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carmenized-onions · 2 days

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Do the Thing | Toilet Repair

logline; Today's itinerary: Fix the toilet, catch up with Syd, try not to cry when everyone asks you where you've been.

series history; Previous Chapter

portion; 7.1k+ (this shit got away from me man, idk what to say)

possible allergies; Negative self-talk (It's the Bear, babe, everyone's sad). I did no research on plumbing and am truly making it the fuck up-- I know for a fact I'm not using any word correctly and I simply will not be fixing it. Reader eats meat!! Specifically pork!! Your 'name' is 100% just Tony now.

pairing; Carmen 'Carmy' Berzatto & Fem Reader (No pronouns, but 'handywoman' and 'Miss' are said. Plus a chest reference).

you ever start writing and you just cannot seem to find an end so you keep going forever? yeah.

“I think my name is just Tony now.”

You sip your overpriced orange juice. You really have to fucking savour it, now a days. That’s like 25 cents a sip, and Syd’s treating you to this breakfast outing, so it’s not even your own wallet on the line here.

“You lose all sense of identity, in a restaurant.” Syd straightens her back, mocking her very own mechanical movements of whenever she steps in a kitchen. “I am Chef.”

This diner isn’t more than two blocks down from The Bear. It was probably your second favourite spot in this neighbourhood. Probably still is. Sitting in the back corner booth (your favourite) with Syd is nice but distracting. She’s been updating you on everything since the catering scene and her botched credit, and you’re absorbing all of it, you swear, it’s just hard to not remember why this was your favourite booth.

Not because it’s seats are the least worn in, not because it’s got the right amount of sun through the window without blinding you, but because of the company you kept here. You’re trying to not notice your own name carved into the table. Especially since it’s not your handiwork.

You laugh at Syd’s joke on time, thank God. No awkward pause. “Yeah, you fuckin’ are. Head, right?”

She nods. “It’s cool. It’s like, vomit-worthy stressful but also…”

“You wish you were dead when you’re there, but you’d rather be dead than do anything else?”

“Yessir.” She nods again, digging further into her pancakes. “I really fucking owe you, by the way.”

“You’re paying me off through breakfast.” You wave her off. “Plus, I was available and it was like maaayybe 5 minutes of manual labour, it’s nothing.”

“Y’know what?” She hums, “I think actually, you owe me.”

“Yeah?” You grin.” Please, let me clear my debts, Syd?”

She smiles, pointing her fork at you. “You owe me the fuckin’ Beef background I’ve apparently not unlocked. Everyone was talking about you after.”

“Good things?”

“Vague things. Shit made me even more curious.”

You laugh. No shit they’d be vague. What can they say? “When my dad was running the repairmen gig, Cicero or Fak would call him in—”

“Oh fuck.” She snaps her fingers, seemingly in realization. “Your dad’s the connection!”

“The connection?”

“Fak said he had a connection for our fire safety test shit, and then said he didn’t—”

“Ah.” You nod knowingly. “Dad cut the cord on his business phone when it transferred to me, didn’t really keep people updated. Whoops.”

She nods, taking another bite of her pancakes, speaking mid-chew. “You could’ve saved our asses way faster, and I’ll-I'll never forgive you, but continue.”

Snickering, you continue, “Well, they’d call my dad in, and then my dad would call me in as his like, like his fuckin’ Sous of Repairs. And shit broke all the time at the Beef, as I’m sure you’re well aware, so I hung out around Mikey and everyone a lot.”

“Ah. N’ then…”

“He fuckin’ died.” You laugh, because there’s no way to say it smooth, so you might as well say it bad. You stretch out your arms and lean back in the booth. “I kinda took a step back, after that, so we didn’t manage to crossover ‘til now. S’ironic that you’re the one that brought me back instead of an oldie, honestly.”

She desperately wants to ask more about Mike, but she can tell now is not the time, so she just lets it lie and moves on. “You stopped being an EMT to take up the handyman shit, then?”

“Yessir.” You nod, finishing your straggling home fries. “Just kinda made sense to trade off, and I didn’t want to see the family bizz die. Do I have to occasionally pick up shifts bartending to make rent during slow months? Yes. But I also don’t watch people die anymore, so that’s a win.”

“In a way, you’re watching people die still, just slowly.”

You bite down hard to stifle any semblance of a smile or laughter, deadpanning, just to see her squirm in awkwardness for a moment. It works with flying colours, of course it does. It’s Syd. She’s still Syd. You speak at the same time.

“Cause of the alcohol?” “Cause—Cause of the alcohol.”

You both break into laughter, she throws her napkin at you. “Can’t stand you, oh my god. Let’s go clock in.”

She pays your bill before you can try to sneak your card in, which feels all too familiar, and you’re off.

Off to fix an exploded toilet.

“How the fuck do you fix an exploded toilet?”

Your hands rub over your face, lifting your safety goggles for a second. Too fucking foggy. Too fucking sweaty. Plumbing never really was your biggest strength. You’re staring at the bane of your existence, and it’s the latrine. How far we fall.

“You good, Cousin?” You hear from behind. You don’t need to turn to know it’s Richie in the doorway. It’s a fair question, you’re sitting criss-cross in front of a toilet, head in hands.

“Yeah, Cousin, I’m good.” Your words are muffled by your hands. Fully not cousins. For the record. You would argue you're not even that close, but he'd slap you upside the head. You turn to look at him over your shoulder. “Can you like, get me a pen and note pad? I need to like, strategize an attack.”

“It’s not that bad, Cousin—” “It’s that bad.” “Just tape the—” “Fuck off with the tape!”

You click your teeth, staring at the gurgling porcelain before you— At least it’s clean, it’s just fucked. “I shut the valve and it didn’t do shit. I think I have to remove it entirely so I can see what’s going on with the underground pipe.”

“Heard.” Richie and you both know that his hotfix handiwork has absolutely contributed to this penultimate mess you’re in now, but you’re both letting that go quietly for now. “You charge by hour or service?”

“Service flat rate and then after two hours it’s by hour.”

He hums, knocking his fist on the doorway a few times before walking away. “Pen and pad, Chef.”

“Not a Chef!”

“Term of Respect, Chef!”

You tap your leg incessantly, groaning like you’ve got an 80-year-old body as you stand to your feet. Richie’s grown a lot. He wears suits now. Hasn’t even poked at you for vanishing. Though you have a feeling it’s coming. If not from him, from someone.

You step out into the hall, leaned against the wall with your arms crossed as you wait for your pen and pad. And now you just have more time and a better view to take in how much has changed.

Gutted. A few walls gone. Makes sense, you told Mikey he was getting a mold problem. He never listened. Seats are new. The booths are the all-around style ones now. Ritzy. It’s too good for this neighbourhood. Is that a good thing? Yeah, right? Despite the fact that The Bear should feel out of place, you feel out of place being in it. Could you afford to eat here? Could the people who work here afford to eat here? Syd said she’s not getting paid for the next few months, so at the very least, the Head Chef can’t.

“Strange?” Tina sidles up to you on the wall, wiping her hands on her apron. Completely knocking you out of your dissociative fugue state.

“Yeah.” You nod, a little too quickly, that felt judgey, you correct, uncrossing your arms. “It’s daunting, I think; to see it all at once rather than slowly built in. Like, I know objectively this is very cool, but—”

Tina hums with understanding. “Feels gutted?”

“Was gutted.” You nod. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like it, it’s just, I dunno. Adjustment period, all that.”

“I needed a second too, but Jeff is good. Change has been good.” You nod like you know who Jeff is. “Carmen, I mean.” Your nod is now significantly more understanding. She smiles, you’re a little surprised to see Tina’s got a lot more insight than she used to. She pulled the thought of Carmen right out of your subconscious before you even detected it for yourself. “He’s good. You’ll see.”

You nod. You know the good she means is not Michelin Star Good. You already know that. He’s Mikey good. Person good. You clear your throat. “How’s Louis?”

“Good. Y’know, he’s getting to that age, getting in trouble. S’been a while since he’s had a good influence.” She nudges you. There it is. There’s the poke. The ‘where have you been?’ The ‘it’s been a year’. The— “Y’know, Chef didn’t come to the funeral neither.”

That one you didn’t expect, your head swivels to her hard. “Carmen didn’t go?”

His brother didn’t go? Oh, who the fuck are you to judge...

She nods, practically with her whole body, she looks more amused than anything. But like, mom amused. The worst amused. “You’re both the sensitive type.”

You cock your head at her, raising a brow. Smirking slightly. “Wow, Tina, I thought you changed too but you still talk your shit, eh?”

“I’m not talking shit!” She laughs, hands up in defence. “I’m just saying, you’re alike.” You hope that the laughter makes her forget the topic but it doesn’t.

“Where have you been?” She softens. She’s not asking to be mean, she’s asking out of concern. Why does that make it feel worse?

You tuck your hands in your pockets and retrain your eyes on hers, even if it feels bad. “Thought time and distance would heal all wounds.”

“Did they?”

Before you can answer, “Pen delivery, cousin!” Richie returns, triumphantly, with a pen and pad held high in the sky. He makes you jump for it. You elbow him in the gut, not hard. “Fuck off, Rich…” He keels over enough for you to grab it. “Thank you, chef.”

You turn back to Tina, who you now realize has spent half her smoke break on you. She nods to you, and then the bathroom door. “I’ll let you get back to it.” You nod in return. When she turns to walk away, you grab her shoulder.

“Tina.” She turns again. You should say something. Something vulnerable and thankful. Words of affirmation are not your thing. But maybe they could be, “If you end up with a dead plate—” Or maybe not.

She grins, and part of you is concerned by this, but she waves you off, giggling like she knows something you don’t. Already walking off. “You’re gonna be taken care of, Terry, don’t worry.”

This is a bad new nickname scheme. The fridge guy is just gonna end up being called ‘fridge guy’ if you take all his names.

It’s maybe three hours later. 11 am ish. You’ve finally put the toilet back in place, the pipes fixed underground— Which is a huge win of progress, the problem is, it’s just seemed to open the toilet’s ability to have other problems that need to be addressed. There’s a strong chance you’ll be here until you die. And even after that, this stupid toilet will still be gurgling, outliving you.

But you seriously have to eat something, so you scrub yourself clean, set your safety equipment down, and head out of the bathroom for a much-needed stretch of the legs— And to hopefully get a plate from Tina.

On your way to the kitchen, you’re stopped and walked backwards to a booth in the corner by Richie. “Hey, Miss, happy to serve you today, my name’s Richard but you can call me Richie, how’re you doin’ this fine morning?”

They’ve yet to open front of house, so you play along, taking your seat with a laugh. “I’m doing perfect, Richie, how are you?”

He nudges the air . “Ey, better now that you’re here, ah? Can I get a drink started for you?”

“Really gonna practice your set on me?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “If you don’t use it, you lose it.”

You hum, then rub your temples, the headache is setting in— Not cause of him, just been a tough morning. “Just your coldest fuckin’ glass of water, Rich.”

“Right away, Cousin.” He slips off into the kitchen.

When the door swings open again, it’s not Richie coming with your ice water, but Carmen— It’s your first time seeing him since the walk-in. When you came in this morning with Syd, it was Nat that gave you the quick briefing on the schedule and goals for today.

“Tony.” He hums, corners of his mouth just slightly upturned. The nickname has stuck. Goddamn. He sets the water down in front of you, along with a plate— Covered by a cloche—Or the silver lid thing, whatever.

“Carmy.” You only mean to mimic his tone, but then cringe. “Is Carmy fine?”

He pauses mid slide into the booth, sitting across from you. He seemed all cool and collected and is now suddenly extremely caught off guard. Already sweaty. “Y-yeah, I’m better, thank you—”

“No, I meant—” It is so difficult to hold back laughter. You deserve an Oscar.

You’re not doing great to be fair but like, still, Oscar worthy attempt.

“I meant like, like is the nickname okay?”

The horrors just keep piling on his face, and you can’t help but feel guilty. No shit he feels like he’s starting on a lower playing field here. You knew his dead brother, you know his Head Chef, your first time meeting him was at quite possibly his lowest moment and biggest mistake— Of which you had to coax him out of, and now he’s misunderstanding every innocent question you have for a inquiry into his psyche.

He clears his throat for objectively too long of a time. “Carmy is fine. Tony is fine?”

“I’m doing okay, yeah.”

Thank God, he laughs, awkward sure but objectively amused.

You nod down to the covered plate, smiling, “Fuck is this?”

He leans forward in his seat to get a hand over the lid. “I, uh. Made you a thing. As thanks or like, an— an apology.”

Ah. That’s why Tina was laughing about you getting taken care of.

He lifts the lid, and what is revealed, if you weren’t careful, would be enough to make you cry. Thankfully, the shock registers as uproarious laughter, one that Carmen cannot help but join.

“What the fuck?”

Pork brisket sandwich. Something that Mikey made for you, specifically. Because you said one time you were more of a pork fan than beef and he absolutely lost it. In a cute way, though. Said ‘Oh, I’ll make you fuckin’ pork, alright?’ You’re not sure if he won or lost the argument, because you did find it better.

“I, uh, we had some cuts left over that we weren’t gonna be able to fuckin’ use, and uh, Tina showed me this, this recipe card, last night.” He slides over the very same brisket recipe Mikey had written down. Little doodles of angry faces and Xs over pigs in the margins.

“He was so fuckin’ mad.” You snort, looking at it. “All I fuckin’ said was I had a preference!”

“In The Beef!”

“He asked!” You quickly defend, through laughter. “And it tastes fucking good. All he did was prove my fuckin’ point— And spent hours doing it. Were you here overnight for this, slowcooking?”

He shakes his head, though there’s a hesitation in it— So you’re not privy to completely believe him. He sniffs, swiping at his nose “I, uh, just came in early. Had to fix some shit anyways.”

He’s staring at the sandwich, then occasionally you, expectantly. You look at him with equal expectance.

“Well?” You start.

“Well?” He astutely adds.

You nod down at the dish. “Do the thing.”

“The thing?”

You pick up one half of the sandwich, but you’ve got no plans of eating until he satisfies this craving first.

“The thing Syd does where she explains why she’s proud of her dish and why I should care. I know it’s Mikey’s, but you clearly made changes.”

“Oh. Uh…” He was both expecting and not expecting this soap box. “So, followed the rub to a T— Well, with a salt bed, this time. Put it on brioche instead of the old shit. And I uh, added uhm—” He snaps his fingers, staring at the sandwich in your hand. “Added pickled red onion, for acid and sweet, and garlic confit. I’m—I’m happy with my spin on it.”

You whistle as a form of praise, he flushes with a glow of pride and is desperately trying to not show it. He’s proud because it’s curated, personal. Ah, he is Mikey good. You nod and take a bite, trying to control your reaction. Worst part about having Artists as friends (especially chefs): They fucking stare so hard when you’re taking in their work. And they’re over analyzing every micro expression. He’s no different.

Fuck. It’s fucking good. Is it bad that it’s better than anything Mikey ever made? Nah, that’s how he’d want it.

“Ah fuck, that sucks—” Is the first thing you say, and his face falls, “Expensive food is worth it.” Right back up. Easy to please. “It’s really good, Chef. Thank you. Did you try it yet?”

He shakes his head, so you push the plate with the other half of the sandwich— It’s brisket, anyways. You’ll be full by the end of this one. Portions generous. He looks momentarily hesitant, which is cute, but inevitably leans forward and takes the sandwich. He nods with each chew.

He hums when he finishes chewing, pointing emphatically at you, though his voice is neutral. “You don’t like something, though.”

“What?”

“What’s wrong with it?” He stares at into the cross section of his bite. “Chewy? Texture?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.” You’re quick to deny.

He shakes his head, hand over his mouth to hide the sauce on his mouth. “M’not gonna be hurt.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the dish, Carmen.” You take another bite to prove your point. Also you’re hungry. Two things can be true.

He zones in on the emphasis immediately. “It’s the plate, isn’t it? I told Syd—”

“Your tables aren’t bolted.” You interrupt, swiftly. Mouth semi-full.

“Huh?”

You put your sandwich down and swallow, taking your time with it. “Your booth tables.”

You knock on the pristine wood with the joints of your left hand. You swivel your body to look under the table, he follows suit, meeting you there. His left leg has been violently shaking, but he’s thought you wouldn’t notice it until now.

You put a hand on his knee to stop the shaking. He bristles, slightly, but you’re not even doing it on purpose. Your focus isn’t on him. It was making the table imperceptibly shift— Which, of course, you clocked. You tap your foot to the bottom of the table leg. No screws. “They aren’t bolted down.”

You lift yourself back up, moving your hand back to yourself in tandem. He stares at it for a little longer. How you noticed that, he will never know. Repairmen are a different breed…

“I just thought it was a weird choice. Nothing wrong with it, per say. Maybe you wanna test different layouts.” You shrug, taking another bite.

“The booths aren’t bolted either.” He adds, lifting his head up above the table, finally. “I don’t— we’re not gonna fuck with the layout, I don’t think.”

“Should get Fak on that, then.”

“Fak’s big-timing us.” You cock your brow, mid chew. He explains. “He’s focusing on hosting, f'now.”

You nod, swallowing, hand in front of your mouth so you can lick the sauce off your upper lip in non-humiliated peace. “This another job for me, then?”

“If you’ll take it.”

“If your fuckin’ toilet doesn’t kill me, I will.”

“How’s that going?”

You shake your hand so-so. “Ask me in two to three hours how it’s going.”

“Heard.” He sighs, leaning back in the booth. The stress is too apparent not to ask.

“How’s the second day open going?”

“I’m not in a fuckin’ freezer, so that’s a win.” Oh-ho, he’s acknowledging it. You were very comfortable forgetting that moment for his sake. “Thanks, uh, f’ that.”

You shake your head, shrugging off the thanks. You lift your last few bites of the sandwich to him. “You’re good. You’ve gifted me brisket. You relax since?”

“Not really.” He replies bluntly, taking a deep inhale. He pulls at his face from the top down, with both hands. Oof. Bad sign. “I think I’ll be good by tomorrow. Gonna get off early, tonight.”

“You don’t seem happy about that.”

“Ask me in two t’ three days if I’m happy about it.”

Back to work and this is taking so much fucking longer than it needs to take. Why is there tape there? Fucking Richie. Fucking Fak. Fucking Mikey. Godssake. Pipes are fixed. Water pressure is fixed. What the fuck is still wrong with it? What the fuck is wrong with you? Everyone is going to hate you if you can’t fix this. You’ve been here for like 5 hours and you can’t figure out what’s fucking wrong here? You’re nothing. You’re—

The toilet does you the favour of knocking you out of your episode by spraying you in the fucking face, soaking through the top of your jumpsuit. With a groan, you unzip the upper half and tie the wet sleeves around your waist. “Son-of-a-bitch.”

Maybe you just need a change in task for a second. Also, a new t-shirt, because your tank did not survive the waterworks either. This room isn’t the thing you need right now. You slip down the hall to the kitchen. “Who needs a coffee? Or water?”

There’s a chorus of orders, all of which sound like you’ve just asked ‘who wants a gift from God?’, which, you might as well have. This is what you like about being a handyman. The relief you bring. You just need a smidge of praise to get through the rest of this job. You’ve got this.

The small, but serviceable coffee machine in very back of the kitchen calls your name, but Richie sticks his arm out, blocking you from walking past expo up front.

“Hol’ up, Cousin, you look like a fuckin’ wet dog.”

“Well, what ‘ya gonna do about it?” You retort, despite the retort not honestly making any sense, you put your hands on your hips. “Do you want a fuckin’ coffee or not?”

He rolls his eyes, falling back onto the balls of his feet before walking off. “Ey, Sug, are those shirts still in the basement—”

You’ve won for now. You scrub your hands clean before getting to work. This is good. Oooh, Marcus has fresh coffee beans (that he’s willing to share!)— This is easy. You can already fix most broken things, but a machine that actually fucking works? Baby, you can make that sing.

Plus, the bartending gigs you’ve done don’t make you a barista by any means, but they certainly don’t hurt. Oooh, Marcus has syrups! Fuck it. Steamed and frothed milk. That toilet has you on your ass, you need to go above and beyond here. Make each cup personal. You need a win in the form of admiration.

You gather a tray of coffees (and a water for Sweeps, who is too fucking sweaty for a hot drink right now, so fair), all varying in milks, sugars, syrups, intensity. “Coffee run, I hand ‘em out, don’t just take! Corner!”

Ebra, to no one’s shock, likes his coffee black— But, and he’ll tell no one this, you just know it on instinct— He likes it a little too watery. “Good.” Who are you to judge? He likes what he likes.

Tina would take hers black for simplicity, if you let her, but of course you don’t. 2 sugars, foamed milk, chocolate and cinnamon syrup. “Too good to me.” It’s too worth it, when she says it like that and slaps your cheek. Balm of the soul.

Marcus, who watched you make these, did opt to let his imagination run too wild and added one of every syrup to his own cup, wanting to experiment with you. It doesn’t taste good. You switch it for a spiced coffee when he’s not looking. He’s silently very thankful.

After handing out a few more to the new cooks, you come up to Syd. “Take this one, take this one.” Then whisper, so no one knows you are displaying supreme favouritism. “It’s the one oat milk latte I made.”

She turns to you from her station, then darts looks over her shoulder like she’s making an under the table deal before grabbing it from you. She takes a delighted sip, eyes rolling just slightly in the relief of caffeine, she nods. “Fire, Chef.” Ah. This will get you through the day alone.

It also gets you through the willpower it takes to ignore Fak running by you to steal a coffee off your tray. Out of the corner of your eye, you point to the one meant for him— As if you didn’t make it for him, c’mon…

“How’s bathroom?” Syd asks, taking another long sip.

I’m going to fucking explode, not unlike your drainage pipe. “Needed a thinking break, but I’ve made a lot of progress. How’s kitchen?”

“Made a lot of progress. Auto-piloting through this prep.” She looks down at her cutting board, cracking back to it. “Latte helps, a lot, thank you. You should join for family, if you’re still here for it. Unless you don’t want more brisket.”

Fuck. She doesn’t think you’re so slow that you’re gonna be here until family, does she? “Yeah, maybe.” You look around, three coffees still on the tray. “...Where’s Carmen?”

She grimaces. Uh oh. The tension she glossed over at breakfast is still definitely there. She nods her head to the back door. “Smoke break. Or temper tantrum. I don’t fuckin’ know. Don’t tell him I said that.” You laugh, nodding. “You think a coffee would help—” “Please.”

“Corner!” Yells Richie, returning to you. He silently flicks out a shirt for you, holding it up proudly, ‘THE BERF’ stares back at you. You give it a solid five seconds to process before you say anything.

“Collector’s item...” You nod, tone sarcastically impressed. You pivot your shoulder for him to throw it over, hands too busy.

“That’s what I fuckin’ said!” He throws it over your shoulder. “No one fuckin’ listens, these days.”

You bite back laughter and nod, handing him his coffee. Hot. Dark. Two sugars. And, to his delighted surprise, a touch of cinnamon syrup. “Oh, fuck, missed your twists, Chip.”

You wince at what was a long-forgotten nickname, and so does Richie. Funny how remembering origins can do that to you. He’d just said it so instinctively, really. “My bad—”

“Chip is good.” You interrupt, rolling your shoulders back. And it is good, really. “It’s kinda—It’s kinda comforting.” It’s nice to not forget. He nods, and you give each other the ‘we are still so fucked, eh?’ smile before lovingly bumping shoulders as he returns to expo and you head to the back alley.

Carmen’s squatting, cigarette in one hand, creating a halo of smoke around him, and his phone in the other. He snaps out of his mental fog when the door opens, slipping his phone into the pocket of his apron like he’s got a secret to hide.

You hesitate at the doorway, maybe this is not the moment. “Sorry, Chef, I just wanted to offer a coffee? If you need air alone—”

“No, no, I’m good—” He’s quick to correct, then even quicker to correct himself. “I— I’ll take a coffee, I mean. You can stay, s’fine.”

He reaches for it when you sit next to him, but you pull the tray back to hand him the correct one. “Sorry, I—I like, did a thing, for yours. I dunno how you take your coffee, so I thought I’d do it weird.”

He takes the cup, eying it curiously. “Do it weird?”

“Do it like, like a Chef. Can’t make anything fuckin’ simple. The lot of you.”

He hums, amused, staring at the cup, then looks at you expectantly. “Well?”

“Well?”

“Do the thing.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Oh, fuck off.”

“C’mon, tell me why I should care.” He teases.

“Ah, fuck.” You sniff, oh to have your own words turned on you. Looking at the coffee in his hands, “I figured you’d like strong black coffee, but like, complex. So, it’s got like, cardamom and lavender n’ maple syrup. Shout out Marcus.” He smiles. “And then, I know I did just say black coffee but I wanted the aesthetic so I spooned foamed milk on top and sprinkled on some dried lavender.” You take your own cup in hand, putting the tray down. “If you hate it, we’ll trade.”

He pays close attention to your explanation. Man, his eye contact is simultaneously so soft and so scary. He takes a sip. Let’s it sit in his mouth for a second. “Excellent, Chef.”

Oh, if Syd’s ‘Fire’ could get you through the day, Carmen’s ‘Excellent’ will get you through the week to spare. You hide the way you beam by drinking your own coffee.

“How’re you doing?” It’s far too obvious that he’s had something heavy on his head all day, but you’re not going to say the quiet part loud, yet.

He takes a long time to respond. “I, uh…” And when he does, it’s weak. “I’m alright, yeah. I’m alright.”

You nod repeatedly, digesting the huge lie. “Ask me how I’m doing.”

He squints. “…How’re you—”

“Fuckin’ terrible, Carm.” You cut him off, putting your cup down next to him, standing up. You speak emphatically, gesturing with your whole body.

“I’m at my wits, Chef. Completely out of my depth. I fix the main pipe, I fix the water pressure, I triple check the tank, I fuckin’ power cycle the valve— I’m absolutely at a loss as to why it’s still gurgling— Why it shot water straight at my tits— Close your eyes, if you care, by the way.”

With barely any warning you peel off your tank top, you’ve got a bra, it’s fine. It’s very cute that he still looks away. You slip the new shirt over your head as you speak, muffling the words.

“—I’m wearing a shirt that says Berf, and the only way I can feel any semblance of not being utterly useless is by making coffees so good everyone has to praise me for them. And now I’m telling the fucking owner, my boss for the day all this.”

He nods, slowly. There is perhaps, not a single person in his life that has ever been this forthright. Someone he hasn’t had to over-analyze or dig into to figure out what’s actually going on. It is refreshing, terrifying, and for some reason, removing your walls have completely shattered his.

“So.” You lower your head to his level where he sits. “How are you doing, Chef?”

He takes a long sip of his coffee. Stews on the question before he spills his guts, calmly. “I’m sitting outside of the restaurant I started that I own, and my brother should be here, but he’s not and— And I was locked in a fuckin’ freezer on my opening night, which was my own fuckin’ fault— And the tape is wrong and the painting is stupid and that new hire did meth so now we’re down one.” He takes a deep breath.

“And we have Heinz instead of Frenchies, and it’s fine. That’s the fucked part— It’s fine. The ship did not sink without me— It went fine. Better, maybe. My problems aren’t fuckin’ problems. I’m just making it worse for myself— everyone. And I know Syd is mad at me, and I know my— My girlfriend? Is mad at me, and I know that I’m gonna break up with her tonight because I’m not meant to be— that.” He says the last part fast, more to himself than you, really. And then he finally looks back up at you.

“And I’m telling all of this to the person who saved me from hypothermia and a fuckin’—Fuckin’ meltdown, who probably thinks— knows that I’m a psycho.”

You take a beat before nodding, sitting next to him again, arms crossed. Silent. Contemplative. “I have thoughts.”

He nods, taking a drag. “Don’t pull punches.”

“Well, to start most honestly, we must remember, I love Syd. So, I’m not gonna mince about her.”

“Heard.”

You recall everything Sydney had told you at breakfast. The recap of how she got to this point. “Syd isn’t mad at you, she’s disappointed and distrustful.”

He grimaces. “That sounds worse.”

“It is.”

“Oh.”

“But in a way you can fix.”

“How?”

“Handle shit different. Actually show up to shit and make calls. Manage your priorities by urgency— Not by favourites. If I broke my fuckin’ arm and your ‘girlfriend’ had a runny nose, who are you taking to the hospital?”

“You can’t take yourself?”

“Bitch?”

“Kidding. Heard. What else?”

“You’re not gonna tell her I said this because she would rather die than tell someone she wants something.” You lean closer to him, peeking over your shoulder to make sure no one’s secretly come from the kitchen. You knock into his knees.

He takes another drag, short, choked. “Sure.”

“You were kind of a bitch about the menu.”

“The chaos menu? She said—”

“She fucking lied. She lied when she said it was fine, Carm, it does not take a psychic to read Syd’s mind.” You interrupt, taking a sip of your coffee. “She was so excited to get to build a menu, especially with—” you, “—a partner, and then you completely ditched her. And then you just made your own! Total control freak shit! Cut her out of the fun part of being head chef completely! You get to invent masterpieces and she picks out the best cheap plate? Fuck is that?”

He nods contemplatively, poking his inner cheek. “Yeah, that, that makes sense. That’s shitty.” He turns his gaze from looking ahead to face you, hand over the bottom half of his face. “What else?”

“You’re reactive.”

“No shit.”

“How long do you think you were locked in the walk-in for?”

He swallows, thinking. “Like… an hour?”

“It had been 23 minutes.”

“Oh.”

“You catastrophize, it’s a fancy therapy word,” You cannot help but be impressed by this white man writing down the word in his phone for later. “It means, basically, when something bad happens you blow it completely out of proportion into something it isn’t. Your opening night was definitely a bummer from being in a freezer— But be honest with yourself, would you have let yourself have a good night if you weren’t in there?”

“…No.”

“No. Which is also bad. Which brings me to my key point.”

He tenses up, preparing for you to rip into him further.

“You’re doing a good job, Carmy.”

He immediately swivels back to you, almost dropping his phone. Knee knocking into yours. “Fuck off.”

“I will not.”

“You just said I was a catastrophe.”

“Fully not what I said.”

“I read between the lines.”

“Carmen.”

You take a breath, putting your arms on your knees, bent over. “The restaurant is beautiful, your cooks are talented and they’re prepared— So prepared that they can handle 23 minutes without you. That’s a good thing. You’re threaded into The Bear— The ship didn’t sink, not because you weren’t there, but because you had been. Everyone had the tools they needed to succeed, even with Heinz, a Mid painting, and torn tape. And listen—” You take one last sip of your coffee. “You need to check your ego if you think you’re the first man I’ve coaxed through a panic attack while doing a repair.”

He laughs, half-heartedly. He scratches his nose. “Heard. Yeah, thank you, Chef.”

“I don’t know shit about the meth thing though, I really couldn’t tell you.” You smile when this coaxes a better laugh out of him. You’re considering a career in stand up exclusively for him because it feels like such a reward to hear it.

“And the girl?” He asks. Amusement tinging but leaving his voice.

You click your teeth, shrugging your shoulders at him. “Based purely on your hesitation to say girlfriend, I’d say yeah, probably not ready for a relationship.” You reach your hand out to his shoulder when he flops his head down. “But, just asking, is this your first relationship?”

He thinks for too long before nodding slightly. “First one.”

“First restaurant too?”

He nods again.

“Yeah.” You pat his shoulder before letting it go, opting to hold your cooling cup. “I know you’re a Michelin star fuckin’ big deal but like, me personally, I can’t name a thing I got perfect the first time I did it.”

There’s something in his eyes, when you say that. Something wistful, nostalgic, hurt? No. Something different.

“It’s not that I didn’t do perfect—”

“You’ll do better next time.”

He wrings his hands together between his knees. “Yeah.”

“You’re gonna be fine, Carm.”

“You’re good at that.” He sniffs, head down, scratching his nose.

“At what? Self-help?”

He exhales what just barely sounds like a laugh. “Kinda. S’just, when you say it, you say it in a way where I actually believe it.”

You’re getting the fuck out of here before they open for dinner. You’re not letting anyone down tonight motherfucker. The Berf shall prevail. Maybe a win here will feel like a win for Carmen, too.

You run the sink to wash your hands, as you’ve done before here— But since fixing the pipes and the pressure… Something’s… different. You pause your scrubbing, listening closely.

…

When the sink is running, the gurgling flow of water from the toilet stops. Huh. You stop and start the faucet a few times to verify this. Yeah. You stare for a long moment before connecting the dots, then punch the sink in realization.

“Fucking Mikey!”

“What’d he do this time?”

You twist around. Ah, other sibling. Natalie. Clipboard in hand, business ready. You take a beat before remembering to smile, nodding to the sink behind you. “He connected the tank flow to the toilet and the sink with one wire.”

She tilts her head, squinting. “Why would he do that?”

“I suspect to save water?” You spin around, kneeling down to look behind the sink. “I think the idea was to have the sink not function when the toilet is flushing. But, it uh, well, did the reverse, kinda. Toilet doesn’t function when the sink isn’t running.”

“Oh.”

“So uh,” You shut the valve under the sink. “Your water bill should go down a little after this, since it won’t be running into what is an essentially a second trap pipe.”

“Oh!” Did she get what you said? No. But she doesn't need to. She heard ‘bill should go down’ and that’s really all she needed. “Thank you!”

“Not a problem. S’my job.” You stand, shutting off the valve to the toilet as well. As you kneel down to work again, you feel her gaze burning into your back. You don’t turn to face her. “You have questions.”

“Oh, ah… Am I so obvious—?”

“Yes.” You’re too quick to answer, unbolting the wires where it attaches to the toilet and the ground. You sniff with a panicked, “Ah, uh, it’s endearing.”

She’s quiet, for a moment. She doesn’t ask you what she actually wants to ask you, and you know that. “Well, I’ll need to exchange info for your invoice.”

“Ah, don’t worry ‘bout that, your brother already covered it.” You stand once more, before going to the sink to undo it’s valve, you fish through the deep pocket of your jumpsuit, pulling out a crumpled business card and handing it to her.

“But it’s good to have my info on hand, for sure. It’s ah… Kinda old.” Kinda is an understatement. Your dad’s name is still on it, scribbled out in pen and replaced with yours. The dead business line is also scribbled out in exchange for your personal cell.

“It’s uh… I usually only work for friends and family, these days, so I’ve kinda stopped trying to keep up appearances.”

She smiles at it. Thank God, she finds it charming and not sloppy. She tucks it into the clasp of her clipboard. “That’s fine, we are friends and family.”

All you can do is nod, pivoting to the sink. There's a beat of peace.

“Didn’t see you at the funeral.”

Ah. There it is. For a Bear, she sure knows how to poke one. You stutter in unscrewing the bolt.

“Would’ve been nice to meet you, then.”

You clear your throat, it's strangled. “Yeah, I think I was trying to avoid introductions, honestly. Grief comes in different ways, eh?”

“Does it?”

“Mine does.” You swallow, unbolting the wire. With it free, you can just yank it out of the wall. God, forgive your brain, but Mikey was right, she does like to fight. Too bad you don’t.

She just hums in reply, watching you pull the wire from the wall. “You’re a real lifesaver.”

Fuck. Fuck. Lifesaver? Is she fucking with you?

“That toilet sprayed me right in the face, yesterday. And you saved Carmen.” There’s an amused lilt to her voice. She’s not fucking with you. “There’s something about a handywoman that Fak cannot match.”

You can hear a faint ‘Hey!’ through the walls. You laugh through an exhale.

“Again, s’my job. I do my best. Did uh, what was it, Terry come by for the walk-in? I wasn’t looking when I was there.”

You sort through your tools, deciding caulking the holes closed is probably the best option.

“He came over basically overnight to fix it, bless him, still don’t know his name.”

You laugh, it’s a little strangled. So Carmen did stay overnight. He must’ve. You smooth out the caulk with your thumb and a palette knife. Blending it into the grout as best as you can. “Good. Good.”

You dust yourself off. Standing. “Well. That’s uh. That’s my job done. Carmen asked me about—”

“Bolting down the booths?” She nods, checking the time on her watch. There’s not enough time before lunch to do it now. Plus you don’t have the screws. “You’re free to come by in the morning tomorrow—”

“But?” You interrupt, throwing your tool bag over your shoulder.

“But?”

“You said free like you’ve got a preference, what do you prefer?”

She chuckles, slightly. There is something about you that feels familiar. “If you could come after close tonight around 12, that would be nice—”

“It’s done. I’ll be there.”

“Lifesaver. I'll give you the code.”

Fuck.

Always gotta give the reader/mc some sort of mysterious background that even you don't have all the info on. Always.

Hehehehe, again, we're slowing this burn so much. Strangers to Friends to lovers but they're both so comfortable in friends it's hard to move !!

Forewarning, btw, if you've already sunk 10k worth of words into your brain for me (thank you!! I hope you've enjoyed!!), I've never written smut before and I feel like I probably will not build up the courage to do so by the end of this series, but I could prove myself wrong, I dunno. But warning in case that's your thing!! I might blue ball you babe!!

Pretty please tell me your thoughts or I'll eat my Berf shirt. Collector's value!! Thrown away!!

Next Part

#carmen berzatto imagine #carmy berzatto #carmy x reader #carmen x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto #the bear fx #carmy the bear #the bear x you #the bear #the bear x reader #the bear fanfiction

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attractthecrows · 12 days

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making myself moody by contemplating the clan Revallen left behind

#revallen lavellan #i almost don't want to consume any more DA bc if they've defined clan tillahnen then his backstory goes down the shitter entirely #me forgetting that this is not my IP: BUT WHAT IF THERE WAS A CLAN OF ENTIRELY SECRET KEEPERS #but they're soooo. they're so. imagine you have a very impressive Keeper. like he's wise and powerful and you're so proud of him #he sacrifices his life for you and his son! how noble. his son takes over as Keeper. He's not as wise yet but he is powerful and SMART #Your new Keeper grows into the job very well. You're proud of him! you love him! he loves you! he loves his clan!#he's married with a child. how sweet. it's nice to see him happy.#his wife dies. oh no. he is distraught #he's only responding to his child. the poor man! you and the rest of the clan give him space and try to make the best of it.#but you're all SO worried! you've never seen the Keeper in this state! even when his father died he still managed to lead. but not now.#you do everything you can to support him. you make sure he's fed. you keep people from bothering him while he's grieving. he's getting wors #and one night he just vanishes with his child #you can't abandon him! he's your Keeper! he's in no state to be traveling alone! what if he does something drastic???#but you never find him or his child. you search and search for months and can't find a trace of them. eventually you mourn.#several years down the line you hear rumors of a conclave. good! the mages and templars are threatening everyone.#the conclave exploded! sad but predictable. those silly humans.#the Herald of Andraste survived! okay sure. humans right?#no he's Dalish! huh how weird. anyways #Haven was attacked! Ah! our poor kinsman caught up in this. how sad to die amongst shemlen #he survived!#they've declared an Inquisition! the Inquisitor...#...IS YOUR KEEPER!!!#there he is!! he's alive!! he's in charge of the humans' Inquisition for some reason but HE'S ALIVE!!!!!#do you pick everything up and go to him? or have you moved on as well?#'we cannot go back to the way things were'#vs 'we never cared about the circumstances - we cared about YOU. so what if times have changed?'

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moominsuki · 24 days

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✎ᝰ BAKUGOU KATSUKI ; — 11:36 AM OR when you’re needy and he’s ready to help you. doesn’t mean he won’t have some of his own fun while doing it. (birthday special)

࿄ ! warnings - major nsfw. squirting. f!reader. kind of dubcon but not really. / note. hey… how y’all doing! i have no excuses this time lol. i also can’t promise i will be back! i couldn’t let this brew in my drafts forever, esp. on his birthday. but enjoy :} minors& blank blogs dni.

you: hey kats i miss you :(

you: katsuki? i need you

you sent those texts at around 11:36 am and it’s now almost an hour later, with katsuki being in a very important heroes’ meeting of some sort. now, katsuki never takes time or leave off of work only on the condition he’s practically spilling his guts onto the floor - and even so, he’d come in with his hands wrapped round his lower abdomen if he wasn’t chastised for showing up half dead.

this wasn’t out of the ordinary for you - you know, to text him all needy and sad. don’t get it all wrong, it makes katsuki’s heart clench to have to leave you to your lonesome when he’s busy and you’re not. he knows how you get when you get off your period and mixed when you’re also feeling poorly comes a combination of you feeling melancholic, sweet and also very needy. by the way, did he mention needy yet?

katsuki: what’s up with you? you ok?

his phone vibrates almost as fast as he tried to stuff it in his pocket and he inconspicuously looks down.

you: no… i need you :((

katsuki sighs looking at your texts, excusing himself from the meeting and giving what he’d consider sympathetic eyes to his friends before dialling up your number.

“you okay, princess?” katsuki frowns, “i know you ‘aven’t been feeling well these past few days but ‘m busy-”

“katsukiii,” you all but whine into the phone, mewling and he straightens up immediately at your voice, ears turning a cute shade of pink. oh. he knows this tone. he knows it all too well amongst the linen sheets of his bed.

“i know i shouldn’t be calling while you’re busy but, fuck, i need you, need you so much,” you gasp on the other side of the line, practically swimming in his bed, wearing only your cotton panties and a barely there tank top.

katsuki bites his fist, standing behind the conference room door, groaning quietly. “yeah?”

“mhmmm, i really do,” you simper, “you looked really good this morning an-and you smelt so good and… ‘m just really, really needy right now.”

katsuki should tell you to get a grip, dash some cold water on your face and put your fingers to good use but the way you’re moaning and whining across the phone is making all his blood cells rush from the rational parts of his body down to the irrational parts of his body.

“where r’you right now?”

“in your bed… just like how you left me,” you sigh, a pathetic and wanton lilt to your words. “all alone in this big and cold bed wishing my big, strong man would come home and give me what i deserve.”

your flushed face boyfriend all but snarls, teeth bared over the phone. “yeah? what d’you deserve, then, for interrupting me at work and and then begging me to come home and fuck you? cos that’s what you want, right? for me t’drop everythin’ and come running to you?”

“yup,” you hum, popping the ‘p’ and some rustling can be heard in the background. “well, ‘s your choice, really. i just… really need you, baby.”

you can hear katsuki’s deep breathing over the phone and you’re so certain you can hear the cogs in his skull turning, clicking as he mulls over this decision. he clears his throat, lamenting with a big sigh as if this is all one big inconvenience for him.

just at that moment, deku comes through the door.

“everything okay, kacch- dynamight? if you’re busy we can discuss this with you another time.”

“…‘m gonna have to head home for a little while… something’s come up. don’ wait up. i’ll be back as quick as i can.”

katsuki wants to bite you when he can make out the smile over your exhale through the receiver but you’re quick to hang up as deku reassures his friend in his naïveté, unknowing to the true purpose of his mid day return home.

when katsuki returns within 10 minutes since your call (usually it’s a 16 minute drive from the agency to home - pedal to the metal), you’re already on the couch, and your tank top does nothing to hide the hardness of your nipples and katsuki can see the shape of your cunt lips through your barely there panties.

no words are passed as you smile sweetly at your boyfriend, who kicks off his shoes and whose hands already at his belt as he stalks over to your seated body.

“how d’ya want it, huh?” you’re already moving back across the couch, legs spread.

“just fuck me please,” you whimper, “wan’ you to stretch me out with your cock.” you paw at his hips, at the waistline of his trousers that situate themselves in front of your face.

“you don’ want me to stretch you out first?” he muses, dropping down to his knees in front of your scantily clad pussy, thick fingers pressing on your covered clit and you hum, shaking your head.

“i can take it right now,” you gasp, and two fingers slip into your pants despite your protests at how you “don’t need to be prepped,” and that you “can take him right now.” alas, you shut up effective immediately when his fingers skim through your panties and straight to rubbing your hardened nub and you can’t find it in yourself to get annoyed when two digits slip inside you, curling up only for a mere second and jolting your body along with it.

katsuki pulls his dampened fingers out, effectively taking off your panties with him. “your decision. don’t get pissy with me later when it’s sore, because ‘m not gonna have it.”

you shake your head defiantly, utterances of “i won’t” and “just please fuck me,” meshing into a slurry of words.

he grabs your face to look at you. “you promise?”

you nod and he frowns, smushing your cheeks slightly. “you better speak up and fast, because i ain’t got all day, princess.”

“i promish! i promishh.” the words come out muffled against the grip of his hand. your boyfriend takes the answer anyhow, because he gets up from off his knees to impatiently throw off his blazer, then down his trousers and pants in one swoop.

there’s a smug look on your face and katsuki can tell you’re trying to hide a triumphant smile. he wants to wipe it off your face so badly.

“face down, ass up, pretty lady.”

you throw yourself around without a second to spare and katsuki stuffs a pillow under your hips, slapping your ass in the process. at any other time, you would’ve scolded him for leaving a print. instead you moan and arch your back, clenching cunt on display for his hungry eyes.

“fucking minx,” katsuki grumbles, settling behind you and letting the weight of his mostly hard cock tap against your pussy, delving between your puffy lips and rubbing against your hardened clit.

you try to be good, try not to say anything that might make him want to punish you but you’re growing restless at what feels like hours of torture (hours being mere seconds that is) and you sniffle out a weak “katsuki, please…”

his heart clenches at your tone and even when he’s trying to tease you, he can’t help but feed out the palm of your hand. he also can’t help that his dick pulsates in his grip at the pathetic tone of your voice.

“don’t rush me or i’ll leave you like this,” he grumbles, and you both know he wouldn’t dare, and you’re about to protest, turn your head to spit defiantly at him but it’s much too late for that. he sinks in, weighty and thick and it knocks the breath out of you. you practically face plant into the armrest of the couch and your teeth bites into the cashmere fabric.

there’s something about not being prepped before that makes this so much more intimate and sexy for the both of you, but the impending realisation that you will be sore tomorrow dawns on you as you feel the heft of his balls press on you. he’s right to the hilt and you’re full to the brim, gasping.

neither of you can get a word out edgeways or sideways - katsuki leans down to wrap a thick arm around your neck and though he can barely see your face, he can feel the salty tears dribbling down his forearm and he can most definitely hear the wordless cries coming from out your agape mouth.

“this is what you wanted,” he hisses, nose in your hair, his wide body trapping you to the couch, “don’t you fuckin’ complain later- fuckin’, shittt,” he groans, pulling back out slightly and getting sucked in by your silken walls. the living room has gotten 100 degrees hotter and he wants to blame you so badly, but you moan out his name wantonly, one hand around his own that’s slightly bruising against your neck and he’s putty.

“hurts so good,” you finally get out, toes curling when the tip of his cock hits against that honeyed spot. “jus’- jus’ like that,” you slur, legs shaking and thrashing when you feel katsuki’s hand slip between your bodies.

all he can focus on is how fast you got sloppy for him, the conjoining of your bodies, if only fleeting, is getting to him, if the clench of his balls has anything to say about it. his hand finds your throbbing pearl and a straying pointer fingers rubs on it firmly in broad, confident circles, and you choke, eyes crossing.

your body stiffens and you’re not even sure you’re speaking a coherent language at this point, but you garble out something along the lines of “i love you,” and “i can’t take it,” and a contradicting “like that, katsuki.”

behind you, he’s thrusting even harder and rubbing faster at your clit, pressing down with ferocity and you’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore, the tension in your bladder rising. even in the midst of a second, impending orgasm do you turn and try to kiss him, which he gladly accepts, tongue delving into your mouth and he inevitably hunches, grunting and huffing, red faced and shooting ropes of thick cum inside of you.

that’s when your second one hits, and it’s even heavier than the last, sprays of liquid hitting your boyfriend’s lower abdomen and you squeal, hips gyrating and katsuki doesn’t slow until you’re basically limp, collapsed against the softness of his sofa.

he kisses your head, pulling out and you gasp at the exit. no words are shared as he brandishes a damp cloth from somewhere - he must’ve gotten up in your daze, you didn’t even know he had left from behind you at all, and it makes you sigh, cheeks resting against the armrest.

katsuki cleans you up in typical, sweetheart fashion, passing you a blanket and your clothes like he always does after a romp, and it’s only when he makes you sit up so you can eat a banana and drink a glass of cold, fresh water do you say something.

“so i take that you’re not going back into work?”

katsuki’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and he looks away from you, pouting. you think he’s not going to say anything till he scoffs a short moment later, “…’s not like i had much to do today anyway… i’ll catch up with those idiots later.”

you don’t bite back your smile this time and he pulls you into his chest. “you better wipe that shit eating grin off ya face.”

“or what? you threatening me with a good time?” you giggle, wiggling your brows and he opens his mouth to bark back until you move your hips slightly and hiss.

“what was that?” he questions and you ignore him. he groans, swiping a hand across his face,“…y/n, i-”

“‘m not complaining!… but i would be lying if i said it’s not a little sore- hey!”

katsuki wraps you up in his arms, blanket strewn.

“what are you-”

“since ‘m taking the rest of the day off, might as well go clean up and have a bath… remind me to never listen to you again.”

“hey! it’s not my fault you’re such a brute,” you laugh as he kisses your face, walking up the stairs.

“not so hard!” you hiss in pain, “‘m sore!”

yeah. remind katsuki to never listen to you when you’re horny.

#bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou smut #༝˚૮ .♡ katsuki.#✎𓂃uma thirsts。°˖⌕#✎𓂃stamped: (my hero academia)。°˖⌕#bakugo smut #bakugou imagine #not proofread no beta we die like MEN #ok byeeeee

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bodhrancomedy · 4 months

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Guess who's on TV!

(Well, iPlayer until the 15th, that's when it airs on BBC One)

Hope Street episode 3.11, let's go!

First of all, I'd say they did me dirty with this picture, but my university ID was exponentially worse.

Onto the spoilers!

Our boy Matthew has arrived in Port Devine, looking a little concerned.

For good reason when he's suddenly confronted by this lad, Dara.

Ah, a fight which Matthew escapes by slipping out of his coat. (Pretty sure this is the take where we ripped it practically in two...)

Dara's questioned, he claims he's never met Matthew in his life. Hmm.

Police do some investigating (and some character stuff) before Dara makes his way to Matthew's mother (Louise)'s house to have a wee showdown.

They both in a gang and Matthew's stolen a gun. Dara needs to get it back...

Matthew's nay having it. "This is my way out. If they want the gun back, they have to let me go."

Another fight. The gun goes off! (Poor Pete and I were convinced after take one to put some padding on. My arm looks bulky because I'm strapped up with squishy stuff and allergic to plasters so it has to be in a sock)

Thank fuck no one was hurt. Dara gets the hell out of dodge -

Leaving Matthew to contemplate his mortality. And other people's, but mostly his own.

"Oh fuck, my bosses are gonna find me and murder me, oh shit. I'm far too young and pretty to die!"

Time for Matthew and Louise to follow Dara's example and get the fuck out of here.

The police are now on the Halbridges' trail, but they discover the phone tracking them and leave it in a field.

Meanwhile, Dara's been arrested for drug dealing. He refuses to talk, clearly nervous.

Ah, what's this on Dara's phone? So Matthew and Dara have been in a relationship for over a year now.

(The poor intimacy coordinator having to walk me through my just about second kiss in my entire life. And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth... Pete is a very sweet person. Made it all funny.) ("Relax your hand, Bodh. Just relax it. Open - open your fingers, just let me position your hand.")

They're both working for the same gang. Matthew was given the gun to hold onto by their bosses' and freaked out, running away with the weapon. His plan was to trade his freedom for the gun, but Dara was sent to get it back for the Brazier Brothers, notorious drug runners and gang leaders.

These guys.

Unfortunately, now Dara's had to tell the Brazier Brothers that Matthew is refusing. They're going to kill Matthew and then Dara. Oh no.

But Dara has an idea where they might be hiding.

At the caravan there's a standoff between the police and Halbridges. But when the Braizer Brothers are arrested, they're convinced to come out.

(Side note, my favourite picture of me, ever.)

Oh no, the Halbridges are going to jail and Matthew's regretting his life choices.

Matthew walked off to his new life inside a jail cell.

The end.

(This is where Niall Wright accidently sublexed my shoulder. To be fair to the man, I'd never mentioned it and he took his finger sliding in-between bone like a champ)

Look, it's me!! I was on TV! Bit sad they cut pretty much all the uses of SSE (weren't allowed BSL because we still had to speak the lines), but I got to be queer and Deaf so that's pretty nice.

#deaf #queer #funny #actor #hope street #hope street bbc #long post #spoilers

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lovexdeepspace · 2 months

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“life without you.”

summary; months after breaking up with them, they come for reconciliation.

warnings; heartbreak, break-ups

note; wowowow the first part to this blew up and i am so beyond thankful for all the love! after this comes more requests :D

!! divider by @cafekitsune !!

first part | angst ending

“we should probably see other people.”

༊*·˚. xavier

it had been a couple of months since you broke things off with xavier and the way his face had contorted into one of subtle shock made you feel, well, better about things. although it had pained you to say the words, knowing that he was instantly hit with something — be it guilt, regret, sadness, whatever — made you feel better knowing it meant he still cared enough about you.

though the months of silence that followed had you second guessing that notion, no matter how many times you tried to tell yourself it was normal for this to happen and that you should take advantage of this time. you would never admit to anyone the many nights you would spend on your couch, waiting around late at night hoping that knock would come on your door and your sleepy hunter would be on the other side.

perhaps you ended up manifesting it one too many times, however, because now you stand pj-clad in your doorway with one hand on your hip and a raised brow as xavier held out a round, marshmallow-looking stuffed bunny to you.

“what’s this?” you deadpanned, knowing exactly what he was doing — you just wanted to hear him say it.

xavier’s lips pressed into a tight line as he avoided your eyes and muttered, “i really screwed up. i didn’t realize how good things were with you until i lost you.”

you stayed silent, motioning for him to continue when he glanced your way.

“i don’t deserve to ask you for forgiveness, let alone should i expect you to take me back,” he said, holding your gaze, “but i’d be even more of a fool not to try. i’m so, so sorry i put you in such a shitty situation.”

xavier pushed the bunny a little closer to you, brightening a bit as you took it into your arms. it was soft and downright adorable, a stuffed reflection of the man in front of you(though, again, something else on the list of things that wouldn’t be admitted by you).

“i don’t expect you to answer me any time soon,” he added quickly, filling the silence, “so i’ll just —“

“xavier.”

the blonde immediately shut his mouth, giving you his rapt attention. with a sigh you look from the bunny to him before extending a hand to him, albeit hesitantly.

“i was in the middle of watching a movie,” you said, earning a confused look. “do you want to finish it with me?”

if your heart wasn’t racing by that point, the way xavier’s face broke out in a grin before he grabbed your hand excitedly and pulled you into your own apartment had it pounding against your rib cage like a drum.

༊*·˚. rafayel

you recieved a torrent of snarky, snappy texts following your brief break-up with rafayel. he switched between gaslighting you that nothing was happening and that you were overreacting to him acting nonchalant about the whole thing; it was so bad that you had to block his number before you even got back to your apartment, which was a few blocks away.

it was weird to not have your phone blowing up all day long but, at the same time, the silence was a sort of reprieve while you dealt with the emotional repercussions of the whole situation. it allowed you some peace of mind and gave you the space needed to cope and, with the months that followed, grow more comfortable with not being in a relationship anymore.

you had finally found yourself at peace once again, keeping yourself busy with things to do like trying out the new restaurant downtown. as you were getting ready to head out, a knock came from your front door.

“just a minute!” you called, adjusting the collar of your blouse in the mirror before heading to the door and opening it. “oh.”

standing in front of you was rafayel and thomas, the latter giving you a sweet smile and a wave.

“nice to see you!” he chirped before giving rafayel a shove on the shoulder and gesturing to you. “i’ll be in the car.”

“good seeing you, too, thomas,” you called as he walked off, then turned to rafayel. “so. it took your manager forcing you for you to come see me?”

rafayel pouted at you and crossed his arms over his chest. “last i checked, you’re the one who blocked my number.”

you barked out a laugh, unsure as to why you’d be surprised about the audacity of this man. “well, maybe it’s because you tried to downplay my feelings!”

“well i’m sorry, okay?” rafayel retorted, matching your raised volume. “there, happy?”

“happy?” you echoed, running a hand down your face. “rafayel, if you really think —”

“you’re right.”

you froze, biting back the rest of your statement and raising a brow. “i’m right?”

rafayel nodded, dropping his arms to his sides. “i fucked up. like truly, undoubtedly fucked up. and here i am, thinking i can just say sorry and fix it all but that’s not how it works. i’ve got this whole front to keep up to protect my stupid ego but. . .” he sniffles and you realize there are tears in his eyes but he continues before you can speak up.

“fuck my ego,” he spat, clearly more angry at himself with every word he spoke. “my life has been complete and utter shit without you in it. i thought i knew what i was doing but i was wrong and i can’t even begin to express how sorry i am. i don’t deserve forgiveness or anything from you but gods you deserved an apology and i hope this is at least somewhat sufficient.”

rafayel sniffled again, the tip of his nose reddening as he wiped at his eyes. you were shocked to say the least, rooted to the spot as you watched the man you always thought to be so invulnerable breaking down in front of you.

slowly you reached out and your hands pulled his away from his face. he looked at you with wide, teary eyes as your hands cupped his face, your thumbs brushing the few remaining tears away. he whispered your name and you sighed, feeling all the hardened feelings towards the artist and your breakup softening to mush.

“i’ve missed you,” he whispered, leaning into your touch, and everything gets thrown out the window as you press a quick kiss to his forehead, then his cheeks, then the corner of his lips.

“i missed you too,” you said quietly. “come inside — i’ll tell thomas that i’ll drive you home later.”

༊*·˚. zayne

his coldness towards you was to be expected but still stung more than you could’ve expected. what made the break-up even worse was that you had to do it at the hospital and she was present for it all. you had tripped over your words and felt like a fool but knew, deep down, it needed to be done to prevent you from spending another sleepless night.

you had accounted for the way you’d feel when you’d find his clothes in your laundry; you’d accounted for the way your heart would surge whenever the rare occurrence came that you’d see him out and about in linkon city; everything was thought out and prepared for to avoid feeling too harshly.

what you had failed to account for, however, was how you’d feel when you came home one day to find zayne sitting on your couch with at least ten different bouquets of flowers surrounding him.

first it was shock — you quite literally dropped all your belongings. zayne raised an eyebrow at your reaction as if it wasn’t incredibly surprising to see him sitting in your apartment after having months of no contact.

second it was realization — you hadn’t taken your spare key back. as soon as it hit you your shock wore off and you groaned, running a hand down your face. after a long day at work this was the last thing you were expecting and needed.

last came the indifference. you gestured to him, then to the door. zayne stood slowly and walked around the bouquets, heading for the door. you were surprised up until he shut the door and headed back to his original spot on the couch.

“zayne,” you deadpanned. “that was a sign for you to leave.”

“do you really want me to leave?” the doctor asked, his steely gaze sending shivers down your spine.

no. “why are you even here?” you asked, defeated, purposely avoiding the question. “months of not talking and you suddenly appear in my apartment? what gives?”

“i need to apologize,” zayne replied bluntly, gesturing to the plethora of flowers surrounding him. “did the flowers not make that obvious? are they not enough? should i have gotten more?”

he looked somewhat distraught as he looked around him and you shook your head with a sigh to cover up the way the corners of your mouth twitched. you’d hardly seen zayne so stressed let alone stressed over flowers and if they were enough for you.

“zayne, the flowers are lovely,” you assured him. “more than i know what to do with, though.”

zayne nodded slowly, a bit more at ease. he stood once more and walked over to you, stopping right in front of you. he took a deep breath and looked you square in the eye, though you noted the way his eyes flitted down to your lips for a split second.

“what i did, how i treated you, all of it was unacceptable,” he said softly and you couldn’t help but already feel him worming his way through your walls. “i don’t know what i was thinking — or if i was even thinking at all. you are the most caring, respectful, and loving partner anyone could ever ask for. i was so lucky to have you by my side and i foolishly messed everything up.”

you wanted to reach out and wrap your arms around him, truly, but he still looked as if he had more to say so you held yourself back for a moment longer.

“you are everything to me,” he said, “and i will do whatever i need to do to regain your trust, your love, everything. however long it takes — days, months, years, nothing else matters to me more than you.”

you were in awe of the man standing before you, so moved by his words and actions that you couldn’t help but wind your arms around him and pull him close to you. you could feel him relax in your embrace, something that nobody else could do no matter what. with your cheek pressed to his chest, you smiled to yourself as you felt him press a kiss to the crown of your head and his arms wrap tightly around you.

“since i went a little overboard with the flowers,” he mumbled, “do you think we should take them down to the hospital and give them out to the patients?”

there he was. your zayne. sweet, compassionate, loving zayne.

taglist; @chim-i @reialbert @circusclownsam @yegrnn @kreishin @xmikanx @frobin4ever @keitthen <3 & all the anons that requested this!

#love and deepspace #rafayel #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #lads xavier #lads zayne #xavier #xavier x reader #zayne x reader #zayne #rafayel love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace

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elexaria · 2 months

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living with ghoap was nice. two big burly fellas to keep you company, to reach the top shelves in the kitchen for you, to absolutely plough you into the mattress when you couldnt itch your own scratch for once. they were good lads.

but there were countless times where they’d be away for work, so you knew you couldnt be fully dependent on them. they knew that too, so they weren’t exactly going to object to you having fun without them. so long as you were happy and safe, they were content.

but fuck, the men out there are absolutely horrible to deal with. sleazy, there’s just… no ability to have any kind of banter with these things that think only with their cocks.

until you meet kilgöre alexander.

he’s gigantic, his shoulders probably share the same width as mount everest’s base. easily, kilgöre is the tallest man you’ve ever been with. he dwarfs simon in size, which is very telling in itself.

it’s hard to pry away at who kilgöre is as a person. he’s austrian, likes keeping himself to himself. absolutely refuses to tell you what he does for a living, because it’s on a need to know basis. “sounds like something a terrorist would say.” you jokingly coo one night at dinner, smirking as he rolls his foggy blue eyes at your comment. “har har, very funny.” he mockingly says, the corners of his lips twitching ever so slightly.

he’s one of the best things that’s happened to you in a while. he doesn’t know about the particular living arrangement you share with simon and johnny— like he says, it’s on a need to know basis. plus, you haven’t boned either of them since you met this fella. ghoap know what’s up, but they’re not bothered by it. they’re just glad to see you doing well for yourself. “ye have a glow about ye, love.” johnny coos in your ear one day, smirking as he watches you fluster and flounder around the kitchen, trying to make excuses. “it’s the vitamins i’m taking” this and “i’ve quit dairy” that. he knows the truth, simon know its too.

but there’s one thing that makes the attachment to this man absolutely unbearable.

he disappears from time to time.

some days it’s only a couple of days, maybe a couple of weeks at a push. absolutely no contact.

he swears it’s to do with his line of work, that one day he’ll be able to tell you everything. but for now, he asks just for one thing.

“just… wait for me.”

it’s been almost a month with no contact from kilgöre, and it feels like every morning with no text, no nothing, you have a growing pit inside of you that can’t stop gnawing at you, eating you up whole. what the fuck? what could he possibly do for a career that makes it so he goes days without checking his phone? it makes you feel sick to your stomach. what if he’s in a gang or something?

besides, how the fuck can you keep on waiting for someone who you don’t even know is even alive? for all you know, this behemoth of a man has been hog tied and dumped at the bottom of a lake with cinder blocks strapped to his feet. how are you supposed to wait for someone who shows no signs of leaving or coming back?

“that light in yer eyes has dulled.” johnny remarks one evening, a sad smile on his lips. your eyebrows knit together, feigning confusion. “huh? oh, yeah. uh… it’s the gluten intolerance i reckon.” you murmur to yourself, flashing a weak smile to consolidate his inquisitive gaze. “i’m fine, though.”

simon huffs as he leers next to you, skilfully flaying pieces of fish with a pensive look. both you and johnny glance at him, which only makes him grunt in response. you furrow your eyebrows at him, urging him to elaborate on what the pressing issue is.

“we reckon shit’s hit the fan with that new bloke of yours.” simon bluntly replies as he wipes off the chopping board with a damp cloth, hands gently scooping up guts, scales and delicate fish bones to dispose of. you scoff, eyes never leaving the cuts of fish meat that rest on a plate, waiting to be delicately battered and fried up.

“whatev—“

“and i know you, you’ll try and refute the truth that i know what’s going on. that we know what’s going on. so, none of this nonsense, alright? what’s up?”

johnny and simon silently watch you, their simultaneous waiting for any reaction from you making your skin crawl. at first, you scowl and huff. shifting your weight from foot to foot as you become defensive. simon cuts you off again, “none of that bollocks. tell the truth.”

you give in. on bated breath, you explain the whole situation. how kilgöre is the kind of man you had never expected to fall for, how he had managed to steal your attention even while being so elusive and secretive. how you desperately want him to come back to you, like he said he would.

johnny frowns, and simon nods in your direction, wiping his blood stained hands with the damp cloth. “fishy hands.” he murmurs, wiggling his fingers to prove he can’t comfort you with a hug. johnny nods, swiftly making his way around the kitchen island to come give you a warm hug. it’s a solid hug, one you’d never object to having. johnny’s large hands rub circles to your back, his bearded chin resting against your shoulder as he sways gently.

simon stands behind johnny, holding eye contact with you as he continued to carefully clean his hands. he raises his eyebrows in thought, before glancing down at his fingernails as he begins to meticulously clean underneath them to rid his skin of all things fish.

“this… kilgöre bloke. i reckon if he’s the one, he’s worth waitin’ for. but don’t think for a second he should get away with leavin’ you this long without so much as a text, yeah? rip ‘im a new one when he comes back.” he advises, glancing back up at you with a slight smirk when he hears you chuckle, your laugh strained with emotion.

he steps closer, carefully tilting your chin up so you can meet his gaze better. he gently wipes a stray tear from your cheek. “if he’s the man you think he is, he’ll explain everything if you ask him to. and if he does? great. if he doesn’t?” you wince at the idea, frowning.

he sighs, pressing a gentle kiss to your brow.

“then he’s a bloody eejit, as our johnny boy would say.”

#elexaria writes #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #poly!ghoap #poly!ghoap x reader #könig #könig x reader

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cherryjuiceblues · 8 months

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𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 | 𝟒

➯ HARRY SPECIFIES A FEW THINGS ABOUT THEIR RELATIONSHIP, Y/N ENTERS A NEW HEADSPACE, AND A FEW TEARS START TO FALL. ✰ dom!harry accidental plate smash. a few emotional breakdowns. sexual content. dominant and submissive dynamics. bondage. cum play. subspace. daddy kink. tickling kink. lots of praise. minors dni. 𝑤𝑐 16.6k ッ mutually beneficial masterlist

Harry hasn’t had someone visit him at work in a very long time.

In fact, Harry can’t even recall the last occasion in which he’d been granted that luxury at all.

So to have Mitch step inside his office (whilst Harry was on the phone and proceed to speak over the man on the other line) to let him know Miss L/N is downstairs, nearly had Harry struggling to remember how to behave. He’d felt special, thought about, cared for—to know Y/N had disregarded her fears and visited him anyway. He’d felt proud of her.

Until the distasteful conversation of his least favoured employees had seeped through his walls and the quieter, less pointed replies of his darling girl made his eyebrows furrow. Knowing that she was being subjected to their entitled prying was enough to squash his initial excitement, but all elation just withered away when Harry heard Y/N minimise their relationship to that of friends.

He can’t say he was expecting to hear that. Not from her pretty mouth. He couldn’t even attempt to school his reaction as he stepped outside of his office, his feet clicking on the ground at exactly the same time the rancid word left Y/N’s lips. I’m his friend. Harry wondered what kind of friends she’d had in her lifetime to warrant that sort of response.

The feeling is new—being irritated and having Y/N be somewhat at the root of his displeasure. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like himself for even letting his brain linger in such a murky area. She’d done nothing wrong. What else was she to say? Oh, he’s actually my dominant. I’m his submissive. We practise BDSM ideals. Factually correct but perhaps inappropriate for casual conversation. And Harry isn’t unaware that they’ve never referred to themselves as dating. Despite feeling in every way Y/N’s boyfriend, her partner, her lover (if he was talking to someone he felt more than comfortable with), he knew she was not the type to assume even the smallest of things. Calling Harry her boyfriend without his ‘permission’ would weigh on Y/N’s mind for days—no matter how unbothered he would be by it.

And yet, he’s still infuriated. Couldn’t she see they were far more than friends? Didn’t she want to tell people that? He’s never been an insecure man but suddenly it sits on his chest like a brick. Maybe she doesn’t want the commitment of a label. Maybe this was just a fun fling; something to look back on in her senior years as an exciting rendezvous. Telling tales to her grandchildren—Your grandma used to get up to all sorts of escapades, you know. Harry didn’t want to be some offhanded story; he didn’t want to be just a memory of hers.

So he behaves inappropriately. He behaves like that of a jealous, unassured brute of a man that has no regard for the communication Harry insists is so important all the time. He becomes a hypocrite. He becomes a man who punishes unworthy actions and plays into power dynamics to make himself feel better.

“Sweet girl,” he traces her upper lip with the pad of his thumb, sliding past to brush the round of her cheek. His voice lacks his usual soft inflection and his face stays hard. “Came to bring me my lunch like a good friend.” She frowns, pulling her head back with sad eyes. Harry’s presence looms over her as she perches on his desk. What is usually a comforting and safe crowding of space now feels distressing to Y/N. She doesn’t want him so near if he’s upset with her. If he’s upset with her she wants to run away—move countries in fact.

He closes his eyes, brows relaxing, and then he leans forward to rest his forehead against hers in a short window of reprieve. “It’s okay. Let me be spiteful. Let me, love.” It’s confusing—of course it is. What he’s asking of her is completely unreasonable! But she’s… she’s perfect, she’s a wonder; an angel reincarnated. Because she nods slowly, unsure and hesitant, and then he kisses her gently. An only slightly lingering enmeshment of lips. Then he steps back.

“Lock my door,” Y/N lags a little but she listens. Harry hadn’t even taken note of her dress; pretty in silky pink—a portrait from a wedding. But he likes that she kept it on to come here, no matter the formality in which she suggests. He can’t deny he admires too, the speed in which the fabric can be loosened from her shoulders. Two dainty straps to push aside and pool the silk at her middle. “Good girl, sit back down.”

“I’m very busy today, Y/N,” he spans his hands over her knees, “I don’t have the time to be dealing with you professing our friendship all over my workplace. Because now—” Harry steps impossibly closer and edges the hem of her dress a few centimetres up her thighs, “now, I need to alter your definition of the word.”

Y/N doesn’t quite know how much Harry is playing. If a part of him is upset but he’s channelling it into sexual energy, if he’s punishing her for coming to see him—clearly something about the way she’d described their relationship has riled him up—Y/N’s not that oblivious. But she’s not a mind reader… and Harry has never been stern with her like this.

It feels fitting to use his preferred honorific. “Sir…” she whispers, unsure of what exactly to say to him. “Have I done something wrong?” It’s a reasonable question.

Harry drags his blunt nails across the tops of her knees. “No,” flattening his palms to slip under the silk until his fingertips tease the satiny skin above the hem of her panties. Y/N grips the edge of the desk with clammy hands. She’s not convinced… but she’s also not inclined to ask anymore questions—she finds that she trusts him regardless—a new discovery considering they’ve never had a conversation so tense before. But it relaxes Y/N a little to realise she still feels safe.

But she isn’t so wrong to wonder if this is a punishment.

With his soft fingertips trailing underneath her dress, his thighs pressing into her knees and his face looking down at her, shadowed by the harsh line of his brows, Y/N feels small. She feels as though he could squeeze into her skin and shrink her down into the palm of his hand, push her back with his strong legs and pin her to his desk, and burn her with the stoniness of his glower.

Those things do happen, in minimised ways, but in order for Harry to reach her neck—as he heavily leans forward for—it’s sort of unavoidable that Y/N’s body makes room. That her head tilts back, and her thighs widen, and her lips part in a silent gasp when he kisses underneath her ear. It’s deceivingly sweet—the sound his mouth makes when it parts from her skin. A quiet smacking and gentle breaths hitting her neck. Y/N’s eyes flutter shut and she just feels as Harry kisses her. Parted lips paying attention to the spot that he knows makes her melt and hands—that manage to balance being soft and rough at the same time—scratching against the tops of her thighs.

Y/N moans quietly into the air, knuckles tightening against the desk when she feels Harry’s teeth tease the underneath of her jaw. Then he takes her skin between them and nibbles—rolling, teasing, harassing the sensitive flesh in a way that makes Y/N squirm. She can almost feel her blood rushing to the surface, hooting and hollering to make an appearance on her neck. Look at us! We’re desired! She hopes and prays her red blood cells choose to calm down. Because Harry certainly isn’t going to… and Y/N finds that she doesn’t want him to either.

His hands push upwards underneath her dress to the bottom of her stomach, and then back to her thighs, and then to her hips. Almost frustrated in the restriction of his movement. And then he lifts her just slightly, enough to pull her dress from underneath her bum and pool on top of her thighs. The cool wood makes Y/N jump a little, straight into Harry as he crowds even closer to her mollifying body. Now much more satisfied with the easier access to the state of her undress, he squeezes her waist with bruising fingertips and tugs her quickly wettening front to his own hardening one.

“Do you do this with your friends, Y/N?” He bites down particularly hard and she gasps.

“No,” her voice barely carries as she tries to shake her head. She doesn’t find it necessary to specify that Niall is her only friend.

“No?” Harry pulls back, lips wet and pupils large, feigning shock, “So, are we not friends?”

“We are!” She pleads, trembling fingers tangling in the front of his shirt.

But Harry disagrees. “No. I am not your friend.”

Y/N’s head scrambles, the high of his lips on her neck providing it difficult to maintain conversation. “Wh—I don’t—” She didn’t want to ask ‘what are we?’. It felt so juvenile.

Harry takes her earlobe into his mouth before trailing back down, across her jaw and all the way to her chin. Down the column of her throat and back up to the underneath of her ear. He kisses, and licks, and sucks. And marks. Then he loosens his tie and removes her hands from his shirt. “Hold your wrists together,” he demands, voice deep and commanding. Y/N’s heart beats like it’s warning her—unable to identify that she’s as safe as she can be—and her mouth dries out completely when she realises what he’s about to do. His tie around her wrists, looping through and underneath her hands to incarcerate them entirely. “Is that okay?” Harry’s eyes meet hers, softening around the edges in a genuine ask of approval; a break of character.

“Yes, Sir,” Y/N nods, twisting her wrists a little to test Harry’s tying ability. It’s perfected. She’s completely and utterly at his disposal—and it’s oddly calming. He smiles, encouraging her tied wrists to rest in her lap as he cradles her cheek with a palm, nurturing thumb painting goosebumps across the rounded flesh.

Then he kisses her. And it’s not gentle, despite the soft lingering of his hand on her face. His mouth captures hers, breaths shared as Y/N is consumed by him, and he takes whatever he pleases. They kiss and they kiss, as though they have all the time in the world. As though they’re floating down a river covered in cherry blossoms and not in the middle of his office during work hours.

But Harry keeps her safe. It’s what he does. Whether they were treading water deep enough for Y/N to drown in, or she was perched upon a desk that was teetering over the side of a volcano—Harry wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

He doesn’t let anything happen to her when Mitch’s telling knock sounds at the door. Y/N tenses up and her eyes widen. She knows she locked it but… Oh God. She’s tied up… on Harry’s desk… with her dress up around her middle.

“Not now, Mitch!” Harry leans back, projecting his voice away from Y/N’s ears.

That’s seemingly all that needs to be said, despite the way Y/N worries about the sure fact that Mitch must understand something unsavoury is happening on the other side of the door. But he doesn’t knock again and Harry secures Y/N with a hand around the back of her neck. If he were feeling more playful, he might take her incarceration as an opportunity to torture her with tickles—to squeeze, and prod, and wiggle as much as he pleased until she was begging with tears in her eyes for him to stop. To want to force eustress laughs and squirms out of her… it makes him feel sadistic. But he can’t stop thinking about it. He’s certain Y/N would bask in the powerlessness it grants her.

Harry pushes the desire down for now. Later… he would, he’d do it. “You told me I could keep you, yeah?” He says millimetres from her mouth. Y/N had told him that. And she’d meant it. She still does. She yearns to be kept—to be cherished, desired, and looked after. Their noses brush when she nods. “You’re mine and I’m yours. Okay?”

That was more than okay. They were each other’s; something Y/N could easily understand. “Okay,” her breath mingles with Harry’s, nudging forwards ever so slightly to press her lips against his in a soft puckering. The sound it makes is equally as delicate—almost enough to make Harry want to pull back and start all over again; untie her hands and materialise the softest of beds to lay her down upon.

But he needs to exercise this control just as much as Y/N needs it demonstrated to her. “Okay,” he repeats, kissing her once, twice, three times. “Let’s make sure it really sinks in then,” and Y/N is reassured enough now to allow a slight smile to upturn her nurtured lips and the excitement to buzz through her veins once more.

It still feels like punishment though. When Harry nudges her tied wrists up enough from her lap that he can smooth his thumb over the front of her underwear. Over the wetness. It makes Y/N shudder, the light weight of his digit brushing over her pulsing bundle of nerves. And when he lifts her feet up to rest on the wood, plucks the sodden material aside and spits down directly onto her cunt… it’s disgusting. Disgusting and disgraceful to be doing this on his desk, for Christ’s sake. But it makes her pussy flutter… pulsate and clench and send swarms of butterflies to her tummy.

He rubs it over with his now shining thumb, dips down to her hole and back up again, in motions too delicate to take Y/N far enough… but just seeing him tower over her—wearing the power of his suit so well—and claim her with his saliva is enough to ignite every nerve in her body.

That’s when she’s sure he’s being mean. When he stops touching her and unzips his slacks to pull himself out. Doesn’t even pop the button. It’s cruel enough that she can’t touch him. That she can’t thumb over his pearling precome and slick it down his thick shaft. But what is infinitely the nastiest thing Harry has ever done, is swipe the flushed tip through her lips—sure to spread her wetness around thoroughly—and start fisting his cock in filthy motions. It’s too fast to be deemed as foreplay, or working himself up enough to fuck her. It’s with purpose as he slides his hand up and down, spitting once again—a hypnotic string falling to his cock—as Y/N is forced to watch Harry build himself up to the brink.

Y/N’s feelings coalesce—sadness and arousal confusing her infinitely. As if the two combine to create something even more overwhelming. To watch such an erotic sight, the sexiest man (who she can now confidently call hers) as he loses himself in pleasure is enough to make her heart beat erratically… and yet it pushes her brows to the centre and makes her restrained wrists itch with the knowledge that she is unable to get him there herself.

Her throat is dry. “But—why are you punishing me if I didn’t— if I didn’t know?” She daren’t say the F word. If I didn’t know not to call us friends.

Harry’s eyes flick up from the spots between their legs to meet Y/N’s conflicted expression. He says, through shallow breaths, “Who said anything about punishment? I’m not punishing you, darlin’, I’m—teaching you, yeah? Helping you learn,” he pauses when he gives himself a particularly good squeeze, swallowing around a groan. “What have I taught you today?”

Y/N fights the urge to stare at his dripping cock, hovering above the perfect hole. He’d feel much better inside her, why won’t he just— She exhales, “We’re not just friends. You’re… you’re keeping me. I’m yours.”

He hums, deep within his throat, fist still moving in dizzying tugs. “Such a fast learner, my clever girl.”

The low cadence of his voice makes her squirm, hips lifting to get just that bit closer to him. She’s balancing uncomfortably on the tips of her elbows, thighs aching with the width in which they are spread. But in this moment it all fades into the background of her thoughts—especially when Harry starts letting out grunts that have arousal immediately pooling at her entrance.

“Oh, fuck,” he leans over, planting his hand next to her folding waist as their bodies dare to meet. Harry keeps them separated though, cruelly; his eyes trained to the distance between her cunt and his cock. He won’t give it to her, she knows that. Understands in the back of her mind that this is supposed to be quick, and somewhat agonising for her, no matter what he’d said about helping her learn. That Harry is in Boss mode and it’s only making her wetter and she can’t do anything about it.

He spits again, lifting himself out of the way so it falls down and onto her pussy. Y/N’s entire body shivers, chest heaving as his saliva drips from her clit to mix with her arousal. And he doesn’t even touch it—doesn’t swirl his fingers or mix their fluids. He just watches as he speeds up the flicks of his wrist and then tears his eyes away to admire the devastation on Y/N’s face.

“I’m g’na—fuck—g’na come all over this pretty pussy,” a squeeze and a groan, “and then tug your panties back over to keep it all nice and safe. And then you’re g’na go home and stay wet for me, aren’t you, darlin’?” She can’t do anything but whimper, face scrunched up as her core throbs and she nods pitifully. “Wish I could come inside of it instead. Stuff just the tip in and tug myself off until I drip out.”

“Oh,” Y/N whines, the noise pitiful and weak. She wishes that too. She wishes he’d come deep inside her and stay there forever.

“But we can build up to that, yeah?” He’s groaning at the very thought.

“Mhm,” her head goes up and down without any contemplation at all.

“Oh, I’m gonna fucking come, baby,” Harry moans and Y/N’s face urges towards his, wide eyes looking up at his glowing skin and dilated pupils. Their noses knock, and then their lips meet in a frenzied clash as they smother one another’s sounds. His fist slicks up and down, up and down—wet, heady skin thumping at the base with each pass of his hand. Precome and dribble coats his fingers, his knuckles, and Y/N is half inclined to open her mouth expectantly until he has no choice other than to stuff it full.

Harry pulls away from her mouth, spit following him as he holds the weight of his head on heavy shoulders. His hand has migrated to the small of Y/N’s back, pulling her as close as possible without letting their middles meet and his hair tickles her face. He’s conservative with the volume of his groans but liberal with the way they topple past his lips—hushed, panted expletives.

“Fuck, y’little pussy’s dripping. Is this what gets you off? Silly little girl likes being treated like a silly little object.”

She nods fervently, “Yes, please, Sir.” Y/N’s pelvis aches, her back is unsupported, and her elbows are digging into hard wood. But it doesn’t matter because she’s Harry’s. His girl, his object—whatever he desires. And the thought of leaving the evidence of their rendezvous in her underwear for the rest of the day, unable to relieve the throbbing between her thighs; it excites her in the most masochistic way.

And when Harry comes, the warmth of his release drips onto Y/N’s neglected pussy and sears through her skin and down to her bones. His quiet moans—reserved but still erotic—fizzle along the surface of her skin and embed themselves in her mind to be replayed over, and over. White dribbles decorate his large hand and paint Y/N’s spread centre, coalescing with the thick, glassy slick of her own arousal—and she only just catches his hypnotised whispers.

Mumbles of a half-conscious man, “That’s it, fuck. So pretty.”

But then he suggests complete clarity—the ability to stay cruel, as he fixes the gusset of Y/N’s underwear back over her sticky, come-painted pussy and smacks down with four fingers over the swollen sensitivity. She gasps and bucks, head throwing back before snapping forward to catch his gaze. Then he does it again, hard enough to jolt her entire body but not enough to hurt. It tingles, and warms, and spreads through her entire being.

And Y/N thinks that’s it. Harry has come and she’s going to keep it in her underwear just like he’d told her to. But then he expertly takes his forefinger and traces a circle around where he knows her clit lies underneath. He teases the nerves and utters something… something he’s said before.

“Let Daddy’s come soak in, that's a good girl.”

The blood rushes through her ears deafeningly.

Let Daddy’s come soak in. It bounces around inside her skull. Let. Daddy. She shivers. He gives her another hard pat and her legs collapse from their propped up position, thighs landing heavily against his desk. Harry’s smile is one of a blissful man. Blissful yet perhaps sadistic. He tucks himself back into his trousers before starting to gently untie Y/N’s wrists. They fall like dead weights into her lap but Harry picks them both up to dot soft kisses around the tender of their pulses. Then he grants her a moment of stillness as his encapsulating palms glide along exposed skin. Up her thighs and to her middle where he adjusts her dress to fall over her lap. From palm to shoulder, blunt nails leaving trails of goosebumps as they scratch soothingly. Along her neck and up to her face, thumbs applying salve as they fix unruly eyebrows and trace imaginary lines.

She’s still undoubtedly buzzing, but Harry’s touch tells her it’s okay. He’s proud of her. She’s good. She’s his and she’s good.

“Thank you, love.” Y/N opens her heavy eyelids. “For letting me be a bit mean. I needed it.”

“It’s okay,” she smiles, “...liked it.”

Harry exhales a laugh, “I know y’did. But regardless,” he rests his hands on her waist and squeezes gently, “we’ll have a chat when I get home. About this, about specification and making sure we’re on the same page. And about certain types of… play. Yeah?”

Y/N sighs, something dreamy that trails off into something whiny. The centre of her legs is begging. She nods.

He knows. “I’ll take care of you, promise. But you’ll wait for me, won’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Lovely girl,” he kisses her—soft and saccharine. The type of kiss a husband gives to his wife.

Harry thinks he needn’t have asked. He certainly needn’t have ordered. Y/N would’ve waited for him no matter what. If not because she can’t make herself feel the way he does then because she just knows. Purposely or not, she just gets it. And he thinks he loves her for it.

Y/N might as well be on another planet.

She is uncomfortable to her own detriment—her thoughts are helpful to no one and she thinks if she were to hold her hands out in front of her they would shake. Her underwear is surely the consistency of paper mache and just placing one foot in front of the other has her feeling akin to a penguin; the waddle, in which she is paranoid she’s exhibiting, enough to make her rush home in a hypnotised funk.

But aside from the stickiness between her thighs and the distracting pulsating calling her like a siren, Y/N feels good. Much better than a few hours prior when she’d worried she’d been the cause of greatly upsetting Harry. That she’d ruined their relationship before it had even really begun.

Her mind can focus on only one thing… Daddy. It felt wrong to like the way it sounded coming from Harry’s mouth—the implications of playing with such a word—but Y/N couldn’t deny the way it made sense for her. His capability, his dominance, his ability to have Y/N’s overworking brain suddenly be granted tunnel vision for him and him only. His control, his power; it all clicks into place.

For a handful of absent minutes, Y/N sits and stares at the wall. Processing. But it’s hard—almost like her brain has been cloaked in a thick covering of fog—which Y/N is familiar with in other contexts. Of anxiety, and low mood, and exhaustion. Never has this fog been so direct in its assailing of her senses—she feels light and heavy, at the same time—is half inclined to just sit and wait at the door for Harry to come home like a dog. Her thoughts can only surround him; the way he spoke, the way he touched her, the way he controlled her. All of it replays over, and over, and over—keeping the torturous throbbing in between her legs alive and well. Until she sees the time and realises the thirty minutes she’s convinced herself have passed, has actually only been five.

So she does the only thing she can think of. She cleans.

Y/N finds cleaning therapeutic; the motion of washing away grime, of making things shiny and smell nice. It feels like renewal and it makes her feel competent. It’s something she struggles to do in her own home—finding the motivation can appear impossible at times. But for her to do it for Harry… it feels like something that will make him happy, something that will make her good, something that will make up, even the tiniest bit, for just how much he’s done for her.

It’s exciting.

Her body whisks her around the house, almost as if on autopilot, as she hoovers, and dusts, and disinfects, and washes. Time moves so much faster now that she’s busy, that when Harry walks through the front door she’s sure he’s left work early. She hardly sees him until she’s right in front of his tall body. Then her heart melts.

“Harry,” her tone is soft, somewhat unshackled by the hesitancy she regularly possesses. Her lips curl into an easy smile and her muscles relax.

“What have you been up to, my fair maiden?” He teases, glancing at the pink rubber gloves decorating her fingers, delicate feathers tickling her forearms, and then to the little bucket hanging off her arm, filled with sprays and cans—cloths and wipes.

“Made it all clean for you…” She feels as though something is missing when she speaks… like it would be appropriate to call him Sir right now.

“What’s ‘it’, lovely? The house? You cleaned the whole house?”

Y/N’s grin widens and her head bobs up and down in an excitable nod. Harry’s chest tightens. Never has he come home to something like this before. A cooked meal, yes. A kiss and a promise of more later, yes. A girl bubbling with giddiness at the anticipation of his reaction to his home that she’s made spotless… never. It overwhelms him a little—the encapsulating desperation to smother her all of a sudden. To just hold her until their bodies fuse together.

Harry steps forward, taking her supplies and setting them down before gently unrolling the gloves from her hands. Then he’s snaking his arms around her waist and hoisting her up with ease, relishing in the squeal he gets from Y/N when he gives them both a little spin. He buries his face into her neck, pretending to bite her like he loves to do so often (it’s hardly pretending when he does actually do it). Her laughter bounces around them and blooms in his chest, echoing like the perfect birdsong.

“What made you do all this?” He asks, pulling his face back to look into her eyes.

She goes shy, eyes avoiding his face as her lip catches between her teeth. “I missed you… wanted to do something nice. For… for…”

“For…” Harry prompts, capable hands stroking along her back.

Her eyes squeeze shut and her forehead falls forward, knocking against his own gently. It’s on the tip of her tongue and yet it feels impossible to get out. “For… Daddy,” she finally whispers. And it’s embarrassing. Heat spreads throughout her body—the humiliating kind but… but it feels good too. It feels submissive. Harry’s fingers dig into her back for a moment. Almost as though he can’t believe she actually said it. But she did, and she’s less nervous than usual, so she’s surely slipping through space.

“Well, he’s certainly very pleased with you, baby. Thank you.” He kisses her forehead. And he really concludes she’s feeling floaty when he tries to place her down, only to be met with grappling fingers knotting into the back of his shirt and strained whines of complaint.

He does what she needs him to do. “Go and sit down in the living room. I’ll be in.” Y/N looks at him for a second, eyes darting back and forth between green. And when the sincerity of his gaze shines through, she relaxes and turns away, doing as Harry says.

He doesn’t need to make her wait. It’s not necessary. So he’s quick to hang his jacket up and loosen his tie, before retrieving a glass of water from the kitchen and taking it to Y/N.

When she sees him again, the creases in her mind smooth themselves out. The sound of his dress shoes tapping along the hard floor is cushioned by the rug, and then he stands before her, silenting ordering she have a drink. There is no hesitation to comply.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asks, crouching down in front of where she sits. His trousers tighten around his thighs.

“Good,” she nods her head.

“Yeah?” He reaches for her legs, smoothing his palms up her knees to splay on top of her thighs. Warm. Secure. “Is your brain nice and quiet?” She nods again. “How long have you felt like this, darling?”

Y/N’s smaller hands rest atop Harry’s, fingers curling around his own for stability. “Since I left your office.”

He hums like he knows… which he does. Of course he knows. It couldn’t be more obvious that the centre of her thighs is sticky and hot. With his come, with her arousal. Harry’s blood pumps faster at the thought of the image—one he’s already seen but not for long enough. So he asks with complete understanding, “What did you like the most about that?”

Y/N’s eyes drop to the collar of Harry’s shirt. “Your tie… and your control… and you—you said… y’know...”

He tries not to laugh. “You’ve already said it once, sweetheart, surely it’s not so hard. Did you like it when Daddy came in your pretty panties? And all over your pretty pussy? Did you like it when he slapped your little cunt? I could feel it throbbing, baby. So desperate to come but Daddy didn’t let you, did he?”

Y/N mewls, head shaking and knees starting to bob up and down nervously. Harry keeps them still.

“You’re slipping into a subspace, my love.” Harry grips her face gently, forcing eye contact. “I need you to really listen to me right now. What are your safewords? Tell me.”

“Red and Yellow.”

“Good girl. Never forget them, okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He smiles, pulling her towards him to sponge a soft kiss to her lips. “I want you to start using Green, as well. Green means you’re good, you’re enjoying yourself and you don’t want to stop. I’m going to ask you for your colour more than usual today, darlin’. You understand?”

“Yes, Sir. Green is good.”

“Lean into how you’re feeling. I’m more than capable of taking care of you, okay? I want you to feel safe. But if you want to stop, you’ll tell me. You’ll say that tiny, little word. Just one Red, or one Yellow, and I’ll stop everything immediately.”

“Okay. Okay, Sir. I understand.” Her fists reach out, landing on his chest in soft frustration. She’s waited long enough. She understands—she understands very well, in fact. And whilst her head might be free from the usual weight of anxiety, it’s since been replaced with the deafening resounding of Harry’s name, Harry’s voice, Harry.

“Do you want me to take care of you, Y/N?” He asks it but it’s a command for her. To look him in the eye and communicate.

“Yes,” she nods. “Please, Harry, I—need you.”

It settles thick and buzzing in his stomach. I need you. He needs her just as much, he’s certain.

“Darling, tell me your colour.”

Green. So fucking green. Bright, luminescent green—Great Gatsby light-at-the-end-of-the-dock green.

Y/N had done so well to ask to be tied up again. Pulling her hands up above her and to the headboard; so much more intense, so much more vulnerable. Harry had made her ask, mind you, (goaded and teased until she was fervent with need) but he is still so proud. Her body is stretched out for him, ankles too shackled in soft ribbons and tied to either side of the end of his bed frame.

This was different territory, and that’s why Harry has to keep asking. He leans over her, looking for her gaze. “Darlin’,” Y/N blinks up at him with a coy smile, “colour.”

“Green.” She pouts her lips expectantly, head lifting up from the pillows to reach him. His mouth is right there… right there. He drops slightly and kisses her chastely. Unsatisfyingly for Y/N who wants more—who wants everything—but Harry pulls away, content that she’s happy.

“Good.” He stands back up at the foot of the bed, admiring the naked girl below him. Completely nude except for her underwear, where underneath she is still very much unsatiated and painted in Harry. It’s impossible to resist smoothing his fingers over her mound; fabric long from being dry. Just the pressure of his digits makes her skin scatter with goosebumps. “Pretty thing. Is this what you were thinking about all afternoon? Waiting for me to come home and spread you out... and take care of your little ache?”

Y/N feels drunk. Her body is hot and cold, light and heavy. She’s embarrassed to be so open for him but it feels squashed somehow—like shame and shyness couldn’t stand a chance in getting in her way. It’s why she feels confident enough to push her hips up into his hand, and stare directly into his eyes without giving a verbal answer.

But Harry knows, so perfectly, how to respond to her. Harry knows what Y/N wants before she does. “Have we forgotten how to speak?” He looks down to her jutted hips pointedly, pushing them firmly back to the mattress and taking his hand away. A minor punishment for demanding his touch.

“No, Sir.”

This is new. She’s… cheeky. She’s begging for help—she’s swimming through waves of fog and clarity, desperation and discipline.

Harry has to bite back a smile; refusing to give her a small victory. It seems the descent into subspace has given her confidence—an unconscious urge to push his buttons. He could push her deeper with ease, mould her into the malleable state he knows well… or he could see what else she has to say for herself.

“No. Sir.” Harry repeats her words slowly, bluntly, almost as though he’s feeling them out. “I thought…” his fingertips dance up her left calf. “I thought…” up to the inside of her thigh where the skin is oh, so sensitive—silky and delicate—“that we established an affinity for the other word, hm?” He takes the backs of his nails and drags them down her right leg, provokingly slowly, and watching as it twitches into his touch.

Whether it’s the excitement of finding out what Harry will do next if she doesn’t comply, or the genuine mortification of saying it—Y/N can’t do it. She can’t force the word out of her mouth; it swims around in her brain but refuses to meet her tongue. “Ha—Harry.”

“Oh,” he laughs humourlessly, “Harry, she says. Harry. Okay, love, and what about the other one?”

Her face breaks a little, scrunching up as she shakes her head. “Can’t.”

Harry smacks his fingers on her right breast, pulling downward as he assaults her peaking skin. It’s not so hard, but the sound and the shock of the sudden strike has Y/N gasping out, her back arching. “Yes. You can. Managed just fine earlier.”

“No,” she whines, sounds getting caught in the back of her throat as she pulls against the headboard slightly.

Harry demands in earnest, “Colour.”

Y/N huffs, “Green,” her tone petulant and sulky. It was really hard to admit liking something when she was fighting it at the same time.

“Oh dear,” Harry frowns, “she’s having a little strop.” Y/N only pulls harder, unable to hide her face in any way with her limbs so restricted. She tries her legs too, knees able to bend ever so slightly before Harry flattens them to the bed. “That’s okay, I can wait.” Then he pulls his hand back, watching for Y/N’s body to tense up as he feigns bringing his harsh fingers down again. Instead, when her back arches as he holds his hand in the air, he puts it to her left breast in a hard squeeze. The air is forced out of Y/N’s lungs; surprise, relief, disappointment all coalescing. “I can wait or I can force it out of you. One word—it’s all I want. Admit you like it.”

She looks at him—embarrassment, pleasure, vulnerability all clear as day on her face. He can see the thoughts as they pass behind her eyes. She yearns to obey but she’s still clinging onto the mortification. Saying that word once had felt like climbing a mountain and—she’s doubting herself—it hadn’t sounded right from her lips. She’d been too coy, too ashamed. It’s too much, she’s panicking, she wants Harry to push her deeper.

“Hm? What’s the word, baby, are you g’na tell me?” Harry’s hands flatten against her sternum, dragging down to rest on her stomach. He’s got one knee propped up against the outside of her thigh, like he’s preparing to join her on the bed.

Y/N frowns and shakes her head like she’s sad to admit it. Like she’s apologising for not being able to, remorseful to let him down. Her eyes are glassy, and her face is warm. She’s so close to letting go; to sinking deep into the mattress like it’s made of marshmallow. She assumed she was already there whilst she was pottering about, waiting for Harry to get home, but her thoughts were still very much buzzing at the forefront of her mind—no matter how thick or concentrated they may have been. She wants to think nothing. She just wants to feel.

“No. Okay,” Harry sighs. He sounds frustrated but he’s not really. He’s excited. But his stoic demeanour remains. “That’s okay, I’ll take care of it. I’ll get you so dumb that that pretty mouth responds no matter what I ask of it.”

Y/N nods. Yes, yes, that’s exactly what she wants. “Please.” Her hips push up again instinctively. Harry finally climbs up to hover over her, thighs bracketing one of her own. His knee threatens to push into her centre.

A hum sounds from the back of his throat as he leans down to kiss Y/N’s cheek with soft lips. “Still Green?”

She exhales dreamily, head tilting a fraction to encourage his mouth to meet hers. “Yes.”

Harry gives her what she silently asks for. His lips over hers, his hands smoothing across the sides of her face and into her hair, shared breaths, and gentle strokes of tongue. Palms trail down her body, landing on her waist. They squeeze enough to make Y/N jolt and Harry smile against her mouth. Then he hoists her body up so she’s bearing her weight on her upper back and the hot middle of her legs meets Harry’s thigh.

Her breath catches. Thick, warm muscle cloaked in tight black material pressing against damp, slick underwear. She feels full without actually being so—the presence of him there making her clit throb and her panties rub tantalisingly over her arousal. Harry controls her movements with the fingers digging into her waist—his thumbs brush featherlight over her stomach and it makes Y/N shiver; the softness.

But, rather contrastingly, the softness between her own thighs and the hardness that presses into her core is far from chaste. He moves her up and down over his meaty flesh, “Still… Green?” he asks, knowing damn well Y/N is silent with pleasure and nothing else. Her mouth is agape—the first sign of finally appeasing the lasting thrumming shocking her into speechlessness.

The inside of her panties is cold against her… and feels full, and sticky, and nasty. She’s sure were Harry to peel them away that they’d stick, and take strands with them as they went. Y/N finds she’s dreading that moment significantly… or is it precisely the opposite? Is she despairingly desperate for him to see her all messy? Is she hoping he’ll have no other choice than to mock and ridicule her? She whines loudly and the sound drags on as she points her chin to the ceiling and pushes her cunt further onto Harry’s thigh.

Her breast stings, and Y/N looks up to find one of Harry’s hands squeezing it tightly. He’d smacked her again but she can’t possibly think why. Until he says, “I asked you a question, silly girl. Still Green?”

It takes her a few seconds to process his words—warmth spreading underneath his hand and the feel of her nipple grazing his palm adequately slowing her brain function—but when she does, her head moves up and down fervently. Harry can’t help but slip his hand up from her tit to slink around her throat, squeezing the sides and deliciously restricting her blood flow. “I don’t understand dopey nodding, baby. Tell me,” which is cruel because there’s a rather large, compressing element against her voicebox.

“Gr—een,” Y/N exhales.

“Good girl,” he releases the pressure of his fingers, hand still holding as Y/N’s throat contracts underneath. “Does that feel nice? Against Daddy’s thigh, hm?” Harry pulls her onto him harder, flexing his muscle as he starts grinding her hips for her. Y/N mewls and moans, nodding despite Harry’s previous aversion to it. Her wetness is starting to seep through to his slacks, warm and sticky. “I know you love it, Y/N. Why won’t you just say it?” His hands move down to clutch onto her hips, speeding up the way her centre rubs against his thigh. “Just one… tiny… word. That’s all I want.”

Y/N’s abdomen tightens. Her orgasm has been dormant all day, and even the most pathetic of touching is awakening it. She shakes her head before she realises she’s even doing it; too focused on the feeling between her thighs to appropriately respond.

And that’s when Harry really starts to fray around the edges. There’s a certain thing that’s been floating around in his head. For weeks, and weeks, and weeks. Ever since he met Y/N. The idea of tickling her at her most vulnerable, as a pleasurable torture device. Her hands and ankles are tied—there’s no getting away from it, no escaping Harry’s cruel, slender fingers as they start to wiggle and dig into Y/N’s sides. Harry watches her squirm and relishes in her immediate shriek. Her back arches as she tries fruitlessly to get out of his grasp and her bound limbs tug and twist against the silky ribbons. He could do this forever; literally and figuratively. She’s at his complete and utter disposal. He pulls her against his thigh again, and in a frenzied motion, tugs her panties aside hard enough to hear rips and see elastic snap.

Her pussy is swollen—unsurprisingly so but Harry still groans. Copious amounts of slick, turned creamy with drops of his come still nestled between her, immediately staining his trousers. She cries out, sucking in desperate breaths when Harry stops tickling her for a moment. Too transfixed to multitask. He runs a thumb through her and near shivers at the sound of her gasp, putting his shiny digit to her lips to paint them salaciously. He hums, “Dirty girl, leaving this filth in your panties all day.”

And Y/N can’t even respond. Not because she’s at a loss for words (although that remains true) but because Harry starts to speed up. Everything. He attacks her in motions so fast that Y/N cannot process them—she can only take it.

Harry spits down onto her—so much like the way he did in his office—watching it land on her clit before rubbing it in with his thumb. It’s so unnecessary; to make her wetter. Y/N has literally never been this wet in her entire life, but she supposes it’s addictive—to make things all messy. He circles her quickly with such perfect pressure that Y/N could come if he just kept going. But he doesn’t. He stops to grab her waist again, forcing her hips to roll over, and over, and over until Y/N is right on the edge—back arching and cute, erotic sounds flowing from her lips—and then he digs his fingers into her flesh, cruel and calculated.

Y/N stutters, and the desperation to escape only has her cunt pushing harder into Harry’s thigh. He’s relishing in her squirms, evil to his core. “Please!” She begs but it’s not clear.

Harry coos, “Oh, I don’t know what you want. You’ll have to tell Daddy, sweetheart.”

“Please, please, please,” Y/N cries, jolting body bending all out of shape as Harry burrows into the sensitive skin of her waist.

“You wanna come? Is that it?”

“Yes!” No. Not right now. Right now she wants Harry to stop. fucking. tickling. her. “Harry…” she drags the sound of the ‘Y’ out, whingy and pathetic. But then he does stop. He stops and he pulls his thigh away and Y/N panics. “No! Please, Sir.” She wants to reach for him but her wrists remain.

“Dumb, whiny girl. You don’t know what you want, either.” Harry leans over her sensitive body, lips trailing up the centre of her chest and up to her ear. “I’m half inclined to just stick my dick in you and go to sleep. I’ve had a long day, you know? I’d quite like some rest… with a warm, tight cunt to soothe me.” Y/N clenches around nothing. She can feel a thick trail of arousal dripping down to her bum. It makes her wriggle. “I know what I want,” he says, breath delicate against the shell of Y/N’s ear. “I want you to admit you like calling me Daddy. It’s not a hard ask, sweetheart. Just say it.”

Harry kisses down her neck, sucking her skin into his mouth; pressing his lips to every available inch of flesh. Y/N’s heart pounds, heavy and loud beneath her ribs. Harry might even be able to feel it as he passes over with his mouth. “If you say it…” his face is hovering over her tummy—down, further, until his soft exhalations are hitting Y/N’s clit, “I’ll let you come. If you don’t… well… I happen to be very content staying right here.” And then he flattens his tongue against her, finally cleaning her up.

Harry moans just to watch Y/N’s mouth fall open—nose nudging her clit tantalisingly. He licks her so slowly but so intensely, sighing happily as his stubble saturates. Y/N can feel her orgasm building already. He knows, of course—doesn’t let her tip over the edge. Especially not when she doesn’t even try to beg. His palm comes down against the inside of her thigh, stealing a cry from her as she writhes around.

Big hands snake underneath to hold Y/N’s ass, pulling her into his face. She doesn’t take long to get there again, noises increasing in both frequency and volume. “Har… Oh, please. Please.” Her clit is so sensitive. It was before it had even really been touched but now it’s just bullied. Harry pushes his face in deeper as his response, tongue stroking her walls and nose bumping her with each curl.

But then he pulls away again, inhaling deeply and dropping Y/N’s hips to the mattress. “We taste good together, y’know,” straddling her waist with his thighs—one still considerably stained by her slick—and capturing her lips in a proper kiss. A kiss that makes Y/N whimper into his mouth, a kiss that makes her head clear, a kiss that tells her she’s hopelessly in love. He holds her face, lips parting just enough for him to mutter, “What’s your colour, darling?”

“Green. But—Please, can I come?”

He pulls back to look at her. “I don’t know, sweetheart, have you called me Daddy yet?”

Y/N pauses… and then she nods, “When you got home.”

Harry’s fingers quickly reach down and squeeze her waist, smiling when she yelps. He laughs, “That doesn’t count.”

“Please?”

“You’re being so coy. We both know you want to say it.”

“It’s embarrassing!”

“You’ve already done it once!”

“That was different, Sir.”

Harry strokes his palms along her ribs and over her breasts. “Why’s that?”

“I was… I don’t know.” She inhales. “I do like it, I really like it, Harry please.” Y/N tries to twitch her hips; impossible underneath the vast weight of Harry’s sturdy body.

He hums, pleased to hear her admit something. “What are you missing?” He thumbs over her nipples. Her breath catches.

She could do it. She wanted to do it. “D—Daddy.”

Harry kisses her again—surges forward bruisingly to sponge their lips together. “Good girl,” he whispers into her mouth. “Good girl, say it again.”

She huffs, frustrated, aroused, and desperate simultaneously. “Please, Daddy.”

“Fuck, there you go,” he grunts, shuffling his thighs down her body to bracket her knees. He wastes no time smearing four digits over her clit in rapid swipes. Y/N throws her head back, mewling and gasping. “Does my pretty girl w’na come? All over Daddy’s fingers? Yeah?”

“Yuh-huh, yeah, yeah, please, oh—” Harry presses his hand into her abdomen, refusing to let her hips undulate, as he finally lets Y/N come, sending her over the edge with a swat to her cunt. Her moans crescendo—cute, uh’s and other choked sounds—wrists pulling at the headboard as soon as the overstimulation kicks in. “Oh—oh, God, yes,” she breathes as she comes down, Harry’s thumb now swiping gently through the thick arousal that has pooled out of her.

He brings it to his mouth, “Mm, well done, baby.” Overwhelmed tears pool in her eyes, the pleasure buzzing through her veins. Now, she’s floating. Harry frowns, smoothing a palm over her head. “Col—”

“Green!” Y/N exclaims quickly. Her bottom lip wobbles. “Felt really, really good.”

Harry reaches behind him, blindly but gently, untying her ankles from the bedposts. Y/N doesn’t move them. “Would you still be Green if I fucked you, darlin’?”

She nods instantly, “Yes, yes, Green,” pushing her hips up.

He rubs his thumbs over her ankles—a soft moment—before he’s flipping her body over. Her bound wrists cross and her face pushes into the pillow. It smells like Harry; Y/N breathes in deeply.

Harry looks over the woman lying face down on his bed. Her pretty bum, her soft miles of skin begging to hold the indentations of his fingers, the ribbon adorning her wrists—he breathes out. Then he loosens his tie and starts to unbutton his shirt. He kicks his shoes off and unzips his slacks. Y/N turns her head to the side, seeing Harry’s clothes fall to the floor out of the corner of her eye. She wriggles in excitement and Harry gives her ass an affectionate tap.

“Hips up,” he says, reaching over her to grab a pillow and stuff it underneath her body. Harry is sure he’s never seen a more beautiful view. “I’m so lucky to have you,” he kisses the bottom of her spine. Y/N exhales a shaky breath, feeling as though she’s drifting peacefully in a vast ocean—as Harry caresses her skin slowly, surely, taking her all in.

She could so easily profess something silly in this moment.

“Harry,” she says instead.

“Yes, darling?”

“Will you untie me, please?”

He reaches up for her hands immediately, pulling the ends of the ribbon and letting it fall up her arms and flutter to the sheets. “Are y’hurting?”

Y/N shakes her head, letting her limbs fall heavy beside her head, “Want you to hold them,” she whispers.

Harry kisses her cheek, “Let me get a condom. What do you say if you want me to stop?”

“Yellow or Red,” she replies, eyes closing delicately. She could probably fall asleep and dream of that everlasting ocean. But then the mattress shifts, and safe, warm hands glide up her back.

“You’re so lovely,” he murmurs. Y/N hears the ripping of a wrapper, and the silence of Harry rolling on the condom. She feels his hands adjusting her hips, pulling at her bum. “Such pretty holes,” he mutters to himself. Y/N whines and buries her head into the pillow, humiliated and overwhelmed with anticipation. But then Harry runs a thumb over her untouched entrance and her head comes shooting back up. “Shh, shh, I’m just feeling you. I can’t wait to play with you here.”

“Harry,” Y/N complains, butterflies going rampant in her tummy. She can’t wait either, it seems.

His hands drop to the backs of her thighs, thumbs brushing the outside of her lips. Then they leave her skin and a familiar thickness swipes through her, tapping against her clit momentarily. Instinctively, Y/N wants to push up on her knees, but Harry keeps her flat with a palm to the bottom of her spine. “You g’na take Daddy like a good girl?”

A shiver runs through her, “Yes—yes, yes.” She takes a deep breath.

“That’s it,” his voice is tight as he watches himself get swallowed around her. He wants to be cruel—wants to keep just the head snug inside of her, pull out, push back in, pull out, nudge it around her clit… He thinks about it—he does. But he just can’t bear the thought. She’s so warm and squeezes him with every breath; pulling out would be sacrilege. “This little pussy loves me, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir,” Y/N whines, every inch forcing the breath from her lungs.

Harry smacks her ass, holding firmly onto her hip when she jolts, “Yes, who?” pushing in deeper as she struggles to process his question. His palm comes down on the other side. “Yes, who?”

Y/N wants to push her body back, feel the weight of Harry’s balls snug against her clit, prod the space inside of her that he is so familiar with. But she takes too long to answer. She must do—because Harry starts to pull out and Y/N’s heart plummets. No, no, no.

“Daddy! Yes, Daddy.” Her face burns. “Please—please don’t leave me.”

His hips stutter. He knows what she means. Literally—she doesn’t want him to leave her, literally. To pull out entirely. But the way it sounds… It sounds like…

Harry pushes back in. All the way. He leans his immense body over Y/N’s pretty back and entwines his fingers with hers that lie beside her head—just as she’d asked. His big palms holding and protecting. She all but disintegrates into the bed, a relieved sob leaving her lips as Harry’s weight presses her down and he kisses her cheek. Her eyes struggle to stay open; the overwhelming fullness inside of her and the compression of Harry’s body, it’s peace incarnated.

“Does that feel good, baby? Daddy’s thick cock filling you up.”

“Mhm. S—so, so…” She weakly squeezes Harry’s fingers, blissful sigh falling from her lips. But when Harry starts to pull his hips back—having let Y/N adjust—her grip tightens. “Please. Stay.”

Harry is only surprised for a moment, and then he says, “Stay? How am I supposed to fuck you if I don’t move, darlin’?” Y/N pushes her bum back into him, silently begging. “You jus’ want me nice and deep in you, yeah? Is that right?”

“Yes, please.”

“Does this make you happy?” His voice softens and he unlinks one of their hands so he can trace Y/N’s hairline, behind her ear, across her cheek, down the bridge of her nose. He’s never seen her so content. He’d thought he had before, when she was with him, specifically. But this moment, right here—this is the most tranquil he’s ever seen anyone. “Yeah? Are you happy, baby?”

“Yes, Daddy, ‘m so happy—thank you.”

Harry nudges her chin and captures her lips. It’s awkward from the position she’s in, neck stretching to reach him, but it’s perfect. It’s intimate, and trusting, and says so much with no words. They look like the perfect depiction of raw, human connection.

They kiss and Harry stays atop Y/N in mind-numbing serenity. He’ll shift his hips inside of her and her mouth will stop responding to his, slack against his lips as he licks into and against her tongue. Everything is slow. And maybe Harry hadn’t necessarily planned this pace but he likes it—it makes sense.

He starts to grind his hips into her bum and Y/N tightens up. “Relax, sweet girl, know it feels good but relax.” Harry thinks if his dick wasn’t screaming at him to chase pleasure, that he’d be happy to stay like this forever. In the most intimate and warm of embraces. He retracts ever so slightly, not enough for Y/N to complain about, and then sinks back in. Flush against her body. She squeezes around him and Harry can feel how wet her walls are. A part of him wants to fuck her hard enough to hear it too.

They fall into a rhythm. A slow, intense rhythm. One that builds up to the type of orgasm that overwhelms a person so much, they can never forget it. Almost a core memory. One they think about; the way it consumed their entire being—for vivid minutes—and left their body weak and pliant. Y/N’s muscles give in completely, allowing Harry to nudge all the right places with every single twitch of his hips.

She’s mewling—a constant stream of pathetic noises—and Harry’s finding it hard not to do the same. He can feel the increase of the pulsating around him. “You’re close, baby.” He doesn’t need to inquire—he knows. “Hold it. Can you do that f’me?” Y/N moans, the side of her face smushed against the pillow. She hasn’t had one coherent thought for the last ten minutes, so she surely can’t start now. She can’t hold it, not really; she’s never had to before. But Harry doesn’t need her to, as such. He’s sure his orgasm is just as close as hers. “Darlin’, tell Daddy you’ll hold it.” It’s still fun though.

“I—I’ll ho—hold it, Daddy,” she slurs, crushing Harry’s fingers. His chest is flush to her back and his hips to her bum. He unlinks one of their hands to curl a bulging bicep around her throat, dewy face pressing into her cheek as he whispers expletives to her. Murmurs of how good she is for him, his good fucking girl. Daddy’s so proud and he loves you so much—

Except—No. He can’t say that. It lingers on the tip of his tongue but he pushes it back down and swallows uncomfortably around it. Daddy’s so proud and he wants you to come for him. Yeah. That’s right.

Y/N nestles her mouth around the skin of his arm—the inside of his elbow—attempting to burrow her nose into his flesh and muscle as she whimpers and whines. Her tummy is swirling and her heart is racing and it feels so good her eyes are watering. “Pleathe,” she muffles around his skin. And Harry can feel it too, the way it builds for them both. A fusion of throbbing, and ecstasy, and something so monumental they feel as though they’re the only two people alive. Because how could there be other people living when Y/N and Harry felt so good?

“Come on, baby. I can feel it, give it t’me.”

Y/N clenches around him as he nudges so deep and then releases Harry’s arm to beg, “Inside, inside, please.”

It nearly ruins everything, the sudden disappointment that washes over him at remembering his inability to do so. But he plays along—after all, Harry loves to play. “Yeah? Y’want Daddy to fill you up? Want his warm come dripping out of you, baby? You’re so dirty.”

She nearly comes then, just from his words alone. But then he reaches his other hand down, roughly shoves it underneath her body and finds her clit easily. Y/N might as well have exploded. She withers, she disintegrates, she is dismantled to nothing but a shaking mess as she orgasms. Her body trembles and her throat releases high pitched cries, trailing off into tired moans as a few tears escape over her waterline. All while Harry bites down on her shoulder, holding off as long as he can for no good reason. To stay coherent enough to witness Y/N at her most beautiful, perhaps. But her cunt quivers around him, squeezing and releasing so quickly that he can’t help but finally let himself come.

“Oh, yeah— f—fuckin’ shit.” He buries his face in the back of Y/N’s hair, holding as much of her as he possibly can with the arm around her front. His fingers cease on her clit shakily, thumping down next to their bodies as he tries to support his weight. It’s fruitless, and he lets his chest mould to Y/N’s back as the last of his release fills the condom. He came a lot and he’s almost upset that he can’t fall asleep right now. But Y/N is still trembling and his instincts kick in once again.

“Good girl, baby. My best girl. You did so well,” he whispers, adjusting his hands so they’re holding himself above her. He dots kisses wherever on her face he can reach. A tear falls down the bridge of her nose and he sponges his lips to it. “Can you talk to me? Are these happy tears?” Y/N nods clumsily, stiffly trying to turn onto her back. Harry pauses her. “Let me pull out, sweetheart. Breath in f’me. There you go, darlin’, let’s see your pretty face proper.”

He doesn’t get much of a chance, however, as Y/N launches her heavy arms around his shoulders and urges him to lay on top of her again. Harry laughs gently, wrapping his arms around her back. She exhales contentedly. “You made me stop thinking,” her throat tightens. “I didn’t have to think.”

Harry squeezes her, “You don’t have to start again yet. You don’t ever have to think when you’re with me.”

Silence overtakes them for a while. Harry has rolled over so that Y/N is lying on top of him. Then he says, “I’m sorry, baby.”

Y/N frowns and props her chin on his chest. “What for?”

“If I had known you were floating away earlier, I wouldn’t have made you come home.”

She shakes her head. “It’s okay… I think—I think I’ve been like that before. Not sexually but… when I’m having a bad day I can go a bit… weird.”

“It’s not weird. You just get into a headspace. That’s what I’m here for. It doesn’t have to be sexual all of the time.”

They talk. They talk, and talk, and talk.

About her subspace, and the office, and the… friends thing.

“I didn’t know you liked to be so… so mean.” She treads carefully. She doesn't want him to think she doesn’t like it.

“I like control… which you give me plenty of already but—sometimes I need to be rough, sometimes I need to be angry.”

“You were angry? Earlier?”

“Not angry… frustrated. I was frustrated and I was a hypocrite, actually, and I shouldn’t have turned it into a sex thing.”

“I didn’t mind.”

He laughs, “I know but…I don’t want to get into that habit, love.”

“But…” she pauses. Harry looks at her and raises an eyebrow. “You said we’d talk about… about certain types of play.”

He hums, “I did. You like being tied, yeah? Like being restrained?”

Y/N nods, her chin moving against his chest. She’s more honest in this state. “I think… doing what you tell me to do… is the thing.”

“Mhm. I do too. You’re not gagging for silk, you’re gagging to be given orders and to have me do as I please to you.”

“Maybe,” she admits coyly, flattening her forehead to his sternum. Harry sinks his hand into her hair and tugs lightly in response. Then she purposely speaks so that it is near impossible for him to hear.

Harry still picks up certain, important words. “I can’t come in you, baby. Not unless we discuss it first.”

“Let’s discuss it now!” Y/N lifts her head up again, a hopeful glint in her eye.

Harry pinches her arse. “No. Later, I promise.”

Silence befalls once again, and they really ought to get up, pee, clean up, eat dinner. But Harry asks one more thing of Y/N. “What have I taught you today?” He echoes his words from when the pair were hidden away in his office.

She answers with no hesitation. “I’m yours.”

Y/N wouldn’t say she had purposefully littered her personality around Harry’s home, but when you spend more time somewhere than you do your own house, it tends to happen.

She buys some fridge magnets one day. A pack of letters—one of each in the alphabet—and the numbers zero to nine. Which, even as she is buying them she thinks, how ridiculous—that you can only spell words that don’t require more than one of the same letter. And yet she pays for them anyway.

She thinks about what she’ll spell out on her own fridge—but she’s too impatient to ponder for longer than a couple of minutes, sure that they’ll just be displayed in alphabetical order and reveal a true lack of imagination.

Somehow, they end up on Harry’s fridge, and Y/N finds that she’s much happier with that. Now she could leave him swear words and other insignificant things alike. Peas, Crow, Nip, Oink. Once she spelt out C-U-N-T but felt it too inappropriate for kitchen decor and quickly changed the C for a P.

Whatever word Y/N chooses to leave for the day has always been altered by the end of it; the silent game between Harry and her soon becoming a reason to peek at the fridge unnecessarily just to see if their letters have been rearranged. If he is up before Y/N, the morning light makes his head especially saccharine and the magnets are always spelling sweet names. Love, Pet, Angel, Darling. But by the evening, he’s a little less soppy. Stinky, Mush, Gremlin, Bean.

Y/N once spelled out I Love You (using the zero as the second O) just to see what it would look like but felt like she was doing something naughty and quickly disorganised them in a far from natural manner.

Then Harry buys her some little strawberry magnets and places them on her fridge without telling her. When she sees them, it makes her heart skip a beat. Along with the dozens of clothes he continues to purchase for her, his wardrobe has been considerably disturbed and he figures he ought to leave his mark somewhere in her home too. If not her wardrobe then her fridge would do just fine. But there's really no competition, because if you were to take a peek inside of his dresser, Harry’s clothes would be generously making room there too for Y/N’s—something she always feels guilty about but Harry denies her any opportunity to move anything to her own home.

He wants to tell her to do the opposite. To take everything from her house and put it in his. But he doesn’t. And he won’t.

He’ll just keep relishing over seeing her shoes by the front door, her shampoo in his shower, and her charger plugged in next to his bed.

The stomach has an interesting relationship with the brain. And the brain has an interesting relationship with the heart.

Because Y/N’s heart tells her (and has been for longer than she wants to admit) that she’s fallen in love with Harry… but her brain refuses to take love—as an option entirely—into consideration. And at the same time, on a particularly bleak weekday evening, her stomach says that it’s threatening violence if she doesn’t eat something and her brain translates that to a complete dismantlement of her capability.

It’s funny (only in retrospect) that being hungry can result in such a drastic change in one’s behaviour. That an empty tummy can make even the gentlest of souls behave erratically—so suddenly full of anger that even the smallest of things can make them explode.

Y/N has had a bad day… and… well… Every day is a bad day for Y/N. When you hate your job—hate working, even—every single day ends in dread for the next. And sometimes, every so often for Y/N, things start to build up. It’s slow and steady, and can take weeks if not months to lead to a breakdown. But she does break down… and it happens far too often for the average person to deem healthy.

Today she’s reaching her limit.

It’s just something she can feel brewing, from the moment she wakes up. And there’s no denying that her life has improved drastically in recent times. That waking up now fills her with the excitement of being able to see Harry again, instead of what was once a solemn reminder that she was still living the same old, uneventful, depressing life. She didn’t even class it as a life. Y/N was just existing.

But Harry isn’t a drug. He can’t calm the buzzing in Y/N’s head, all the time. He can distract, sure. But he can’t cure.

So when Y/N woke up with the knowledge that she was going to Harry’s house after work and it didn’t get her through the day with ease, she knew her balloon of stress was about to pop.

Her body feels heavy as she unlocks the grand door to the home she’s spent more time in than her own, recently. Except there’s no Harry to kiss her hello, to take her bag and to sweep her off her feet. No. Because he’s still working. Because that’s what he does. The same as always, and yet today it breaks her heart.

Classically and disastrously, a telling sign that Y/N’s period is due makes itself known as a cramp sears through her abdomen. Which only upsets her further. Because, really, where is the necessity of pain before the bleeding has even begun. Where is the respite? And not so long ago, Y/N would have walked past the kitchen and fallen face first onto her bed. But knowing she has someone now that will care very deeply if she doesn’t eat dinner has her feet heading for shining tiles. Y/N doesn’t know if she could take a punishment today. Not a punishment fuelled by genuine disappointment, anyway. Maybe if Harry swatted her hard enough it would rewire her brain.

But now that she’s acknowledged the existence of food, Y/N is suddenly aware of the intense hunger beating in her stomach. And she’s too tired. Too weak to try and make anything, or do anything. She just wants to lie down. The island becomes a surface intended for rest as Y/N transfers her weight to her forearms and lets her head turn into a dead weight on her shoulders as it hangs down. Just for a moment. Just for a moment that feels impossible to physically shift from. She could sleep standing; it’s not impossible.

Her empty insides howl. Gurgle, and moan, and fuss. Y/N groans pitifully into the counter.

Sluggish movements carry her to the fridge—pulling the door open with the strength similar to that of a baby bird. Leftovers greet her like awkward friends in an uncomfortable situation. Desperately attempting to lighten the mood and only twisting the knife further. Because Y/N doesn’t want lasagne. And it nags at her, the voice of her mother exclaiming, “If you were really hungry, you’d eat it.” Which holds logic, it does. Y/N is hungry and she should want anything to quell that need but her brain doesn’t accept that. Her brain sees leftover lasagne and decides that it would rather starve—despite normally enjoying the meal.

Tears brim over Y/N’s waterline, frustration and exhaustion threatening to drip down her cheeks. Why was something so simple causing this much trouble? How could she be letting the concept of dinner make her cry?

But then she hears Harry, soft encouragement echoing in her skull. He’d tell her that he understood. That he knows she doesn’t want to eat but she will do to make him happy. To go to bed with a nice full stomach and take good care of herself.

And that outweighs everything.

She reaches out for the ceramic dish, cold numbing her hands and tugs it to the counter. Even looking at it makes her frown. But Y/N finds a plate, and a serving spoon, and a knife, and a fork. She lays them all out in preparation, so orderly and neat. So much so that she doesn’t know how it happens. It shouldn’t happen—and it wouldn’t if she were another person or herself on another day—but today is a bad day, as previously mentioned.

Perhaps she tugs the lasagne too quickly, or surprises herself with the amount of strength she uses. But the plate gets shoved too close to the edge. Close but not over. Not until Y/N panics to keep it on the counter and instead of guiding her hand underneath, she manages to knock it downwards and watch—in what feels like—three times speed as it crashes to the floor.

It’s far too loud. It’s piercing to Y/N’s tired ears. And it’s the icing on the cake of her poorly concealed feelings. The tears start to stream without constraint as the picture of shattered porcelain starts to blur.

The sound of the smash masks the opening of the front door. But whilst Y/N doesn’t hear Harry, Harry hears her, and he comes rushing into the kitchen with purpose. Her back is to him when he asks, “Have you hurt yourself?”

Y/N jumps, a wet gasp tearing from her throat. She spins around reflexively, unable to wipe away the tears on her saturated skin first.

Harry’s face falls. “Oh, my love. Did you cut yourself?”

Y/N wipes at her face frantically, head shaking. The broken plate taunts her from the floor, its jagged pieces begging her to get closer—to slice her skin on the sharp edges. Perhaps that would carve some sense into her. “No,” she forces out, her voice thick.

“What’s the matter?” He steps around the mess, comforting palms smoothing over shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, refusing to meet his eye.

“It’s just a plate,” Harry brushes it off. “What’s upset you, sweetheart?”

Y/N can only cry harder—her mind suddenly insistent on the reminder that she’s falling hopelessly in love as Harry’s soft, gentle voice caresses her soul. And love doesn’t help. Not right now. It makes her sob louder. Usually, Y/N is a woman of few words. Often nervous words, in a less than manic manner. But once she starts, it’s difficult to stop for long enough to claw back composure.

“I’m… hungry,” she blubs, eyes squeezing shut as she tries to inhale. “And tired—and my period is about to start. And I hurt. And I hate my job….I don’t—want to do it anymore. ‘m not ha—happy. And I want to go to bed,” she trails off in quivers, wet fingertips digging into fragile features.

Harry breathes for her, a slow, deep inhale as he processes all of her emotions. “Okay,” he whispers, large hand scratching the back of her head in hypnotic motions. Y/N’s face falls against his chest. Strong and steady, unmoving against her wracking body. He murmurs into the top of her head, “You’re as safe as you could possibly be right now. I’ve got you.”

And that’s exactly what she’s worried about.

The thick grogginess that comes with intense, painful crying is starting to fog up Y/N’s head. She’s never stepped away from Harry’s embrace before but that’s precisely what she finds herself doing. Harry doesn’t question it with the same ferocity that is plaguing Y/N’s thoughts; she’s not in a good place, after all. “One thing at a time, let’s get some food in you, yeah?”

What is realistically a simple request that Y/N would never refuse otherwise, has her head shaking from side to side once more. She doesn’t want to eat. She wants to sleep.

“No?” Harry cocks his head, palms outstretched in front of him in a silent expectancy that she’ll slip back into his hold. “I don’t know that I was asking you, darling. I believe I’m telling you. You know you need to eat.”

It feels foreign to disobey. But Y/N needs to protect herself, she needs to protect Harry, she needs to push these feelings down. “I don’t want to eat.” Her voice hardens. It’s jarring and more tears spill.

“I want you to eat. And you will. Because I know what’s best for you.” He stays gentle, somehow. His words are statements—orders—and yet his cadence stays wonderfully light. Y/N agrees with him; that he knows best, but it doesn’t translate to her mouth.

Or her head as she shakes it fervently, struggling to maintain eye contact as she looks up at Harry’s impressively calm face. His previously styled hair now falling over his forehead in delicious swirls. The dreamy slope of his nose that points towards his stubble dusted cupid’s bow and raspberry tinted lips. His beautiful face stays blank—not implying of any emotion.

“I’m not going to punish you. Or shout at you, or scold you, or do whatever it is you think you deserve. I can see it, darlin’. I know you’re tired, I know your head hurts you. I wish I could take it all away.” Y/N’s lip quivers and she sniffles loudly. Her eyes pinch shut, refusing to cry anymore, but it’s fruitless. Especially when Harry hoists her up by her waist and encourages her thighs to wrap around his body. The immediate relief from holding her own weight has Y/N lugging her arms over his shoulders and burying her wet face into his neck. He holds her tight, strong arms wrapped around with no intention of letting go as Y/N cries.

She thinks she starts to fall asleep, uncaring of Harry’s silent movements around the kitchen as she stays latched on. Half-consciously does she recognise the sounds of the microwave and the gentle nudging of broken porcelain with his foot into a pile he’ll clean up later. She hears him taking the lasagne out and her stomach certainly takes note of the smell, despite how fervently she refused to want it.

He hoists them both up on the counter, Y/N’s knees knocking a little against the hard surface. “G’na eat now, okay?” Harry says softly into the side of her head. The tears have ceased, but her face is very much melded to his neck with cold, salty trails.

Y/N shakes her head, “Tired.”

“I know, sweetheart. Let me see you.”

It’s embarrassing—to peel her face away. To show herself at her lowest, mentally and physically. And she knows the least relevant thing right now is how attractive she looks, but in the lap of a man that she’s sure has never been less than stunning, it’s intimidating and Y/N can’t help but have it on her mind. Along with everything else.

But she listens and Harry praises her for it.

“Hi, baby. You look so pretty,” dancing his fingertips around her hairline to bury behind her ears.

Y/N can’t help but snort—the sight relieving to Harry. “I’m crying.”

“I know. Call me a sadist, then, but you’re still pretty.” He doesn’t elaborate on how the wet clumping of her eyelashes makes her look something akin to a mermaid that guards the key to his heart at the bottom of an enchanted lake or that the shining of her cheeks begs to be kissed and soothed by his lips.

Although it seems she can hear his thoughts when she says, “You’re silly.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Stop!” Her hands meet his chest in a light thump and he smiles.

“Let me feed you?”

And that… that does sound quite nice. But there was something about this height of emotion that was making Y/N stubborn. So she doesn’t respond. Verbally or non. She looks at Harry, at his soft sea-glass green and stays silent. He brushes her wet cheeks with his thumbs, leaning forward to press the soft pillow of his lips to the tense space between her eyes.

Then he drops his voice to a tender brush of air against her forehead, “Do this f’me. Do this for Daddy,” and Y/N leans back with glistening eyes open wide to see as much of him as possible. It clears the fog a little, that one, small word. The dissolvement of responsibility—her weight supported by Harry, her face framed in his hands and her mouth the only thing she’d need to worry about when she inevitably gives in. When she nods slightly and curls her fingers into the back of his shirt. In return, Harry sinks his hand into the back of her hair, close to her scalp, and tugs a little. Not hard—just enough to feel tight and secure. “Good girl.”

For a moment, Y/N can’t even remember what she was crying about. And when she does recall, it doesn’t feel like such a big deal anymore.

Harry scoots further onto the island to allow room between them to hold Y/N’s dinner. Her knees are starting to ache against the surface but she doesn’t say anything. Not when she’s finally on the precipice of feeling peaceful. Not when Harry holds a mouthful up to his lips and blows gently to make sure the steaming pasta doesn’t burn her. Not when he hums quietly as Y/N accepts the food and her eyes flutter shut in contentment.

One thing at a time, as Harry had said. Maybe he couldn’t quell her overworked brain but he could relish in her relaxed brows as he fed her. And then he could carry her to his bed (now just as much hers as it was his own—especially with the sprinkling of products and clothes alike decorating his furniture) and help her fall into a much needed slumber.

When it comes to it (going to bed), Y/N plucks up the courage to put on her comfiest nightie that she’d stowed away in Harry’s dresser for a bad day. It’s not inherently embarrassing to wear a nightie but… what’s on it makes Y/N feel a little silly. Cartoon Ariel and Flounder underneath a banner that reads ‘100% Mermaid’… She’d had it a little while. And it’s not that she worries that Harry will make her feel stupid but it does make her look a little childish—it’s hardly lingerie.

But she needn’t have worried when Harry takes her tired brain and cradles it in his hands—spews some filth like he can’t help it—and calms the bothersome thoughts. “Why would you think, when I can see your nipples hardening through the material, and you’ve got your pretty legs all bare, and when I hold you tonight as your little nightie rucks higher and higher up and over your ass for such easy access, that I would give a shit about what’s printed on it? Would you rather me say that my dick goes limp at the sight, darling?”

It’s safe to say she learns to love the way it looks.

Harry notices a change in Y/N’s behaviour.

It’s subtle to begin with—something he doesn’t question straight away—because he wants to figure out what’s going on without making her aware.

Little things like forcing Harry to ask her more than once to do something—Come here, sit down, stand up. They might sound disrespectful from an outside perspective but that’s how the pair operate. Y/N likes being told. But recently she has been hesitating, literally and figuratively. She’ll abide only after Harry has asked two or three times, and on multiple occasions she will say something he deems bratty (“Make me,” tends to be her favourite) and trail off with big eyes—as though she’s waiting for him to punish her for it.

He never bites. He thinks he can tell that she wants him to; he never does. It never feels natural, never comfortable in his heart.

And then there’s the breaking of rules. Which he takes far more seriously. Not even to protect his ego but because Y/N’s rules are set in place to keep her healthy—and Harry cares about nothing more than her health.

When Harry first served Y/N fruit for breakfast, along with her magnificent blueberry pie he begrudgingly loved, it was obvious that Y/N wasn’t entirely impressed. She still ate it all, and grabbed a slice of toast as well (very much encouraged by Harry) but it wasn’t her deliciously disgusting cereal that she so often tucked into. So, being the kind, caring man that he is, Harry decided to find a way to increase her enjoyment of a healthy breakfast.

He did so with cookie cutters. Because Y/N appreciates cute, thoughtful gestures that don’t necessarily change one’s life but look nice on the eye and make things feel pretty. So he buys stars, and hearts, and flowers, and spends his time pushing fruit through them and presenting them nicely in a bowl. Just for Y/N.

And she loves it. Her eyes go all big, just the way Harry admires, her hands clasp and come up to her chest, and she responds as though he’s made some sort of grand gesture. He thinks she’s adorable, and watches her eat with a satisfied smile when she makes no complaint and bobs from side to side with such a sweet expression on her face.

That’s how he first gathers that something is off, because he knows she loves her breakfast now, so why is she suddenly refusing it? Why is she suddenly so insistent that she needs to have pain au chocolat or a fry up or something else just as equally soaked in oil or butter? Harry doesn’t give in, he doesn’t get angry. He tries to compromise with her in as calm a voice as ever, which he’ll admit he’s not used to having to do—because Y/N is never usually so argumentative.

Never so argumentative and never so absent whilst he was speaking to her. Like she’s trying to tune him out, or her thoughts are overpowering the sound of his voice. That frustrates Harry—feeling ignored, feeling unworthy of her attention—and he nearly snaps at her a few times for it. Somehow he maintains the patience and restraint not to, and is able to bring her back with a stroke of his knuckles over her skin. It feels wrong though, like they’re taking a step backwards, or like she is. Like she’s hiding herself away again. And he hates it.

But they still haven’t even had their first argument yet, though Harry feels it might be on the horizon.

It’s a cold, rainy day when that fact of their relationship changes.

The couple are at Y/N’s house for a change, huddled together on the sofa in a sweet exchange of kisses. Soft patterings against glass create the most wonderful ambience, like little fairies dancing on the keys of a piano, as the quiet smacking of lips fills in the gaps.

Harry’s arm, cloaked cosily in a thick, knitted jumper, rests around Y/N’s shoulder. Their heads are turned to the side in a way that suggests it was only meant to be one kiss—that inevitably turned into ten minutes of nothing else. Y/N’s fingers curl into the thigh of Harry’s joggers and his into the back of her hair as they sigh into each other’s mouths. Sweet balm is transferred to and fro, unable to identify who first applied the product.

When Y/N’s neck gets tired, she falls back to rest against the sofa; Harry follows in smooth motions, free hand coming to prop himself up on the other side of her body. He pulls away slightly, registering their reclining position and feeling his heart hammer at the sight of Y/N’s spit-slicked lips, plump from his own. She reaches behind his back to push him down onto her again, desperate pawing still remaining lethargic and unhurried.

He nestles her top lip in between his own two, nose squishing into the soft of her cheek. It comes out so blissfully, a harmless comment that turns sour—what he assumes is a hopeless display of how happy he is in this moment. Of how much he wishes he could stay like this for the rest of his life, as he whispers into her skin, “Y’should quit y’job.” Y/N doesn’t register it straightaway, too caught up in the heaven of Harry’s kiss—but when she does, her body stiffens.

He stops too, confused and suddenly worried he’s said something else. But she looks up at him with a nervous expression, like she has so much she wants to say but can’t possibly imagine articulating any of it. Despite having been somewhat out of it, Y/N remembers when he’d first asked her. In the shower, after changing her life on his sun lounger. She’d been able to play it off then, fuelled by dopamine and sleepy courage. But now… now it scares her. Now she doesn’t know what to say or how to say it.

Harry leans back further, eyes darting around her face as if to check for physical damage. “What’s wrong?” Almost as if controlled by a person, the rain hardens and thunder booms in the distance.

She jumps and shakes her head instinctively, despite her brain drowning in worry. “Nothing,” she whispers, hesitant hand scrunching into the front of his jumper to encourage him back.

“Don’t do that.” He’s gentle, grasping her fingers and entwining them with his, but his rejection sears deep. “You clammed up, baby. Talk to me.”

Y/N’s skin itches. “I— When you—,” she exhales, “Do you mean that?”

“That you should quit your job?” She nods. “I do. I do mean it. Do you not like that idea?”

She wants to more than anything. “I—I can’t.”

Harry’s patient. “And why not, darling?”

Y/N thinks that would be her dream come true. After all, the first night she’d met Harry she inadvertently spewed how happy she’d be not to work, and Niall had so obviously proclaimed her displeasure. But how could she actually, genuinely stop working and not feel completely using of Harry? They aren’t living together, they aren’t in love—at least not from his perspective, surely—they aren’t even conventionally matched. Because certainly, someone like Harry; someone so important and beloved, deserved a person on his arm that was confident, and flashy, and impressive in their own right. Y/N can hear him telling her how ridiculous of a notion that is, as she thinks it. But anxiety isn’t always rational.

What falls from her mouth hardly hits the tip of the iceberg. “I— It’s— I’d feel bad.”

“You’d feel bad?” Harry asks. He’s trying to think about this from her perspective. Understands, maybe, the initial hesitancy. It’s a big thing, to stop working, to rely on someone else but… what they have feels secure, it feels good. He thought she’d love the idea. “I need you to explain it to me, Y/N.”

She panics just trying to order the words into some sort of acceptable speech. “No,” she shakes her head, “no, it’s fine. I’m sorry,” her heart drops when Harry sits back completely, removing all of his touch. “Please, I— I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We have to talk about this, darlin’. It’s not good to push stuff down.” Y/N doesn’t say anything. She sits there, gaze averted from Harry’s intense jade. When the silence tips over the edge of definitive, and Harry feels his grasp of the situation loosening, he sighs, “Okay,” and stands up. He leaves her alone on the sofa and takes himself stoically to her kitchen to stare out of the window at the bleak downpour soundtracking this moment.

“Harry?” He hears her call, confused and nervous. He thinks if she won’t talk to him then he’ll just remove himself altogether. What purpose does he serve being there if she can’t even look at him? “Harry?” Another call followed by quiet shuffling along floorboards. “Why are you ignoring me?” Her voice sounds sad—it makes his chest tight to know he’s the cause.

Harry takes a deep breath and turns around to take in her dejected appearance. She looks so much smaller when she’s upset. “I’m not going to have this lack of a conversation with you anymore. If you can’t talk to me then I will go home. You need time to think.” His tone of voice is hard—lacking in delicacy. It sounds meaner than he intends it to.

Y/N’s brain immediately goes haywire—she can almost feel her neural pathways shrivelling up, imploding, disappearing completely. He’s upset with her. Finally. It’s happened. She’s actually done it—he’s going to go home and never see her again. He’s going to block her number and return all her stupid clothes and disgusting shampoo in a box on her doorstep. What had first felt like an attempt to protect her heart in a sabotaging but worthwhile way (and save Harry from the stress in the process) doesn’t feel relieving in the slightest. It feels despicable.

“I’m sorry,” her lip quivers, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Her lungs feel pea-sized, and her head feels thick. Tears blur her vision as she stands there in front of Harry like a little girl, crying over nothing. It’s made worse when he crouches down in front of her and encourages her knees to collapse around his body. He rubs her back soothingly, the warmth of his palms seeping through her cardigan, saying nothing but shushing gently into her hair.

After a while of Harry breathing deeply and slowly, and Y/N silently matching him, he speaks up. “I’m going to talk now. You don’t have to say anything, just listen t’me, okay?” She nods into his neck. The longer she can stay here, the longer she can avoid the humiliation of looking him in the eye after bursting into tears. “I think you should quit your job. I’ve known you loathed it since I met you—I encouraged you, in fact—that your want to stay at home isn’t silly. And not even a whole week ago you were telling me you hated it. You do so much for me, my love. Whilst still working. You bake wonderful treats, you clean everything despite me imploring that you do not have to. You breathe life into every room. You give me someone to come home to. And above all, you make me so, incomparably happy. Every single day.

“What about me wanting to share my wealth with you makes you so uncomfortable? I just want to provide for you the way you provide for me. And quite frankly, I haven’t been strict enough. I shouldn’t encourage you to work all day and still try to take care of me, especially when you don’t take well enough care of yourself. But that’s my job, yeah? Why won’t you let me do my job?”

Y/N’s breath quivers, “Y-you still want to?” peeking out from Harry’s freshly soaked neck.

“Of course I d—” He pauses and his expression turns to sadness. “Oh, darlin’. You didn’t think… Just because of a little argument? This is the tamest argument I’ve ever had in my entire life, baby.” Her face burns. “It is so normal for couples to fight. I’m not going to do anything drastic, don’t be so silly.” He pushes his lips to her hairline, feigning calm despite his heart weighing heavily in his chest. “Now come on,” his thumbs swipe underneath her eyes, “talk to me, please.”

“It’s just—” her fingers pick at the skin around her nails. “I feel so guilty. Because I’m so needy a-and you do so much for me already. And money is… money is a big thing. I don’t want to be a—” she whispers it, “—a gold-digger.” Harry opens his mouth but Y/N continues, staring at her hands, “We don’t li—live together, we’ve known each for months, it—it feels too good to be true. I don’t know.”

“You’re worrying about societal standards, lovely. You’re not a gold-digger and time doesn’t have to mean a thing.” He kisses the space between her eyes. “Look, we’ve discussed it now. I’m so proud of you. We don’t have to do a single thing else, just think about it, okay?”

Y/N looks up at the man who she loves more than anything in the entire world and feels her lips twitch ever so slightly into a small smile. It’s not the most authentic of smiles she’s ever displayed. But she still means it. And suddenly she wishes to tell him—she wishes to but she won’t. Not today. She feels proud of herself because Harry does, decides she’s been vulnerable enough as she nods and squeezes her arms underneath his armpits.

But this feeling of invincibility, the relief of having a cry and having someone there to soothe her—the adrenaline won’t last long—and maybe she should have confessed her feelings before the doubts returned.

#harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shots #mutually beneficial #writing #dom!harry #domrry #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles blurbs #harry styles imagines

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webslingingslasher · 4 months

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hii!! can you do one where situationship!peter like yells at trouble or something along those lines or is like embarrassed to be seen w her (i jsut wanna read something angsty 😭😭)

no rush ofc!! hope u had a good new years 🎀

added these two asks together <3

what do u think that frat!peter would do if he made trouble cry, like it was his fault

-----

when peter got a congratulatory clap on his shoulder with a 'heard you got cuffed up. good for you, man.' he brushed it off. peter had a good guess on why someone made that connection, he's been a little handsy with you at parties, and on campus. it's a natural thought.

when peter got nudged by a member of another frat, and a 'congrats, bro. she's a hottie.' he felt confused.

the third time it happened, while at his own house, peter finally asked what was up. 'where did you hear that?' a punch to his arm, 'your chick. she's telling everyone you're her boyfriend.'

and that? it made his blood boil.

'she's lying, i'm not dating anyone.' the brother's eyebrows raised, 'oh. i mean, i guess she told ja-' peter spoke up louder, 'she's a fucking liar.' the brother leaves it alone.

peter was almost pacing his floor while waiting for you. you've brought it up a thousand times, he's made his opinion very clear, and yet you're going behind his back and telling everyone he's the one thing he's not.

you don't notice his distaste, reaching out for a kiss you're dodged. peter wants to scoff at your pout, no wonder you feel sad, your boyfriend refused your touch.

'anything you wanna tell me, trouble?'

you're immediately taken back by his tone. 'anything that might get back to me?' you have a sinking feeling you know what it's about, you didn't know it would be whispered about, but you should've.

but, you won't put your foot in your mouth yet. 'i don't think so.' peter lets out a dry laugh, 'no? there's nothing that you did that makes you look fucking crazy?'

you swallow hard, is that what he thought of you? if so, he's wrong. 'i'm not crazy.' peter throws his hands up, 'really? okay, let's see if we can figure this one out together. i'm not your boyfriend, but apparently you're telling people i am. is that supposed to make you look sane?'

it's downright mean. 'you're being very condescending right now, peter. i don't like it.' peter's loud with his next sentence. 'just how i don't like being called your fucking boyfriend?'

your world comes crashing down. how could he be so brutal with such ease. it's so harsh you can't swallow back your emotions.

tears blot at your eyes while your lower lip trembles. 'is the idea of being with me that bad?' peter feels as crushed as you look. once it starts you can't stop, and to break down in front of peter, after he just called you fucking crazy, makes you dehumanize yourself.

you huff small breaths and try to wipe away the tears as they fall. you struggle to say your words without pausing to gasp. 'you didn't even... ask why.' it brings a new wave, he's being silent and you think it's over and final and you didn't get a chance to plead your case.

'i need... to leave.' you can't breathe, you can't even feel your feet when you move. you don't make it far because peter's in front of you and using his chest to back you up.

'alright, alright. just stop crying, okay?' peter doesn't know what to do because he's never actually made a girl cry that hard, or at least in his face, making him aware of his actions and how he could've tried to approach this in a calm way.

'you hate me,' you gasp, 'and you think i'm crazy,' another gasp, but this time you're scooped into his hold. 'stop. please, stop. please stop crying.' peter thinks if he squeezes you hard enough he could piece the parts he ruined back together.

'i'm sorry. i'm so sorry.' peter doesn't know what he wanted, but it wasn't a pleading apology coughed out between sobs. fuck, he was mean, wasn't he? 'stop it, trouble. just breathe, alright? it's done, okay?'

oh, peter's shit at this. you cry even harder, 'i know we are. i'm so sorry, i'll tell everyone i made it up and... and you-'

'we're not done. the conversation is done. just please stop fucking crying.' peter can't stress it enough because he feels so guilty he's about to start crying in solidarity.

'no! not until, not until you hear-'

'i'm not going to listen to anything until you can say three words without holding your breath.' it's useless, 'i think i'm dying.' you don't know how, but you're held even tighter to his chest, 'you're not dying. you're upset because i said mean things.'

you're able to take a deep breath, it feels good. 'you did.' peter can finally relax, you're not on the verge of passing out anymore. 'i know. i was really mean, wasn't i?'

'yeah.' fuck, he really, really hates how miserable he made you. peter cares about you, it's the one thing he makes sure to tell you, but he doesn't think you talk to the people you care about that way.

'i promise i'm not crazy, i just-'

'you're not crazy and i should've never said that.' you try to keep your face tilted down when peter pulled back, but he was adamant on having you look at him.

'i'm so sorry, okay? i was caught off guard by all these comments today and i took it out on you. you're right, i should've asked why. but i didn't, and i'm sorry.'

'jackson ruth got all weird and touchy at his party last week and i just blurted out that you were my boyfriend so he'd leave me alone and i swear i didn't mean for him to have it spread.'

you hate that you made him ashamed, maybe you said that part out loud too because you think you saw something break inside his eyes.

peter softly cups your face, any stray droplets cleared with a brush of his thumbs under your eyes. 'i'm not ashamed of you, i'd never be ashamed of you. you're my baby.'

hook, line, and sinker.

'you are always allowed to use my name if you need to, i promise. i was a dick and i made you cry and now i feel like shit that i made you feel like shit, and now i feel even shitter because i'm somehow making this about me.'

you wrap your hands around his, you'd rather him keep his hold. you feel special. 'do you mean it?' peter nods softly, he leans down for a kiss. it's warming, your chest blossoms wide.

if you were fucking crazy, hypothetically, you'd claim the accusation boldly when he says 'on everything i love.'

#frat!peter drabbles

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coolshadowtwins · 2 months

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SVSSS fanfic that I will never write-

LBH post canon accidently goes back in time. How? I don’t know, it isn’t important. If I had to pick a stupid reason, then in PIDW had a storyline where LBH went back in time to a wife’s past to like… learn more about her? To help her in the trauma? IDK but what I do know is that Peerless Cucumber would have ranged for hours about Airplane adding in the concept of time travel and then doing nothing else’s with it.

And guess who the subject of the wife plot is now??? That’s right- SQQ. Except the wife plot took the body and not the soul, and now Binghe is back during SJ’s disciple days.

LBH somehow, as the main character, manages to convince the peak lords of the time that he’s of Qing Jing! He is, really! He really laid on the charm here.

Previous Sect leader: I don’t know if I believe you, but since you look like such a polite young man-

LBH gets escorted away to a room by the head disciple. And who is the head disciple of the sect leader peak??? It’s Yue Qi, sad and depressed and lifeless because LBH managed to find himself in the period of time where YQY thinks SJ is dead!

LBH: I want to meet my young Shizun. Shen Qingqiu- Shen Jiu I think now?

YQY: …. Xiao Jiu is dead?

LBH: Maybe in the future for like five years but not right now!! He’s my super awesome Shizun! …. Do you want to drop everything to go look for him?

YQY: Oh boy, do I!!!

So the two bounce from the sect with no warning, looking Shen Jiu. Luckily, now knowing that he is alive and didn’t die in the fire, it’s pretty easy to follow the line of gossip that follows WY and SJ. And of course, the entire time, LBH is praising his Shizun.

Now, he hasn’t said that he was married to his Shizun. He didn’t want to spoil that just yet! He’ll reveal that to his younger Shizun himself when they find him. But until then, he can still tell YQY how awesome his Shizun is, and how nice, and how close he was to SQH and LQG and even to YQY himself! (That last one was a bit of a fib, of course. SQQ was always a little uncomfortable around the sect leader. But YQY was eating all of this up, being so happy that his childhood friend was so happy and well liked, and well…. It was only a small fib)

They finally catches up with them, and quickly dealing with the other guy, YQY and SJ have a nice reunion, having both think the other was dead! And of course, it was incredibly clear that YQY had been looking for SJ this whole time, which does wonders for his abandonment issues. SJ may yell at YQY for leaving the sect so suddenly and risking everything just for him, but on the inside, he is bursting for joy, trust me.

LBH is not bursting for joy. Like, at all. He had been so excited to see his Shizun but young and now that he’s here…. Something inside of him and screaming that this wasn’t his Shizun.

He had no reason to believe that. This was very clearly SQQ at 14~. But of course, he’s the 200 IQ protagonist and figures it out quickly that his wonderful Shizun/husband took over his body when LBH was 14 and that this was his shitty Shizun that made his early years in the sect awful.

He’s fully ok with that. If his husband needs to possess another man to be with him, than who is LBH to judge? Only the best body for him! The problem is, of course, that he has spent the entire trip over ranting to YQY about how good of a teacher SQQ was to him, and now YQY is excitedly telling everything he said to SJ. LBH can’t just…. Back track now! That would be weird, and if they think that someone will possess SJ later, then what if his husband never shows up??

So he goes along with it. It isn’t hard- he doesn’t hate SJ, not like PIDW him would. He was only under him for three years~ and a lot of what happened to him was still being justified in his head. So it’s just… whatever, to him at that point. He confirms what YQY had been saying, spins a charismatic lie to the sect about why they left and how GREAT SJ will be as a disciple in the future, and then he leaves. Just, fades away in front of everyone.

And now this is SJ’s life. He thinks he’s a good Shizun in the future, even if he can’t stand kids. He think that he becomes friends with SQH and LQG, which is oddly hard to do?? LQG angrily wants to fight him every time he sees him, which is super annoying, and SJ is 88% sure that SQH is talking to demons but, you know. If another version of him managed to become their friend without future knowledge, then he has to do it now! He has a head start on the race here, no way is he losing it!

He does become friends with them, and is still incredibly close to YQY as they grow up. He’s still… him, but his major heart demons- the abandonment by his Qi-Ge and being unsafe even in the sect- aren’t there anymore. He even manages to be an ok Shizun to a young LBH, somehow. He’s pretty sure that he’s sucking at that, btw, because the little brat gets on his nerves when they are in the same room for more than five minutes, but he’s being mostly polite! He had to wonder what the other version of him did to get such a glowing review from the future version of his disciple, because it has to be more than this.

Ironically, because I think it’s funny, this is the timeline that our LBH finds himself back in. The time travel was always meant to be a stable one timeline kinda thing, so anything he changed in the past affected the future. I imagine in PIDW that LBG didn’t do much of anything but maybe comfort his future wife, for Airplane’s fear of making a confusing paradox for himself. But this Binghe? Oh no, he did so much!

Because he saved SJ some heart demons, and helped him make friends despite his trauma, he’s not as prone to Qi divinations! Which means that he didn’t have a fatal one when LBH was 14! Which means when LBH gets back to his time after all of that, he takes one look at his ‘Shizun’ and knows that this isn’t his husband. Which means that his husband never possessed SJ!

He’s horrified, and spends a whole day moping around the peak, trying to think of ways to fix this. He has just gotten himself worked up to go and do something drastic when NYY finds him.

NYY: There you are!! Shen-Shidi has been looking for you all day!

LBH: H-huh?

NYY: Why are you moping around, huh? Did you and Shen-Shidi have a fight? Don’t worry! He’s your husband, I know he’ll forgive you-!

LBH: WHAT.

And that’s how he learns that while he isn’t married to his Shizun in this timeline, he is married to his Shixiong, Shen Yuan! Shen Yuan, who got shoved in Willy nilly when the system realized that SJ wasn’t going to die when he was supposed to.

There’s probably some sequel where LBH has to fake that he has memories of what happened in this timeline, which I imagine is somewhat close to Svsss? The system was still running around, even if a major player has changed. And LBH would just be so bad at faking it in front of two people and two people only- SJ and SY.

SY: Binghe, don’t you remember our first date? :)

LBH: …It wasn’t the water prison!

SY: ….that statement is correct but also the wrong answer.

And

SJ: Beast, you’re not coming to this Immortal Convenance. Don’t you remember meber what happened last time?

LBH: …. You didn’t push me into the endless abyss?

SJ:… That statement is wrong and I was also going for the HHP tag alongs you obtained.

#svsss #svsss au #time travel #fanfic concept #luo binghe #shen yuan #shen jiu #shen qingqiu #yue qingyuan #liu qingge #shang qinghua #ning yingying

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luveline · 7 months

Note

hi honey, i love you so so much!!

what about stripper!reader with derek morgan?? he's on a case where strippers are being murdered, and while hotch is driving morgan calls you and tells you not to go into work because of what's going on, and emily is listening in on the conversation from the backseat and they tease him

thank youu!! love you!

ty for requesting lovely!! ilysm ♡

"I know you don't like listening to me, but could you do me a favour? Just this once?"

Emily leans over in her seat so Spencer can see her side eye. "Who's Morgan talking to?"

"Stay home tonight. No, this isn't a jealousy thing, you vixen–"

Spencer shrugs. "No idea. But–"

"But," Emily agrees. They've just left a crime scene with a specific victim, and now Morgan's on the phone asking someone to stay home. That someone would have reason to visit said crime scene's location, and the word vixen suggests female rather than male, which means, "Morgan has a secret stripper girlfriend."

Spencer's entire face takes his frown, eyebrows pinched, mouth quirked into a telling line. "I like the implausible," he murmurs, "but that feels illogical. Where would they have met?"

"Uh," Emily says, widening her eyes at him. "Where do you think, Spence?"

"Morgan doesn't need to go to a strip club."

Emily understands what Spencer's saying. There are lots of reasons that people frequent strip clubs or gentlemen's clubs and none of those reasons apply to Derek. It's possible he could go socially, but it's just so unlike him, it doesn't add up.

"I'm telling you the truth. I can't give you more detail than that, I just need you to stay home tonight." Derek pauses, laughs. "Alright," —his voice takes on a mechanical rendition, clearly having been fed a line he has to repeat aloud— "I, Derek Morgan, am an ignorant, jealous man, who can't cope with the fact that you don't want me, and am making up sad and childish lies to get you to stay home from your job. Is that what you wanted? Yeah, laugh it up."

Emily laughs and grabs the headrest as he hangs up on you, pulling herself forward to taunt him as is required. "Care to explain yourself?"

Derek sighs. "This is why I didn't tell you guys."

"What!" Spencer says, though his smile is more audible than his incredulity.

"So you have something to tell us?" Emily asks.

Derek knows he can't weasel his way out of telling them, and he doesn't really want to. "I don't have a secret stripper girlfriend," he says, rolling his eyes, "she's not my girlfriend. She is an exotic dancer at one of the clubs downtown, and I met her at Home Depot."

Emily isn't perturbed that Derek heard their gossiping. She's shameless. She doesn't even care that Hotch is frowning behind the wheel. "What was an exotic dancer doing at Home Depot?"

"Weirdly, Emily, she has a home. She wanted help finding renter friendly flooring."

"Can we meet her?"

"Never," Derek says with a smile. Emily couldn't know this, but he really likes you. You're sweet, super funny, and yes, you're a stripper. You work hard. Pole dancing is as physically demanding as any manual labour and you're damn good at it. "Ever."

Spencer interjects the ensuing argument with a statistical analysis of strippers who are homeowners (unfairly few), but Morgan doesn't answer, trying to read a new text from you discretely.

Sorry if I embarrassed you at work :( is it really not safe to go ?? Maybe u can come and be my bodyguard. I won't even make u tip me 4:10PM

He sends back, Really not safe. Stay home for me, relax for a few days. Call you tonight even if nothing changes 4:11PM

My hero <3 I trust u, but be careful OK ? and pls if it isn't too much trouble can u bring back some of those weird candies again? thank u thank u <3<3<3 4:14PM

Hotch makes a quiet sound of approval, eyes on the road. "The same girl you were with at Docklands? Rossi said she was cute."

"She is."

"Rossi met her?" Emily asks. "Oh, you're the worst."

#derek morgan #derek morgan x reader #derek morgan x you #derek morgan x y/n #derek morgan x fem!reader #derek morgan imagine #derek morgan fluff #derek morgan fanfic #derek morgan oneshot #derek morgan scenario #derek morgan drabble #derek morgan fic #derek morgan fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader

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wyvernest · 9 months

Note

Oh my god I saw your requests were open and I love eveything you write<33

I See many fics where Miguel is the one who is jealous, but what if the tables turned and the reader is the one who is jealous, maybe she’s a civilian and she feels like he’d be better of with a spider person who understands his work better? I’d love to see him feel sad that his love feels that way can you tell I like pain lol

Thank you so so much<33 wishing you all the best for your exam! I’m sure you’ll do amazing!

shameless

pairing: bf!miguel x f!civilian!reader

warnings: jealousy, fluff, suggestiveness, public display of affection

summary: you're worried that miguel might be better off with a spider-person, but he is eager to reassure you (and everyone else) that you're more than enough

a/n:thank you and i hope you like it! im thinking of making a part 2 with balcony sex above nueva york let me know if yall would want it<3

divider by @cafekitsune

You are aware of the so called disadvantages of him being your boyfriend.

He is handsome, no doubt. But that means a lot more than being able to watch him work around the HQ, swinging your legs and wondering how you landed him.

It means having unfamiliar eyes linger over him more than you'd be able to tolerate. Flirty looks and remarks thrown at him like he's magnetic, regardless of everyone knowing he's with you.

Even walking through the glassy hallways and cloud scratching towers of Spider Society is a stab in the heart.

Noticing all the single spider-women look him up and down, eyelids heavy with the seconds that passed as they unabashedly stared at his physique; his broad back, the bulky arms and toned thighs, at the way the muscles underneath his suit rippled with every heavy step he took, not letting his weight drop lazily on each foot but rather walking with the energetic strength of a man with insane stamina.

You couldn't stop a venomous surge of anxiety mixed with the most sour amount of jealousy from dripping into your nerves as you met their gazes, seeing how beautiful and charismatic they all were.

How agile and gracious they were, swinging by just to blow Miguel a fleeting kiss.

And you certainly couldn't stop wondering if he'd be better off with one of them. One of his kind. One that would be able to swing alongside him, to practise with him, to accompany him.

One that would understand him better than perhaps you ever could.

You know he loves you, or else you wouldn't be together. But the idea that he maybe even once looked at all the women lining up for him and thought they'd be interesting to try is gutting you out.

And he starts noticing it.

Of course.

He isn't oblivious to how you straightened your back or curled your arms around his when another spider woman passed you with flirty looks or remarks. How you'd shut down and become awfully quiet when you two would get home following one of these encounters.

He couldn't bear to see you unhappy. Some of the times he even felt the sharp sting of guilt poking into his heart, knowing that he was the reason others were upsetting you.

More so, your bond.

You are heading towards his lab at HQ, walking beside him, heart pounding intermittently with anxiety and bubbling anger. Eyes darting around you swiftly, like those of a feral feline making sure no other animal is preparing to jump her and snatch her food from her.

Suddenly, two flowy silhouettes shoot mile long webs far up into a tunnel bridge, only to drop down and swing right past you and Miguel.

Purring out a simultaneous "¡Hola, Miguel! Looking good today!", reaching their hands down to him while boasting perfect balance with their webs tied to their ankles, they disappear into the distanced skyscrapers of Nueva York, with echoing giddy laughters.

Miguel doesn't move his head in their direction, already way too familiar with such interactions, and already too interested in hearing only one particular ¡Hola, Miguel! - yours.

Only your focus isn't on him. Your mind is running wild with how talented they seemed to be, how flexible and enticing. Already imagining him, playfully swinging with them, his force and precision perfectly matching their grace and melodic rhythm.

A dance you could never participate in.

What you also fail to see is the frown on his face as he turns to you, intrigued and finally ready to catch you off guard.

"¿Qué pasó, amor?" (What happened, love?) He leaned into you, dragging you by your arm to stop you behind a glass pillar.

You're hauled out of your reverie, eyes widening in panic as you think of something less pathetic and embarrassing to say than the truth.

"Hm? Nothing, I just think they're nice to look at." You motion with your head the direction the two women swung in, clarifying. "Everytime you bring me here, it's all so … breathtaking." You internally wince at the excuse, pulling the best poker face you could muster.

He takes a deep breath, annoyed but patient.

"You know you can tell me anything." He assures you, voice low and whispered so as not to embarrass you in front of the spiders passing by. He is aware that the place isn't the most fitting for the conversation, but any other time he'd tried to coax it out of you, you dismissed it with a "It's nothing. I'm just feeling off today."

Truth be told, he had his suspicions. He is by no means unacquainted with the ways of women, and without a single condescending bone in his body when it came to you, he wants you to spit it out so you could talk about it. So he could untangle the knots in your heart, the doubts about him and your relationship.

"I know." You reply shortly, something in you dying to snap out and tell him everything, but instead, you shut it down at the last moment and decided to leave it at that.

"Then why don't you?" He looms over you, unintentionally, but you start to feel utterly cornered. Your heart is drumming out of your chest, and you are more than certain he can at least hear it. His face reveals his disappointment, however hopeful and attentive he wants to seem.

And just like that, your fronts break down.

"I'm - Don't get me wrong," you trail off, not looking him in the eye. You feel his warm breath fan over your forehead, getting dizzy from the sudden proximity. "I love this place. All the work you put into it.." Your eyes meet his for a fleeting second. "But sometimes it reminds me of how different I am.", You pause, waiting for a response. When he doesn't interrupt, you continue, "How I don't fit in,... here, beside you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" He looks almost pissed, as if you had told him he doesn't fit in. As if he was the one that didn't fit you.

"I mean I'm not … them. I'm not a spider."

"I'm aware of that." he retorts, ironically. "When did that stop me from loving you?". His tone is scolding. He is trying to maintain an unaffected demeanor so you would keep talking, but inside, his heart cracks at your words.

Your face heats up, surprised.

"It's not that." You have to actively stop yourself from leaning into his body and hiding into the warmth of his embrace, so that maybe all the jealousy and worry will wash away. But he deserves an explanation, now that you've admitted your feelings. "They know a side of you that I can only imagine. How it feels to be…like you."

His face softens, full of love and pity.

"I'm the odd one out here." You spit out, frustrated with his silence. "I can't give you everything they can!"

"I don't want what they have." He answers quickly, sincerely. You find it hard to believe, even though he's never lied to you.

To you, he's perfect. He deserves everything. Everything he could get.

And you're not enough.

"Escúchame." (Listen to me) He leans closer into you, his breath hot on your face. "Estoy enamorado de ti." (I'm in love with you.) "I only need you to be happy."

You finally meet his gaze, full of consideration and fondness. You pray to whatever god hears you that he means it, because you're too far gone in your love for him to go back now.

"What will it take for you to just relax and stop being jealous, hm?" He whispers, smugly and amused. It's clear that he's flattered with your sentiments and possessiveness, but wants to nonetheless fix your issues.

You feel yourself getting immersed into the scent of him, his body heat radiating onto yours. You don't quite know the answer yourself. He grabs your waist right above your hips, sending shivers up your spine. Pulling you closer to him, he moves his head to your ear.

"What if I kissed you right here, right now? Let everyone know that I love you, and only you."

Miguel was very clearly overjoyed with the excuse to show you some public affection, especially if it meant having you so flustered and pliant beneath him.

"Would that make you feel better? Knowing they'll be the jealous ones now?"

You nod, more or less consciously, lifting yourself up on your tiptoes almost reflexively.

His warm and eager hands on your waist strengthen their grip, lifting you further up against his body as your feet lose contact with the ground, your chest meeting his. His lips are soft and tender against yours, dancing in a slow, passionate kiss. With your eyes still closed, you hear a few gasps near you in the hall; some happily amused, some offended.

But you don't care. All you care about right now is how he's tilting your head to the side with one of his palms at the back of your neck, slipping his tongue into your mouth and deepening the kiss.

You continue to make out without a care in the world, just for the whole Spider Society to receive a much needed reminder that Miguel O'Hara is taken.

His hands knead the supple flesh of your lower back, making your hum softly into his mouth, your own arms curling around his neck in a vicious hold.

When you least expect it, you feel one hand descend swiftly, leaving you no time to react as he grabs at your ass hard, so hard you jolt up against him, eyes snapping open in shock.

Without moving his hand, he presses his nose to your pulse point, exhales sultry on the sensitive skin.

"I have another idea."

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader one shot #atsv miguel #miguel o hara #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o’hara smut #miguel spiderverse #miguel x reader #spider man 2099 #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #across the spiderverse

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targaryenluvs · 6 months

Note

Hi, how are you? Could you make a request for Anthony Bridgerton 🙈 please.

I was thinking something along the lines of Penelope and Colin. When Colin says he would never court Penelope. But in this case Anthony tells Benedict that he would never court reader. And Benedict tells him that he will be the one to woo her. Sad ending or happy ending. I leave it in your hands 🤗✨.

Have a good week ✨ thank you.

i love this, and benedict bridgerton <3

nothing better

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader, anthony bridgerton x fem!reader (platonic)

summary: benedict has loved you for so long, but he always assumed you’d want anthony and he wanted you. but when the opportunity presents itself to be with you he dives headfirst.

warnings: swearing, kisses??

a/n: hope you like itttt, it might be a little short but quality over quantity???: i love benedict ugh can’t wait for his season

the party was insufferable.

benedict wanted nothing more than to be at home, drawing, you specifically.

the day you learned of his talent you’d praised him every day for it. and you’d been pestering him for oh so long to draw your portrait but he always politely declined. believing a professional to be more accurate than himself but he honestly believed that he, nor any other, could incorporate all of your beauty in one sketch.

and he was scared of messing it up, and he also wondered what his brother would think.

anthony. smart, handsome, eligible, viscount anthony bridgerton.

the one you’d marry.

or so it seemed to everyone as the two of you danced hand in hand. everyone’s eyes were on the two of you as you practically glided across the floor. as the music slowed and the couples dispersed he found himself holding his breath as you came towards him.

“anthony is terrible to dance with, he keeps blaming me for stepping on his feet but he moves so slow at times, he’s always looking off into the distance.” you laughed as benedict smiled, “i promise you y/n, a dance with me will leave you more than well satisfied.” benedict teased as you gasped, “benedict bridgerton! the scandalous man you are.” as you laughed he couldn’t help but admire you. your hair was up with only two strands in the front, curled. a sweet tiara in the middle of your head, a gorgeous baby pink dress and and equally gorgeous owner.

“you look-”

“like a cake? a biscuit? a rose perhaps?” you joked.

“i was going to say breathtaking. you look, breathtaking, y/n. no one else here can compare.” he spoke in awe.

your eyes flickered to his, god he looked amazing. but he was probably only saying this to be nice right? his sisters friend, daphnes other half. nothing more, he grew up with you, saw you as a sister.

he wondered if you’d return the compliment, or thank him, or just smile and nod. god he said wanted more than a nod. you looked untouchable. and the way you looked at him, benedict was lost. not only in your eyes but in his head and heart. he sees you dance and talk to numerous respectable men every day. you smile and laugh, completely polite. but then you look at him, with those beautiful brown eyes and he looses all trains of thought. and as respectful as those other men are, he could never put himself in the same category as them.

because the thoughts that he didn’t loose, were truly inappropriate.

the heavy footsteps from behind you snapped the two of you out of the trance as anthony approached. “brother, lady y/n.” he smiled as you smiled back. “i’ll leave you two be.”

“are you alright brother?”

he didn’t mean to snap. the words just spilled out.

“are you going to court her or not?”

anthony’s brows furrowed as he was taken aback by his brothers direct manner, all sense of the usual playfulness was lost. “who? y/n? no of course not. i would never dream of courting y/n l/n. she’s like a sister to me.”

“then why do you dance with her so? take her out so often, promenade with her? for what? my god everyone thinks the two you are courting.” anthony released a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

he’d only been having fun with a friend. it was so refreshing to be able to talk to someone who didn’t wonder what the viscount was up to, who he was with, when he was going to marry. y/n eased his tensions and she the best friend he’d never had, she made him feel like a young boy again, which anthony had all but forgotten the feeling of.

“benedict, it was not my intention this i promise you brother. i know how much you love and if i led you or anyone else to believe our relationship was anything besides familial love and companionship than i truly apologise. you need to let her know before it’s too late.”

benedict felt his heart lurch at the idea of finally being with you. and with anthony’s blessing and urging him along he was off to find you.

the air was cold, but anything was better than that stuffy ballroom inside. gods you couldn’t wait for the season to be over. it was only your first, same as the diamond of the season, also known as your best friend daphne bridgerton but all the cakes, gossip, drama and fake smiles? you’d had enough to last forever. the only problem with the season being over was that you’d most likely be travelling to your country estate. which meant that you’d be spending time with your extended family rather than the family besides your own that you wanted to be with.

the person you wanted to be with.

“y/n! there you are.” benedict shouted as he bent over, catching his breath. even slightly sweaty and disheveled benedict was a god in your eyes, no one inside could even come close.

“ben, come sit!” you patted the swing next to you as he gladly sat down, the air was a refreshing after the long night he’d had, and your smiling face was enough for his heart to race again.

“y/n, as much as i’d like to sit and swing with you i have to tell you something, it’s urgent.” he spoke softly. the moon was bright, the air cold and benedict had a soft glow of light on his right side. his voice could so easily lull you to sleep out here as it had done so many times before but his eyes were alert, so you smiled again and nodded, “continue.”

“y/n, i’ve known you for so long. and i’ve- i’ve never been able to tell you how i truly feel about you. i always thought anthony had your eye and”

“anthony?!” you screeched as benedict hushed you with a hand over your mouth. “sweetheart you can’t be so loud out here, wouldn’t want someone to come across us now would we?” he joked as his eyes crinkled at the edges, now there’s the benedict you knew. “ben, i’ve never had romantic feelings for anthony, hes always been a brother to me. besides i’ve had my eye on another bridgerton for a long time.”

“oh? and who could that be?” benedict was praying to every god he could conjure in his head. me. me. me. let it be me please.

“you.”

he couldn’t help himself as he kissed you, he’d waited far too long for it.

and it was so worth it.

everything he couldn’t even begin to express with words, he put into the kiss, your first of many. “i love you. i love you y/n l/n and i can only pray you love me a quarter as much. you are everything i’ve ever wanted, and i have you now. you were family before but now? youre officially a bridgerton, we should throw a parade.” benedict laughed as you smacked his arm, “finally! my plan to marry daphne has been thrown into motion!”

“excuse me?” daphne shouted as yourself and benedict leaned into eachother, laughing up a storm.

there was nothing that could compare to the man infront of you.

nothing better.

#benedict bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x fem!reader #benedict bridgerton x y/n

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bubblegyu00 · 2 months

Text

riize as boyfriends !

riize x femidol!reader

a/n: currently in my rum pum pum pah talk saxy era 😋

———————・✦

• shotaro

boyfriend shotaro and idol shotaro are basically two different people. the members have mentioned that shotaro is a bit stern and serious during practice. but all of the frustration leaves his body once he sees his girlfriend stopping by after practice. goes from leader osaki shotaro to clingy baby taro in a millisecond.

is such a happy pill to you, but when you go without seeing him for more than 24 hours, then you suddenly become sad and depressed.

his favorite pass time is to talk about you, and he has proven that many..... many times. the members always get annoyed when the room is silent he and suddenly groans " man, i really miss my girlfriend ". but the poor boy can't help that you're always on his mind 😕

he definitely loves to annoy you, but only because he knows that you won't get angry at him. he thinks that you don't get angry at him because you basically let him do anything he wants ( which is true ), but it's really because even though taro likes to tease,, he never crosses the line.

if you would ever be at an awards show together, he wouldn't even try to hide your relationship — meaning the boy is quite literally gushing over how good you look. pokes you in the side and giggles quietly to himself as he watches you stiffen and try not to flinch.

" shotaro! what was that?! we were live! "

" it was so funny! "

———————・✦

• eunseok

boyfriend eunseok may seem nonchalant and tsundere ( yes i used that word, what're you gonna do about it 😛 ), he actually cares about you so much.

is on the verge of tears when he's cleaning a wound for you ( it's literally a paper cut ). will help you do everything for the rest of the day like you just got out of the ER or something.

makes you laugh all the time because he just wants to see you smile. his life goal is to protect you at all costs, and treat you like an absolute princess.

loves loves lovessss when you play with his hair or scratch his back. he can put up the tough guy act all he wants, but the minute you offer to rub or scratch his back he'll lay right on your lap and won't get up for another hour.

and even though he isn't as expressive, he gives you compliments like no other. he praises every little thing you do, and compliments you on every single piece of clothing you wear.

" you look so good baby "

" i'm literally wearing pajama pants and a tank top seok..? "

" i stand by my earlier statement "

( are my daddy issues showing yet? )

———————・✦

• sungchan

boyfriend sungchan is so cute i want to throw a rock at him. alright that made sense in my head.

he's so so so in love with you i don't think he could possibly put it in words. he probably wants to throw a rock at you too.

like you could literally glance at him for one millisecond, and that's a kiss in his book. he still gets giddy over the little things like holding hands and hugging and it's just so endearing 🙁

sometimes he forgets how handsome he is, and only remembers when he gets a scolding because he didn't know a girl was hitting on him.

no but seriously sometimes the fact that he is so insanely attractive leaves his brain. and the amount of girls that mindlessly flirt with him — even though his girlfriend is right there — double the amount when he's at the gym.

so he dosent leave for the gym until he gets sprayed with a bunch of your perfume, has a picture of you two in his phone case, a scrunchie on his wrist, and a pink bow around his arm. ( the last one is just cus... why wouldn't you try to tie a bow around sungchan's arm?? )

" maybe i should buy you a shirt with a picture of me on it "

" or i could just act like i'm gay when girls come up to me "

" oh my gosh yes! "

———————・✦

• wonbin

boyfriend wonbin is the beginning of the sassy man apocalypse. i say this from the heart wonbin 🤍

no but it's really a good thing because you needed someone who would overdress everywhere with you 😋. he still has never overdressed you ofc, he knows his limits 😼

most people thought you guys were just this big glamorous couple who slept glamorously, went on big glamorous dates, and just breathed in glamorous air.

this, however, is a big lie. most of the time you had dates at home, in bed, eating takeout, and watching horror movies.

although wonbin is very very very very hot in every way, most of the time you just saw him as a guy who was born to be a cutie patootie, but was forced to act like the mysterious hot guy.

wonbin only let's you see the soft side of him because he can really open up to you, and you understand him so well.

if wonbin is ever having a bad day and won't open up to anyone, the members call you immediately since they know that you'd be able to calm him down in five minutes tops.

" go away "

" binnie, baby it's me. you can open the door "

———————・✦

• seunghan

boyfriend seunghan most definitely was best friend seunghan before you "accidentally" made out one night

your love language is annoying each other and pissing one another off <3

you two are most definitely the couple everyone brings over to have a good time. the both of you together is quite literally is the best combo you could put together for having fun.

seunghan will annoy you, but make it up with the dozens of gifts he gives you for no reason. you showed him something online? he bought it. you thought something was cute at the mall? he's already whipping his credit card out.

he's not necessarily clingy, but will be touching you most of the time just to make sure you don't disappear. whenever you're at a party, or in public, he'll have an arm around your waist just for reassurance. he does in fact think you'll get kidnapped if you're not in his line of vision.

boyfriend seunghan most definitely calls you the most out of pocket nicknames just for fun. he thinks it's gold comedy.

" i'm home cucumber! "

" how was your day tissue? "

———————・✦

• sohee

boyfriend sohee makes me want to go into a cuteness aggression not gonna lie to you. the biggest simp out of the seven.

has you as his lockscreen and homescreen, has your photo card in his phone case, your birthday is his phone password, and his password for all of his accounts is the day he asked you out. ( he's a bit obsessed ngl )

sohee is usually very smiley, but he never ever smiles as wide as when he's with you. you're the only one who gets to see his fully pearly white smile

is still really shy around you, but it's so endearing. like if you say "i love you" he'll say it back but his neck, ears, and face will be a shade of red. or if you kiss him it'll still take him a minute to calm down because he has the reddest face ever right now.

like shotaro, sohee talks about you too much too. but honestly he only does it sometimes to make them mad or annoyed, but sometimes he really does just to talk about his perfect girlfriend.

will make sure you NEVER eat alone. he just thinks it's so sad that his girlfriend would eat alone when she could be eating with him.

" have you already eaten? "

" yes "

" aw, i wanted you to eat with me "

" oh, i haven't eaten yet, what do you want? "

" but you just- "

———————・✦

• anton

boyfriend anton makes me want to skip around my room and sing " look at the grass, the dirt! just like i dreamed they'd be! "

he gets really shy when you compliment him, but will compliment you on every single thing you say or do. like he'll literally say you look perfect when you're in sweatpants, and it makes you wanna do cartwheels and swoon over him.

he will so lose it every time you dress up at all. like he's literally drooling with goo goo eyes and he will NOT leave your side.

he feels so small next to you even though he's literally a whole shaq o'neal 2.0. he still can't believe how he pulled a bad bitch like you.

his love language is physical touch, but he is too shy to make the first move. for example, when you're sitting on the couch, about to watch a movie, he'll keep his hands to himself even though he wants to lay on your chest and have you play with his hair so badly.

people figure out your dating because when he's on live he'll bring you up every chance he gets. like every time he reads a comment, he somehow finds every single one to have something to do with you.

" anton what's your tmi? "

" um, my tmi for today is that i watched y/n's performance at mcountdown in person today and oh my god- "

❕

#bubblegyu00 #riize #riize imagines #riize x reader #kpop

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dinogoofymutated · 11 days

Note

I absolutely adore how you write Kurt,

Could you write something for Kurt being concerned for an overworked reader?

And or a reader that struggles with sleep?

SFW!Nightcrawler/GN! Reader The amount of comfort that this man gives me UGH! He's just so caring and sweet, but I worry about him :( He's been the therapist friend in basically every episode in 97' and he deserves some comfort too so I added basically the reverse version of these headcannons at the end as well! Sorry I didn't end up writing anything for sleep, I've written a fic with some sleep struggle themes here but I might end up writing some seperate headcannons for that later! TWs: Themes of burnout/exhaustion. Mentions of the Genosha attack and Remy's death/funeral, religious themes. As always, reader written while picturing Fem! But no pronouns mentioned. I'm doing my best with adding German dialect while Kurt speaks but I'm not super knowledgeable, so let me know if there's something I need to change!

Kurt makes it his absolute mission to make sure you're always taken care of. Food, emotional support, laundry, dishes, Hell, he'd give you the sun and stars if you needed them. He just cares about you so much, and he never wants you to feel like you're alone in this world.

This being said, when he feels that you're overworking yourself, he's not afraid to let you know.

When he first starts to notice it, He'll check in on you more often. He'll pull you into a hug and give you kisses and he'll only leave when you reassure him that you're perfectly fine.

If you're still overworking yourself after this, he will outright tell you that he loves you, but you need a break. You can't go on like this and he's concerned about you. He doesn't purposely give you the sad puppy eyes, but seriously, how could you think about saying no to that face?

He really likes to brush his hands through your hair when he's trying to help you relax. He'll move your head into his lap on the couch and hum you softly to sleep. He might take you to bed, but he won't wake you up unless he absolutely has to. He won't go as far as to turn off your alarms, but he just wants you to rest.

However, if you know you're overworking yourself but still refuse to let yourself stop, or take a break, he's going to be a little more "aggressive".

Your computer screen is giving you a migraine, you feel like you want to tear your brain out of your head, and plainly? You just can’t sit still. You had been in this spot for about six hours straight. The last time you actually got up was to eat dinner, and even then you had only relaxed for what, thirty minutes? You can’t really remember.

You sigh deeply, leaning back in your chair as you massage your temples. Working for the budding country of Genosha was certainly not for the weak. You needed to have this paperwork finished and faxed before the end of the week so that talks of Genosha entering the U.N. could continue. It was such a hefty amount, but it was necessary. Everyone else had done their part, and all you had to do was make corrections, edit, and make sure everything was in top shape. You’d been working on it for about three days straight, and with the finish line in sight, you didn’t want to stop now.

Oh, but your head hurts so bad, and you feel like you're starving. You look from your computer to your copy machine and the huge stack of mostly finished paperwork on your desk. You just want it to be over with, you decide it’s best if you just push through.

“You haven’t moved from that spot since lunch,” You hear Kurt state. He comes around the side of your chair to brush some stray locks away from your forehead, and you do your best to give him a smile, although it’s obvious the expression is pained.

“I didn’t hear you come in.” Your voice comes out a little gravelly from being silent most of the day. Kurt’s hands begin to gather your hair and caress the back of your neck lovingly. His hands feel good, grounding. You close your eyes to appreciate the feeling and miss the sight of Kurt’s frown.

“Let’s get you to bed, Liebchen. I can tell your head hurts.” Kurt’s tone is gentle, although displeased, and it makes you feel guilty when you shake your head and pull away, leaning forward as you restack the paperwork on your desk.

“I can’t. I’m almost done with this whole U.N. thing and the sooner it’s over, the better.” You mumble stubbornly. Kurt shakes his head at you, pulling your rolling chair away from the desk before you can get your hands on something else. You don’t even have the energy to express your shock as Kurt takes the papers out of your hands, using the table to straighten them before placing them in their proper place. He tuts at you as he does so, and continues to save your files and power down the computer despite your protests.

“My apologies, love, but I won’t let you rot in this room for another moment. I understand how important this work is to you. Giving Genosia a voice that the world can hear is a very noble cause, and yet it is still a cause that can wait till tomorrow, Ja?” You open your mouth to attempt to protest again, but your head hurts so bad, and you are so tired. Kurt takes your hands to help you out of your chair, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he pulls you into a gentle hug.

“Okay. But-” You don’t finish your sentence before Kurt is tucking your face into his shoulder, sparing you the view as he Bamfs you away. When he lets you go, you’re standing in your bedroom. You’re thankful that he spared you the sights, knowing that it would have just made your head worse- but it didn’t change the fact that you hadn’t been remotely done in the office.

“-I still need to lock up, Kurt.” You start to say, but he’s gone in a puff of smoke before you can even finish the sentence. When he makes it back a few minutes later, Kurt sends you a cheeky smile, lifting his tail to show you the keys he must’ve snagged from your pocket earlier.

“Did you-”

“Lock the file cabinet? Yes. And I turned off your lamp, and closed the curtains before I locked the door.” Kurt kisses your temple as he sits you down on the bed, beginning to take your shoes off. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you taken care of.” You feel like your heart might explode with the overwhelming fondness you’re feeling right now. When he’s done with your shoes, he carefully helps you undress and change into pajamas, something he knows you struggled with when you were as exhausted as you are now. He makes sure to tuck you into bed before he himself goes to change. It doesn’t matter how much pain you felt at this point, when he crawled into bed you couldn’t stop yourself from curling up close to him, pressing tired kisses to whatever part of him you could reach. Kurt simply chuckles, pulling you into an embrace as he whispers sweet encouragements for you to sleep.

“Kurt?”

“Yes, Meine Liebe?”

“ ‘Think you could Marry me?”

Now just because Kurt will do everything in his power to keep you from reaching the point of burnout, doesn't mean that he himself will stop from reaching that point.

Kurt is a genuinely good person, right to the core. He likes helping people, he likes to care for others, but he doesn't always ask for help when he needs it. It's not that he doesn't have emotional intelligence for his own feelings, he just tends to soothe himself by assisting others. Even then, to an extent, that's not healthy coping. There is only so much someone can carry alone.

After the attack on Genosha, there was a lot of work that had to be done- and Kurt, being a familiar and dependable face in the many religious communities, was needed constantly in a tumultuous time when many turned to religion.

It's been a struggle for the two of you, much of your time together being cut short in one way or another, and the longer you spent away, the more worried you became.

It all came to a head after Remy's funeral.

Remy’s funeral was… Rough. To say the least. No one was coping very well, especially not Jubilee. You had walked out to the cars with the group after the last of the dirt had been laid, making sure to give her a tight hug. The X-men were the only real family she had ever had, and now she had lost a brother. You had let her sob for a moment, listening to her cries and the sounds of doors, opening and closing.

When everyone had loaded up and was ready to head out, you noticed that Kurt wasn’t there. You told everyone that you would catch up. You had a feeling you knew where he would be.

You find Kurt in an empty church. He’d shed his outermost robes at some point, and was sitting silently on a pew. His eyes are closed and his hands folded, praying. You don’t disturb him as you sit down, simply reaching a hand out and placing it on his knee, squeezing it to let him know you were there. When he finishes, he places his hand over your own, opening his eyes as he looks down. His tears are flowing freely, and he leans into your touch when you wipe them from his cheeks.

“I’ve been told that there is strength in a man that freely mourns, but… It’s silly. I can’t help but wish that I was stronger.” Kurt’s almost whispering as he speaks. You feel a lump form in your throat, your stinging eyes welling with tears for the countless time today. It hurts so unbelievably to see someone you love hurting so much, knowing that there is so little that you can do to make the pain go away, even if the loss is shared.

“It’s not silly. I think that a lot of people feel the same- especially right now.” You say. You take hold of his left hand, tracing the cool metal band on his finger. You compare it to the one you wear, and find yourself thankful that the hand that bears his is still warm. You think of Rogue and Remy. The life they could’ve had together, if only they had been given more time.

You lean your head on Kurt’s shoulder, and he rests his head on top of your own.

“You don’t have to carry it alone.” You whisper eventually. Kurt says nothing, lacing his fingers between yours. “I know we haven't had a lot of time together lately, but as long as I’ve known you, you’ve carried so much on your shoulders- but you don’t have to do it alone. That’s what I’m here for, remember?” Kurt laughs lightly at your words, squeezing your left hand before lifting it to his lips and kissing your knuckles.

“You are a gift that I’m not entirely sure I deserve, my love,” Kurt says. You scoff at him, frowning now as you look up to meet his eyes.

“Lying is a sin, Kurt.” You say playfully. His smile is blinding, and you gasp as Kurt Wagner of all people rolls his eyes at you.

“Even if it was a lie, which it isn’t, as long as I have you near, Schatz, Heaven will be in reach.”

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pinkrelish · 1 year

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶Surely, when two friends set up their two friends on a blind date in the very small town of Hawkins, they make sure those two people don't know each other beforehand, right? And, more importantly, aren't coworkers, right?✶

NSFW — slow burn, fluff, flirting, mutual pining, angst towards the end, drug/alcohol mention/use, 18+ overall for eventual smut

chapter: 3/20 [wc: 6.1k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12

AO3

Chapter 3: The Accidental First Date

“Is this too much?” you asked, yanking down the visor and checking yourself in the small mirror.

Sitting in the back parking lot of the movie theater, you went through your purse for the finishing touches on your look. Doing your last paranoia check for anything in your teeth, turning your head this way and that to zhuzh your hair, and most importantly, preening your oxymoron of a sweater to show a decent amount of cleavage without flashing the cups of your push-up bra.

Truly a walking contradiction of a top. Cable knit and warm, but with a plunging neckline, to where the top button started at your sternum.

“No, you look hot,” Robin assured with her goofy smile. “New York modest is Hawkins slutty. He’s gonna love you.”

You shrank into your girlish giggle. “Good, I want my dating debut in this little town to be a statement. Set the stage for future escapades.. Until I run out of men, I guess. Seriously, how many bachelors live here and aren’t total hicks? Four?” Robin laughed.

“Could be worse. You could be a lesbian.”

“True,” you concurred. “Good thing you have Vickie. Sucks she couldn’t come tonight.” Robin made a sad huff of agreement, working a mascara wand through her lashes. “Hey, I know I said ‘yes’ without asking, but is this guy you set me up with even my type? Not that I care, obviously; a good story is a good story, but I’m just trying to set my expectations here.”

She furrowed her eyebrows dramatically, and paused unscrewing her lip gloss to rock her entire body into a positive affirmation–almost bumping her forehead on the steering wheel from the force of her nodding. “Oh, absolutely,” she said emphatically. “Looks scary on the outside, but is a total sweetheart on the inside. Overconfident, and obnoxious, but in that charming, swoony way.”

“Perfect!” You clasped your hands together.

Stepping out of the car, she waited for you so you could walk with your arms linked together, and she continued, “I haven’t seen him in years, but Steve was telling me over the phone that he’s been going through a tough time, and hasn’t been on a date in a while.”

“Aw, poor guy.”

There was a beat of silence where both of your faces twisted into knowing smiles.

“I know what that look means..” Robin led, canting her head to you.

Innocent, you lifted your shoulder in a coy shrug, bringing a collection of her soft hair up to your chin. “No idea what you’re talking about. I was just thinking, if he hasn’t been on a date in a while.. Why not make it memorable for him?”

You laughed together, rounding the sidewalk to the front entrance of the theater where the glamorous marquee shined gentle daylight upon the darkened street. Romantic and intimate, with a crowd of people standing in vague suggestions of lines; some broken off, gossiping, smoking.

“There they are,” Robin whispered, letting go of your upper arm to wave at Nancy–who you had met at the grocery store last week. She saw you approaching, and tapped her hand on the chest of the man beside her.

Still a considerable distance away, you peered at him, and placed his luscious hair in your memory. “Oh, that’s the guy who came to the shop today.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah, he was talking to the annoying mechanic I’m always telling you about.”

“The one you have a crush on?”

“Shush,” you bristled at the mention of your not-so-secret. “I do not have a crush on Eddie. Anyway! Did I tell you what he did this morning? He fuckin’ stood outside the window next to my desk, just out of my view for like, full on minutes, waiting for me to look at him. Like Michael Myers or some shit. Scared me half to death.”

Robin, still caught on one detail you had somehow failed to mention in the month you worked at the auto body shop, quietly asked, “..Eddie?”

“Yeah, my coworker,” you answered, not looking at her when she fell a step behind, since you were too focused on greeting Nancy, and introducing yourself to Steve to notice her sudden jog up behind you. Too fixated on complimenting Nancy’s skirt to witness the way Steve aimed his confused frown just past your shoulder. Missed his dismissive hand gestures, and Robin’s panic as she tried to wordlessly communicate something dire to him.

You were too busy listening to the cars cruise by on the street, and chatting casually, and savoring the warmth of a new friendship to scrutinize the sound of quick footsteps from the other direction, or the jangle of metal chains attached to their presence, or Robin’s damning groan.

“Sorry, I’m–” a familiar voice said. A bit nasally and on the higher side. Mirthful, awake with youth, and excited to make a good first impression.

You turned to them. Your date.

“..Late,” they trailed off.

Deer in headlights. Big, brown doe-eyes wide with surprise, framed by beautiful black lashes.

He stared at you.

His stomach sank.

You stared at him.

Your heart raced.

Eddie had stopped mid-step with his hand raised in greeting. The chains on his leather jacket tinkered until they stilled. Kind smile frozen from a better time. Chest filled with a held breath. Presenting himself with his best foot forward, and now his ears were tinted with the embarrassment of trying too hard to impress.

Oh, God.

You blinked away, and were intentional to accept the situation for what it was without showing your surprise, opting for a simple, timid, awkward, shaky, exhaled, “Hey, Eddie.”

He wasn’t so poised.

Shutting his eyes, he allowed the realization to wash over him, scrunching his face in a pained expression as the puzzle pieces slotted into place. He hung his head, and released his breath through his nose. “Your roommate is Robin,” he stated, pointing at her to punctuate his sentence. “And you call her Bobbie.”

“Yeah..” It was an apology as much as it was a confirmation.

“You still call me Bobbie?” Robin asked, tugging on your sleeve, forgetting the tense air surrounding the group for the moment. “I haven’t used that stage name in years.”

“Guess it stuck with me..”

Thankfully, someone else added to the conversation. Unfortunately, that person was Steve addressing the elephant outside the ticket booth.

“So, I take it you two know each other,” he deduced, looking from Eddie’s dejected gaze at the ground, to you wringing your purse strap over your chest.

Eddie enlightened him in a solemn tone, sparing a single glance at his friend, “She’s the receptionist at work.”

“Ah.” He turned his attention to Robin. “You set up two people who work together.”

She threw her hands up and blamed him, “Uh! No way, dunce, don’t put this on me. This whole thing was your idea, and at no point in the conversation did you tell me Eddie was a mechanic! If you had told me he was a mechanic I probably could’ve put two-and-two together myself, and avoided setting up people who see each other every day.”

Increasingly red-faced, Steve very pointedly avoided Eddie’s suspicious squint after being outed as the one who set up the date, not Nancy. “You’re the one who lives with her, how could you not–?”

“Okay!” You clapped once to end their bickering. “Then it’s not a date.”

Nancy, bless her, picked up her improv skills fast. “Yeah! Not a date. Just a casual outing between friends. Steve, get the tickets ready so we can get popcorn before the line gets too long.” There was a ripple of unanimous murmurs, followed by shuffling to the entrance.

“Silver lining,” Nancy muttered out the side of her mouth to Steve, “It’s a movie date, so it’s not like they have to talk to, or look at each other.”

Steve tempered his laugh to a hiss and held the door for Robin, who in turn kept the it ajar behind her for you, but as you went to catch it, it was opened for you.

Clack- clack- clack. You’d heard the sound every morning; his distinct rings on the metal frame of the glass door beside your desk, followed by his soft grunt when pulling it open. But whereas his whispered ‘morning’ normally echoed in the tiled lobby, it was now on the back of your neck, fanning your skin, and it wasn’t a sweet greeting, but a reserved, solemn, regretful, sad, “Sorry for.. yeah.” That’s how he started your date that wasn’t a date. With an apology. And still, as the crisp autumn air was replaced by the humid waft of buttery popcorn, your brain was stuck at the garage, filling in the drag of his heavy work boots on the way to the breakroom for coffee, and the lingering scent of cigarette smoke trailing his stride.

Except, as you were jolted back to reality, you came to know he didn’t present himself so generically outside the context of motor oil. Due to the traffic clogging around the ticket ripper, Eddie ran into you and you discovered the nuances of what he smelled like when not at work, with the added intimacy of his chest pressed to your back.

Worn leather enveloped by notes of vanilla musk cologne. Spicy deodorant carried by the sweet earthy tang of tobacco. Dove White on his heated skin, and Dawn on his hands.

A symphony you could immerse yourself in learning for hours if it wasn’t for the crime of your group moving forward.

“Did you want anything?” Eddie asked you, pointing at the concessions.

“Oh, no, I’m good.” You made a clawing gesture at your mouth. “Eating popcorn before the movie even starts because I have no self control and then being forced to sit there with kernels in my teeth drives me nuts.”

Not finding you as endearing as you intended, he slipped his hands into his pockets, and motioned for both of you to stand off to the side, out of the way while you waited for the others to get their snacks. And he just stood there. Not saying anything. You were turned to him as if to carry a conversation, but his gaze was set ahead; not on anything in particular, just away from you.

Rarely had his face been this slack, this devoid of emotion. Even when doing menial work like filling out invoices for parts you would need to order, there was activity. Liveliness in the tic of his eyes reading lines on the paper. Movement of his tongue sliding across his top lip. A subtle crease between his brows. Something. Anything.

You spoke above the giggly teenagers sneaking into the film next door, “For a stick in the mud, you look nice.” He really did, in his well-loved jacket draping his frame after years of being broken in to perfection. Tight black jeans. Sensible boots. More accessories than just his rings.

Try as he might to cut you an unamused look, his freshly washed hair bounced in immaculate waves around his face, catching the low mood lighting like a messy halo.

“Thanks,” he said, not meaning it.

“I can see why you don’t get many dates if you always look this miserable.”

“I’m not miserable.”

“Glum, then? Woebegone? Hapless? Crestfallen?” When he seemed hellbent on wishing he were anywhere else, you eased up on your act. Harboring the pit of rejection eating away at your stomach, you pried, “Disappointed?”

The glimpse of vulnerability in your words was not lost on him.

He snapped to, shaking himself out of his funk to reassure you in his gentle timbre amongst the chaos of someone beating the top score on the pinball machine, “I’m not disappointed to be here with you.”

“Then what are you?”

“Sorry,” he guessed, shrugging. He was the type to speak with his hands, moving them despite being confined to his pockets. “I’m sorry our friends suck at communicating and this is how your night turned out; you being here with me when you were clearly expecting someone else.” His gaze didn’t dare dip lower than your nose, but the effort you put into your appearance did not go unnoticed. It wasn't the first time he stared a little too directly into your eyes after you decided to stop covering yourself up.

“I don’t go on dates intending to find my one true love or anything lame like that,” you said, honestly. “I go on them to have fun, and I think we can still have fun, even if we have to share the same tiny lunch table come Monday, and we side-eye Carl for bringing tuna again.” He almost smiled at that.

Sensing he needed another boost of confidence, you kept going, “Before I knew it was you, Robin was talking you up in the car. Going on about how my date was some sweet guy, super handsome, and with a heart of gold. You know, the Prince Charming type. Oh, and totally obnoxious too. Real loudmouth who never shuts up.”

Okay, maybe some of that was ad libbed, but you wanted to know how much of it was true.

Eddie shifted from foot to foot, subduing his grin by biting his tongue, literally. “That’s a pretty apt way to describe me back in high school, yeah, especially with how I’m dressed.”

“What changed?”

“Uh, I had a kid,” he laughed. “She stole all my charm. I swear Adrie can talk me into anything.”

“I think you’re just a pushover.”

“Probably,” he surrendered. Raising his brows, he mused aloud one of the many things on his mind, “Do you not agree that she described me accurately? Sweet Prince Charming guy, all that?”

There was no way in hell you were going to speak your truth. Instead, you smirked. “I don’t think you want to know what adjectives I’d use to describe you.” They were far too vulgar to utter in a crowded room. Hot in the most annoying way. Absolute pain in my ass. Just the worst, especially when I don’t hear you sneak up behind me in the kitchen, and you think it’s funny to scare me right as I open my drink from the Coke machine, and you laugh your stupid laugh when I drop it. An absolute eye-sore when you look up at me while you're on your hands and knees cleaning up the mess you created. Irritatingly handsome when you grin and buy me another one.

Ignorant to your private thoughts, he swung his elbow out to push you, and smiled.

Relaxing into the natural lull in conversation, you both watched your friends make it to the front of the line and order their food. They waited at the counter, starting the clock on when they would inevitably make it back to the two of you, and cease your alone time with Eddie. (Although, first, they’d have to traverse an entire bucket of dropped popcorn, and navigate around more than one group of children reenacting a fight scene they just watched on the big screen.)

“Were you disappointed I was your date?” you asked.

Robin was right. Eddie was a sweetheart. As soon as he detected an inkling of insecurity–whether it be in your strained voice, or etched into your face, or imbued in the question itself–he was quick to absolve your worry.

“No, no,” he said. “Relieved, if I’m being honest.”

“Relieved?” You weren’t expecting that.

“There’s a reason I haven’t dated since having Adrie. It didn’t sound like Steve made it clear to.. you, well, my anonymous date which happened to be you. Jesus, this is confusing. Whatever, you know what I mean, he didn’t say if he told my would-be date that I’m a dad, and I was afraid of coming here and having to tell them myself. Even if we hit it off, it’s a deal breaker for some people, y’know? Not that I blame them. I would’ve said the same thing five years ago.”

You nodded as you listened to him. “Never thought about it from that perspective. All my dates have been one-and-dones. Super casual. Kids were never really brought up.”

“Yeah, the dating world isn’t always so gracious. I’m kinda glad I’m here with you–someone who knows me, at least.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you spied Steve raising his sodas above his head as two boys ran past him, pretending they were in a shootout.

Knowing he wouldn’t have time to respond, you informed Eddie, “You’re worrying about the wrong thing. Adrie’s an angel. You should be more concerned about your curmudgeonly attitude being a deal breaker.” His narrowed-eye glare had never felt so sweet.

Robin’s giddy presence became known. She dropped her chin to your shoulder with a satisfied hum, and wrapped her arm around your waist to hug you snug to her body. You laid your head on top of hers, swaying with her.

She must’ve made a face at Eddie, because a different emotion flinched across his features, and he was back to avoiding making eye contact.

You, however, were more enticed by the drink in her hand than analyzing his change in demeanor. “Shit, now I want an Icee.”

“Yeah, I got cherry,” she said, angling the straw towards you. “They have Coke too–Okay, bye, dork,” she giggled after you.

“Go ahead and sit without me! I want an Icee.” Nancy clutched the largest size of popcorn to her chest to avoid spilling it as you stumbled out of Robin’s hold and darted for the concession stand.

Eddie raised his voice, “You couldn’t have decided that five minutes ago when I asked?”

“Nope!”

————

The theater for the low budget horror flick reflected the town’s perception of it. As soon as the heavy door closed behind you, your footsteps on the dense carpet echoed around the empty room. Your group was sitting in the back row, and their murmurs could be heard from the bottom.

You climbed up to them and flumped into the seat next to Eddie. “We can share,” you said excitedly, shaking the drink at him before placing it in the cupholder at the end of the single armrest.

When the subtle pinch of concern around his eyes remained, you promised him you didn’t have cooties.

He played with his rings, pulling them down the length of his fingers and spinning them while he worked through his confusion. “You don’t have to sit next to me.. You can sit next to Robin.” He motioned beside him, to Steve munching on his popcorn while Nancy held it, and Robin whispering on the end, rolling her eyes at something Nancy said.

“Why wouldn’t I sit next to you?”

Eddie’s mouth opened and closed, struggling to settle on what he wanted to say, and finishing with a submissive shrug, leather jacket groaning at the act. He bounced his foot quicker, shaking the aglets on his laces against his boot in a chaotic rhythm. “Dunno..”

“You’re silly. I’d pinch your cheek if I didn’t think you’d bite me.” He reeled at that, and you giggled. You didn’t mind making him balk at your weird quirks; whatever put him at ease. Rather, whatever made him stop rubbing his knee against yours, because you were certain the friction was about to cause a fire.

Digging through your purse, you took out a rectangular box and slid your finger under the flap, popping it open and dumping a handful of candy into your palm. You threw it back into your mouth. “Want sh-ome?” you chewed, offering the box to him.

“Who the hell eats Mike and Ikes?”

“Uh, me, jerk.” Right as the lights dimmed to pitch black, and the curtains drew back from the screen, you hit him with the most exaggerated pout. “I only eat them at the movies. They’re a ritual, and you’re rude.” The shadows lining his face twisted into a deeper grin. “Are you more of a chocolate guy?”

“Maybe,” he answered like he was suspicious of your motives.

And maybe he should be. Afterall, you committed the number one sin when it came to cinemas.

“Looks like I chose right,” you said, reaching into your purse and pulling out a Kit Kat. “I was hoping my date would be a chocolate sorta guy–” You went quiet seeing his eyes widen a touch. “I mean, not date. Begrudging coworker? Tentative acquaintance?”

“Reluctant friend,” he answered smoothly, taking the package from you and ripping it open with his teeth.

~~~

Trailers for other films played, bathing the room in flickers of light interrupting the darkness. The opening credits began. Your candy was half-eaten. His was devoured. You took a sip of your Icee, and from the vantage point of pressing your back into the cheap theater seat, you observed him in your periphery.

His gaze hardly left the drink. Your offer to share it gnawed at him in a visible way. Scoping out the straw, the possible trace of spit you left behind, the possible trace of spit he’d leave behind. He peered at the screen to acknowledge the intro, and then back down it was, boring holes into the Icee.

You were no better, nibbling at your lips when he finally caved and took a sip–all too quick, and clumsy, almost missing the cup holder when he put it back down with lightning speed.

The edge of your thighs touched under the arm rest; worse so, when you folded one leg under you, and leaned into him. “Do you hate it when people talk during movies?”

“Not these kind.” He meant the genre in general, which made for great fodder for ripping apart in friend groups, but another popular trope among this realm of fiction became apparent. The first set of tits flashed on screen, and you both found yourselves lacking in the commentary department.

After a moment, you tilted your head. “That actress looks familiar..”

“She’s been in other cult classics. Always acts with her eyebrows.” He turned to you and nudged your shoulder, vying for your full attention. He emphasized the end of each word with an inflection as if it were a question, and raised his eyebrows in every way possible, mocking her slowly, “She’s the one who always talks like this–!” He looked crazy contorting his face to make his point.

“That’s it!” You snapped. “Her wearing glasses really threw me off.”

“Mhm.” His hum vibrated along your upper arm pressed to his, and he asked quietly under the screams of the first gorey death, “Do you like B movies?”

“Hell yeah. Back home they would play them at this rooftop drive in place. I rarely paid to watch them, though. The next building over had a good view of the projector screen.”

His banter dropped in favor of chewing on the corner of his thumb. If it wasn’t for the wild change in scenery cast across his face, you could’ve sworn his faint smile faltered into inscrutability.

Did you say something wrong?

————

“Damn, that was a cool practical effect,” Eddie complimented the purplish fizzing ooze that once was a person.

“I know, right? That’s why I love these bad movies. There’s no budget for good CGI, so they have to do creative stuff like that.”

It was inevitable. Bound to happen. A mere act of fate. Stars aligning in the close knit group leaning forward to exchange witty quips about the hare-brained plot holes in the movie, and not minding their surroundings except to receive everyone’s laughter, making jokes at the expense of the bad acting.

Steve was asking a question that was technically answered by the movie’s lore if he’d paid attention to the dialogue during the second gratuitous stripping scene. You or Eddie could have answered, but Robin took it upon herself to explain, and you two nodded along.

Absentminded, you reached for the Icee.

Distracted, Eddie reached for the Icee.

The waxed paper cup was cold under your fingers, but your hand was blanketed by warmth.

Slow to process, you both glanced down at the reason why neither of you were achieving your goal, and the overload of sensory inputs faded away to one: touch.

Your thumb was trapped under his palm, and his fingers stretched around the cup, meeting yours on the other side and housing them beneath his in a steady amount of pressure. They were almost interlocking. Holding. Wrist on top of wrist–his with the extra harshness of his leather and chain bracelet on your skin. The heaviness of his forearm resting on yours.

Truly, the accident lasted all of two pumps of your heart, but it felt like more when he stroked his calloused fingertips over your knuckles as he let go.

“Sorry!” he blurted.

“S-Sorry,” you laughed, jittery from the encounter.

Your cheeks were hot. His were flushed red. The lewd moaning of a woman feigning to orgasm just from the male lead removing her bra alone played in the background. Neither of you could decide which plan of escape was less embarrassing: continuing to stare like idiots at each other, or watch the actress’ ginormous boobs bounce as she faked riding a guy.

You blinked. His eyebrows ticced up.

Boobs it was.

He adjusted how he sat, tugging his jeans down his legs a little, and crossing his arms. Eyes laser focused on the woman’s face. The why was obvious, and you couldn’t help but tease him for pretending to be a gentleman in your company when you held no such modesty when it came to ogling her tits.

“Thinking about how much Aquanet she uses?”

“Shut up.”

————

Later into the film, after the plot circled back to the juicy gore, you leaned into Eddie to ask him a question.

What that question was, you couldn’t remember.

As soon as you placed your elbow on the armrest and used the back of your hand to tap his shoulder, he dipped his head to hear you. It was an automatic thing starting from the moment you slouched in your seat. That’s all. A shift in your sitting position and intake of breath, and he knew you were going to speak, and he wanted to listen. He cared about what you had to say. He leaned into you as well, because listening to you took priority over the movie.

“Eddie?” You sought any words. Any words at all. Any would do. Any question, even if you knew the answer. “Uhm. The music sounds really familiar. Do you recognize it?”

“It’s the same composer as Chopping Mall and Deathstalker II.”

“Ah.”

Ah. All you could muster when you were charmed by the silhouette of his lips moving. Watching them form letters, pout on the plosives, press into a line on his thick swallow.

Ah. All you could say when his hair brushed over your fingers. Dry, in need of a deep conditioning. Curling around your forefinger. Tickling your palm.

Ah. All you could respond with when you lifted your gaze, and caught him staring at you like you stared at him.

————

As predicted, the filmmakers padded the runtime with another topless scene, and the movie ended on a witty one liner that included not one, but two puns, and no resolution to the numerous plot threads left hanging.

“That was.. certainly something!” Robin summed up, holding the doors open to the subdued hours of the night.

Once outside in the fresh air, the dynamic reverted back to its original status.

Your friends made themselves scarce in the worst way; whistling, shuffling to the side as they found asinine things to comment on, leaving you and Eddie alone. Their intentions were pure, but reality was not so kind.

Eddie cemented his gaze on the sidewalk as he picked at his callouses, and apologized for the mistake of going out with you. Again. “Sorry about all this.”

Itchy sweat broke out across your back. It sucked he was so brazen about rejecting you. You had hoped some of the tender crush you had on him extended past the armrest you shared, the looks you shared, the touches you shared; but maybe you were just tricking yourself into finding things that weren’t there.

Wanting to end on a better note, you appealed to him in a last ditch effort to smooth over the situation, “I meant it when I said you looked good tonight. It’s nice to see you outside of your work clothes.”

“Thanks.”

That’s all. Thanks. A shy glance from beneath his curtain of messy hair, and a somber tone to maximize the awkwardness of the not-date with your coworker.

You needed to get the hell out of there. “See you Monday?”

“Yeah, see you Monday.”

The group winced in unison when they saw the way you two departed.

Robin was quick to link her arm with yours and gather you closer, bringing your heads together to gossip as you walked back to her car. “That bad, huh?”

Around the corner and out of sight, you gave her half a smile, trying to appear in better spirits. “Well, I don’t think he likes me. He didn’t return any of my compliments, and he apologized for being on a date with me no less than four times over the course of the evening.”

She cringed for you. “That’s worse than Balloon Guy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you said, remembering what would go down in history as the shittiest date you’d been on. “Yeah, that’s more times than Balloon Guy.” Robin hugged you tighter, making your steps go clumsy. She apologized for Eddie’s weirdness, but you shrugged. Maybe you were supposed to find it weird, too. Maybe you were supposed to disapprove of the idea of romantic feelings for your coworker, too. Maybe you were supposed to have no expectations for it to lead anywhere, too.

Maybe you were supposed to reject him, too.

————

Still loitering outside the theater, Steve exchanged a look with Nancy, and jogged to catch up with Eddie before he made it too far in the opposite direction.

“Uh, hey buddy!” Steve clapped him on the shoulder to stop him. “It sounded like you two were hitting it off during the movie, what happened?”

Eddie sulked under the question. His chest fell with a surrendering sigh, and his boots scraped the concrete as he turned to him, not bothering to mask the dullness in his slack expression. Everything about him was tired, including his voice when he slipped into a lower, raspy octave. “She’s nice, but..”

“But what?” Nancy asked, searching his face.

Bottling his burdens, he clenched his teeth, and worked his jaw as he contemplated evading their insistent prying; but after ruminating on it, he explained the source of his problems, “She lives a very.. whimsy life.” He fluttered his hand like a bird flapping its wings, or a butterfly. “She does this thing where she says ‘yes’ to anything anyone asks her; it’s why she moved to Hawkins, and why she ended up on this date to begin with. Y’know, just doing whatever seems like fun. It’s cute, in a way, and obviously I.. feel a way towards her, but this place isn’t where she’s looking to lay down roots. New York is her home.”

Steve squeezed his shoulder, knowing what was about to come.

“I’ve already been left for someone better.. I can’t go through that again.” Eddie’s eyes begged them to understand. “I don’t want Adrie to get attached to someone who’s just gonna leave.”

Nancy started, “Eddie–You don’t know if she’d leave.”

He shook his head, and pulled away from Steve’s lingering grasp. Shushed his friend’s well-meaning words about him being valued, and to forget his insecurities about not being good enough.

“A girl like that doesn’t need me weighing her down,” Eddie said, imparting the wisdom he’d come to accept since you made a mark on his life weeks ago, when it became your mission to befriend him. “I’ll pick up Adrie in the morning. Thanks for watching her.”

The night got darker as he left.

Darker still, when Steve waved at his back, and Nancy played with the locket around her neck, and her goodbye went disregarded.

————

Silence.

It surrounded him. Blood pulsing in his ears, his heart beat, the refrigerator hum, the tink of glass bottles as he grabbed the full six pack and brought it to the couch, springs squeaking under his weight.

Utter emptiness welcomed him.

Not a sound in his home. Not a giggle from his daughter, or scrape of a skillet from Wayne’s makeshift breakfast-dinner before he went to work. Even the dogs around the trailer park were quiet.

Just.. nothing.

It was what he wanted, right? A night to himself; a break from the chores, the questions, the food making, the taking care of a tiny human being who made everything tougher than it needed to be.

He got his wish.

Two beers down in peace, he got his wish.

Eddie looked around his trailer lit by the single lamp beside him.

Quiet, empty, nothing.

Dark silence.

The jolt of his sob startled him. It erupted from his chest so suddenly. Ripped from the tightness of repressed emotions; the things he tried to deny, to feel and then lock away. To keep safe, buried down deep where he could manage them from progressing past the boundaries he created for his own good, and Adrie’s. He felt the agony of them all at once. The morning smiles, the afternoon laughs, the evenings of pretending you didn’t plan to bump into each other in the doorway to the lobby. The game of seeing how long he could watch you twirl the phone cord around your finger before you looked up from your desk. Your sweet way of comforting him after the hard nights of Adrie’s sleep regression by taking his tan work jacket and draping it over his shoulders while he slept at the lunch table in the break room. Your gentle method of fixing his collar when it was tucked on the inside of his coveralls.

The date was too good to be true.

In fact, the truth itself was far more painful.

The date was amazing. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he had more fun. More thrills, sure. But not more fun. There wasn’t a day in his youth where he experienced more of the flirty thrum in his veins than when he committed himself to learning the way your lips moved when saying his name in the darkened theater.

The date was perfect. He was happy. And he couldn’t have it again. Shouldn’t have it again. Wouldn’t have these feelings again.

Eddie doubled over and put his third beer on the floor before he spilled it. Nothing was discernible beyond the water invading his ability to see, to fathom his reflection in the old TV. Sad, miserable, and lonely. An idiot for finally getting attached to someone, and it was someone he wasn’t supposed to.

Tears slipped from between his lashes. He smeared them on his cheeks, covering his sweaty face from his possessions bearing witness to his stupidity.

It was in his best interest to reject you–reject your casual stance on dating, and relationships, and people with kids–but the face you made when your advances went underappreciated churned his stomach.

He needed to be stronger. But he was weak.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he sighed into the stale air. Opening another beer, he nursed it as he huddled into the corner of the couch, and searched for Adrie’s quilt to soothe him. But of course, he sent it with her when he dropped her off at Steve’s.

No baby blanket to hold onto. No Adrienne to sleep on his chest to ease the pain of loneliness. No reason to look forward to Monday after he royally screwed everything up.

“Goddamnit,” he groaned.

Maybe, if he apologized enough, there was a chance you wouldn’t hate him.

Maybe, if you forgave him, you’d go back to the morning smiles, and the afternoon laughs.

And maybe, if he was enough of a masochist, he’d let you gently ease past those boundaries meant to keep you, and your kindness out. If you wanted to trespass, that is. He didn’t know. He was an idiot.

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