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divine-mistake · 3 years

Text

bitter fruit

Summary: “The mission was already a success!” you say and you can feel tears burning the back of your eyes. You will yourself to blink them back. “You had the files, the base was set to detonate, I don’t understand why you didn’t just stay on the fucking jet.”

“Because you were going to die.”

Characters: Bucky Barnes/(f)Reader

Warnings: 18+ smut (oral fem receiving, Bucky is a slut for consent), language, graphic depictions of violence, blood

Word Count: 9338

A/N: This is a tumblr request for @buckybarnes101 who requested an enemies to lovers with eventual smut and I got so so carried away with this request and ended up writing this 9k chonker! (5k of it is smut so, carry on) HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY! Enjoy!!

main masterlist | AO3

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you snap, “maybe about saving all the innocent people that’ve been trapped in HYDRA’s basement for god knows how long?”

Bucky snarls at you, grabbing the front of your tac-suit and pulling you up until your nose is inches from his. A striking pain shoots through your side like a bullet, which is funny, considering the hole he stitched up for you what seemed like seconds ago.

But just like your relationship, numb one second and blazing the next, it’s like some switch has flipped in his brain in a matter of minutes.

You should really give him some more credit—the man describes his brain as spaghetti most days. And as funny as it sounds, it really isn’t. You’re keenly aware of the haunted look that fills his eyes when he struggles with his past.

Except when he acts like this, it’s hard to remember that.

Something smells of smoke and gunpowder. People are screaming. The men who just ran through the door are shouting in Russian, you know, because you’ve heard the same language from Bucky’s mouth when he’s having nightmares. Faintly, you realize there’s a pain just above your hip. You don’t have time to look. The gun is in your hands and you’re firing. Someone—innocent, crying—bumps into you as they flee the scene. Your shot goes wide.

Bucky’s voice crackles over the comms. “Where are you?” He sounds panicked.

“Got held up,” you respond. “I’m on my way. Civilians headed to you.”

He curses your name. “I told you to get back to the jet!”

The butt of an assault rifle is hurtling toward you and you duck, rolling across the dirty concrete. The pain in your side flares up, burning. You think you might’ve gotten shot. You return the favor, killing two more HYDRA agents.

“I took a detour.”

A moment to breathe. Your eyes roam over the cells that you uncovered in the base, checking for any signs of life you previously missed. It’s all dead bodies and blood. You’re starting to feel weak.

“Get back to the fucking jet, agent! The base is rigged to blow!”

Before you can reply, someone grabs you by the hair, the muzzle of a gun pressed into your neck. On reflex and instinct alone, you thrust your elbow into his side and disarm him just in time. The gun goes off, bullet lodging in the concrete. Fucking slug would’ve ripped right through you.

“Bit busy,” you reply to Bucky.

Your name is lost to the sound of you firing the last few rounds into your attacker. When you’re sure he’s dead, you slump to the wet floor, knees unable to hold you any longer. The pain in your side is killing you—probably literally. A gasp escapes you when you press your fingers to the wound, trying to staunch the blood from the bullet hole, but at this point, you guess it doesn’t matter. The base is going to go up in flames in a few more minutes and you don’t have the strength to get back to the quinjet.

And really, you don’t want to. Bucky’s gonna be pissed.

“Hey, Barnes,” you wheeze through the comms. He doesn’t reply. “You know how you got all pissy at Sam when he ate your last loaf of that banana bread, and you put all those laxatives in his brownies and he was shitting for like, days? Yeah, that was me. I ate your banana bread.”

He never replies, but you chuckle all the way until you fall asleep, cheek pressed into a pool of someone’s blood.

He says your name now, catching your attention again, and when you roll your eyes at him he shakes you again. With a hiss of pain, you try and shove him away from you, but his dumb super soldier ass is too heavy.

“That hurts!”

“Good!” Bucky finally lets you go and you slump against your seat, wincing. “Maybe the pain will make you stop being so fucking reckless! You defied a direct order from your captain. You could have died.”

“Maybe I should have,” you mutter back, not looking at him.

“I should be so lucky,” he seethes. “If I hadn’t gone back for your dumbass, your body wouldn’t have even been recovered. You would have rotted in that damn HYDRA base. Is that what you want?”

You snort. “Ain’t like I got a family who wants my ashes.”

Bucky throws up his hands, exasperated, and then decides to pace up and down the aisle of the jet. He doesn’t look at you, and you only sneak glances at the rage painting his face when you’re sure he isn’t going to see you staring. He looks just as worn as you, the sole sleeve of his tac-suit bloody and ripped up, charred remains and soot skimming his boots where he’s tied the laces tight. Sweat-matted and probably dried with blood, his hair is falling in chunks from the bun he usually keeps it in for missions now, and he has to brush it out of his face every few paces he takes.

In another phrase, Bucky is fucking hot right now.

Maybe death would have been tragic, you muse, since you wouldn’t get to see the absolute specimen of your partner anymore.

For as much as you two hate each other, you can’t deny how gorgeous he is. Ripped to match the gods, carefully trimmed beard only a little more bristled than the one Steve sports these days, and god, the man wears a sweater like it’s Armani.

When you blink, you realize he’s looking at you, and your face flushes. It isn’t the first time he’s caught you staring at him hungrily, you’re sure, but most of the time he gets this stupid smug look on his face, lips wide in a smirk, and sometimes he’ll even throw you a flirty little line that has you gnashing your teeth and snapping at him to fuck off.

But this time, he’s so angry that he just stares at you, eyes narrowed in a glare.

“When we get back,” he says, nostrils flaring, “I’m benching you.”

“What?” you cry out, eyes wide. “Why the fuck—who the—who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Your captain!” he roars, and you almost swear the whole jet shakes with his fury. “You disobeyed my direct order to retreat to the jet and instead you almost cost us both our lives. Why the fuck shouldn’t I bench you?”

“I didn’t ask you to come save me!” you shout back, trying to stand from your seat. Almost immediately, Bucky shoves you back down.

“Not only am I your captain for this mission, but I’m your partner. I’m responsible for you. What, you just expect me to leave you behind?”

“The mission was already a success!” you say and you can feel tears burning the back of your eyes. You will yourself to blink them back. “You had the files, the base was set to detonate, I don’t understand why you didn’t just stay on the fucking jet.”

“Because you were going to die.”

The way that Bucky is looking at you right now steals all your breath away, steals all the fight you feel in your bones. You watch the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way the vein in his neck jumps, the way he holds his jaw tight. His eyes, a blaze of blue, are looking at you like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve right in front of him, leaving behind a body bag of skin and bones and teeth. That’s all you are, maybe.

“Stay with me,” he says, voice so close to your ear. “Please, just stay with me, doll.”

It’s all hazy. The world is black. You can’t open your eyes, they’re so heavy. Your body hurts so bad, so fucking bad. Someone is jostling you and it hurts so bad and you just want to open your mouth and scream.

“You’re okay.” It’s Bucky, you realize in some vague fog of a dream. “You’re going to be okay, I’ve got you.”

Your leg feels like it’s on fire. The air smells like the fourth of July, all fire and gunpowder and barbeque. Burnt flesh. It’s hot and thick, the smoke you’re breathing in.

“I have so much to tell you,” he whispers, maybe. Or maybe that’s just how it sounds in your mind. “So much to say to you. So much to apologize for. I need to tell you something. You told me about that dumb fucking banana bread. I have something I gotta tell you, doll.”

What? What does he have to tell you? You want to ask but your throat is so dry and your lips are glued together.

You want to tell him you aren’t dying, and god, he’s being so dramatic. But you can’t, because you might actually be dying.

Instead, you try so so so hard to open your eyes, and a sliver of light invades your vision, and even with the way your eyelids shudder, you can see Bucky’s face. Just a little bit. He’s covered in blood, you think.

Oh, but his eyes. Fuck, you love his eyes. Thank god you opened yours so you could stare at his eyes before you go to sleep again. So blue. So deep. So icy and sad and hurt and beautiful.

“Please,” he says, and you swear it’s the only time he’s ever begged you for anything.

Of course, you tell yourself before your eyes close again. I’d do anything for you.

“Why do you care?” you whisper, and he blanches, because you swear his damned super soldier hearing can even hear your thoughts.

But fuck it, you’re young, wild, and free, and you’re alive now too, so fuck it.

“Why do you care?” you repeat, louder this time, very clearly addressing him. “Why do you care so much if I die? You’ve hated me since the day you met me,” you spit the words out like poison.

Bucky turns away, gaze trained on something other than you and your bloodied tac-suit.

“We’ve always fought about this,” you continue. “This isn’t anything new, Barnes. You knew I’d go down to save those people. You knew I’d risk my life to get them out. You know this and you still fucking went after me. So why?”

The silence eats at every edge you have until it consumes you, and Bucky never replies.

You watch him walk away, toward the cockpit, and you don’t have the energy to follow him and finish the fight.

“Get it through your pretty little head before you go on a mission and get yourself killed, doll.” Bucky’s smirk sends a shiver through you and you aren’t sure if it's anger or arousal. You bite down on your tongue to keep from lashing out. “You can’t save everyone.”

“Bullshit,” you say before you realize. Bucky’s eyes go wide. “I took this job because I have the ability to save people, so I’m going to save everyone.”

His mouth opens but you cut him off.

“I don’t care if you can’t save everyone, but me?” Your finger is braced against his hard chest and he doesn’t recoil. “I’ll save everyone or I’ll die trying.”

“Hey,” Steve says, trying to move between you two, but you barely notice his presence.

“You’re stupid,” Bucky hisses.

You smirk. “You’re not as skilled as you think you are.”

“Shut up,” he snarls.

“Make me,” you snap back.

“Guys,” Steve tries to interrupt.

“Meet me in the ring.” Bucky’s eyes are glaring down at you, heated. “Let’s see if you can handle me, doll.”

“Buck!” Steve’s hand falls on Bucky’s shoulder, working to hold him back from stalking off to the gym. But Bucky shrugs him off.

“Back off, Steve.” He looks over his shoulder at you as if daring you to follow.

And, fuck, you’ve never backed down from a challenge in your entire life, so you follow him all the way to the training room, watching the way his muscles strain through his tight t-shirt the whole way.

He’s kind enough to hold the ropes up so you can duck under easier, but you roll your eyes and leverage your foot against the spring and tuck your legs underneath you to jump the top rope easily. You throw him the same look that he did, a coy gaze over your shoulder, and then you beckon him forward.

His nostrils flare and you wonder what he’d look like on top of you in bed.

“Wrap your hands, for god’s sake,” Steve shouts, but you ignore him in favor of cracking your knuckles for good measure.

“I’m not planning on getting mine bloody,” you tell him, and Bucky laughs brusk.

“You should plan on losing,” he says, smirking.

With a twist of your jaw, you crack your neck. “Not planning on that, either.”

Like big cats, the two of you circle each other, toes so light the mat makes no noise. Bucky’s eyes are focused, narrowed, and beautiful like this, you think. He’s calculating every single movement you’re making and it sends a heat down to your core. This is all just foreplay to you.

Until he charges, and then it’s on. You’re a flurry of limbs, defensive stances and blocks. Bucky is unrelenting and the fucker is fast for his size. He never uses his metal arm to attack, but the manic whirr and click of it as he moves is alarming. There’s a window of opportunity when Bucky overshoots a right hook and you duck underneath his arm, and you’re able to get behind him and kick him the back of his knee. He falters for not even a second and then it’s back on.

It’s a dance, weaving between limbs and twirling kicks aimed at his head. You struggle to figure out how to take him down—he’s so big, like a fucking brick wall. There’s very little chance you can flip him. You’re going to have to try and get him in a hold, but there’s no way he’s going to allow you to do that.

But maybe you can bait him. You go on the attack now, whiffing a couple of good punches and sending a straight kick right at his jaw that he barely dodges. While you’re recovering, before your foot is even planted back on the mat, Bucky does exactly what you want him to do. He slides up with a fist and you feign a misstep, ducking right. His follow-through is too heavy and you grab his wrist, locking it in your grasp, and then your heel goes straight into his abdomen, right under his center of gravity.

He goes down and you relish in the moment his eyes blow wide with the shock of being caught off guard. You scramble on top of him but he rocks his hips up and starts to roll you both until you’re underneath him. In retaliation, you lock one foot around his calf and use your other knee to jab his stomach, and then you roll him underneath you instead. Your forearm presses against his neck, legs squeezing his middle.

God, he’s fucking pretty, his blue eyes all big and pants falling out of his pink lips. Sweat is dripping from his hairline and rolling off the bridge of his nose and it pleases you, the fact that you made Bucky Barnes bust his ass in a fight. You know you have to look like a drowned dog by now, so how the fuck is he still so pretty? For that, you press down on his throat harder until he taps the mat—a yield.

Immediately you’re off him, panting as you lean against the ropes, but a shit-eating grin is plastered on your face. Bucky looks anywhere but you, wiping his damp face on his shirt, which gives you the most perfect flash of his carved abs.

“So,” you say, breaking the silence, “we can agree to disagree, right?”

He stares at you for a hard moment, a longer moment than he has before, and you swallow as desire crawls up your spine. Then, Bucky ducks under the ropes, grabs his towel, and gets the hell out of dodge.

“Fuck you too, Barnes!” you shout, and you know he must’ve heard you.

He helps you walk off the quinjet and you hate literally every second of every moment that you have to have his arm wrapped around your waist. Mostly because you’re pissed at him and you hate being babied, but also because god, you can imagine Bucky holding you like this in a different context way better than you should be able to.

Those thoughts are the demons in your brain and you need someone to exorcise you. Probably Natasha. No, Natasha will make fun of you. Wanda, then.

As soon as you’re out of the hangar, Bucky asks FRIDAY if there’s anyone in the medbay, and your neck about snaps in half from how fast you turn.

“No,” you say. “Absolutely not. I’m not going to medical.”

He cuts you a glare. “As if you have a say in it.”

“I do have a say! It’s my body! This is the twenty-first century, Barnes. My body, my choice!”

“You’re injured,” he grits through his teeth. “We’re going to medbay.”

“I don’t need to go!” You start dragging your heels, trying to make yourself heavier, but Bucky is a super soldier and probably throws mack trucks for a living or something. “You stitched me up! The burns aren’t that bad, either. I’m fine, I’m not going to medical.”

“God, can you ever give me a break?” he groans. “Why are you always so fucking difficult?”

“I’m not being difficult!” you snarl, trying to push away from him, but his grip tightens. “Why the fuck do you care so much?”

“You’re so fucking stupid.”

“Yeah, maybe I am, since I don’t know why the fuck you give two shits about saving my quote-unquote dumbass who almost got us both killed, and I don’t know why the fuck you care about getting me to medical when you’re gonna bench me anyway! Right, thanks a lot Barnes, I’m so stupid for not fucking figuring it out!”

“You are!” he roars, and then your back is against the wall, his hand cushioning your head from hitting it. He corners you there, covering your body with his, ducking down so your mouths are so close you would only need to reach up a little to kiss him, and god, that’s tempting.

Not tempting enough when you’re this pissed off, though.

“So that’s what it is, huh? You just think I’m some stupid, incapable little girl who is so impractical because all she wants to do is save lives? You think I’m so stupid that I don’t know that people are going to die? And they’re going to die because I can’t save them? Maybe you should think about how I could never live with myself if I didn’t do everything possible to save them, so I risk my life to get them to safety. I would never ever risk yours, you stupid, arrogant, ignorant—”

Oh, Jesus.

His lips are hot when they crash against yours, pinning you between him and the wall. It’s desperate, the kind of kiss you’ve never had before. It’s so desperate and you want to pull away and ask him, Bucky, what are you so desperate for? He kisses you like he wants to keep you, his mouth swallowing yours like he can’t get enough of you. It’s hungry and begging and you don’t ever want it to stop, your teeth nipping blood from his bottom lip as if it’ll stop him from leaving, but he pulls away, leaving you breathless anyway.

“You’re stupid,” he repeats again and you watch his tongue dart out to taste the blood you’ve ripped from his skin. It sends a thrill of pleasure through you. “You’re so stupid.”

And he kisses you again and you decide that sure, maybe you’re stupid, you’ll be stupid all day long because he’s going to kiss you stupid.

It’s your hands that move first, you realize in some random corner of your mind. Your fingers twine in his brown locks, tugging the hair tie away and flinging it somewhere. Vaguely, you realize you’re still in the middle of the hallway, on the way to the elevator, but you don’t give a shit. The hand that isn’t twisting Bucky’s scalp finds the material of his tac-suit and starts pulling at all the straps and buckles, searching for a sliver of his hot skin in any capacity.

His own hand, the one not holding the back of your head, skims over your waist and flutters down your uninjured hip, grasping at the flesh underneath your suit. Suddenly, you’re overcome with the need to get these fucking clothes off, and immediately, and you break the kiss so you can suck down air and ask the man you’ve been hating, been pining after, to take you to bed.

As you do, Bucky trails a hot path of sloppy kisses down your chin, over your jaw, against your neck, until he finds the juncture of your shoulder and attaches his teeth there, nibbling on a patch of skin that is so distracting you forget about your question for a minute. And then your fingers run over a rough spot on his suit and you remember.

“Bucky,” you gasp out, and it sounds so heady that you nearly throw your head back. “Bucky,” you repeat, more urgently, when he doesn’t let up, your hand is tightening on his sleeve and tugging on it.

His head snaps up now, eyes piercing yours, concerned.

“Are you okay?” he asks, moving your hair away from your face to look closer at you.

“Bed,” you rasp out, but barely. “Now, please.”

He doesn’t move for a second, just staring at you like he’s scared, like he’s surprised you would ask. You see his eyes sort of glaze over, a reminder of the nightmares he’s seen, the nightmares he replays over and over in his head, but you’re selfish and your core is pulsing with a heat you’ve never felt this hot before and you need him here, not wherever his mind is taking him.

“Please, Bucky,” you say, and he blinks, and then he’s present again.

“Anything for you, doll,” he whispers, and your legs nearly collapse beneath you at the thought. Bucky scoops you into his arms carefully, trying not to jostle your wound too much, and then he sweeps you into the elevator and you’re speeding toward his room and hoping to god that Steve isn’t prowling around.

In a haze of kissing and excitement, you barely recognize that Bucky’s opening his door until it’s closed behind you and he’s walking you through his room and to his bed.

God, you’ve wanted to be in his bed for so fucking long.

He drops you among the sheets gently, so starkly different from the harsh tone of his voice only a few minutes earlier when he was yelling at you, and you’re not sure what you like better. You want Bucky to fuck you, to rip you in half and put you back together like he always does. But you want him, so badly, to make love to you just as much, but you’d never admit that to him.

Bucky’s kissing you so sweetly now, and then his kisses get more forceful, more needy, and you suck on his tongue until he’s panting above you. His hands are everywhere, sliding over your suit, unstrapping and unzipping and unbuckling all your gear, and your hands fumble in tune with his, trying to help him get you out of your clothes.

Just before he takes off your vest, he kisses you and asks, “Is this okay?”

You rip the vest off yourself, sitting up on your elbows to rip your undershirt off with it, leaving you in a black sports bra.

And you revel in the way Bucky stares at this new flesh. His lips find your sweaty skin, covering every inch that’s been revealed now as your fingers start taking his tac-suit apart the way he did yours. Soon, you’re frustrated, and you whine and pull at it until he huffs a laugh and takes it off himself. His vest gets thrown to the side and his tank top follows, leaving him bare-chested.

Your fingers are shaky as they touch his tanned skin and you almost laugh at how nervous you are. You’ve spent so long looking at him, hating him, wanting him, and now you have this stretch of his wide chest in front of you and all you can do is let your fingertips glide over him, mouth parted, eyes hazy.

His pupils are blown wide, too, and Bucky takes your hand in his and presses it against him harder, and suddenly you’re feral.

Your hands slide over every part of him, taking in the expanse of him. His biceps, his strong shoulders, the hard planes of his body. As gentle as possible, you trail your fingers closer and closer to the scar where metal meets flesh, and you glance up at him, a silent question, and when he gives you the smallest nod, you smooth over the gnarled rift of skin. You don’t ask if it hurts. He gives no indication that it does. And when you reach up to press a soft kiss to it, he shudders above you.

“Please,” he whispers, so quietly. “Let me touch you, doll.”

You lay back and start to unstrap your holsters, gesturing for Bucky to help you with your pants. He unlaces your boots for you as you throw your weapons to the ground, the clink of belts and buckles mingling in the silence, a song that ignites the excitement inside of you.

Your core is molten lava, the apex of your thighs dripping and Bucky hasn’t even touched the most intimate parts of you yet. Every single fiber of your being is trembling in anticipation, and in your hurry to strip your pants off, a twinge of pain shoots through you as you bend the wrong way, stitches pulling.

Bucky curses—like he’s the one who’s hurt you and you aren’t the idiot trying to rip her pants off—and just like he can flip the switch on his attitude, he flips the switch on this, too. He’s off of you before you realize, sitting back on his haunches, staring down at you in panic.

“I’m—Baby,” he breathes, voice shaking. “I'm sorry.”

His hands are outstretched, reaching for you, trembling as he swallows hard. You watch as his eyes shift in the space between your face and the white gauze wrapped around the bullet wound in your side.

“Bucky,” you hiss and grab him by the back of his neck, pulling him down. He doesn’t budge, not much at least, but you meet him the rest of the way and your lips collide with his in a thunderous crash, and like instinct, he kisses you until you can’t breathe.

“Doll,” he mumbles against your mouth and you drink the word from his tongue, distracting him. “We can’t.”

“We can,” you growl back, teeth reminding him of the pulsing ache between your thighs. In search of more, your hips roll up and meet his own, causing a groan to tumble out of his mouth into your own.

Fuck the pain—you’ll grit your teeth and bear it. This is the only moment you’ll ever have him, and by god, you need him.

Your hands return to your pants. “Help me,” you plead, breathless, unable to shimmy out of them. Bucky’s already pulled your boots off, socks coming with them, and his fingers find the heated flesh right beneath your waistband.

“Are you sure?”

All you can do is whine his name until he understands, and then Bucky is peeling your black pants from your legs, the rush of cool air rolling over your hot skin feeling almost as good as his hands are going to feel if he’ll just put them on you.

When his palms finally fall upon your thighs, rough and calloused and big and warm, you need much more, so much more. The way he trails his fingers down your knees, caressing your calves, brushing atop your ankle, and then coming back up to have his thumbs follow the ridge of muscles in your thighs, it all makes you shiver in pleasure. You’re so hot, sweat pooling in the small of your back against the bed, the dampness of your core becoming harder to ignore.

You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to relieve the ache and Bucky notices—of course he notices—and his mouth finds your neck again, sucking until dark bruises begin to mar your skin, until you’re bowing off the bed, arching toward him, trying to get something, anything. Anything from him.

At some point, you realize he’s just torturing you on purpose, letting his hands roam the stretch of your stomach, smooth over the hills of your hips, and then draw down your legs until you’re shaking as he kisses you so softly, and then so roughly, like he can’t decide if he wants to grow old with you or if he wants to ruin you for whoever comes after him.

You sit up and reach around, fingers intent on unclasping your bra, but Bucky stops you with a nip at your bottom lip.

“Will you let me?” he asks, so sweetly. Bucky’s hand finds yours and bats them away, his fingers on the hooks as he waits for your answer.

“Yes,” you moan as his other hand tickles down the curve of your side. “God, please, yes.”

“Bucky,” he says, smirking against the side of your neck.

“Shut up and undress me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well, when you ask so sweet like that, baby.”

With a quiet click, your bra comes undone and Bucky pulls it away from your body, and then your breasts are bare before his eyes. Now, it’s your turn to be doused in ice, to freeze, for the switch to flip.

You feel shy beneath his gaze, the way he looks at your nearly naked body with such reverence, as though this is the moment he’s been waiting for. Your knees close and your elbows draw in over your chest without your permission. It’s not like you want to hide from him, but he looks so perfect atop you, so beautiful in every single facet, better than any dream you’ve ever had of him, and you can’t stop yourself.

What have the other girls looked like underneath him? Better than you, surely. Prettier, skinnier, smaller, sexier. For fuck’s sake, you’ve got a nasty burn on the side of your leg and were shot through your left side only a few hours ago, your middle wrapped in medical tape. You can’t be that pretty a picture.

You’ve had your shot at him and you’re gonna lose it.

But when you look up, Bucky’s looking at you like you’re everything. His face is flushed, red creeping down his neck, and his eyes are soft, hazy, glassy. Gently, his fingers find your jaw and cup your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“Let me look at you, baby.” His voice is almost as rough as the worn skin of his hand, dry and gravelly and thick with lust. When Bucky moves to grasp your wrists, you let your eyes flutter closed and nod, allowing him to peel your arms away from where they hide you, and you hear the sharp intake of breath he takes.

“God,” his voice shudders. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, doll. I couldn’t have dreamed you up if I tried, and I promise you, I tried.”

Your eyes fly open at this. “What?”

If it bothers him, he doesn’t act like it. Bucky leans down to nuzzle his nose against your collarbone, kissing and licking your skin like he’s making constellations out of your body—bruises connected only by his tongue.

“I’ve thought about this since the day you kicked my ass in the ring.” He sounds like he’s reciting a prayer, all whispered desires. “Your perfect lips, what they’d feel like, how soft they are. If you’d touch my scars, and how your fingers would feel on them all if you did.”

His mouth closes over the mound of your breast, the clash of tongue and teeth upon your nipple forcing you to arch into him in pleasure. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream and you aren’t quite aware that you’re even whining until his free hand crawls up from your hip and cups your other breast, thumb strumming over your peaked nipple. The breathy moans that pour from your mouth fill the room and only seem to make Bucky work faster, work harder, as he drags every drop of pleasure out of you with every instrument he has. Your hips buck up and into his, your thinly-clothed core catching the tent in his pants—his tac-suit, you realize, is still on—and it makes you both groan in a symphony of need.

“Need you,” you somehow manage to get out between your heavy panting, hips still searching for something to relieve the ache in your center. “Bucky, please.”

He releases your nipple from his lips, the chill assaulting the wet bud making you bow from the bed once again. Bucky places a kiss on the other, letting his tongue lave over it until it's just as wet and hard.

“I imagined what you’d sound like,” he says against your stomach, punctuating his words with a smattering of kisses across your skin. “Thought about what you’d—fuck, baby—I thought so much about how you’d look beneath me all spread out, just for me.”

The sound you make in reply is almost embarrassing as how soaked your panties are.

“Wondered how you’d taste.” He lets his tongue drag across the hem of your underwear and you press up, trying to get his mouth closer, but his hands settle on your hips and gently hold you to the bed.

“Bucky!” you try and growl, but it comes out an octave too high. “Please!”

“What is it, babydoll?” His fingers curl underneath, thumbs riding the line of skin just beneath your panties.

“I need you!” You throw your head back against the pillow. “I’ve thought about it too,” you admit, breathing hard. “How you’d touch me like this, how you’d feel inside me, please, so please just—I need you, Bucky.”

“You got me, baby,” he says and it sounds so fucking beautiful. “I’m right here. I got you, doll. Gonna take care of you, okay? Will you let me give you what you need?”

You answer by trying to press your hips up again, and Bucky shifts until his hands are cupping your ass and he drags you down the bed, closer to him, closer to his own hips where you can feel the bulge of his cock begging to be released.

“Your pants,” you remind him, wrapping your uninjured leg around the back of his thigh. “I want to feel you, please, Bucky.”

“Okay, doll,” he says, laying a kiss just above your panty line again, and then he’s pulling away and you whine despite it.

You listen as Bucky fiddles with his gear, going through the same motions as you had to go through earlier. The clink of his knives, the buckles of his holsters, the heavy soles of his boots as he throws them off. When you sit up, Bucky is standing in his black boxers, the faint light streaming into his room highlighting the shine of the scars that cover his body.

He looks as breathless, as flustered, as aroused as you feel. His hair is mussed from your hands, falling over his shoulder in the thick waves that feel so soft between your fingers. The lust is evident in the way his eyes roam over your body, his pupils blown wide, and then he’s moving toward you and fitting himself between your legs on the bed.

Bucky slides his hands over your heated skin yet again, a reminder of how much he wants you, how much he loves the feel of you, before his fingers hook inside your panties and begin to pull them down. Before he gets too far, he stops again, gaze flicking up to meet yours.

“Is this alright?” he asks.

You nod, lifting your hips as carefully as possible in order to keep from jostling your wound, and Bucky slips the last piece of clothing from your body. You hope, fucking christ you hope, he doesn’t realize how soaked they are when he peels them off, but maybe that’s a lost cause.

Because as soon as you’re naked, your glistening core bare to his eyes alone, all bets are off. There are no more barriers, nothing for you to hide behind, no sharp words to keep your feelings at bay.

His fingers skim over your lips, collecting all the honey you’ve made for him as his knees widen to spread your thighs. The simple movement has your hips rolling already in search of more, whimpers falling from your mouth as Bucky stares at your naked form beneath him. Eyes lidded, you watch as he brings his fingers, wet with your juices, up to his mouth.

“Shit, doll,” he curses. Bucky’s tongue envelops his digits and he groans at the taste, sending shocks like a fucking earthquake through your body, through your bones, straight to your core.

He moves closer to you, sliding your thighs onto his shoulder and locking his metal arm around the top of your hips, far enough away from your wound that it doesn’t hurt. Bucky peppers kisses along your inner thighs, biting and sucking in intervals that has you pressing your mound to him, begging for more.

“You taste so good,” he mumbles, breath ghosting over your quivering pussy, pulling a wanton whine from your throat. “Will you let me taste you, baby?”

“God, yes, please Bucky, please, I need it so bad.” The words are frantic, strangled, a mess of moans of breathless gasping.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

And then his mouth is on you, hot and slick upon hot and slick, his tongue parting the valley of your lips and delving into your dripping center like he’s a man starved and you’re the first meal he’s tasted in years. You keen in pleasure, thrashing your head against the pillows until your hair is a tangled mess as Bucky’s tongue flattens on your clit, licking a wide path until it’s well-traveled and your hips stutter, held back only by the cooled metal on your heated skin. Your hands find purchase in his hair, fingers tugging at his scalp, and the motion makes him groan into you.

You call his name like it’s the only word you know, chanting it over and over like it’s a spell similar to the one he’s weaving with his tongue upon your aching clit. He doesn’t let up, tracing words you can’t make out and drinking in all the wetness flooding his mouth. The gentle scratch of his wiry beard burns just right, contrasting with the curls of pleasure coming from your sensitive clit. Without realizing, you grind your core against Bucky’s mouth, the friction only serving to make you into a trembling mess, your insides throbbing with a need to be filled, pussy clenching around nothing.

As if he feels you, Bucky slides his free hand over your leg and to the apex of your thighs, the first thick finger entering you slowly, like he’s testing the waters. You cry out, begging for more, and Bucky relents. His second finger follows as his tongue continues to lap at your pussy, letting you gyrate against his face as you try to fuck yourself on his hand.

“Bucky,” you pant, each letter of his name a stutter with moans, “please!”

“Please what, babydoll?” His voice sends another wave of arousal through you, juices slicking his fingers up more than before. Your stomach is tightening, pleasure in tight curls between your legs, center so close to snapping that tears are beginning to leak from your eyes because Bucky won’t fucking let you move your hips in the way that you want. He chuckles against your pussy, breath teasing over you, vibrations making you quiver.

“I’m gonna—”

Bucky curls his fingers inside of you, stroking your spot, just as his mouth envelops your clit in its heat and he sucks, hard, and the thin thread coiling in your core snaps and you come apart, harder, and a scream tears itself from your throat as warm tears fall into your hairline.

He never stops. As his suckling turns into kitten licks upon your clit, his third finger breaches your opening and slips inside, pumping into you as you ride your orgasm out on his hand. Your hand is tight in his hair until it all becomes too much and it falls to cover your mouth, your teeth finding your knuckle to bite back the sound of your moans.

“Oh no, baby, no,” Bucky says, and when you look down, he’s between your legs, watching you in the aftershocks of your pleasure. His fingers leave your pussy and you clench around nothing, a whine leaving your lips at the emptiness, until Bucky’s metal fingers are pulling your hand away from your face.

“I gotta hear you,” he whispers, the hand covered in your nectar finding your mouth. “Need to hear all those pretty little noises you’re making, baby. I’ve dreamed about ‘em. Would get my cock all hard thinking about ‘em. You gotta keep making ‘em ‘cause now that I’ve heard ‘em, I can’t get enough, babydoll.”

When he moves to trace your bottom lip, red and swollen from his own, your tongue darts out to taste the salt and sin on the pad of his thumb. Bucky places his fingers at your parted lips and you suck them into your mouth, licking all the juice from his skin, tongue swirling around his digits. You wonder if his lips taste like this, too.

He groans as he watches you, his eyes lidded and hazy and lovely, and then his metal hand finds the waistband of his boxers and yanks them off his hips. In one perfect movement, his cock slaps against his stomach, hot and red and already leaking, which makes you flush at the fact that Bucky liked making you come.

Subconsciously, your tongue snakes out to lick your lips as you take in the length, the thickness of his cock, and Bucky gets that familiar look on his face—cocky, smirking, knowing that he’s pushing your limits. He presses you back down upon the bed, his arms bracketing your head as his nose brushes against yours, his heat pressing into the subtle dip where your hip and thigh meet.

The feeling of his cock, hard and heavy against your naked skin, sends you into a frenzy of arousal, of want, of need. You reach out and take him into your hand, your thumb brushing over the velvet head and smearing his precum along his length. Bucky’s jaw tightens, muscle twitching, as you pump your fist around him and drag your fingers along the blue vein riding up the underside. The groan that falls from his lips, the stutter and jerk of his hips, the way he shakes above you is addicting, and Bucky has to pull your wrist away from his cock in order to stop you from getting him off just like that.

“Baby,” he breathes, resting his sweaty forehead against yours.

“Bucky, please,” you beg again. “Please, I need you inside me.”

“You want me?” he asks, and even though his voice is scratchy and thick with desire, he says it like he’s surprised. As if you could never want him.

You’ve always wanted him.

“Yes, god, Bucky. I want you,” you moan, threading your fingers into his hair to smash your lips together in a sharp, bruising kiss. “I need you,” you say against his mouth. “I need you so, so bad.”

“I need you too, babydoll. Need to feel you,” he says, the sound strained, almost like he can’t stay away from you any longer. You feel it too, the ache without him, the way your pussy clenches in anticipation for him.

The head of Bucky’s cock nudges at your entrance and your slick coats him. The soft skin of him brushes your over-sensitive clit and you keen, and he does it again, and again, until you’re shaking, until you wrap your ankles around Bucky’s back and pull him into you, raising your hips to meet his.

“You want this?” His voice is heavy when he asks.

“Yes,” you moan out, rocking against him.

He says your name and it sounds pained on his tongue. “Are you sure?”

“James.” Your teeth snap and gnash on his name, and it awakens something within him that sets every place he touches you ablaze with a new sensation, and Bucky enters you with a slow thrust of his hips.

And it feels so fucking good.

Like straining a muscle you haven’t used in a while, it aches as he enters while you stretch to accommodate his size. The way his cock feels inside of you—touching you in places you never thought you’d be touched, filling you in a way you never thought you’d be filled.

He’s finally, finally yours. If just for this moment, Bucky Barnes is yours.

Your nails incise his back, making new marks among the sea of scarring he’s suffered, as you cling to his body in any way to feel him closer to you. Bucky leaves kisses on every surface of your face, your jawline, your neck. He kisses you everywhere and you wish you could tattoo the feeling into your skin.

“Are you alright?” he mumbles faintly into your neck and you can feel how hard he’s trying not to move, not to hurt you, to give you time to adjust to him. Your fingers trail up and down his spine, drifting into his hair, scratching against his scalp.

“Yes,” you hiss, undulating your hips and making a similar sound fall from his lips. “Bucky, please.”

You don’t know how many iterations of that same phrase you’ve said all night, but you’ll keep saying it, over and over, if he’ll take you like this. Just like this, with his arms trapping your body to the bed, his hips flush against yours, panting above you as he stares into your eyes all lustful and dark and wanting. He smells like the Bucky you’re so familiar with, your partner, Barnes, gunpowder and explosions and blood, with the clean scent of whatever deodorant he uses. If he’ll keep you like this, where you can pretend your his for this moment, you’ll say it over and over

Bucky, please—Bucky, please—Bucky, please—please—please—

When he finally moves, thrusting into your heat with a growl, it feels like time stops.

Bucky fucks you like he loves you, slow and steady, pumping into you fully and deeply until you lose your mind. He fucks you like he wants to ravage you, fast and quick and hard as he holds your hips to keep you steady, and you ignore the dull pain that flares up in your side because he’s fucking you like he needs you, like he can’t exist without you. He fucks you like he’ll never get another chance to touch you. When he fucks you like this, his thrusts falling out of rhythm, out of time, he rests his forehead against yours and you lean up to capture his mouth with yours, tongues sliding over one another sloppily.

The heat is building up inside of you again, and when Bucky lifts your hips and drapes you over his knees, pressing you up with his metal arm, his cock hits the spot inside you that makes you scream over and over. The waves are cresting. The crescendo is approaching. Every grunt and groan he makes mingles with your moans and shrieking pleasure, and it’s all going to culminate into one big moment, you can feel it.

Bucky pulls back to slip his hand between your bodies, sweaty and hot, and his thumb presses gently into your clit. With one sharp thrust, your body arches off the bed as you snap, screaming his name, and Bucky holds you through it.

Your vision goes black—you aren’t sure if it's because your eyes are screwed shut in pleasurable pain or if it's because you’ve passed out. Bucky’s hips jerk wildly into yours and you tighten the grip you have around his waist with your legs, digging your heels into the small of his strong back.

“So tight,” he hisses into your ear. “So fucking wet, baby. Feel so fucking right, made for me, aren’t you doll?”

“Yes, James,” you moan out as you ride the waves of your orgasm. “Made for you!”

Bucky works at your clit again as his rhythm starts to fail, and even with how sensitive you are, you feel the pleasure curling inside you again, hot inside your stomach. You clench and jolt whenever his cock hits the right angle, and all of a sudden, you’re on the edge yet again.

“I can’t,” you cry out, nearly a sob lost to the sound of his hips snapping against yours.

“You can,” he says, so gently. “You can, baby, just for me. You said so, right?”

How is he still talking? For fuck’s sake, your tongue feels like its detached from your mouth and all you can muster are the moans and whines that come from the back of your throat Bucky is forcing out of you.

“Come with me,” you beg, you plead. “Please James, please, come with me.”

“Baby—”

You break apart silently, clinging to his body, holding him to you as every fiber of your being is torn into pieces, shattered. As your pussy clenches and spasms around him, Bucky stutters in his thrusts and you pull him into you, willing him to fall over the edge with you, and he follows dutifully.

He groans out your name as he comes inside of you, liquid heat searing the deepest part of you. Falling back against the pillows, you whisper his name and drag him with you, mouth meeting his for one last clumsy, haphazard kiss. Bucky stills inside of you, still throbbing, and then he whispers something against your lips.

“I love you.”

You freeze, eyes wide, and Bucky pulls away from your embrace to look at you.

“What?” you ask, swallowing thickly. “What did you say?”

“I—” He looks nervous now, but his blue eyes are so fucking sincere. “I’m—I’m so sorry, fuck.”

Bucky moves to pull out of you, to leave, but you tighten your legs around his hips and trap him against you. The cocky smirk he wears, the confident smile, even the look of desire he wore while fucking you—it’s all gone. Left in its wake is the ashamed look Bucky wears that makes him seem small, and you want to smooth it away until he looks at you like he wants you again. Like he wants you to be his.

Like he loves you.

“Why are you sorry?” you ask him, stroking a hand through his hair.

“Because—fuck—this wasn’t supposed to happen.” He glances away from you and glares at the floor and a heartbreaking pain shoots through you. Now, he pulls out of you, shifting to get off the bed and clean up, but you can’t stop the words before they tumble out.

“You didn’t want me?”

“What?” Bucky turns and cups your face in his hand, searching your eyes for something, and his thumb wipes away a stray tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

Oh fuck, here it comes. He told you he loved you in a fit of passion and now you’re the stupid, clingy girl that he needs to leave behind. You’re partners, first and foremost, and you shouldn’t have forgotten that.

But god, he made you feel like you were his, and you wanted that so bad. You want it so fucking bad.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, voice shaking and you wonder if you mean it. “I know I’m stupid, and I know you hate me, and I know it was just sex—”

“Baby, no, please.” Bucky brings your face to his and kisses you softly, sweetly, like he adores you. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry because someone like me shouldn’t love someone like you. God, I shouldn’t love someone as perfect as you. I can’t have you, doll. And I’m sorry.”

Oh. Bucky does love you.

Oh. Oh. Oh.

You surge up and slant your mouth over his, hand gripping the back of his neck to pull him down, fingers twining in the fine hairs where his scalp meets his skin. In this one kiss, you pour everything you think you can into it, everything you feel now, everything you’ve felt since you met him, everything you’ve ever felt at every moment you’ve shared with him.

“I love you,” you say when you pull away. “I love you so much, Bucky. I’ve loved you since the day I met you.”

His eyes are so wide, so afraid, so confused.

“You do?”

“I do,” you tell him. “God, I’ve wanted you for so long, Bucky Barnes, you stupid man.”

You expect him to kiss you now, but he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky cradles your head in his hand and pulls you to his chest, embracing you in his warm arms. He rolls onto the bed, carefully lifting you until you’re situated on top of him, where you wrap your limbs around him and lay upon his warm body. Bucky lays kisses on the crown of your hair, holding you so tightly against him you think you might suffocate.

“I’ve loved you since the day you kicked my ass, doll,” he admits. You laugh.

“Are you kidding me? I thought you hated me.”

“I could never hate you,” he says. “I hated that you would sacrifice yourself for others. I still hate it. It’s why you got hurt today and god, the threat of losing you, it scares me doll. I didn’t know what I would do if you died right there in my arms and I never got the chance to tell you all this.”

You glance up at him, at his beautiful face and his beautiful eyes, the man who you hated and who you wanted and who you love. God, you really do love him.

“I’m not going to leave you,” you whisper, pressing an awkward kiss to his bare chest. “Now that I have you, I could never leave you.”

He laughs at that. “Babydoll, you’ve always had me. I can’t believe you never knew.”

You think back to all the times he’s looked at you, dopey grins and cocky smiles and coy glances. You think about how long you’ve leaned on each other in the two years you’ve been partners, how he’s the only person you’ve ever trusted with your life, how you always work to come back to him. You think about the butterflies that stirred in your stomach the first time you met him, when he shook your hand and gave you the prettiest smile you’d ever seen, the same smile he has plastered on his face right now as looks down at you.

Sitting up, you look at Bucky Barnes, chin resting in your palm lazily.

“Maybe I’ve always known,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe I did, too.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #one shot #drabble #fic requests #inbox me to request a fic!#thanks for supporting me!#bucky barnes smut #smut fic #divine masterlist

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boldlyvoid · 3 years

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10 Days

this is for @imagining-in-the-margins father's day fic challenge <3

summary: it's spencer's first father's day and he's extremely emotional about the little love of his life that he's only just met. he spends the day with his baby, Edwin, and his wife, crying and happy about how wonderful new little lives are.

a/n: just a lot of new dad spencer fluff ♥︎ happy father's day everyone

word count: 1.4K

Read on Ao3

10 days.

That’s how long it has been since he became a father. Holding the small gift the love of his life brought into the world, Edwin was so tiny. He slept, swaddled up, resting against Spencer’s knees as he sat up in bed. Y/N asleep on the pillow beside them.

Spencer couldn’t believe how perfect his life had become. Edwin’s small coo’s and grunts as he slept making him smile at the perfect little being they created. All 6lbs, 10oz and 21 inches of pure perfection, joy and love.

He was peaceful, his cute little button nose twitched as he pouted. About to wake up, hungry as the sun rose, like clockwork. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light, looking around with his deep brown eyes before he started to wail.

“Shhh,” Spencer soothed him as he brought him to his chest, bouncing him softly as Y/N started to wake up.

She yawned beside him, stretching into a banana shape as she did so. Curling around him slightly before sitting up, keeping her eyes closed as she swallowed a few times and became a person again.

“Good morning,” Spencer spoke over the slight crying.

“Hello,” she replied, opening one eye as she un-clipped her nursing bra, “hand him over.”

Spencer laid him in her arms, watching as she led him towards the nipple. He latched with no problems, she tilted her head back against the headboard and closed her eyes once again. She had become a pro at sleeping while feeding, excited for when he was finally big enough that she could just roll over and feed him while laying down.

Spencer watched as Edwin's little hand found its way out of the swaddle, reaching up to hold the side of her boob. His eyes wide open as he ate, staring up at his mother with amazement.

Spencer always felt a bit emotional when he really looked at them. Seeing all the best qualities of both himself and Y/N in him already, Edwin was the most perfect baby he had ever seen.

He couldn’t believe sometimes that he was his son.

He leaned his head onto Y/N’s shoulder, cuddling into her as he reached out to cup Edwin’s tiny little head. Rubbing his thumb over the soft spot covered in hair. He loved them so much it felt overwhelming.

He kissed her shoulder softly, feeling her smile as her cheek pressed against his head. “Happy Father’s Day,” she whispered.

“Thank you,” he felt the tears well before one slipped out, trailing his cheek before dropping to her shoulder in a small splash.

“Oh Spence,” she started to cry too, laughing into the tears. Making her chest bounce and disturb Edwin’s breakfast.

“I just love you so much, they’re happy tears,” Spencer said softly before he kissed her cheek.

“Seriously, Spence,” she looked at him softly, still all puffy from sleep and the pregnancy. “Making you a dad is the best thing I’ve ever done.”

“Seeing you become a mom was like, everything just connected and the world made sense,” he explained softly. “The way you just powered through and suddenly you’re helping reach down and bringing this life into the world,” he started crying again. “It was magical, the feeling of becoming a father at that moment, seeing the life we made?” He had to stop to catch his breath as he cried, lifting his shirt up to wipe his tears off his face.

“I know,” she cried in agreement, looking down at her beautiful little boy as he ate away, unaware that his sleep-deprived parents were having a moment.

“I love you,” Spencer laughed, leaning in to kiss her on the lips finally.

There was a knock on their bedroom door then, “come in?” Y/N answered as Spencer sat back against the headboard beside her.

“Good morning,” her mother and Diana cheered softly as they walked in, breakfast for the both of them on trays. “Happy father’s day!”

“Oh my god,” Spence got overwhelmed again, covering his face so he wouldn’t cry in front of them too.

“Thank you guys,” he could hear the smile on Y/N’s face as she spoke. “You didn’t have to do all this?”

“Spencer used to make me breakfast on both Father’s and Mother’s day, I thought I’d repay the favour,” Diana recalled the memory with a soft smile.

“Thank you, mom,” Spencer said as Diana placed the tray on his lap, hugging him softly before she moved back.

“We’ll leave you alone now,” Y/N’s mom added as she placed the other tray on Y/N’s side of the bed. “Call me if you need anything else?”

“Sure thing, thanks nanny,” Y/N replied, using her mother’s new nickname.

It was so nice having both of them visit, they were very helpful. Allowing them to have time to shower and use the bathroom, they cleaned the house and made all the meals while Y/N and Spencer bonded with their little miracle.

It was the best father’s day he could have asked for, with the best wife, the best son and the best family in the whole world.

He was overfilled with joy, bursting at the seams and the tears never stopped. Even as he quietly ate his own breakfast, he was sniffling and wiping the occasional tear. It was overwhelming, he was tired, he was so in love, it was just a lot for him.

When Edwin was done eating, Y/N passed him back to Spencer with a smile. Spencer held him in his arms gently before placing a burp rag in his lap and burping the little guy. Patting his back, he let out a deep burp and then sighed, making Spencer laugh. He was so cute, it was insane.

He held him close, resting Edwin’s tiny little head on his shoulder as he cradled him, bounding slightly to help him fall back to sleep, Y/N called him the baby whisperer. He was amazing, he just had to hold Edwin with his arms crossed and tilt him at an angle, and he'd stop crying. It was like Magic seeing Spencer with a baby, he just knew what he was doing.

He changed Edwin like it was nothing, he talked to him like a big kid already as he changed or bathed him. She’d overhear him in the bathroom, his voice echoing off the tiled walls as he goes on and on in Edwin’s ear about how diapers are made and how they looked for the safest ones for his little bum. It was adorable.

Edwin was wonderful, full of excitement and joy and hope. He looked at everything like it was magic, learning about the world through his brand new eyes as Spencer was gifted with witnessing it all. It was magnificent, he loved colours and belly kisses and he smiled when you poke his cheeks. He was the best thing Spencer’s ever helped make, and he was so completely in love with him. His little baby, the reason he’s a father.

His whole life was in Edwin’s hands now; whatever he wanted, Spencer would be it. Whatever he needed, Spencer would get it. He was wrapped around his finger like his life depended on it, and Spencer was fine with that. He would sell his soul for him, step in front of a bullet or a speeding train, the love he had for this little baby was unspeakably large for how small he was.

He’s wide awake in Spencer’s arms, tilting his head and licking his lips as he stares up at his father. Spencer smiles down at him, amazed by everything going on inside his mind. Thinking about the electrons firing, the memories being made and re-written by the second as he learns and explores, colours erupting in his mind like nebulas.

“Did you know you’re named after Edwin Hubble?” Spencer whispers to him, booping his nose gently, “he’s the reason we can see the stars so well, why people were able to complete their dreams and go to the stars. To see the far off worlds and contemplate what’s out there… to see a greater purpose for us all.”

Edwin had no idea what he was talking about, but he was so content listening. Knowing his dad’s voice very well from all the talking he did to Y/N’s belly over the long 9 months of anticipation to meet him.

“You’re my stars, you’re my greater purpose,” he whispers, bring him closer so he can kiss his tiny little forehead. “I love you.”

#fathers day fic challenge #poms fic challenge #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid request #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #dad spencer #one shot

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lilallama · 3 years

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As soon as the door opened, the kids were storming out on the playground. While the other kids played and ran around with their friends, one lonely boy watched from the sidelines.

The little boy was hunched over something, seemingly very engrossed with something. Three little girls looked over to him. "I'm going to talk to him." The two other friends hurriedly respond, "No way! He's soo mean!" "And scary!" But the little girl didn't listen. She carefully walked over. "Uh, hello Jeongguk. What're you doing?" The little boy didn't register her. "Hello?" She walked around him and stopped when she saw what he was doing. She screamed in horror. He was pulling a living butterfly's wings apart. She ran away crying, which lead him to scrunch up his nose and cover his ears. He hated when people cry and run away from him. "Jeongguk! What are you doing!" The teacher asked in shock. "I'm playing with the butterfly."

Ah yes, Jeon Jeongguk, the anger issue plagued offspring of a serial killer and deluded rich girl. Known for his oddly brutal way of playing and unforseen outbursts of rage. Many kids were scared of him, not thst the teachers could blame them. It was common for Jeongguk to destroy toys and books as a means of entertainment. Or rip aparts other kids' drawings and tear down their sand castles, just because they wouldn't play with him. The teachers couldn't interfere, he'd only get worse.

In truth, he was just incredibly lonely. He desperately wanted a friend, but the others didn't want to be his friends. He'd guessed they didn't like when he pulled their hair. But if they didn't want their hair pulled then why'd they wear picktails?

He kicked a rock away and pouted. For a while he sat there alone. Silent. Until a little squeak interrupted his silence. As he looked over, there was a squirrel climbing down the tree. A new friend! He grabbed it, but it started struggling and let out panicked squeaks. "Stop struggling! I wanna be your friend. Hey! Stop-" the five year old grew angrier. Why won't the friend squirrel stop? His grip grew tighter. And finally, the little animal dug it's teeth into his hand.

Crack!

The teachers were mortified to find little Jeongguk playing with the limp body of a squirrel, while letting out a sweet and innocent laugh.

He didn't understand. He never did. The squirrel didn't struggle or run anymore. In his mind, it meant they were friends.

Weeks later, Jeongguk sat at the abandoned art table, sipping at a pack of banana milk. No one wanted to sit next to the son of a serial killer. A killer-to-be. No one except another little kid. They sat down next to him. "That's really pretty!" They looked at his drawing. A bunny family surrounded by flowers. He looked over at the (h/c) kid next to him and gave them a big smile. "Thanks! You're my friend now. I'm Jeongguk." The other smiled in return. "I'm Y/n."

Years passed... they got taken from him... or so they thought...

At 3:00 am on a thursday night, a young boy clung to a t-shirt which he pressed in his face. He inhaled heavily and groaned. "My Y/n~ My Y/n~ My Y/n~ Don't worry, I found you again."

#yandere bts #yandere jungkook #cooking club #jungkook backstory #it was a bit more rushed than i'd like #but it'll have to do for now #watch out for your keys #jungkook might snatch them

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dontworrysunflower · 3 years

Text

You Make It Better | h.s.

warnings: DEPRESSION, i apologize if i do not portray it correctly, i wrote what i could figure out from the internet. if this triggers you PLEASE DO NOT READ OR READ WITH CAUTION, nudity (? idk they shower together), very cheesy sorry

a/n: this is something i wish i had rn because even thought i’m not diagnosed and definitely think am depressed so ig that is where this came from. please, if you ever need someone to talk to, my messages are always open and i have no life so i’ll answer as soon as i can, asks (anonymous too) are always open. also i’m bad at endings so excuse that. (and writing his accent but we’ll ignore that)

word count: 2.9k

feedbacks/reblogs appreciated

masterlist

It was a late Saturday morning when you realized it was going to be a really hard day with your depression. You had woken up earlier than Harry, which was very rare. His arm was tucked between your neck and the pillow, hand laying softly on your arm, your head just below the right swallow tattoo on his chest, the inked butterfly on his stomach stretching with every even breath he took in his sleep.

It wasn’t much longer until he eventually woke up, his fingers suddenly grazing your arm as he fully opened his eyes to look at you. He lets out a guttural groan, stretching his legs under the blanket.

“G’mornin’ lovie,” he said groggily, voice rough as he bends down to press a light kiss to your hair. You don’t move, only your nail lightly scratching his side. His face scrunches up in confusion, and you knew if you were to look up at him you would burst out in tears just from how cute he is. “(y/n)?” He asked, moving down on the bed to be face to face with you. “You okay, baby?” His nose nudged yours, but again, you don’t react. You don’t even look him in the eyes.

All you do is shrug to his question, a little hum falling past your lips.

Then it struck him, and you see the exact moment when it does. But his face doesn’t change to a sympathetic look, he doesn’t frown at you with a sorry look.

Instead, he gives you a small and sleepy smile and pushes a strand of your hair away from your face. He scoots closer to you, moving you to sit on his lap, his boxers laying low on his hips, his inked fern leaves peeking through.

“Another one of those days?” He asked quietly as he moved to put his head right next to yours, his eyes looking up at you.

“Yeah.” You mumble, reaching over to grab the pendant of his necklace, rubbing the green cross with your soft finger.

“How bad?”

You continue to drag your finger over his cross pendant, eyes fixated his chest hairs. You sigh heavily before parting to answer. “Nine.”

“Hmm.” He kissed your forehead. “What made it a little betta’?”

You finally looked up at him, his emerald eyes still had a glassy look, still not fully awake. You’re hesitate to speak, your mouth opening and closing, thinking whether or not you should say what’s on your mind.

Very early in your relationship, you told Harry that it was hard for you to open up to people. You told him your illness made you feel like a burden towards everyone you know, you told him that there may be days where you wouldn’t want to see him because you’d feel like you're getting in the way.

But unlike the other people you’ve been with, he understood and was patient with you. And even though there were days that got really bad, he stayed by your side.

“You can talk to me, baby.” Harry took your hand that was holding his pendant, his finger grazing the skin of your thumb.

Your lips slightly quirk up, but not enough to really show that you were happy. But he could see it.

“You make it better.” You maneuver your hand that was in his to now hold his hand, bringing it closer to your chest and play with his ringless fingers.

When he doesn’t say anything, you look up at him worriedly, scared you’ve said the wrong thing.

But when you do, his face was the definition of happy. He was smiling so wide, his dimples were showing. There was a light hue on his cheeks, bringing his face to life.

You wish you could be that happy right now.

He brought you closer to his chest and pressed his lips to your matted hair. “Wanna just stay in bed all day?” You nod against his chest. “Whatever you want, love.” His arms tightened around you, bringing you impossibly closer, giving you a silent message of I’m here for you.

“Do you want something to eat? Some tea, maybe?” He asked sweetly as he started to pull away, his feet hitting the wooden flooring on your shared bedroom.

You looked up at him, hesitating to answer, but his fingers scratch your scalp in encouragement, his green eyes looking down at you sweetly. “Could-” you hesitate. “Could I just have some tea, please? Peppermint, if we have any.”

He nodded, bending down to press to place a kiss to your nose. “Anything to eat?”

You shake your head and bring the duvet to your face.

Before he can get too far, you grab his hand, getting his attention as he starts to walk away. “What’s up, baby?”

“Can I have a kiss?” you asked shyly, afraid he’ll reject you.

Instead of answering, he just leans down to peck your lips, but you hold his jaw and keep his close.

You give him one last peck before you pull away slightly, lips bruised to a pink color, faces still close.

You peck him one last time then back away, bringing the duvet to your chin.

“Don’t be too long.” You mumble.

He chuckled and kissed your head before walking out of the room.

•••

He comes back a couple minutes later, two mugs in his hands, a banana in between his lips.

You sit up against the headboard, the duvet just under your stomach that’s covered in one of Harry's old striped shirts.

“Thank you.” You mumble as you take the pastel orange mug from Harry’s hand.

You both sit quiet as you sip at your hot beverage, Harry offering you a bite of his banana after a while, but you decline.

Harry takes your empty cup and leaves it on his side table, the banana peel hanging from the rim of his mug.

“Do you wanna do anything?” He asked beside you, taking your hand in his.

“Ca-” You hesitate, scared he’ll say no or you feel like you're being selfish for what you're about to ask. “Can we just cuddle?” You asked with a pout, looking down at your lap.

He lets out a little giggle, getting under the white duvet. “I’d never say no to your cuddles.”

He pulls you close to his chest, the hair on his legs tickling your silky ones. His tattooed arm comes to lay over your stomach.

After a while, your eyes begin to sting, your sight becoming blurry, tears falling down your cheeks.

Harry seems to feel your salty tears fall on his chest. He plays with the ends of your hair and then rubs your arm. “Let it out, baby.”

Your shoulders shake as you sob, uncontrollable tears falling down your cheeks.

Harry held you tighter as you hiccuped, breath evening, eyes shutting as you fall asleep.

•••

When you woke up, the room was drastically darker. Harry’s side lamp was the only source of light.

Harry’s torso was against the headboard, one hand tangled in your hair, the other holding up a book as his eyes scan every word on the page.

When you shuffle under his touch, he closes his book and lays it by his side. “Hi.” He leans down to kiss your head, his hand now by your waist, playing with the hem of your (his) shirt you’re wearing that has risen up.

“What were you reading?” you asked meekly after you yawn, moving your arm across his fern tattoos.

“Love is a mixtape.”

“You love that book.” Your head moves up and down with his chest as he laughs. “Can you read some to me?”

“Sure, baby.”

•••

He had read a chapter or two when you realized, a small gasp leaving your lips. “Weren’t you supposed to go to the studio today?” You held up your weight against your arm, your hand digging into the mattress under you.

Your face scrunched up in guilt, your mind racing with the thought of getting in the way of Harry’s music, never wanting to be the reason he stopped working.

He just hums and and folders the corner of the page he was on before closing the book and leaving it on his side table. “I called Jeff when I was making the tea that I wasn’t going to make it today.”

“But why? You were excited to-”

“No one that matters, baby. There was no way I would’ve left you here by yourself.”

“I would’ve been fi-”

“No, you wouldn’t have and you know it.” His voice changed completely, more firm and stern than how he was talking earlier today. “Baby,” he started, he shifted in his spot on the mattress, turning completely towards you, taking your hands in his. You’ve always loved when you held hands. Loved to feel the comparison in size from your to his and your thumb always grazed his cross tattoo. You always get butterflies when he touches you, and that hasn’t changed since the beginning of your relationship that felt like so long ago.

“It’s okay to not be okay. I know it’s a struggle and everyday I wish I could take this pain from you, but I can’t. The best I can do is be there for you and hold you. And you may feel like you don’t deserve it, but you do. You deserve happiness and more. You may feel like every little thing you do bothers me and others but you don’t. I love you with my entire being, (y/n), and I’m surprised you haven’t gotten tired of me.”

You scoff through foggy eyes, but his dimples and freckles are still prominent in your vision.

“In the rare times that we’re not together and I’m with other people, the first thing people ask me is how you’re doing. Shit, I even get asked about you in interviews and fans I meet on the street ask about you.”

You’re full on sobbing now, his pretty words too much to handle, an overwhelming feeling of love and gratitude and happiness filling your chest.

“You’re not a burden, baby.” He said softly as he pulled you into his lap, his rough fingertips sipping the salty tears from under your eyes. “Say it, please.”

You take in a shaky breath, but an even, firm breath comes out, the ache in your chest a lot lighter, less painful. You lick your chapped lips before speaking, “I’m not a burden.”

His lips press to your temple, the warm skin. You both cry, holding each other tighter than what you thought was possible. You nuzzle your face into his neck, breathing his warmth and scent.

He sighs and gingerly kisses your forehead, his finger twirling the ends of your hair.

“Wanna go take a shower?” Harry asked, your legs tangled with his under the comforter. “We can watch a movie or something after, yeah?” He pushed back the stray hairs that had fallen out of your ponytail, the tie loosening its grip on your hair as you moved around the bed throughout the day.

“Yeah.” you mumble, eyes droopy again, energy slowly fading as the sun faded from the sky.

“C’mon, baby.” He wiggles away from you, standing on the side of the bed, his hand out for you to grab.

You move the duvet off you, goosebumps forming on your exposed legs and arms because you were only wearing one of Harry’s old shirts.

He takes your hand as you scoot closer to the edge of the bed, your feet softly landing on the wooden flooring of your bedroom.

Harry raises your intertwined hands and tenderly pressed his lips to the back of your hand, his dimples smile forming when he sees a blush form on your cheeks. “C’mon, love.” He leads you towards the bathroom, quickly turning on the light.

You walk behind him as he makes his way further in, opening the glass door of the shower to turn on the water, letting it get warm before he turns around to you.

He lifts his own shirt up, exposing his tattooed chest. “You too, love.” He chuckled at you as you just stood there in front of him.

He drops his shirt before tugging at the hem of yours, his eyes looking into yours for approval. You give him a small nod before he brings it up your torso.

He helps you undress the rest of the way, which was quick because you only had your underwear left.

You stayed close as Harry quickly undressed. The butterfly on his stomach expanded as he took in a deep breath, his hand reaching towards you again to lead you to the spraying shower.

The foggy glass door springs open and Harry steps aside for you. “Ladies first.”

Harry’s hand leaves yours to lay it on your back as you step into the steaming shower.

•••

Harry just finished washing your hair, his fingers raking through your wet strands, his chin resting on top of your head. Your hands mindlessly run up and down his back, your cheek against the swallow tattoo on his chest.

His thumb rubs against the side of your face, catching your attention. You look up to his green eyes looking down at you already, his dimples lightly denting his cheeks. “You’re pretty.” He spoke softly, his eyes shifting around your face.

You sheepishly look down at his chest, lightly tracing the butterfly tattoo on his stomach.

He chuckles at your shyness and kisses your forehead. Even though you can’t see it, he looks at you like you hung the moon, he looks at you like a goddess even though you have demons on your shoulders. “Which one’s your favorite?” He whispered in your ear before pressing his lips to it.

You hummed as you leaned back, Harry’s hands on your hips still keeping you close. Your eyes scanned his body, your mind at battle.

You suddenly lift yourself up on your toes, holding on to his shoulders for leverage as you look at the tattoos that cross over, inching close to his back muscles.

“The little guitar doodle, thing.” You said before you unknowingly let out a little giggle, you finger lightly grazing the darkened skin.

“There’s that laugh.” He spoke softly, a small grin widening on his face. His emerald eyes shining in adoration. “I missed it.” His fingers curl the ends of your hair. Your hands move to his face, delicately holding his gorgeous face against yours.

“I love you. Thank you.” You said quietly, tears fogging your sight.

He shakes his head without hesitation, wet curls falling between you. “Nothing to thank me for.” He lifted his head to press a hard kiss on your nose, making a small giggle leave your lips. “There’s that beautiful sound again.” He roughly kissed under your eye, your giggles getting louder. He pecks the corner of your lips before migrating slightly to nip at your pink lips.

Your shoulders relax as you sigh into the kiss, your fingers lightly grazing the skin on Harry's shoulder, his around your waist, giving you a small squeeze.

The warm water cascades behind you, flowing through your hair and falling down to your feet.

He slowly pulls away, so slow that it seemed like he didn’t really want to pull away. Wet strands of his hair fall into his face, your fingers quickly leaving his shoulder to rake them back. “Wanna finish up and get to bed?” He asked quietly, his chipped fingernails faintly grazing the skin of your hip.

You nod, backing up as Harry moved closer to turn off the water behind you. The steamy glass door opens with a pop, Harry’s feet stepping onto the white floor mat to grab towels hanging on the wall. He quickly wraps one around his waist, droplets of water descending down his inked frame, some falling down from his hair onto his shoulder.

You slowly step out of the shower beside Harry, grabbing the towel from his hands and unfolding it to dry your hair and body before wrapping it around yourself.

“Do you want one of my shirts, love?” He asked as he walked out to the bathroom (still completely wet with a water trail behind him) to his dresser, looking through his casual wardrobe.

“If it’s okay with you.” You stayed in the bathroom, watching him move around the bedroom.

“Of course, lovie. That’s why I offered.” He comes in front of you to hand you some clothes, just a pair of his boxers and his old ‘Hot n Hard’ shirt. “Always want you in my clothes. He pecks your nose and pulls away, a small dimple piercing his cheek as he smirked. “Also like you with no clothes.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and pushed at his shoulder, shaking your head at him.

By the time you slid on the shirt he gave you, he was leaning against the doorframe, pink boxers hanging loosely under the fern tattoos. “Can I help with your skincare?” He asked shyly, his cheeks turning the same color as his boxers.

You don’t hesitate to nod, stepping farther into the bathroom to let him in.

He pats the counter, his other hand going to your back. “Sit for me, baby.”

You jumped onto the counter, silently watching him as he gathered your different products, you had too many to count (and didn’t need).

You sat quietly as you watched his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out of his lips. His rough fingers gingerly patting stuff on your face, laughing at your whines when he was dragging down your face instead of smoothing up. “It’ll give me wrinkles!” You groaned.

So now he’ll do the same with his skin.

What? He doesn’t want wrinkles either.

•••

yay!!!

@chillingonlife @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @letsgoparty-ah-ah-ah-yeah @tom-hollands-wife @acciosiriusblack (i know some of you probably only meant the instagram things but i hope this is okay)

(lmk if you want to be added/taken off taglist)

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

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yoga!din thoughts:

they've been fucking around for awhile, but only in the studio. never beyond the studio doors, not even in the cramped, single-person bathroom across the hall. their relationship is purely physical—probably couldn't even consider it fwb. he likes her, is irritated by her, likes the smoothness of her pussy. she likes him, is fascinated by him, likes the rigidness of his cock. it doesn't go much further than that.

that all changes when they run into each other at the grocery store.

I-

christ on a cracker here we go. I’m ready to die now. Cause of death, yoga!Din oh NO-

This... I have no idea what any of this is, but Jess and I have been having a good ol’ time with it. I also want to give a shout out to Rachel for always being a rock in these unprecedented times and taking interest in this main man and I’ll probably be sending you similar messages for your masseuse au to torture you and im not even a little sorry about it

(warnings: SMUT, spanking, language, so pls minors, politely, go home thanks)

She always does this—why does she always do this?

She drifts down the aisles with the practiced effort of a trapeze artist, juggling the load of groceries bundled to her chest.

Get a cart. Just get a damn cart—a basket, something.

But no. She doesn’t. It happens every time: she goes in for one item—maybe two—and two turns to three and three turns to four, and suddenly they’ve multiplied like rabbits and she’s got half the store in her arms.

Trail mix from the bulk bins, almond milk, coffee grounds, bananas, spirulina powder, those delicious chickpea chips that were buy-one-get-one—how was she supposed to just walk past that—spinach, tofu, zucchini noodles, salmon fillets—

And she nearly drops it all when she spots him. Dark hair, dark eyes.

She stalls out, puttering to a halt. He’s reaching into the frozen meats section, rifling through the various cold cuts. She’d recognize the yawn of his back anywhere, the slope of that broad plane— his arms too, how his tricep cuts across the tawny gold. The shapes they can make.

The positions they can bend her into.

Maybe it’s best if she just turns around now, sneaks away, pretends like none of this ever happened—she could do that. That would be easy—the easier of the two options, to be sure, because the alternative sounds terrifying and messy, and maybe if she just backs up nice and slow—

Din wheels his cart forwards and glances up. Shit.

He’s not sure what he’s even looking at at first. His feet slow, and there’s a groove creased into his forehead, brow ticking down. She’s here— right here in front of him. How can she be here? How can she be anywhere but where he knows her best—knows her at all? Inside that room, woven limbs and sweaty skin on glossed wood floors. How can she be here—outside that sacred space—in his fucking grocery store?

They stare at each other. She breaks first.

“Hi,” she mumbles out, beguiling.

“Hey,” Din responds, gruffer than he means.

“Hi,” she says again, pressing her lips together to hide a smile.

A grin tugs at him too, but he tampers it; they let a silent, pregnant beat pass between them and then—

“What are you doing he-“ “Have you been here befo-“

They’re speaking over each other—nervous and out of step—and they share a huffed chuckle. They’ve never been this before. They’ve always been physical and brash and bold and they’ve never needed words—they’ve shown each other exactly what they meant and what they wanted through touch—and now, when they need them most, they’re at a loss.

“Just getting some supplies,” she answers him with a shrug, causing one of her many parcels to slip from the precarious tower she’s constructed, and Din, ever agile, catches it before it strays too far.

“My hero,” she quips dryly, gratefully, as he carefully places the package of tofu on top of the heap. He makes a face, wrinkling his nose. “Is that stuff any good?”

“It’s an acquired taste,” she smirks.

He’s closer to her now, less than an arm’s length away, and Din’s eyes flit to the fading mark at the swallow of her neck, peeking up from the collar of her shirt— the mark he left there just days prior, when she ground down on him, supple frame speared by his cock, rocking frantic and needy up and down on him, whimpering hushed noises into the empty studio. His hand splayed the width of her back, cradling her to him as she rode Din, stretching around him fucking perfectly.

“Fuck, this pussy takes me so well,” he seethed through a clenched jaw, her breasts rutting against his chest with each bounce of her hips. He growled. “You’re so - shit - you’re tight-”

Din gave her ass a sharp smack before pawing at it, grabbing a fistful of the flesh there and she moaned— she fucking moaned, depraved and oaky, and knocked her head back, lips falling open and eyes rolling shut. Din groaned at the sight—this woman, this fucking thorn in his goddamn side—sheathed around him, writhing as he fucked up into her—and she had the audacity to moan like that.

“You like that?” He slapped her ass again and she whimpered, clawing at him, tangling her fingers into his hair, nails scraping over his scalp. He had to resist the urge to shudder—snapping his mouth tight around a whine.

Normally, she’d meet him with some sort of resistance. She was cheeky and smarmy and they both knew it—it’s a game they played—perfectly balanced, perfectly opposed. But she couldn’t help it—she was too far gone, too fucked out, and the words unspooled from her lips like yarn.

“Yes-yes—fuck, Din- please.”

That earned her another swift crack, the pillowed flesh prickling red from the sting of his palm, and it tore a guttural sound out of her, wrecking through her pretty throat. “God, you’re a filthy little thing. So f-fucking filthy for me-“

He ripped her orgasm out of her, his fingers snaked between their bodies, furiously working at her clit in tight, wet circles. It felt like a punch to his gut, as her pussy clamped down around him and gushed.

When he finally came, spilling into her slicked cunt, he had to bite down on her neck just to keep from fucking shouting.

He tears his gaze off the bruise, returning to her face—and it’s hardly any better. The corner of her mouth has turned up, just barely, the whisper of it wry and aching. That look—that infuriating, debilitating glint in her eyes—has settled and it makes his cock twitch against his jeans.

“Having a barbecue?” she asks, nodding to his cart, the beer and buns and patties there.

He clears his throat, “Something like that.”

Fenn insisted on it—’I’m not wasting the perfect weather. We’re all doing something, whether you like it or not’— He could only fight her on it for so long. Lesser men have tried and failed, and he knew it best to quit while he was ahead.

“Sounds fun. It’s supposed to be a beautiful weekend.”

“Yeah, so I hear.” Din has to fight the roll of his eyes.

The spell had been broken. They’d spirited themselves away—lying to each other and themselves—as if their tryst existed above consequence, above ramification—like they weren’t even real people. Just ideas, ideas they’d fuck and then suddenly and conveniently vanish—out of sight, out of mind; would disappear as the sun that set on them, blurring lines into the dark.

But he sees her here, clumsy willow arms and cotton tee and cut-off shorts and those beautiful fucking legs he loves wrapped around him so much, and she’s glowing despite the ugly fluorescent sheen cast up from the linoleum tile and—

It’s different. She’s different. Fuller. He knows her now—like this. And he can’t unknow her.

His throat bobs. Maybe he should ask her if she’s free. If she’s got plans. Maybe—

“I’ll see you on Wednesday then,” she says, something unreadable in her voice.

Din swallows. He nods. “Wednesday.”

Oh fuck, he likes her.

She tips her head to him, grinning something small, and shuffles off towards the register.

He watches her go, eyes following as she rounds a corner and slips away. She can feel them on her, his eyes, boring into her backside—all the way to her car, through the town, up to her driveway, into her kitchen where she cupboards her groceries—she feels him, the heavy heat of him, melting against her spine.

@djarinsbeskar @frannyzooey @pedros-mustache

#yoga!din #I am unwell #good bye #modern!din #din djarin smut #mando smut #I ain’t sorry #din djarin x female oc #mandalorian smut #thirsty thursday #amirite

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watchmegetobsessed · 3 years

Text

VALERIE - Part VIII. (Harry Styles)

i can’t believe we are slowly nearing the end of this story, don’t forget, we only have two more parts left!! please leave a feedback/coment/like/ANYTHING if you liked this part, it means so so soooo much to me!!

word count: 5k

SERIES MASTERPOST

masterlist

Harry can be such a persistent pain in the ass sometimes. You haven’t decided if you like it about him or not. If he makes up his mind about something it has to be that way, no objection.

He texted you in the morning that he would be coming over to your place after work, because he is looking after Valerie for the night, for the first time ever and he needed you to tell him everything he needs to know about taking good care of her.

“I think Rosa will tell you all about it when they arrive. I got a list from her as well,” you tell him when he calls you during your lunch break.

“I know she will, but I’m a single man, it’s bold of you to think I know anything about babies.”

“What are you talking about? You are always so good with her. I’m sure it’s gonna be fine.” Steven has a business dinner tonight and Rosa was invited as well. You know that because they asked you first if you could look after Valerie, but you had already made plans with Marcus, so you had to turn them down. Guess they found someone who is free, but it seems like Harry is a little panicky about it.

“Is it not the best time to admit that I have no idea how to change a diaper properly?”

You laugh at his question and you can almost picture the worried look on his face, lips pressed together and that little crease showing between his eyebrows.

“Then why did you say that you’d look after her?” you ask giving your salad a shake before you start eating.

“Because Rosa sounded so desperate, and I wanted to help. I thought I would figure it out, even googled it, but I’m not sure I have the right idea about everything.”

“What do you mean you googled it?”

“Well, if you’d look at my search history it would be filled with maternity sites where they describe in detail how to wipe a baby’s ass,” he states, making you laugh once again.

“You’re nuts,” you sigh, shaking your head. “Unfortunately, I have plans tonight, so I don’t think I can help you.”

“When?”

“Um, Marcus is picking me up at seven.”

“That’s perfect, Rosa and Steven will drop Val off at mine at four, so I’ll have plenty of time to go over to yours so you can show me everything.”

“Harry, I’m working until five.”

“Alright, I’ll be right there at five thirty.”

“Harry... “ you chuckle, shaking your head.

“Please, Y/N! I’m begging you! This is a kinda life or death situation. You can’t do this to me! You still owe me for the time you were looking over her!”

Closing your eyes you lean onto the table. You already know you’ll say yes, how can you not when he is right about owing him one, but you should really learn how to say no next time, before people start to see you as the loser who just does as she is told all the time.

“Okay. I’ll be home by five twenty.”

“Fucking perfect. I’ll see you later,” he cheers before ending the call.

Turns out he is quite punctual, because just as you walk around the corner you see his car parked in front of your building and you just smile. He spots you from the rearview mirror and gets out, unbuckling Valerie from her seat as well.

“They left you the seat as well?” you ask and help him get the huge bag Rosa packed for Valerie.

“I told them I need to do groceries so Steven left it for me.”

Valerie babbles to Harry relentlessly, who occasionally hums a response as the three of you go up to your apartment.

“So, what exactly do you want me to show you?” you ask, setting the bag down on the couch as Harry puts Valerie down on the plush rug to wander around a bit as the two of you discuss what he needs help with.

“Diaper change, feeding and burping. I think I’ll be alright with the rest.”

“Okay, first of all, she doesn’t need to be burped, she’s old enough to skip that. Only try that if she is fussy after eating,” you tell him and he nods, mentally taking notes. “Alright, let’s see a diaper changing. How many did Rosa leave for you.”

“Oh, she left a bunch but I dropped by the store and bought another pack just to be sure. Let me grab it from the car.”

Harry runs off, in the meanwhile you sit on the floor with Val and get everything you need from the bag to change her. You figured he just bought a smaller pack in case he might mess up the first few times, but when Harry returns he has a huge pack under his arm, written on the side you see that there are 92 pieces in it.

“What the fuck, Harry? Are you trying to supply her for the rest of the year?” you snap with a laugh.

“I panicked, don’t give me shit about it!” he whines joining you on the floor.

You put an old blanket down and grabbing Valerie you make her lie on her back as Harry opens the mega pack and hands you a clean diaper. You go over the whole process step by step, making sure you cover every detail that might come to you naturally but wouldn’t be that obvious for Harry. He intently watches your every move, at one point you almost expect him to get a notebook and pencil to take notes.

“Okay your turn. Let me see what you learned.”

Scooting over you let Harry take your spot and his hands carefully reach to get rid of the diaper you just put on Valerie, who is still carelessly babbling around, stuffing her fingers into her mouth without a worry in the world. She surely doesn’t give a damn about being experimented on.

Harry’s fingers work delicately on her, doing everything just as you told him and he even folds the used diaper in a prettier way than you did.

“See? It’s not that hard. Just expect some poop in it the next time,” you tell him and laugh at the grimace that tugs on his face.

“How often do I need to change her?”

“Just… give her bum a sniff now and then, you’ll know when she has left a gift for you.”

“Awesome,” he sighs nodding. “Okay, now onto the feeding.”

It’s been a while since the night you looked after Val, since then Rosa has stopped breastfeeding so she is now fully on baby food from any store and basically anything pureed. Rosa packed a few different kinds of foods and wrote on the list that Valerie has been a fan of smashed apples, banana and peas.

Harry takes her to his arms and sits at your small dining table as you get one of the baby foods with a small spoon and her bib.

“Feeding is nothing special, just make sure to give her small portions and wait until she swallows everything. But she is a calm eater, so she takes her time tasting everything and then swallowing it,” you explain to him and show him what you just said, bringing some food to her mouth on the spoon. Harry watches her take it, some of it ending up on her lips and you wipe it off with the spoon when you pull it out of her mouth.

“See? She is quite chill, you have nothing to worry about,” you tell Harry. Some babies tend to turn feeding into a race and they want to get as much food into their mouth as possible at once. Valerie is a luckier case in this field. “Wanna try?”

Harry nods and you drop the spoon into the jar, putting it to the table before you take Valerie from his lap. Once again, he is doing perfectly fine, feeding her just the right amount and wiping the excess off her lips and cheeks easily. He had nothing to worry about.

“You’re doing great, as if you were a natural,” you tell him smiling and you swear you see him blush.

“I’m a little far from that. I’m still in panic that I do something wrong.”

“It was a bold move to say yes to Rosa if you are so worried how you’d do.” Harry keeps feeding her, eyes focused on the spoon and the little girl sitting on your thighs.

“Rosa sounded really desperate, I wanted to help. That’s what godparents are for, right?”

“I guess,” you nod. You watch him treat her so delicately and gentle, before you could even stop yourself, your thoughts wander over to imagining him be just like this with his own baby.

The thought of Harry being a dad and taking care of his baby has a weird and surprising effect on you. You imagine him doing all these everyday things like feeding her, playing with her, falling asleep on the couch with her curled up on his chest. You’d give an arm to see him like that, the vision of a curly haired little girl playing all too vividly in your mind. You see him having a girl, that’s what feels right for him. He would definitely make her feel like a princess and a total daddy’s girl.

Your eyes wander over to his arm where his tattoos are showing from under his rolled up sleeves. Surely soon enough Valerie will be coloring the many shapes and maybe one day he’ll do the same with his daughter. There’s no doubt Harry will be an amazing dad.

Realization hits you hard that how badly you want to witness all of these and it gets to your head a little too heavily, feeling your eyes tearing up a little. You need to take a few deep breaths that draws his attention to you.

“You alright?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows at you as Valerie finishes up the lasts of her meal.

“Yeah, I just… I need to start getting ready,” you say clearing your throat as Harry takes Val from you. “Feel free to stick around,” you tell him making your way to the bathroom with the sheer intention of having an ice cold shower before you lose your mind over your wandering thoughts.

Harry seemingly takes up on the offer and stays, playing with Valerie in your living room while you soak yourself in the freezing water. It helps though, you feel a lot more put together when you walk out, wrapped in your fuzzy bathrobe, your damp hair falling to your shoulders.

“Feel free to get anything from the fridge, by the way,” you tell Harry as you move into your bedroom to start getting ready.

“Thanks, but I’m alright,” he calls back. “Where are you two heading tonight?”

“Just this new Indian restaurant Marcus has been wanting to try out.”

“Sounds nice.” Harry walks into your bedroom with Valerie in his arms as you sit at your vanity and get started on your makeup. You watch him from the mirror as he slowly walks around your bedroom, just looking around, examining the framed pictures and little memories you keep on your walls, shelves and dresser.

You catch his smile when he sees the photo you and him got from Rosa and Steven, you put it next to a childhood photo of Rosa and you.

“You had braces?” he asks looking at that photo.

“For three years.”

“Well, they surely did a great job on your smile,” he teases you. You know you had a quite crooked smile back then, it was actually your idea to get braces. One insecurity off the list once they straightened your teeth, a lot more to deal with that couldn’t be fixed that easily.

Harry continues to snoop around as you do a quick, natural look, just the bare minimum. You don’t necessarily like wearing much makeup, but you like what just some mascara and blush does to your appearance. You leave the room a little to blowdry your hair and when you return, Harry is sitting on your bed, eyes watching over Valerie, who is playing with one of your pillows that has a fuzzy cover on.

You catch Harry’s eyes from time to time as you loosely braid your hair, watching yourself in the mirror. He always smiles when your eyes meet. When you’re done with everything at the vanity, you step to your small closet to find something to wear. You narrow down the choices for three dresses, but you can’t quite decide which one would be the best.

“Wear the light blue one,” Harry speaks up, grabbing your attention.

“I was thinking about that one too.”

“You wore it to dinner once a while ago. It looked great on you.”

“You remember it?” It’s a surprise he remembered since it was quite some time ago, more than a year, to be exact. You weren’t on good terms back then, but it seems like he still had an eye for the small things.

“Yeah,” he chuckles softly, his cheeks turning red again as he turns back to Valerie. You grab the dress from the hanger and go to the bathroom to change.

It’s one of the kind of dresses that just don’t let you wear a bra, but you’re fine with that, because the final look makes up for the discomfort it causes. You try your best to pull the zipper up, but your flexibility didn’t get any better through the years. A heavy sense of deja vu comes over you as you walk back to your room, holding the dress to your chest. Harry looks up at you curiously and you don’t miss how his eyes wander up and down your body.

“Could you please zip me up?”

“Sure,” he breathes out as he gets up from the bed and steps behind you.

It’s just like the day you met, you suddenly feel like it’s years ago and he is helping you zip up your bridal dress. His fingers brush against your skin the exact same way as he pulls the zipper up, and his fingertips even run over it once it’s all done, like they did back then. You wonder if he thinks the same or it’s just an irrelevant little moment to him, nothing more.

Stepping to your mirror you take a look at yourself, Harry standing a few steps behind you, his eyes taking in your look as well. For a moment you doubt this is the look you should go for, but as if Harry could feel your hesitation he steps forward and his eyes catches your gaze in the mirror.

“You look amazing. Marcus is a lucky guy.”

Turning around you smile at him breathing out your thank you.

It’s nearing seven so you quickly pack your bag and choose a coat that goes well with your dress while Harry packs Valerie’s stuff. Just when you put on a pair of white heels your phone starts ringing and Marcus’ smiling face appears on the screen.

“Hi, I’ll be right down in a second.”

“Great, see you in a bit.”

When all three of you are ready to leave you lock the door and you head down. There’s a heavy silence between the two of you in the elevator and you don’t know how to break it, but it’s almost painful.

“Call me if you are having trouble with anything,” you tell him as you walk through the hall, out of the building.

“I’m not gonna ruin your date night, but don’t worry, I had a great teacher,” he smiles at you. Marcus is parked right behind Harry’s car and he gets out seeing you walk out of the building. “Hi Marcus!” he nods in his way.

“Hey, didn’t know you were here too,” he smiles nicely and as he steps to you he presses a soft kiss to your lips.

“Just needed some help with this little Princess, but we are off. Thanks again, Y/N,” he smiles in your way as he buckles Valerie up in her seat.

“No problem.” Stepping to the car you peek inside catching Val’s attention. “Be good and don’t give Harry a hard time, okay?” you tell her and she just stares back at you with those curious eyes of hers. “See you later,” you tell Harry nodding his way before following Marcus to his car.

As you sit in the passenger seat you watch Harry start his car and drive away and suddenly you wish you were sitting in his car. Your heart is aching to spend the rest of the evening with him and Valerie.

The guilt quickly kicks in when Marcus asks about your day. You definitely shouldn’t be thinking about being with Harry instead of your boyfriend who did absolutely nothing to deserve to be thrown away.

You try your best to forget about Harry and focus on Marcus, because that’s the right thing to do.

It takes all your energy to stay present and focus on your surroundings and what’s happening to you, because every other minute you find yourself thinking what Harry and Valerie are doing right now and if everything is alright. You try to tell yourself that if something was wrong he would text or call you, but he said it himself he wouldn’t want to bother you during your date.

“Is there a specific reason why you are paying absolutely no attention to what I’m saying?”

Marcus’ voice snaps you back from your thoughts once again and you feel the heat crawling up your neck to your cheeks.

“Sorry, I just… I’ve had a tiring week.”

“You know, that’s totally fine, but you don’t seem to share it or anything without me asking about it. Is it something I do or you are just… not planning on letting me get closer to you anytime soon?” You can feel the little harshness in his tone and he has all the rights to be annoyed at you, but you still feel the need to defend yourself.

“That’s not true. I just tend to keep things to myself.”

“It’s fine, but building up a relationship kind of requires a lot of talking. I want to hear about whatever it is that’s on your mind. How else should I help you or be there for you if you keep shutting me out every time?”

“I’m sorry if it’s coming off this way, but I’m just… not used to this.”

“To what?”

“Having to always think about someone else too, not just myself. I know it sounds selfish, but I’ve been on my own for a long time, I need time to adjust to the changes.”

“You know that I wouldn’t push anything on you and that I’m gonna wait for as long as you need, but… sometimes I feel like you’re not even trying.”

“I am trying!” you snap, feeling yourself growing frustrated that he is questioning your efforts even though deep down you know he is right. “I do want to share things, it’s just…”

I don’t want to share them with you, you think to yourself and the thought makes you shudder. The worst thing is that in the back of your mind you know exactly who you want to share things with.

You shake your head with a defeated sigh. It’s a dead end and you clearly need to make a choice if you want to climb the walls and see what’s on the other side, even if it’s just another dump filled dead end, or you could just turn around and walk away with the possibility that you’ll never get to see what’s on the other side.

Part of you is struggling with opening up to Marcus because deep down you know he might not be the one for you, but the other part is violently holding onto him because… if it’s not gonna work out with him, who else will it? Marcus is everything any girl would wish for in a guy, nice, funny, good looking and caring. There is nothing you could bring up against him except that you just have this weird feeling in the back of your mind. If you can’t make it work with him, who else could you possibly try with? You constantly feel like you’re running out of time and chances. The music might still be playing and there are plenty of empty seats, but it will eventually stop and you don’t want to be the one without a seat.

Dinner cuts quite short as your little fight poisons the mood pretty fast. Clearly, Marcus is fed up because of your behavior while there’s nothing you really can or would do about it, so the drive back to your place is quiet and tension filled. He kisses you goodbye when he drops you off, but it’s more like a dry peck on the lips before you basically escape from his car.

You are quick to get rid of your dress and change into sweatpants and a hoodie, the urge to call Harry and check in on him takes over your thoughts quite fast and you find yourself calling him.

“Y/N, hey!” you hear his voice on the other end.

“Hi, how is everything going?”

“Everything is fine, I just gave her a bath, we’re gonna watch some cartoons and then I’ll try to put her to sleep. Are you already back from your date?”

In the back you can hear a shriek from Valerie and Harry coos at her, that’s followed by a giggle from her.

“Um, yeah. I…” sighing you close your eyes. You feel like an idiot, but it seems like you just can’t deal with your feelings tonight, so why not completely give up? “Can I come over?”

There’s a short pause before he answers. “Sure, of course. But is everything alright?”

“Yeah, I’m just… I don’t want to be alone.”

“Alright. We’ll be waiting for you right here.”

You call an Uber and in thirty minutes you are walking up Harry’s driveway. The lights are on inside and the nerves you’ve been fighting on the way here feel to dissolve quite fast, as you think that he is still up, even though he told you he’d be waiting for you.

You ring the bell and just a few seconds later Harry opens the door, Valerie in his arms, now wearing a pink onesie with the hood on her head.

“Hey, come inside,” he invites you in. “Can I get you anything?”

“No thanks, I’m fine.”

“So,” he sighs after locking the door and turning to face you. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Is it okay if we don’t?” you ask biting into your bottom lip. You know he is probably dying to know what made you want to come over and that you probably should tell him since you are seeking shelter at his place, but you just don’t have the energy to talk about it.

“Totally fine,” Harry smiles and you return it with a quiet thank you. “I was just about to put Val down to sleep, wanna join us?”

“Sure.”

You follow him to his bedroom where the same portable bed is set up that was in your just a few months ago. Harry lays her down bringing a blanket over her as you sit next to the crip while he grabs the book Rosa packed. Harry joins you on the floor, your legs mingling as you sit facing each other and Val can see you through the sheer side of the bed.

You watch her in awe as Harry starts reading a story, Val listening to his deep voice as if she understood every word that left his lips. A few pages into the story you see her eyelids slowly close and she eventually falls asleep, her little chest rising and falling steadily.

The two of you tiptoe out of the room so you don’t wake her up.

“I’m gonna make a tea, you want one?”

“Yes please.”

You walk into his kitchen and while you sit on a stool at his kitchen island he starts the kettle and digs into his little box that’s filled with filters.

“Apple and cinnamon?” he asks, holding two filters up and you nod your head. When the water boils he fills up two mugs and throws the filters into them before placing them on the counter in front of you.

“You know, I’m a little mad you had it so easy with her,” you point it out with a smirk, making him laugh.

“I made it up with the panic at the beginning.”

“You really had nothing to worry about. You did great.”

“Thanks,” he chuckles shyly. “Y/N?”

“Hm?”

“I know you said you don’t want to talk about it, but I just need to ask. You’re not feeling down because Marcus did something to you?”

You smile at how careful and protective he is. Shaking your head you turn your gaze to the mug in front of you.

“No. It’s just…” You have to take a deep breath as you feel the tears forming in the corners of your eyes. “It’s stupid,” you breathe out shakily. Harry notices what’s going on and sliding off the stool he steps to you enveloping you into his embrace as you curl your arms around his torso and bury your face into the soft fabric of his shirt on his chest.

You really didn’t want to cry, especially not in front of him, but it’s been piling up for a while and tonight has been a little too hard for you.

“Shit, now I’ve cried in your presence twice,” you sigh with a shaky chuckle as you let go of him and wipe your cheeks.

“Actually, it’s been three times,” Harry huffs with a smirk.

“What?”

“You cried at the wedding too, when we were talking outside.”

“Amazing,” you shake your head with a bitter laugh. “I don’t even remember that.”

“No surprised, you were quite drunk by then,” he chuckles. “But it’s alright, don’t worry about it.” There’s a pause where neither of you really knows what to do or say. You feel like such a cry baby for breaking down at such a simple question, but Harry couldn’t know how deep it was digging.

“Hey,” he speaks up finally. “Wanna watch a movie? I have quite a few movies saved on Netflix that I’ve been trying to watch.”

The small smile on his lips eases your nerves almost instantly and you nod with a thankful smile. The two of you move into the living room and he puts on some kind of romantic comedy as you get comfortable on his huge L shaped couch. The movie is not the best you’ve seen, but it’s good enough to stop your racing thoughts and relax for a while.

When you know it’s nearing its end you think about if Harry will tell you to leave or let you stay. Because selfishly, you want to stay, and not just sleep on the couch. You want to sleep next to him like at Christmas. You miss what it felt like falling asleep with his arm wrapped around you and that’s exactly what you need today.

When the movie ends, you glance over at Harry who is examining the carpet, clearly thinking about something really hard, but you make the move he probably wasn’t expecting.

Boldly, you stand up and just simply walk into his bedroom where Valerie is still sleeping in peace. You climb up to his bed and make yourself comfortable under the covers, waiting for his reaction with your heart pounding against your ribcage.

You hear his tapping footsteps and you wait for him to arrive with your eyes closed. It’s just a soft huff that comes from his way when he stops at the door seeing you all curled up in his bed, but he doesn’t say a word. You hear him shuffle around a little before the mattress moves under you and he lies next to you. When he stops moving you turn around so you are facing him, only making out some of his features in the dark, but you can tell he is looking at you.

“Harry?” you whisper.

“Yes?”

“I’m gonna be a little more selfish now,” you say without any further context.

“Okay,” he breathes out, clearly curious what you meant by that, but he quickly figures it out when you move closer and cuddle to his side, laying your head to his chest. You tell yourself that it’s okay, you can be selfish sometime and just do whatever feels right. This is exactly that, just an act of selfishness because you want to be close to him, feel the warmth of his body and not feel so lost and alone for just one more night.

When you feel his arm weigh down around your shoulders, a wave of relief washes over you. Everything that’s been bothering you quickly fades and it’s just the two of you, lying in his bed in silence, but it has never felt better.

You think about how you would be okay with feeling like this every night for the rest of your life and you wouldn’t ask for more. Nothing would really matter if you could end your days like this.

But then you remember that you might be alone with this thought. That you shouldn’t let yourself get fooled just because he was there for you when you needed him. Maybe you didn’t even need him, just someone and he happened to be the closest. But you figure that’s not true, because you wouldn’t feel the same way with someone else.

You think back to when he apologized about everything he said after the wedding. He said that he was sorry and he shouldn’t have been such an ass to you, but he didn’t say he would act differently if it was to happen again. He would probably still end it right there, just in a nicer way and it makes you think that it’s all just his friendly side, nothing more.

And the thought that you are alone with this heavy and confusing feeling scares you to death, because you have no idea what you’ll do when you lose control over it.

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blissfulparker · 3 years

Text

Sugar and spice pt.2→Mob!Dad!Tom

Parings: mob!dad!tom x Baker!reader

Warnings: fluff again

Summary: Tom is one of the youngest Mobsters known to London, youngest and most successful he seems perfect to people, feared by people. But his deepest secret is that he’s been raising a son all by himself. No one to be with since the birth of his son until he walks into the small bakery last minute for his sons birthday and meets you.

A/n: this is a bit later than I expected but here it is! I hope you all enjoy and please let me know your thoughts and what you would like to see from the future 💗💗

There had always been a rush in London. The city constantly running around and resorting to partying at night.

Tom felt that rush, he felt the rush of the people, the adrenaline running through his veins each day. Every day he had a new task, a new person and new blood. His days restless, he’s never truly seen a day off as his son and work kept him on his feet.

“Daddy!” It was almost like a dream, he was still dreaming as dreams became rare. “Daddy!” He heard the soft voice again, shaking him from his sleep he jolted up.

“Huh!” The little boys stands at the side of his bed before crawling in. His hair is messy like his fathers and he sits down next to him excited.

“It’s picnic day!” The boy had a lot of different ‘days’ at school. Once a month was picnic day where each kid brought some sort of treat for the class to enjoy. Picnic day was talked about last week over dinner but it completely left Toms brain as one of his men dead was slightly more important than cookies in a park filled with children.

“Picnic day?” He tries not to sound panicked as he doesn’t want to hurt his little boy. Yes he’s forgotten days in the past, he forgot movie day, pajama day, water day-that was heartbreaking-sometimes he even forgot to pick him up which made him hate himself and Harrison’s words become true all over again. He needs a mother.

“Ella is bringing fruit, jasper is bringing chips…” he starts to trail off and Tom tries to think of anything at the last minute. All he needs to do is give has a quick call to Harrison and have him head to the store. “And I’m bringing cookies!” The little boy says with excitement but his face starts to fall as he sees his dad focused on something else. “Remember?” His little voice broke him and he held his small shoulders.

“Yes!” Tom says with excitement. “Yes! Yes! I remember, I do! Why don’t you go get ready for school and give daddy a minute.” He kisses the boys cheek before he runs off. Running his hand through his hair he is quick to grab the phone.

“Harrison!” Tom nearly panicked into the phone.

“What is it?” He hears the faint sound of a girl in the background which makes him roll his eyes.

“I need you to go to the store and pick up cookies for Riley’s school thing.” Tom said quickly as he threw on proper clothes. He could hear the sigh on the other line. “You’re my assistant, remember? This is what you do.”

“No. My job is to—stop Angel—it’s to make sure you don’t kill yourself and make sure everything is in check. I’m your assistant and I am Riley’s uncle. Those are two different things.” Harrison sounded exhausted and annoyed. Tom could hear the sound of whatever girl he had brought home from wherever he went last night.

Tom didn’t exactly have those days, when he was younger there were highschool parties and akward hookups but he was a teenager. It was diffrent. But when his son came there was no bars, clubs, night out, nothing. Just him and his boy alone.

“Damnit Harrison, please. I just need this one favor.” He splashed his face with water as he tried his hardest to get ready in three seconds. He could hear the little boy already getting his bag and going downstairs. “Shit.” He whispered to himself.

“Go to that bakery with the cute girl! Get cookies from there! Hope Riley has a good day, tell him I love him! I’ve gotta go, I'm busy.” And before tom could protest, he hung up. Looking at his watch and then himself in the mirror. He would find himself back at you.

You who seemed to be fixing his problems.

Mornings were quiet. There was always a soft breeze—you’ve learnt from living in London for so long—but you loved it more than anything.

People were carefree in the mornings, the only rush coming from people who want to make it a rush but the others taking their time to stop and smell the roses.

The only rush coming from you was seeing how quick you can make coffee for yourself before your first costumer. Taking the first sip and suddenly that cool breeze that kisses your cheek is replaced with the warmth of the drink.

It’s far too early to hear the sound of the bells signifying that someone has walked in. You sigh slightly as you just wished you had a few more moments to yourself before you greeted people with a smile that sometimes was too sweet.

“Can you get that (y/n)?” Your coworker is already calling to you as she pulled the first batch of muffins out of the oven.

You tie the back of the apron as you walk out, not looking at the person coming in this early. You only see two pairs of feet, one of them being tiny.

“Give me one second if you—“ you turn to see the man from last week. The thought of him being back for you pushed away in your mind. You see the little boy he holds hands with, his son. You only assume by the same strong cheekbones and the chocolate colored eyes. Same small freckles as well.

“Oh hello again.” You smiled and tom walked up.

“Hi, I hate being so last minute but I need 24 cookies.” He asks and the little boy looks at you in awe, as if you were some sort of Angel to him.

You giggle a little, looking at the boy who’s birthday cake you made last week.

“Rather too early than too last minute. We haven’t started on any afternoon pastries unless ordered. We only have our morning pastries prepared.” You tell him and you see the panic on his face. He looks down at the little boy and before he could say anything you lean on the counter and speak to the boy.

“You must be the little boy who’s birthday it was last week.” You say with a soft smile.

“Yeah.” He says shyly. “Today is picnic day, I promised I’d bring cookies.”

“Well,” you rested your chin on the palm of your hand and tom watched.

He didn’t know what was more mesmerizing, the way you interacted with his son and managed to bring out the shyness that held him back. Or the dark lashes that blinked every few moments or the soft lip gloss that was freshly applied. Either way, he would hurt your feelings.

“Can we get muffins daddy?” He missed the whole conversation as he seemed to be in whatever trance you put him in.

Tom feels himself grow hot as he completely zoned out while staring at you. Your hand was now back on the counter and you looked at tom. He looked at you nervous as if you knew he wasn’t actually listening.

“Chocolate chip, blueberry or strawberry. Banana isn’t done yet and I’m not quite sure how he would like that…” you laugh softly and tom swallows hard.

“Chocolate.” The little boy says and Tom nods.

“Why don’t you go take a seat over there bubs.” Tom clears his throat. The little boy nods and walks away leaving him alone with you at the counter.

“I’m sorry I—“ he starts to apologize for his staring but you press your lips together to hide the feeling of heat coming to your face.

“Don’t be.” You flashed the white smile. “It’s early.” Was all you called as you walked back to the kitchen leaving tom alone in front of the counter.

“She’s pretty.” Riley said to Tom as he swung his feet at the chair. Tom felt himself blush as you could’ve easily heard.

He wasn’t wrong, you were gorgeous, but Tom didn’t need another girl breaking his heart. As the girl he fell in love with six years ago left him after the birth of their son, not even wanting to look at him while tom had tears in his eyes and even being so young and new to the world, Tom wanted to do anything for him.

But she broke his heart, he hadn’t seen anything of her since about three months of Riley’s birth and at first he tore the world apart to find her, make her pay, but she hid herself. She hid herself from what she called the monster that was Tom.

“She is.” Was all Tom swallowed back.

“Those need a five minute cooling, do you need any coffee?” You offered and he shook his head.

“Oh no I’m fine—“ he starts and you’re already over at the machine.

“You don’t have to say no because it’s polite, how do you take it?” You asked and he felt himself smirk and the little boy looked between his dad and the pretty girl giving them muffins.

“Cream, darling.” darling, such a pretty word he hasn’t used in years. A pretty word that he thinks sounds perfect said against someone's lips, a pretty name that fits you.

Your fingers gently touch his as you pass him the cup. Your fingers cold, soft at the tips but nails slightly scratch him. He wishes you held them there for a little bit longer.

Before he could say thank you, you disappeared to the back again. He could already hear Harrison laughing at him for letting a girl get him so weak. Not letting him have last words, not letting him be stubborn. A girl who has probably never even held a gun in her life having so much power.

“Here we are.” You set the beautiful box of well done chocolate chip muffins in front of the boy and watch his eyes go wide. You smile seeing his reaction before turning back to tom.

“H-How much?” Now he was stuttering, if anyone at all saw him the way he was acting he would probably be dead.

“Oh you’re fine.” You shouldn’t do this, but this was your only chance.

Living in London for years and the last boyfriend you had breaking your heart and almost never letting it heal. He was the first person in years you had felt something when he walked in. You never got flustered at work, never buy a man with a kid at least but when he came in the first time you didn’t even know if you could properly speak to him.

“No, No, No,” he shook his head and pulled out his card trying to hand it to you. “You’ve dealt with my shit twice—“

“Don’t say that—“ Riley starts.

Before tom could finish your grabbed his knuckles and shook your head. His eyes go down to your hand and he swallows hard and you don’t even realize you did that until then. Taking your hand back immediately and regaining your composure so you don’t embarrass yourself more.

“It’s fine, truly, business gets slow over here Anyways so they were saved from the trash.” You clear your throat. “And I think little man has an important picnic date.” The boy already half way across the lobby and Tom huffs before pulling out his wallet.

He doesn’t say anything except pull out a pen and a 50 dollar bill. You can’t see what has or even is writing but you see that he is being sneaky and the boy is just trying to get out of the bakery and go to school.

He sees the empty tip jar to the start of the day and slips the money in there before walking over to the boy.

You are quick to pull out the 50 dollar bill and call him out but he has a smirk and is already guiding the little boy out of the door.

“Have a nice day! Thank you!” He calls out and you huff staring down at the money.

A number written on the top and next to it written, “hopefully I can make it up to you with coffee, you just saved me twice! I guess we never introduced ourselves, I’m tom’

The words make you laugh and shove the money into your back pocket.

“Who was that?” Your boss comes out, the older woman who was the one who accepted Tom's order in the first place, you should be thanking her.

“He-he just came in for muffins.” You cleared your throat and hid the money in your apron feeling awful for even having it.

Soon you would be made up with hopefully coffee and from the cute boy who rushes in.

“She was pretty.” Riley says again in the car as he clutches onto the muffins as they drive.

“Yeah, she was.” He shouldn't have taken such a nice car, he didn’t exactly like when people stared or asked him what he did. It also was easier to track him in a car that cost as much as a house.

“She was nice.” He says too, almost like he’s trying to set his own dad up.

“She was.” Was all Tom said back but that doesn’t stop the boy.

“When can we go back?” He asks and tom reaches back and tickles the boys knee.

“What are trying to do Mister?” He teases and the boy laughs. They stop at the school where all the kids are getting out of their cars with their mom and dad and walking up to the front.

“Give me kisses.” He turns back to his son who gives him a kiss on the cheek and tom plants one on his forehead.

“Love you!” The little boy shouts before walking up the stairs to the school. Tom watches him walk away thinking about how he too liked her and hopefully his move wasn’t too bold and he can still have a chance.

Hopefully this time his heart wouldn’t be broken but with his secrets he might just break his own.

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taetaesbaebaepsae · 3 years

Text

Break My Heart (myg)

Summary: It’s over, and both you and Yoongi think about the past.

A/N: Thanks to @taegularities and @casuallyimagining for betaing this for me!

Warnings: angst, alcohol used as a coping mechanism, some making out and nipple play but this is mostly sad

Rating: Mature

Genre: Angst

Word Count: 5221

You try to push past him, but he throws you over his shoulder and you don’t even fight him, let him take you to the bed. His eyes are wet and his hands are soft on your skin.

“Don’t,” he starts, but you’re not listening. You’ve listened too much over the last year.

“Yoongi.”

He makes a whine in the back of his throat, hides his face in your neck. Your hands come up to rub his back - it’s like a reflex - before you push him off, head toward the door.

He won’t follow you. He never does.

You’re wrong, though. You’re wrong about so many things. He follows you into the hallway, into the elevator, keeps the door open with one foot while you try to shove him back out into the hallway. Finally, you end up fuming at the back of the elevator, arms crossed over your chest, glaring at him.

Yoongi’s trembling, you can see his hand shaking as he holds it out to you. He says your name, his voice hoarse and quiet.

“You wanna break my heart?

Your breath hitches in your chest as you’re catapulted back a year, two years, 5 years. You can see yourself then, your hair shorter and blonder, his hair darker. He was skinnier, then. Hell, so were you.

You were sitting on a curb, half crying and all drunk after a night out, trying to forget a recent breakup, when Yoongi sat down next to you, offered you what at first you thought was a handkerchief, but what ended up being a simple bar napkin.

“Hey,” he said softly, giving you a crooked smile and a tilt of his head. “Don’t cry. You wanna break my heart?”

It started so innocently, you and Yoongi. You were friends first, best friends even. He sat next to you on that curb, rubbed your back until you stopped crying, and you explained the whole situation to him, barely registering that he’d draped his jacket over your shoulders. He didn’t speak, just listened and nodded in the right moments, and when you were done, your cheeks hot from embarrassment of spilling out everything in your mind, he made this little hum in the back of his throat.

“So you need something to get him off your back,” he said thoughtfully.

You looked at him for a moment, stunned. “Uh, yeah. I guess.”

Your ex had been relentless in his pursuit to get you to talk to him after he’d cheated on you, and you were well and truly not interested. That night, you’d been sure you’d be free of him because he’d always been the type to go away for spring break, but he’d been there after all, chasing you around the clubs downtown.

Yoongi (you remembered his name, he’d told you as soon as he’d sat down and introduced himself while you were crying), hummed again.

“I have an idea.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Trust me,” he said, and gave you this open, gummy smile.

You did trust him, somehow, even though you didn’t know why. He leaned in close, whispered his plan in your ear, and even though it sent a shock down your spine, you nodded. Maybe you were drunk. Maybe you were just being curious. Either way, it started this thing. Started this slide, like a mudslide down the longest mountain.

You jumped in, with your eyes wide open, trusted him from the jump, and maybe you’d been wrong. Maybe you’d been wrong about a lot of things.

You were 20 when Yoongi had leaned in closer, just below your dangling earring, and planted the softest, most open kiss on your neck. Goosebumps pimpled your flesh, but you didn’t move, in fact, tilted your head to give him better access.

Seconds passed before he swept your hair from your shoulder, his fingertips brushing your skin, and you let out a breath with a little whine. He murmured something when he kissed you there again, this time sucking at your skin, almost roughly.

“Pretty,” you think it was what he said, but as important as that moment was, with all the things it started, that part was fuzzy because your head spun at the softness of his lips on your skin, the sting when he’d marked you there.

“There,” Yoongi said, still half mumbling, and you wondered how much he’d drunk.

His eyes were clear and warm when you looked at him, though, although his cheeks were dusted rose.

“Uh, th-thank you,” you muttered, feeling small and embarrassed now after it was over.

Yoongi gave you that gummy smile again, and you felt better almost instantly.

You didn’t know it then, but Yoongi always had that effect on you...until he didn’t. Until he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes. Until you stopped counting the hours he spent away from the bed you shared. Until it was over.

Yoongi stands next to your car, hands on your hood, tears streaming down his face and his eyes pleading with you. But you block it out, look straight ahead, start the car and rev the engine until he moves.

At first, you’re not quite sure he will, but finally he steps back, shoulders slumped, defeated. You manage not to cry, at least not until you’ve pulled over on the interstate, cars whooshing by you as you cover your face.

It isn’t as if you hadn’t tried.

You know how important Yoongi’s music is to him, you know he’s been working on getting an album produced and you’re proud of him, you really are, but...

But: you have barely seen his face in three months. But: you keep sleeping on one side of the bed because it’s cold on his side. But: you fucking miss him.

You want to talk to him about it, but how can you? How can you when you know this is everything to him? Even when you’d been kids in college, he’d dreamed of producing an album and this opportunity hadn’t just dropped in his lap, he’d worked for it. You’re supposed to be supportive, but all you can do is wonder how long it will be before you see his gummy smile again.

But: when he is home, he’s barely there, drinking too much coffee or scotch, depending on the time of day, barely looking at you, barely talking to you, grunting at you in response, mechanically eating the dinner you’d prepare.

One night, you’d push back from the table, frustrated, and it’d hit the counter with a thud.

Yoongi had looked up from his food, blinked at you as if he was waking from a dream.

“Y/n? Are you okay?”

“No,” you’d answered. “I’m not.”

You’d stormed off to the bedroom, and he hadn’t followed you. Hours later, he’d slid into bed next to you, his lips on your neck, the same spot he’d kissed that first night.

“I’m sorry,” he’d mumbled against your skin, words slurred around the edges just like the night you'd met.

You could smell the red wine he liked at dinner on his breath when you turned, and they’d been on the tip of your tongue, the words.

"What's wrong?" you’d wanted to ask. "Is it me?"

That las thought had kept you from speaking, allowed those words to die in your throat as you’d looped your arms around his neck, tasted the red wine on his tongue.

Because: what if it was something big, something you couldn’t fix? Because: what if it was you? What would you’ve done, then?

After the night outside the club, after Yoongi's mouth on your throat, you woke up the next morning and thumbed the mark he'd left while looking in the mirror.

Thinking about it made your face heat and it got worse when you saw him on campus, big gummy smile and looking a lot less hungover than you, his bleached bangs in his face.

"Hey, you," he said in this low voice, and you couldn’t help smiling back.

It went on like that, you and Yoongi, for months, and then a year, and then eighteen months. He walked you to most of your classes, bought you lunch, once or twice made you laugh so hard you'd snorted banana milk out of your nose. Things became easy with him, and it was so much like a friendship that you barely noticed when you began to fall in love with him.

Falling was easy, but gradual. By the time you realized it, he was graduating and you were a junior and you had no fucking idea what to do about it. You stood at the corner of his best friend's apartment, where there was booze and balloons and about 20 people, and sipped some foul smelling punch that someone had handed you, and looked for him.

You wondered how often you'd done this, looked for him in a crowd, felt your heart swell inside your chest when you found him, when he broke into that familiar gummy smile. You wondered how long you'd been in love and not known it, when he suddenly slid up behind you, his fingers light on your hip.

"Hey, you," he murmured, and you tilted your head back to look at him.

You smiled, just a bit, and he took this comical hitched breath.

"Y/n," he said, as if scolding you. "Don't look at me like that. You wanna break my heart?"

To this day, you aren’t sure if it was that he might’ve been leaving the country or that awful hunch punch, but your heart pounded against your chest too hard, and all you could think to do was to kiss him.

Quickly, without much thought, your lips pressed against his. It had been almost chaste, really, but Yoongi made this low, surprised sound in the back of his throat, his arms going around you and cinching at your waist, tightly, in this near possessive gesture that made your stomach tighten.

And that was it, at least for you. He’d kissed you back, and you’d been all but lost.

Yoongi didn’t leave the country, despite his plans. Later you wondered if that’d been your first mistake: not being strong enough to let him go.

It’s raining now, the sound of it thudding on the roof of your car louder than your heartbeat, and you can’t stop crying, gasping in these hitching breaths every few minutes, your stomach clenching from the force of your sobs. You know it’s dangerous here, on the side of the road and you can’t even remember if you’ve turned on your flashers but that doesn’t seem to matter, all that matters is that you can’t breathe, something viscous and rotten in your chest and stomach, something like all the mistakes you’ve made and all the regrets you have, maybe all those words, those questions you should have asked but didn’t. They’re choking you, poisoning you from the inside out and it’s flooding, but you fumble with the door handle, push the door open and swing your legs out, putting your head between your knees.

When you lift your head, finally able to breathe again, wanting to feel the rain on your face, there’s the bright glow of headlights, and then a blissful black fades over your eyes. You’re almost grateful.

Your dreams are almost all memories.

It’s disjointed, at first, but then you know where you are. Yoongi’s loft apartment back in college, and you know you’re dreaming but you can feel his hands on you nevertheless. You remember them being cold, clammy almost, and he was trembling as if he was nervous.

You laughed at him when he fumbled with your bra strap and he made this grumble in the back of his throat that made you laugh harder.

The laughter died in your throat when he pulled your breasts out of your bra impatiently, dragged his thumbs across your nipples. Your skin felt hot, like you were fevered, when he leaned forward and marked that spot below your ear again, harder, his teeth grazing against your skin.

When you were bare and arching your back beneath him, he sat up on his knees, his eyes dark and hungry looking down at you.

“God,” he whispered, his voice low and gravelly. “You are gonna break my heart.”

It’s starts to rain when Yoongi watches you drive away, and he looks down at the pavement and thinks about the first time he saw you, head in your hands, sitting on the curb with your legs crossed like a child.

Something about the way your shoulders had slumped tugged at his heartstrings, drew him to you, and when you looked at him, eyes big and wet, it had been alarming how much it made his heart ache.

He always hated to see you cry.

You weren’t even crying much when he’d pinned you to the bed, hoped he could make it okay with kisses on your throat and chin, make you smile again. Not even when he begged you to stay in the elevator, in the parking lot, banging his hands uselessly on the hood of your car.

“You’re a million miles away, Yoongi,” you’d said, drying your hands after loading the dishwasher, throwing the cloth with more aggression than he’d expected.

“I’m right here,” he’d said easily, and you let out a long breath and he knew that was the wrong thing to say. Knew it was wrong because it was a lie and you fucking knew it. You knew him, better than maybe anyone else in the world.

“You act as if I don’t fucking know you, Yoongi,” you’d said, something vicious in your voice and he stayed seated at the table as you glared at him, stunned that you’d said almost exactly what he’d been thinking.

He doesn’t know why he’d been surprised. You’d always seen right through him, from the first night.

Yoongi remembers the night he’d finally confessed, after two years of watching the line of your neck, wishing he could kiss it again, leave his mark there, after two years of watching other guys flirt with you and pretending it didn’t make his skin heat up, something buzzing under his skin like a beehive.

He remembers, suddenly and painfully, the way you’d tilted your chin up, turned your head to face him at his graduation party, remembers how full his heart had been, how joy had shot through him like lightning when he’d put his arms around you and you didn’t pull away, how just one corner of your mouth turned up.

He remembers wanting to tell you, wanting to tell you just how much he felt, how he felt full to bursting with you, like you’d burrowed under his skin. He remembers wanting to tell you how he planed every day around you, how the things he’d do almost scared him, the things he’d sacrifice, to keep seeing you smile every day.

Yoongi hadn’t known how to explain it so that you’d understand, so instead he’d done his best to press it into you with his hands and his mouth, like you’d somehow be able to feel it through osmosis, and maybe you had, because after that first night, things had caught on like wildfire.

He’d never told you, really, never actually confessed, and maybe that had been his first mistake.

Yoongi knows that you’ve been drifting apart for weeks. Months. He knows that he’s been absent, not you, knows how hard you’ve been trying but he can’t bring himself to talk to you about it.

What would he say? That he has this opportunity, that he has this once in a lifetime thing and he has to move thousands of miles away for it? That he can’t bring you with him, that they’ve made that crystal clear?

Yoongi is still just as afraid as he was all those years ago, about what he’d sacrifice for you, because half of him wants to give it all up, tell them to fuck off, he’ll make music in a den in your little one bedroom apartment just so that he can be with you every day. Nothing has ever meant more to him than music, but you. You.

Yoongi can’t tell you that he has this choice to make, this fucking impossible choice but instead of making it, all he can do is try to push it away, ignore it, put it off another week and keep drinking too much when he’s home because he can’t bear the way your eyes plead with him to be with you, to be present and in the moment like the two of you always had been. He can’t bear to think of what it’d be like to not see your purple coffee mug on the counter in the mornings, to not be able to roll over and kiss that hallowed spot below your ear that he’d first marked all those years ago.

Yoongi hadn’t responded, looked down at the table until you’d slammed your hands down on it, angry, your eyes bright.

“Are you fucking someone else?” you’d asked, your voice eerily calm despite how angry you looked, and it was like a spear through his gut.

He’d scoffed, because that was ridiculous. I It wasn’t even worth a response but you stormed towards the door and his breath caught in his throat like a wriggling fish and he tried to stop you but you were absolutely fuming now, angry in a way he’d rarely seen you.

He braced his back against the door, thought that at least he could stop this, at least he could calm you down but he couldn’t get the words to come out.

Yoongi had ended up here, head spinning with the three glasses of wine he’d had at dinner and chest feeling , like you’d ripped his heart out when you’d gone away.

He stands there as it starts to rain, breathing hard, half dressed, and wonders where you’ll go. To your best friend’s apartment? Your mother’s? They’ve both always hated him, anyway.

Maybe all the time he’d spent away at the studio, those nights you’d come home late, maybe...maybe there was someone else. The thought makes his breath hitch in his chest, makes him stumble backwards as if someone has punched him in the stomach, before he turns to go back inside.

The thought sticks in his brain like a fishhook. You’d ask if he was fucking someone else. Is that because you were? At the very least, maybe you’d met someone. Someone who was attentive, someone who listened to you. Someone who was there.

Yoongi isn’t used to this feeling. He’s never been the possessive type, always had an amount of confidence that kept him from ever feeling too jealous. He remembers clearly the last time he’d felt this way, and of course, it was you. Wasn’t it always?

You’d never dated much, always been focused on your studies. Yoongi never even thought about what would’ve happened when you’d start seeing someone.

He’d been your best friend for six months when you started dating a lacrosse player, a big guy (bigger than Yoongi), and even then, Yoongi shrugged off the slight irritation he felt when you canceled a dinner with him.

It wasn’t until he was sitting on a bench under a tree, studying before an exam, that he saw you with your new beau. You were laughing, piggybacking, your arms braced on his considerable shoulders.

Yoongi’s skin prickled, like he had a chill or a fever. He felt angry, suddenly, and couldn’t put his finger on why. He sat there, fuming, unable to take his eyes off you, until your boyfriend slid you down, turned to lean down and kiss you, and then Yoongi couldn’t look anymore.

The anger roiling in his gut turned to something else, something worse, something that dug in and festered over the next few days. He saw your laughing mouth behind his eyelids when he closed his eyes, the way you were still smiling when your boyfriend kissed you.

He wondered late at night when he couldn’t sleep, if you were being held or, even worse, being fucked. It made something vile rise in his throat, like he’d had too much to drink and needed to purge it. It was another agonizing month before he realized he was in love with you, and another month after that before you and your boyfriend broke up.

He curses himself for drinking so much, wishing he could just get in his car and come after you. He fumbles with his phone, the screen swimming in his vision, and he wipes at his eyes angrily. You don’t answer, and he isn’t surprised, leaves a voicemail in a broken voice that he’d be embarrassed about if he had any dignity left. He hates feeling like this, out of control, as if there’s nothing he can do to quiet the madness in his head and his heart.

Yoongi presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, pressing in until he sees spots dance under his eyelids, breathing in deep to try and control his emotions. His mind is racing, thinking of what happens now, all the possibilities of the coming days and weeks and months and years.

You move out, he supposes. Come and get your things, take away all the pieces of you that have accumulated in the apartment over the years. He wonders if you’ll leave something behind, a piece of clothing, maybe that purple mug you like so much. Something he can keep, look at later and remember you.

What happens to all the pictures of you, online? Would you delete them? Block him on everything so that he can’t see your face even on a screen? Panic rises in his throat when he realizes you were always the one taking the pictures, posting them on social media, and he isn’t sure he has many saved.

Yoongi feels like he’ll surely go crazy if he doesn’t have some part of this relationship, something he can look back on that isn’t just memories, because it’ll feel like he made it up, like it was always one sided, from the moment he’d sat next to you on that curb.

Without something, how does he convince himself it was real, that you’d loved him?

On the other hand, what if you didn’t get your things? What if you left everything behind, kept being active on social media, moved on? Started living your life without him, moving on with a new apartment, a new partner?

Yoongi chokes back a sob, alone in the apartment but still holding back, still hiding, and he hates himself for it. When you don’t answer the second, third, fourth time he calls, he curls up on the couch, hoping that he’ll pass out, stop thinking, because it’s like his brain is vibrating in his skull with all the racing thoughts he has, a headache forming between his eyebrows.

After some time and a few deep breaths, he fights the urge to upturn the second bottle of wine in the cabinet and thinks that there’s a possibility, however slim, that you might be back when he wakes up, tear streaked and soaked from the rain but still his, and the thought comforts him enough that he’s able to fall asleep.

He has these dreams, vivid and disjointed, where he’s reaching out to you and he keeps getting further and further away. Another, where you won’t even look at him, no matter what he says, no matter how much he begs.

When he wakes, it’s cold in the apartment. You are, were, always the one who’d turn on the heat, and he knows you’re still not home the second he opens his eyes.

Yoongi feels antsy all day, full of nervous energy, and he can’t stop himself from calling you every couple of hours, leaving text messages and begging you just to answer once, to let him hear your voice.

The second day is when he starts to panic in earnest, and he’s about to bite the bullet and call your mother when his phone rings.

The oxygen filters out of the air as he listens, and his heart starts pounding in his ears as soon as he hangs up the phone. He’s out the door wearing nothing but a pair of sweats and a tshirt, cursing and returning for his jacket when he realizes it’s still raining.

The hospital hadn’t said much, just that you were there, that he was your emergency contact, and he breaks all manner of traffic laws to get to you, trying not to think of what might have happened, of how it might be his fault.

When he arrives, it’s both better and worse than he’d thought - you’d been found on the highway, unconscious, and god knows how long you’d lain there in the mud before a passerby had stopped and taken you to the hospital.

Pneumonia, they say, telling him that you’ve been in and out of consciousness throughout the night. Yoongi had been your emergency contact. You hadn’t been taking care of yourself, and a night in the rain and in the elements hadn’t helped. Of course he hadn’t noticed. Of course he hadn’t seen how pale you were, how gaunt your cheeks were.

Yoongi stands there, wondering if the doctor can tell that all the blood has drained from his face, his heart thudding hard and useless against his chest plate.

He nods where he’s supposed to and when the doctor leaves the room, Yoongi sits down hard on a nearby chair in the waiting area. He can go in now, they’d said, but how could he? How could he go in there, see you hooked up to IV antibiotics, know that it’s his fault? People die from pneumonia, don’t they? His throat closes up with panic and he has to draw in a long breath through his nostrils to calm himself.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, his forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped together. There’s this series of memories rushing through his mind, like snapshots.

Your mouth pressed against his, soft and almost chaste, his arms locked around your waist. He wanted to twirl you around to face him, kiss you hard and dirty in front of all his friends, mark that spot just under your ear again. Not to show them that he possesses you, not to show them that he can kiss such a beautiful woman, but to show everyone how much he loved you, how his every thought was tinged with you.

Instead, he kissed you back just as chastely, stuck to you like glue all night despite it being his party with many trying to come and congratulate them. He had his hands on you all night, at your lower back, sometimes just lightly on your hip, sometimes intertwining his fingers with yours.

And when he walked you back to your dorm, he shuffled his feet at the door, puffed out his cheeks and blown out a breath and looked up at you.

“Yoongi,” you said, and God, he loved how his name sounded on your lips, this lilt like you were always teasing him. “You wanna come in for a drink?”

His cheeks were already flushed from alcohol and he probably shouldn’t have, but you took his hand and he would’ve followed you anywhere, to hell if you’d asked him.

Yoongi had so many plans on how to confess to you before he’d leave the country to go back home, to try and work on music like he’d always planned, most of them some grand romantic gestures, but instead, he stood with his hands shoved in his pockets just inside your door, and called your name.

You turned, standing in the kitchen, and his eyes followed the line of your throat, the curve of your cheek.

“I’m gonna stay,” he blurted out, and he already had a very expensive plane ticket in his wallet but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Yoongi stands up, heads toward your hospital room but he stops at the doorway, hears the beep of the machines and it makes his heart stutter.

He stands outside the door, unable to look inside. More snapshots float through his mind as he leans back against the wall, breathing hard.

“Yoongi,” you breathed, right into the shell of his ear and it made him shiver. He was standing so close to you, one hand on your hip, the other braced on the counter as if he’d fall against you, fall into you.

“Mmm,” he managed, leaning forward, as if you’d beckoned him, and every inch of his skin that touched yours felt heated.

“What’s happening right now?” you asked, and he wanted to laugh but he couldn’t, looking into your wide eyes. You’d been best friends for two years, seen each other at your worst. Now all he could do was think about how much he loved every part of you, good and bad, inside and out.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, and leaned down to kiss you, his hand moving to your lower back seemingly of its own volition, pulling you closer so that your breasts pressed against his chest.

His tongue slid against yours and his heart seemed like it might thud out of his chest.

When he pulled away from you, breathless, you let out a whine from the back of your throat, just like that first night when he’d marked you, and he couldn't stand it, the way it felt, how much he felt.

He wanted to run but something was pulling him toward you instead of away and instead, he kissed you again.

You pulled away this time, trembling in his arms.

“Yoongi,” you said again. “Are we doing this? Are you-”

“Am I in love with you?” he asked, chest heaving, it was as if he couldn’t catch his breath no matter how hard he tried.

You nodded, slowly, your cheeks flushed.

Instead of speaking, Yoongi nodded back, slowly, and a small smile spread across your lips.

“Yoongi,” you repeated, his name from your lips his favorite sound. “Kiss me again.”

That memory forces Yoongi to enter the room, sit by your bed. You look sick and gray and he wants to take your hand but something stops him.

He thinks now that it’s settled, that he’ll talk to you, that he’ll rework his contract, do anything to make things better. Maybe it won’t work, maybe you’re done, but he can try. He has to try.

Your eyes are closed, lashes fanning across your cheekbones and when Yoongi reaches out to touch your face, he sees that his hands are trembling.

When you do wake, a few moments later, Yoongi wants to crawl under the bed and hide, knows that he’s probably the last person you want to see.

“Yoongi,” you call, and your voice is hoarse and confused but tears stream down Yoongi’s face because it’s still his favorite melody.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and that little smile spreads across your lips again.

“Baby,” you say, and his heart clenches in his chest as you take his hand. “You wanna break my heart?”

#min yoongi x reader #btscreatorscorner #bangtanheadquarters #noonasinnetwork #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #bts imagine

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firstfullmoon · 4 years

Note

Do you have favorite quotes related about the importance of small details?

“The precious intimacy of little things.”

— Daphné du Maurier, I Will Never Be Young Again

“On my windowsill when I got home, there was a tumbler with pink jelly in it, and embedded in the jelly, sliced strawberries and bananas… [my neighbour] cooks at odd hours. She must have made the strawberry jelly this morning. When I buy baklava, which is not often because I eat too many, I leave a few for her on her windowsill, with a headscarf over them so the wasps don’t come. For these little gifts we don’t thank each other with words. They are commas of care.”

— John Berger, From A to X: A Story in Letters

“I suppose I could spend time theorizing how it is that people are not bad to each other, but that’s really not the point. The point is that in almost every instance of our lives, our social lives, we are, if we pay attention, in the midst of an almost constant, if subtle, caretaking. Holding open doors. Offering elbows at crosswalks. Letting someone else go first. Helping with the heavy bags. Reaching what’s too high, or what’s been dropped. Pulling someone back to their feet. Stopping at the car wreck, at the struck dog. The alternating merge, also known as the zipper. This caretaking is our default mode and it’s always a lie that convinces us to act or believe otherwise. Always.”

“One of the woman was gently arranging an older woman’s collar beneath her sweater, freeing it from the cardigan’s neck, using both of her hands to jostle it free but also seeming to spend a little more time than necessary, creasing the fold of the collar, the other hand kind of resting on her shoulder, the two of them chatting the whole time, sitting there holding each other, nodding, my head twisting toward them like a sunflower as I finished the stairs and walked by, so in love was I with this common flourish of love, this everyday human light.”

“but her need to share the photo with me [...] smiling and looking at it, smiling and looking at me looking at it, me smiling and looking at her looking at it, which is simply called sharing what we love, what we find beautiful, which is an ethics.”

— Ross Gay, The Book of Delights

“He’s got a fever. He’s all alone. So I’m gonna buy him something to eat.” “The congee downstairs is quite good.” “He doesn’t want congee.” “What does he want?” “Can’t taste anything so he wants sesame syrup.” [...] “What are you cooking?” “I had a sudden craving for sesame syrup.”

“Why did you call me at the office today?” “I had nothing to do. I wanted to hear your voice.”

— In the Mood for Love, dir. Wong Kar-Wai

— Danusha Laméris, “Small Kindnesses”

“It all matters. That someone turns out the lamp, picks up the windblown wrapper, says hello to the invalid, pays at the unattended lot, listens to the repeated tale, folds the abandoned laundry, plays the game fairly, tells the story honestly, acknowledges help, gives credit, says good night, resists temptation, wipes the counter, waits at the yellow, makes the bed, tips the maid, remembers the illness, congratulates the victor, accepts the consequences, takes a stand, steps up, offers a hand, goes first, goes last, chooses the small portion, teaches the child, tends to the dying, comforts the grieving, removes the splinter, wipes the tear, directs the lost, touches the lonely, is the whole thing. What is most beautiful is least acknowledged. What is worth dying for is barely noticed.”

— Laura McBride, We Are Called to Rise

“I’ve never told you this,” she said. “But there’s something about taking the cart back instead of leaving it in the parking lot. I don’t know when this came to me; it was a few years ago. There’s a difference between leaving it where you empty it and taking it back to the front of the store. It’s significant.” “Because somebody has to take them in.” “Yes. And if you know that, and you do it for that one guy, you do something else. You join the world…You move out of your isolation and become universal.”

— Andre Dubus, “Out of the Snow”

“It’s true that, in Vietnamese, we rarely say I love you, and when we do, it is almost always in English. Care and love, for us, are pronounced clearest through service: plucking white hairs, pressing yourself on your son to absorb a plane’s turbulence and, therefore, his fear. Or now—as Lan called to me, “Little Dog, get over here and help me help your mother.” And we knelt on each side of you, rolling out the hardened cords in your upper arms, then down to your wrists, your fingers. For a moment almost too brief to matter, this made sense—that three people on the floor, connected to each other by touch, made something like the word family.”

— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous: A Novel

— Ada Limón, from “The Great Blue Heron of Dunbar Road”

“I’m doing a balancing act with a stack of fresh fruit in my basket. I love you. I want us both to eat well.”

— Christopher Citro, from “Our Beautiful Life When It’s Filled WIth Shrieks”

“One of the primary ways we connect with each other is by eating together. Some of the connection happens simply by being in the same place at the same time and sharing the same food, but we also connect through specific actions, such as serving food to one another or making toasts: ‘May I offer you some potatoes?’ ‘Here’s to your health and happiness.’ Much of our fundamental well-being comes from the basic reassurance that there is a place for us at the table. We belong here. Here we are served and we serve others. Here we give and receive sustenance.”

— Edward Espe Brown, Tomato Blessings and Radish Teaching

“Attention is the beginning of devotion.”

“Now in the spring I kneel, I put my face into the packets of violets, the dampness, the freshness, the sense of ever-ness. Something is wrong, I know it, if I don’t keep my attention on eternity. May I be the tiniest nail in the house of the universe, tiny but useful. May I stay forever in the stream. May I look down upon the windflower and the bull thistle and the coreopsis with the greatest respect.”

“it is a serious thing

just to be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world.”

— Mary Oliver, Upstream: Selected Essays / from “Invitation”

— Wendy Cope, “The Orange”

“After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I heard the announcement: if anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately. Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she did this. I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly. Shu dow-a, shu-biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick, sho bit se-wee? The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—she stopped crying. She thought our flight had been canceled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late. Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him. We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother until we got on the plane and would ride next to her—Southwest. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out, of course, they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours. She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California, the lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies. And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—non-alcoholic—and the two little girls from our flight, one African American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice and lemonade, and they were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing with green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere. And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, this is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—has seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.”

— Naomi Shihab Nye, “Gate A4″

“Then there are the things, if you are particularly lucky, that this person has done for you while you’re away: how in the pantry, in the freezer, in the refrigerator will be all the food you like to eat, the scotch you like to drink. There will be the sweater you thought you lost the previous year at the theater, clean and folded and back on its shelf. There will be the shirt with its dangling buttons, but the buttons will be sewn back in place. There will be your mail stacked on one side of his desk; there will be a contract for an advertising campaign you’re going to do in Germany for an Austrian beer, with his notes in the margin to discuss with your lawyer. And there will be no mention of it, and you will know that it was done with genuine pleasure, and you will know that part of the reason—a small part, but a part—you love being in this apartment and in this relationship is because this other person is always making a home for you, and that when you tell him this, he won’t be offended but pleased, and you’ll be glad, because you meant it with gratitude.”

— Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life

#this is a mim supremacy account #w #compilation #the precious intimacy of little things #john berger #hanya yanagihara #naomi shihab nye #wendy cope #mary oliver #ada limón #ocean vuong #danusha laméris #ross gay

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laurenairay · 3 years

Text

Make Me a Fool - T. Barrie

Summary: Sofia is tired of going on dates with the wrong guys - when a meet-cute with Tyson turns into only friendship, will she ever have anything more than that?

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: meet-cute, fluff, pining, friends to lovers, some bad language

A/N: this is my first OC in a published fic! (I have another in a WIP). Thank you to @danglesnipecelly and @itsbadgerbadgermushroom for their encouragement in trying this 😘 and also tagging @texanstarslove and @broadstbroskis for just genuinely being sweethearts 💚

~~~

The Dating World hadn’t exactly been an easy ride for Sofia. No matter where she met guys – whether it was through dating apps, blind date recommendations from mutual friends, or even that cute guy she met at the coffee shop – every single one had turned out to be no good. They were all wrong for so many reasons, whether that was a playboy with multiple girls on the go, a guy who was only actually after sex, someone that was so self-centered that she barely got a word in edgeways, or there was simply no spark.

And it wasn’t like she didn’t want these dates to work – Sofia loved love. Her parents had met in high school and had been together happily in love ever since. Sure, she knew that was rare, but to her they were absolute couple goals. All she wanted was to love someone and be loved in return, just like her parents loved each other. Was that really so much to ask for?

Sofia certainly didn’t think so.

Another Friday night alone rolled around, and the only thing Sofia wanted was to get a pint of ice-cream and watch some sappy movies. Maybe while giving herself a pedicure and wearing a facemask. Who didn’t love a pamper night? So with her wavy brown hair piled on top of her head, blue eyes scrubbed free of make-up, and wearing her glasses instead of her usual contact lenses, Sofia headed out for her ice-cream. There were a fair few people in the grocery store when she arrived including one guy by the ice-cream freezer. Huh, a very cute guy. Luckily she was still wearing a bra. No, not the time. She was here for ice-cream, and ice-cream only.

As she walked up to him though, Sofia noticed that he seemed to be desperately looking for something – a specific flavour? – but with no luck. Yep, there was the desperate whimper of frustration. Time to step in; this was her territory.

“You okay there bud?” Sofia asked, frowning.

The guy flinched slightly but turned to face her with a frustrated expression. Oh wow he was beautiful – square jaw, gorgeous brown eyes, big broad shoulders, thick arms…and those curls! Wait, no, focus.

“No, I’m not. I just moved here for work and everything is shit and I just wanted my favourite flavour ice-cream but they don’t have it and I just…ugh!”

The guy trailed off, running a shaky hand through his messy curls. Oh wow, she hadn’t been expecting that. Nevertheless…

“Sorry, you didn’t need to know all that. It’s just been a really bad week,” he grimaced, trying to force a smile.

Poor guy. Well, she could definitely relate to comfort eating after a bad week, that was for sure. So Sofia smiled kindly back, shaking her head. “Please don’t apologise! We all have shitty weeks,”

The guy laughed, but it still sounded a little broken. Time to step up her game.

“Maybe I can suggest an alternative? I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m a regular at this particular freezer,” she said, wearing a hopeful smile.

This seemed to crack a genuine smile. “Sure, be my guest,” he nodded, “I’m Tyson, by the way,”

Well it was a start. “I’m Sofia. Nice to meet you!”

Tyson smiled shyly at her, seeming a little hesitant.

Sofia dramatically rolled her head from side to side, stretched her arms over her head and bounced a few times on the spot as if warming up, earning an outright giggle from Tyson, making her grin at him. Much better.

“Okay, cherry vanilla sweetheart is okay, banana toffee treat is a weirdly interesting combination, I’m a huge fan of the fudgy chocolate brownie, and the caramel swirl is to die for. But my absolute favourite is the peanut butter chocolate heaven. If you like Reese’s chocolate, then you’ll love this one,” she listed, pointing to the different shelves.

What? Sofia took her ice-cream seriously – there was nothing wrong with that.

Tyson looked a little stunned, but that quickly turned into a brilliant smile, making Sofia’s breath catch in her throat. “The peanut butter chocolate one sounds pretty good actually. Exactly what I need,”

“Happy to help,” Sofia shrugged, trying to play it cool as she passed him a carton of it, as well as grabbing one for herself.

“Hey, um….”

Sofia looked up at Tyson as he trailed off, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. What?

“This is a kinda weird to ask, and I swear I’m not a creep, but I’m new in town and I really don’t know the best places in town to get ice-cream from so-”

“Would you like my number?” Sofia asked, trying not to giggle at his rambling, “for ice-cream related emergencies?”

Tyson’s smile seemed to dim slightly, but he nodded so Sofia figured that was what he wanted to ask her. That was what he wanted, right?

“Yeah, exactly,” he murmured, “I could really use a friend,”

Sofia hoped her smile hadn’t dimmed as well when she passed her phone to him. Friend. Why did that feel weird?

When he passed her phone back with his saved number in it, Sofia sent him a quick message of ‘Hey, it’s Sofia :)’, earning a smile from him as his phone lit up.

“I’ll see you again soon, ice-cream friend?” he asked, voice full of hope.

She couldn’t help but to giggle, nodding her agreement. “Yeah I’d like that Tyson,” she said, smiling at him.

If he wanted friendship, then she could and would give it to him.

The friendship that blossomed between Tyson and Sofia was genuine and sweet. He’d texted her the next morning, just a picture of the empty carton and a thumbs up – and she laughed as she sent back the exact same thing. And from there they were texting pretty much every day, Sofia getting to know exactly how sweet and kind and caring Tyson was. They started hanging out in person too, coffee runs and lunches and late-night dinners, to the point where they had a standing movie night (with ice-cream!) every Friday when Tyson didn’t have a game – and hadn’t that been a surprise, finding out that he played in the NHL. He had admitted that ice-cream wasn’t even remotely in his diet plan at all, but Sofia obviously wasn’t going to tell anyone – and besides, Tyson deserved a cheat treat every now and again, especially with how hard he was working and playing.

Over less than two months, Tyson quickly became one of her best friends. He was just so easy to talk to, and he knew exactly how to make her smile when she was having a bad day – not to mention how amazing his hugs were. And she knew that she was a huge support for him in his new city. She always answered the phone while he was on roadtrips so he could hear a friendly voice, never judging for anything. Sofia knew that she gave him a break from the intensity of his hockey life. She just…liked him, okay? He was such a good person, and really quite her ideal guy – but he only wanted and needed a friend, so that’s what she was determined to be for him. He deserved that much at least.

A few more months passed into their friendship, and it was a week into the New Year where their Fridays lined up perfectly, so Sofia was on her way over to Tyson’s with a couple of bottles of decent white wine. He was supplying the ice-cream this time, but damn it she needed the wine too. Yesterday night she went on her third date with a cute guy she’d been really hopeful about, but, well…

“He said what?” Tyson gasped, his jaw dropping.

“That he wanted to fool around before we went any further, and if I didn’t want to then he couldn’t see a future for us,” Sofia groaned.

“Please tell me you kicked his ass to the curb,” Tyson scowled.

“You’re damn right I did,” Sofia grumbled, taking a big gulp of her wine.

Tyson took a big gulp of wine in solidarity, staring at her with his big brown eyes wide with disbelief. But then Sofia couldn’t help but sigh.

“Why do my dates always end up going so badly? Is there something wrong with me?” Sofia asked, pouting.

Was there? Had she been the problem all along? But Tyson immediately shook his head.

“No, absolutely not,” he said firmly

As much as the conviction in his words made her heart skip a beat, she sighed again.

“Tyson…”

“Nope, I won’t have you talk about yourself like that,” Tyson interrupted, frowning at her, “These guys you try to date are the problem, not you. Ethan…Easton…Evan…whatever his name was, you are worth so much more than that. You’re kind, funny, smart, caring and beautiful, and any guy would be lucky to have you in their life,”

Any guy, huh? Sofia felt tears spring to her blue eyes, so she quickly wiped them away, but not before Tyson saw.

“Hey, c’mere,” he murmured, beckoning her towards him.

Sofia shuffled down the sofa willingly, curling into Tyson’s side and slumping her head against his chest. She immediately relaxed as his arm wound around her waist.

“It’s okay to be a romantic, yeah? It’s not a bad thing that you want to genuinely fall in love. I know I do,” Tyson said softly.

Of course he wanted to fall in love as well. Of course.

“Thanks Tys. I don’t know what I would do without you in my life,” Sofia sighed, squeezing his hand where it rested on her hip.

Tyson just hummed his agreement, pressing a kiss to her wavy hair, making Sofia smile sadly. Of all the guys she couldn’t have, why did Tyson have to be one of them? She couldn’t see Tyson’s sad smile in return though.

“Ice-cream and 10 Things I Hate About You?” Tyson asked.

“Yes please, I need Heath Ledger in my life,” Sofia nodded, sniffing as she sat upright.

Tyson laughed, wiping her cheeks dry of the tears she didn’t know had fallen. “There, still beautiful,”

Why did he have to make things so difficult?

Love was a funny thing. It could be fleeting, passing like a ship in the night, or even all-consuming, like a wildfire with no hope until it burned out on its own. The more time that Sofia spent with Tyson, the harder she fell for him, and the harder it was for her to pretend that she was okay just being friends. No matter how many first dates she went on, how many guys she hoped to move on from him with, nothing worked. The very first moment they’d met when she’d gone out of her way to make him laugh as she recommended him ice-cream, she knew she was done for. But how could she tell him how she felt? He’d literally asked for her phone number to be his new friend in a new city, nothing more. And there was no way she was ruining the incredible friendship that they’d built between them, not a chance. There was no way she could feel anything but empty if he was no longer in her life, and she couldn’t risk losing him. She wouldn’t.

But she didn’t know what to do.

What Sofia didn’t know was that Tyson felt exactly the same. The moment he’d met her, he was gone. She was beautiful – that much was obvious as soon as he saw her – sparkling blue eyes, that amazing wavy brown hair he always wanted to run his fingers through, and the warmest most genuine smile he’d ever seen. But it was her heart that dazzled him on that first night – instead of walking away from his crazy mid-breakdown frantic self, she’d offered to help him and made him laugh. She’d gone above and beyond to make him feel better, and he’d never met anyone like her before. Like an idiot though, he’d completely messed up asking her out on a date, and instead she’d given him her number to be his friend in this new city. Only his friend.

Hell, he knew she wasn’t interested in him romantically – she went on enough dates to show him that he didn’t stand a chance. How could he? He knew he was nowhere near good enough for her as a life partner. Even though he’d told Nate (wonderful oblivious emotionally-useless Nate) how hopeless he felt in their weekly phonecalls, Nate kept telling him to take a chance on Sofia, that Sofia would feel the same as him, Tyson knew Nate was wrong. But there was no way he could give up having her in his life, no matter how much it hurt him to be second to those stupid guys she dated. So he did his best to be the absolute best friend she could possibly need, no matter how hard it was.

Tyson only wished she could see him as more.

“Oh god, why did I drink so much?” Sofia groaned.

Tyson giggled as she slumped against his front door as he closed it, just about able to kick her heels off her feet. “I told you not to do shots with the Swedes, but you didn’t listen,”

Sofia whined, not wanting to admit that he was right. Even though he was right. Tyson smiled fondly at her, shaking his head as he kicked off his own shoes.

“I just wanted your teammates to like me,” she grumbled.

“They already do, sweetheart. They love you as much as I do,”

Tyson froze at the words that spilled from his lips, his heart skipping a beat at the smile that spread across her lips.

“Sweetheart?” Sofia grinned.

Tyson let out a shaky breath. The deep blush that spread across his face made Sofia laugh, a little giddiness rushing through her body along with the alcohol.

“Let’s get you some water,” Tyson grumbled.

Sofia just laughed again, skipping along behind him to the kitchen. It had been a last minute invite to drinks with his team this Friday night (she’d initially hoped to save the Friday night for a second date with a guy from Hinge that she had been hopeful about, but their first date on Tuesday had been so dry and dull), but Sofia had still had a brilliant time. She knew that Tyson knew that she had been disappointed with her date this week, so it had been really sweet of him to invite her out to cheer her up. And he’d even called her sweetheart! A girl could dream, right? Tyson kept his back to her as he reached for a glass in the cupboard and pulled out a jug of filtered water from the fridge, but Sofia just hopped up on the island counter to watch him, happily swinging her legs.

She’d had a great evening with one of her favourite people and now she was still hanging out with him – what more could she want?

“Here, why don’t you drink this while I get you something comfy to wear?” Tyson murmured, breaking her out of her thoughts as he pressed the cold glass of water into her hand.

“Thanks Tys,” she said, smiling, “you’re the best,”

He smiled shyly at her, still blushing slightly, before he left the room to get her some clothes. Sofia sipped on the water as she waited to Tyson to return, still swinging her legs with a smile on her face. She knew she probably shouldn’t have had so many shots tonight, but it had just been such a fun atmosphere. Sofia definitely wasn’t the only one drinking that much (at least, she wasn’t the guy that had to be carried out to an uber) – and she knew that Tyson was watching out for her, so she knew she was able to relax and just have fun. He made her feel safe, that she could just be herself without worrying, and tonight at the bar she’d had an amazing time.

The hangover tomorrow would be worth it.

“Okay, some comfy shorts and a tshirt for you,” Tyson announced, walking back in the room, dressed in sweatpants and an old tshirt now instead of his nice shirt and jeans.

“Ooh gimme,” Sofia grinned, hopping off the counter.

Tyson smiled fondly at her, taking the glass from her hand in exchange for the clothing. Then she frowned at him, earning a frown back. “What’s wrong?”

“The zipper on this dress always sticks and all the vodka will not help – will you unzip me?” Sofia asked, eyes wide and pleading.

Something inside her was telling her that this was a stupid idea, such a stupid thing to ask, but the remaining alcohol coursing through her veins drowned that out. But when Tyson just stood there in silence, his mouth slightly open and his eyes glazed, she felt a niggle of doubt start to creep in. What was she doing, asking him to unzip her? Stupid.

“Forget it, I’ll just stay in this dress,” Sofia mumbled.

“No!”

Sofia flinched at his shout, making him wince.

“I’ll unzip you, it’s fine,” Tyson insisted, “turn around?”

Sofia nodded, biting her lip as soon as her back was facing him, swallowing heavily as she heard him take a shaky breath. She jumped slightly as his fingers brushed the top of her spine, unable to stop her heart beating faster as he slowly unzipped her dress. What had she been thinking, asking him to unzip her? Now she’d never forget the feeling of him standing so close, the touch of his fingers on the small of her back, no matter that she was still a little tipsy.

“There, all done,” Tyson said, voice a little shaky, “I’ll go put a movie on, yeah?”

Sofia just nodded, watching in silence as he walked away. Damn it. She took a deep breath, letting her dress drop to the floor with her eyes briefly closed, before shaking herself out of it and quickly unhooking her bra, dropping that to the floor too. Once she’d pulled on his clothes over her panties (even his laundry detergent smelled amazing), she dumped her discarded clothes onto the kitchen counter and headed into the living room to join him. He’d turned off all but one floor lamp, leaving the room with a low glow, nice and cosy. Tyson looked up at her with a smile, settling her nerves. Whatever, it had just been a weird moment, that was all.

“Pretty Woman?” he suggested.

“Sounds good to me,” she nodded.

He lifted his arm, making her grin and sit down, snuggling into his side, kicking her legs up next to his on the ottoman.

“Comfy?” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“Yeah, press play,” she nodded, settling into his hold.

It can’t have been more than 30 minutes before Sofia felt a little heavier in his arms, so Tyson looked down – sure enough, Sofia was fast asleep in his arms. He swallowed heavily as he watched her peaceful face, mind flashing back to the kitchen moment earlier. Unzipping her dress had felt so intimate, especially when his fingers touched the small of her back, and now she was lying in his arms? How was his heart supposed to cope with this? This was everything he wanted…and it wasn’t real. It wasn’t going to last. But…surely it wasn’t a bad thing if he just let her continue sleeping? She looked so sweet, so cosy, and he didn’t want to disturb her. So instead, he just switched the movie off, tossing the remote onto the coffee table before snagging the blanket off the back of the sofa and gently throwing it over the two of them. Their legs were already kicked up on the ottoman after all; he could sleep like this. Luckily she’d already been wearing her glasses tonight rather than her contacts, so at least he didn’t have to worry about waking her up to take them out – he just gently pulled them off her face and tossed them to the other end of the sofa. No point in waking her up. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, relaxing back into the cushions, and closed his eyes.

He could pretend for one night, right?

Sofia blinked her eyes open slowly, groaning as she (blurrily) saw that it was 5am from the clock on the wall. They hadn’t even turned off the floor lamp…but the tv was off and there was a blanket over her. Over them. And Tyson had even taken off her glasses for her. Oh wow. She’d fallen asleep on Tyson, and he hadn’t moved her? She lifted her head from Tyson’s chest, looking at his sleeping face with a soft smile. He was so handsome, wasn’t he? Her heart ached a little at the gentle expression on his face, soft and kind even in sleep. Wow. And it was so nice being held in his arms, the two of them having shifted a little to curl around each other in their sleep, her arm over his waist with both of his around her. She could stay like this for a little longer, right? He was so warm, and it just felt so right…

She could pretend for one night, right?

The next few weeks following the sofa-sleepover weren’t quite as smooth and easy as Sofia had hoped. It’s not that it was particularly awkward, oh no, and there definitely wasn’t a bad vibe between her and Tyson…it was just different. Something felt different between them – she didn’t know if it was because she knew what it felt like to sleep wrapped up in his arms, or the fact that he had demonstrated (even more so than usual) just how kind and caring he truly was, but it was something. And she knew Tyson was the same, because every now and again he would get a strange expression on his face before he shook it off and carried on as usual with a smile.

She couldn’t put her finger on it, and it was frustrating as hell. It was almost like being in limbo, that weird stage that wasn’t quite friendship anymore, but definitely wasn’t anything more. And Sofia was getting so tired of it. She knew she was going to have to tell him sooner rather than later – things were too off for her not to. Because at this rate, she was just going to make herself devastatingly miserable, and she had more respect for herself than that. She wasn’t a fool, and she wasn’t going to start acting like one now.

It was going to have to be all or nothing. But damn if that wasn’t the scariest thing Sofia had ever felt. And she had put it off every time she’d seen him since that night, unable to speak the words that would change everything. It was just so hard, faced with the potential of losing him for good. She hadn’t even been on any dates at all over the past few weeks, unable to even think of anyone that wasn’t him, which was so outside of her usual self that even her colleagues had noticed.

Speaking of…

Tonight she was out at a bar with some of her friends from work. It wasn’t a big weekend booze-up, just a casual couple of drinks after work mid-week – Sofia was only planning on having a couple of glasses of wine as she was heading out to dinner with Tyson afterwards. All she knew was that he had a phone call scheduled for something to do with his work, so they’d decided to meet at the bar first before heading out for food. Sofia was all glammed up though, contact lenses in and blue eyes surrounded by a subtle smoky-eye, with a cute new little black lace dress hugging her curves. She’d gotten ready in the bathrooms at work with a couple of the other ladies she worked with (they were staying out for drinks after she left) so at least she wasn’t the only one. She felt beautiful, the confidence shining through in her smile, and she knew she’d turned heads as she walked into the bar with her colleagues.

Maybe tonight was the night. Hah. Maybe not.

“And another glass of Sauvignon Blanc for you, Sofia!”

Sofia smiled as her friend passed her the new wine glass, nodding her head in thanks. She needed to stay out of her thoughts, wary of being lost in them, especially as she was seeing Tyson tonight. Clear, focused and confident. That’s what she needed to be. Not pining and mopey. No, that wasn’t good at all.

“Oh, hey, isn’t that your boy?”

Your boy. Hah. If only.

She spun around to where her colleague was indicating, unable to stop the smile that spread over her lips as she saw Tyson. Waving to get his attention, Tyson did a dorky wave back before he walked over.

“Hey, sorry I’m a little late. You look amazing,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her in a hug.

She blushed slightly as she hugged him back, squeezing his waist even with her wine in her hand, before letting go.

“Thank you, you’re too sweet! And it’s really not a problem. I did just get a new glass of wine though,” she said, lifting it in indication.

Tyson laughed, shrugging. “I’ll get myself a beer too then, and we can head out after?”

“Sounds good to me!” she grinned.

Tyson grinned back, walking over to the bar in question. Sofia turned back to her colleagues, several of whom were grinning widely at her, but she just rolled her eyes, shaking her head and earning a few pouts.

“Don’t you dare say anything,” she warned.

A couple of them held up their hands in surrender, making her laugh, but another frowned over at something over Sofia’s shoulder.

“Maybe you should say something,” her friend said, jutting her chin in the direction of the bar.

Sofia turned around again, to see what the hell her friend was talking about, before she froze, her breath catching in her throat. Tyson was at the bar…talking with a pretty blonde woman. That, that didn’t mean anything, right? It wasn’t like they were…oh, there it was, the woman brushed her hand up against Tyson’s arm, giggling at something Tyson said while he smiled down at her. Of course a beautiful woman was flirting with him, and why wouldn’t he flirt back? It wasn’t like he had anything or anyone tying him down. It wasn’t like she had any claim to him herself. It wasn’t like Sofia had ever told him how she felt.

And now she was paying for it. Was she really too late? After all this time? Feeling her smile slip, Sofia turned her back on Tyson, forcing her smile back on her face for her colleagues, who were all just staring at her in pity.

“Please don’t,” she begged, taking a deep breath, “clearly I lost my chance,”

“He’s already walking back over, that was just flirting!” one of the girls insisted.

But Sofia just shook her head, taking a big gulp of wine. She was going to need it. That woman was beautiful, blonde and buxom just like every hockey WAG stereotype. And she was definitely not – so maybe this wake-up call was what she needed. No matter how much it hurt.

“Hey, sorry I took so long, service was slow,” Tyson said, apologising as he slipped back in next to her.

Lie. But it was okay, it wasn’t like she wasn’t aware.

“No worries. Cheers!” Sofia said, raising her glass.

Tyson frowned slightly at the fakeness of her smile, but lifted his pint glass to clink with hers anyway. Sofia just took another big gulp of wine.

After that, as hard as she tried, she couldn’t break herself out of that edge of sadness. The evening was tinged with it now, like an ice grip over her heart. Seeing him flirting with that woman was the kick up the ass that she needed – there was a reason that she and Tyson were just friends.

But even though she tried to keep up a happy façade, she knew that Tyson saw through it, even when they’d left and were eating in the restaurant he wanted to try. He would pause every now and again, a little confused expression on his face, which only broke Sofia’s heart a little more. He knew her so well, but he still didn’t know this. And now she didn’t even know if it was worth saying anything – she looked nothing like the woman he’d been flirting with, so what was the point?

Soon enough, their dinner was over (not that Sofia could say what she’d eaten or what they’d talked about, only that neither of them drank anything alcoholic), and Tyson was driving them home.

Oh, he was driving them to his apartment. Not what she’d expected, but she would roll with it. Nothing they hadn’t done several dozen times before. She could hold herself together a little longer.

“So, the food there was really nice. I’ll have to recommend it to some of the guys,” Tyson said, smiling as he unlocked the door.

“Definitely!” she nodded, shutting the door behind them, “although I’m pretty sure none of them will be going for dessert like we did,”

Tyson made a shushing noise, pressing her finger dramatically to his lips, making her laugh as they walked into the kitchen, sitting down on the stools at his kitchen island. Her laugh trailed off slightly as her heart clenched again, realising how comfortable and how right this felt between them. Why couldn’t this be easy? Why couldn’t things just be easy for her for once?

“Hey, what’s going on?”

She looked over to Tyson as his soft question brought her out of her thoughts.

“What do you mean?” she asked, forcing a smile onto her lips.

“There,” he frowned, “That. That fake smile, you’ve been doing it all night,”

Ouch.

“Have not,” she muttered.

“Yes, you have! You were fine when I first met you but as soon as I came back with a drink, something had changed. What’s wrong?”

Why did he have to be so perceptive? He was a hockey player for fuck’s sake. Why did he have to notice this now?

“It’s nothing Tys. I’m fine,” she said firmly.

Tyson rolled his eyes, making her purse her lips together. “I can tell when you’re lying, Sof. You’re clearly not fine. What happened? Was it something I said?”

“No, it wasn’t something you said,” she said sharply.

“Then what’s wrong? Because it’s clearly something!” he asked, his voice raising louder in frustration.

Ugh, for fuck’s sake.

“Why can’t you just drop it?” she snapped.

“Why won’t you just tell me?” he shot back.

Sofia groaned, throwing her head back. “Maybe it’s personal and maybe I don’t want to tell you,”

“What did I do to make you not trust me? We tell each other everything and now there’s something you can’t say? Won’t say? What the hell Sof-”

“I like you!”

Oh god.

Oh no.

As Sofia tried to breathe, there was one thing she noticed more than anything. Tyson was frozen, his mouth open in shock – and he hadn’t said a word. Sofia laughed at his silence, a little wet with imminent tears, a lot broken, and shook her head. What was a little more heartbreak, right? It’s not like she could take it back now.

“No, you know what? I’m pretty sure I love you. But that doesn’t matter, right? Because you haven’t said a damn thing a-and I knew this was going to be the reaction you gave me, which is exactly why I haven’t said anything before. So now you know – I have feelings for you, and…and you clearly don’t have feelings for me. I think I’m just going to go,”

She still hesitated though, as she pulled her phone out to order an uber. 2 minutes away. But Tyson opened and closed his mouth, eyes frantic but voice silent. And that was all she needed to know. Uber booked. Goodbye Tyson. Sofia left his apartment with a heavy heart, slamming the door closed behind her, tears prickling at her eyes as she ran to the elevator, but she pressed her lips together in an attempt to control herself. She’d told him how she felt, and he hadn’t returned her feelings. She’d put herself out there, all for nothing. And that’s all there is to it.

She could wait until she was home to cry.

If nothing else, she was lucky enough that by the time she reached the bottom of his apartment building, her uber had arrived, so she hurried in quietly, resting her head against the window. The driver seemed to realise that she wasn’t in the mood to chat and just put on some soft music, making her heart clench even more as her mind replayed the last 10 minutes.

She’d finally told Tyson how she felt.

Tyson hadn’t said anything.

Nothing at all.

And he definitely hadn’t tried to stop her leaving.

What more of an answer did she need?

Sofia woke up with a heavy heart, feeling like every part of her body was aching. She felt empty, completely drained, just as she feared she would if...no, when she lost Tyson. There was no going back now. There was nothing else she could do. Her friendship with Tyson was over, and fuck that hurt so much. He was such a big part of her life…what was she supposed to do without him?

She barely managed to shuffle from her bed to her kitchen before she started crying, hands shaky as she made her morning coffee. This was her own fault, she knew that. But that didn’t make it hurt any less. So she just let the tears fall, the pain of her heart breaking flooding through her body. It couldn’t have been more than 20 minutes until she finished her coffee, but it felt like hours, her head throbbing and her eyes stinging, her cheeks tacky with tears. She couldn’t carry on like this. She couldn’t waste her day, her life, like this. What was the point in that?

Sofia hated feeling pathetic, feeling weak, especially over a guy (even if that guy was Tyson), so she took a deep breath, wiping her cheeks dry with her fingers. “No more. Suck it up,” she muttered to herself.

Her breath shook as she left her coffee mug in the sink for later, her hands still shaking a little too, but she stood a little taller, trying to convince herself that everything was going to be okay. Because it had to be okay. It had to. There wasn’t any other option.

But as she went to walk towards the bathroom to take a shower, the door buzzer rang. What the hell?

“Who is it?”

“It’s me,”

Holy shit. Oh god. Tyson?!

“What are you doing here?” she asked shakily, her voice cracking.

“Please will you just buzz me up?”

Oh god. Should she? She couldn’t just leave him outside, right? This couldn’t be happening. What the hell was he doing here, after last night?

“Please Sof? We need to talk,”

Well, fuck.

She bit her lip, before pressing the buzzer, allowing the building’s front door to open. She knew she had less than minute before he would climb all the stairs and knock on her front door, so she quickly ran to her bedroom, scrubbing her face with a make-up wipe and running a brush through her hair. That was better than nothing. She whipped off her ratty old pyjamas and quickly pulled on some clean panties, some sweatpants and a baggy sweater, at least making herself look casual rather than like a slob.

Then she heard three knocks on the door. Damn it.

Sofia quickly shoved her glasses on her face, taking one last glance at herself in the mirror before walking as calmly as she could to open the front door. Sure enough, Tyson was standing there, looking the most nervous she’d ever seen him. Well, at least she wasn’t the only one feeling affected.

“Can I come in?” he asked softly.

She just nodded, letting him walk past her before shutting the door behind him. Sofia bit her bottom lip, wringing her hands together, before she took a deep breath. This was her home. She was in control here.

“So, you didn’t answer my question,” she said simply, “what are you doing here?”

Tyson let out a whoosh of breath, running a hand through his messy curls. He looked…well, he looked exhausted, if nothing else. Like he’d barely slept. Much like her. Wow. What was he…

“I came here to apologise, Sofia,” he finally admitted.

“Apologise? For what?” she asked, forcing a smile.

“Stop. Please stop,” Tyson said, his eyes full of sadness as he stared her down, “you know you don’t have to pretend with me,”

Well, fuck.

“What do you want me to say, Tys? I’m trying to patch together a broken heart here,” she said, her smile now wobbly. Damn it. She wasn’t going to cry again. She wasn’t!

“But I don’t want you to patch up a broken heart!” he blurted.

Sofia’s breath caught in her throat, her mouth going dry. What was he saying?

Tyson swallowed heavily, looking down at the ground before looking back at her, his eyes shiny but steady.

“You make me a fool, Sofia,” Tyson murmured, “every time I think I’ve got my head on straight, you spin me around. I always feel like such an idiot around you, always messing up. Just like last night, when I just froze up like a fucking statue instead of telling you how I feel. The thought of you not being in my life, even just overnight, is too much to bear. I can’t be without you,”

What?

He…what?

Tyson saw her hesitation, but didn’t dare stop talking now that he’d started. And Sofia couldn’t find any words to say at all. So Tyson licked his bottom lip nervously, before taking a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

“I should never have let you walk out of my front door last night. I should never have let you go without telling you that I love you too,”

Sofia whimpered, hand flying up to cover her mouth as tears filled her eyes. He loves her too? He…loves her? Tyson bit his bottom lip, stepping forward to rest his hands on her shoulders, desperate for the contact.

“Please tell me you still love me? Even though I acted like a fool? Even though I hurt you?” he said softly.

She immediately nodded, tears finally trickling down her cheeks. “Of course I still love you. These feelings aren’t just going to disappear overnight,”

Tyson smiled, his eyes a little watery too, but he leant down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, making Sofia whimper again before slumping into his arms. He slid his hands from her shoulders to wrap his arms fully around her, her hands rising up his back to clutch at his t-shirt.

“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry,” Tyson whispered.

“It’s okay,” Sofia said, her voice muffled into his chest.

“No, it isn’t. You weren’t okay last night and I pushed you and pushed you, and then acted like a complete asshole,” Tyson muttered.

“You weren’t an asshole! I…I was so sad last night, before we left the bar for dinner. It killed me to see you flirting with her, that beautiful blonde woman while you ordered your drink,”

There. There it was.

But Tyson just huffed a laugh.

“That was nothing. She meant nothing. And now you know how I feel every time you went out on a date with one of those stupid guys,” Tyson mused, “you go out on so many dates!”

Sofia blushed slightly, thunking her head down on Tyson’s collarbone, making him laugh.

“I haven’t been out on any dates at all since we fell asleep on the sofa,” she grumbled.

“Yeah,” Tyson said, his voice much more serious now, “I noticed that. And it gave me hope,”

“Hope?” she asked softly, looking up at him.

“Hope that maybe it wasn’t just me that had feelings,” he explained, smiling.

Sofia smiled shyly back at him, before biting her bottom lip. Tyson noticed her hesitation, and unwrapped his arms from her, leaving one hand linked with hers. Sofia blushed slightly at the contact, as silly and simple as it was, making Tyson smile again.

“C’mon,” he urged, tugging her towards him lightly.

She followed Tyson through her own apartment until they reached the sofa in the living room, the two of them sitting down next to each other. Her heart beat a little faster as he turned to face her properly, but she tucked up her legs to face him too, her knees brushing his thighs. This felt different. This felt so different.

“Hey,” he murmured.

“Hey,” she laughed.

Sofia looked down at where there hands were still joined, Tyson just running his thumb over her knuckles in response. Why were they being so weird about this? No, she needed to know what he wanted. It couldn’t be any worse than last night, that was certain. She could do this.

“So what do you want here, Tys?” she asked softly.

Tyson smiled. She was so much braver than him, twice now. “I want to call you mine, Sofia. And I want you to call me yours,”

Sofia’s breath caught in her throat, but her lips spread into a brilliant smile. Yes. That was…that was everything she wanted. And he was just offering it to her on a silver platter? Really? Well, she wasn’t turning this done, no way in hell.

“I think I could get used to calling you my boyfriend,” she said, not hiding an ounce of her happiness.

Boyfriend. Wow.

Tyson’s smile spread into a grin, the giddiness spreading through his face, making her laugh. “I can’t wait to tell Nate that you’re finally my girlfriend,”

Sofia snorted. Of course Nate would come first before his family. “Is there going to be an I-told-you-so in there?” she mused. She wouldn’t put it past Nate to do so.

“Oh yeah he’s never going to let me live this down,” Tyson nodded, “especially with how I treated you last night,”

Hey, no.

“Water under the bridge, Tys. We’re sorted now, right?” she said firmly.

“Yeah, of course we are,” Tyson grinned, giving her hand a squeeze.

He was finally hers. And she was finally his. Fuck that felt so good.

“There is one thing though,” Tyson said, breaking her out of her thoughts.

“Oh yeah?” she said, frowning.

What?

“Can I kiss you?” he asked shyly.

Her frown melted into a smile, earning a smile back. Instead of answering, Sofia leant her head up, Tyson meeting her in the middle to press their lips together in a gentle kiss. Oh wow. Oh wow oh wow oh wow. She pulled away with her lips tingling, Tyson looking just as dazed as her.

“Kiss me again?” Sofia asked breathlessly.

Tyson grinned.

#my writing #tyson barrie #tyson barrie fic #meet cute to just friends to lovers #all the pining you could ever want #tyson barrie x reader #tyson barrie imagine #tyson barrie fanfiction #hockey writing #hockey fic #hockey imagine #nhl fic #nhl writing #nhl imagine

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sansxfuckyou · 2 years

Text

Emotions are junk

"What's wrong with me?!" I shouted at no one except the spirits before throwing my sword across the room, having it end up lodged in the wall at a near perfect angle with the handle towards me in a taunting manner.

"Why can't I get him off my mind?" I questioned, my voice softer than before as I dropped to sit down on the floor, back pressed against my bed, as I sifted through my memories from the multi universal adventure me and Jake where dragged into a few months ago.

It feels like it was just a few days ago; crystal versions of penguins, banana guards, flying burgers, totem heads and pufferfish attacking us as we all made our way across parts of the multiverse, it started with UG tearing through our house in his RG and stranding us in Clarences world, me and Jake where recruited shortly after a blue cat named Gumball joined the team and then we grabbed Uncle Grandpa to tag along as we searched Clarences world before beating the first big bad on our adventure shortly after we made our way to beach city in his world.

When we first recruited him I was skeptical at first, but he started to grow on me after the first few nights the gang spent camping out in random spots across the multiverse after we recruited him, Steven Universe, how could he even do that to me?! He isn't even human! I mean sure Bubblegum and FP aren't human, but at least they're chicks! And he's a guy! I'm pretty sure guys can't be lesbian! It's so confusing... I just wanted to get home and away from most of them, and now that I am home I want to see all of them again...

"Hey bro, you good in there?" Jake asked from downstairs before stretching up to see me, I probably looked like mess as the tears fell.

"Yeah I'm fine, just, missing our friends, that's all." I answered with, I mean, I wasn't lying, kind of.

"Want a Finn cake?" Jake asked me holding up a plate with one or two Finn cakes.

"I'm good." I said in response to his question before looking over at the framed photos I had beside me, most of them where of me and Steven, the rest of them where either the entire gang altogether or just me, Clarence and Gumball.

"Thinking about him again?" Jake asked me, he really was good at seeing through the walls I put up to cover how I'm feeling, or if I'm lying he can tell, guess all the time we spend together on quests helped us become closer, I guess.

"Yeah..." I told him, not even bothering to lie as my face started to heat up, man I hate how easy I blush, or crush on people.

"Look, I wasn't supposed to tell you this, but-" I shushed him, not wanting to hear it before taking a bite of my Finn cake.

"Don't, just don't." Was all I said before Jake left me alone with the plate of Finn cakes and what remained of my dignity, I probably don't have very much left considering I have a wad of PBs hair in the floorboards.

"I'll be making soup for dinner!" Jake shouted up, I shouted an ok in response before collapsing onto my bed and giving up, not even bothering to put on pajamas before I tried to fall asleep, man, I should get some new blankets and maybe a... A pillow or two...

I woke back up hearing faint whispers of something or someone beside me, sending shivers down my spine before I leapt into a battle stance swiveling from side to side to see what else could be in my room finding absolutely nothing, noticing Jake was gone and their was chatting downstairs. Out of curiosity I left our room and headed downstairs being greeted with the site of Jake serving up bacon pancakes for Gumball, UG, Clarence, Rigby and Mordecai, I was shocked to say the least, at the fact they where here and the lack of... Him being here.

"Jake, what's going on?" I asked rubbing my eyes before Jake handed me a pancake which I took small bite out of as I sat down on the edge of the couch beside Gumball, who just barely noticed I was there, completely locked in a conversation with Mordecai.

"Our friends dropped by, I tried to tell you last night." Jake explained, man, I should've listened to him and maybe this would be less of a shocker.

"Do you know if..." I trailed off at the end not wanting to finish my sentence in front of other people.

"Not sure, you can go outside and sit on your thinking log if you want, me and Rigby have a lot of catching up to do." Jake said before I took my leave and made my way outside taking a minute before pushing open the door being greeted with another person standing faced away from the treehouse and just staring off into the horizon, it was a nice horizon.

"Steven?" I asked cautiously after taking a few steps closer to the person who turned around at the mention of the name, revealing itself to be Steven.

"Finn!" Steven called out before I rushed over pulling him into a hug, my friend spinning me around a bit before ending up holding me in his arms like in those dance scenes during certain movies.

"Look, Steven, I-I didn't know how to get this off my chest a few months back, but I think I'm..." I trailed off quieting down a bit as I lost track of my words, he giggled in response at how flustered I am, he didn't even know I could get more flustered.

"You think that your?" Steven asked me smiling a bit causing my face to heat up, a lot, I probably looked like a tomato.

"I think that I'm in lesbians with you." I blurted out, wanting to escape, but the thought of escaping his gentle touch seemed farfetched at the moment.

"Do you mean in love?" He asked me, to which I almost responded with 'thats what I said' before realizing that I messed up.

"I said lesbians." I groaned in embarrassment hearing Steven chuckle a little bit before letting me down.

"It's fine, I understand what you mean." Steven told me as he took a seat on the grass.

"But, aren't guys not allowed to love each other?" I asked cautiously as I sat down next to him.

"You've only seen a dude and a girl get together or two girls get together, not two guys, right?" He asked me as he leaned back a bit.

"Yeah, Jakes got a wife and grandkids, I have an ex." I said with a light sigh, at least me and FP are still bros.

"Let me guess, Flame Princess?" He asked me, I guess it was kind of obvious considering how she treated me on the journey.

"Yeah..." I answered with, putting my arms at my sides and looking off into the sky.

"How did it feel before she was in your life?" Steven asked me.

"Before she was in my life, was after PB broke my heart, it felt like their was a hole in my body, inside my heart, like the feeling was gonna consume me, like I was all gummed up inside." I explained, almost word for word of how I explained back then, it kind of stung to think about it.

"And when she was in your life?" Steven asked me.

"Like I had a fire inside of me, filling the gaping hole that Princess Bubblegum left in her path, and when I was with FP she made me happy, I would die for her back then, almost did after I kissed her the first time, mix between burning to death and suffocating." I explained, the memories stinging as I chuckled a little bit, tears welling up before spilling over, no sounds escaped me though, I couldn't let anyone other than Jake and one or two others see me cry over memories.

"And when she left you?" Steven asked me, causing me to sniffle a bit as I collected my memories to the best of my ability.

"the hole was empty again, and larger than before she was there to fill if with her burning passion and delicate innocence, like she burned the walls caving it in and burning deeper than before leaving a gaping hole to fill that was temporarily filled with distractions, like adventures and video games, but then everything came crashing down when I saw her again as perfect as the first time I saw her as herself and with almost no memory of our breakup at all." I explained letting the tears spill as I sniffled and whimpered trying to catch my breath in the process, I must look so pathetic.

He wrapped an arm around my shoulder, not saying a word allowing me to just cry it out, when was the last time I just cried for a solid while? I think it was a week after me and Jake returned from our adventure, around the same time I started to crave seeing our friends again.

"And how does it make you feel when I'm with you?" He asked me softly, waiting patiently for a response as I tried to find the right words.

"Like, I'm not empty anymore, like I'm not just a hollow shell of myself, like I'm full of fluffy junk, it feels like kittens and hot coco when I'm with you." I tried to explain, it sounded weird, but it wasn't wrong.

"It feels better than when I'm not around, to simplify?" He asked, I nodded in response, that would've made more sense than what I said.

"Yeah, that's how it feels." I said with a sniffle before wiping away my tears and leaning into his side.

"You know thats ok, right?" Steven asked me.

"No." I said.

"Well, it is ok." He said as he dragged me over so I was in his lap and wrapped his arms around me, warmth, but not hot enough to hurt, didn't know that was possible when love was in the picture.

"It's confusing..." I explained as I leaned back onto him, enjoying the simple embrace.

"Fair enough, I have a few lesbian friends so I kind of always knew about it, and you didn't even know it was possible until recently." He said calling me out big time on my lack of knowing.

"I still find it hard to believe almost all of your friends are lesbian." I said with a light laugh.

"Most of them are part of a community I can teach you about if you want me to." Steven offered.

"Alright, but you should know I'm not a fast learner." I claimed as a warning.

"Challenge accepted." He said with a light smirk on his face.

#writing #fanfiction #drabble #adventure time #steven universe #the amazing world of gumball #uncle grandpa #regular show #clarence #shipping #steven x finn #finn the human #jake the dog #finn and jake #gumball waterson #rigby #mordecai #emotions are junk

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forasecondtherewedwon · 2 years

Text

In the House of Gil Repute

Fandom: Nancy Drew Pairing: Nancy Drew x Gil Bobbsey Rating: E Word Count: 1930

Summary: “I’m going to hazard a theory that no one has ever been as turned on by the promise of banana cream pie,” Nancy says.

She’s striving to turn this around on him, preserve, you know, some part of her dignity. But this is Gil Bobbsey, and he knows how to play the game.

He smirks at her before countering, “Yeah, well, nobody’s ever promised banana cream pie in such a seductive tone of voice.”

Logically, Nancy knows she must hear Gil lock the door he’s just pressed her up against, but mostly, she feels it in her body. Maybe she should be nervous—the man has extorted her for $950 and, more importantly, forced her to bargain with George’s life. Instead, a thrill races through her.

Their kisses roughen and shorten, grasping lips match grasping hands as Nancy tears at the buttons of Gil’s shirt, Gil wrestles the jacket from her shoulders.

“Sister?” she pants, as his hand moves from the lock to her back, fisting her shirt.

“Neighbours,” he replies. He’s equally breathless, stealing kissing between words. “The tiniest wisp of a rumour that you’re a thief starts goin’ around and the next thing you know, you’re getting blamed every time some careless idiot loses their car keys.”

Nancy smiles wryly.

“And you’re sure it wasn’t you any of those times?”

“Of course not,” Gil assures her. “I would’ve taken the whole car.”

“With that level of subtly, I’m completely at a loss for how the rumour might have started.”

“Oh, bite me, Drew.”

She tilts her head and runs her fingertips down the exposed strip of his chest.

“Yeah,” she says, “I think I might.”

There’s no need to ask to see his bedroom; they push and pull all the way there, kissing hard while Nancy’s hand skitters spiderlike over the front of Gil’s jeans to pop the button. Walking in here one-foot-in-front-of-the-other would’ve been easier—and she kinda wants to tell him that, since he clearly enjoys her sarcasm—but there’s something about letting go and permitting Gil’s pushiness, his handsiness, his haste. Finally, he shows her a transparent, straightforward motive: he just really wants to fuck her. And hey, as the booty-call-er to his booty-call-ee, she wants that too.

“You don’t seem surprised by this,” she notes as he waylays her in his bedroom doorway, hands confidently on her ass, rigid when his hips grind forward.

“I was actually expecting it sooner,” Gil replies. The smile he presents is pretty cocky and, god, yep, she must’ve been as mortifyingly obvious under the wedding dress’s influence as she’d worried at the time. “Sorta thought you might jump me at the Claw.”

“I’m going to hazard a theory that no one has ever been as turned on by the promise of banana cream pie,” Nancy says.

She’s striving to turn this around on him, preserve, you know, some part of her dignity. But this is Gil Bobbsey, and he knows how to play the game.

He smirks at her before countering, “Yeah, well, nobody’s ever promised banana cream pie in such a seductive tone of voice. Say it again for me.”

Nancy laughs, tugging at Gil’s sleeves and not meeting his gaze. Apparently, he means it though, pining her hips more firmly to the doorframe, daring her with the look in his eyes. Alright, she can prove she hasn’t folded.

Leaning her face forward, she lets her bottom lip skim his lobe as she croons, “Banana cream pie,” into his ear.

His fingers are wound into her hair, his mouth hot on her mouth, and he’s dragging her out of the doorway and into the room, walking backwards with more determined certainty than most people have walking forward. Nancy doesn’t resist, in mind or body. All of this is what she liked best about being at the mercy of the dress’s condensed effects. No thinking. A brain on holiday.

Gil’s bedroom is disordered enough that some half-distracted, cotton-candified part of her mind wonders how he finds anything in here, then she realizes that’s probably the point—to make it impossible for anyone else. In the warm light spilling from beneath his nightstand lamp’s cockeyed shade, she tunes the rest of the mess out.

“Was there a reason you said it that way the first time?” Gil asks, halting at the foot of his bed and peeling her shirt up.

He’s flippant, not digging like one of her friends would, and that’s why she isn’t with one of her friends. Arms above her head, Nancy shrugs.

“Nothing too outside the norm—just being driven by the lust of centuries of women.”

“And now?”

Her shirt hits the ground. Nancy plants her hands on Gil’s chest and shoves, forcing him to take a seat. Wearing an expression of startled delight and denim that’s straining at the crotch, he trails his gaze up her body to her face.

“Just one,” she says.

Which is true, though she climbs onto his lap to kiss him with the ravenousness of a hundred good girls—with squeaky-clean social media accounts and oppressive marital expectations and the million other things designed to keep a young woman down between the day the dress was sewn and now. Nancy’s one in a long line. She isn’t compelled by what was taken from those women the way she was earlier, but she’s aware of it, and through their unrealized desires, more aware of her own.

Legs spread to straddle Gil, she reaches to tug her shoes off, never slowing her momentum. Gil equals it, revived after his daydreamy stare. As soon as her hands are free, he moves them to his zipper while his impatiently unfasten her bra. She shucks it. It’s kind of amazing that they managed to wait this long. His being a scheming, opportunistic asshole should probably have slowed them even further, but then again, Nancy can be a bit of a scheming, opportunistic asshole herself. Even if her friends (most of them) wouldn’t say it in so many words. At least like has found like. And like likes like. Mmm, he’s kissing her neck and grazing those light-fingered (in more ways than one) hands over her breasts and her hand’s down the open front of his jeans…

“Feels good,” Gil groans.

Nancy grins.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Knowing you’re here and the good detective went home alone.”

She sits back, crossing her arms.

“It’s like that?” she asks flatly.

Gil shrugs, sly smile unrepentant.

“It’s a little like that.”

Nancy rolls her eyes.

“Go to hell,” she says, no corresponding infernal fire in her tone.

“Honestly, I think I almost did the night we met.”

He twitches his eyebrows like Nancy, come on, and alright! She’s weak! Maybe the Tamura mention should have her taking off instead of getting off, but it feels kinda nice to have the sort of allure that makes Gil want to steal her. If variety’s the spice of life, then jealousy’s the spice of long-awaited hookups.

There’s also the fact that Gil bringing up the memory of the Gorham Wraith reminds her how many fucking times she’s almost died. And that’s sex drive fuel, baby.

“Condom?” she asks, and he smirks like he’s won all over again, jerking his chin towards the nightstand.

Nancy marches over and back, unwrapping and glancing at the way Gil gets up and stands next to the bed like he’s waiting for her to lie down first. She frowns.

“No.”

“No?” he repeats.

“You’re too much of a bad winner to be on top. Strip and sit your ass back down, Mr. ‘Feels Good.’”

Possibly as a demonstration of resistance, Gil sits and lowers his layers partway, so the band of his boxers hangs on his knees, and his jeans hang on that, the rest of the fabric drooping towards the floor. He doesn’t want to take his clothes all the way off? Fine. Doesn’t bother Nancy. She strips naked while he takes the condom. He’s unrolling it over his cock and she’s clocking out of Thinking Mode. Desire-Only Nancy is clocking back in.

She straddles him, edging her hips closer to his as they kiss with a building hunger. His palms are heavy on her hips, thighs solid under her ass, fingers not deft but effective when Gil slides them between her legs. These aren’t the precise fingers of a lockpick—they’re the toughened, impulsive fingers of a man who wields wrenches and crowbars, breaking windows, prying doors open, prying her open, making her eyes roll back when he hooks his fingers into her at a pace as fast as her body’s abundant arousal is signalling she can handle.

Her hips are rolling with the pressure of Gil’s hand, her eyes closed as his huffed breaths hit her neck. She’s not thinking about the last time she could indulge her appetite like this, with Owen, or that, when she did, she was still getting over Nick. Everybody has their shit. Right now, Nancy doesn’t have time for that.

She rocks more needily, squeezing his shoulders, and Gil doesn’t do the chivalrous thing and get her off now in case he can’t later, he does the Gil thing—the trade, the timed handoff. You want yours? Yeah, me too. His free hand presses her lower back, guiding her forward, and he slips his fingers out and his cock in in a transition that doesn’t allow for much time to be annoyed. Nancy swallows, sinks, and sighs. Thank fuck for old mirrors and banana cream pie.

He doesn’t talk to her and she doesn’t talk to him, until she talks to him in a language of soft grunts and rising, crackling moans.

“I live alone, Nancy, but fuck… I’ve got neighbours,” Gil pants. “Remember?”

He’s into it though, she can see that on his face, so she doesn’t hush the sounds of her pleasure, doesn’t muffle them against Gil’s mouth or neck or shoulder. Her hips are practically bouncing off his as the bed thumps and creaks under them. She smiles lazily.

“They’ll… like you better after this. Statistics indicate… that young men in… romantic relationships are trusted by their communities... more than young single men.”

The expression that momentarily freezes his features screams that she might’ve just majorly screwed up by implying that they’re in a relationship—and she didn’t even mean to!—so Nancy grabs Gil’s face and kisses him, kisses him to the point that she almost can’t breathe and he reacts to her passion by holding her tight and bucking into her fast. She angles her hips and, god, yes, there it is, friction on her clit. Nancy gasps, swears, calls out to a few heavenly things she doesn’t believe in and says nothing to the more numerous demonic things that she does.

She’s there; she’s incredibly, toes-scrunching-the-boring-bedspread there; and then she’s soup in Gil’s arms, tipped and poured onto the bed, loose hair pooling until he gathers it in his grip and tugs while things go the way Thinking Nancy anticipated they might (because Thinking Nancy has needs too): with Gil fucking her into the mattress.

She savours the rawness of it, for all the gals who didn’t get to have casual sex with a sexy career thief with questionable ethics and just the right amount of scruff along his jaw when she came a-knockin’ close to midnight. One of her legs is total jelly, but she hitches the other one up against Gil’s hip and he holds it there in his hot, damp hand, stroking her smooth calf as his thrusts riot from their rhythm, announcing his end. Handoff concluded.

His jeans are caught around his ankles, emphasizing the rushed-hookup atmosphere, and she absolutely doesn’t trust that his unscrupulousness will never again hurt her or her friends, but when he reaches out and gently untangles her necklace from a strand of her hair, Nancy—not Thinking or Desire; just Nancy—has a hunch that there might be a little bit of tenderness here after all.

#my writing #Nancy Drew #Nancy Drew fanfiction #Gil Bobbsey #Nancy x Gil #Nancy Drew s2e10

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tenacityreturns · 3 years

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aokaga drabble: post-nba

plot: kagami cuts off all his friends after forced retirement from the nba, and goes to live in japan again so that he can rebuild himself from the ground up. aomine’s girlfriend, sabs (whom we love), breaks up with him and aomine follows kagami to try and reconnect after a quiet few months. he’s worried as hell, he loves kagami, who he knows without hearing from him that he is miserable. it’s angst. word count: 5860 notes: sfw, future verse, aomine’s pov. it’s specific to my future verse hcs but hopefully it makes sense even if u dont know them lol. nijimura and kagami are ( thank you so much for reminding me about this. present tense. they ARE ) besties, i think that comes up.

god, it's just too weird coming back here. everything is the same. same cream wallpaper, same dirty mirror in the lift. same buttons, circled with red once pressed. same shitty elevator music. it hums melodically, creating the pretence of relaxation, but daiki is anything but. he stares at himself in the mirror. not much taller than the last time he'd been inside, on his way to see an exuberant redhead in that same, ridiculous penthouse apartment he'd had by himself. would it seem small now that he'd seen the world? now that he had money of his own, lived in a big apartment himself? there are lines in his brow as he inspects it. he doesn't try to fix it. allows himself these nerves because they remind him that he cares. if he didn't, he wouldn't have come back to stay with his parents. wouldn't have followed taiga across the world despite the months of radio silence. missed calls ( ignored calls ). unanswered texts. daiki had tried everything. called taiga’s dad, asked if he'd heard anything recently from him. he never had. never gave daiki anything, anyway. all 'oh, I'm sure he's fine, he's probably just sulking about his injuries.' yeah, that's what daiki is worried about. asao had always got on his nerves. how is he so blind? why can't he see that taiga's devastated to be retiring? he still had as much fight in him as he'd had when they were teenagers. so much fight, and grit, and impossible potential.

the elevator dings. he doesn't move for a moment. ghosts surround him. that time taiga dragged him way too roughly into his apartment, only to kiss him like he's made of glass. the times they'd held hands in the full elevator and no one had minded. the time someone had, and taiga nearly beat him up for it. like, really nearly. all the occasions taiga found to cook meals for him. all the excuses. how the hell could taiga stand to come back here and relive all those memories?

the doors shut. daiki grunts and pushes the button to open them again. he has to buck up. he has to gather himself, all the courage in the world, and tell taiga everything. he was waiting inside, anyway. he'd buzzed him up. yeah, alright. he'd said at the door. yeah, alright. he sounds different now. colder. the knot in his stomach is eating him alive. tearing organs apart. his knees are weak, barely carrying him into the hallway.

how will he phrase it? Daiki makes his way to taiga's door. it's the same colour. same paint, it's peeling a little. he feels sick. so sick. it's fight or flight, isn't it? the nerves. well, he'd already flown away. already allowed taiga to think he didn't care. maybe he hadn't. maybe love had drifted between them, fluttering around like a butterfly in spring. sabina had been a flower daiki visited, she was everything he thought he'd wanted in a partner. funny, clever, interested in him. not like in love him, which she had been, but she'd asked how his day was. sabs was great, but she wasn't taiga. they fought a lot, but not in the same way he'd fought with taiga. and taiga had dated people too, like that hot business guy. older, smart, in love. daiki recognised the way he'd looked at taiga during that terrible doubt date they'd gone on. softly, in awe, like there had been no one else in the room. and taiga had been looking at daiki. saying something with a smirk, trying to get a rise out of him. daiki could have kissed him then.

but he's broken up with sabs when taiga retired. all daiki had done was call him, text him, trying to find out if he was okay. of course he wasn't, but daiki wanted to be there for him. sabs grew tired of it. he doesn't blame her for it. he doesn't blame himself for being in love with taiga, either. it's the natural way of things. and it has been the natural way of things to go back to Japan as soon as he could get a break away from work. he stayed with his parents, kept his head down. reconnected with other old friends from high school, tried to pretend it was just a social call. Tried to pretend he hadn't come all the over here on the off chance taiga might be around to see him, wherever he'd been. what a bittersweet moment when taiga first texted back a few months ago. all casualness, he’d said don’t worry about me, i’m fine. talk soon x and that had been it. he’d replied in english, daiki had texted in english. daiki called him about a week ago and taiga had answered. hearing his voice had been jarring. he’d been waiting so long, so patiently. always hoping taiga would call him for a change.

“i’m in tokyo visiting family,” daiki had said hastily, shocked that he’d actually get a reply this time. he waited. nothing. fine. he kept talking. “i get it if you don’t wanna talk to me, or whatever, but---

“no, i wanna see you. come over. i’m back in my old apartment, you remember where that is? come by next saturday.” and they agreed on a time like it was the most normal thing in the world.

daiki sees his hand raise to knock on the door, and he wonders how many times in his life he’d done this. his knuckles had met the door hundreds of times before, when they’d been younger. less experienced. happier. god, daiki’s scared. it’s too weird coming back here.

the door opens. it’s taiga. he looks tired. he’s put on weight, his bare arms are still tree trunks but they’re not showing muscle definition anymore. he makes grey sweats and a black t-shirt look classic for a reason. daiki stares at him, taking it all in, suddenly tongue-tied. he doesn’t have the right words, they don’t exist. there’s nothing to say. he shouldn’t have come.

“makes you feel old, don’t it?” taiga says, rubbing his neck.

"what?”

“being back here. i feel like i should ask you if you wanna play one-on-one then go to maji’s.” the joke hurts. red eyes hold such sadness in them. it looks like it hurts to look at daiki, too. he shouldn’t have come.

“taiga---”

“i can’t, i dunno if you heard. i can’t play again. i’m still recovering. i had to choose between being able to walk when i’m sixty, or playing basketball another year. i was so close to picking basketball.”

daiki trudges inside. he fights the instinct to sweep taiga into an all-encompassing hug. it’s awful being in this room again. the furniture is different, thank god, but the essentials are in the same place. the kitchen is the same. there’s the spot daiki would always perch when taiga was cooking something for him. the sofa is in a different position. how clearly he can see the old layout now that he stands amongst its replacements. daiki doesn’t know what to say to taiga’s crushing statement. could he speak if he wanted to? there’s a lump in his throat. he takes his shoes off. those are taiga’s jordans. it’s good he still wears basketball shoes. it’s wrong when he doesn’t. they’re like an extension of him, like the colour of his hair. scarlet in the sunlight.

“isn’t that what you wanted to hear?” taiga’s voice is so dark, he hasn’t shut the door yet. when daiki looks over, the hand on the door is tense, as if trying to make a fist through the wood. it takes daiki by surprise to see this rage. “isn’t that what anyone wants to know, whether i care if i played again?”

“i---” he blinks. “i don’t care about basketball.”

wrong answer. the door slams. daiki flinches. taiga stalks into the kitchen.

“i mean, of course i care, it’s just-- you scared the shit outta me. i figured you didn’t wanna see me of all people, then i heard you cut everyone off, all your old teammates. gave everyone the cold shoulder. we just wanna help you, man, you’re not alone in this.”

“i’m over it.”

“i wouldn’t be, if i was you.”

“you have no idea how i feel, daiki,” taiga pulls two beers from the fridge. daiki had half expected banana milk. the thought makes him feel worse.

“nobody does, you won’t talk to anyone.” it’s a leap, maybe he had been, but had avoided daiki’s questions when he’d asked them. did nijimura know how he felt? did satsuki, and they just hadn’t told him?

“i don’t want to,” he takes the drinks to the couch, and daiki follows. daiki sits in a chair where his beanbag had once been. taiga continues, “i don’t wanna even think about basketball. that’s why i never messaged you back. i knew it would all come out once i saw you.”

daiki doesn’t open his beer. he stares at it guiltily, but he can’t bear opening it. can’t bear disturbing the quiet falling between them.

“i would’ve left you alone if you hurt yourself,” taiga goes on, in too smooth of a tone to have been anything but the truth. “i would’ve known you wouldn’t want to see me because it’d remind you of the old times.”

silence. he really shouldn’t have come.

“i’ve always had basketball,” taiga says quietly, sipping on his beer. “all my friends were into it too. back when i had this place first, i figured everyone was only interested because i was good. especially you guys.” he clicks his tongue. “you, generation of miracles. i didn’t blame you, either. i got it. tetsu, ryouta, tatsuya. i’d think about whether you’d lose interest if i got hurt and couldn’t play anymore. i didn’t wanna face it.”

“is that--- is that what you think about me now?”

no reply. he drinks more beer. daiki shifts to the edge of his seat.

“taiga. answer me.”

“i considered it. at first, definitely. then you kept calling, i guessed it was your conscience or something. don’t feel bad about it, or whatever--”

“don’t feel bad? why would you think that? i--” he has to take a breath. it’s taiga’s mistake. it’s something in his past that caused him to think that the limits of his worth are tied with his ability to play ball. that’s awful. but it’s not something to argue over. it won’t help. “look, you’re wrong. alright? don’t ever think that about me again.”

taiga shrugs. “you wanted to know how i felt.”

it’s a blow. it hurts. no doubt about it. when daiki had said i love you, had taiga always heard i love your basketball? that’s ridiculous. daiki had loved taiga’s way of playing, but that wasn’t just it?! there are corners of taiga’s mind that daiki doesn’t like, doesn’t get along with. but despite that, he loves that, too. loves taiga. loves, loves, loves him. he always has, he always will.

“you once said there’s nothing a winner can say to a loser. ain’t that how it is here? what could you say to me i haven’t heard from everyone else who can still play basketball?”

“if you couldn’t walk now, do you really think i wouldn’t wanna be there to help you with your wheelchair?” it slipped out, almost venomously. defensively. taiga blinks, quiet as the dead. daiki sighs, setting the drink down unopened. “you’re one of my best friends, taiga. you’re more than that. i think i made myself pretty clear when i called you and texted you. sorry if that was the wrong thing to do... but... if you stopped playing basketball after high school, i’d still have wanted you around, you know. even if you were some boring ass banker in another country, i still would’ve kept in touch.”

daiki doesn’t look at taiga now. he can’t. it’s too much honesty. there’s too much weight to his words. ( if he had looked over, he’d see the shaking hand raising beer to lips, hiding that they too quiver under the threat of tears. )

“sorry if i’m just saying stuff you’ve heard before. i’ll leave if i’m making it worse. i didn’t mean to.”

continued silence. what does he say next? what can he say? he doesn't want to leave. he should have come. daiki sighs, sinking back into his seat with his eyes anywhere but on taiga. this chair is hard. it's a sand-coloured linen armchair with deep mahogany accents. the kind of chair that really isn't meant to be sat in. sabs had one like this. it was a glorified bowl. totally uncomfortable, and even he was never able to sleep in it. this chair is similar. its voice is loud and harsh: i am an adult purchase. daiki misses the beanbag. the most comfortable thing he'd ever slept on. second most. he finally looks at taiga. the couch is different. it's also sand in colour, and cuboid, but the arm-rests are low and with the right cushion, their rounded corners would make for a good napping area.

the old sofa hadn't been comfortable. he'd convinced himself that it was, until taiga became the perfect cushion between sofa and daiki. it's a stupid thought, but is a toned body really that comfortable of a cushion? the soft lines of taiga's broad shoulders look just as enticing. but... the beanbag... daiki's bought beanbags for himself since then but they've never been the same. even the same brand (model discontinued) hadn't been the same. it wasn't just that it was oblong and firm enough that he doesn't touch the floor, while still retaining body-moulding softness. it was partly that. daiki had realised it the first time he settled into his new and immediately rejected beanbag years ago, when he and taiga had broken up for the second major time. it was that he'd been on taiga's floor, exhausted after an almost challenging one-on-one, waiting for his rival to make him his dinner. even before they'd started dating, daiki had felt a special sort of peace here. there's comfort in finding someone who you can be your authentic self with. daiki's basketball ability didn't scare taiga off.

"daiki?"

daiki had been staring at the window when taiga spoke. he immediately looked over, momentarily forgetting everything that was said minutes before. forgetting why he's here, what brought him, what chair he's sitting in. he's in the beanbag again. taiga's about to ask him to solve a history question, and daiki's half a second away from making up a completely fictitious answer so he doesn't have to bashfully admit that he doesn't know.

“can i ask you something?”

“shoot,”

“were you just thinking about your old beanbag?”

ah. busted. he blinks, dazed. taiga’s expression starts to change. his eyes search daiki’s from across the room and gradually, a smile forms. the sun comes out. literally. the shadow-stealing grey sky gave the city a brief interlude of hope in a few, impossibly long seconds of proper sunlight. the weather, daiki noticed, linked inextricably with a personal epiphany. it doesn’t matter whether he’s an easy read. at any given moment, daiki is thinking about his next meal or his next sleep. but that, in the depths of their conversation, taiga had pulled himself out of it enough to come to the correct conclusion on what daiki was thinking about. it wasn’t basketball, it wasn’t their history ( not entirely, at least ), and it wasn’t taiga’s injuries ( though maybe it should have been? ). it was his old beanbag. not taiga’s. not nijimura’s. his. and he’s smiling again, for the first time today. a wall has come down.

the future starts to fit into place. is that dramatic? it’s fate. it’s fate. does taiga see it too? does he knows that daiki could walk to the ends of the earth for him? daiki smiles too, now. he sinks deeper into his awful seat, shoulders almost meeting his ears.

“i hate this chair, taiga.”

“me too, but i hated the beanbag more.”

“you didn’t,” a critical insult! “why’d you keep it if you hated it so much?”

taiga sighs now, shifting in his seat so that his arm rested on the back of the couch, head against his hand. he stares with an unimpressed downwards turn to his mouth, and a double chin beneath his jaw. because you loved it, his eyes replied in words his mouth couldn’t betray, and i loved you. past tense, daiki can’t flatter himself into thinking that taiga is in any kind of place to be thinking about relationships. but they’d been in love before. daiki had been taiga’s first ( almost ) everything. it’s over in a split second, but he remembers thinking they’d be together forever.

“do you really think i could’ve been a banker?”

the question, offered casually under the guise of an innocent topic change, has weight to it. daiki knows this, but it doesn’t matter. his answer comes from the heart. their eyes meet.

“y’know,” daiki straightens up a little, “yeah, i do. i still think you could be a banker, dude. you’re one of the few people i’ve met who can really do anything you set your mind to.”

“i’m too stupid to be a banker.”

insecure words don’t suit taiga’s voice. they sound wrong. daiki doesn’t look away. “your tenacity outweighs your stupidity any day.”

taiga rolls his eyes and sips his beer. his smile fades. what’s he thinking about? daiki feels guilty realising he can’t read taiga as well as the other way around, but the last time they’d been in this room, it would have been a fair guess to suggest basketball was on his mind. it had almost always been on his mind. and now that his eyes no longer sparkle, basketball or lack thereof would also be a decent guess, but daiki didn’t think it was just that. does taiga think of the past? does he regret not paying attention in school and not giving himself any kind of backup career? daiki does. their parents do.

god, why can’t he think of anything to say? why is he so fucking silent all of a sudden? daiki’s usually quick as a whip, can spark a laugh or a fight at his whim. he usually knows just what to say when taiga’s not feeling great. or knows just what to do. all he can think of is a hug and what good has a hug ever done, really? he wants to wrap his arms around his old friend’s shoulders and tell him it’s all going to be alright. would taiga push him away? would he get mad?

“so,” taiga stands unexpectedly. is he about to tell him to get lost? “how are you doing?”

it takes him aback. uh, he’s been shit. he’s been worrying to death over taiga’s lack of communication, and fearing the worst with every phone call ignored. daiki exhales, watching taiga walk over to the sliding doors to the tiny balcony. it’s early evening and the city is starting to twinkle. does taiga admire its familiar beauty, or does he stare out with an empty gaze? for the love of all things good, daiki, for fuck’s sake! just say something!

“fine,” excellent.

“good. how’s sabs?”

“sabs?”

“yeah. i heard things were getting serious with you two.” his voice is impossible to hear, but he’s not mocking him. taiga’s ignorance at the situation is baffling, but he isn’t being spiteful.

“uh. we-- we broke up, man, ages ago. like, a few months.”

“huh.”

silence returned. daiki hates this. he understands not googling each other, but hadn’t anyone told taiga about sabs and him? had taiga really not asked? he’d been avoiding every other basketball guy he knows, why would daiki be any different? was it possible that taiga doesn’t care anymore? no, cool it. no talking about relationships right now, it’s not the time. fuck knows what conversation this moment does call for, but it’s not that. leave it. chill. have some beer.

daiki follows his own advice and finally opens his beer. it’s gross. he’s more of a wine guy, while taiga has always liked his beers. unsurprisingly, the drink does little to distract him.

“how are your parents?”

so is this what it was going to be? small talk? daiki would prefer going back to aggressively telling taiga how fucking amazing he is, just to fight the voice that had said i’m too stupid to be a banker.

“dad’s retiring soon,” daiki replies in a sigh, “there’ll be a party. you should come.”

taiga chuckles dryly.

you don’t have to, jesus. daiki doesn’t say it, and fights the irritation as best as he can. he’s using the same patience that taiga had used with him in the past when the world had felt like it was collapsing. “mom asks about you all the time.”

a grunt this time; it’s kind of like the surprised huh from earlier, mixed with a noise of amused rejection.

“how’s your dad?”

“he doesn’t get it at all. i tried telling him imagine you lost both your hands and couldn’t work anymore, but it’s not the same. he doesn’t love his work.”

daiki’s moving before he can help it. he comes to stand beside taiga to watch the city. he can’t see beyond the reflection of taiga’s sorrowful face in the glass. he’d been right, earlier. those gorgeous eyes were empty. if he was looking at the view, his eyes were dead on the horizon.

taiga continues without interruption. “he only works as an escape from everything he fucked up in his life. me, for instance.”

“taiga,” daiki’s heart aches.

“i should’a listened when i was a kid. that’s it. i should’a paced myself.”

“would you have joined seirin’s team if you paced yourself?”

silence.

“your intensity is a part of you, taiga,” daiki says gently. taiga’s distant eyes hone in on the reflection, too, and now they’re looking at each other in the glass. daiki is first to look away like a coward. “i think if you had paced yourself, you’d have come to one of seirin’s games. you would’a found out about the generation of miracles and thought i wanna take those asshole down a notch.”

“you told me my light’s too dim when we first met, though.” taiga turns his head so that he’s facing the city again. “even if i joined the team, we still lost before we got to finally beat you.”

“it was tetsu who lifted you up to my level,” daiki’s reply is barely a whisper. he’s falling into his own memories and his eyes drop to the windowpane. it had always been him. they both dwelled on it, he didn’t have to be a mind-reader for that. he misses kuroko like hell.

“you ever wish you hated basketball?” taiga’s voice cracks. he takes a sip of beer and daiki copies him.

“yeah,” before he’d met taiga, he’d been plagued with the idea of never meeting anyone up to his standards. anyone better. kise came close, but daiki had lost to seirin. that felt like lifetimes ago now.

“this fucking sucks,” he’d finished his beer now. daiki glances over in time to see taiga blindly toss his beer bottle over his shoulder. he looks back to see where it landed. it hadn’t shattered, but flown safely onto the sofa where taiga had been sitting. taiga doesn’t move. he doesn’t react at all.

daiki feels it keenly too, can’t taiga see? he’s not alone. sure, daiki can’t fully understand how it feels to be forced into retirement due to injury, but he’s on his way there. his body is tired and it is always sore. one of these days, he’ll land funny and never properly recover. and then daiki will isolate from the world until he can figure himself out. it will be like carving the basketball out of himself. having played for his whole life, what will be left? he comes to stare at taiga so gradually that he hadn’t noticed when it happened. he sees a strong man with a huge heart and the rest of his life ahead of him. he is awesome at cooking, maybe he’ll do something with that? he has enough money that, if he’s sensible with it ( which he always has been ), he’s financially secure. hell, taiga’s always been financially secure.

he sees a man waging a war in his mind. he sees broken pieces desperately held together. daiki sees himself.

“i’ll leave if you want me to, tai. i don’t wanna make it worse.”

taiga shakes his head. he looked, for a second, like he’d say something. his mouth opened, but he changed his mind last minute and closes it again. daiki can’t stand to see him this way. if they never talk about basketball again for the rest of their lives, he’ll find something else to say. they can’t just stop talking because they can’t play against each other anymore. unless that’s really what taiga wants, which daiki doubts.

it’s a bold move, perhaps, but he bumps his knuckles gently against taiga’s hand hanging beside them. the redhead glances between them, but it doesn’t put daiki off. he carefully offers his hand to hold, forgoing breathing lest it spark an outburst. there’s no rage this time. their hands connect like they had a million times before. daiki already feels better for it, selfishly, as if how he feels is what’s important right now. fuck, he just loves taiga so much. he’ll be fine, he’s taiga. of course he will. he’s at a low point and it’s weird to see him so lost, it’s unnatural somehow, but he’ll get through it. daiki believes in him. he believes in him with his whole goddamn heart.

taiga meets his eyes just as he’s feeling like he could just say it outright. daiki sees tired, teary eyes. he squeezes his hand. “what are you thinking about?” taiga asks quietly.

“how amazing you are,” he replies. “you’ll get through this. i know you will.”

taiga scoffs, but it doesn't sound like an outright rejection. not totally, at least.

a silence settles between them as they each think of something to say. daiki wishes there was something he could do to fix it. fix all the hurt. wrap it up in a ball and throw it outside. it's more of a distraction than anything, but hadn't that metaphor sounded like basketball? it would be impossible to cut the sport from himself. he doesn't think he'd be able to do it. this must be hell for taiga. he glances over and meets teary eyes unexpectedly looking at him, too.

"come here," daiki pulls his hand away, only to slide in and wrap his arms around taiga's waist. he hadn't thought twice about it this time. it's the right thing to do.

"i'm fine," taiga sniffs.

"then it's for my benefit," he snaps. it works, and he feels familiar arms wrap around him in kind. they stand in gentle silence, there’s a wall clock ticking somewhere in the background. cars beneath them sound like crashing waves. a siren. daiki runs his hands along taiga’s back soothingly, and notes that the form is softer now where muscles had laid careful marks of definition. taiga had always been bulkier than him, but this added weight makes the guy seem immovable. and here he is, hiding his face in daiki’s shoulder in the world’s saddest hug. he has to stop himself from kissing him there and then. as if that would help anything. it used to. enough kisses peppered on taiga’s face had always been enough to lift his mood. it’s strange to love taiga with restraint, but he will, if that is what he needs.

"you were right, by the way," taiga mutters, "I haven't talked this through with anybody."

"yeah. i'm here for you, tai. but we don't gotta talk about it if you don't want to. hell, we could pretend i'm the one who works at the bank and never talk about basketball again."

"you, a banker? that's just unrealistic." it's a joke delivered totally pathetically, with a shaking voice.

"shut up," and it's a defence without any bite to it.

“sorry about sabs,” daiki feels the words mumbled into his shoulder, feels taiga’s lips say her name against his t-shirt. taiga sounds guilty. he must know.

“don’t worry about it.”

“i heard you say in that interview that you were gonna have kids. i thought you were gonna end up with her.”

“interview?” daiki frowns. taiga breaks out of the hug and opens the sliding door. he comes to lean against the balcony, and daiki is still standing where he had been, racking his brain for what the hell he was talking about? he remembers an invasive question from a dickhead reporter along those lines, but daiki hadn’t said that he was going to? have them with sabs? he had never even considered it. really never considered it. hell no. “uh,” he finally replies, realising that he hadn’t yet, “no.”

“would you, in the future? not with sabs. i just mean, in general.”

daiki slides the door further open and steps into the cool air. he rests against the railing with his forearms, looking down and out at the city. for all that it could mean, he looks over with a gentle expression at the only person that would change his mind about it. “would you?”

taiga remains fixed on the horizon. his shoulders shrug. “i never thought about shit like that before. i think so, maybe.”

daiki hums. he doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t admit to being happy to hear that taiga is open to it, doesn’t admit that he’s always liked the idea of having kids. at least one, maybe two. being an only child is difficult, but then, the adoption process is difficult. hopefully two kids. he recalls a conversation they had had a long time ago, or maybe it had been a moment in passing that stuck out. taiga has changed his mind. back then, daiki distinctly remembers hearing that taiga didn’t think he’d make for a very good dad. he remembers, because he knows how much he disagreed. a guy like him with a heart like that? please. it’s a given.

“while you’re here, you should visit nijimura and his kids at teiko.”

daiki blinks. the speed at which the conversation was going is leaving him behind. he’d done that before, sure, but not as often as taiga. that makes sense though, right? taiga was always good at making time for shit like that. he shrugs his shoulders. “yeah, i guess. i hadn’t thought about it.”

“daiki?” taiga says quietly. when daiki looks over, their eyes meet. god, taiga’s eyes are so fucking sad. he can’t deal with it. daiki nods, taiga continues. “i’m gonna give you a word of advice. you should really think about what you’re gonna do when you can’t play anymore. i wish i had. there’s no point dwelling on the past, but if i can stop you from feeling like this, then it won’t all be for nothing.”

daiki categorically doesn’t like talking about stuff like this. his injuries will heal. they always do. and he will play again. he is not strong like taiga, he can’t just carve it out and build himself up again. taiga will be able to tell by the look on daiki’s face that he has taken the advice to heart, even if he can’t speak for the lump in his throat. when he can, after a moment, daiki replies.

“i get it if you wanna be alone right now,” his eyes drift back to the city, “and i’ll go stand on the side-lines ‘til you’re ready if that’s what you want, but if our roles were reversed like you mentioned earlier, i hope you would know to come find me.”

“of course i would,” taiga rests forwards on the balcony, mirroring daiki. their arms touch, neither move. “when you put it like that... i’m sorry i was so hard to find.”

daiki doesn’t tell him that he loves him now. not in words. he says it between the lines, in the diminishing space between his fingertips and taiga’s skin. any excuse to touch him, he makes. now, as his head comes to rest momentarily on taiga’s shoulder. can he stay there? taiga allows it. he does. on the arm, later, as a story is told, on the hand. taiga returns it in a drifting touch across daiki’s shoulders as he’s passing in the kitchen, or that one, affectionate moment where taiga had playfully scuffed his knuckles against daiki’s chin. god, it had driven him crazy. taiga is so beautiful. his hair is a little longer. the guy’s always wanted a mullet, maybe now he’s actually growing it out? his hands, his back, his thighs. they’d been friends with benefits a few years ago because they couldn’t handle being in the same room without physically reacting to it. then they’d started taking other people. and now, daiki feels that gut instinct to give taiga everything again. but he won’t. not tonight.

instead, he’ll confess his love in the respectful silences, in reassuring smiles, the changes of conversation, the nah, i’ve got nowhere to be when 11 o’clock hit and taiga was embarrassed to have taken up so much of his time. he says i love you in the way that they briefly hold hands. in the words unsaid because now isn’t the time. in the lingering glances, in the i’ll take the couch tonight. ( taiga, in his way, says i love you as he says no you won’t, you’ll sleep with me. or at least he says i know you love me, which is good enough. ) of course they sleep together. taiga’s head comes to rest upon his chest. they’re clothed. it’s weird not immediately making out with him now that all that daiki can smell is taiga. they are silent as their arms find comfortable ways to settle to sleep. daiki waits for the longest time before he speaks. he waits for breathing to even out, and grip to loosen where taiga’s hand had come to rest at his hip. and, when he does speak, it’s barely a whisper scraped through his tired, croaking throat:

“i love you, tai.”

nothing happens. taiga had been asleep. the night wears on and daiki’s mind walks through every sentence they had spoken. he falls asleep as the stars start to fade, wakes up again when taiga is getting out of bed, but doesn’t stay up. later, the smell of breakfast makes him stir ( it’s never failed before ). taiga tells him that he’s got a job at a bakery, so this bread is actually made by him. it’s perfect, but of course it is. it’s his.

#drabbles.#aokaga #future verse.#this came from a prompt then what was prompted never happened so :///// i moved it to its own post #imagine over 5.6k words and what you had PLANNED to happen JUST DOESNT #these guys are too unreliable. smh #lol since the last tag i added MORE WORDS because apparently i REALLY CANT STOP #SJDSJHD SINCE THE LAST TAG I ADDED MORE OH MY GOD IM JUST GOING TO STOP WRITING NOW

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