels like to smile genuinely, it's felt like years since he had. He guesses that when you're Steve Harrington, you must get to smile pretty often. Rich, girls love him, former captain of the basketball team, has a masters degree, painstakingly handsome -- no wonder you called him after your fight. Damn, he would too.

"Is that all?" Ed asks, reaching up to run a hand over the five o'clock shadow speckling his chin.

"No, actually, sorry. I need some like, work boots, if you sell those here -- is that okay?" Steve asks.

"Work boots like, how? Like construction?" he asks, "You're a teacher, Harrington."

"Yeah but my uh, my roommate -- he's not in construction but he's on a whole bunch of terrain for work -- desperately needs good shoes for that," he explains.

"What's he do?" Ed asks, guiding him over to the display of Timberlands and Doc Martens.

"He's a photojournalist -- he's all over the place," Steve answers, "He's worn his sneakers down to the sole and like, swears their okay --"

"Jonothan Byer's is your roommate?" Eddie asks, making the connection. He'd only known him from their photography class they shared in Eddie's second senior year, but he knew enough to know he went into journalism shortly after college.

"Yeah," Steve nods, running a hand through his hair.

"Hm," Eddie looks over the shoes and looks up at him, "If I can be honest -- he's gotta be quick on his feet, right? These are gonna be too heavy for him to be walking around in. You might just want to get him some higher quality running sneakers. There's a Foot Locker downstairs if you wanna check that out? A lot of our sneakers are sold out until next week."

"Hmm, shit," Steve clicks his tongue, "Well um -- could I maybe try a pair?"

"Of Docs?" Eddie asks with a laugh.

"Yeah, of Docs -- I can be hip and cool, too, Munson," Steve's faux defense is charming. Eddie wonders what else you find charming about him.

Part of it feels degrading, kneeling down in front of Steve, lacing and relacing each new and different pair of boots he tries on -- but at this point he's buying seven pairs of shoes and the commission alone will cover at least a month of groceries so he's not complaining.

"So you don't hate me, huh?" Eddie asks, slipping a lighter weight Timberland over one of Steve's argyle socks.

"Why would I hate you?" Steve cocks his head, amber eyes catching in the light.

"Oh, did she not talk about it?" Eddie flushes. Why would you talk about him? Your loser mechanic (maybe ex) boyfriend who works at the mall, and at the auto shop, and sometimes sells drugs.

"Your fight from last week?" Steve raises his brows, "Yeah, she talked to me about it. But I woudn't hate you for that."

Ed tightens the laces up his foot to his ankle with care, "Why not?"

"I mean, you're doing a lot right now," Steve shrugs, "I think it can be hard when you're teaching little ones, especially this time of year, to not get caught up in the magic -- you sort of popped her bubble. But y'know, it was sort of a reminder to her that not everyone has it so good."

"She didn't deserve me yelling at her like that, though," Eddie shakes his head, he can feel the threat of the grenade pin tugging on his heart strings. One false move. One shake. One nudge, and he'll blow.

"You're doing the best you can," Steve offers kindly. Eddie swallows hard, offering him a tight smile.

"Thanks. I'm trying, I'm--" he shakes out the tingle of a cry before tying up the laces, "I'm trying really hard."

By the time Steve checks out it's about 7:15 and Eddie wants nothing more than to go to bed. His back hurts, he's gotta make sure Wayne took his medication, he's gotta eat sleep for dinner for the third night in a row.

"Thanks so much," Steve beams, "This is great, thanks for your help."

"Yeah, no problem dude," Eddie sighs, running a hand over his face again, "Have a good holiday."

"You done for the night?" Steve asks.

"Yeah, just gotta y'know -- grab my shit and go," he shrugs.

"You wanna grab some dinner with me in the food court or something?" Steve asks, balancing the many shopping bags he'd collected this evening in his hands.

"I don't know, dude. I don't wanna keep you or anything," Eddie says. His stomach clenches at the word dinner, his body reacting like a dog who just heard the sentence 'you wanna go outside?'

"You're not keeping me," Steve assures, "C'mon, it's on me."

Before he knows it, Eddie's been corralled into a mall food court, sitting slumped over on the sticky table. He tunes out the shreiks of children, the tinny Christmas music playing in the background of the cocophany of noise that is the mall on December 23rd. His forehead sticks to the leather jacket over his forearm, only lifting it up when he hears the slap of a plastic tray being put down in front of him. He surveys the Burger King in front of him and huffs a laugh, it'd been a long time since he'd ventured into the food court. He almost forgot what fast food looked like after the past few months of thin ham sandwhiches or cold cans Spaghettio's.

"So why didn't you try to swoop in?" Ed asked, toying with a french fry before biting off the end, "When you went to her house the other night?"

He savors the oil and salt on his tongue, warm and crispy on the fry disolving in his mouth while he waits for a response.

"Swoop in?" Steve asks, shaking his head, "No, I wouldn't. We just -- we work together. She's my work friend."

"So you never thought about what the kids say?" Eddie challenges, still trying to keep it light hearted, "How the first grade teachers should get married?"

"Her classroom is across from mine and we make lesson plans together," he assures, "What the kids say is what the kids say. They're six, what do they know?"

"Whatever you say, Harrington," Eddie shrugs.

"Munson, seriously -- she's my friend. She's not my type," he offers. The way he says it stings Eddie, what's not his type about you? You're perfect. You're the best person he knows.

"The card thing though? That was cute. I'm gonna put that in my arsenal if I ever fuck up," Steve laughs. Eddie chest rattles when he realizes that Steve was still there for that. He never even knew your reaction.

Eddie clears his throat, "Did um -- did she like it?"

Steve nods with a lazy smile, "Yeah, she liked it."

"Did she say anything?" he asks hopefully.

"She cried," Steve answered, Eddie leans his head on his hands, "I know that might not be what you wanted to hear."

"I didn't wanna make her cry more," he explains, "I wanted to make her happy."

"They were happy tears," Steve encourages with a nod, "She knows you love her. She loves you, too."

"Then why isn't she answering my calls?" he asks, another fry passing his lips.

"I think she's hurt, a little embarrassed. You know how girls are, they never come right out and say it," he shrugs, taking a bite of his cheeseburger. Ketchup drips out onto the paper mat on the plastic tray with a wet plop, Eddie sighs.

"Did you end up getting anything for her for Christmas?"

"No I -- I can't afford it this year," Eddie rubs his eyes again, more swollen and aching than before. Heat beams through his cheeks in embarrassment, tinging pink and then red.

"Well I had an idea," he offers, "If you're up for it."

"Yeah, go for it Harrington. Shoot," he says, the enthusiasm was greatly lacking.

"Well her uh, her class room needs a lot of repairs and the custodial team isn't really equipped for that. The school'll either bare bones it for her or make her pay for it out of pocket if she asks," he starts, "And she told me you're really handy, y'know, working at the garage and all. So maybe you could take care of her class room this week while we're out for break. I can let you in and everything."

He mulls it over in his head, "That's a really good idea, actually. I could um, I could ask the guys at the shop if I could borrow some tools."

"And there's a bunch of wood palettes in the backrooms at Medvald's. Jon said he's happy to get them out of there for you," Steve says with a smile.

"Oh, so you already talked about this?" Eddie smirks.

"Well, yeah, kind of," he blushes, "I was asking around just to see if it was a plausible kind of thing."

"Definitely a plausible thing," he nods, taking a bite of his own cheese burger. He holds back the moan in his chest from eating something warm and mildly filling after such a long time, "Do you think she'd like it?"

"Oh, Munson," Steve shoots him the 'okay' sign, "She'd lose her mind. All she does is complain about how nothing ever works and everything's falling apart. Doesn't even have new chalk."

"Chalk I can definitely handle," he laughs, "I think I can afford chalk."

He feels a moment of calm wash over him when the van rumbles to life in the parking garage. Finally heading home and going to sleep with a full belly, finally with a plan to make you happy, finally feeling like after the new year things can go back to normal. He flicks on the radio and doesn't even change the station when Mariah Carey's 'All I Want For Christmas' crackles through the speakers. He heard it 700 times today, happy to hear it for the 701st.

It was your new favorite song, after all.

Eddie woke up feeling slightly refreshed on Christmas Eve, the dull ache in his back mildly relieved. He fished into his pajama pants for his lighter, flicking it a few times before getting the fuse lit for his morning cigarette. He stood at the open door, bathrobe tied tight around him, and listened to the hum of Wayne's machine from the other end of trailer. The mug of black coffee in his hands had the bitterness cut by the soft sweetness of cinnamon -- that's what you always did this time of year.

'I like making it a little festive for you, honey,' you'd giggle, 'Don't be such a Grinch.'

He wished he appreciated it more, all the little things you did to try to make him happy. The faces in fruit on his pancakes some mornings, making his old favorites for dinner at your place, 'build your own sundae' nights. Scratching his head, scalp massages, hand massages. You'd call them man-icures so he didn't feel weird about you doing his nails and softening his callouses. He didn't care that it was just a manicure with a stupid name, all he cared about was your cute face when you concentrated on his cuticles. He missed your laugh, the way you tap your pen out to your favorite songs when you're grading papers or writing lesson plans, your elaborate schemes to make learning subtraction more fun. The way you're kind to everyone, all the time, constantly. When he first started taking you out he'd get embarrassed by how forward you were with people, how you'd make small talk with cashiers, or grab someone's hand to tell them their nails looked beautiful.

Maybe in a lot of ways, he wished he was more like you to start.

He took a shower and slipped on his coveralls, opting to be one of two guys in the shop today. Him and George. It was George's garage, and for the past six years, Eddie had always volunteered to be the emergency mechanic on deck on Christmas Eve. He got paid time and a half and never had to wait for the check, he'd always get paid at the end of the day.

He laces his boots before trudging down the hall to wake Wayne, taking off his machine and flipping the switch.

"I'm headed out," he whispers, "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Wayne groans when he sits up on the rickety mattress, "I have a new perscription, not sure if the pharmacy'll be open but would you be able to pick it up on the way back. They called last night but I couldn't make it to the phone, it's ready I think."

"Yeah, I'll grab it on my lunch break Wayne," he softens the more he looks at him, "Have some coffee already to go for you on the table, there's a couple eggs left for you too."

"Thank ya, son," his voice is grizzly, but it still feels like home.

Eddie shivers his way into the shop, George in the office organizing some files. The day was always slow, but there were some cars still in need of fixing so he got right to work.

"Hey George," he calls, knocking on the door.

"Hey kid," he calls back, "Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas, round six," he laughs back. He goes back to the break room and drops off his coat and his back pack. Normally he'd have you to look forward to later with a plate of cookies from your family's Christmas Eve party and some left overs expertly packed. You'd drive an hour and a half to bring it down to him and then an hour and a half back to spend Christmas with your family. But not before he gave you a present, or multiple presents, in the break room when George went out to get a six pack.

"Ed," he calls again, "C'mere when you're done dropping your shit."

Eddie heads over to the office, leaning on the door frame, "'Sup bossman?"

"Someone left a message for ya on the answering machine, think it's the pharmacy," he said, "Ya might wanna give 'em a call, s'probably for your uncle."

"Oh, yeah, I think his prescription's ready," he nodded, "Can I use your phone?"

"Yeah, by all means," he said, pushing it toward him, "Want me to give you a minute?"

Ed shakes his head no, "It's fine, just a quick call." He's got the number memorized by heart at this point, clicking the numbers on the grease stained white plastic buttons while barely looking at the machine.

"Hawkins Pharmacy, this is Debbie," Eddie smiles because he knows Debbie. He likes Debbie a lot.

"Hi Deb, it's Eddie, Eddie Munson," he says, "Calling for my uncle, looks like you called my work. I was gonna come by and pick up his meds on my break, will you guys be open?"

"Oh um, about his prescription Ed..." she starts, and he can hear the hesitation in her voice. The clip in the grenade buried in his chest jiggles slightly, he takes in a breath through his nose.

"What's up?" he asks, his voice his short and curt.

"Well, he changed his insurance recently, as you know and -- well there's a lapse in his coverage right now. His new plan doesn't activate until the first," she expains.

"Okay, and what does that mean?" he says, his palms sweat onto the cool plastic of the phone, his ear sticks to the receiver.

"Basically," she says, and then sighs, "His current insurance can't cover it and neither can is upcoming insurance, so the prescription has to be paid out of pocket."

"Um -- uh, fuck -- okay," he says, a chill courses through him, tightening his veins. The pin jiggles again, "H-how much?"

"For the month?" she asks, "For this prescription it's, hold on, let me check...it's looking like it'll come out to around..." she takes a breath of defeat.

"Around three hundred dollars, Ed," she says softly.

"Three hundred..." he repeats back quietly, "Is there like, is there a cheaper version cause he like..."

His voice cracks, the pin rattles dangerously while his eyes start to sting with oncoming tears, "He really needs these pills, Debbie."

"This is the cheapest option," she says apologetically, "I'm so sorry."

"I'll um, I'll figure it out," he shakes his head, "I'll come by and I'll figure it out. Thanks uh, thanks for letting me know Deb."

He doesn't wait to hear her response before he hangs up the phone, quickly leaving the office to go back to the break room. He sniffles in big shuddering breaths, sweat dripping down his back despite the lack of heat in the garage.

"Kid," George says softly, following behind him, "Hey, Munson. What's goin' on?"

He feels George's big hand on his shoulder, the soft squeeze on the muscle under his skin.

"I can't afford my uncle's medication," he says, the pin jiggles, "I mean I can, but like, if I get his medication I'll be late in paying the gas bill, but if they turn the gas off there goes our heat. Or I can delay the electric bill but if they turn the lights out he can't use his machine at night. So maybe I could like, go out tonight after this and shovel some driveways in the rich neighborhoods or -- I could -- I could --"

The pin falls.

He breaks.

He breaks hard.

Eddie's cries turn to wails, his body shaking with hunger and exhaustion and the unbearable heaviness of having to be himself. The tears pour in droves down his face while he tries to catch up with them, trying to find the words to explain to George that he's okay, he'll figure it out.

"Hey, buddy, it's okay, it's okay," George soothes, his aged face crumpling while he watches Eddie break down in front of him. He pulls him in tight, a hand plopping ontop on his mess of curls.

"Why don't you tell me what's been goin' on? You haven't been yourself for months," he says softly, "Talk to me."

George smells like Old Spice and Newports, it's a scent that's always made him feel safe. Like having a second dad -- well, a third dad, if you count his real dad. He never counts his real dad, though.

Eddie sits down at the table while George takes a couple of beers out of the fridge and places them down in front of them. He cracks them open and settles down, two sets of brown eyes meeting each other.

He begins.

"Well if Wayne was sick why didn't you tell me?" George exclaims, "I've known Wayne longer than you've lived in Hawkins, boy. I would've helped you figure somethin' out. Taking shifts at Macy's? At Christmas time? No wonder you're so exhausted."

"I mean, I'm young. I can do it," Eddie shrugs.

"Those bags under your eyes say you can't," he says matter of factly, "And y'know you shouldn't have to. You're -- damn you're a kid."

"I'm like, inching towards thirty George," he laughs.

"And what about your little girlfriend? She not helping?"

"That's..." he sighs, "That's a whole other mess."

Eddie rehashes the story he told Wayne last week and then Steve's visit from yesterday, "So today I was gonna ask if I could borrow some tools and go in tomorrow or something to fix everything up. But now I gotta figure out how I'm gonna make an extra three hundred bucks for these meds."

"How about this," George starts, "You've been workin' for me a long time. You come early and you stay late. You cover for everyone. You know -- damn -- you know more about cars than I do and I've been runnin' this place for thirty years. How about you take this week off to work on your girl's classroom and I'll see you after the New Year."

"I can't. I need to work, George, I need the mo--"

"How about," he interjects, loud and stern, "You take the week off to work on your girl's classroom and get some rest, and I will pay you for the week. It's not like you're just sittin' on your ass."

"I can do that, that's not f--"

"If you say no again, I'm just gonna fire you. Is that what you want?" George challenges.

"No sir," Eddie quickly shakes his head and shuts his mouth.

"And," the older man continues, "I will cover the cost of Wayne's pills. I'll go pick them up at lunch for 'im and drop 'em off. 'Bout time I caught up with that geezer anyway."

The tears build back up in Eddie's eyes, his mouth lets out a sputtered version of a 'Thank you'.

"You gotta stop pretending like you have to do everything yourself," George's voice holds a fatherly fondness when he gets up and tosses their empty beers in the trash.

"C'mere, kid," he chuckles while Eddie tearily gets up out of the chair and back into the dad like embrace of his boss.

"You got ten minutes, but then we got some cars to fix."

Eddie didn't tell Wayne about the insurance lapse or the pills, even though he was surprised to see George at the trailer park that afternoon. Eddie went home with his tool belt from work, his time and a half, and a little extra that his boss insisted he take with him. Wished him luck on his repairs and that he'd see him on the 2nd.

He was warned that if he didn't rest, Wayne would tell him, and it would mean hell for him at the shop.

Eddie'd already been through hell, so he didn't really want to have to do it again.

Christmas morning came and Eddie woke Wayne up to a cup of coffee and some breakfast.

"Thanks, son," he said smoothly, pushing in his chair at the table in the kitchenette, "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," he wished back, tapping some cinnamon into each of their cups of coffee.

"What's that for?" he asks before a harrowing cough bubbles out of his chest. He takes a sip of coffee to ease the ache of the rattle in his throat.

"It's just festive, Wayne," he teases, "Don't be a Scrooge."

"Doing anything today?" Wayne asks, eyes casting up to look at the old pictures of a younger Eddie sat on Santa's lap. No longer a holiday where they stayed home and snuggled, where he played with his toys, where there was magic.

"Gonna go fix up my girl's classroom as a gift," he says, picking at his nails, "Thought it'd be a nice gesture."

"She hasn't called ya back, hm?"

Eddie shakes his head, already dressed in the Black Sabbath shirt you got him that he hadn't gotten a chance to properly thank you for. The chain you got repaired hung aroung his neck delicately, the pick hitting his chest in a gentle reminder that you're still here with him. You had to be. He'd know if you just decided to be done with him.

By the time the late afternoon rolled around he hopped in his van after Wayne fell asleep in the recliner. The perk of the holidays was that he could drive around in the rich neighborhoods and no one was out to give him and his car dirty looks. No one was around to be confused that Steve Harrington was hopping into his passengers seat to head to Melvald's. No one was around to be confused as to while they were loading wood from broken down pallets into the ample trunk space.

"Good holiday?" Eddie asks.

"Same holiday it always is," he shrugs, "My parents weren't around so I stayed home. Jonothan went to California with Joyce to go visit Will so he wouldn't have to pay to fly home."

"That's lonely," Eddie mutters, "Sorry dude."

"Don't be sorry, I'm used to it," he looks out the window. Steve looks well dressed for repairs -- a pair of worn in jeans, white on white Air Forces, an Izod half zip sweat shirt -- he might as well look like a father of three, "Have you heard from her at all?"

"No -- I left her a message on her answering machine, but I think she's already up with her family. I don't know what she told them so -- I don't want to bother her parents if they're upset with me," he explains.

"They'd never be upset with you," Steve shakes his head, "They're good people."

"I'm sure they wish on a star every night that she was with you, Harrington," he jokes.

"You'd think, right?" Steve laughs, "No, she told me how much they like you. They think you're so good to her -- you are so good to her."

Steve speaks about you with a fondness that makes Eddie wonder. He softens, looking over at him while he turns down the road to the elementary school, "Do um...do you wish it was you?"

"I already told you, man. I love her to death, but she's not my type," he laughs again, but there's a pain there.

"You keep saying that but like -- are you sure? 'Cause you can tell me it's not weird," he assures.

"She hasn't told you?" Steve asks, brows furrowing.

"Told me what? Did you guys used to fuck, or something?" Eddie asks, his heart hammering, "Did you fuck the other ni--"

"No, no, Ed I'm --" he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"I'm gay," he says quietly, "Like, Jonathan isn't my roommate he's -- he's my partner. I'm gay."

There's a silence there for a moment and Eddie shifts in his seat a red light. Oh, I'm such a fucking idiot. Of course that's why they aren't together. I thought maybe he had a weird dick or something.

"That's y'know," Ed shrugs, "That's cool with me, man. Like, silence equals death and all that."

"Oh, shut up man," Steve laughs and shakes his head, putting his hand up to stop him from talking, "Don't like, do that all shit. I'm just surprised she hadn't said anything."

"If you told her not to, she wont," Eddie's voice drops to something sweet, "She's a good girl like that. Great secret keeper. Great -- Oh, shit..."

When the boys pull into the lot, Eddie's surprised to see a couple more trucks sitting by with their lights on, doors opening at the sight of them. A gruff voice calls out from the dark, a light snow obscuring him and the name on his coverall.

"How long were you gonna keep us waiting here, kid? It's a holiday."

George's gruff voice cuts the silence, a couple of the guys from the shop chuckle in the background. Eddie smiles, a genuine, warm smile -- the kind he envied from a couple nights ago that he saw from Steve. These were people who cared about him, who wanted to help. This was, he guessed, was what Christmas was really about. This was what you were trying to tell him the whole time. His heart breaks all over again, and he swears he can feel the pulse of your heart beat in the guitar pick hanging at his chest.

By the 27th, most of the repairs had been done. The help from the guys was beyond what he could've imagined. They were able to replace part of the roof that had water damage, fix the windows, repair a cracked pane, build a new bookcase, fix the wobble in all of the desks, and yours. Now, he was just adding a new coat of paint after spending the morning chipping off all the shards of it that were falling off. In his backpack was an overflow of new chalk, pens and pencils, markers, crayons, construction paper, pipe cleaners, and glue. The guys went through their kids bookcases at home and donated a slew of new books for the room -- some duplicates, too.

He felt good. He'd gotten two nights of adequate sleep, heeding George's warning that he has to rest. He was able to buy a good crop of groceries and most of the guys from work came by to drop off so many Christmas cookies that Wayne was nervous he'd start losing his teeth too. Now, all he had to wait for was you. For you to come in on Friday and see his surprise when you dropped in for your professional development day with Steve. He wasn't sure if he wanted to leave flowers or gingerbread men with the card but he figured he'd cross that bridge when he --

"Eddie?"

He jumped, nearly falling off the ladder he was on to reattach over head light that had rusted on the ceiling, "Jesus Christ!"

He clutched his chest, letting his heart rate settle down when at the bottom of the ladder, there you stood. His face blushed pink, pulse ping ponging through his wrists at the sight of you.

"Hi, sweetheart," he smiles, "This um...this was supposed to be a surprise."

"Who told you?" you asked, looking around, "About all my stuff?"

Eddie climbed down the ladder carefully, "Steve came to the store, told me that you needed some help. I figured y'know, if I couldn't get you a present I could just -- I could make you one."

"It's not done yet though, I still have to paint and put all your art supplies away," he explains, meeting you in the center of the room. He looks at you and then at the tears in your eyes, the heat rising in your cheeks. You don't say anything, his heart races in embarrassment. Maybe it wasn't enough, maybe you didn't like it. Maybe you wanted to do it yourself.

"And um, the guys from the shop, they uh, they brought books," he says, walking over to the new bookcase, "And I uh, I built this, like, with my hands."

He painted it to match the rest of the decor, a fun bright color that would hopefully draw the kids in to read. You'd mentioned that the got bored with the same ten books and weren't sharing well -- half of the books were falling apart since there wasn't anywhere to put them.

"And uh, I got you some new chalk -- white obviously, but I got you some multi-colored sets cause I know you like to do little sketches on the board during holidays and like, with spring comin' up maybe you could do little flowers or something?" he doesn't realize it, but he's gasping through his rambled sentences. Watching you walk toward him slowly.

"It's okay if you don't like it," he assures, "You can tell me and I can fix it I just wanted to--"

Your kiss feels like a spoonful of summer warmed honey on his cold lips. It trails down his throat and into his chest, down through his fingertips and his toes. He feels your soft hands cup his face, resting against his cold prickly cheeks. He's afraid to touch your face because you haven't given him a manicure yet this week. He doesn't want to scratch you with his rough hands, so he places them around you instead, frowning when you finally break away with a soft click.

"I just wanted to do something nice," he says against your lips.

"This is the best gift ever," you whisper quietly, a little sniffle stifling your cry, "It's very nice."

"Merry Christmas, baby," he smiles, leaning in for another kiss.

"Merry Christmas," you wish between kisses.

He wakes up wrapped up in you, in your sheets, in your scent, peering at you while you sleep soundly next to him. You both had barely made it through the door of your apartment before you both had shed your clothes -- landing on the bed with a mutual 'oof!'

It had been so long since he'd been present. Savoring every soft moan out of your mouth, every shake of your thighs, everything whine, every clench, the way you'd rake your nails down his back, the way you'd pulse when he held your hand. You both laid there together after round one, eating cookies in bed (which you'd allowed just this once), while he told you everything. About how hard it had been taking two jobs, how he'd completely shut down, about Wayne's insurance lapse, about the guys at work, about Steve coming to Macy's, about how much he loved the gifts you got. About how he cried the night he yelled at you but was too afraid to face you after because he felt so awful. He listened when you told him that you just needed some time, but that you felt awful that you weren't there when he needed you.

"Need you all the time," he mumbled between heated kisses, "Never lettin' you outta my sight."

His eyes rolled and his toes curled when you took him in your mouth, letting you take the lead. He gasped and writhed, whining for more when your tongue swirled and sucked, showing him how much you missed him. How you'll always take care of him -- and he made sure to show you how he'll take care of you back.

Round three was long and drawn out, slow and sensual, close and quiet -- your boom box playing low static by the end.

Your eyes opened, stretching out when you see him sitting up in bed.

"You heading out?" you yawn.

"No, baby," he smiles down at you before laying back down, losing himself under the covers with you again, "I have the week off, so I'm intending to spend every moment I'm not with Wayne, in this bed, with you."

#eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fan fic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson hurt/comfort #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x y/n #eddie x reader #eddie munson

[kqulitz]

HEYHEYHEYYY

Idk if you do asks,but i like your writing style!

Sooo imma shoot my shot!

Could you maybe write a bill x reader(fem)

Where they are going to the hotel him and the guys stay but while they walk(only bill and reader) guys keep catcalling reader and at some point one grabs her (chose were) and he looses his shit and bill starts punching tge guy and then reader calms him down and then they get inside and cuddle?...

(Idk if its something too detalied so if it is just change it as long as it is with bill lol 😂)

protection

bill kaulitz x reader

summary: your boyfriend protects you after you get hassled in public.

tags: established relationship, protective! bill, catcalling, verbal harassment, reader’s ass does get grabbed, physical fights, piggyback rides, bill being a bit moody after but he gets over it :), the teeniest tiniest smidge of angst but with comfort, fluff!!

a/n: my asks aren’t open rn but i love this too much so i might as well open them lol and aaah i actually love this request (and ur ask is fine dw!!)

tw: (sexual?) assault (reader’s ass gets grabbed), mild violence

lowercase intended :)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

your giggles echo down the empty street, making your boyfriend grin wider. he loves making you laugh. you’re hand in hand with bill after deciding to go out for a walk to soothe the nerves of being on tour. bill’s hand is warm in yours, your palm sweats slightly but you don’t mind. “why are we walking anyway?” you ask, looking at him. “what? you want a piggyback ride instead?” he teases with a grin. “if you’re offering.” you joke, moving your hand so you could link arms with him. bill holds your arm even closer. “i just thought it would be nice to have a walk before we have to hit the road again.” he tells you.

a group of people catch your eye, yet you don’t give them too much attention. “maybe we can stop in a store and get some snacks for the others.” you suggest, squeezing bill’s arm a little tighter. walking late at night was always nerve-racking, yet you felt safe, you had bill after all. “good idea babe.” bill smiles at you, you reciprocate it. “hey, mädchen!” (hey, girl) a man shouts from across the street. you both glance in the direction of the group, you already feel a bit uncomfortable. “ignore them.” you mutter to bill, who nods. “dump that freak and come hang out with us!” another yells. you can hear their footsteps. bill squeezes your arm protectively, trying to get you to walk a bit faster.

“c’mon, girlie, don’t be like that.” one of the men goes to grab your arm, yet bill hits it away. “leave her alone.” your boyfriend moves you to the other side of the path, shielding you from the guy. “what, you her boyfriend?” he snarks. “i am, actually. now fuck off.” normally hearing this would make sleazy men turn away, yet these guys are persistent. “c’mon bill, let’s just go.” you mumble, feeling a little sick at the interactions. bill’s eyes soften as he looks at you, leading you away from the other guys. a hand grabs a handful of your ass, scrunching your skirt, making you gasp and immediately turn to smack the stranger’s hand away. you feel absolutely humiliated and gross, and as you go to grab bill’s hand to run to the nearest shop he spins around, punching the guy.

“bill-!” you yelp, grabbing his arm. you can’t count how many punches bill had got on the guy, but the stranger stumbles back at the force of them, almost falling as he cradles his jaw where the first attack had landed. “c’mon man, she’s not worth it.” his friend glares at bill, who glares back; ready to swing again if he has to. the three men leave, and you sigh. “you didn’t have to do that.” you grumble, walking ahead. bill furrows his brows. “what? he grabbed you! what did you want me to do? let you get grabbed?!” bill argues, following you into a store. you hush him softly as to not disturb any people inside the shop. bill broods quietly, clenching and unclenching his fists as he tries to calm himself.

you silently grab whatever snacks and drinks you see before approaching the counter, ignoring how bill shuffles behind you. “bist du in ordnung?” (are you okay?) the woman behind the counter asks, scanning your stuff for you. “ja, danke, es war eine seltsame nacht.” (yes thank you, it’s just been a weird night.) you reply with a small smile. she rings you up, bidding you and bill farewell as you both leave the store. “i’ll carry it for you.” he mumbles, grasping the bag gently. “i think you’ve done enough for tonight.” you sigh, yet the bag slips from your hand into his. bill frowns, yet doesn’t say anything else. you walk back to the hotel with him, yet bill eventually stops you around a block away. “what?” you ask, voice quite soft considering you were upset. “c’mere.” he turns, gesturing for you to get on his back. you can’t help the smile on your lips as you hop onto your boyfriend’s back, legs wrapping around his hips as his slender hands support your thighs.

bill carries you the rest of the way, thumbs gently stroking your outer thighs. you hug his shoulders, resting your head against his as you let your eyes close. it had been a long day and you couldn’t wait to get into your hotel room and relax. stepping into the lobby, bill finally lets you down off his back, turning and pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “c’mon.” you fish the room key out of your pocket, leading bill to your hotel room. opening the door, you step inside, sighing softly. tom’s head rises from his pillow to look at the two of you. “you look like shit, bill.” he teases. “shut up.” your boyfriend sighs, flopping onto one of the beds. “shoes.” you tap bill’s leg in passing, making him sigh and sit up to undo his sneakers. “you brought snacks?” tom asks, sitting up in his bed. “yeah. where’s gustav and georg? i brought them stuff too?” you ask the other twin, who gestures to the door. “they got tired and went back to their room.” he replies as he helps you unpack some snacks.

“bill, can you be a babe and go give these to the boys for me?” you ask softly, fluttering your lashes a little. bill mulls it over for a second. “fine.” he stands, accepting the bag from you. “thanks babe.” you reply, turning away before he can kiss you. bill frowns a little, catching his brother’s eye over your shoulder as you sit beside tom, taking off your shoes as you get comfortable on the bed. tom shrugs, and so bill leaves. “did something happen?” tom nudges you gently. “no… kinda..?” you sigh, opening a drink. “what did he do?” he asks. “nothing… i just… i’ll tell you tomorrow, okay?” you mutter, glancing up at the door as bill comes back in. he’s silent as he gets into the bed the two of you were meant to share. “you’re not gonna be with him tonight?” tom whispers, you shrug. “i dunno…” you respond, voice equally hushed. bill furrows his brows, a pout on his lips. you hated seeing him upset.

the other twin glances between the two of you, realising how thick the tension was. “i’m gonna go shower..!” tom announces as he stands, stretching his arms overhead. “alright.” you reply, grabbing yours and bill’s share of the snacks as you move over to the other bed. bill barely glances at you as tom goes into the bathroom, giving you both privacy. you curl your arms around bill, resting your head on his shoulder. “you didn’t have to do that tonight.” you tell him, kissing his jaw gently. “i know… just- him grabbing you really pissed me off, i had to.” bill engulfs you in a big hug, burying his face into your hair. “well we’re back now, it’s over, okay?” you respond, letting him kiss your forehead gently. “are you mad at me?” bill asks anxiously.

“no… i was just upset at the fact you could of gotten hurt because of me…” you admit, curling closer. bill scoffs. “that’s the least of my worries. i’d rather go to jail than let a guy grab you like that.” you hit his chest gently. “you’re not going to jail..!” you scold half-heartedly. bill exhales slowly through his nose, it gently fans against your face. “yeah, sorry… i shouldn’t of freaked out.” bill sighs. “i’m mainly worried that someone caught you hitting that guy on camera- it could ruin you.” you frown, cuddling closer. “the street was absolutely dead, baby. no one saw us other than those guys.” bill points out. “fine… just don’t go punching guys in public on my behalf.” you reply, half joking. “i can make no promises, baby.” he smiles, stealing a kiss.

tom comes back from his shower, hair damp and fresh clothes on. he smiles at the sight of the two of you curled up together. “made up?” he jests, getting into his own bed. “mhm.” bill hums lowly, too busy relishing your cuddles to respond properly. “we’re fine, tom. don’t worry.” you smile, hand idly rubbing your boyfriend’s back. “good, i don’t wanna be on a tour when you two are upset at each other- it ruins the vibes on stage.” you roll your eyes. “that was one time, tom.” you reply, making the other twin laugh. “just don’t make it two.” tom teases, catching the pillow his brother throws at him. “whatever, tom.” bill sighs, kissing you gently. “and don’t fuck when i’m right here!” tom quips, this time you throw a pillow at him. tom laughs, surrendering as you both settle down again. “i’m keeping these, y’know?” tom states after a while. “okay, tom. goodnight.” bill rolls his eyes. “don’t tell me you two are going to bed early?” tom replies, leaning over a little. “no, we’re not. i think he’s just hoping you do.” you grin.

“you wound me..!” tom jokes, propping himself up on his elbow. “are you saying you don’t value my company?” he asks, a playful smile on his lips. “of course we do. every couple needs a third wheel.” you joke back, turning to look at tom. “hey..!” he gasps. bill can only laugh.

#bill kaulitz #bill kaulitz x reader #tokio hotel #tokio hotel x reader #tom kaulitz #// 🦇 kqulitz’s writing

[scenetocause]

no one asked for this but i was in the kitchen makin instant ramen and poleaxed by the thought of landoscar puppy play post-melbourne in the style of a fic i thought was gemjam's but now can't find where mark webber gave his then-protegee mitch evans a collar to help with homesickness anyway whatever have some fuckin words

edit: fuck's sake cassian obviously it was a collar and a kiss by zeraparker

mild warning for hopelessly undernegotiated kink

"Don't you ever get homesick?" Oscar could count the number of people he'd less like to be having this conversation with than Lando Norris on one hand and one of them's the bored immigration officer who had to tell him he'd not got his passport stamped right in Doha.

Lando snaps his gum, looking up to the ceiling like he's actually thinking about it. "No? Not really. I was sick of fucking Bali over Christmas, jesus and I don't want to go back to Dubai but like, home is everywhere innit?"

"No." Oscar closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. Obviously Lando doesn't experience this, he could literally drive to his parents' house on half a tank of fuel, straight out of the MTC car park. Straight from Oscar's flat, where for some reason he's letting Lando crash as though him seeing the post-Australia comedown is a good idea.

"Hmm." Hearing Lando think is always disturbing. "Well, what can I do about it?"

Oscar has to open his eyes again in disbelief. 'What do you mean do about it?"

Seeing Lando cocking his head on one side, like a dog, makes something painful sear across Oscar's temples. "You're sad, I want to fix it. Max always-"

"Don't tell me about that." He can't hear about Max Fewtrell right now. The guy haunting the garage all weekend was enough. Oscar doesn't need a reminder he's not Lando's first anything, needs to keep the thoughts about breaking up with his girlfriend so they can properly be a thing to himself.

"Well." Lando is literally sitting on his hands. "Then you have to tell me about it yourself."

Thing is, this is too much. It's not the kind of thing he should share with Lando. Lando who he just got team-ordered for, Lando who he needs to match the tyre management of, Lando who will sit there and smile angelically and get his fucking way on anything they ever diverge on about feedback.

Oscar's clenching his jaw so hard he can almost feel the ache where they took his wisdom teeth, though. Another thing he didn't know he'd really miss this much.

"You can't fucking laugh at me." Why's he said that, for fuck's sake? Lando laughs at everything, would probably do it at a funeral in his weird, stressed-out way when he doesn't know how to socially behave.

"Ok." Lando's eyes are very big and he's looked up from his phone. "I can order TimTams on Uber Eats?"

That's actually quite sweet. But not what Oscar needs right now.

"Just - stay here." Lando's fucking weird, he's probably into some of this shit himself. If not something freakier, lying around his Monaco flat in a gimp mask, suffocating himself or god-knows-what shit.

It doesn't take long to find the box. Oscar's consciously never accumulated too much stuff in this flat, like he might have to move out of it any time. Like everything might have to go in a suitcase because the contract review board said it's over, kiddo, go back down under and pretend you understand your dad's business enough to pay him back.

It's not got very much in. Oscar doesn't like to wear too much, when he's like this. Just a t-shirt and shorts or his boxers. He doesn't think he's ready for Lando to see him shirtless, like this, make his eyes crinkle up in glee at how much of Oscar he can touch.

It'd be better if Lando did it, if someone put it on for him but that's too complicated to ask for, so Oscar does it himself, mostly. Puts the soft shorts on, an old Prema shirt that's a little too tight to wear outdoors but feels comfy, soft, reassuring on his skin.

The ears are easy but the collar. He can't do that, himself. Can't give himself the ball, the well-chewed, if pristinely laundered, beanie toy. Whines, unhappily, about it.

"Osc-" obviously, Lando heard him. The sounds of him chaotically standing up, nearly falling over Oscar's rug and stumbling towards his bedroom door, are already clattering through the flat. "Can I come in?"

He just whines again, an animal thing. Oscar needs permission, like this, doesn't give it.

"Ok you better not be dying because I never finished the first aid-" Lando stops in the doorway. "Oh."

Oscar sinks to the floor, his knees bending beneath him, shoving the box at Lando before he folds down on his knees and elbows, looking up at the guy he's supposed to do anything to beat.

"Good..." Lando moves his mouth around for a moment, licks his lips. "Puppy?"

He doesn't have a tail to wag, although he has thought about one of the plugs, sometimes. Objectively, the bit of Oscar's brain that's still somewhat functioning says wiggling his arse must make him look ridiculous, especially when he paws at the box and whines again.

Lando crouches down, touches the ears. "Do you want to go out?"

Oscar cringes back, shaking his head violently. God, imagine the headlines.

"Ok." Lando does his head-cock thing again, then sticks his hands into the box. "Do you want your collar?"

It's pretty shameful, the way Oscar crawls forward so easily, smushes his face against Lando's knee and maybe he should have asked about this properly but Lando goes easily, scritching behind Oscar's ear. "Oh you're such a good boy, look at you."

Lando fumbles the collar for a second, not getting the buckle right the first time and it's nearly uncomfortable enough Oscar stands up, right back out of it but then it goes and it's snug and tight and good, Lando's hand in his hair.

"Are these your toys?" Lando shifts to kneeling, lets Oscar get his head right in his lap, nuzzling against Lando's stomach through the pouch of his hoodie. He doesn't need to answer that one, it's pretty obvious.

"Well, I don't think Oscar would want you breaking his stuff, so I'm going to leave the ball here." The third person is a jolt, like a nod to camera but it feels right. Oscar is elsewhere, can worry about that later.

"Come on then, good dog." Lando stands up, with the beanie toy in hand. It's a koala, a stupid joke. "Come and play, then."

It's not a comfortable flat to get through on your hands and knees, hard wooden floor jarring him in a way that'll probably bruise a bit, tomorrow. Lando's walking easily, waggling the beanie like he thinks he needs to keep Oscar interested.

Not Oscar. Puppy. It feels good.

Lando pushes the coffee table away, scraping on the floor in a way Oscar's landlord will probably have an opinion about when he comes to pay the deposit back. But puppies don't worry about that kind of thing, so Oscar just crawls over to where Lando's sitting, legs spread and outstretched, on the rug.

"Come on," Lando holds out the beanie, waving it by Oscar's mouth. "You want this, yeah?"

Oscar growls, nips at it. It's not the toy he wants, really, just the -

Ah, perfect. Lando pulls Oscar forward by the toy, right on top of him as he leans back. Oscar can paw him like his, Lando laughing delightedly and twisting away.

It's - he's seen the video, McLaren posted it for some national day or something last year - the same way Lando plays with his family's dog. Silly, rolling around the floor, letting Oscar half-hump him while Lando's shrieking and trying to get out of his grip, only to dive back in, wrestling with Oscar.

The rug scoots across the floor under them and they nearly crash into the telly, Oscar ending up on his back, against the sofa, Lando tickling his tummy but the toy in Oscar's mouth, triumphant.

"Are you submitting? Are you letting me lead the pack?" It's a bit on the nose but yeah, maybe. Oscar kicks out a leg, half-heartedly, to show he isn't always going to be ok with that.

"What a good boy." That, he is always ok with. More than human-Oscar would like to admit.

Lando lies down next to him, face a bit flushed and eyes bright from playing. "Always wanted a dog. You can even come to all the races."

#emptyhalf fic #ramen is cold now bad vibes #but then again it was the indomie chicken flavour so not exactly storming anyway #why does NOWHERE ever have the hot pepper one ffs #clearly the best one #though i do respect that og chicken comes in a giant pack called a hungriman and an even bigger one called beliful

[bunnydexterloveselvis]

Hiiii and welcome ✨🔆 If you are accepting prompts can i request one please, would you write cuddly fluff and / or agere with a baby BDE? especially a sick fic with a cg reader! Thank you ✨✨✨

Oh my god!!!!!!!!!!!! You're the first one to request a prompt!!! Thank you sooo much!!! Of course I'll write it!! How could I pass up such an amazing request? So cute!!! I've never wrote sick fics before so I'll try my best!!

Sick little baby.. (Agere!Big Daddy Elvis x reader)

summary: //elvis wakes up with a cold, is age regressed, and has you as his caregiver

type of fic: //age regression, tooth-rotting fluff, sickfic

warnings: //being sick?? the symptoms mentioned are sneezing, coughing, headache, mild fever, etc. no vomiting or anything like that. also it's pretty mild. he just sleeps it off, cuddling????? idk some people don't like being cuddled i guess, baby talk?? i don't think there's any serious warnings here besides being sick and age regression

word count: //675 (six-hundred and seventy-five) words

It was a fresh day, and you wake up in the morning, it’s around 8am. You look over at your sweet boy who is still sleeping. “What a cutie,” you thought to yourself. You chuckled and got out of bed to make breakfast. About 15 minutes later you come back, with Elvis still asleep in the bed. You smile warmly.

“Wake up, baby,” you whisper in his ear. He shuffles around a bit and lets out a whine. His eyes flutter open and he pouts. “Mamaaa- ’m sweepy!!!” He rolls onto his back. Oh. He woke up little! You almost giggle from how cute he is. He then sneezes three times and sniffles. “got da sneezies,” He mutters, with a short, reassuring giggle. Then he coughs a bunch. “Um, little one, are you okay??” You ask, caressing his shoulder. He looks up at you with sparkling eyes but very wet eyes. “M-mama I don’ feew so.. Good..” He wipes his forehead trickling with sweat, along with that, his soft chubby cheeks are red and his eyes are half-lidded.

He’s sick. But he has a concert today! “Awww.. What are we going to do?,” you thought. You’ll have to cancel it today. Can’t do a concert if you’re sick! So you make a call to explain that E is sick, and has to cancel the concert today. After that trouble, you run back to him. “Mamaaa…” he cries and makes grabby hands at you, implying he wants something. “What is it, E, baby??” you chuckle a bit from his overexpressed tone of voice. “Mmm.. t-tummy hurts..” he forces out while clenching his hands on his soft belly. “Awwww.. It’ll be okay. Mommy’s gonna help make your tummy feel better in no time!,” you tell him, sitting down next to him, massaging circles on his sore stomach. He looks up at you with the prettiest, sparkliest eyes ever. “Weawwy?” he asks softly. A small smile appears on his face. “Wiww mama make tummy free bettew?” “Of course honey, but you need to rest, I’ll be back with some stuff to keep you busy while I make you stuff to help you feel better! Sounds okay?” You murmur, making sure you don’t scare him. He gets scared when he hears loud noises, and you took note of that as soon as you found out. “Mhm!” he nods. You find his toybox and his paci and take it to him, pop the paci in his mouth while ruffling his hair very gently, remember he has a headache too.

So you give him all his gear, and as you walk away to go make him soup for his tummy, he cries out, “Mamaaa!! Don’ leave!!” You sigh. “E, baby, I have to make you soup so you’ll feel better. Do you wanna take the yucky red-coloured spoon medicine?” you threaten “No!! No yucky stuff!! Just wan’ mama..” he frowns and looks down. You slowly approach him and run your fingers through his hair, which usually calms him down. It did. He buries his face in your chest while hugging you tight. “I-I wuv you mama” he says into you. Making you smile sympathetically, you say, “Okay.. I’ll lie down and nap with you, but the first hurt noise I hear from you, I am getting the medicine,” half jokingly. He pouts as a joke, making you giggle. 

You pet his hair while trying not to get sick yourself. His eyes get half-lidded and sleepy. You pet his forehead in an attempt to calm his headache. It worked, weirdly, more like distracted him from his headache to your soothing touch. Elvis practically did something similar, he held you, his mama, close. Never letting go. Planting a kiss on his cheek, you whisper sweet nothings into his ear to lull him into a nap. Afterwards you make him some chicken noodle soup for when he wakes up in case he gets hungry.

You really hope he naps for a while, because you can’t seem to get this can of chicken soup open.

(i don't feel like this is good enough, i feel like it's too vague. let me know if you like it!! It was a teensy bit rushed and i wrote half of it when sleepy)

#elvis presley #elvis #dexter.txt #dexter posts #elvis x reader #big daddy elvis #70s elvis #elvis fandom #<3 #elvis the king #age regression #agere #sickfic #caretaking #agere fic #fic request

[letstalkaboutfandomsbaby]

╔══•.·.☆.·.♥︎.·.☆.·.•══╗

scum of the earth

╚══•.·.☆.·.♥︎.·.☆.·.•══╝

ʚ Naoya Zen'in x chubby fem reader ɞ

Part 1 ♥︎ Part 2 ♥︎ Part 3 ♥︎ Part 4 ♥︎ Part 5

❥ Word count: 12.9k

❥ CW: chubby fem reader, blatant fatphobia (i.e. name calling, insults, just all around horrible behavior), angst, mild violence (somebody gets punched), drinking (i.e. getting drunk), vomiting, mentions of suicide, lots of communication, smut, face sitting, somewhat dom reader near the end

❥ A/N: heyyyy bitchessssss aldklajfla hope yall're doing well 💕 welp! It's finally here! It's much longer than i thought it would be but im happy with how it turned out. I hope you all enjoy it as well :) thank you for being patient and sticking with me on this journey. I'm very grateful for all your support and kind words about this series 💕

You were tougher than you looked. 

Naoya thought you would crack pretty quick, forty minutes, an hour tops. But there you were across the room, laughing along with his aunts, his little cousins running around and stopping by your side every so often. He watched you lean down and let them whisper something in your ear, taking a long drink when you smiled and looked back at them, telling them something in response. The scene would've usually tugged at his heart strings, made him want to put a baby in you and start a family of your own, but right now it made him sick. You shouldn't be over there: you should be by his side, giggling at his jokes and leaning in when he'd whisper gossip to you. You should've been next to him so he could wrap his arm around you, pull your chair closer to his, maybe move his hand down to your ass and squeeze. He could practically hear you whine in protest, pushing on his chest and pouting, complaining about him being so handsy when people were around–

"Are you listening?"

Naoya sighed, tipping back his glass of whiskey before glancing at the woman beside him. She was the daughter of some big-wig his father had invited, blonde and thin, her spray tan a bit darker than it should be. He was pretty sure her tits were fake too, but he wasn't certain.

"No, not really. What did you say?" She scoffed, leaning towards him, her breasts pressing against the fabric of her chest. Wasn't her outfit a bit too revealing for a black tie event? You were dressed much better than her, more mature, stunning–

"I was saying that I was going to go to Belize next month but Daddy is telling me that I can't go until I act more 'responsible' but like I've already found a super cute bikini and I invited all my friends–"

God, he didn't care, he didn't fucking care. This was quite possibly the last thing he wanted to be doing, listening to some ditzy twig talk about her stupid vacation. He wanted to be beside you, wanted to talk to you. He was still staring at you, wondering if you had considered this a vacation before you got mad at him, if this was something you'd want to do again when you weren't so angry, once you'd forgiven him. Maybe he could take you on a trip to Bora Bora to apologize, lavish you with gifts and enough attention to make you sick. He'd love to see you in a slutty lil swimsuit, something small and tight that squeezed you just right. Maybe he could get a private beach so he could keep you away from the lingering gazes of other men. Plus, he could always take your swimsuit off himself on that isolated shore and–

"Oh my God, you're not listening!" Naoya sighed and rolled his eyes, standing up and giving the girl a fake smile.

"Sorry, hun. Gotta go take a piss. Go find somebody else to talk to."

She scoffed as he walked away, mouth hung open in shock, but he didn't care. He moved around the tables and crowd, barely paying attention to the busy dance floor. His eyes were on you, on the curve of your back as you leaned forward on the table, smiling brightly as you typed away on your phone. You were alone, Keiko and Keiya off doing who knows what, so Naoya took the opportunity to pull out the seat next to you and sit down. You glanced up, frowning once you saw him, tensing as you looked back at your phone.

"So… you gonna ignore me all night? Or are we gonna act like adults and talk through this?"

"I have nothing to say to you," you spoke flatly, not peeling your eyes from your phone. Naoya pushed down his frustration, stifling the urge to yell and demand your full attention.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't think it would hurt you. I should've talked to you before introducing you to my dad." You didn't say anything, still typing on your phone, making him anxious. "I said I'm sorry."

"I heard you." He waited for you to continue, but when you didn't say anything else, he instinctively filled the space.

"Look, I'm sorry, I really am. Just let me make it up to you, okay? We can go away somewhere and just relax for a couple days, shit, we could leave for a couple weeks if you want, I don't care, just–"

"I don't want to be around you anymore, Naoya. I deserve better."

"Babe, please–"

"Please don't call me babe anymore. I don't wanna talk to you." You took a deep breath, grabbing your champagne glass and taking a sip. "I will be civil to you for the rest of this trip but I don't want anything to do with you once we get home." Oh, he didn't like that answer one bit. Desperate times.

"And what if I don't let you go home, huh? What if I just cancel your ticket and force you to stay?"

"Keiya said she would help me out if I needed anything." Shit.

"Oh, yeah? What else is Keiya gonna do for ya? She gonna take you shopping? Make you her sugar baby? Eat your pussy?"

"Y/N!!" Naoya stopped when his little cousins ran up to the other side of you, grabbing your dress and patting your leg. "They said they would do-do the chicken dance if-if-if enough people asked–"

"We wanna do the chicken dance with you!"

"Can you ask them pretty please? We wanna dance the chicken dance!" Your laugh was light and glittery, sweet as nectar, and Naoya found his anger melting at the sound. How could someone have him wrapped around their finger with just a giggle?

"Alright, alright, I'll go ask them. Are your mom and aunt gonna ask too?"

"Uh-huh!"

"Yep!"

"Okay, then let's all go ask together. I'm sure they'll play it if we ask nice enough." The twins cheered, bouncing as you stood up. Naoya quickly reached out, wrapping his hand around your wrist, making you look back at him confused.

"I'm not done talking." Your eyes darkened and you gave him a look he had never seen before: one of absolute indifference.

"I am." Your gaze did not falter as you shook him off, glaring at him before reaching for his cousins' hands, smiling down at them. "Let's go, ladies." You walked off without another word, not looking back, not giving any indication that he even existed to you. He felt his hands twitch as he watched you walk off. He bit at his lower lip, chewing it into oblivion as he looked down at his whiskey glass, mind racing.

Okay, she doesn't want to talk. That's fine. Two can play at that game. You can ignore her too. She'll be back at some point. But as his eyes trailed back up to you—as he saw how you smiled brightly at people you had just met—a small voice in his head arose.

She's not going to come back.

Okay, maybe she won't come back right away, but you can make it up to her. You've won plenty of women over after much worse actions. Maybe you could send her flowers or do one of those stupid grand gestures that they do in romance movies, show up to her job and get on your knees, beg her to forgive you. You can put on a show if it means getting her back.

As if that would make her forgive you. She's never shown interest in those things before; why would she start now? Naoya watched you across the reception room, leg bouncing as he saw his aunt Keiya lean towards you and whisper something in your ear. He felt his stomach churn when you tossed your head back and gave a heartfelt laugh. See? She doesn't need you. She never did. Why would she choose you over the dozens of other people who would treat her so much better?

She doesn't have dozens of people lining up to date her–

How do you know?

Oh, God. He didn't know. He didn't know at all. There was so much uncertainty around you—your past, your goals—did he even know what your favorite color was? What was your last name again? Did you even have parents? You two never talked about your families…

A large hand clapped onto Naoya's back, almost launching him into the table. He choked on his drink, stifling a cough as a boisterous laugh sounded beside him.

"Jeez, looks like somebody can't handle his liquor."

God damn it all.

"The fuck do you want, Naotake?" The elder Zen'in whistled, leaning down to get a better look at Naoya.

"Damn, who shit in your cereal this morning? Can't even give a polite 'hello' to your big brother?" Naoya gulped down his whiskey, sending his brother a glare.

"Maybe I would greet my brothers if they were worth my time."

"Just as cold as usual, I see. But seriously, how have you been? Haven't seen you since Ogi's wedding and that was years ago." Naoya kept quiet, staring at you from across the hall, watching you sway lazily with one of his little cousins in your arms, their cheek squished against your shoulder. His brother hummed, putting his hand on Naoya's shoulder. "Girl trouble?"

"Fuck off." Naotake gave a laugh, patting his shoulder.

"C'mon. Let's get you a refill." Naoya glanced down at his glass, sighing when he realized it was empty save for a bit of leftover ice. He begrudgingly stood up, pausing when his head spun for a moment, quickly recovering before walking to the bar with Naotake.

"Whiskey Sour or Old Fashioned?"

"Just straight."

"Shit, really? You must really be having a hard time." Naoya wanted to make a snide comment back, but his right temple pounded uncomfortably, leaving him mute. His brother didn't seem to care: he ordered a whiskey on the rocks for Naoya and a highball for himself, pushing a five dollar bill towards the bartender.

"So," he started, pushing the far-too-filled glass of whiskey to his brother, leaning against the bar, "what's her name?" Naoya stayed silent, contemplating his empty glass before pushing it away, grabbing the full one and tossing it back.

"Y/N."

"Pretty. How'd ya meet her?" Another chug, one that weighed heavy in the back of his throat, making his mouth sticky.

"She's my neighbor."

"Cute. So, you flirt with her by the mailboxes one day and make your move, or did it take time to ask her out?" Naoya's head felt heavy, like there were too many thoughts spinning around in his skull, weighing him down.

"We're not dating." The words came out without much thought, but the implication behind them left a hard pit in his stomach. Oh, God, is this how you felt when he had just called you his neighbor, indicating that you were nothing more? Did you feel just as sick and worthless as he did right now?

"Not dating? So why did you bring her?" Why did he bring you? Why did he whine and complain when you first said that you didn't want to come? Why did he insist that you spend time with him in a far away place?

"I… well, I wanted her to come."

"I understand that, but why?"

"Why are you interrogating me? Is it a crime to bring a plus one that you're not dating?" Naotake held up a hand in surrender.

"Hey, I didn't say anything like that. I'm just confused as to why you brought along a girl that you're not dating. Dating isn't really your style in the first place so I'm lost."

Dating really wasn't his style, for a multitude of reasons. Strict rules and a lack of a caring motherly figure in his childhood home: he just wasn't raised to love like that. Naoya had always considered himself a bachelor, going from woman to woman, enjoying them until he had his fill and then leaving them without any consideration for how they would feel waking up in an empty bed. He never liked the thought of dating, of being tied down to just one person, worried about the endless list of risks. He probably took that after his father, one of the many things he would inherit in his lifetime.

But then you came along, plump and beaming and filled to the brim with a sincerity he wasn't used to. He knew very well how fake people were in his world, singing his praises of how wonderful he was, the best Zen'in son, the clear heir to his father's empire. He was used to the exaggerations and the brown-nosing from strangers and friends in hopes that he would sprinkle a bit of his wealth onto them, blessing them with a fraction of his destined fortune. He knew how to sniff it out, how to play the game so he could trail people along as long as he liked until he grew bored and left them behind. He could taste the tracest amount of saccharine; he had grown accustomed to its flavor, to its artificial taste.

You, on the other hand, were pure sugarcane, sweet and honest and real despite how artificial the rest of the world was. It was refreshing, in a frightening way. Is that why he bullied you in the beginning, treating you like absolute garbage? Was he just so unused to genuine kindness that it made him build his walls even higher, turning him cruel and defensive and downright bitter?

"So, you're not dating but you brought your neighbor along with you anyways. Are yall fucking or something?" Naoya paused when his drink reached his lips, shrugging and downing the last of it, putting his glass on the counter and signaling for the bartender to refill it.

"I guess."

"Well, you are or you aren't, but if you brought her along then I assume you're at least fucking." Naoya pulled his newly filled glass back to him, swallowing down some phlegm building in the back of his throat. "Okay, then let me ask you this: does she matter to you?" 

What kind of question was that? Of course you did. You mattered more than people he knew since kindergarten, more than friends and family who only cared about him because his presence alone had benefits. And that didn't even scratch the surface of all the bullshit expectations he had to live up to.  You mattered so, so much; why couldn't you see that? Did one word really mean that much to you? Would being his girlfriend really have solved the inevitable downfall of your relationship? You would've left him sooner or later: either he would get bored or you would realize, just like today, that you deserved better. Why tie you down with a label when you would free yourself from it eventually? You both knew that he was trash; if it wasn't for his dad's money and influence, nobody would give him a second glance.

"To be honest, if you are fucking her, I'm surprised. She doesn't seem like she fits your standards."

"What?" he snapped at Naotake, glaring at him through the haze of booze coursing through him. Naoya's brother shrugged, staring straight ahead.

"I mean, she's kinda pretty, but not really hot. You always went after the hot girls so I'm just shocked that you went after a… big girl like her, ya know?"

No, he didn't know. What the fuck was his brother talking about? Not hot? Jesus, how blind could he be? You were absolutely radiant tonight; Naoya wasn't sure if he'd ever seen you so beautiful before. You looked like an angel, absolutely glowing under the hall's chandeliers, and this idiot had the audacity to say you weren't hot.

"If you don't see how hot she is then that's your problem."

"Ooo, someone's getting defensive. You sure you aren't dating?"

"Fuck off."

"Alright, alright," he mumbled, turning around to lean his back against the bar. "I'm just confused, I guess. I mean, you've always been an ass man so I can kind of see why you chose her—" how dare he look at you "—but I can't see the appeal of the rest of her."

"Naotake. If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it."

"Sure, but you know me. I like to give my opinion regardless!" He let out a hearty laugh, but Naoya didn't see what was so funny. He didn't see why his pathetic elder brother would laugh about something like this. "But seriously, Naoya, a fat girl? I just… I don't know, man, she's not ugly but she'd look a hell of a lot better if she cut the carbs and worked out once in a while."

Oh, that made his blood boil, which was odd since Naoya would've said something similar not even a year ago. But it was different coming from a stranger, from a nobody that didn't know the first thing about you. He'd never know how soft the wide expanse of your skin was or how sweetly you keened when someone squeezed your tummy while pounding your perfect cunt or how your round cheeks felt when he cupped your face and you smiled. He was just spouting ignorance at this point. Regardless, it pissed Naoya off.

"Like her face is pretty and all, and sure her tits look good, but Jesus, you can see her belly pushing up against her dress and shit. It looks gross. If you are fucking her, you must do it from the back all the time so you don't have to see it."

God, is this how Naoya used to talk? Was it the booze making him realize how terrible this all sounded? Considering all the horrible things he once said about your body before he knew you, no wonder you were so willing to drop him the minute he fucked up.

"I mean, credit where credit is due, she's got a nice rack on her. Bet her areolas look like bologna slices, huh?"

Naoya downed the last of his drink, setting it on the counter with a thud. He was getting tired of this, getting sick of hearing his stupid, worthless brother go on and on about you, talking about you like you were nothing more than a toy to be used and discarded.

You have no right to complain. You treated her the exact same way.

"To be honest with you, if you're not dating then I may take her for a spin. At least then I could find out what all the fuss is about with a whale like her–"

It all happened so fast. The wind-up, the followthrough, his older brother falling to the floor and grabbing his cheek. Naoya hadn't even fully processed that he had punched Naotake until his hand started to throb, blood rushing to the point of contact. 

He was breathing heavily, eyes glazed as he stared at his brother, not blinking until one of his distant family members rushed over to help him up off the ground. Naoya inhaled sharply, head spinning as he looked up at the reception. Not many had noticed what just occurred, but it was enough to make him shrink in on himself. He could see his father's disapproving glare across the room, his bimbo of a receptionist sitting on his lap, clinging to him tightly. Naoya's eyes struggled to scan the attendees, eventually settling on you. You were staring right back, eyes wide in shock or fear, your hands holding his cousin's head towards your shoulder so she couldn't see the events that were unfolding. 

His stomach twisted horribly as he struggled to swallow. He turned his back on the crowd, looking up at the nervous bartender. He leaned against the bar, pulling out his wallet from his back pocket.

"Gimme the bottle."

"S-Sir… I'm not sure if —" Naoya reached out quickly, grabbing the poor man by the collar, pulling his face close.

"The bottle." The bartender gulped, grabbing the nearby bottle of whiskey and putting it up on the counter. Naoya released him, tossing him a bill of unknown value before snatching the bottle, rushing out of the reception.

Stupid stupid stupid, he repeated as he trudged to the elevators, pulling the cork lid off and drinking straight from the bottle. He hit the wrong floor at first, but corrected himself after focusing on the numbered buttons for far too long. The elevator made him woozy, but he made it out alive, wobbling down the hall as he gulped down too much whiskey. Hopefully he'd feel better after a short shower and some sleep. Maybe he wouldn't be so miserable in the morning.

No. Who was he kidding? He deserved to feel this shitty, to drown his sorrows in alcohol until he blacked out. What better punishment than misery for the scum of the Earth?

"Are you sure you wanna go alone, hun? We can send one of his uncles up with ya."

"No, I'll be fine."

"Alright… I'm just worried he'll get violent with you too." You paused, contemplating her words.

"I'll be alright. I can take care of myself." Keiya gave you a sympathetic smile, holding out her hands to take Mai. You transferred the sleeping girl to her aunt's shoulder, rubbing her back soothingly before smiling at her. "Thank you for looking out for me tonight. I really appreciate all of it."

"No problem, hun. If you need anything—anything at all—you've got my number, okay?" You nodded, giving the woman one more side hug before pulling away, waving at Keiko before leaving the reception. It was a short trip to the elevator and up to your floor: you didn't see Naoya anywhere along the way, assuming he would be in your shared room having a temper tantrum of sorts. A part of you didn't want to check on him, wanted to make him wallow in misery for a while, but you were better than that. You still cared about him despite it all. You'd made a strong emotional connection with him; you couldn't get rid of those feelings within a couple hours, despite how badly you wished you could.

You were shifting through your clutch to find your key card, looking up and slowing down once you reached your room. There was Naoya, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, head slumped to one side and eyes closed. There was an empty bottle of whiskey beside him, his jacket on the other side, bow tie unraveled and resting around his neck.

"You look like shit," you muttered mostly to yourself, shaking your head as you took in the pathetic display in front of you. Naoya peeked at you with one eye, soon closing it and slumping back.

"F'rgo ma card." You shook your head, snorting softly.

"And after all the nagging you did to make sure I had mine." You leaned down to pick up the empty bottle and his coat, shaking his shoulder. "C'mon, asshole. Let's get you in bed." He groaned, slouching even further towards the ground.

"Don' wanna."

"Although I would love to leave you out here as a way of revenge, I'd feel bad. Get up." Naoya huffed, giving a weak attempt at resisting your hand tugging at his upper arm. He got to his knees eventually, pausing for quite a while before getting up on his feet with your help. He wobbled and you struggled to steady him, but he found his footing and was able to stand while you unlocked the door. You pushed it open with your foot, keeping an arm around his waist as you guided him inside.

"Jesus, Naoya, what am I going to do with you?" He huffed, leaning too much of his weight onto you.

"Where's Y/N?" Oh, wonderful, he didn't realize who you were. You weren't sure if that made things better or worse.

"I don't know," you lied, dropping his coat and the empty glass bottle on the table near the door. He grumbled something incoherent, leaning further into you, making you groan. "Naoya! Come on, this is ridiculous, you gotta get up!"

"Wan' Y/N… where is she?"

"Jesus Christ," you lifted Naoya's chin, forcing his dazed expression to point to you. "I'm here, see? I'm right here." He blinked groggily, struggling to straighten up and stand on his own. Once he did, he cupped your face, squinting at you, pushing your chubby cheeks together.

"Y/N?" he slurred. You sighed, nodding into his hands. He sucked in a breath, his eyes softening considerably before he pulled you to him, burying his face into your hair. "Oh, baby, I missed you. Missed you so much."

You relaxed yourself as best you could in his grasp, letting him squeeze you tightly. It was better to let him do as he pleased while he was drunk; the last thing you wanted was for him to stumble and get hurt if you tried to push him away. You pat his shoulder, letting him breathe in your scent.

"Ma sweet baby, ma pretty girl. I missed you so much, beautiful." You braced yourself for his eventual wandering hands, expecting him to reach down and squeeze your ass as best he could in his drunken state, but his hands didn't move. His arms stayed wrapped around your shoulders, one hand bracing the back of your head, keeping you secure. You weren't sure how long you had stood there before he pulled back.

"My sweet girl," he muttered, leaning down to press a sloppy kiss on your lips. It was lazy and uncoordinated, wet and messy. You kept your mouth sealed shut, face twisting at the strong smell of alcohol suffocating your senses. Maybe you should just push him off, maybe call for somebody to come take care of him so you wouldn't have to deal with this—

You didn't have time to decide. Just a moment later, Naoya pulled away, staring blankly for a minute before releasing you and rushing into the bathroom. You heard the toilet seat open followed by the sound of him gagging, apparently throwing up. You cringed, grateful that he at least didn't release his stomach contents on you. You sighed, kicking off your heels, moving to your suitcase.

You entered the bathroom with a glass of water and a headband, cautiously moving to Naoya's side. He was keeled over the toilet, his head hanging over the bowl. He spit out some phlegm, heaving a bit and breathing heavily.

"Here," you cooed, gently stretching the headband over his skull, slowly pulling it so his hair was held back. "There. At least your hair is out of the way." He didn't respond when you pulled away. You moved to a shelf holding towels, grabbing a washcloth and going to the sink. You drowned it in cold water, wringing it out before going back to Naoya. You pressed the washcloth on the back of his neck, brushing aside a few hairs with your free hand.

"I wish I was dead," Naoya blubbered, his mouth covered in a layer of saliva, a string of spit leading into the toilet.

"No, you don't," you replied, moving the washcloth to his forehead, pressing the cool towel against him. "You're just drunk and you don't feel good."

"Nobody would care." He leaned further against the toilet, arms hugging the bowl. "Y/N wouldn't care. She'd be happier." Ah, so he forgot who you were again.

"No, she wouldn't." You wiped his mouth, cleaning off the spit, standing up and walking back to the sink.

"Yeah… she would. She hates me. Ev'rybody hates me."

"No, they don't." Where was this coming from? Naoya was the most narcissistic, egotistical jerk you had ever met. Suddenly he was depressed? It doesn't add up, you thought, going back to where he kneeled.

"Ev'rythin would be better if I was dead," he babbled, sighing when you laid the cool washcloth on the back of his neck. "Wanna jump off a buildin."

"Don't talk like that," you whispered, rubbing his back. He grew silent, suddenly hunching further over the bowl and throwing up some more. You winced, turning away slightly as he upchucked, spitting out the last of it.

"'m a piece a shit." Well, you couldn't argue with that. "I miss her sho, shooo much. I wanna kiss 'er." He leaned back on one hand, almost falling over as he reached for his phone in his back pocket. He fumbled with it, slowly pressing against the screen before lying down on the floor, letting the phone fall beside him. You could faintly hear your phone buzzing in the next room, vibrating in your clutch bag. Was he really calling you? You waited to find out.

You could hear your voicemail play on his phone, making him moan pathetically. He weakly kicked his foot, a sad attempt at a temper tantrum. The tone beeped and Naoya turned his head towards his phone.

"Y/N," he whined, drawing out your name. "'m sorry. Please don' hate me. I miss you, wantchu so bad. Please come back, I love you sho much. So shooooo much."

You felt your heart clench at the gloomy display in front of you. Why did this have to happen now when he was drunk and sad? Why couldn't he have declared his love for you when he was sober, when he was coherent, when he could look into your eyes and mean every word? He was only saying these things because he was upset and lonely and drowning in alcohol. It was disappointing, leaving your stomach in knots as he continued to babble on to his cell phone.

"I can't do this," you whispered, sluggishly leaving the room. You reached behind you to unzip your dress, tugging it off, letting it fall to the floor and stepping out of it. You crouched beside your luggage, grabbing your sleep shirt… the one Naoya had given you weeks ago. Your pride told you to toss it aside and choose something else, but it was soft and smelled good. It had made you feel safe and secure on the hard nights you spent alone, when Naoya wasn't around to hold you tight and make all those dumb insecurities disappear. You snuggled the fabric for a moment, breathing it in, heart aching.

"It's not fair…" you mumbled, feeling tears prick at your eyes. "Of all the assholes to fall for… why'd it have to be you?"

Naoya awoke with a pounding headache. He could feel his heartbeat behind his eyes, his stomach churning as he gained consciousness. Shit, he thought with a groan, bringing his hand to his head, squeezing the bridge of his nose. What happened last night? He hadn't drank like that in ages, the last time being a huge frat party celebrating some sport's team. He reached around, fumbling on the nightstand until he found his phone. He squinted as he looked at the time, groaning when he saw that it was barely past five am. He put his phone back down, reaching behind him, searching for you–

Wait. Naoya inhaled sharply, hurrying to turn on the nightstand lamp, turning around to see the empty space beside him. His heart beat faster as he grabbed his phone, swallowing when he didn't see any message from you. He dialed your number, sitting up as the phone started to ring. He heard a faint vibrating, making him furrow his brow. He looked at your side once again, seeing your phone on the nightstand. What the–

He heard the toilet flush. He waited, watching light shine out of the bathroom before flickering away. You walked around the corner, rubbing your eyes, squinting at him. The two of you stared at each other for a moment before Naoya realized he was still calling your phone. He hung up, setting his phone down and looking back at you.

"I… I didn't know where you were." You sniffed, shrugging and trudging tiredly to your side of the bed.

"'m here," you mumbled, pulling back the covers and plopping down on the bed, sighing as you snuggled into your pillow. He gazed at your back, his heart clenching terribly.

"Are you still mad at me?" He waited for a response, watching you all the while, swallowing when you didn't answer. "Look, I know I messed up and I'm so sorry, Y/N. Please let me make it up to you." 

Still nothing. The silence was consuming him, suffocating him, dragging him down into the abyss where he worried he could never crawl out. He cautiously laid down behind you, slowly inching closer to your back.

"Please, Y/N," he pleaded again, hesitantly reaching out to fiddle with your loose nightshirt. It was a gift from him yet you still chose to wear it: that meant something, right? If you really hated him, you wouldn't have bothered to put it on. You would've tossed it aside but you were wearing it. It had to be a good sign… right?

"Y/N," he whispered again, itching for a response, for some kind of acknowledgement. God, this was like when Toji visited all over again, when you ignored him as best you could for almost two weeks straight. He couldn't stand that silence, that distance from you. It was worse now that you were right here beside him, within his reach and yet miles away.

"Please talk to me." He could feel it now, that terrible bubbling in his throat, shooting towards his eyes and making them burn. Fuck fuck fuck–

"Please say something," it was barely a breath, so soft you could've mistaken it for a breeze, but there was a crack you heard that made your eyes open wide. You listened, confirming your suspicions before you sat up quickly, turning on the lamp beside you before looking back at Naoya.

"Are you crying?" He froze, his face flushed a brilliant scarlet as he sunk under the covers quickly. You didn't let him hide for long, tugging at the sheets and exposing him to your gaze, causing him to shrink and huddle into the t-shirt you helped him into last night. "Naoya," you called, putting a hand on his arm just for him to curl further into himself, trying his best to avoid your touch. "Naoya… Naoya, look at me."

"Mm-mm," he mumbled, shaking his head under his clothes. You sighed, feeling how his skin was burning, hands trembling slightly as they covered his face. You placed your hands on top of his, gently coaxing them away.

"Don't hide from me." He didn't move as you laid down beside him again, just a few inches away from him. His hands were twitching slightly, a result of him trying to control his involuntary shaking. You rubbed your thumbs against them, trying to soothe him. You stayed quiet as you reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it down slowly. Naoya was tense as you moved, eyes squeezed shut as his face was exposed. You could see tears staining his rosy cheeks, his lower lip tugged between his teeth.

"Naoya… why are you crying?" He shook his head, turning onto his stomach to bury his face in his pillow.

"'m not." God, he was such a terrible liar. Even when you could clearly see the truth, he still insisted on putting up a front.

"Why are you crying, Naoya?"

"Fuck off, 'm not cryin'," he grumbled turning from his stomach to his other side, his back to you. Seriously?

"Why do you do this?" Naoya sniffled, glancing over his shoulder at you.

"...What?"

"This," you gestured towards him, pushing yourself up into a seated position. "Acting all sad and pretending you want me and then pushing me away." Naoya frowned, turning onto his back and wiping at his face.

"I'm not pretending to want you—"

"Seriously? That's the part you're worried about? Not the 'pushing me away' bit?" He huffed, propping himself up on his elbows to face you better, his depression morphing into rage.

"I'm not pushing you away—"

"You're so delusional—"

"What?" You scoffed, shaking your head and crossing your legs, leaning over to rest your elbows on your knees.

"Fine, well, regardless, you get all huffy and puffy when shit doesn't go your way but the minute I'm upset with something, suddenly it's 'you're overreacting' and 'why are you so upset', as if my feelings aren't as valid as yours."

Naoya paused, brow furrowed. Did he do that? He couldn't remember ever doing it, but he wasn't exactly reliable when it came to recollecting how he's hurt people. It really shouldn't have surprised him that he didn't remember anything you claimed he did. He slowly sat up, contemplating your accusations.

"I… I never said your feelings weren't valid."

"You didn't need to." Your voice was laced with venom, thick and wet and oh so sad. "It's how you act, Naoya. You're allowed to get angry or upset whenever you want, but when I do it…" You drifted off, letting the silence consume the two of you before shrugging hopelessly. "It feels like my feelings don't matter to you."

"What are you talking about?" he spoke softly, scooching closer to you. "Your feelings do matter—"

"Since when?" you snapped, whipping around to glare at him. "From the moment we met, you rarely considered my feelings on things." You held up your hand, hooking your index finger on your opposite pinky. "You insulted me for months, acting like the shittiest neighbor ever, making all kinds of noise. You basically forced yourself on me the first time we fucked, and after that you practically manipulated me into being friends with benefits." You lowered your hands as you turned away, picking at the skin around your nails as you continued. "Then once I finally think you're becoming a better person, you go back to being yourself once Toji shows up. And then you treat me like shit again and get upset when I don't want to be around you anymore. And then you force yourself onto me again. Do you see a pattern here?"

Yes, he did, but not because he wanted to. Have you always disapproved of his actions? Did you truly dislike how he's treated you? He knew he was crass and rude at times, but he thought you still accepted him at the end of the day. How blind he had been…

"I… I didn't…"

"Every time I think I'm done with you, you bring out the best in yourself and make me forgive you. You make me fall for you over and over again and it's making me nauseous." 

Now that… that caught his attention.

"You…" He paused, licking his lips. "You fell for me?" Silence again, absolutely deafening. 

"... Yeah. And I hate it." Fuck, that hurt to hear. You fiddled with your fingers, smoothing out the skin as you spoke. "I don't want to like you. You're such an asshole most of the time but then when we're alone you get all soft and sweet and make me feel like I'm the only girl in the world who matters. It's so fucking infuriating." Naoya scoffed, almost chuckling, moving to sit beside you as his knuckles brushed your arm. 

"Babe, you are the only girl in the world who matters to me—"

"See?" you snapped, yanking your arm out of his reach, making him flinch. "You're doing it again! Making me feel bad for ever disliking you and trying to win my favor…" Naoya opened his mouth to speak, soon closing it shut and biting his tongue. Silence settled over the two of you again, like a warm blanket, heavy and suffocating.

"I feel like," you started, wringing your hands, "like I'm the only one who's honest about their feelings. Like I'm the only one who says how they truly feel." He furrowed his brow, trying not to glare at you out of the corner of his eye.

"What are you implying?"  You huffed, turning back to him.

"Oh, come on, Naoya. You've hid your feelings long enough."

"What—"

He shut up when you grabbed your phone, watching curiously as you tapped away at it, increasing the volume. He blushed when he heard his voice ring out.

"Y/N! 'm sorry. Please don' hate me. I miss you, wantchu so bad. Please come back, I love you sho much. So shooo—"

"I—T-Turn that off!" he stuttered, reaching for your phone, attempting to pull it away and shut it off. You kept it out of his reach, getting up on your knees and holding your phone over his head.

"Why? This is how you really feel, right? Or were you lying last night to make me like you again—"

"I wasn't lying—"

"So you do like me?"

"I…"

Naoya curled in on himself, looking down at his hands. He rubbed his fingertips a bit, chewing his bottom lip incessantly. You waited patiently for him to continue, to give some kind of explanation for his behavior recently. Instead, he sighed loudly, mumbling a curse under his breath as he lowered himself to the bed, staring up at the ceiling. You relaxed, turning off the voicemail he sent you last night, sinking down to the bed with him. It felt oddly calming laying beside him like that. Despite your anger and frustration at his actions, it was still nice to be alone with him, to see him for who he truly was.

"You remember when you didn't talk to me for, like, two weeks? Back when Toji visited?" He glanced over at you, inhaling sharply when you nodded. He swallowed hard, tucking his chin to watch his hands fumble with each other. "Seeing you doing so well without me pissed me off. I wanted you to be miserable. I wanted you to be sad and angry. I wanted you to want me back, but… but you were fine." His hands squeezed each other hard, rubbing dangerously rough, almost cutting off circulation. "You didn't need me around. You didn't need me before we started fucking and you don't need me now. There's nothing keeping you with me. You're doing just fine on your own. I don't… I don't add anything to the relationship. I might as well be dead weight. You don't need me."

You scrunched your face up, propping your head up and resting your cheek against your palm.

"How long have you felt like this?" you whispered, feeling surprisingly tender considering who you were talking to.

"Since you ghosted me, when Toji was around." He clenched his jaw, looking back up at the ceiling. "And it… I mean, it hasn't gone away. I know you could ghost me again any day now. And I wouldn't blame you, I don't think. You'd be better off without me." You frowned. Where was this coming from? Was this really the narcissist that acted all lovey-dovey and then left you hanging so many times? It felt so unlike him, so raw and open. You weren't sure how you felt about it yet.

"Why do you say that?" you asked quietly.

"Oh, come on, Y/N," he practically groaned, looking at you before motioning towards himself. "Look at me. I'm a spoiled rich kid, I've never had to work a day in my life. My only redeeming quality is my money and even then that doesn't fix every situation… I know you feel the same."

"Naoya, I—"

"I don't blame you. I mean," he sighed loudly, running a hand over his face, "it fucking sucks, but it's not like you're wrong for thinking that. If I died today, it's not like it would change anything. The world would keep spinning, my family would be fine. You'd be fine. But just the thought of you not talking to me anymore makes me wish I was dead. If you were gone forever? Shit, I don't know what I'd do. Probably become an alcoholic like my dad. Who knows?"

You could feel your heart breaking, the sharp pang of sorrow flowing through you. This wasn't the Naoya you had met so many months ago, who had insulted you and made you feel worthless. You were hesitant to say that this was the real Naoya, the one whose walls were broken down and he was laid bare, unprotected and vulnerable. Raw, pure, honest.

"Naoya… I had no idea you felt this way…" He shrugged.

"You shouldn't have to. It's not your fault. I'm just stupid and selfish—"

"Hey—"

"—honestly, sometimes I think everyone would be better off without me—"

"Stop."

Your hand found his chest, pressing down, urging him to stop. He tensed under your touch, but he didn't try to push you away. He sniffed, clearing his throat, a single tear falling past his lashes and moving down his temple. If you hadn't been staring, you would've never noticed it. You laid down beside him again, your hand beginning to draw circles on his sternum. 

"Is this really how you feel?"

"... yeah…"

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"I… I don't know. I thought you might come to your senses and leave me sooner." You sighed, resting your cheek against his shoulder, frustrated in a dozen different ways.

"We could've talked about this, Naoya."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I just… I don't know." You gave a half smile at his awkward wording, tapping his chest lightly.

"You're not very good at communicating your feelings." Naoya scoffed, his arm slipping around you, gentle but secure. You didn't push him away, feeling strangely safe under his sturdy limb.

"Yeah, well, it's not like I got any practice as a kid." You hummed.

"Was your childhood really that bad?"

"No… I mean…" Naoya sighed, his hand beginning to rub circles on your back, soft and soothing. "I got everything I wanted. I didn't have to worry about the same shit as other kids, but I never had a mom and my dad was never around. I was pretty much raised by tutors and governesses and shit."

No mother? You propped yourself up just a bit, tucking your chin into his chest, gazing at him curiously.

"What happened to your mom?" He shrugged, the motion making you shift a bit, but his arm kept you securely against him. You were surprised that you found it comfortable.

"I don't know. She left when I was a baby, when I was less than a year old. She wasn't happy with her life and so she just got up and left one day. I don't remember anything about her. Apparently I have her eyes."

She must have had very pretty eyes, is what you instinctually wanted to say, but you kept your lips pursed together, absorbing his words.

"...I'm sorry you had to go through that, Naoya." Another shrug, a lopsided smile to try and ease your worries.

"Eh… it's whatever. I've been over it for years."

A lull fell over the two of you, weighing you down. It wasn't uncomfortable like it was before, at least not to you. Your mind was racing with the information Naoya had just disclosed to you. His past didn't excuse his actions, but it explained it a bit. It made sense that he was closed off and defensive, the fear of abandonment settled deep within his amygdala, dictating his actions before he could even process the situation he was in. It was a natural fight or flight response: he'd been so used to fighting that his normal response to anything was to act defensive. At least then he could try and avoid being hurt.

"Look… if you're gonna leave me, please just rip the bandaid off now and—"

"Shhhh." Your head found his chest, cheek squished against his bicep as you tried to think. Naoya hurt you, as he did many times, and he apologized just like he had all those other times in the past. You knew he could very well hurt you again—that's what his pattern of behavior was suggesting. You knew that he could very likely make you cry and feel miserable, treat you like shit, beat you down again and again until you were a shell of your former self.

You should break up with him for good. You should leave him. This is what he deserves. He deserves to be miserable. He deserves to feel like shit. He's an awful human being and he doesn't deserve to be happy. He doesn't deserve you.

And yet…

"Are you sorry for all the times you've ever hurt me?" you asked, breaking the silence between you.

"Yes," Naoya replied instantly, his arm holding you close, snuggling you to him. You lifted your head, staring at him intensely, making him wince under your gaze.

"Are you really sorry?"

"...Yes." Your eyes narrowed.

"You hesitated."

"Well, shit, I'm just trying to figure out where you're gonna go with this. Like, what's the point—"

"Shush." He quieted, watching you sit up beside him. You glanced at a random point in the room, looking back at him seriously.

"If you admit that you love me, I'll accept your apology."

Oh, that got his attention. Naoya perked up far more than you anticipated, his skeptical scowl disappearing as he propped himself on his elbows.

"Really? You mean it?" he asked, his voice light and hopeful. It made your stomach flip in the best way. Damn him for being so cute.

"Yeah, I do." Naoya paused, licking his lips as he silently weighed his options. He chewed his bottom lip for a moment, his face getting redder the longer time passed. He suddenly cleared his throat, lifting his gaze so he could look at you.

"I… I, um… I love you…" You leaned towards him, tilting your head.

"And you mean it?"

"Yes."

"With your whole heart?"

"Yes." Your heart started to pound, that familiar lightheadedness from the beginning of your relationship rearing its head.

"You're sure—" Naoya groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Jesus, yes! Yes, I mean it."

He was frustrated, clearly, but that blush was still there, pink cheeks glowing under the soft light of the bedside lamp. You let his words settle in the air, a hint of a smile playing at your lips as a thought developed in your brilliant brain.

"Hmm… say it again." He blinked owlishly.

"Huh?"

"Say you love me again." He blushed harder, his face turning scarlet, creeping down towards his neck and the tips of his ears.

"Jeez, seriously, Y/N?"

"Mm-hm." You leaned further towards him, foreheads almost touching, forcing him to look at you. "I won't accept your apology unless you do."

"Jeez…" His face was a beautiful crimson, reminding you of fresh strawberries. You would've bitten into him if you weren't trying to teach him a lesson. "I… I love you." The words came out soft, anxious, nervous that you would reject him anyways. You hummed, looking up at the ceiling, pretending to think for a moment.

"Alright. I accept your apology." Naoya exhaled loudly, body relaxing as he felt victory overcome him.

"Finally—"

"But!" you interrupted, raising your finger and tapping his nose. "That doesn't mean I forgive you." Shock, disbelief, then agitation.

"What?! Why not?"

"I just don't. I won't forgive you unless you tell me that you love me more." Naoya groaned, falling back onto the sheets.

"Jesus fucking Christ—"

"Come on, Naoya," you cooed, swinging your leg over his hips, straddling him. He watched with wide eyes as you pressed yourself into his chest, cutely pouting down at him. "Don't you love me, bubby? Don't you wanna make me happy?" The nickname was what really made him flustered, his cock stirring at the feeling of your body pushed into his. He swallowed his arousal, trying his best to scowl at you.

"You're insufferable—"

"But you love me—"

"Jeez, yes!" he practically shouted, hands cupping your cheeks and forcing the two of you to keep eye contact. "Yes, I love you. I love you, okay?" His words made you quiver, a shiver rolling down your back and through your limbs as his words settled in. He sighed as he let you go, slumping back into the bed. "Are we done? Are you happy?"

"Hmmm… I guess so… but—" You wiggled your hips against him, making him sputter as you rubbed against his growing erection. "—just because I forgive you doesn't mean I'll keep dating you."

"Y/N, I swear to God, if you keep—"

You cut him off with a kiss, soft lips pressing into him as his words died out. He moaned quietly, arms wrapping around you and holding you snuggly against him. You could feel any anger left inside you fizzling out, the only heat left behind emanating from your core. You pulled away when he licked at his lips, leaving him hazy and disappointed that he couldn't deepen the kiss. You cupped his face, stroking his cheeks with your thumbs.

"Tell me you love me one more time and I'll stay." You saw his eyes glimmer with hope, and it shouldn't have made you as happy as it did. His hand found yours, squeezing it tight, worried you would disappear.

"You mean it? You won't go?"

"No, I won't, but only if you say it—"

"I love you," he said without hesitation, eyes sincere as he pressed his forehead to yours, noses kissing. "I love you so much, Y/N… please don't go…" It felt good to see him like this, desperate for you and your love. You wanted to see more of him like this in the future; you wanted to break down those walls completely so that this was the only part of him left.

"Alright, I guess I'll stay," you teased, arms slipping around his neck, "but only because it's too hard starting a new relationship." Naoya rolled his eyes, but he couldn't hide the grateful smile on his face.

"You're the most annoying woman I've ever met." You giggled, brushing your nose against his.

"But you still love me." You heard a vague 'shut up' as he pressed his lips back into yours, kissing you tenderly, lovingly. He rarely gave these kinds of kisses, usually hungry or holding back just a bit, but you were glad to find that he was relaxing with you, as if he finally felt safe with you. You sucked his bottom lip lightly, making him sigh and pull back, brushing your cheek as he gazed deeply into your eyes.

"I'm really sorry, Y/N." You could hear the sorrow laced in his tone, not completely obvious but still there. You sighed, giving a small peck to the side of his mouth.

"I know." He huffed, squeezing your waist.

"I'm serious," he insisted, hugging you tighter. You hummed, pushing yourself up to get a better look at him.

"Yeah?" you chirped, hands running over his pecks. You ground your hips down on him, smiling when you heard the strangled groan he let out. "Then prove it. Show me how sorry you are."

You heard him sigh shakily before he sat up, capturing your lips with his. His hands found the pulp of your waist, squeezing a bit too hard. Maybe he didn't believe this was really happening, maybe he was trying to ground himself back to reality so he could accept that you were here with him. Whatever it was, it didn't faze him for long. His hands were already crawling up your nightshirt, palms flattening against your soft stomach.

"I missed you," he mumbled against your lips, kneading your flesh as he climbed up your torso. "Missed you so much."

"It was—ah—it wasn't even a whole day—"

"I don't care," he breathed, sighing shakily when he cupped your breasts and gave them a squeeze. "I thought—shit—thought I would never see you again. Thought you'd disappear on me and move away or somethin." You couldn't stop yourself from snickering, hands tangling in his hair.

"Oh my god, Naoya, it wasn't even a few hours—"

"You say that like it matters." He tugged up your shirt, tucking it over your breasts and cursing silently. "I get upset when you're gone for twenty minutes."

"Do you—ah!" He took a nipple in his mouth, sucking feverishly as he fondled the other, hurried and anxious. "Do… Do you really mean that?" you breathed.

"Yeah," he sighed, tongue swirling around your hardened nipple before taking it in his mouth again. He sucked it a moment longer before releasing it with a wet pop. "I hate how much I miss you. Makes me feel like a sissy."

"But it's cute," you whined, guiding him to the other nipple, gasping when he nibbled at the soft bud. "I like hearing you say those things. Wish you'd be more honest with me." He scoffed against your skin, pulling back to gaze up at you, a trail of spit left behind.

"You're just teasin' me—"

"I'm not," you insisted, grinding against him needily, panting already. "I wanna hear those things. I wanna know how much you like me. It makes me feel special." Naoya paused, licking at his lips as he mindlessly played with your tits.

"Yeah? You… you like when I talk about this stuff?"

"Mm-hm." You pulled away just to tug your shirt over your head and toss it aside, pressing your bare chest against him. You slipped a hand between the two of you, grinding your palm into his cock, making him hiss in a breath. "Tell me more."

"Shit." Naoya guided you to sit flush against his thigh, urging you to grind your hips against his leg. "I-I think about you all the time, ya know that? It feels like—oh God—like I'm going crazy."

"Yeah? Whaddya think about?"

"Fuck, I—I don't know. Anything, everything. You're so pretty I wanna throw up. Your eyes, your hair, your lips—fuck, I love your lips—" His hand snuck down into your shorts, breath hitching when he discovered that you weren't wearing underwear.

"That all? You only think about how I look?"

"No, I—fuck—I-I think about all of you. How smart you are, how you make me laugh—you're so nice, ya know that? Do you have any idea how sweet you are? God, I feel like I could get a fuckin cavity just thinkin bout you." He cursed when you whined, gawking at how your hips bucked into his hand, begging for more.

"More, t-tell me more, baby."

"Shit, uh—" Naoya struggled to come up with something to say, too focused on how this was getting you off, how just his words alone were making your cunt weep into his hand. "I-I hate when other people look at ya. I hate when they talk about you or eye you up, especially when I'm right there. Makes me wanna fuck you right in front of em, let em know that you're all mine, nobody else's—fuck, c'mere—" He grabbed the back of your neck, smashing his lips into yours and moaning loudly. You keened, arching your body into him, hopelessly humping his hand and grinding your clit against his palm. You could already feel your orgasm building, that delicious heat coursing through your veins coming straight from your cunt. You probably could cum from this alone, but Naoya pulled his hand away before you could attempt to do that. You whined when he let you go.

"Shh, don't worry, princess. I'm gonna take care of ya." He tugged roughly at your shorts, almost throwing you off of him trying to get them off. He squeezed your thighs once he tossed the shorts to the floor, falling back to the bed and pulling on your hips. "C'mon. Want you to sit on my face." You froze, blinking down at him.

"Your… your face?" Naoya hummed in confirmation, trying to guide you up his chest again, but you didn't budge. "I—w-wait, we've never—I-I've never—"

"Never what?" he almost snapped, clearly impatient to get you on top of him. He watched you sputter, hands wringing each other, eyes looking anywhere but at him. He blinked, staring at you for a moment before his eyes narrowed. "You've never—have you ever sat on someone's face, baby?" You felt your cheeks burn hot, body curling in on itself, desperate to hide.

"I… I mean…" You couldn't come up with an answer, and Naoya groaned after a moment.

"You've never sat on anyone's face, baby? Am I the first one?" You huffed, covering your face with your hands, struggling to hide your embarrassment. It felt worse when Naoya practically moaned at your flustered state, grabbing you and forcing you to move up his body. "Fuck, that's so hot, so fucking hot. Gonna be the first one to have you like this, the only one, shit—"

"Naoya, w-wait, hold on—"

"Don't make me wait, baby, I'm so fucking hard right now. Just wanna taste ya, just want you on my face, c'mon—" You tried to reason, to put some distance between you so you could talk about this, but all you could do was gasp as he kissed up your thighs and nosed your clit. Your breath hitched when he moaned beneath you, tongue darting out to lick you from entrance to clit, sucking the hardening bud into his mouth.

"Mmm, fuck, baby," he groaned, pulling back to gaze up at you. "Taste so good, ya know that?" You squeaked, covering your face with your hands.

"Shut up. You're embarrassing."

"C'mon, princess." He pressed a kiss to your upper pussy, nuzzling the fatty mass, smirking into your skin. "You were so eager about me talking earlier, but now you're actin all shy? What happened?"

"That—you weren't in this position before—"

"And? You look better from this angle, anyways—"

"Naoya—"

"—but it'd be a lot better if you weren't hovering." You tensed, glancing at him from between your fingers.

"I… I'm not hovering."

"Oh yeah? Then how come I gotta crane my neck just to taste you? Gonna have to go to the chiropractor if you keep this up."

"Naoya!"

"Aw, c'mon, baby." His hands ran up your sides, squeezing your tits momentarily before pulling your hands away from your face. "You know I'm only teasin' ya, but I'm serious. When I tell ya to sit on my face, I mean—" He tugged your hips down suddenly, making you lose balance and land flush against him. "—sit on my face."

The whine that left you was so pornagraphic, needy and lewd, making Naoya groan in response. He didn't waste any time, flattening his tongue against your chubby pussy lips, slipping past them to lap at your clit. You mewled, breath hitching, hips trembling, struggling not to dart away from his touch. It's not like you really could if you tried: Naoya had a death grip on your waist, forcing you to stay planted on his face.

"Tastiest—fuck—pussy ever," he groaned, his words mumbled into your cunt. His eyes bore into you, fierce and hungry. "Never gonna get over how good you taste. Don't wanna taste anybody's pussy for the rest of my life but my girl's."

"Y-Yeah?"

"Yeah." His tongue pushed into your entrance and wiggled around, strong hands keeping you from squirming out of his grasp. The slurping sounds he made were absolutely obscene—you'd be mortified if anyone could hear the two of you. It was all so overwhelming—his tongue, his strong grip, the way his nose kept bumping on your clit—that you couldn't take much more attention. You hiccupped as you grasped at his hair, tugging harshly so he released your clit from his swollen lips.

"Shit—what—"

"I need your dick," you interrupted, hoping he couldn't hear the waver in your voice. His pupils widened, but his brows were still furrowed as he licked his lips.

"I'm not done yet—"

"Pleeeeaase, Naoya," you whined, grazing your fingernails along his scalp, making him shiver. "I'm tired of waiting. Want it now." His cheeks turned scarlet, mouth quirking into a smile. You knew just what to say to get your way.

"Oh yeah? You want this fat cock, baby? Want me to stuff you full?"

"Mm-hm," you agreed in a high pitched tone, lip jutted out as you nodded. "Want you deep inside me, baby. Wanna feel you in my tummy."

"Fuck." Naoya dove back into your cunt, sucking your clit hard for a few more seconds before letting go, loosening his grip on you. "Lay down for me, baby. Gonna make you feel so good." You flopped onto the bed quickly, grateful that you wouldn't have to stay in such a compromising position any longer.

Naoya hurriedly pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the floor before moving onto his shorts. He struggled to shimmy them off, eventually kicking them to the floor before sighing with relief. He turned on his side, grabbing your hips and turning you to face him.

"Lay on your side, like this. And—" he grabbed your thigh, lifting your leg and draping it over his waist, "—keep your leg up here." You scoffed, surveying the position he had you in.

"What're you up to?"

"The fuck you mean?" He hooked your knee over his elbow, grabbing his cock and running the head through your folds, hissing at how warm you were compared to him.

"I mean… w-why are we like this? Like what's with this position?" 

"What's wrong? Can't a guy try new positions?" He aligned himself with your entrance, pushing in slowly, sighing shakily as he moved forward.

"I-I guess, but—ah—it's just so random, y'know?"

"It's not random, I—" His hips met yours and he huffed, his breath hitting your face, eyes unable to meet yours. "I just… I dunno, I just wanna do it like this, okay? Wanna be… romantic or whatever. Wanna make love to you." You could feel your heart pound in your chest, eyes searching his crimson face, waiting for the punchline. When none came, you cupped his cheeks, making him look at you.

"Then go on. Make love to me."

That was all he needed. He pulled back slowly, rocking his hips forward, trying to keep his breathing steady as he got used to the feel of you. In truth, he'd never get used to you. Your cunt was always so soft and inviting, warm and wet and molded to his shape. It was like putting on a glove that felt like a second skin, like it belonged there, like there was no reason for it to be removed ever again. He wished he could stay inside you like that forever, keeping himself warm in your perfect pussy. He didn't even need to cum, didn't even need to be hard: he just wanted to be connected to you like that, so close together that you could crawl into each other's skin.

God, he sounded like such a simp.

"Mmm." Your soft moan broke him out of his trance, eyes flickering over your face, taking you in. Eyes hooded, lip bitten between your teeth—you were a vision. "It feels good, Naoya."

"Y-Yeah?" he replied, suddenly nervous, eager to please. "You… You like when I go slow?"

"Mm-hmm," you moaned, leaning forward to capture his lips with yours. He sighed dreamily into the kiss, eyes crossing ever so slightly when you sucked on his bottom lip. He swallowed a groan, struggling to slip his hand between the two of you and keep thrusting languidly at the same time.

"Mmm—f-feel so good, princess," he hummed, searching for your clit. You keened when his thumb brushed over it and he slowed his movements, focusing on the sensitive spot. His thrusts turned shallow, the head of his cock dragging over that spongy mass inside you, hitting it with just the right amount of pressure over and over.

"Shit, Naoya! Fuck, j-just like that, baby. Just—oooh—just like that." Your hips twitched, soon grinding forward towards him, meeting his thrusts. Your gyrating only increased your pleasure, fingers carding through his hair, tugging at the base. You giggled when you earned a groan in response, gasping when he bucked into you hard, still slow but suddenly forceful.

"Fuck—n-need you to cum, baby. Need to feel you cum on my cock."

"Yeah? You close already?" you teased, prepared for him to bark something back at you. But he didn't do that: instead, he just bit down on his lip, eyebrows furrowed as his hand sped up, concentrating on getting you to cum first. "Ahh—o-oh my god, you are—"

"Sh-Shut up, okay? Can't—fuck—can't help it, alright?" You moaned louder, wrapping your arms around his neck and bucking your hips into him faster.

"Fuck, that's so hot, baby. You gonna cum in me? Hm? Wanna cum inside your girlfriend?" You felt his cock throb at that, Naoya's hips stuttering at your words.

"Shit—d-don't say that—"

"Why not, babe? Does hearing me say stuff like that make you wanna cum?"

"You can't just—oof!" You suddenly pushed him onto his back, following him and landing on his chest. He was still inside you as you sat up, eyes wide as you continued grinding into him without a care in the world.

"C'mon, Naoya. Cum for me. Wanna feel you fill me up when I cum." Naoya swallowed hard but nodded, fingers frantically rubbing your clit as you thrust your hips into his. Your movements allowed you to keep hitting your g-spot, sending sparks through you as you chased your high.

"Shit—babe—this was supposed to be about you—" Your moan cut him off, eyes flittering over your hunched frame. The sun was starting to rise, the bright rays beaming in through the curtains. You looked like an angel in the growing golden light, your sweaty skin glowing. You were panting above him, moans and gasps growing in pitch by the second, your hips moving faster, more desperately until—

"Oh fuck!" you whined, head tossed back as you came. Your cunt pulsated around him, squeezing him so tight he thought he would pass out. He was already close before, but feeling you cum around him was sending him straight for the edge. Just a few more thrusts and—

"Shit—I-I love you, Naoya."

It felt like he had been punched in the gut. His body caved in on itself as the air left his lungs. He gasped, desperate for air as his balls emptied inside you. He grabbed your hips, urging you to keep grinding yourself on his cock, helping him ride out his high.

"Jesus fuck—ohmygod, fuck, baby, love you, I love you, love youuu—"

You stared in awe as he shuddered beneath you, eyes squeezed shut, teeth gritted shut as he choked on his groans. You slowed your hips, your orgasm fading as he started coming down from his peak. He was panting heavily, lips bitten raw, body flushed from exertion. You smoothed your hands over his chest, coaxing him to breathe steadily and calm down.

"Holy—sh-shit—I—"

You shushed him, leaning down to kiss him tenderly. He returned your kiss happily, sighing as your lips melded together. His hands moved to cup your cheeks, large palms cradling your face as he kissed you. Your hearts began to settle as you peppered kisses over each other, soft chaste pecks that you thought only existed in movies. Naoya slumped back to the bed, sighing and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you down to your side with him.

"Jesus," he mumbled, nosing at your hair lovingly. "Don't think I've ever cum that hard before." You giggled, nuzzling into his neck.

"Or that fast—"

"Hey," he said sternly, giving your thigh a light slap as a warning. "Ain't my fault."

"Hmm. My pussy's just too good, huh?" Another slap, this time to your ass, making you jolt and laugh louder.

"You're such a smartass. You're lucky I love you or else I'd make you sleep on the floor." You let out an exaggerated gasp, pulling back, pretending to be shocked.

"Rude! I'm an angel and you know it." He merely rolled his eyes, kissing you for the thousandth time that morning. You welcomed it, legs wrapping around him, tangling themselves with his own limbs. Naoya released your lips, keeping his face close, breathing shallowly.

"Can you say it back?" You blinked.

"Say what back?" He huffed, squeezing his arms around you tighter.

"You know…" You stared at him as his cheeks turned a rosy pink, realization dawning on you with each passing moment. You kissed his nose, pressing your forehead to his, hands cradling his head and neck.

"I love you too, Naoya." He relaxed with that, sighing and burying himself into your chest. You pet his hair, chin tucked on top of his head, your breaths synchronizing as time passed.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled a little while later, barely a whisper. His voice was surprisingly fragile, as if he could fall apart at any moment, as if he still didn't believe you forgave him.

"I know," you whispered back, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. You didn't point out how he inhaled shakily or how his arms tightened their hold around you. You just laid there with him, warming his cock and combing your fingers through his hair. "I know."

"You got everything?" You hummed in acknowledgement, nodding your head. Naoya arched his brow, staring down at you. "You sure? Once we leave, we're not coming back."

"I'm sure, Naoya. Do you have everything?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?" Your tone made him pause, his brow furrowing as he glanced around the room. He couldn't find anything, so he pat his pockets, frowning after a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, closing it once you raised your hand and presented his phone.

"You minx," he snarled lightheartedly, snatching his phone from you and shoving it in his back pocket. "What else did you steal from me?"

"I didn't steal anything, bubby. I grabbed it so you wouldn't forget it."

"Yeah, whatever. You ready to go or what?" You giggled and nodded, taking his outstretched hand and following him out of the suite and down the hall. The elevator ride was fairly quiet, three other people joining you on the ride down. The two of you stayed at the back, hands intertwined, Naoya's thumb rubbing into you, grounding himself. He hesitated once you got to the lobby, but after a quick glance out of the elevator—confirming his father wasn't there—he walked out with you, hand in hand. You were almost at the exit when he slowed down, squeezing your hand to get your attention.

"I gotta do something real quick. Wait here."

"Wha—" Naoya put down his suitcase quickly, walking off to a nearby seating area in the lobby. You stared curiously as he walked up to someone sitting down. Once she turned around, you realized that it was Keiya. You watched as he bowed to her, staying still for a few moments. You couldn't see their expressions very well from where you were, and you definitely couldn't hear them, so your curiosity began to eat away at you. You waited patiently, only left alone for a minute or two before Naoya bowed again, walking back to you with his hands in his pockets. He reached you soon enough, grabbing his suitcase before taking your hand, guiding you out of the building.

"What was that all about?" you asked as soon as the doors behind you closed. He seemed to have not heard you so you shook his arm, grabbing his attention.

"Hm? Oh! It—um—it was nothing."

"Come on, Naoya," you huffed, pushing yourself into his side. "We need to start communicating better. How else are we gonna build a healthy relationship?" Naoya scoffed, rolling his eyes, but he couldn't say no when you pouted like that.

"Fine… I was…" He took a deep breath, avoiding your gaze. "I apologized for how I acted yesterday… and how I've acted in the past… That was all."

Something bloomed inside you—hope, perhaps?—and you grinned wide, hugging his arm tightly.

"Aww, Naoya! That's so mature of you! Who knew you could apologize without being forced to?"

"Oh, shut up—"

"No, I'm serious! I'm very proud of you, bub! So proud of my handsome boyfriend." He huffed but his face burned just a bit, his cheeks bright.

"Jeez, calm down. How do you have so much energy? We've been up since, like, five." You shrugged, releasing his arm just to take his hand again, swinging your arms lazily as you waited for a cab to pick you up to take you to the airport. Naoya stared at you from the corner of his eye for a bit, quietly bringing your hand to his mouth and kissing the back of it. You glanced at him, giving him a sweet smile, the kind that always made him melt.

"...I love you," he mumbled quietly, hesitantly, the words still a bit foreign on his tongue. Your smile grew and you leaned in towards him, kissing him on the cheek.

"Love you too, Naoya."

#naoya zenin #naoya zen'in #smut #chubby reader #chubby fem reader #naoya zenin x chubby reader #naoya zen'in x reader #naoya zenin x reader #fem reader #☀️ fics #☀️ scum of the earth au

[sednonamoris]

a dark alley and a bad idea

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: After an argument with Abigail, John goes into town to drink his worries away. As always you follow, and as always there's trouble - seems like you bring it with you wherever you go. 

Warnings: Canon-typical alcohol/tobacco abuse, canon-typical violence, bar fight, blood, jealousy, toxic relationship(s), a singular French man, mild angst, pining, sexual tension ;)

Word count: 2,203

A/N: Just a chapter or two to go until we hit the official RDR2 timeline!!! This has been some time coming, and I just have to say a huuuuuge thank you to the people who read/comment on this story <333 ghost story is very near and dear to me, and sharing it with you all has been such a joy!! Here’s to many more chapters, and an eventual spark that turns this slow burn into a wildfire 🥵❤️‍🔥

Series masterlist • AO3

—

John and Abigail are fighting. Again. 

Leaned up against the pole of your tent, you take a long drag from your cigarette that does nothing to dull the headache forming behind your left eye socket. Every word they shout is a stabbing pain. You don’t know what the argument is about, this time, but at a guess it’s John’s failure as a father. Or perhaps Abigail’s incessant nagging. Or, more likely, two stubborn fools fighting tooth and nail not over a son, but over who’s right and who’s wrong and a years old hurt.

Maybe that mattered once upon a time, but the way they carry on now isn’t right for anyone.

The whole of camp is sick and tired of the never-ending arguments that last all day, and the too-loud fucking that lasts all night. It never seems to satisfy them, either, because come morning the fighting starts all over again. Not for the first time, you think about moving your tent to the other side of camp. Even bunking next to Dutch’s new best friend, Micah, would be an improvement. 

“Leave me be, woman! Can’t you see I want nothin’ to do with either of you right now?” John shouts in her face. 

“Fine!” Abigail fires back. “Swan off with Ghost like you ain’t got a family here! That’s what you always do anyhow.” 

“Maybe I will!” 

“Useless man,” she seethes.

She sends you a withering glare as she marches away, Jack in tow. You smile thinly in return. No doubt she’s headed to vent to Arthur, and then ask him with those pretty blue eyes to do something fun to take the boy’s mind off things. Then, once John has come back, they’ll argue over that, too.

John shakes his head and curls his lip in disgust, but does exactly as Abigail predicts. He storms past your tent with a come on, we’re leavin’, then keeps stomping on to where his mare is picketed. He never looks back to see if you follow. 

You do. 

—

These past few years have gone by in a blur, like those moving pictures Arthur told you about once. Hosea’s health has waxed and waned. Familiar faces left. New ones came. Jack is really starting to grow up, and Abigail has blossomed into motherhood in spite of John, who in between arguments has re-devoted himself to gunslinging. To Dutch. He watches over him with pride glistening in those dark eyes of his - a father figure and a moral compass and a leader all at once. Arthur is green with envy and red with an angry sort of shame. You’re just happy that unlike those two, whatever rift once existed between you and John has long since healed. 

And now here you all are in Blackwater.

To hear Dutch and Hosea tell it, this now-bustling town verging on citydom was little more than a trading post the last time they passed through. Following the two murders everyone is charitable enough not to mention, the long arm of the law has chased you relentlessly. A failed venture up North led you here, further East than anyone has been in what feels like a lifetime.

You’re trying to see it as a fresh start. 

John seems like he’s trying to go back in time.

The ride into town has given him a chance to cool down some, but he still carries a tension and a meanness in those broad shoulders of his. Riding just behind, you take a rare moment to admire him. He’s been growing his hair out. It sits lank just past his shoulder, and as much as it needs a wash you think the length suits him. It frames the sharp angles of his face that even the low brim of his hat can’t hide and emphasizes the lean, untamed power of his frame. 

The two of you are wilderness and war, survival and spite. Restless remnants of time gone by. Ghosts, you think wryly to yourself.

Blackwater is just the opposite. Each building is young and alive, cut brick and fresh paint. Wooden scaffolding reveals the newborn bones of structures still being built by construction workers that toil proudly for a city made in their image. Passersby are dressed in clothes that make up for fineness in newness and brightly colored dye. Some of the ladies even have delicate parasols to shield their skin from the prairie sun’s harshness. You spy your own sun-weathered face in the expensive glass saloon-front and manage to suppress a sigh. 

John parks his mare at one of the hitching posts there. You follow suit, not at all surprised at where you’ve landed. You, Arthur, and Hosea came to ‘test out the drinks’ your first week here. They’re good. Expensive, but good. The two of them have been scheming away about some mysterious lead they won’t let you in on. Meanwhile, Micah has bent Dutch’s ear about a river boat. You’re still sniffing out leads of your own, and figure the bar will be as good a place as any to start. It just happens John will be drinking his problems away beside you. 

“Two whiskeys,” he says to the bartender without preamble. He slaps just enough change down on the counter and takes a seat, oblivious to the glares of customers he’s interrupted. You settle in beside him with a poorly-concealed grin.

“What if I wanted a beer?”

He rolls his eyes. “You don’t.”

You hold up your hands in mock surrender. “At least let me get the next round.”

At that he clinks his glass to yours and taps it on the bartop before swallowing his drink down with a grimace. You elect to nurse yours, already prepared for a long night.

He quickly outpaces you. While John oscillates between pouring his heart out to whatever working girl is nearest and playing increasingly worse hands in the ongoing blackjack game, you begin smalltalking. One of the off-duty construction workers piques your interest. He’s a burly, hairy, mountain of a man who introduces himself as Pierre with an accent you can only place as foreign.

“You speak real good English,” you blurt without thinking. “Where are you from?”

He laughs, a deep sound that comes from his belly. “I have been told I speak English very well, yes. I am from France.”

“Awful long boat ride to break your back layin’ brick.”

“Perhaps so, but I like the work. It keeps my mind and my hands busy. Surely you know something of this, Cowpoke?”

You snort a laugh in agreement and try to ignore the heat that rises in your cheeks at the nickname. It sounds… nice, when he says it. A little romantic, like you’re some lone figure on the American frontier and not a liar, a killer, and a thief. 

Mischief and delight dance in the dark brown of his eyes when he catches your fluster. “Let me buy you a drink, hm? Then maybe I will tell you about France, and you will tell me about America.” 

—

You’re the warm, happy kind of drunk by the time the sun starts setting. Pierre is kind, and funny, and his stories of France paint such a vivid picture in your mind. You’ve traveled plenty, sure, but never across oceans. It sounds equal parts exhilarating and frightening. He tells you about laying strong foundations, and you tell him about breaking young horses. He explains what to look for in a fine building, and you tell him how to buy decent horseflesh. It’s fun. Freeing, even, to speak to someone outside of the gang like this. Of course he mentions a wealthy old landowner outside of town too paranoid to keep his money at the bank, and of course you’ll rob the place later, but he shares this not to screw someone else over, but because the construction of the old house fascinates him. Because he wants to share that passion with you. Because, you remind yourself, he doesn’t know you are what you are. 

He tells a joke - something about construction, you think. It’s hard to tell because he leans in and places a hand on your arm and your mind suddenly goes blank. His eyes smile with him, just as strong and warm as the rest of him. You smile back. Then in the blink of an eye there’s a shout, and before you realize what’s happened Pierre is cradling his bleeding nose after someone lands a vicious right hook.

“You keep your hands to yourself, partner.” 

“What the hell, Marston?!” you say, scrambling back from the commotion. But it’s no use; John can’t see past the blood red of his tunnel vision.

To your great dismay, Pierre rises to his challenge. He flashes you a look - apologetic or resigned or disappointed, it’s hard to say -  before standing to face off with your idiot best friend, piss drunk and fighting mad. He’s easily twice his size, but what John Marston lacks in muscle he makes up for in meanness. When Pierre swings high, he dives low and takes him out at the legs. And so the mountain topples. Straddled on his chest, John beats and beats and beats on Pierre’s face, until finally the larger man throws him off and comes to an unsteady stand. His face is pulpy. His eyes shine bright with anger and dark with understanding the kinds of company you keep. The bloodthirsty crowd that’s gathered jeer and laugh. They catch John on the fringe and push him back into the fight. Standing opposite, Pierre spits blood in his direction before putting his fists up once more. 

The bartender is still shouting for them to stop. 

You’re just frozen, watching John defend the honor you don’t possess against a man who probably has more than the whole gang combined. 

When their fists collide once again, crowd-goers start passing crumpled bills and calling out bets. Twenty on the skinny one, and I’ve got thirty for Frenchy, and let’s see forty for the cowboy! Even they can see John has more fight in him, no matter how many times Pierre clobbers him with a powerful left hook the idiot can’t seem to block. 

Fools. Goddamn blood-blind fools, both of them. 

John gets full-body thrown against the bar, all sprawled limbs and wind-knocked-out-of-him. He wheezes an insult, goading Pierre closer. Only you can see the writing on the wall, but the cry of warning comes too late; The moment he closes the distance, John whips a bottle out from behind the bar and breaks it over Pierre’s head. He comes crashing down, over two hundred pounds of dead weight lost to the crunch of broken glass and police whistles.

The moment the lawmen burst through the front doors is the moment you finally unfreeze. You rush over to where John stands lording over his fallen opponent and all but tackle him through the back door. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” you hiss at him as you dodge through backalleys and behind buildings. “I was working a lead - He was buying my drinks for Christsakes!”

“Shut up,” he snaps, then tugs your arm and pushes your back to scratchy alley brick with a hand over your mouth.

He crowds close, and you seriously contemplate kicking him in the balls or biting him - maybe both - when three officers run past, clearly hunting for you. His dark leather coat blends with the unlit alleyway, but still you don’t dare move a muscle. The two of you hold your collective breath until the sound of their footsteps fade.

John removes his hand from your mouth, but it doesn’t go far. Rather than retreating, he cups your cheek and lets his thumb brush against your lower lip. 

“He was touching you,” he says, half defense and half confession.

Somehow you find your voice. “What if I wanted him to?”

“You didn’t.” Alcohol and iron sit heavy on his breath. His grey eyes are blown black, drunk and something else you’re too scared to name. It’s hard to breathe. You wish it wasn’t. 

“What do I want, then?”

He tilts his face forward, so the bridge of his nose brushes against yours. Your eyelashes kiss his cheekbones. You can feel how wide your own eyes have blown, can feel the want and the warmth and the desperate, pathetic hope that builds in your chest and threatens to bubble out of your mouth.  

“Someone who ain’t afraid of ghosts.” He doesn’t speak so much as breathe the words into you. 

You open your mouth - to respond, to kiss him, maybe - but before you can say another word the sound of heavy footfall at the opposite end of the alley snaps both of your heads to attention at breakneck speed. 

“There they are!” a voice shouts, and a whistle blows shortly afterward. 

“Fuck!” John curses. “Shit.”

The two of you sprint off into the night, to the edge of town where you whistle desperately for your mounts to follow. Two ungraceful running mounts later you’re off, shaking the police tail with ease on moonlit backroads.

Once the danger has passed you let your heart break to the sound of hoofbeats that lead home.

#john marston x reader #rdr x reader #rdr2 x reader #ghost story #it's insane person johnghost hours :) #ch. 10 #fran writes

[training4theapocalypse]

Finders Keepers Ch 15. (Cormac McLaggen x fem!reader)

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: Really (really) mild sexual harassment.

Summary: You return to Azkaban with the D.A. in an attempt to free Eddie Carmichael and the rest of the muggleborns.

A/N: This chapter is all plot no smut. Back to our regularly scheduled fucking soon.

Masterlist

Tag list: @countlambula, @ratsys, @aweidlich, @navs-bhat, @stainedpomegranatelips, @chiaraanatra, @xxvelvetxxxx, @ohnoitsrosie, @dracosisteer, @daisydark, @intense-sneezing, @lipstickandloveletters, @ichorai, @marmie-noir(let me know if you want removed at any point btw!)

Chapter 15: Freedom

McLaggen sits on the edge of a large planter in the lighthouse’s garden watching as you try without success to conjure a corporeal Patronus.

“It’s getting more solid,” you say, looking back at him hopefully but he just shakes his head.

“It doesn’t just become more solid. It’s either a Patronus or it’s vapour. And you’re still producing vapour.”

You groan and sit next to him. It’s a chilly morning a few days before Halloween. You lean your head on the shoulder of that cosy cable-knit jumper of his that you like so much. 

“I didn’t say stop,” he says, nudging you.

“I don’t think I can do it,” you grumble resignedly, ignoring his elbow in your ribs. 

“Since when did you just give up when something didn’t come easily to you?”

“I’m not giving up -”

“Well, get up then. Think of a happy memory and try again. The happiest one you’ve got.”

“I’ve used them all up,” you sigh and get to your feet. You’ve been practising this spell every day for almost a month. But today you really, really need it. Tonight, you’re leading a group into the depths of Azkaban and you don’t want to rely on everyone else’s Patronuses. You want your own too.

Right, a happy memory. You take a deep breath and think about when you found out you were going to Hogwarts. How excited you were when Professor Sprout arrived on your doorstep to gently explain to your parents that you were a witch and that you were going to a school of magic.

“Expecto Patronum!”

Your parents were so proud. Your parents who are now worried sick about you as you stay here in hiding.

An even tinier wisp of silver vapour than before emits from the end of McLaggen’s dad’s wand.

“Maybe it’s the wand?” you suggest, turning it over in your hands. It’s a nice wand. Oak, ten inches long, springy… but it’s not yours.

“We’ve been over this. You can do every other spell fine with his wand. It’s not the wand.”

“It’s just… it’s just that every fun, happy memory I have is tainted right now. I mean, I can’t think about the Holyhead Harpies without thinking about Cerys and Flint. I can’t think about anything in my childhood without remembering my parents are worried about me.”

McLaggen gets up and wraps his arms around you from behind. “Your mum and dad are alright. They know you’re safe.”

You sigh and relax into his touch, tilting your head to let him nuzzle your neck. “They’d be so scared if they knew about Azkaban.” You pause, debating on whether to say the words dancing in front of you. You decide to be honest with him. “I’m scared. I… I can’t bear to think about going back.”

“I know,” he says simply, his lips pressed against your neck.

“Cormac, I -” You sigh. “I’m not brave like you.”

“You have to be.”

That’s not what you want to hear. You want him to insist that you should stay behind and keep watch over Headquarters. Safe under your duvet while the rest of them go hurtling across the North Sea.

But you can’t. 

You’re the only one who has actually been inside Azkaban. The only one in the group for whom the prison isn’t unplottable. And besides, this is your plan - your plan to get Carmichael and the other muggleborns out of there.

“I also think,” he says slowly. “That it will help your nightmares if you go back and free those innocent people.”

McLaggen has been woken up by your disturbed nightmares enough by now to know the memories are still affecting you. He’s held you in his arms and reminded you of your current whereabouts every other night these past few weeks.

Maybe McLaggen is your happy memory. The person who keeps you grounded. Safe.

“I know. You’re right… let me try again,” you say and he steps back, giving you space.

You think about the first time you kissed McLaggen on the freezing cold Quidditch stands. How you felt when he wrote to you over Christmas. The date he took you on to the middle of the loch on Valentine’s Day. The first time you had sex.

“Expecto Patronum!”

You think about stumbling out of the fireplace with his dad. Straight into Cormac’s arms, crying, shaking, desperately worried about what would happen to Carmichael if you weren’t in the cell opposite him to keep him company.

Vapour. Again.

Shit.

“Come on,” he says encouragingly. “Have another go. What about the first time you flew a broom? All you need is one really, really happy memory and you’ll have it. You’re so close.”

“Wrong,” says a thick voice from behind you. You and McLaggen both turn around to see Viktor Krum standing with a hot cup of coffee, steam rising in the crisp morning air. 

“Wrong?” asks McLaggen.

“It is a good place to start.” He shrugs. “But vot you need is to see yourself performing the spell. You are not believing you can do it. You must see it first.”

“Ugh, right. Come on,” you hype yourself up, turning away from them to face the sprawling green clifftop in front of you. “I’m doing it.”

“No. You’ve done it. Believe you have done it already,” says Krum. 

You close your eyes and picture yourself clearly - storming into Azkaban, a blinding white shape leading the charge in front of you as a dementor flees instead of gliding towards you with icy, rattling breath. 

You see Carmichael whooping and cheering into the wind as he flies together with everyone back to the beach, hardly daring to believe you’ve come back for him.

You and McLaggen apparating onto the cliff at Seafarer’s Beacon and then he pulls you into a half-hug, half-spin as everyone cheers in celebration. 

Sitting on the window seat at the top of the lighthouse in your pyjamas, not really paying attention to the book on your lap as you watch Marietta braid Cho’s hair as the three of you giggle and gossip.

Then you see Carmichael standing up at a long table, wearing a suit and cracking jokes at McLaggen’s expense during his best man speech at your wedding. Your dad laughs the loudest.

You and McLaggen sit on the floor of an empty bedroom, racing to see who can assemble furniture quickest - McLaggen using magic and you using an Allen key. You throw a pillow at him when he sabotages you by turning the instructions into a paper aeroplane with his wand and sending it flying around the room.

“Expecto Patronum!”

Everyone is happy. Safe. Together.

This time the warmth of your hopes and dreams spread right from your chest, to your fingertips and through the wand. Before the shape can even appear, you already know you’ve done it. Because you did it already, so clearly in your head.

A sound escapes your lips somewhere between a laugh and a sob as you watch a fluffy, horned beast trot around in front of you. 

A ram.

It backs up a few steps before charging off and vanishing in a silver cloud.

You turn around to see Krum and McLaggen. Krum raises his mug slightly in your direction with a nod before turning back inside, through the kitchen door without another word.

You squeal and leap into McLaggen’s arms. He hugs you the way he always does - exactly like in your happy thought. He squeezes you tight before letting you down and you sigh breathlessly, looking up at him.

“Don’t be grumpy because Krum helped,” you tease, trying to catch his eye as he looks at the door over your shoulder. “You’re the one who’s been getting me there for the past month.”

“I’m not sure why the happy memory thing didn’t work on its own,” he grumbles. “That’s how Potter taught all of us in the D.A.”

“I was getting in my own head, dwelling on bad things in the past when I needed to think about the future. I had to force myself to think about all the good things that are going to happen when we do this.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Oh. Nothing. It’s stupid.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“I thought about Carmichael - all of us - being safe. Back here. ”

“That’s not stupid- ”

“But I think the thing that did it was picturing the two of us just doing boring, normal stuff after the war is over.”

He presses his lips against the top of your head. “Still not stupid. I can’t wait to do boring, normal stuff with you. Not hatching schemes to break people out of prison for a change.”

You take a deep breath of his aftershave, the dark amber and jasmine scent makes your senses light up pleasantly. “I hope you still like me during peacetime.”

“I’ll always like you,” he says.

You pull back to smile up at him. “You’re always so sure of everything. I suppose that checks out… y’know with learning how to do a Patronus.”

“Oh yeah? Go on then, tell me.” His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek as he waits for a sarcastic comment. 

You don’t disappoint him. “Of course, you already believed you could do it.”

“Haha,” he says sarcastically, dimples appearing at the corners of his mouth in a reluctant smile.

“Oh, to have an ounce of Cormac McLaggen’s self-belief!” You push back from his chest and exuberantly brandish his dad’s wand. “I’d be unstoppable - Expelliarmus!”

He casts a shield charm with a lazy flick of his wand.

“You won’t beat me if you keep casting spells verbally.”

Confringo, you think but the wand flies out of your hand before you can finish the thought. He catches it with expert accuracy.

“Again,” he says, tossing it back in the air. You catch it. “Ready?”

You change your stance and extend the wand again. “As I’ll ever be.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Listen up, team. Conditions are decent. Windy but clear,” you say to the group gathered on the deserted beach at Stonehaven once you’ve all apparated to the rendezvous point in one piece. “Let’s go over it once more before we kick off.”

You look at the faces in front of you. Most are determined. Some nervous. Marietta looks faintly green as her shaking hands grip her broom - though you suspect it’s nothing to do with the bitter North Sea wind whipping her hair across her pretty, scarred face.

“Stay with me in formation until we penetrate the boundary. Once we’ve got visibility we head for the South corner - the tip of the triangle - and blast our way through to the corridor on the top floor. Team Gryffindor -” You look at McLaggen, Katie, Leanne, Wood and Alicia. “You go anti-clockwise while the rest of us -” You nod at Krum, Davies, Cho, Marietta and Leanne. “We go clockwise. We unlock every cell, get back to the opening we made and fly everyone out.”

“From the Daily Prophet and Potterwatch, we reckon there are nine muggleborns locked up in Azkaban. If they outnumber us, we come back for them. But only if it’s safe. Under no circumstances can you take more than one passenger on your broom,” adds McLaggen. The waves crash against the rocky beach ominously, as if reminding you all where you’ll end up if your broom is overburdened.

“When we get back here, we give them a wand and send them on their way. Remember, we can’t take anyone except Eddie Carmichael back to Seafarer’s Beacon. The more people that know about Headquarters, the riskier it is for us all to stay there. No exceptions,” he says.

“Ministry presence is minimal at night - it’ll mostly be Dementors we’re dealing with. But as soon as they hear us breach the walls, they’ll alert the authorities. So we get in and out quickly and stun any Ministry officials who get in our way. Got it?” You ask.

“Yes, Captain,” says Davies.

“Got it,” says Cho.

The rest of them murmur in agreement.

“Ready to send the Patronus?” You ask McLaggen and he draws his shoulders back. He casts his German Shepherd Patronus and it obediently awaits instructions. 

“Tell Eddie Carmichael to get ready - we’re coming for him.”

It’s the first time he’s ever communicated verbally with Carmichael using the Patronus. Hopefully, it’ll make him understand that something extraordinary is about to happen.

“Okay!” You shout, turning to face the sea. “Everyone, mount your brooms! And let’s go!”

The eleven of you take to the air and start speeding West, over the black, treacherous waves roaring below you.

It feels… wonderful. In all your anxiety about carrying out this mission, you had almost forgotten that you’d get to fly again. Fly properly. Not just hovering in the perimeter of Seafarer’s Beacon, helping Marietta get up to speed with riding a broom again.

The icy wind burns your face and makes your eyes narrow. But the weather doesn’t matter. You feel free up here. Like you can do anything.

As you get further and further out, you look anxiously into the empty horizon.

Come on, come on. Where are you?

When the thought crosses your mind, it appears. A gigantic, stony triangular prism launches itself directly from the waves. The water swells and crashes as it emerges, apparently from the depths of the ocean. But you know it was never underwater. Whatever ancient magic protects this place only conceals it - it doesn’t actually submerge it. 

You slow your broom waiting for it to appear fully in front of you.

“You guys can see that, right?” You whip around on your broom to see ten, shocked faces looking up at the grey monolith towering over you. Their silent answer to your question is written all over their faces.

“Everyone - move up! South point!” You bellow into the night sky and start zooming up and up to the highest floor of Azkaban.

All your nerves have disapparated. Being on a broom, leading a team - it’s what you were made for. It feels right. And you know beyond a doubt that you’re ready for whatever comes next when you breach the walls of this wretched place.

“Get in position!” You wait for the other brooms to meet your level, hovering outside the highest point of Azkaban. You point your wand. “On my mark… three… two… one!”

The effect of eleven Reductor curses being cast at once is astounding. This first hurdle was the part of the plan that was least certain - you had no idea if your curse would actually blast through the protective enchantments, penetrating the walls. But it does. The combined force of your curses blasts a hole into the corridor wall, sending rubble, brick and ash plummeting into the sea.

“Move!” You yell and fly into the opening, landing on the stone floor inside. The unsettlingly familiar damp smell of the prison reaches your nostrils, immediately bringing memories flooding back of your time spent here. But you don’t have time to process them as you see a hooded figure gliding down the corridor towards you.

Fuck.

You can do this. You can do it.

Cries of “Expecto Patronum!” ring out along the corridor as the rest of your team begin conjuring Patronuses. The rallying cries of your friends force you from your momentary state of shock.

You give yourself a shake and with all your might conjure your silver ram, sending it charging down the corridor, as if ready to headbutt the Demontors ahead, accompanied by a silver swan, wild rabbit, tabby cat, stoat and falcon.

You hear cries of shock and confusion coming from the prisoners in their cells. The two teams split up and Cho, Marietta, Leanne, Davies and Krum start casting unlocking charms at cells as you storm down the corridor, your brooms still in hand. 

But as they open the cells and provide hushed, soothing words of explanation, you only have one person on your mind.

Carmichael.

You run as fast as you can, along to the end of the corridor where you know he is. Firmly keeping your back to the cell that you used to inhabit, you skid to a halt in front of Eddie Carmichael’s cell.

“Alright, mucker?” he asks weakly. Unexpectedly, the greeting makes your throat tighten when you see him, standing at the bars. Waiting. Just as you’d hoped he’d be.

Tears well in your eyes. He’s thinner and paler than you remember. His black and white striped robes are grimy. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Carmichael… Even in this getup.” You swallow. “Alohamora.”

The cell door swings open. Fear grips you once more. Stupidly, you feel scared that if you step into the dank cell, the door will swing shut behind you and you’ll both be stuck there forever. 

But you don’t have to. Carmichael steps out before you can psych yourself up and all you have to do is reach out and pull him into a hug.

You feel his cold body shudder immediately under your touch.

“Maaate,” he sobs into your shoulder. 

“I know. I know.” He smells like stale sweat, sour porridge and filth. But you’ve never been so glad to experience that putrid smell as you are right now. You clasp his shoulders. “One last push and we’re home.”

He nods, and you both sprint to meet the rest of your group in the corridor, accompanied by several nervous-looking prisoners in the same filthy robes. “How many?” you ask.

“Seven including Carmichael,” says Davies.

“Let’s hope the others have less. This way.”

“Eddie!” cries Marietta, pushing past you, Davies, Krum, Cho and Leanne to embrace him.

“Maz!” he chokes, a grimy hand pulling the back of her sea-sprayed curly hair into his neck.

You lead them back to the crumbling corner. You can barely hear yourself think over the howling wind and the waves colliding with the side of Azkaban.

You see McLaggen and the rest of his group came running down the corridor, followed by more visibly terrified prisoners.

“We’ve got to go - now. Ministry are on their way. We stunned two but more will be coming,” says McLaggen urgently.

You quickly try and count heads. “We’ve got thirteen prisoners. Too many. Some of us will need to go and come back.”

“I’ll stay. Hold the Ministry as long as I can,” says McLaggen.

“You can’t stay here by yourself.”

The others immediately start clamouring over each other.

“Shut up a second! I can’t think!” Your brain whirs into overdrive, calculating the risk of the best fighters versus the quickest fliers versus the shortest amount of trips to ferry everyone out of there. “Krum - stay here with McLaggen. The rest of us will fly to shore and a couple will come back for the rest.” You turn. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!”

You mount your broom and extend your hand so that the nearest woman in dirty Azkaban robes can climb on behind you. Krum and McLaggen ready their wands, turning to face the dark corridor as the others help the prisoners onto the backs of their brooms.

“Hold on tight,” you say to the woman and she clasps her hands firmly around your waist. 

When the prisoners are ready, the nine of you kick off into the night sky, over the treacherous waves and start flying back to shore. The woman, whose name you don’t even know, is light but no matter how much you will your broom to speed up, it feels heavier bearing the weight of another passenger. You turn your head slightly to see Eddie clutching onto Marietta’s back as her eyes focus on the horizon in determination.

After what feels like much too long, you land clumsily on the beach and feel the others touching down behind you not long after.

“Right you know what to do,” you say urgently to the others. “There’s four prisoners still in there with McLaggen and Krum. I need one person to fly back with me -”

“I’ll do it,” says Davies, spinning around and readying his broom again.

“The wands, Davies - leave the wands!” yells Cho.

“Shit, yeah,” says Davies, pulling the backpack full of wands from his shoulders and tossing it to her.

You both take off again, zooming as fast as you can towards Azkaban. You never thought you’d be returning to this awful place, let alone twice in one night. 

With horror, you see flashes of red and shining glimmers of silver light bouncing between the giant chasm in the wall. Fuck, you weren’t thinking straight. You might be the best flier but you know that you’re not the best at duelling. You just pray there are no Aurors there or you’re about to be royally fucked.

Because there’s no time to turn back now. You cast a shield charm as you and Davies land amongst the rubble, rebounding a stunning charm from a Ministry official back down the dim corridor.

McLaggen springs out from an unlocked cell, shielded by your protective charm so he can grab his broom from the floor.

They’re fighting two versus two as the prisoners cower in the corner. With a glimmer of hope, you realise that you and Davies now outnumber them.

“Petrificus totalus!” You cry, casting the spell at one of the officials but he sends a silent disarming spell your way - McLaggen’s dad’s wand goes spinning through the air from your fingertips.

“Shit!”

You throw yourself on the floor, out of the way of the crossfire and scramble towards the wand, lying on the floor between you and the Ministry officials.

A third figure you hadn’t noticed leaps out of a cell and his foot stamps on your forearm just as your fingers brush the discarded wand. You yelp in pain when he bends down and drags you to your feet by your hair.

“Ow! Fuck!”

You feel the tip of his wand pressed against your throat as he spins you roughly to face McLaggen and the others. He jerks your head right back, forcing you to look up into his face.

He sneers as your eyes widen in recognition - he’s the guard who gave Carmichael his newspaper so long ago.

“I know you, pretty,” he laughs. “The little Quidditch-playing bitch who escaped. Though you were much prettier behind bars.” He looks at McLaggen, driving his wand deeper against the flesh of your neck. You’ve never seen McLaggen’s face drain of colour so quickly before. “Wands down.”

“Leave, now! Get out of here -” Your cry is interrupted when he pulls your hair tighter.

“Shut up,” he hisses, pressing his lips against your ear as his eyes dart between McLaggen, Davies and Krum. “You’re not going anywhere. The Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission has asked for you personally.”

McLaggen slowly, carefully, places his wand and broom on the floor. Krum emerges from behind a crumbling wall, holding his hands up. Davies drops his wand and holds his hands in the air too.

You look from your friends to the prisoners huddled in the corner. Why did you have to come back and jeopardise the mission when you know you’re no good at duelling?

No good at duelling.

As you look at McLaggen’s dad’s wand on the floor, his face pulled in distaste swims to the front of your mind.

‘Merlin’s beard - don’t tell me you were Muggle brawling.’

Muggle brawling. 

Now that’s something you can do.

Without a second though, using the reflexes you’ve spent your whole life honing as a keeper you whip your fist down and punch your attacker between his legs as hard as you can. Every ounce of strength you have travels down your arm like you’re ferociously knocking the quaffle away from the goal.

He lets out a pathetic wail as he releases your hair. You react quickly, wrenching his wand from his hand before scrambling to the floor to pick up Mr McLaggen’s wand. Before he can even sink to the ground in pain, you cast a body-bind curse and his entire body tightens and falls back, landing rigidly on the stone with a dull thud.

The fighting begins again immediately, Krum sends a white light slashing through the air, knocking a robed man flying back into the stone wall. McLaggen grabs his wand and shoots a stunning spell directly into the chest of the last standing official, making him crumble into a heap on the floor.

The only stirring comes from the wizard who had grabbed you as he breathes raggedly on the floor, unable to move.

You walk over to where he’s lying but McLaggen tries to stop you. “We need to leave,” he says grabbing your arm.

You ignore him and shrug off his hand as you walk.

You crouch down beside the figure. He can’t even blink but his eyes look terrified. 

“Tell Gregor McLaggen if he ever wants the Imperius Curse lifted from his son, his boss needs to stop putting innocent muggleborns in Azkaban.” You look up at McLaggen, Davies, Krum and the last four prisoners. “Let’s move.”

You find your broom again.

You, Davies, Krum and McLaggen hoist the last of the stragglers onto the backs of your brooms and take off once more across the North Sea.

When you finally land, you’re pleased to see the other freed prisoners are gone with the exception of Eddie, who is standing with his arms crossed, bracing himself against the freezing sea blow.

“Any issues?” asks McLaggen, when he’s finished helping the trembling man from the back of his broom.

“None. They all had families and friends to return to. We told them to get out of the country but I suppose we’ll see in the Daily Prophet if any of them are recaptured,” says Cho.

“If they have any sense they won’t come back here,” says Alicia. “No offence,” she adds to you.

You don’t say anything.

“Any dramas on your end?” asks Katie.

You look at McLaggen, Krum and Davies.

“A bit of trouble with the Ministry but we made it out okay,” says McLaggen.

Cho rushes over with the last of the wands and hands them to the four freed prisoners. She starts rhyming off the agreed instructions and making sure they have somewhere to apparate to.

“I - I can’t apparate,” says a stricken-looking woman in a feeble voice.

“What?” asks Cho - looking to you for direction. 

You hadn’t planned on any of the prisoners not being able to apparate.

“Do you have somewhere safe to go?” asks McLaggen.

“I live in Yorkshire. My husband… my children - they’ll be there.”

“Right, I’ll take you,” says McLaggen.

“No, Cormac -” you begin but he cuts you off.

“None of the free prisoners can come back to headquarters. What are we supposed to do? Leave her here on the beach?”

“What if it’s a trap?” You look at her edgily but her face falls like she’s about to cry. 

“It’s not a trap. She didn’t know we were coming. She didn’t ask to be rescued.”

You feel your eyes burning. Anger that the plan has been turned upside down on its head. Embarrassment that you almost tanked the entire operation in Azkaban with your woeful defence skills. Fear that if Cormac McLaggen disappears into the night you’ll never see him again. 

“What’s your name?” you ask her.

“Mary… Mary Cattermole.”

“If this is some kind of trick, Mary Cattermole, I’ll put you back in there. I mean it!”

Mary shrinks back in fright and McLaggen looks alarmed.

“C’mon, it’s okay,” says Cho, appearing behind you to pull you back by the crook of your elbow. “He’ll be fine.”

“You’ve got the piece of parchment with headquarters location?” he asks you.

You want to shake your head. Tell him you don’t still have the small piece of parchment with Seafarer’s Beacon written in his handwriting burning a hole in your pocket. He’d be able to see right through it if you lied - pretended like you needed him to come with you to escort Eddie through the Fidelius Charm protecting headquarters.

McLaggen nods at you once before taking Mary Cattermole by the hand. She tells him something but you can’t hear it over the wind rushing in your ears. Before you can argue any further or ask where exactly they’re going, there’s a noise like a car backfiring and they vanish before your eyes.

Your chest tightens as you look at the empty space McLaggen just disappeared into and let out a shaky sob.

“Why didn’t any of you back me up?!” you accuse nobody in particular as their stunned faces watch you silently. Your heart feels like it’s been ripped out of your chest. You’ve barely been more than a few feet away from him since he and his dad rescued you from Azkaban.

“It’s not a trap. He’s coming back.” Cho takes your arm. It’s just as well she does because your legs feel weak. “Let’s get Eddie home before they come looking for us.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You sit on the window seat in the kitchen, tears silently rolling down your face as you stare out the window. It’s dark outside. All you can see is your own blotchy face reflected in the glass as you look for any sign of McLaggen.

The atmosphere in the kitchen is grim. It’s nothing like the celebration you had pictured. Whenever anyone does speak it’s in a hushed whisper. And nobody directs any of the whispering to you. 

Because they know now that you were right to be worried.

McLaggen should have been back a few minutes after the rest of you.

When you made it back to Seafarer’s Beacon, you showed Eddie to his room and left him and Marietta to catch up. You had practically bounced down the spiral staircase, expecting McLaggen to be waiting in the kitchen for you already.

But he wasn’t.

You fiddle absently with your watch strap. The digital display says it’s almost three in the morning. You wipe your eyes and bring yourself to look away from the window to address the rest of the group huddled quietly around the kitchen table.

“You guys should go to bed. It’s been a long night.”

“No way,” says Cho. “I’m not leaving you to wait up alone.”

Krum shakes his head.

“I won’t be able to sleep until I know he’s back safely,” says Katie.

“Me neither,” says Leanne.

“Why don’t I make us all some more tea?” suggests Davies bracingly, getting up from his seat.

“I still say we go out and look for him,” says Wood. Angelina and Alicia roll their eyes at him.

“What are we gonna do, Oliver? Go door to door? Fly over the whole of Yorkshire and hope we just see McLaggen wandering around?” asks Alicia.

“I mean, how big can it be?” he asks.

“It’s an entire county,” explains Angelina, not unkindly. “It would take us days.”

“Cho, can’t you send him a Patronus with a message?” asks Davies, leaning against the countertop as the kettle boils.

She looks at you nervously. “Well… we don’t know where he is or who’s listening. If he’s in trouble it might lead them straight here. And besides, Cormac knows how to send one. If he needs help he’d have sent one to us by now.”

“Unless he doesn’t have a wand,” you say quietly and the room goes silent again. You take a deep breath. “I need air. No - alone,” you add firmly when Cho and Alicia get up out of their seats. “I’ll be fine. I just need a minute.”

When you get outside, you close the front door behind you. The mild sea breeze feels good in your lungs. Easier to breathe than the sharp, salty air surrounding Azkaban. 

How could he be so selfish to leave you like this? Always so determined to be the bravest. The most chivalrous. But then you immediately feel bad for calling him selfish in your head when you might never see him again. Of course, he wasn’t being selfish. He was the total opposite. 

You’re sure he wanted more than anything to come home with you but he just had to make sure that Mary Cattermole got home to her family.

You want to hit something. Instead, you rest your forehead on the wooden front door and let out a sigh.

Crack.

The sound of someone apparating in the darkness some distance behind you. Every fibre of your being prays that it’s him. It has to be him. Only him. If someone’s captured him, there’s no way he would lead them here. Unless he was somehow forced.

You whip around in panic when you hear footsteps sprinting towards you.

You let out a gasp of surprise as your face meets a soft-knitted jumper and a pair of arms wrap around you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” says McLaggen breathlessly pulling you tight and nuzzling into your neck, his broom still in his hand, pressing against your back as he squeezes. You feel his heart pounding in his chest.

“Cormac, you scared me!”

“I was running towards the door - I didn’t expect you to be out here but, fuck, I’m so glad you are. I’m sorry - everything’s fine. She just had trouble finding her family. But they were staying with a neighbour. I’ll explain inside.”

“Wait,” you say, burying your face into his chest. You squeeze your eyes shut and drink in every sensation he has to offer. His smell, the weight on him on you, the sound of his heart beating. “Don’t do that again,” you say, your voice muffled by the soft cotton of his jumper. 

“I won’t. I promise,” he says.

You pull back and look up at him properly. His golden mop of hair looks tousled as ever after your mission. You grab his face, pull it close to yours and look him right in the eyes. “I don’t want you to ever leave my sight again.”

“What about in the shower?” He tilts his head and gives you an infuriating smile, trying to make you laugh.

“Don’t make jokes. It’s not funny,” you bite back and kiss him fiercely. Your tongue delves into his mouth and he drops his broom with a clatter against the door to thread his fingers through your hair. Cormac kisses you like you’ve been apart for weeks - not just hours. “But yes… especially in the shower,”

The front door opens and you break apart in time to see it closing again quickly.

“He’s back!” says Davies’ voice from behind the door and you hear movement inside. “No - wait. Give them a minute.”

You exhale a laugh and shake your head, as McLaggen picks up his broom and opens the door to joyous cheers from the group.

“Sorry.” Davies hands you a steaming mug of tea with a sheepish grin. “I was just bringing you this. Want one?” he asks McLaggen.

“You’re not having something stronger?” asks Cormac, dumping his backpack on the table - you only just now realise it’s ready to burst at the seams. He opens it up and starts pulling out a giant fruit cake, homemade fudge, a massive slab of chocolate and some biscuits.

“Been shopping, have you?” laughs Angelina. “While we’ve been here worried sick?”

“They insisted,” he says with a sigh, pulling up a chair. “We apparated to Mary Cattermole’s house but her family weren’t there - we spent ages looking for them. Then we found them at a neighbour’s house. She’d been arrested for escaping the Ministry during the infiltration in September - her husband works in Magical Maintenence. He and the kids had been in hiding. He almost had a heart attack when we showed up in the middle of the night. But they’ve all decided to leave the country… so they gave me all this.”

That was sweet of her. A guilty knot forms in your stomach. You’ve spent the last few hours plotting how you were going to hunt her down.

“And it’s a good idea. Leaving the country, I mean. I’m sure you guys will feel much safer back in Lyon.” McLaggen says to Krum and Davies.

“I don’t think so.” You shake your head and look at the pair. “I think you should stay here. You were both just spotted breaking into Azkaban. I don’t know much about International Magical Law but they might come looking for you in Lyon.”

Krum nods. “Vell, I’m not in any hurry to return. The league is still called off.”

“And you,” you say, turning to McLaggen again. “I hope they won’t come looking for you after I gave the guard that cover story.”

You explain to the rest of the group about the fight when you returned to Azkaban for the second time and what you told the Ministry official.

“I thought if they saw you, they might come after your dad. So I said you were under the Imperius Curse. But I couldn’t really think of an explanation for Davies and Krum. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. We knew what we were getting into when we came here,” said Davies. 

You yawn and try to hide it by taking a sip from your mug.

“Right, I think we should all go to bed,” says Cho, not failing to notice your heavy eyelids. 

“I thought we were -” Alicia yawns too. “- I thought we were going to have a party?”

“Eddie’s the most fun at parties. We can wait til he’s feeling up for it,” says Cho. “Besides, he’d be furious if we had one without him.”

Tired murmurings, the sound of chairs being pushed back and mugs being put in the sink rings through the kitchen. You lace your fingers through Cormac’s and lead him upstairs to your room. As you climb to the top of the lighthouse you hear doors shut on the lower floors as everyone else retires to bed too.

You curl up on the bed together. Neither of you have the energy to even take your clothes off. You just lie there on top of the duvet, nestling into him.

“I fucked up,” you murmur softly into the space on his chest where your head is resting. “When we were fighting the Ministry. I used a verbal spell and he disarmed me.” 

“It was just a mistake. It happens. But you did good. You were so brave.”

“And he pulled my hair. It was so humiliating.”

“That says more about him than you,” says Cormac, kissing the top of your head.

“You’re not annoyed?”

“With you? Never,” he says sleepily and you lift your head to see he’s too tired to even open his eyes. “I was just scared when he had you… I’ve never been so scared.”

“I thought you were about to hand yourself in.”

“I was.”

“We really should have talked about that beforehand. You should have run rather than get captured yourself.”

“You know I’d never do that.”

“I know. But you should have. You’re the secret keeper for headquarters.”

“I don’t care. Whatever the cost, they’re not taking you again. And certainly not alone.” He yawns and pulls you tighter. “I know that makes me an idiot.”

“Mhm,” you murmur, fighting sleep. “Well, you’re my idiot.”

Chapter 16: Relax

#cormac mclaggen x female reader #cormac mclaggen #cormac mclaggen x reader #ravenclaw #ravenclaw fanfiction #smut #fanfic #harry potter and the half blood prince #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #freddie stroma #azkaban #deathly hallows #harry potter and the deathly hallows

[fruit-salad-ship]

Au idea: full metal alchemist au where peach and gray are small town alchemists that plum keeps trying to recruit to be state alchemists but keeps failing to

Love is stored in the full metal au.

I gave this mild thought once, I think peach was an alchemist that used medicine as a weapon, but otherwise was known as a doctor. People would say she’s a good person who despite her grouchy behaviour would actually never hurt a soul undeserving. She’s swooped in and taken out military folk bullying towns people, and thrown hands with the worst kind of thugs around who’d come to her turf and start fights. Her alchemy is rooted in the idea that you can change the base structure of a human body, it’s just chemistry. You don’t have to touch the souls, that’s too far even for her, but the physical self? Hell yeah. Every human contains bacteria and acids that’ll spiral out of control in no time under the right conditions. She just…sets those up and accelerates them. She’s put stomach acid in place of cartilage, the fluid in your brain? Yeah that’s all filled with bacteria from your colon. She may just fill you with tumours, there’s potential in every body to do that. You will slowly rot, and by the time you die, she’ll be long gone. Your lungs? Yeah. They’re gonna swap with your kidneys now. Nothing works in your body without air, game over. She is boarder line horrific in a match and because she doesn’t like to use that kind of ability normally without real reason, she’s jacked and fights you with her fists normally. Her body is littered with tattoos. Each is a circle unique to her area of study, that frees her up from drawing the big complex diagrams normally used in a fight. She’s got one on the wrist however that is for turning her rings into knuckle dusters and back again. For a little aid if she’s not about to destroy someone’s entire physical being.

Greys the doting loving man she does not deserve, though his specialist I’m not sure of yet. He’s gentle and sturdy and creative, clever, but not fast nor mean, always the one to talk peach down from her rage, and she usually listens. Or makes someone sick in a way that it’s a ticking time bomb. They’ll perish elsewhere, and grey things she’s spared them their life. She has not, she’s just good at making it look like she has. Benefit to being a doctor, you know how long a body has to handle something like an infection or thinned heart walls, can essentially set up a heart attack. Who’s going to blame you? Natural causes right there.

Anyway yeah, grey. Idk, ideas? He’s not a fighter, but very smart. Maybe he could have looked into the study of automated machinery, not bound with souls but like, robotics? Sort of? I’m not sure if that’s a good fit, he’s a;ways the tough one to match.

Plum however was born into a military family, never cut loose, never wanted anything else, just to rise through the ranks and make her family proud. Thing is the more she sees, the more she realises the military isn’t all that good an organisation, and her want to be a pillar of justice and honesty is going to fail if she’s doing it under the guise of what her family stood for. She goes to make her own path, but does so from the inside of this institute. Her first job? Track down some worthy alchemists to take the places of those she’s lost along the way. A few come and go, and sure, they’re good at their job, but not groundbreaking, not special. That is until she hears of a doctor and her partner out in the middle of nowhere, curing things with alchemy in ways that haven’t been done before. The rules are followed, this isn’t a philosophers stone incident, but the doctors using a combination of new theories, modern practice, and alchemy baselines to make injuries that would take months to recover, heal in days. People go to her unable to walk due to injury, and she’s finding ways to fix it. A doctor like that would be useful.

Thing is, the closer plum gets to this, the more she realises this doctor is actually no doctor at all, unhinged, genius yes, but completely ungovernable. She follows no rules, she obeys no man, and refuses to cooperate at all when asked to sit and chat about military options. Plums tried to catch her in her garden, and ends up barred by huge bramble walls, or yeeted out by the very earth she stands on.

Plums actual alchemy itself is grounded in tradition, a practice handed down through several generations. She is smart, educated on many matters, and uses her abilities in a very flamboyant way, something she picked up from her mother. She is highly adaptable and has branched out to study as much as she could.

#fma au #this is one of my fav anime’s guys #you hit a passion topic #winner #fruit salad #brainrot

[crudelobotomiser]

Youve got me curious about the appetite vs hunger :-3 i would love to hear more about your thoughts!

PEOPLE ALWAYS FORGET THAT HUNGER IS A FUNDAMENTAL DESIRE!!! WHILE APPETITE IS SOMEONES INSATIABLE CRAVING THAT THEYLL REJOICE IN!!! HUNGER DOEST ALWAYS LEAD TO JOY AND APPETITE DOESNT LEAD INTO ACTION!!!!

Like if someone serves you something you don’t want to eat, but you’re hungry, you can only stomach a little bit until your appetite is lost, your hunger can stay anyway but you feel sick from it!!! Someone can have an appetite for love but never have that driving hunger to search for it, so they can only wait in the sidelines for it. Maybe appetite can ECLIPSE hunger, so you no longer have that driving desire to take but you continue because you’re RELISHING IN IT!!!!

I’m going to lovingly link this to Hannibal because I’m crazy, but when Will says “I don’t have the same appetite as you” when he’s rejecting him in season 3, I think throughout the show it reveals that he does HUNGER for that violence and the thrill of killing someone for the greater good, but after he does it he loses his appetite and he struggles to deal with himself and his hunger, he might want to keep taking deep down, but he isn’t able to (and in my head this also links to their love but I can’t say anything proudly until I rewatch it)

It’s a similar thing for Fight Club too, where the Narrator feels this HUNGER for something else which literally leads into Tyler because he’s someone who has a hunger and an appetite to cause all these horrible things, but when the Narrator is forced to face the consequences of his actions he find himself sick and disturbed by it because he never had that appetite, it was Tyler who had it (blurs a little because of the whole they’re technically a same person but I think it’s flimsy enougb to stand)

I feel like it works as a pretty good love metaphor too for very destructive relationships, like where they both are hungry for each other but they’ve lost their appetite long ago and are simply stomaching all the incompatibilities that show later because they are so hungry for that presence and the comfort that the other person offers (I’m recalling These Violent Delights by Micha Nemerever because I’m literally reading it rn :3)

In my book I’m using it as a power struggle, since Luell has this hunger and appetite for magic and how he thinks it can help people, he relishes in that control and that feeling of empowerment (mild saviour complex hehe), and when they meet, he learns that Atlas (seemingly) has a similar hunger for power, Luell wonders if Atlas will be able to stomach the changes that magic happens onto a person and is later he wants Atlas to still have an appetite for him as a person when Plot Twists are revealed (this is more haphazard because I’m still working through it but I love this analogy so much it eats at my brain and is amazing I love it)

EDIT: I just want to add that I think that having an appetite or lacking one is what makes people human, like a hunger is a need that drives a person, basic animal instinct or whateva but an appetite gives you the ability to reflect, discern, regret, which we as humans are enabled because of evolution basically constructing a society that lets people (in good situations) not be driving by their hunger and more their appetite, but that’s more of a need vs want thing, I think appetite is slightly different because it’s more of an attachment and not a counterpart to hunger, like hunger spells out some sort of inevitability that can lead you to react differently depending on your appetite

[mythologyfolklore]

Liù'ěr Míhóu joins the jttw gang, or: How to redeem an all-hearing celestial monkey with a superiority complex and a seriously bad attitude

(A/N: Trigger Warning: misgendering)

Chapter six: Liù'ěr Míhóu gets a new name

.

When Wùkōng and Shā returned, their new fellow pilgrim was in a vicious battle of words with Bājiè.

The two were taunting and insulting each other relentlessly, pulling no punches and giving each other tit for tat, while Tripitaka was trying in vain to make them stop fighting.

Shā chuckled: “I see, she's already fitting right in!”

Wùkōng rolled his eyes, strode up to the quarrellers and ended the fight by slamming his staff into the ground between them.

“Behave yourselves!”, barked the Monkey King. “Bājiè, don't try your luck. She's as powerful as me, but worse than I have been in a long time. And you-”, he glowered at Liù'ěr Míhóu, “-will leave Bājiè alone. The only one allowed to fuck with Third Brother is me!”

“Love you too, Eldest Brother”, Bājiè deadpanned. “Whatever. It's getting late, so I'm gonna get some fire wood. Why don't you two get some food and water for all of us? The less I have to see of you two monkey menaces, the better!”

“You get the rest of the group kidnapped by demons at least once a week and I have to save your sorry asses!”, Wùkōng retorted. “So who's the menace here?”

“Still you! Remember when instead of saving us right away, you stole a bunch of treasures and got yourself captured in a calabash?”

“… Touché. But they were so cool! I wish we hadn't had to give them back to mean ol' Laozi!”

“Eh, the Jade Emperor is meaner. He's the meanest, biggest douchebag.”

The Monkey King's vermillion eyes widened. “You are so right!”

.

In the Eastern Heavens, the Jade Emperor had to sneeze twice.

His right eye twitched. “Someone is mocking me again! And several people this time! I'll have their heads!”

.

Incredulously, Tripitaka stared at his two disciples. “Did you just resolve an argument by hating on the Jade Emperor?!”

Zhū Bājiè scowled: “Master, are you complaining that we stopped fighting all on our own and found something to agree on? Listen, I don't know about Six-Ears here, but my fellow brothers and I have one thing in common: that the Jade Emperor treated us like crap. So please forgive us for not adoring him, just because he's the ruler of the Celestial Realm.”

The monk raised his arms in an appeasing gesture: “Easy! I wasn't complaining! I was just … surprised? That you two stopped fighting on your own? Even if that was a weird way to end an argument.”

“Uh, guys?”

Everyone turned to Shā Wùjìng. “Are you all just going to keep ignoring the fact, that Lady Guān Yīn is still here?”

All eyes turned to the Bodhisattva, who was chilling on her Lotus Throne and watching the whole thing with a mild smile.

“Thank you, Shā Wùjìng”, Guān Yīn chuckled. “But it seems like my presence is no longer needed here, so I will make my way home. Tripitaka, don't forget to give your new disciple a Dharma name. Guān Yīn out.”

Then she vanished in a blinding light.

With a groan, Tripitaka sank to his knees. He was just so sick of everything right now. This day had been horrible, his back was still hurting like Diyu and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and just sleep …

“Master?”

A small, bony hand with long fingers tapped his shoulder. The monk turned his head and found two vermillion eyes with golden pupils staring at him in concern.

Oh.

“Don't worry, Pilgrim”, he mumbled. “I'm just tired. Let's … let's just get something to eat and then go to sleep, okay?”

The beige-furred monkey looked doubtful, but relented.

Tripitaka smiled tiredly. “Okay … so … I do still need to give my new disciple here a name.”

The Macaque frowned: “My name is Liù'ěr Míhóu. What other name would I need?”

“Everyone here has one. It signifies that you're starting a new life. Look at Wùkōng, for example. Do you hear anyone call him Líng míng shíhóu¹? No. Himself and others call him Sūn Wùkōng, I call him Pilgrim – which he told me was fine with him, by the way². Is it not fair, that you should get a nickname of your own?”

“… But I want a non-feminine name.”

Tripitaka smiled. “Of course, no problem! Hmm … I want to call you Sūn Wùhuàn³. Wùhuàn; because you were dreaming, but now you're awakening and becoming aware of the fantasy. What do you say?”

The Macaque gave him a blank stare. Then she started to sway her head from side to side. A bit unsettling, but maybe that was just a habit of hers.

Eventually, she muttered: “Well … it's not the worst name.”

.

---

.

1) "Stone Monkey of Luminous Wisdom"; according to Buddha that is Wukong's name as a Spiritual Primate. 2) That actually happens in the novel. Both Master Subhodi and Tripitaka ask Wukong about his opinion on the names suggested, and he accepts them. I found that a rather cool and interesting detail. 3) "Monkey Awakened to Fantasy"; this is a reference to "A Supplement to the Journey To The West", a sequel to JTTW from the 17th century.

#journey to the west #sun wukong #tripitaka #zhu bajie #sha wujing #liu er mihou #guan yin #bai longma #tw: misgendering

[jjongsdingleberry]

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙙𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙠𝙞𝙢 𝙟𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙝𝙮𝙪𝙣 (𝗦)

reader is gn, mild smut, lots and LOTS of fluff and aftercare, pet nicknames (such as baby, bubba, etc)

—

Content warning and disclaimer:

This story contains smut. If you’re under the age of 18 or/and is uncomfortable with these kind of stories, kindly click off. Before you intend to send me an angry paragraph, please note that this is NOT made for malicious intent at all. This was made for those who’s coping in a way that is more leaning towards the “horny” end of the spectrum. This story shouldn’t make people feel alone or discomfort, rather it should help them go though such difficult times or allow them to guide through their sexuality without feeling ashamed.

Let’s get on with the story, shall we?

—

“Hey.” He finally spoke to you after he saw your head peek out of the covers as he sat down at the corner of the bed.

“I heard that you haven’t been feeling good. Is everything alright?” And with that, you finally closed the laptop that was on your thighs and went to hug him. Tears poured down your eyes as you felt your cold, squishy boyfriend after what it felt like weeks.

“I… I miss you…” You quietly muffled since your head was on his chest.

“Hm?” He replied. “I can’t hear you, baby. Can you speak up a little more?”

You wanted to burst out and scream, but you didn’t want to worry Jonghyun too much. Although he knew about bits of it and reassured you that he would love you no matter what, this thing would be the only thing you would keep from him. You felt embarrassed, disgusted and horrified at the same time. You wanted to do something about it, but that something shouldn’t mean talking to Jonghyun about it.

“It’s fine, bubba. I’ll make you tea before you sleep.* You got out of the bed to go down to the kitchen - hoping that you could leave him and try to reflect on the very thing that was bothering you. You couldn’t itch your head about it, which it almost made you want to scratch so much that you puke. Every time you relive it, you would feel a tingling sensation in your head. Soon, it would turn worse to the point where you could feel your brain making those squiggles that you would do at secondary school. Your face was about to puff up like a tomato, your eyes were swirling like you was dancing in a ball with the same person who caused you stress and the slow, but an unsettling fluctuation into darkness.

The next time Jonghyun would see you was on the very floor with the kettle just finished its little click to confirm its termination and your phone was still on. Your eyes were still frozen shut, so he used your phone to call an ambulance.

Throughout the whole ride, you was still unconscious - and all you had was Jonghyun holding your weak, unresponsive hands and warming it up with his. His tears falls to his cheeks as he chats to you that you’ll be fine and that you’ll come home with his arms always around you the entire time.

After about 2 hours, you finally woke up. Luckily, nothing bad happened. It was just your blood pressure going up.

“Ohhh…” You groaned. “W-where am I?”

“You’re at the hospital.” Jonghyun replied. “But you seem fine so we may go the same day.”

“B-but- I’m not sick-” You whined out of fear. You had always been scared of going to the doctors. Since you was very young, you had always think that doctors would hurt you and take you away from everyone you knew and loved if you stayed long enough.

“Baby… you’re not sick, but the doctors are here to check if you’re ok, honey. You’ll be fine, I promise.” Jonghyun held your hand again, and you took your other hand with his. “I promise they don’t hurt you, baby. If they do, please let me know, but I doubt they would anyways. They’re very sweet people with lots of experiences and training.”

“B-but- the knives- they’re going to cut my mouth so I can’t speak to anyone anymore…” You shivered in fear as you watched Jonghyun lose it at that very moment. He knows that you wanted to leave straight away, but he wasn’t told that yet. The weakness in your eyes can indicate that you was exhausted, the red, bloodshot eyes also indicated that you had been up all night again.

“Y-y/n… is it that again…?” He looked at you firm in your eyes, trying not to cry.

Then, you bursted into tears and buried your head onto his chest. He pat your head as he strokes from your hair roots to your neck. He was massaging you so well, that you almost forgot what you was crying about. You looked at him with tears still on your eyes, but everything has been paused. You knew what you did and now Jonghyun knew. You felt awful for him to know, almost felt like you should of broken up with him.

As soon as you started facing away from Jonghyun, a tingle of pain arose. He felt all the pain you had to go through, and it was horrific.

“I shouldn’t even be around you.” You said with a cold frown on your face.

“Me? But what did I do?” Jonghyun panicked. This went on for the whole night, even when you was in bed together with him. Him wanting to make you feel better, he tried hugging you from behind. With that, you immediately pulled him away as you clutch the blanket more on your side as you slowly took Jonghyun’s side off him. Your blanket cocoon was the last thing you cared about and Jonghyun doing his hardest to please you. He was a sweetheart, and he wouldn’t take anything bad at all. He made you hot chocolate with marshmallows - which you left to cool for hours with barely no signs of consumption. He made your favourite sandwich alongside with your favourite snacks, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy you. He tried to make out with you, but that wasn’t it either. It seemed like you wanted to be away from him.

At this point, Jonghyun had enough and was worried for you. His beloved partner has been ignoring him for 4 hours and he needed to get to the bottom of this. He didn’t want you to be miserable like this, and so he tried to get you to the nearest GP at the nearest morning whilst you was groaning and refusing to help him out.

“I-I DON’T WANNA GO BACK!” You screamed out of fear once the word “doctor” was mentioned.

“Well then why haven’t you spoken to me, my love?” Jonghyun has always had this soft voice he would speak in, but it has gotten much firmer over the course of about 10 hours. He was losing his patience, but he surprisedly kept it in and calmly spoke to you.

“Listen Y/N. You either speak to me, or this is for your own good.” He went. “Do you understand me?”

You nodded and Jonghyun continued. “So, what’s it gonna be?”

Finally after few hours, you wrapped your arms around Jonghyun and cried on him. The sigh of relief could be heard as he smiled at you whilst soothingly stroking your back to make you feel comfortable again. His soft heart couldn’t take how vulnerable you was and so he began kissing you to see how you would react. You finally looked up after the 3rd time and did a little peck on his lips.

“You’re alright now?” He asked you.

“Yeah… I’m alright now. I’m sorry…”

“No no no.” He said as he shushed you with one of his finger. “It’s alright. I know you had been going through a lot.”

In what felt like days, you finally kissed Jonghyun and thankfully for him, it turned quite streamy. He carried you to a kitchen counter and began kissing you in different area of your body as he stripped you off your clothes after you finally allowed him to.

“Hey… do you want to go to the bedroom?” He asked as you jumped off the counter. You nodded at him and you both went hand to hand to your bedroom to continue the scene.

—

You laid in bed nude with Jonghyun as he gave small smooches on your cheeks. Every single kiss felt like a warm tickle as you would feel a slight tingle on your body. You enjoy being pampered by your boyfriend as he gives you all the love you didn’t think you needed this entire time.

And he was the only person you’d love to spend all of your time with.

—

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

#I lowkey miss him and I made this whilst crying #also it’s was suggested privately by one of my irl friends #shinee #shinee fanfiction #shinee fluff #shinee smut #shinee fanfic #fanfiction #kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfic #fanfic #shinee fic #fic #kpop fic #my fic #fic writing #mild smut #kim jonghyun #kim jonghyun fanfiction #kjh

[lassuscorde]

75 PROMPTS

(that are under the cut!)

feel free to pop up to three at a time in my inbox as well as a little desc about what ya want. I won’t do full nsfw but mild/suggestive stuff is alright.

1 “can i hold your hand?” 2 “you’re making my stomach hurt. in a good way?” 3 “god, just come here, will you?” 4 “Man. Sometimes, I just really wanna squish your face. What is this, cuteness aggression? 5 “Is that … me?” 6 “ … is that my shirt?” 7 “Sit down, idiot, I’m making you a snack.” 8 “If I win, you gotta kiss me, and i dont mean a peck on the cheek.” 9 “You are the best pillow!” 10 “Let me take care of you or I will kill you myself.” 11 ”Sometimes, you remind me of a fairytale character.” 12 ”Last time I let you cook, you set the fucking sprinklers off!” 13 ”I just realized- you have really pretty eyes.” 14 “Can’t sleep? Me neither.” 15 “I didn’t-…I didn’t want you to see me cry, alright.” 16 ”Please. I just need someone to talk to.” 17 ”I dunno. I would marry you!” 18 ”Can I sleep in your room?” 19 ”You’re so warm …” 20 ”I dunno, I guess a hug would be nice?” 21 ”I just realized. I’ve never really … touched you before?” 22 ”At this rate, I’m going to run out of tissues.” 23 ”Can I hug you?” 24 ”You just look so kissable-“ 24 ”Can I play with your hair?” 25 “If you’re not careful, you might hurt that pretty face of yours.” 26 “I AM- SO SORRY— ohh god-” 27 “Are you sure it wont hurt?” ”I have no idea. Sure hope not.” 28 “Fuck, yes, I’m scared.” 29 “You’ve been so good to me. I- I wanna pay you back, okay?” 30 “Just take it off … please?” 31 “You’re … wow. Y/n, you’re beautiful.” 32 “Little short to reach, are we?” 33 “I’ve always wondered if I could pick you up.” 34 “I never realized how pretty your hands were!” 35 ”So maybe I want them to rail me against a wall, so what?” 36 ”I have a feeling I wasn’t supposed to hear that.” 37 ”And to think I thought you were just a pushover.” 38 ”No no, it’s ok, everyone wants to fuck me.” 39 ”Geez, staring problem much?” 40 ”You baited me into this, didn’t you?” 41 ”That’ll leave a mark.” 42 ”I thought you said you could take it?” 43 ”No way, you’re gonna take up all the hot water!” 44 ”A bath sounds nice.” 45 ”Look, I’m sick of you talking bad about yourself, okay?” 46 “Just because you wouldn’t fuck you doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t!” 47 ” ‘oooh I hate you so much’ look, we all know how much you wanna fuck me.” 48 ”God I am so tired of pretending to hate you.” 49 “Looks like someone likes being pinned down.” 50 “So sue me, you have a nice ass.” 51 “You’ve got such a handsome smile. Who knows what else that mouth can do?” 52 “I’m not saving your sorry ass next time.” 53 “This is not your mission!” 54 “This better be on my overtime.” 55 “Let’s put the paint down, okay? I just got this stuff polished!” 56 “Couples therapy? We’re not even together!” 57 “If they don’t shut up soon just shoot me.” 58 “There’s a reason I never take the helmet off around you people.” 59 “This is definitely safe. I promise.” 60 “Touch them and it’s my boot you’ll have up your ass.” 61 “So, I don’t mean to alarm anyone, but I lost the spider.” 62 “You’re planning something aren’t you. You’re never this nice to me!” 63 “War criminals? Please, we’ve done worse than that.” 64 “I’ll miss you, dumbass.” 65 “Here, give me your hands.” 66 “It’s simple, I’ll show you.” 67 “And this is why we all need therapy.” 68 “If this is a dream I’m gonna kill you in the morning.” 69 “Keeping secrets, are we?” 70 “Deep breaths, okay? Look at me.” 71 “What do mean they’re not coming?” 72 “I think I should get the big gun this time.” 73 “Yeah, I had a feeling you didn’t get laid much.” 74 “This is a terrible plan. I’m in.” 75 “Come baaack, I’m cold nowww.”

#corde writes #prompts #prompt list #rvb

[cliffolly]

Just One Day

AO3 Link

Oneshot | 6.4K Words

Taegi | Established Relationship, Mild Smut, Fluff

I wrote this very much with love, hope, and nostalgia in my heart. Though he'll never see this (God, I hope he never sees this), for my lovely husband, without whom I would have never thought of writing again.

Yoongi doesn't dream tonight. He sleeps heavily, anxiety almost forgotten as it sits in the pit of his stomach. In the back of his head, he hears "Don't be late. Don't be late. Don't be late." His eyes snap open at the sounding of his alarm, and so his day begins.

Sometimes, it’s easy for Yoongi to forget that he hasn’t known Taehyung for all his life.

Yoongi always wakes up first. It used to be Taehyung, but after losing his factory job almost 6 months ago, Taehyung hasn’t had to wake up before five in the morning since then, save for when he has to travel far for roofing projects.

At 4:30AM, everything is quiet and still aside from the fan that sits at the foot of their bed. Taehyung left it on again, as well as the LED lights that perimeters the ceiling. The room glows a low yellow, and Yoongi can only stare idly at the ceiling for a few minutes before a pang of nausea ruins the calm of his morning.

It’s been this way for a couple months now. Every morning, a moment of peace before sudden nausea. Seldom does anything actually come up, but yesterday morning, Yoongi had been revisited by dinner from the previous night, so he’d much rather be safe than sorry this morning.

Yoongi reaches out for the boxers he’d thrown to the side last night and pulls them over his legs before wiggling down the length of the bed until his feet hit the cold, tiled floor. He finds his sandals with ease and pulls up his boxers as he stands, shivering a bit from the cold. Swiftly, he reaches out to shut off the fan while grabbing his glasses from the vanity with his other hand. As soon as he can see, he makes his way to the bathroom, out the bedroom, down the short hallway, all the while battling the urge to gag with a shudder that runs through his body.

Yoongi had always been of a soft nature growing up. He couldn’t eat breakfast for the longest because eating that early would make him sick. If it was too cold, he’d gag with little control, not to mention the way his body reacted to any unfavorable smells he had the misfortune of coming across. He’d been nauseous for every first day of school up until high school, and he’d been doing a lot better since then.

Ever since graduating college, however, it’s gotten so much worse, especially in the mornings. Yoongi did a stint of therapy months ago, and his therapist suggested it may be anxiety, but that sounded too expensive, and that terrified him. What if something else was wrong with him, but he couldn’t afford to fix or control it? He hadn’t been to an appointment since then.

Yoongi washes his hands at the sink before looking up and staring at his reflection in the rusty mirror.

It hurts to admit it, but this isn’t the life Yoongi had imagined for himself growing up.

Call him crazy, but Yoongi’s imagined future was always a nice house, a nice car, a nice job. Impeccable bathroom. Free access to his kitchen. Not having to hide his things in fear of people stealing them. Not working from before sun-up to sundown. Not this. Certainly, heartbreakingly, not this.

Yoongi contemplates his choices as he wanders back to his and Taehyung’s bedroom, making sure to find his trashcan before he dares to start getting ready, just in case.

It’s not his fault, and it’s not Taehyung’s either. Yoongi has to remember that to keep his anger from getting the best of him. It’s easy to blame Taehyung; he’s the one who got them this space while Yoongi was still studying away at college. But Yoongi knows it isn’t fair when he knows he was just doing his best.

Yoongi is a recent college physics graduate, and he isn’t without his prospects. There are numerous job opportunities pertaining to his field of study, and he could make good money with it, but Yoongi can’t fight this feeling of fear 𑁋 fear of change, fear of responsibility, fear of adulthood.

Just one year before he starts his big kid job, he had said after graduating. Just one year is all he needs. Eighteen consecutive years of education can break a person, and Yoongi felt he deserved a break, so just one year will do. Six months later, that one year turned into two. No, Yoongi wasn’t putting off going to work-work, at least he didn’t think so. But what if he was, subconsciously?

Yoongi’s gaze falls on Taehyung, still asleep. His overgrown, thick hair sticks out in every direction. He’s got this look of concentration on his face, his mouth slightly open, and his snoring isn’t as loud as it usually is. Yoongi knows he’s mostly naked, wearing one of Yoongi’s boxers, and he’s most likely spread eagle under the thick duvet that he wears up to his chin. He sleeps deeply, beautifully. Bless him.

Taehyung had dropped out of high school when he was sixteen. Abusive father. Violent family. Taehyung needed out. Yoongi knows the story. Yoongi knows the story too well. Taehyung moved out young, had worked odd jobs, manual labor, a dangerous factory job where he almost lost life and limb too many times to count 𑁋 that’s the one Yoongi hated most. He couldn’t stand to be alone. He couldn’t bear the thought of being without Taehyung.

After checking the time, Yoongi is close to running late, so he packs his toothbrush and toothpaste into his backpack and grabs a stick of gum from the shelves of snacks that he and Taehyung had started keeping recently. He shoves the gum in his pocket and slings on his backpack before carefully moving towards Taehyung’s side of the bed, whispering softly, “I’m leaving now.”

That’s all it takes to wake up Taehyung, but just barely. His dark eyes peek out from thick lashes to watch as Yoongi takes a seat at the edge of the bed. His voice is thick with sleep when he mutters in a low, raspy manner, “Already?”

Yoongi leans down to plant a kiss on Taehyung’s lips, two kisses, three, a fourth just for good luck. Taehyung has his arms, heavy, around Yoongi, gently pulling him into his neck and humming softly, his skin warm to the touch and Yoongi wants so desperately to stay like this. Taehyung smells like deodorant, fabric softener, and sleep. It takes Yoongi all the force he can muster to pull himself away from Taehyung’s warm embrace, and he’s only half-aware of the smile that sits on his lips.

“I’m running late.”

Taehyung hums in acknowledgement, lids so low that Yoongi only knows they’re open from the soft reflection of the LED lights. “Be safe.”

“Yeah.” Yoongi is up now, grabbing his keys and water bottle before heading to the door. “I love you.”

“Text me when you get there.”

“I will. Be good.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will. I love you.”

“Drive safely.”

“Uh-huh. Bye, baby.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Bye, baby, go carefully. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Yoongi repeats before he shuts the door.

It’s his favorite part of the morning. As much as he hates leaving, he loves this little ritual. Taehyung is almost deaf in the morning, and he’s much too sleepy to hold an actual conversation, but Yoongi loves the way he sends him off, the way his voice claws its way from Taehyung’s throat. Yoongi longs for his next day off so they can sleep in together, but with the way work has been, it’s only wishful thinking at best.

Yoongi’s in his car and he has a thirty-minute drive ahead of him. If he steps on it, he’ll only be a minute late. As soon as Yoongi gets on the highway, he does just that. And as he drives, he thinks.

These drives, though tedious and life-threatening (people drive stupid before 6AM), are important to Yoongi, in their own way. He thinks of many things during these drives 𑁋 his future, his plans, his life with Taehyung, his past, his beliefs, his desires. Just yesterday, he used the law of the conservation of matter and energy to justify the belief of reincarnation. Taehyung loved that conversation once Yoongi got home.

Today, Yoongi’s head is foggy on the drive to work. He weaves carefully through traffic, much more mindful now than he used to be.

Huh, life’s funny like that. Four years ago, Yoongi would be driving much more recklessly 𑁋 he had a sports car four years ago, so that may be part of the reason. He also didn’t have Taehyung back then.

Yoongi met Taehyung during the winter break of his freshman year of college. Yoongi had been eighteen, working over every school break to help scrape together money for his tuition. He’d caught wind of a manual labor job from a friend, and it paid decently enough; that’s how Yoongi found himself working as part of a clean-up crew for a team of roof repairmen.

At the time, Taehyung was tittering on seventeen, but an experienced roofer. He spent his time on the roofs, ripping apart shingles, hammering down ridges, and installing whirlybirds. Yoongi only knew him in passing as the gross guy who kept spitting on the roofs. The most their interactions ever accumulated to was Taehyung shouting down if Yoongi could throw him a couple of waters.

It wasn’t until a couple months after they had started dating that Taehyung told him the full story while they laid in bed.

“I saw you, and that was it. I was curious, and I asked around, ‘Who is that? What is he doing here?’ They said, ‘Oh, that’s Yoongi, he’s going to be helping out.’”

“Why didn’t you talk to me yourself? I didn’t even know your name.” “No, I was too shy to talk to you myself. Do you know how hard it was for me to ask you to throw me waters? I was too scared to talk to you. I’d always watch you. You were lovely. I still remember seeing you drive away in your little car and I’d think, no, he’s too cool.”

“You thought I was cute? In the shitty sweatpants and hoodies I wore?”

“I thought you were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. I wanted to talk to you, I really did, to ask if you wanted to hang out, if you had a boyfriend, but there was no way you were single, and I didn’t want to bother you. You were there to work, not find a boyfriend. That’s why I always went to Jin’s place, hoping you’d be there. Maybe there I could talk to you.”

In the end, that’s how it happened, but it took a whole year.

Yoongi was visiting from college during Thanksgiving break of his sophomore year and couldn’t head to his brother’s place due to a chemical plant blowing up nearby, so Jin offered his couch to Yoongi for the week. While everyone else sat outside drinking, Yoongi and Hoseok had sat inside, watching movies while they chatted, and Taehyung, who hadn’t seen Yoongi in that whole year, came inside, “pretending” (Taehyung insisted he had, Yoongi knows it was all lies) that he needed to use the restroom only to find it occupied. Taehyung had sat on another couch nearby to wait his turn before asking timid questions to Yoongi, how he was, what he was doing, how school was going, until Taehyung finally asked in that 2019 fashion, “Can I have your snapchat?”

Hoseok, ever the interloper, egged on Yoongi to say yes and watched with big eyes as the two exchanged contact information. Taehyung brought Yoongi and Hoseok drinks afterwards before disappearing outside (without even using the restroom, but whatever).

Taehyung messaged Yoongi almost immediately 𑁋 you’re beautiful.

Yoongi was unbathed, sleepy, and wearing old, mismatched pajamas, but he wasn’t one to deny himself compliments.

They went back and forth for a couple days, even after Yoongi went back to classes. The messages were constant, and Taehyung got into the habit of calling him every night before bed, sometimes sending him pictures in the middle of the day from work, shirtless, usually. They spoke about their beliefs, their days, their wishes for their individual futures.

Despite his own feelings,Yoongi did his best to stave off Taehyung, telling him maybe they should just be friends. After all, Yoongi had just gotten out of a relationship the summer before, and he’d just gotten over it. Aside from that, Yoongi wasn’t sure if he had it in him to balance a relationship on top of his course load and his jobs. Taehyung agreed, but he couldn’t help himself, really. Just as Yoongi was realizing just how serious Taehyung’s feelings for him were, Taehyung was already falling in love with Yoongi; it was no longer a matter of if they dated, but when they would.

Yoongi felt his stomach turn just at the memory of their first date. God, he had been so nervous.

On the first day of winter break, a couple weeks after meeting, Yoongi had only stopped by his brother’s place to shower and change before heading out to see Taehyung, almost losing himself on the way. He still remembered the polo shirt Taehyung wore as he walked out of his front door, silhouetted by the light inside. His hair was gelled back, his face clean-shaven, and his skin wore the most wonderful cologne. Yoongi waited idly inside his car and stepped out at the sight of Taehyung, waving timidly as the younger boy approached him, Taehyung’s smile bold, Yoongi’s nervous. 

It happened so quickly.

They shared a hug and, all these years later, Yoongi still isn’t sure how or why it happened. Maybe it was the pent up frustration. Maybe it was from all the sweet messages exchanged. Maybe it was Taehyung remembering the almost teasing messages Yoongi had sent after agreeing to meet up that day, that he just might kiss Taehyung when they saw each other, but he wasn’t sure yet.

Regardless, they shared a kiss, innocent at first, before Taehyung managed to back Yoongi against his car. Never, in his life, had Yoongi received such a ravenous kiss, and never had he enjoyed such a thing. Taehyung kissed passionately, a hand on Yoongi's nape and another on his bum. Yoongi could only weave his fingers into Taehyung’s hair, rest another hand at the small of his back, feeling something hot in the pits of his stomach as Taehyung bit his lower lip.

Yoongi blinked languidly, finding himself at a red light. He hadn’t realized he was this close to his job already.

He needed to stop daydreaming while driving.

Yoongi pulls into the parking lot of his job at six on the dot. He gets the shop open and set up within ten minutes, and manages to brush his teeth before the first customer arrives.

The work is easy, and the customers are pleasant enough. Yoongi doesn’t mind making coffees, and the food prep is easy in the sense that he finds a certain peace when he chops fruit, decorates shakes.

Though Yoongi enjoys the job, he can’t help but feel a bit of guilt. Business is slow, and he spends most of his free time writing music when he isn’t tending to the shop. His uncle says he trusts Yoongi, that he doesn’t even check the cameras ever since Yoongi started helping his uncle run his secondary shop. Yoongi likes the job, knows most of the customers by name and greets them so, but, as of late, he feels worry coming in. There’s only one other employee here, and they’re as dependable as a skittish dog. Yoongi carries the brunt of the responsibilities, managing employees (when they had more than one), conducting interviews (so many off-putting people Yoongi never wanted to meet again), and still running the shop on his own. He gets paid for it well, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the job weighing on him.

“We can always shut down that location,” his uncle offered a couple days ago when Yoongi had visited him at the primary shop. “If you like, you can just come work with me here. We’ll have fun like in the old days.”

Yoongi’s heart hurts. Shutting down, to him, is akin to quitting, and he feels to blame if his uncle’s shop doesn’t perform well. He can’t help the feeling that he might miss working here, seeing the same customers, meeting their friends, learning about their lives. But he also misses the sense of peace he had lost somewhere along the way.

“We can close weekends, but we should definitely close earlier, at least until the summer.” Yoongi’s uncle was too kind. “You need some days off. I’ll keep trying to find new employees before you leave for your job, should you still want to do that.”

Yoongi orders lunch to arrive around eleven; it’s the routine he’s settled into. Lunch at eleven, snack at three, clean and restock at four, mop at five, shut down at six sharp to head home. Closing earlier now, Yoongi will need to adjust his routine, and it makes his stomach turn.

There are intermittent spam calls throughout the day, sparse customers as the morning rush passes. Yoongi sits for lunch at eleven-fifteen, pulling out his laptop to watch trash reality TV shows while he eats, but as soon as he’s done, he exits the show. It doesn’t really hold his attention anymore.

It’s something Yoongi has noticed since junior year of college. Something in him isn’t okay. The things he used to enjoy, reading, writing, watching shitty people on shitty shows, doesn’t make him happy like it used to. He’d begun to feel ‘low,’ as his old therapist said. Often, especially alone at the shop, Yoongi finds himself in waves of sadness and complacency.

He had originally thought that the stress of college had induced this inside of him. Endless assignments, three jobs, a demanding degree 𑁋 he had felt so trapped to the point that, as much Yoongi hated to admit it, he had considered simply ending it all.

He remembers when he confessed to Taehyung, through tears, in a phone call, that sometimes Yoongi felt that he wanted to die. It was a desperate feeling that had been weighing on him for semesters, and Yoongi felt embarrassed to admit that having three late assignments honestly made him wish he wasn’t alive anymore. He expected Taehyung to wave it away; Yoongi wasn’t sure why, he knew Taehyung wasn’t like that. He remembers how Taehyung cried on his side of the call, apologized, told Yoongi he loved him, and then made the five-hour drive to Yoongi’s college apartment to spend the night with him, despite the fact that they both had work the next morning. Instead, they both stayed in and spent the day together.

It wasn’t the first time Yoongi called Taehyung in hysterics, and it wasn’t the last time that Taehyung dropped everything to support Yoongi in his times of great need. Then, and even now, Taehyung had been one of the only escapes for Yoongi, and it had been one of the first arguments they had after they started dating.

Taehyung insisted that he wanted to be everything for Yoongi, his joy, his motivation, his best friend, but Yoongi was too familiar with the signs of domestic abuse, and he knew he needed a life apart from Taehyung. He knew he couldn’t depend on Taehyung as his only source of happiness, and doing so would be unfair to Taehyung, but the younger boy didn’t seem to care. He said it was what he was here for.

Yoongi, too afraid to end up in his parents’ position, spent the first year of his relationship with Taehyung running away from him. He would run from arguments, ignore problems, and the distance between them while Yoongi was in college had been damaging to their relationship. Yoongi felt that the distance brought the worst out of them: jealousy, possessiveness, mistrust. Together, they were perfect, but any time spent with each other loomed under the knowledge that Yoongi would need to leave again. Yoongi longed for the day that wouldn’t be the case.

Taehyung had held Yoongi close in his arms, still warm and sweaty after sex, when he asked bravely, “Will you marry me?”

Yoongi laughed. It had only been three months since they started dating 𑁋 the question felt silly. “No.”

“You’re so mean.”

“Ask me again later.”

So, a month later, Taehyung did and, again, Yoongi said no.

Nine months after they started dating, Taehyung asked again, and, this time, Yoongi thought before responding.

“Not yet. Maybe later.”

A year later, it was Yoongi who asked, “When are we going to get married?”

Taehyung was incredulous. “We’re not getting married!”

“Why not?”

“You told me ‘no,’ remember?”

Yoongi did remember. “But I think I’m ready to seriously consider it now. So, when are we getting married?”

It happened in the span of two weeks.

It was just a couple months ago, Spring Break of Yoongi’s final spring semester in college before graduation. They decided suddenly. Yoongi found a judge willing to do it a couple days after they went to the city hall to pick up a marriage license. After going back to school for the week, Yoongi left early on Friday morning for the five-hour drive home. He picked up Taehyung before they left for a thrift store, picking out the nicest clothes they could find. The next day, they dressed giddily before noon, hurriedly, because they were running late. Yoongi had nagged Taehyung playfully not to forget their marriage license before leaving. Taehyung had made fun of Yoongi’s too-big shoes on the drive to the city hall. They had rushed through security, almost lost their way to the courtroom where an elderly man waved them down.

It was only Yoongi, Taehyung, the judge, and the elderly man in the courtroom. Taehyung and Yoongi stood in front of the judge, facing each other, holding hands. They tried to act cool, but they were both fighting tears. They knew they were tears of joy 𑁋 so happy to be here, so excited to be doing this 𑁋 but also of heartbreak. No mothers, no fathers, no friends there to witness the wedding. It was as joyful as it was painful, and it still hurt Yoongi when he thought back on the memory, but there were good moments, too.

Yoongi still laughs at the memory of Taehyung, stoic-faced and watery-eyed, saying with a crack in his voice, “I do.”

He remembers the sear in his own throat when tears spilled over onto his cheeks. “I do.”

When they kissed, he clung onto Taehyung, weak-kneed and tearful.

Oh, the embarrassment when the elderly man asked for Yoongi’s phone to take a picture of them!

They looked back at the photo only an hour later when they celebrated with a small dinner for two at a steakhouse, laughing at the sight of themselves. Yoongi, dressed in ill-fitting clothes, smiling through his red, puffy face, and Taehyung, glassy-eyed with an expression that read as though he had rather have been anywhere else in the world, holding up their marriage license like small children showing off an award.

Yoongi cried again, but from laughter, “Why do you look so mad?”

Taehyung doubled over in their booth, cackling, “I thought I was smiling!”

It’s a memory Yoongi cherishes almost ten months later, and he fears the day he may forget it.

Yoongi swipes to the next picture on his phone idly, fighting through tears and wiping needlessly at his nose. He doesn’t know why he does this to himself. He knows he’ll cry about it if he thinks about it too long, it’s always been that way, he should know better by now than to think of such things at work.

It’s four hours until closing, and Yoongi puts away his phone to open his laptop, the last customer having come in more than an hour ago.

He moves to open a music program and inserts an earbud as he works, starting new compositions, opening compositions he had started and never finished. As time crawls on, he resigns from the attempt an hour later, deciding maybe today simply isn’t a day for composing.

As Yoongi continues his routine, he finds himself thinking of his life again, and he can’t help but feel a bitterness at recognizing where he is.

At twenty-three, Yoongi had hoped he would have much more. He wanted his own home. He wanted a different job. His values then had been more materialistic, surely, and Yoongi could recognize that the things he wanted and needed were different, but he felt a disappointment in his current place.

Yoongi and Taehyung had no place of their own 𑁋 renting from friends was just the next best thing they could afford right now. Yoongi, who loved cooking and baking, had only been eating takeout food, and the weight was starting to show. Taehyung had gotten injured at a job a couple weeks ago and the infection on his leg still hadn’t cleared up entirely. The majority of Yoongi’s belongings that he’d brought from college were still in boxes, and that was just the remainder of what their old roommate hadn’t nicked from him. Yoongi, much to his own frustration, had learned these past few months that, as much as he loved Taehyung, Yoongi needed his own space, and he now lived every day with great hopes of an office of his own to work and create in.

Yoongi felt that so much of his desires were out of reach. Maybe he was selfish, wanting so much from life, expecting to live beyond his current means. Yoongi feels angry, frustrated, and he hates that Taehyung, too empathetic for his own good, knows.

A couple of months back, after their marriage, after Yoongi’s graduation, after a fight in which Yoongi had opened up about his frustrations, Taehyung held Yoongi close, as he often did after their fights, and he apologized to Yoongi. “I’m sorry for putting you in this situation.”

Yoongi was confused, mouth agape as he laid on Taehyung’s chest, cheeks streaked with tears. “What do you mean? This isn’t your fault, this is just how things are.”

“It is my fault,” Taehyung stated. “I shouldn’t have asked you to marry me if I wasn’t ready to offer you the lifestyle that should come with a married life. I don’t have a secure job. I don’t have any kind of degree. I can’t provide the way you can. I’m sorry to burden you with the financial responsibilities of our relationship. I should try harder.”

Yoongi couldn’t speak.

“I don’t want you to think that I’m not mad, too. You think I want to keep you here? I know you’re not happy. I know you miss doing things on your own and having your own space. I’m tired of living with other people, too.”

They were both quiet for the longest time. Yoongi wanted to apologize, but he knew that Taehyung would only tell him there was no need, he wasn’t at fault.

Since then, Yoongi had started to take to a new motto: it’s only temporary.

Taehyung laughed at first, but Yoongi’s new mantra worked wonders for him.

Pissed on toilet seat? It’s only temporary.

Noisy roommates? It’s only temporary.

Shitty customer? It’s only temporary.

Though it worked most of the time, Yoongi’s motto could only do so much.

For Yoongi’s twenty-first birthday, Taehyung, underaged, somehow managed to buy Yoongi an expensive bottle of liquor. Yoongi wasn’t really one for drinking hard liquor, but he was overly sentimental. For two years, Yoongi treasured the bottle, kept it safe in its box along with the sticky note Taehyung left for Yoongi:

Happy birthday, Yoongi.

I love you, always.

After moving in together, Taehyung was no stranger to taking a couple shots every now and then, and Yoongi didn’t mind it; if he was going to have anyone else drink from it, it would be Taehyung.

Taehyung had texted Yoongi one evening while he was at work, asking if Yoongi had moved his bottle of liquor.

Yoongi

No, I didn’t move it. I left it in the storage room in my box of textbooks.

Taehyung

It’s not there anymore.

Yoongi

Did you move it the last time you drank from it?

Taehyung

I know what happened.

Their roommate had always had a habit of taking what wasn’t his.

The part that pissed Yoongi off the most, to this day, was that that man had to open the box, stare at the sticky note that Yoongi had stuck on the inside of the lid, and then pull out the bottle to drink. Yoongi couldn’t give a fuck if all the liquor was gone, he didn’t even care if the box and bottle were gone, but to know that the sticky note Taehyung had written for him, for his twenty-first birthday, was forever gone and that he would never get it back absolutely tore Yoongi’s heart into a million pieces.

Though Yoongi couldn’t control other people’s actions, he did his best to control his own emotions.

It’s only temporary.

Six o’clock comes and goes, and Yoongi is locking up shop, bundled up with his backpack slung over his shoulder. His feet hurt. His back hurts. His head is hurting something awful, and the only thing Yoongi wants is to go home and lay down with Taehyung, assuming he’s come back from work already.

The drive back home is faster than coming to work, and Yoongi debates whether he should pick up food on his way home. He shoots Taehyung a text, only to receive nothing in return, and he decides on picking up fried chicken for tonight.

The sky is dark by the time Yoongi gets home, lugged down by bags. He opens the door with a great balancing act, not wanting to bother Taehyung in case he’s asleep or showering 𑁋 his car is out front, but who knows how long he’s been home.

Yoongi enters the house, hearing soft music coming from the right side of the house, where their bedroom resides. There’s light peeking from their bedroom door, and Yoongi decides to try to open the door without unlocking it.

Inside, he finds Taehyung sitting on the edge of their bed, hair still wet from his shower, as he changes the towel off their Swiffer. There’s two new baskets of freshly washed clothes, the bed is perfectly made, and Yoongi’s heart sings, knowing that they make the perfect team.

Taehyung looks up with his big brown eyes, and Yoongi can’t help the smile that paints itself on his lips.

“Welcome home,” Taehyung says, abandoning the Swiffer to help Yoongi with his bags.

Yoongi forces himself not to ask Taehyung about ignoring his texts just yet; he’s been getting better at that. “Hi, baby.”

Taehyung drops Yoongi’s bags at the foot of the bed and turns to pull Yoongi into a hug, wrapping an arm around Yoongi’s lower back. “Hi,” and then a little peck (Yoongi forgets about the texts), two (he feels tension release from the middle of his back), three (Yoongi’s headache subsides just a bit), a fourth for good luck, “do you want to lie down for a bit?” (He loves this man so much).

Yoongi stinks in comparison to Taehyung, but his feet are screaming and the warmth of Taehyung’s body is calling his name. “Only for a little bit.”

Yoongi kicks off his shoes while Taehyung builds a little nest of pillows, just the way Yoongi likes, and a great wave of relief comes over Yoongi as he crawls into bed next to Taehyung. He’s been wanting to do this so badly all day, he could cry 𑁋 and he does.

Taehyung is quick in kissing Yoongi’s cheeks, stroking his hair, asking in a soft voice, “What’s wrong, love?” He wipes away the few tears left, pulling him closer after.

Yoongi can only shake his head and take in a deep breath, lightly tightening Taehyung in his embrace. “I don’t know, I’m just tired I guess. I missed you a lot today.”

“Did you have a good day?” His voice is soft, so forgiving. How could Yoongi ever blame him for anything?

“It was okay, but how was yours?”

“Tiring. We worked almost an hour away today, and my leg swelled up more.”

“I’m sorry, baby.”

Taehyung laughs. “It’s better now, don’t worry about it.”

Yoongi sighs, closes his eyes as he presses his face to Taehyung’s chest. It’s his favorite place to be, and Taehyung laughs warmly at the soft kisses Yoongi peppers on his ochre skin.

“What did you bring to eat?”

Yoongi sits up, but Taehyung pulls him back down. “Fried chicken,” Yoongi responds, burying himself in Taehyung’s neck.

“Do you want to eat or shower first?”

Yoongi chuckles. “No, a secret third thing,” he responds, reaching a hand down to cup Taehyung’s soft dick through his sweatpants.

Taehyung laughs, pushing him away playfully. “Oh, no, you’re horrible! Here I am dying of hunger, and you do this to me. I can’t wear sweatpants comfortably in this house anymore.”

Yoongi can’t help but laugh as he sits up on his knees, looking down at Taehyung.

He’s shirtless, always, and his face is only slightly sunburnt 𑁋 Taehyung looks just the way he did the day they met nearly four years ago.

The pit of Yoongi’s stomach burns a bit, and his eyes flash to the soft expanse of belly just above Taehyung’s hips.

“Don’t be so stingy,” Yoongi says, reaching down to pull away the band of Taehyung’s sweatpants and underwear in one go. He crouches down, glancing up at Taehyung briefly before he smirks to himself. “Just a little kiss.”

Taehyung lets Yoongi do as he pleases, watching with hungry eyes as Yoongi delicately takes Taehyung’s softened cock into his mouth. Yoongi tightens his lips lightly around it, pulling away slowly as he drags his tongue across the underside, relishing in the soft hum that Taehyung emits.

Yoongi pulls away, bringing back up the band of his husband’s sweatpants and underwear, and taps the slowly growing bulge as a farewell. “Okay, let’s eat.”

Taehyung groans, throwing an arm over his eyes because he is nothing if not dramatic. “No, you can’t do that to me.”

Yoongi laughs, sitting back on his heels. He watches Taehyung sigh and pull his dick from his sweats and boxers, almost mesmerized by how quickly it’s hardened. It’s almost like a hunger that he feels, taking in how Taehyung’s cock has deepened in color, a dark, beautiful purple-brown that makes Yoongi lick his lips. It’s torture, watching Taehyung wrap a hand around it and look almost pleading up at Yoongi.

“Just a kiss,” Taehyung says, and Yoongi has to laugh at hearing his words repeated to him.

“No,” he says, though he isn’t sure if he’s speaking moreso to himself or to his husband.

“Come on.” He pulls back more of the foreskin, and the head of Taehyung’s cock glistens. “Just a little one.”

Yoongi shakes his head, laughing.

“I won’t touch your head while you do it!” Taehyung puts his hands in the air.

He can’t say no to him, can he?

Yoongi crouches down again, smiling all the while, and takes Taehyung’s cock deeply into his mouth, relishing the velvety feel, running his tongue across the bottom. He gets satisfaction from the groan that leaves Taehyung’s lips, and Yoongi would be lying if he said it didn’t make him horny as well.

Yoongi pulls away, but, feeling generous, dips back down, letting the tip of Taehyung’s cock hit the back of his throat. He tightens his right hand into a fist, trying his best not to gag, and bobbing his head slowly once, twice, thrice, a fourth time for good luck before pulling away completely.

Taehyung’s voice is low, almost growling, when he says, “Fuck.”

Yoongi wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before sitting back on his heels. “Let’s eat.”

He smiles at the sound of Taehyung’s groaning, loving that he’s left him wanting more.

They eat beautifully, until their bellies are full and Taehyung does that sigh he only does when he’s full and can’t fit any more food inside his mouth. Yoongi showers later, and they lay in bed together, watching some movie they won’t think about ever again. Taehyung asks Yoongi to suck his dick, but Yoongi says no, not when he’s eaten recently, and Taehyung only smiles as he pulls Yoongi closer to his chest, kissing his forehead sweetly.

“Have they told you?” Yoongi asks, peering up at his husband.

Taehyung looks down through his thick eyelashes, knowingly, and rubs a hand up and down Yoongi’s arm, smiling all the while. “Told me what?”

Yoongi hums softly, letting his eyes close with the gentle pull of sleep after a long day. “That I love you.”

“No, they haven’t.” Taehyung answers, “But I love you, too.”

Warmth blooms in Yoongi’s chest, and he knows he’s safe here. He knows he’s loved here. The rest doesn’t matter, not his fears, his anger, his anxiety, their home, their money, their jobs 𑁋 nothing else matters when he can come home to Taehyung.

Yoongi knows he isn’t perfect, and he knows that the ideas of love that he held growing up aren’t correct or healthy, but ever since meeting Taehyung, ever since falling in love with him, he’s felt himself change for the better, the same way that Taehyung has. He knows that there may be a long time before they’re where they want to be in life. They want a ranch, a car, a truck, a ranch, four children, a big kitchen, horses because that’s Taehyung’s dream, a little pond of ducks for Yoongi, and two dogs (a shih-tzu and a doberman). It’s not the life teenage Yoongi had envisioned, but, because of Taehyung, Yoongi has so much more love to give than he had anticipated in his bitter youth.

“You’re falling asleep?” Taehyung asks.

“I think so.”

Yoongi feels the blanket be pulled up higher, feels Taehyung’s skin grow warmer. How many nights did he fall asleep on video calls with Taehyung while he was in college, wishing only to be here?

“Goodnight, my love.”

Far too many, Yoongi thinks.

“Goodnight, baby.”

I love you more than I did yesterday.

#Taegi #bts ff #kim taehyung fanfic #min yoongi fanfic #taegi fanfic

[swampgallows]

i read a different article on that harpers site (or at least attempted to) called “permanent pandemic”, about the prolific use of surveillance apps during covid, but became so infuriated with it that i gave up and closed it. (i did go back and read the rest; the “biopolitical” mention of “all lives matter” is especially repugnant.) i imagine it’s really easy to write an article like that when you’re not the one at risk. he even admits to it too, that his “social class” is one who can afford to work from home. by the twentieth time i saw the phrase “covid regime” i couldnt take it anymore and decided i dont give a shit about that fella’s opinion. yeah i understand the overreaching of technology being used to monitor us; like hell i was going to keep my fucking bluetooth on all the time to alert me about being in proximity to someone who tested for covid. but at the same time i dont respect the construction of some strawman “covid maximalist” who pardons themselves for ordering ubereats but denounces the “red state family” as he put it for going to chili’s. i agree with the wariness of entering a new stage of security theatre that claims to be for protection against covid much like the tsa set a new standard for acceptable security protocols post 9/11, but something about the way he wrote it rubs me more along the lines of caterwauling about “political correctness run amok” because of the “explosion of telework” that the author seems to think is some kind of panopticon conspiracy to invite big brother into our homes (he is already here) and eliminate the delineation between private and public (internet integration has already vastly eroded this before covid) rather than the boon that it is for making these amenities accessible.

i get it. im fucking tired too. im way more fucking tired than any of these motherfuckers because i don’t get a choice. my immunocompromised friends don’t get a choice. at least, the gravity of our choice is much more severe than the author who pats himself on the back for soldiering through his mild covid and getting his pcr tests like a good good boy; ours is not a choice of convenience or charity but of our own mortality. ours is a choice of life and death. and unfortunately i doubt i will ever be able to budge from this opinion of others mourning their convenience in lieu of us mourning our lives.

do you think im not tired of this? do you think im not sick of having to check the numbers every week, sometimes every day, to see if the proverbial viral hurricane is raging outside? do you think im not sick of having had to put off my life for months—years—because other people are “tired” of wearing masks? do you think im not tired of hearing that masking is a “preference”, the way i might prefer not to join everyone else pissing in the public pool, or the way i might choose not to smoke in an airplane? and the few times i toe out and test the waters of my comfort when the covid forecast is light, do you think im not tired of being incapacitated by anxiety for the following week, hoping no symptoms arise? analyzing every moment someone got too close to me, or someone pulled down their mask to cough (!), or someone hovered maskless in the doorway? do you think im not tearing my hair out over trying to find the line between paranoia and vigilance, suffering the incongruence of rising case numbers with reduced preventative measures—”rule vertigo”, the author called it—unable to assess what the actual risk is because nobody cares anymore? 

i cannot afford not to care anymore. yes, technology is encroaching on our personal freedoms, but if this author actually spoke to any of the vulnerable people those of his “social class” claim to be protecting, he would’ve known that a long fucking time ago. insulin pumps that require an internet connection, mobility aids and devices and medical implants that you only rent via a subscription model, the majority of in-patient facilities and group homes are all preexisting examples. he just means “normal people”. “real people”, like him, whose convenience he prioritizes over the old muslim woman he gave an equally milquetoast cowardly excuse to not assist. for him, it is a matter of convenience; he didn’t feel like it. for her, it is a matter of life and death. but thank god his devices didn’t tell on him and dole out their own foucauldian discipline and punish; he felt the need to tell us himself in his pithy article tikky-takked onto a laptop from a bench in france. boo fucking hoo

#blathering #covid /