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voidwritesstuff · 3 months

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Long Way To The Truth

Cw:Lucas has a paranoid spiral, killing off an npc,guns,mentions of ptsd..

♡Chapter Five: Utah

♡summary; Lucas has various run ins with the law,some pleaseant and others...

As he drives into the state of Utah,theres something that had been picking at the back of his mind. That damn black SUV, it may be his paranoia but hes been dealing with these goverment spooks his whole life.

He rolls back his shoulder,trying to shake off the bad feeling thats clinging onto him like a leech. A sigh falls past his lips as he turns on the radio,and for a second time in his journey, Black Sabbath plays,same song.

Finished with my woman 'cause

She couldn't help me with my mind

People think I'm insane because

I am frowning all the time

Lucas hisses in discontent at the recognition of the song, but leaves it on. With a scowl he keeps Driving, a resting bitch face that could scare anyone.

All day long I think of things

But nothing seems to satisfy

Think I'll lose my mind

If I don't find something to pacify

Can you help me

Occupy my brain?

Oh yeah

He hates how much the song fits Him. In any other context he'd be singing along,but after being chased by some weird SUV,yeah no thanks.

One of his "quirks" is that he overthinks,he does that a lot. Hell,that SUV was enough to send him to the edge of a paranoid spiral,hes so damn close, he cant be caught before ever reaching Milton-Haven..

I need someone to show me

The things in life that I can't find

I can't see the things that make

True happiness, I must be blind

See,this is the thing thats making him consider seeing a therapist again,hes used to his paranoid spirals,hes lived with them his whole life. But just because hes gotten used to it,that doesnt mean its easy.

On bad days,he couldnt even leave his house, he'd cover up all Windows and entrances And just bunker himself into his house for days at a time.

He hates It, he hates the feeling of paranoia,the Fear,the anxiety. God,he does need help.

Make a joke and I will sigh

And you will laugh and I will cry

Happiness I cannot feel

And love to me is so unreal

And its not only the paranoia,he feels happiness like its muffled,filtered out. He could laugh,he could find things funny,but the happiness didnt last long. And as much as he wants to hold on to that feeling,there are days where its as brief as the passing breeze.

And so as you hear these words

Telling you now of my state

I tell you to enjoy life

I wish I could but it's too late

The song ends shortly thereafter. He sighs in relief and lets the other songs play out until he reaches a café. There he orders breakfast and sits on a quiet,lone booth in the back.

Paranoid,hes paranoid, he knows that. But he tries to play it off so he doesnt stick out like a sore thumb.

Lucas tilts his head to the side,stretching his neck muscles with a deep sigh. He feels the bones in his neck pop and a lot more relaxed he grabs his Journal

"Already in Utah, ive been paranoid and panicky all day. I havent felt like this since my last paranoid spiral a week ago,the Day I decided I needed to chase this mystery.

God,i can still remember the feeling of having my house in complete shutdown. All the Doors locked, it was GODDAMN awful.

I need a break before I actually have a public freakout and draw more attention to myself. I dont want to be even more of a target...or feel that way ever again.

Thought this trip would help me get out of the house and feel less paranoid. Having to be on the edge of yet another spiral is a Real gut punch to the Morale. Its just a few days more, I think I can hold out.

Hopefully."

Post breakfast,he resumes his Driving,checking his outside mirror more than he should. He double checks that his rifle Is at hand more than he normally would.

Oh he can already feel it setting in,the cold sweating, the anxious bounce of the leg, the way his fingers tap on the Gear shift in an uneven,inconsistent rythm. Its like a melody falling appart.

Hes out of synch,hes out of rythm,like a drummer messing up the beat of the song over and over again.

Lightheaded,his heartbeat is a drum in his ears,blasting and breaking his eardrums. Its awful, asphyxiating

With shaky,irregular breaths his eyes look for a motel nearby. He spots one in the map,one of the things he highlighted before the trip, and on the way there, he decided he needs to calm down.

It starts off with breathing excersices,deep inhales and exhales. Then,grounding excersices, 5 things he can see,four things he can touch,That sort. And slowly but surely,his breath Evens out,his heartbeat returns to normal and he feels back to reality.

Yet,it takes a toll on him. His body feels s lot weaker,more tired.

He hates it,he Hates that he knows whats the right thing to do. And so,he keeps Driving.

As he reluctantly pulls into the parking lot of the motel, Lucas mentally curses that stupid paranoia spiral that led him here.

The door to his van closes rather loudly,usually he is carefull with car Doors, but today hes pretty pissed, so he slams the door shut,catching the attention of a person leaning on the entrance to the motel.

But he doesnt notice them until he hears them go-- Damn,Rough Day.

You wouldve thought he could have broken his neck with the speed that he Turned to see the person talking to him.

Hes met with a rather short woman, around 5'3,short Bond hair,grey eyes and dressed in pretty comfortable normal clothes.

--You could say as much-- he replied, a little annoyed but trying to not lash out.

This girl can tell though, she notices the way his jaw sets and his eyes almost burn a hole through her head.

--You might want to find someone to look out for your van, shit's been crazy as of late.

Lucas squints at her,checking for anything that might confirm his suspicion.

And he does, he sees the glimmer of a badge poking out from the pocket of her jacket. But she looks a lot younger than him and hes too tired to throw down with anyone.

--Tough chance kid,now ive had a very,very,bad day so far. So,if you dont mind-- he starts before the woman stands infront of him. He snarls and hisses a growl,annoyance building up.

--look- I know what youre trying to do

--Youre a fed,'course y'do

--n' I think its the right thing-- she added,which made him back off just a little.-- I wasnt lying about stuff getting crazy,ill Keep an eye out on the van.

--And me

She rolled her eyes, pursing her lips and giving him a blank stare-- you wish. Im on your side and I think it would do you good to listen to what I have to say. Youre a Smart Man,arent you? So quiet down

Fine, hes playing along. Hes too tired to protest-- fine,what is your wisdom, oh great fed.

God,his sarcasm was really taking the wheel,huh?

--I am on your side,I dont think our little friend from the 60s should make a comeback,its too effective,too inhumane -- she explains,relaxing her posture a little since he is not an active threat.-- so you go sleep,hey some rest and get ready. Because theyre comin at you with everything that theyve got

Lucas sighs, nodding-- 'kay, fine so do I have to pay a bribe or something

--dont tempt me. But no-- she replied-- And also,theres this therapist in Milton-Haven,I know a guy whose sister is a patient of his,told me hes a great guy. His names something Wales. I think you could use the help

Oh,so he looks THAT traumatized,huh?

--Good to know I look that fucked up-- he snapped back.

--Brother,we have a whole file on you

--'course y'do

--I know you have PTSD. Trust me- ive bee-- im right there with you, theres help out there for you.

At that,his gaze softens,his heart feels like its being squeezed and his face changes. Hes no longer angry,he feels...sorry.

She can tell,and hes quick to recompose himself and scoff,trying to play it off by walking into the motel as he says-- Hide yer damn badge,yer Fed's showing.

The agent only chuckles at his flusteredness and adds-- sweet dreams,Mr.Cole.

Lucas books a room for the night. He gets set into bed,actually enjoying the comfort of the bed rather than be put off by it. Hes that exhausted. With a deep breath,he allows his conscience to be taken over by sleep.

He finds himself in the barracks of the place they were stationed at. Hes enjoying the mildly Cool breeze that flows through the few Windows.

--Bored much,lieutenant?--Wheeler asks, with a smirk on his lips.

--oh hey Al-- he replied,as his friend sat down beside him on the bed.-- not bored its just...jetlagged

--yeah ive had that happen to me,itll take a few days to get used to it

--Its like ive been steamrolled-- he murmurs,rubbing his eyes-- im so damn Tir-- he yawns,cutting his sentence in hair--ed

Alphonso chuckled-- welcome to the world,kid. Hey,you wont Belive what I sneaked past the guards

A little curious he asks-- What?

Like a kid in christmas,his Friend pulls out two small Hershey chocolate bars-- the good stuff,kid.

--How did you even--He grabs one of the bars,its Cool to the touch-- how is it cold?

--i have my ways-- Wheeler answer with a shrug as he peeled open the chocolate.

--Who did you even have to bribe to get these past,well,everyone?!--Lucas asked, impressed,confused and slightly worried that this will come back to bite them in the ass.

--A true magician never reveals his methods,'n also you'd be surprised at the ammount of shit ive Snucked in-- his captain answered,taking a bite out of his chocolate-- Get rid of the evidence before it melts. Cmon

Enthusiastically,he mows down that chocolate,laughing along with Wheeler to some of his tales of Shenanigans past.

He awakens with a groan as he rolls on his back, his body feeling a little sore. It takes him a second to stand up,spending a few minutes laying on his back with one hand on his stomach and the other behind his head.

When he does eventually sit up,he rubs the sleep out of his eyes and a sleepy whine escapes him,sounding Like a half asleep kitten rather than a fully grown 55 Year old Man.

"13:05"reads the clock on the nightstand,he sighs loudly and gets ready to leave to get lunch. But when he opens the door he finds a cardboard bag with a mcdonalds emblem printed on it,and on it a note "Its not poisoned. YES this note Will make you think that it is, if I wanted you dead I would've Killed you in your sleep. Anyway I hope you had a good nap. -S.V."

And once again,just when he thinks his life couldnt get any weirder, life proves him wrong

Hes not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth,so he takes the food and eats. It disturbs Him a little that she got his order right too, but hes also not that surprised.

Once hes done eating, he goes to check on his van through the Window of his room. Still there,nothing out of place from what he can see, but Parked right Next to It is a black SUV. He looks low key OFFENDED that she would park the very obvious fed vehicle right Next to his white van.

But then he stops and thinks about the absolute insanity that is having a white van Next to an unmarked SUV. Both of the most suspicious vehicles to ever exist on this planet,Next to eachother just hanging out.

For his peace of mind he figured its like negative plus negative equals positive. If people saw those two things there they'd think nothing of it because who would actually do that.

Yet before he backs off to Keep sleeping, he notices the Agent go into the SUV with what seems to be a happy meal box, and just sit there and eat as she listens to the radio.

He knows that federal agents are people just like he was,but actually seeing an agent jam out to aqua's "Barbie girl" was defenetly an experience. But he feels moved and only scoffs playfully,to then Grab a fresh pair of clothes and get into the shower.

Because of the day he was having,he didnt do his whole routine. He just did enough so his hair didnt look like complete shit and left It as it was,whatever happened to it was between him and god.

Tiredly,he hops into bed only to hear a rattle come from the cardboard box that was still on the bed. He reaches over only to find a green tamagochi in the bag,theres a note taped on it "a token of peace for when youre stuck in a traffic jam"

He snorts and decides to kill of some time by playing with the tamagochi. He'd have to look for tracking devices later,but that was an issue for future Lucas.

Current Lucas spends his time playing with the tamagochi for a few hours until hes ready to leave. He packs up his stuff,puts the little Toy in his pocket and goes to his van to shove all his shit in there.

But before he leaves, he goes to the store by foot, gets exactly two Hershey chocolate bars and returns.

--No wonder I caught your badge--He mutters,noticing the Window of the SUV rolled down half way. He grabs the Hershey chocolate that has a note on it and lets it fall on the drivers Seat, then he goes into his own vehicle and just as he closes the door he notices something.

Theres a small bundle of notes on the passenger Seat tied together with an elástica band.

He takes a few seconds to take a quick look at them, they're mayer documents, theres a list with adresses of buildings, a few with redacted notes.

And a little post it that says "if anybody asks,I didnt get them for you. This never happened,I dont exist. Also itll do you good to find Dr.James. safe trip"

Lucas raises a brow but sets the papers down, and just as he pulls away from the parking lot,his fed friend comes from the inside of the motel and watches him leave. He salutes her and she salutes right back, leaving her to Snicker to herself.

She gets into her car only to notice the chocolate bar with the note, she takes it and it reads "thanks for looking out for my van. Consider this your Bribe- LT.L.C." and underneath it theres a small Killroy drawn with the phrase "get killroiy'd" ,The agent snorts and gets into her car.

She needs to think for a damn good lie to tell her assigned battle buddy,a guy by the last name Dwight,who she left on the dinner they had breakfast at whilist waiting for Lucas to show up. She knew it had to be good,if not her fellow agent would go and check it out, and she did not like his odds against Lucas.

They werent particularly close. Hell,shes never heard of the guy before this very day. But both were there to hold eachother accountable just in case, and the guy had a reputation for taking matters in his own hands If he wasnt satisfied with the results of others.

For some reason,the mere thought of that left a sour taste in her mouth. She had to be careful about this to not out herself,or hey anyone in trouble or worse.

Regardless,Most of Lucas' night drive goes by without any issue,most of the night though. He catches another loose interaction in that no longer dormant frequency.

He stops the van on the side of the road,nothing but Rolling fields of wetlands around him. Theres cicadas and grasshoppers serenading the moon that night as it peeks from the dark clouds. If you were to stand there for a bit, you'd feel very alone very quickly. Its really unsettling.

Theres a bit of static but not enough to the Point that its a garbled mess, he hears a female voice, has to be early thirties.

《Confirm arrival of shipment,over》

And a male voice answers 《confirming arrival of shipment. ETA a few months,still waiting on the ship. Over》

That same female voice replied 《ten-four.》 Then theres a brief pause,he hears an impatient sigh from the woman and then she adds 《Lets hope the ship doesnt crash or else we're all in big FUCKING trouble. Romeo Mike Julliet out》

He knew the shipment was a big deal but- hearing that Lady sound that impatient for it really Honed in the idea.

Lucas writes down what he heard and closes his Journal,and just as hes about to tuck in for the night, he hears the rustling of Grass and semi quiet footsteps approaching his van.

"Why is nothing ever allowed to be simple" he thinks,getting his gun ready and cocking it as silently as he could. He turns off the lights on his van,making it seem like hes going to sleep, he lays down,hiding himself between the dark shadows of the van as the moon gets covered by the thick stormy clouds.

When the head of his intruder is peeking through the half opened Window of the Man's back door he shoots.

Even if the rifle wasnt suppressed, nobody wouldve heard the shot in the middle of that field Clad road. The body falls and he waits for a shitstorm.

But its quiet.

And then his mind goes to that agent he met,his blood freezes and he tenses up. The Sky gets struck with thunder so loud it might break the heavens in two, the rain pours down on the earth.

Oh no

The doors SLAM Open as he looks at the short figure laying limp on the road. His breath quickens as he steps out and hovers over the body.

Blood gets swept by the rain,the thunder illuminates the fields in brief flashes of white light,like a roar from a celestial lion.

On the side of the road,the green Grass gets stained crimson and as his heart beats to the rythm of a thousand drums,to the Point that it drowns out the storm...

He sighs in relief as he sees its another agent,a guy,pretty short in statue. His eyes catch the guy's CIB badge strapped to his belt --OH THANK GOD

But then the reality sets in, he just Killed a CIB agent.

Oh.

Shit.

Like a bat out of hell,he hops right back into his van and drives the whole night through,soaked in rain and checking his back every four minutes. By sunrise he makes it to Nevada and stays in the most hidden,most inconspicuous cheap motel he can find. He just fucked up. Big. Time.

#in sound mind #ism lucas #lucas cole #ism

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sumcreepygirl · 2 years

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I'm not a damn little. I'm a goddamn wife.

a personal assistant, a gopher, but most happily the secondhand.

I like to get shit done, but I need someone to tell me what needs doing. Not usually explicitly, but I'm at a loss now.

I have lots of big ideas, and drive, and abilities.

And the abilities I don't have, I can pick them up quickly, easily and happily. But I have no vision. No one to give a shit.

I didn't even like kid stuff when I was a kid. Get a clue. I watch Beetlejuice with my kids, not Blue's Clues, although that's not a bad show. I'd sit through it for a 3 year old. Even act surprised at the big reveal even though the theme of the episode gave the answer away in the first minute.

I have plenty of self control.

And now I'm once again without anyone to motivate me but myself.

Only this time I have someone I actually LOVE but am useless too and that's making it very difficult for me to be a lonely robot.

I knew this would happen when I kept this going. At least I HOPED it would. Because I love her and I want her to be happy and successful.

I've run into the problem of giving to my own detriment plenty of times. I've just never had it complicated by being authentically in love with or even attracted to the person I was serving.

Anyway, I'll figure it out myself like I always do.

Ive been so damn confused the last 6 weeks. I could see she was hurt and at a loss but also that she needed space, and also still needed the help I set out to give her in the first place.

I just gotta stop stalking Sarah and stay off Facebook and see if she'll come to me. That should be easy seeming as how she is portraying not needing anymore of my help, while also validated my wisdom and contribution by being well.

Inventory:

I declared my love

she can find my longing and my problem if she cares

I gave her all I could knowing what I knew about her situation.

Respect earned.

Will loyalty be returned?

We shall see.

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pantsless-glowboy-stan · 3 years

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answering all previous hero appreciation questions for mira because i haven't done that yet! under a cut because uh. whoops. 1500 words. probably should have done this sooner.

downtime what downtime mira tries to keep pretty busy! if she's not helping out with the rebellion she's helping her friends; if none of them need help she takes on other odd jobs. if she REALLY doesn't have anything to do, she catches up with friends she hasn't seen in a while, or writes them letters.

pass because my memory is So Bad

in order of preference: dragonlord/msw*, soulweaver, cryptic, rogue. (*she spent most of her downtime on the void ship getting the weavers' help to merge/streamline dragonlord and soulweaver skills. her renegade shield is attached to her MSW gauntlet, and has aegis's sigil in the center.)

she takes all criticism with a smile! if they Just Keep Going, the smile becomes very fixed, and she moves them along with a reminder that she is, in fact, the Lord Sunbringer, Hero Of Greenguard, and if they have a problem with her they can send a complaint to her PO box. if they're excessively adoring, she also smiles! aaaaand dies a little inside but haha who's counting that??

favorite thing about her...big muscles. GOD that's hard to decide but it's probably something along the lines of like. shes so full of love. her gentleness and care is so hard won, it doesn't come naturally to her but she tries because she knows she can't fall into the trap of "people are Just Bad and there's nothing I can do about it" and she's just trying her best and she needs a hug

once she ate draco's dragon snax on accident. she didn't realize what she was doing until draco started yelling at her. then she died a little inside because she realized kara saw her do it and was now laughing at her

i have to replay the questline to give more detail but: she spent her formative years (like. birth - 17) in the branden quarter of swordhaven. nobody remembers her, and nobody knows she came from there, either. (well. nobody living.) she doesn't think about that time, and she doesn't talk about it if she can help it.

mira HATES being sick and all medical procedures, from actual surgery to taking off bandaids. only people who are both bigger and stronger than mira are capable of getting her to a doctor. (once yashta just threw her over his shoulder and plopped her at riadne's feet. she has never been and never will be more offended in her whole life)

she's been a hero too long to put too much faith in any specific plan lmao. she keeps a level head and an open mind, and hopes for the best.

she is SO weak for head scritches. unfortunately she rarely gets them, because [gestures at plot,] but she WILL fall asleep sitting up if someone is petting her hair. (draco comes by it honestly.)

"Ha Ha Ha Ha Whoops! How Silly Of Me. Ha Ha. Ha. anyway have you heard about the new proposed trade route? I think it's a good idea but could use some improvement - "

mira's had a lot of Favorite Places over the years, usually attached to people. for a long time it was sunbreeze grove; then it was serenity's inn, with the sounds of life and love washing over her; later it was a dingy little house in pellow village, where the void was a breath away but it still felt as though nothing could touch her as long as she had her friends at her side. (lately, she's been gravitating toward sulen'eska even when there's nothing to help with. sometimes kara needs to be reminded to take a breather, and the stars are beautiful from the treetops.)

she never takes off the necklace aegis gave her on his deathday - it's a reminder of a very good day with her best friend, and she's unfortunately short on those. she also has a little pouch of keepsakes from her friends - a box of tea, still sealed, from celestia, the helmet al'zein made her, the first (very very bad) attempt at a shirt that tomix helped her with - that she keeps in her bag. sometimes she worries that she'll lose or damage it, but she can't bring herself to leave it at home, either.

she's slow to anger, but she wasn't always; pre-canon, if you were friendly, she'd be the same, but the second you were a dick to her or someone she cares about all bets were off. celestia and various other people gently pointed out that her life as a hero™ might be easier if she didn't bite the head off of everyone that looked at her funny, so over the course of bk1, she learned how to blunt her edges and bite her tongue. nowadays, she smiles through most things and can be cordial to anyone (with a few exceptions) and tries to put everyone around her at ease. this gentleness doesn't come naturally to her, though, and if you Just Keep Being An Ass she will eventually get fed up.

I know I've talked a lot about how much she loves her friends but She Loves Her Friends. just existing near them and reminding herself that they're alive and well is enough. she's always smiling her Hero's Smile™, but for her friends it's real.

she despises people that have no regard for the wellbeing of others, or people that are given chance after chance to be kind and continuously fail. (so like. jaania. jaania got her chance and now she gets Mira Sass. jury's still out on whether she's gonna get mira's full-blown wrath.)

kids make mira REALLY REALLY ANXIOUS. they're tiny! and fragile! what if she hurts them somehow, or hurts their feelings!! (draco doesn't count because they could probably chew glass and be fine.) she mostly just treats children like tiny fragile adults. tries to make small talk with them but the small talk is about Adult Things so it goes like / mira: so what do you think of the new proposed trade route? / the kid: *baby babble* / mira: interesting, I hadn't thought of it that way

she learned a couple things about herself at the end of the void ship's voyage that she wishes she could forget. she didn't NEED to know that she was capable of choosing the safety of the world over the life of her friend. really, when is she going to need to know that? it just makes her feel like garbage. anyway

mira never knew her biological relatives. if someone can worm their way into her heart, they're her family. (it's not that hard, although she used to pretend it was harder.) as for what happened to them...well, we all know what happens to celestia, right?

uhhh in order: celestia (see above,) draco (see canon! they're her favorite little gremlin coworker,) aegis (see canon,) tomix (see canon, but add recognition of the self through the other,) and finally kara (mira used to hang around the vind camp late into the night, at first for lack of anything better to do and to distract herself from various inconvenient emotions. then it evolved into respect for kara as a leader and desire to support her, and Then sometime just before the gala shenanigans? it began hurtling full force into Oh Whoops I Am In Love land. oops.)

mira lives in a state of "I desperately want to love trust people but I've been burned too many times to trust quickly" but also "I will love and trust everyone I meet out of spite for the people who tell me I'm naive for doing so" but ALSO "nevermind I'm not going to trust someone with my whole self ever again unless I'm literally soulbound to them and Even Then" so uh. the answer is: rip mira

she's been to enough fancy events™ that she knows the rules by now, and she can charm nobility into thinking she's One Of Them, but. usually all she can think about is how many people could have been fed or clothed with the money spent on solid gold tableware or whatever fhsjfjs. also: some things stick with you forever, and no matter how perfect her manners are she's always a little afraid of someone seeing past the shining hero to the branden quarter brat.

SHE would probably think her worst trait is bad judgement but like. She's Doing Her Best. is it a flaw to want to trust people? no! she thinks her best trait is uhh hmm. she's very strong and can help a lot of people. I think her worst flaw is that she sometimes forgets other people are Also strong and capable of protection, and her best is her ability to love and love again after everything she's been through.

she just beelined over to the vind. the rose didn't even get a glance. she asked kara (very reluctantly) if she should go with the golden hand, but she was SO relieved when kara asked her to stay.

i talk about mira so much lmao there's nothing left. no thoughts head empty

....annd that's everything! if you made it to the end of this monster please know i am giving you internet cookies.

#hero appreciation day #hm should i maintag this #i think i am a coward sorry #original #talks #oc heroes #so long. so goddamn long. ive been sitting on this for weeks but was too lazy to fill out some of the questions #if youve participated in all weeks: you are so strong and i love you #also tumblr ate my formatting so now there's just. massive blocks of text. hate it here #anyway. this is queued im leaving goodnight #GOD. I TRIED TO SCHEDULE THIS AND I THOUGHT TUMBLR ATE IT BUT IT JUST POSTED. EVEN THOUGH I HIT SCHEDULE. SKJDSJ TUMBLR MY FUCKING DETESTED #Hate It Here #miranai the hero

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beetlebip · 6 years

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U know what I'm just gonna stop denying that I'm a massive romantic and crave romance and attention and dorky romantic gestures

#ive been running from this for too long #me whenever ive got kind of a thing going on with someone: buddy from elf yelling about how hes in love #point being im going into dc with a friend tomorrow #we spontaneously decided to do it while sitting in his car eating wendys at 3 am while holding hands #¯\_(ツ)_/¯#would u look at that its only been a week since mark left and im doing just fine #also im confident this isnt rebound because i liked this guy even before mark and i started dsting #ive also got an interest whos transferring to the same college ad me #ALSO ALSO why is it so goddamn hard to find a girl????#i havent kissed a girl in years

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angstysebfan · 3 years

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The Past Can Break You - 4

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

AU: Avengers

Summary: You and Bucky have been dating for aa few years. As far as you’re concerned he is the one. But what happens when a blast from the actual past shows up?

A/N: Ive seen a lot stories of Bucky getting his first love from the 40′s back. And I’ve always wondered... what would happen if he was dating someone already? Reader is from this time. Not proofread.

Warning: honestly probably not the best ive written... sorry

It’s been almost a week since you told Bucky you needed space. You have barely come out of your room, because you didn’t want to see him, and especially her. You wonder if this is really the end of your relationship. You are grateful that he has given you space, and according to Nat, he hasn’t gone near Dot. Dot has been spending a lot of time down in the lab with Tony. Wanting to learn about technology. Good luck to her.

Over the last few days you have been waking up to soft knocking on your door. You go to open the door and find a single red rose with no note. You figure it is Bucky, and while it makes your heart flutter, you force yourself to leave in on your dresser. As you walk down to the kitchen to eat breakfast you see Nat sitting at the counter.

“Morning, Nat,” you say quietly.

She smiles softly at you, “Morning. How are you feeling?” she asks.

You shrug as you continue making your coffee and grab your fixings for cereal. When you turn around you see Bucky sleepily walk into the kitchen. You look at the bags under his eyes and he stops short and stares at you. You feel your heart break when you know that he doesn’t sleep well without you.

“Morning, Doll,” he says, completely ignoring Nat’s existence.

“Good morning Bucky,” you say. You decide to take your breakfast to go and shuffle around him as he walks further into the room. You stop and turn to look at him again, “Thank you for the roses. They are beautiful, “ you say before leaving.

Bucky sighs heavily when you leave and looks at Nat. “God I hope this works. I can’t live like this much longer, Nat. I miss her so goddamn much,” he says as he puts his face in his hands.

“Barnes man up. This will work. She commented on the roses. She is hurt and doesn’t trust you, which you can’t blame her for. But the fact that she thanked you, tells me that she appreciates you putting in the effort. It’s time to do this. Let her know that you are serious about making her a priority. Now I bought everything. You go get ready and I will get her there, okay?” She says.

Bucky nods and heads out of the kitchen to get ready. He hopes that this will work. He is hoping that if anything it will show you how much he loves you and how much he wants to be with you. But he would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous that you will reject him also. But Nat seems to think this will work, so we will see.

You are sitting on your bed, watching Netflix when there is a knock on your door. You call for them to enter and see Nat walk through the door. She walks over and sits on your bed.

“Hey honey, how are you holding up?” she asks as she sits.

You shrug, hugging yourself. “I-I miss him. But I’m still mad at him. But I want to talk to him. But I’m scared that it will end,” you say.

Nat pulls you into a hug, “Honey, I promise he has been moping in his room all week. I don’t think he has gone near her once. Steve has been watching over her, and she has been spending a lot of time in the lab, which is weird, but whatever. He told her he was done and he meant it. Talk to him,” she says.

You can’t help the tears, “Has be been... okay?” you ask.

“He misses you. He wants to make it up to you. Are you ready to hear him out, and have a conversation with him?” Nat asked.

You sigh and think about whether or not you are ready. You look at her and node slowly, causing her to smile. “Good. I was hoping that would be your answer. Now get up and put...” she ran to the bedroom door and grabs a box from the hallway she left there, bringing it back to the bed. “This on. I’ll meet you in the garage in 1 hour,” she says before leaving. You open the box and gasp.

When Nat pulls up to the edge of Central Park, you look at her in question. She nods telling you to go ahead. You get out of the car and start walking down the path. As you get closer to the clearing, you hear light music. You continue walking and finally enter the clearing where you recognize you had your first date with Bucky. You look around and see roses everywhere and candles, along with music.

Finally your eyes meet Bucky, who is standing in the middle of open space. He is wearing a navy blue suit, that matches your navy blue dress that Nat gave you. He has shaved his beard to some light scruff, that makes you swoon. His hair is cut short, and looks so soft. You see he is nervous as he waits for you to make a move.

“Hi Bucky,” you say.

He sighs and gives you a small smile, “Hi baby. I’m glad you came,” he says as he steps up to you with another rose in his hand.

He hands it to you, which causes you to smile, “Well Nat didn’t exactly give me much of a choice,” you say.

He laughs, “Yea, she has been helping me set up all of this. I’m so glad you are here. I-I wanted to... I... Baby, I can’t even find the words to apologize for being such an ass. But I’m done. I told Dot she had to deal with things herself. I told her that you were the one I want. And, I haven’t seen her since. I know that it will take a lot more than a date and begging to get you to forgive me, but I hope that we can recreate our first date because I fell in love with you that night. Not that I am expecting anything, but I owed you, and--”

You cut Bucky off with you lips slotting on his. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you impossibly close. “Bucky, I’m ready to talk. I’m ready to fix this. I’ve missed you. I love you so much, and the fact that you are doing all of this, means so much to me. This isn’t going to fix everything, but I’m ready to talk,” you say.

Bucky leads you to the table and you both sit and talk about the situation. You talk about your fears and how you felt when Dot arrived. You expressed how his actions affected you, and Bucky took everything in stride. When you finally finished going through everything, Bucky then told you how the last thing he wanted was to hurt you. He felt that he owed it Dot, because he knows how scary it is to wake up in a different time. And while he used to have love for Dot, the moment he met you and started to date you, Dot no longer held his heart. Only you.

He told you that he will never put anything ahead of you or your relationship again. After you both agreed you will move back into your room, but Bucky still has a lot of things to make up for. You then danced the night away under the stars. You both eventually make your way back to your shared apartment. Bucky surprised you with new lingerie, the same pair he ruined that night. You got a redo of that date night, and this time, Bucky made sure you had several more orgasms, before finishing himself. No interruptions, no ex’s, just the two of you reclaiming your love on each other.

Dot had been trying to figure out what she could do to split you and Bucky up for good. She knew you would be pathetic and fall for his charms again, just like all the girls from back in the day. She had to step up her game in this century though, and who better to learn from then one of the smartest men who happen to live in the compound also.

She started to spend time with Tony to learn the ins and outs of technology in the 21st century. He also taught Dot how utilize FRIDAY. showed her all the fun and cool thing that no one cared to know. Dot made sure she seemed completely excited and interested, which helped Tony’s ego and gave her more information. Eventually Dot figured out something that she could use.

She smiled when she saw both you and Bucky going into shared apartment after your date. While she hated the idea of you and Bucky together, she knew that she could use her new knowledge against you. And now was the perfect time to put that in motion.

Chapter 3 / Chapter 5

Not 100% how I feel about this chapter. I felt like it was getting too long so I cut it, but maybe I shouldn’t have. So I’m sorry if it’s not as good. But DRAMA ALERT!! What is Dot going to do? Feedback is appreciated!

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1kook · 3 years

Text

skirt chasers — drabble iv

THIS IS A SKIRT CHASERS DRABBLE - FIND THE OTHERS HERE ! SUMMARY Jungkook was a man. A skirt chaser. He could only withstand so much torture before he broke, and seeing your gorgeous, smooth legs on display after so many weeks of starvation awoke an ancient being inside of him. WARNINGS JK POV!!!, attempted solo masturbation, k*ssing, jk’s extensive knowledge of pornos, grinding, cunnilingus, face sitting, spit kink, light choking, praise kink, self nipple play, a love for boobies, unprotected sex, use of the pull out method, i love u kink, its kinda hinted tht oc has a somnophilia kink? not rlly but tagging just in case -_- RATING m (18+) WC 6.3k this can't even classified as a drabble anymore wtf

NOTES i have had this in my drafts since may 3. it is december 21. everyone point n laugh. anyway i very much love stimbo sc jk and i think he’s very cool so here’s a whopping 6k of the inner mechanisms of his big nerdy, college hottie brain <3

He doesn’t notice you’ve drifted off until he’s three solid paragraphs into his semester-long research paper. “Babe, can you toss me my charger it’s over…”

Jungkook swears he’s gonna take every single one of those stupid skirts and burn them to ashes. They had done their duty well, had given him the girlfriend of his dreams, but now they were just pushing their luck. What was once the epitome of a cute and sweet girlfriend, has now become the bane of Jungkook’s existence. He loathed them, he hated them, he could go twenty million decades without ever seeing them again because the torture they inflicted upon him was borderline inhumane.

Holy fuck, he knew you were gorgeous— hello, he was your boyfriend, thinking you were gorgeous was very high on the list of requirements you searched for in someone of his position —but he’s absolutely positive that you’re probably the sexiest woman he’s ever seen in all his twenty-two years. And Jungkook’s seen a lot of porn. Like, a lot.

He can’t help himself. Before Jungkook knows it, he’s rolling his desk chair over to where you’re sprawled across his bed, skin so soft where it presses against his pillow, lips so plush, and he’s pretty sure there’s a tiny, tiny droplet of drool begging to escape from between your puckered lips. Normally, he’d tease you to hell and back for this, knows how flustered you become when he catches you off guard, but today he lets it slide in favor of focusing on something else about your dozing form.

It’s the soft curve of your hips from where you lay on your side, smooth legs tucked close to you, and that goddamn pleated skirt giving you absolutely no protection from the eyes of the world around you. Luckily, he made sure to lock the door to his room when you came over today. And he’s almost positive Taehyung isn’t home anyway. So there’s no potential roommate to see you here, cuddled against Jungkook’s teddy bear, blue lace panties tucked between your folds.

They were his favorite.

Adorable and soft, and he knows that particular style— the cheeky kind —is your preferred style, because it’s the one he sees almost every time the two of you fuck. Seamless, because you hate when they tug against your skin, and baby blue simply because it was your favorite color. He can’t recall the last time they had been so exposed like this.

God, how many times had this same situation occurred? You dropping by to encourage him to do his homework, before eventually falling asleep and leaving him to his own devices. A lot of times, Jungkook guesses, because each and every time you wake up and nab one of his protein bars from the stash by his bed. Jungkook’s gone through four boxes in the last month.

But how many times had this happened with you in a skirt? Never. This was a rarity.

As the year progressed and yours and Jungkook’s relationship reached new levels of intimacy and adoration, Jungkook is sad to say the skirts had begun appearing less and less. It was winter and, unlike the furnace that was Jungkook’s body, he’s pretty sure you were a cold-blooded reptilian at this point, always leeching off of him for warmth. So since you couldn’t stand the cold, the skirts slowly faded into the background, replaced by Jungkook’s second favorite: the leggings.

He was no complainer, Jungkook respected your decisions! He wasn’t going to pressure you into wearing those cute tiny skirts he loved so much just because it fueled some PornHub-esque fantasy in his brain, especially not as a harsh winter descended upon you and the days became colder. He would not risk a sick girlfriend in the name of a horndog daydream.

But holy mother of pearl, Jungkook was a man. A skirt chaser. He could only withstand so much torture before he broke, and seeing your gorgeous, smooth legs on display after so many weeks of starvation awoke an ancient being inside of him.

Sure he’d seen them every time you guys fucked— duh. But this was not the same. It was different, seeing the tender skin of your inner thigh when he knew you weren’t trying to, your skirt stuck between you and the bed as you shifted about. It was different, knowing he could so easily have you, just flip up the skirt and tug your underwear to the side, not having to worry about fighting your leggings or skinny jeans down your legs. It was different and it was good, so painstakingly good, to have you in the skirt, but the worst part was Jungkook couldn’t even do anything because you were fucking sleeping.

He’d subconsciously pictured you like this for weeks, sprawled out on his sheets in the flimsiest clothing and ready for him to just slide right in, but Jungkook was a good boy—you’d told him as much just last week when he’d paid the bus fare for that ragtag group of teenagers, smiling up at him like he was your entire world. Was he sometimes a little too mean, a little too wild? Yes. But at his core, Jungkook lived for your praise. He couldn’t just stomp on that title you’d so lovingly bestowed upon him, a title he’d worked hard for since!

Furthermore, even if Jungkook wasn’t a good boy, to touch you in your sleep just seemed wrong. You’d mentioned in passing once that you wouldn’t mind as long as it was him (“I’m yours,” you had purred at some party, hand crawling down his abdomen, “your doll, remember?”), but Jungkook couldn’t bring himself to when you were so vulnerable and just… not there. It wouldn’t feel right to use your body when you weren’t awake, and no amount of encouragement from you would change his mind.

So he does what all good boys do and prepares himself for a quick, self-administered handfuck.

Sue him, his girlfriend was hot!

It’d been a little over two weeks since the last time the two of you had fucked, and it was mostly his fault; clinicals and research papers had practically consumed what little free time he had in his schedule. And if Jungkook remembers correctly, he wouldn’t be that lucky this upcoming week either. Something tells him your period was approaching.

Jungkook doesn’t know what type of sorcery you’ve done to him, but in the time you’ve been dating, it’s become increasingly more and more difficult to nut without you. Whether that be fucking you, listening to your voice, or just imagining your pretty face in his head, you held a monopoly over Jungkook’s libido, one that he feared you’d never let go.

He had years stacked on years of browsing PornHub and Brazzers, can recall experiencing some of the craziest orgasms of his life while watching some girl get fucked. All things come to an end. Ever since he started dating you, not even his favorite video could make him hard anymore. Oh, how the great have fallen.

But with your blue panties before him, his cock hardens by the minute, nearly doubles in size when you move about and sigh a heavenly sound. Frankly, he doesn’t feel bad jerking one off to the thought of you. You were his girlfriend! He knows that you know that you’re the main character of all his right-handed adventures, and you’re not going to be mad at him for jerking off to you now. In fact, Jungkook imagines you’d be mad if he’d woken you up just for some frenzied quickie. This way, he’s blowing off some steam and you’re getting an extra ten minutes of napping. Everyone wins.

He’s barely tugged himself out of the confines of his sweats when a soft mumble of his name has his soul leaving his body. “Kook?”

“Baby,” he exhales, immediately tucking himself back into his underwear before moving closer towards you. You roll onto your back, skirt useless as fuck, he thinks, as it sprawls around your waist. “What’s up?” he murmurs, voice gentle, a hand carding through the nape of your neck because that’s how you always wake him up. Jungkook would be a liar to say it wasn’t one of the best feelings in the world.

You say something, but it’s a mess of gibberish and too quiet for him to understand, before turning on your side again and shuffling closer to him. Jungkook smiles, runs the tips of his fingers over your cheek, before moving to caress your back, massaging some feeling back into your muscles. Some more mumbled words, but this time he deciphers them as something along the lines of “c’mere.”

He chuckles, ducking down to kiss your cheek. “Don’t wanna interrupt your nap, baby,” he hums. “Go back to sleep.”

You whine in protest, suddenly catching his hand in yours. “Please,” you sigh, eyes fluttering open, but they’re unfocused as you gaze at him. Jungkook clenches his teeth. Technically he should be working on that twelve page research paper, and even just trying to jerk off right now would have been a huge setback. Crawling into bed with you, where you’re so sinfully laid out for him to take, would completely offset his plans until tomorrow. He had to be a responsible student here.

“I really gotta finish my paper…” he says, trying to let you down as gently as possible, flashing you an apologetic gaze. He thinks he has it in the bag, and your extended silence almost has him rolling back to his desk, when you suddenly snap into action.

“But what about your dick,” you murmur, and Jungkook chokes.

“My what—?” he splutters, voice a little too high.

You say nothing, craning your neck to release a series of cracks, soft huffs leaving your lips. Jungkook’s on edge the whole time, eyes following the movement of your neck, the hypnotizing expanse of skin that bares itself to him. “Saw your hand down your pants,” you say, eyes blinking open, and though they’re droopy with sleep, at least you can hold them open this time.

Jungkook laughs nervously, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck in embarrassment. “You saw that?” A soft hum. He wants to die. “Ah, baby, don’t worry about it. Know you’re tired, so just nap,” he sighs, caressing the back of your head once again, and he thinks he’s finally convinced you so he lets his guard down.

You moan softly, and he’s almost entirely sure it’s one of those waking up types of sounds, the ones you make when you’re stretching around the bed in the morning. “Want your cock.”

Jungkook swears he’ll die, right here, right now.

He groans, lowers his head to rest on the mattress. “Jesus, fuck, baby,” he huffs, has to count to ten to will the stirring of his slowly hardening cock away for the second time that day. “Don’t say stuff like that when you’re half asleep, please.”

You ignore him, the hand that had been wrapped around his wrist tugging him closer. You barely succeed, muscles still so weak, but Jungkook humors you and rolls his chair right beside your head, where he ducks down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Noooo,” you whine when he draws away too quickly.

A laugh blossoms in his chest, and Jungkook proceeds to rain down a series of kisses on your pretty face before he can stop himself. You melt under his touch, his affection, and Jungkook adores the way your body is so soft and pliant like this, back arching towards him after he places a hand on your waist.

“Come here,” you urge, voice a quiet plea. So soft, so needy.

Jungkook malfunctions for just a second before he’s clambering over you on the bed, manhandling your body until you're both on your sides, facing each other, with you pressed tightly to his chest. Even with your hands brushing up and down his back in the way that sends every nerve in Jungkook’s body tingling, and your leg thrown over his hip, some stupid part of him convinces himself you’re just cold, trying to warm up after walking around campus in that tiny little skirt all day. He cuddles you as best as he can.

And even with his dick twitching in his pants and his caveman instincts yelling at him to thrust up into your inviting core, Jungkook remains as professional as someone in a relationship can be when in bed with their lover. He’s so stuck on his self-control that he almost doesn’t hear the snort you muffle against his neck.

“What are you doing?” you laugh, reaching up to pinch his cheek. Jungkook blinks, eyes wide like a doe caught in headlights. “Are we gonna fuck or what?”

He chokes. He doesn’t even try to muffle his reaction like other times, because the way you’re looking at him and the heel you press against the back of his thigh preoccupies his thoughts instead. Your hands are still tracing along his back, melting him with your dainty touches. “Baby?” you question after he’s been silent too long, distracted by the way you use that hooked leg to tug your bodies closer.

“You… you’re still asleep,” Jungkook says, though it’s definitely a question.

You scoff, a smile curling around your features. “Mm, definitely not asleep,” you tease, and shift to push him onto his back, wiggling on top of him until those baby blue panties are pressed against his quickly hardening member. “Why? Wanted to touch me when I was asleep?” you continue, and Jungkook’s eyes nearly burst out of their sockets.

“No!” he exclaims, hands clutching your hips in alarm. He can tell he surprises you, because your eyes go wide for a brief second. “Never…” he mumbles afterwards, looking away from your imploring gaze. “Only like you when you’re awake.”

You sigh, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek that makes his heart flood with adoration for you. “You’re a good boy, Jungkook,” you say back, just as quietly. “A blueprint for the perfect man.” Another kiss, this time against the corner of his mouth that makes Jungkook’s hands twitch against your sides.

A soft moan tears itself from his throat, fingers digging into your hips as you slowly roll them against him. The heat emanating from your core seeps past the thin barrier of his sweatpants, makes his cock twitch in his boxers. He knows how it feels inside of you, has your body memorized like the back of his hand. But it’s in moments like these that he finds himself aching for you, desperate to feel the fluttering walls of your pussy, the pitiful whimpers that fall from your kiss swollen lips. And, well. The skirt makes it all too easy.

He places two hands on the backs of your thighs, runs them up until he’s pushing your skirt up over your waist. You pull away from his lips with a sneaky little smile, pointer finger stroking down the side of his face lazily. “Mm?” you tease, leaving a coy little peck against his mouth. “Now you wanna touch?” Jungkook rolls his eyes, snaps his teeth at your wandering finger when you draw it too close to his mouth. The giggle you let out is so damn precious, makes him want to put you in a glass case and never let anyone else touch you. Coincidentally, it also makes him want to rail you into the mattress until you cry.

“I’ll fucking ruin you, doll,” he settles on murmuring, subtly pushing you down against him. A soft giggle. Jungkook knows it’s your favorite nickname, even if you won’t admit it. He's the only one allowed to call you it, something about his intentions being pure or whatever, he’s not really sure. Anyway, you’re still so cute and soft on top of him, blinking slowly and prettily, so he’s dragging it out a bit, hoping you’ll become more alert in a few more minutes.

As sleepy as you may be, you never miss out on a chance to rile him up. “As if, doll,” you retort, his nickname for you rolling off your tongue seamlessly. It sounds heavenly, sparks this weird emotion in him that he never considered before. Him, a doll? No way. But there’s something about the sweet lilt of your voice, the starry-eyed gaze you level him with, that has him throwing all reservations aside. Put him on a shelf and call him Barbie, because he would be anything you wanted him to be.

Anyway, Jungkook’s sappy thoughts last all of two seconds before he’s rolling you over, successfully trapping you beneath his body. “Oh, so scary,” you feign, hands fluttering to clutch at your chest.

He glides his hands down your body, let’s them trail over your hip and down the side of your thigh. “Don’t get sassy with me,” he warns, thumb peeking beneath the hem of your skirt. Jungkook really wants to burn the piece of fabric this time, because after all that time it spent torturing him with its halfhearted attempts at covering you, it chooses now to do it properly.

Hands are thrown around his shoulders, the overwhelming scent of your perfume and body wash tickling his nose when you pull him in for another kiss. “Or what?” you purr, irises swirling with lust. “Gonna use your manly man strength to hold me down?”

He shushes you with a kiss, slow and languid just how you like. Your taste is familiar, feels like coming home, so Jungkook can’t be blamed for getting too carried away. It starts gentle— it always does. But then a tiny mewl gets stuck in your throat, the following moan swallowed by his tongue, and Jungkook nearly loses it. He nips at your bottom lip, waits patiently for you to open up for him, and when you do he wastes no time diving in. Your tongue against his is slick and wet, makes the most lewd sound. Your little sharp intakes of air fill the gaps, shuddery breaths that Jungkook takes as a good sign.

He strikes while the iron is still hot.

It’s amidst your lazy kissing that he secures his hands around your waist, two reassuring squeezes thrown your way before he’s abruptly rolling onto his back again. “Kook!” you squeal, clutching at the front of his shirt. A pouty frown paints your face, sleepy eyes narrowing him with a rather unimpressed look, tainted with the barest hints of confusion.

Jungkook grins, reaching back to yank his pillow out from beneath his head. “On my face,” he commands suddenly, and you snort.

“What?” you ask a little incredulously, leaning back to level him with an even more lost expression. “Since when do we do that?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Since I decided twenty seconds ago,” he answers rather bluntly. You still don’t look too convinced. It’s not a position the two of you have ever tried. You’re a little on the sappy side, always like to look at his face while you fuck, hold his cheeks in your palms, kiss him sweetly. On the one hand, Jungkook totally gets it; he’ll proudly admit that the sight of your orgasming face paired with your fantastic tits have done him many favors these past few months.

However, Jungkook is a lover of head. Giving or receiving, it’s very high on his list of sexual acts and whoever invented oral deserved all the praise in the world. Not only did you look drop dead gorgeous with his cock in your mouth— tears trailing down your cheeks, drool clinging to the corners of your lips —but you also looked absolutely sexy receiving it.

Kinda.

Probably.

Okay, so maybe Jungkook can’t really say, considering he always has a hard time catching a glimpse of your face when he’s down there licking and slurping your clit like a madman. Which is what leads him to this exact moment, an experiment weeks in the making. Jungkook has a theory that needs to be tested. “Please ride the fuck out of my face,” he tries, hoping the polite tone will win you over.

He’s met with an eye roll. Still, you’re kinder than you let on. “Okay,” you give in, and Jungkook will remember your heroism for the rest of his life. “But only because being on top is empowering.” He just barely contains an over-enthusiastic fist pump into the air, settling on a rather modest smile that has you leaning down to kiss him again. You reach for the zipper on the side of your skirt. “Just let me—“

“The skirt stays on,” he says quickly, hand on your wrist to stop you from removing his most favorite article of clothing.

“Baby,” you say, giving him a rather serious look. “It’ll cover your face.”

“It won’t,” he urges, reaching for the buttons on your blouse instead. Jungkook has had one too many encounters with tops like these, and has long since learned not to tear them apart like a crazed psycho. As much as he loves the sound of your buttons scattering across his bedroom floor, he can’t say he’s too fond of the scolding he inevitably gets afterwards. Anyway, the shirt comes off and so does your bra, leaving your tits in his face, tiny skirt on your hips. “Get up here,” he murmurs, ushering you up his body until your knees are pressing into the mattress right above his shoulders.

If it was up to Jungkook, he would have just grabbed your hips and shoved his face against your pussy. Luckily, it’s not, and your common sense shines through just in time. “One sec,” you say, and then finally, finally, the blue panties come off.

And then it’s just Jungkook and your glistening pussy.

“Holy fuck,” he groans, taking the opportunity to wrap his arms around your thighs. You squeak when he pulls you closer, hand instinctively reaching for the front of your skirt to hold away from his face. The view from here is heavenly, just your swollen clit, gorgeous tits, and shy face.

The muscles in your thighs are a little stiff. Or maybe you’re just nervous. Jungkook isn’t sure, all he knows is that it takes one encouraging tug for you to finally sit on his face. He doesn’t even register the surprised gasp that leaves your throat because he’s too busy tasting your pussy from an all new position. And it’s absolutely amazing.

Something about the position, having you carefully poised above him, does something to Jungkook. He likes to think he knows your body inside and out, knows what makes you melt and what makes you scream. He knows just how to lap at your cunt until you’re cumming, and how many fingers it takes for you to really feel it. But it’s like having you in this position changes all of that, rearranges all the tidbits of information Jungkook has spent months collecting.

(Jungkook is a meticulous man; he’s got a near perfect GPA right now that was the direct result of his carefully crafted note-taking techniques. Whether or not he abused the power of his perfectionist learning abilities to master the mechanisms of his girlfriend’s libido was no one's business but his own.)

One kitten lick against your swollen pearl makes you buck forward, clit brushing against his nose. Jungkook can’t remember you ever doing that on the first lick. “O- oh my—,” you cry, all airy and whiny. Your hand is pressed to the wall behind his bed, the other bunching the front of your skirt just above your mound. He’s rather happy to learn that, just as he’d hypothesized, this position does give him a better view of you.

He’s graced with the sight of your face, twisted up in pleasure. It’s the stereotypical eyes squeezed shut, lip caught between your teeth look. But there’s something different about it knowing that he’s gotten this reaction out of you with his mouth alone.

Jungkook quickly repositions you over him, tugging you back until his tongue is lined up with the front of your slit. You’re so warm down here, make him feel like he’s drowning with your heady scent alone. Tentatively, he lets his tongue dip between your folds, the very tip nudging your swollen clit. A moan tears itself from your throat, the hand that had been flush against the wall suddenly jumping forward to bury itself in his hair. “Oh- oh, fuck,” you shiver, hips jolting forward once more.

You taste good on his tongue, the arousal that coats your lips is sticky and sweet. When he laps his tongue along your folds, quivering hole to stiffened bud, you let out a sob that resonates deeply within Jungkook. And also Jungkook’s cock, which stirs beneath his trousers in excitement. What was once the focus of his mission, a quick handfuck to sedate himself before finishing his research paper, has long since been forgotten. It’s for the greater good, he tells himself, blinking up at you from between your thighs.

Eye contact lasts for exactly three seconds before you’re looking away bashfully, the fist clutching at your skirt trembling against your tummy. You’re so fucking pretty, Jungkook’s heart can’t take it.

And so he sets out on a mission to make you cum as soon as possible, abandoning his slow kitten licks in favor of suctioning his lips around your clit. “Kook,” you wail, tugging at his hair. Whether you do it purposely or not, Jungkook is a little shocked by how good the pain feels. It’s not an emotion he can ponder long, because then you’re using that same grip in his hair to tilt his head backwards, jerkily moving over him.

It’s rough and sudden, the buck against his face, but Jungkook loves it. The drag of your pussy against his lips, the wet glide of your juices smearing across his chin and Cupid’s bow. It all feels so good, and the fact Jungkook is getting a front row seat to the absolutely torn look on your face is just the cherry on top.

Jungkook has seen you make a lot of faces. He’s seen you shiver and drool as he nails you into your bed. He’s seen you sniffle and sob as he slowly fucks you in a rose petal filled bubble bath (a six month anniversary special planned by yours truly). He’s even seen your mirrored reflection fall apart as you bounced away on his lap in front of a mirror.

He’s never seen you like this before.

Needy and desperate, moaning his name softly, practically humping his face in your greed. Tiny skirt clutched against your waist, tits bouncing as you hurriedly grind against him. He has half the mind to burn this scene into his eyelids for the rest of his life.

He’s given up on doing anything with his tongue, simply sticking it out for you to do as you wish. Normally, he’s not a huge fan of letting you do things yourself. After all, Jungkook was your boyfriend. Making you cum was his job. But you’re moving so fast, so frantic, in your mission to cum. So Jungkook sits back and lets you go to town on his mouth as a series of moans spill from your lips.

And then something unforgivable happens.

Jungkook will admit it: he’s staring at you almost a little too dreamily, heart eyes and all. He thinks you’re fucking hot, taste like heaven and have these absolutely delicious boobs bouncing up and down. He’s a little distracted by your glorious figure that he doesn’t notice one crucial bit of information.

Your hand.

The desperate need to cum has your muscles weakening, thighs moving at a latent pace, and, much to Jungkook’s horror, hands trembling. It’s your own pleasure that lets the unimaginable happen: your skirt flutters down. Your grip on it loosens and before Jungkook knows it, the sight of your pretty face and nice tits are gone, snatched away before his very eyes. Even your wet cunt is impossible to see, his world suddenly shrouded in darkness.

Leave it to Jungkook to foil his own horny plan with, well, his horniness. If only he wasn’t so hopelessly in love with the image of you in skirts. Maybe then he could bask in the beauty that was you riding his face.

He acts fast, reaching for the material before he can miss out on anything. But the angle is weird, and without Jungkook’s hands holding your hips, you’re left weakly rolling forward instead. And he’s not the only one frustrated with this turn of events, your face quickly returning to its normal composed form as you level him with a frown. “Everything okay?” you pant.

Everything was not okay, but Jungkook isn’t sure how to tell you that without ruining this delicate moment. So he tries to show you with actions instead, releasing the skirt he’s got in his fist and letting it flutter over his face again. You giggle. “I told you so.”

It takes more willpower than he’d like to admit to pull away from your wet folds, pulling off with a lewd sound that has you biting your lip as you gaze down at him. “I told you so,” he mimics, a little mean but you don’t take it to heart. “Hold your skirt up.”

You hum, the grip on his hair loosening as you push away his dark locks instead. “Mmmm,” you hum. “No.”

“No?” he repeats, actually really scandalized. Okay, so he’s a little spoiled when it comes to you— it’s not his fault! You made him like this, conditioned him to think that you would always give into his every whim because you were just so sweet and considerate and wanted him to be happy. And Jungkook also wants you to be happy, and in his opinion, being happy right now means having him fuck your pretty brains out for ever getting sassy with him.

“I don’t listen to men,” you tease, followed by a cute little nod, skin still a little warm from your looming orgasm. Jungkook takes advantage of your tiny moment of weakness, and strikes like a viper.

A girlish squeal leaves your lips, hands stretching outwards as he knocks you backwards onto the mattress. “Jungkook,” you gasp, sprawled out artfully, beautifully, over his sheets now. He doesn’t waste a second longer, crawling over your body until you’re a shivering mess beneath him.

Hand against your throat, the other blindly reaching for the front of his sweatpants. “What is it, doll?” he drawls meanly, reveling in the way your eyes roll back when his newly-freed cock lands against your slit. A choked gasp leaves your throat, lashes fluttering wildly until Jungkook loosens his grip.

You’ve done a nice job riling yourself up, lips squelching wet and loose when he runs the tip of his cock along them. Your knees are pulled up for him, spread perfectly for him to fit between. You’re so good for him, Jungkook feels a little bad for how hard he’s going to fuck you now.

The sympathy doesn’t last long.

Once upon a time, you had been the epitome of a cute and sweet girlfriend. Had picked him up from class, encouraged him to do his homework, wore these cute little skirts around campus. Deep down inside, Jungkook knew everyone else was jealous of him— you were just so pretty and cute, a girl straight out of everyone’s dreams.

Until he sunk his horny claws into you. Jungkook will be the first to admit he spends a little too much time browsing porn sites— he’s a man, cut him some slack —which had never caused him any problems before. Even when the two of you were just friends (pining ones at that), you had never seemed even remotely affected by his extensive pornographical knowledge. It was a known fact among your friend group that Jungkook’s best friend was his right hand.

But then, of course, you started dating Jungkook and it was like a save file of all his horniest fantasies was downloaded directly into your brain. Which leads him to this.

“Spit in my mouth,” you shiver, got these huge, watery eyes pointed his way. His cock twitches.

There’s a little groan that tears itself from his throat when he leans forward, cock sliding along your folds, to grasp your chin between his fingers. “Open,” he commands, and you do. Your lower lip quivers, tongue pressed against it as you wait for Jungkook to spit down your mouth. He can’t say he regrets letting you peek through his porn stash, not when it leads to this, you whimpering at the hot glob of saliva he shoots down your throat. “Filthy,” he pants, memorizing the movement of your throat when you swallow like the good girl you are.

Before he can write another twelve sonnets about that dazed look on your face, he’s roughly grabbing at your thigh. You whine, limbs so pliant beneath his touch, letting him hike your knee over his forearm as he tugs you closer. “Fuck,” he groans, reaching down to align himself with your quivering hole. You’re still so wet, make the most lewd sound when he sinks into you. Not that Jungkook really hears it, the sound of your strained moans practically drowning everything else out.

“Fuck,” you cry, one hand clutching at his forearm, the other toying with your breast. It’s a magnificent sight, and Jungkook is suddenly feeling a little cocky when he realizes he’s the only one who gets to see this. It’s this presumptuous nature that fuels the first round of thrusts into your cunt, fast and full. He makes sure you feel every inch of him, tip to base, as he pistons his hips forward. “J— Jungkook,” you pant, back arching beneath him.

You take it so well, walls sucking him in every time he draws back out. “I’ve got you, doll,” he moans, hiking your leg further over his shoulder. Every roll of his hips has your tits bouncing back and forth, lower lip as well with the dopey, open-mouthed look you got on for him. And the damned skirt that got him here, fucking you with a punishing pace, sits perfectly around your waist. He has half the mind to take it off for you, briefly wonders if it hurts, but just looking at it reminds him of about thirty-seven pornos he’s seen. So it stays on, works alongside your lovestruck face to actively rewrite all those pornos anew with you starring in them instead.

It sure helps when you start your usual mindless babbling. “I love you,” you gasp, face screwed up in pleasure. “I- I love you so much.”

He’s contemplating doing a study on you and your weird mid-fuck confessions. You do this a lot, and while Jungkook doesn’t mind, it sure does leave him curious. “Love you too, baby,” he says anyway, repositioning his arms so he can hold your waist with both hands.

“Really?” you ask, voice so whiny, eyes brimming with tears. From emotion or your need to cum, Jungkooks not sure. (Hence the need for a study!)

Another brutal thrust that has you moaning loudly. “Really,” he reassures you, glancing down to watch his cock sink into your hole as he picks up the pace. Your arms are practically limbless, and his stomach is beginning to feel tight. The end was soon. “Love your pretty little face.”

Another whine, your fingers pulling at your pebbled nipples. “M- My pretty face?” you whimper, blink these long lashes up at him. They make Jungkook go a little mad, bring on a wave of jackhammer thrusts that cut your moans into choppy little cries instead.

“Prettiest girl I know,” he groans, not once stopping the movement of his hips. You’re quivering like a leaf beneath him, your entire body locking up as Jungkook guides you toward orgasm. “A fucking doll, baby— so beautiful for me,” he praises.

It’s exactly what you want to hear— secretly, Jungkook hypothesizes that you’re a little bit of an attention whore —crying out when he slows to a grind against you. Each roll of his hips has him rubbing over your swollen bud, leaves you trembling until you’re eventually unraveling beneath him. “Oh- Oh, fuck— Jungkook—“ you sob, writhing beneath him as you cream his cock.

Your tits look amazing, nipples stiff from your arousal and all the attention you’d been giving them. Your features soften, gasps framed by your pillowy lips. As Jungkook has said before, your pretty face was the most dangerous weapon.

He manages a few more pistons of his hips, mostly for reputation sake, before he’s eventually pulling out. His right hand, once the sole hero of his solo sessions, makes a valiant return now as he jacks himself off over you. It takes a few harsh pulls of his cock until he’s spurting his jizz over you, painting your tummy and your tits in white ribbons of cum. You flinch, a tiny whimper leaving your throat at the mess he makes. “Fuck,” he groans one last time.

When it’s over, you have the audacity to shyly pull down the front of your skirt. As if your tits aren’t out and about, but Jungkook pretends he doesn’t see it. Instead, he channels his energy into peppering your face in kisses. “Best girl,” he praises, even though he knows you hate the nickname. “My beautiful feminist queen.”

A pinch against his cheek. It hurts like hell, but he endures it for now, still very much in love with your performance today. “Get me a towel,” you huffily ask, uncomfortable with the jizz sticking to your tummy, as if he didn’t spit in your mouth a few minutes ago.

His research paper is waiting for him at his desk, the materials he’d spent weeks collecting waiting to be typed up. But his girlfriend is so soft and sleepy, asking him to stay for another nap.

There was never a choice.

#networkbangtan #bangtanhq #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook smut #jjk♡#jjk smut #jungkook fic #jeon jungkook fic #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook x reader #bts smut #bts fic #bts jungkook #mine #skirtfic

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keilemlucent · 3 years

Text

pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i || part ii || part iii

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @keiqos (thank you!! 💞)

word count: ~9.4k

Keigo surrenders to losing himself in the blank-walled, temporary home he inhabits. He finds familiarity in the routine of aches, pains and pills.

You’re his only solace.

warnings: bodily trauma, medical trauma, PTSD, dissociation, suicidal ideation, alcohol as a coping mechanism and graphic description of sustained injury

a/n: oh wow so here it is, big sad fic :’^) part one!! it’s canon divergent from manga chapter 296 onwards.

this one has been a long time coming. please mind the warnings!! this fic deals a lot with trauma and mental illness in tandem. the warnings are going to change with the coming parts, so please be mindful. i don’t wanna get too sappy, but this piece has been my Baby for the past few months, and i’m excited to finally share. that being said, enjoy loves 💞

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

There is no kindness in an aftermath like this one, not so soon, and certainly not with dried blood of old comrades and mud still caking under its metaphorical fingernails. The world was in shambles, and every hero is along with it.

There is something horrifying about being at the center of it all, Hawks, no, Keigo thinks solemnly, all too often.

He’s used to the attention he’s getting, touches and poking and prodding by near strangers. Except, he was used to exclamations of how great and powerful and remarkable he was. Now, all the attention he receives is followed by little sighs and sad, broken eyes.

He’s sure he looks equally as sad; Keigo had been nothing but an empty shell since the War had ended and he’d been carted off to his hospital room. Numb despite all of his burns.

It’s the shock, he tells himself, he’ll snap out of it any day.

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

He wakes up to screaming from the next room over, agonized wails that pierce the air as his morning nurse enters. She’s over-worked and haggard while checking his vitals with a forced smile. They don’t make conversation with him much anymore, and Keigo doesn’t have the energy to try and force it. There isn’t enough in him to pretend that he’s okay enough to banter with folks.

If he still had his wings, he would’ve wrapped himself up tight in the plumage and let himself rot away in some corner. He’d let the dissociated numbness fade, however long it took, and then succumb to whatever psychological wounds revealed themselves.

Waste away, all alone.

But he doesn't have that luxury. He is in an overcrowded hospital with swarms of civilians and heroes, all stuffed in one place because the world doesn’t have the time to differentiate between the wounded, nor the space or resources to give different resources. Though, Keigo is a special case, hence why he’s had healers coming to him for the past three weeks since the War trying to coax his body into genesizing a new pair of wings.

The Commission’s hospital has all the bells-and-whistles that a medical professional could need, but Keigo, and so many others, are facing problems that don’t have good and easy roads to healing.

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

Keigo is convinced, has been convinced, that there is no way to come back from the War, nor the absence on his back, nor the shouts and cries of pain that echo around the hospital like a new genre of music that Keigo so desperately wants to scrub from his brain.

Things change, it’s inevitable. Everyone falls eventually, and he was just used to flying.

It’s a harder descent.

...

Keigo doesn’t meet you on any day, he meets you on a lonely night.

The evenings and early mornings were the most peaceful at the hospital. Most folks, three weeks after the end of it all, had serious enough injuries that they had to be somewhat sedated to sleep, either for physical or mental pain keeping them from sleep.

It’s morose, Keigo thinks, quietly and privately, but he craves those hours. All he hears then is the hum of air vents and beeps of his own medical machinery. None of the audible agony of the folks he was sworn to protect.

He’s slept most of the day, not lucid enough to do much else, and the nurses haven’t been giving him sedatives unless he asked (though he always did.) Without forced quiet, he’s antsy, fingers twitching and flaring the new (and growing) pains rooted in his (empty, isn’t that horrifying—) back.

He rouses himself, adjusting his scratching hospital garb (thin sweats and a cheap crew neck with the back almost entirely cut away). With his IV pole at his side, he resolves to take a few laps and quiet himself, hopefully.

(Keigo would need sedatives, he always did, but it was nice to play pretend that he didn’t. It made things easier for a precious hour or two.)

His laps are usually quick, despite how much his body aches when he walks. So much new, burnt tissue that needed to learn how to move, how to live again, kept him throbbing and gritting his teeth.

Masochism be damned, he keeps at it during his sleepless nights. Physical therapy wasn’t an option when the world was caving in with him at the epicenter.

There’s a common room at the end of the foyer of identical (filled) hospital rooms, just a collection of stuffy, uncomfortable couches that face an aged TV and a wide bay of windows. It’s rarely used, just a formality for when the space of the hospital had regularly hurt victims and heroes. When it wasn’t bearing so much weight.

Sometimes, he would stop to idly regard the mostly barren world around the hospital. Far from the cities, a little hideaway for heroes and their loved ones to heal in privacy. Other than sheer distance, there is a thick, organic shield around the complex. It’s a towering forest, man-planted with identical types of trees in perfect rows.

It’s grim in its predictability.

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

(Oh yeah, too much time locked in his goddamn skull.)

He hadn’t been planning to have any inner musings that night.

But, that night, he notes that he is not alone.

On one of the hard couches, you sit, with your own IV-pole companion and injuries, an arm carried in a monochromatic sling and set in a hard cast.

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

There’s a single lamp on, and the light dances in your eyes with its own unexpected rhythm.

Something compels Keigo to smile, cocky, like he used to, and greet you with a little wave, and a finger to his lips.

Your expressions melts, a hand going over your mouth to stifle a giggle.

It’s like you’re pulling him after that, he finds himself resting across from you.

You must look like a pair, he realizes. You’re greasy, he’s greasy. He’s got a fine layer of built-up stubble that shouldn’t be called anything other than impressive peach fuzz (not that Keigo’s seen it, he’s felt it. The idea of looking in a mirror makes him sick to his stomach. Though you don’t have any pseudo-beard, you’ve got your own unkempt look and feel that makes you two kindred without sharing a word.

It feels comfortable, warm.

“Hi,” you speak first, voice soft and gentle. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nah, who can?” Keigo replies, shaking his head. “But what about you? Midnight oil doesn’t burn without a cause, you know.”

Your expression is also painful in the way it’s so open, yet worn (most everyone had locked up by now, the ones in the hospital and Keigo imagined the ones outside of it too.)

“I like the sky— the stars are pretty.” You sigh, wistful. “I watch for shooting stars.”

The thought, the significance of that obvious wanting, makes something pang deep in his chest. Childlike hope in a place like this, foolish as well as frail.

“Trying to get a wish?” Keigo clicked his tongue. “Smart.”

“No, no— wishing doesn’t... suit me, right now.” You snorted, shaking your head, the light in your eyes dancing, “I just think they’re pretty.”

Keigo blinks, unable to stop the way his eyes widen.

Your posture reads nothing but earnestness and vulnerability, so freely given (so undeserved) without a hint of pullback.

“What do you want to be called?”

“... Excuse me?” Keigo is not used to his thoughts being interrupted in the blanket of dark that he feels most comfortable in. Your words shock him enough with their meaning, let alone the way you’re so brazen.

“I, uh,” You stumble on your words. “I know who you are, but I also saw that whole broadcast, which I’m going to easily assume you don’t want to talk about. But, I don’t know how much you want to be called ‘Hawks’ at this point either.”

His mouth is dry.

“So, I ask instead,” You lean forward, your IV line pulling the slightest bit and you wince. His discomfort must be very fucking apparent, because you backtrack in moments. “... Or, neither. I can call you something else, too.”

“... A nickname, for someone you don’t even know?” Keigo, Hawks, whoever he is now struggles with words. There’s too many, and they’re all too fast, and he doesn’t have his wings to catch up to them or outrun them—

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug with a lazy smile. “I’ll call you... pretty eyes. How about that?”

Keigo does have pretty eyes. They’re gold, light and glittering amber in the lowlight. Before he, ya’ know, lost them, and when things were good, but awful, but normal, he darkened the organic marks around his canthi with liquid eyeliner. He liked makeup, prettied himself up and accentuated all the good he had. Preening.

None of that is left, just what organically was on his skin, and he hasn’t seen it in its raw state in years, and like fuck if he was going to look in a mirror just to figure out if his natural eyeliner was half as good as that by his own hand.

“Sure, that works,” He relaxes, mirroring your expression like the practiced... pro he is. “What do I call you, starshine?”

You roll your eyes, but nothing about you fades as you tell him your name, something that calms and fills him, “But, you can call me starshine if you want. Sounds nice.”

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

That’s the first time you kept each other’s company. Most of it is quiet, you truly do just want to watch the stars. Keigo did with you, tracing the shadows of clouds and moonlight with his eyes.

(Occasionally, his gaze shifts to you, regarding your figure with the same care for only a moment before returning to the sky you both miss.)

Eventually, the quiet heat of it puts him half to sleep, and he bids you goodnight.

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

The light isn’t in your eyes anymore, and your warmth feels a little too far away.

...

The next days are long.

He slips into that shell-state again, where he’s a husk that stares emptily at the ceiling as the Commission tries to piece him together to a fraction of what he once was.

They fail, each time, because no healer they’ve brought can regenerate quirk-formed appendages, but he commends their efforts all the same. It’s out of desperation, sure, but he’s heard whispers of the new generation. In recalling his own sidekicks, he isn’t as scared for the future.

(Everyone else’s future. He’s so terrified of his own that he turns extra numb if he thinks about it.)

Selfishly, he just wants his wings for himself. They’d keep him plenty company. If he ever did get them back, he’d fly somewhere, faraway and alone to live out his days under his feathers and feel as empty as he wanted.

They fuss over him all day, not knowing those desires. They are private, and he only puts on his old, self-confident bravado so they don’t lock him up somewhere to have his brain picked and to fill the new holes with pill-shaped gauze.

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

(He can’t fully parse all of his feelings and they consume him.)

The healers for the week all failed, doing nothing but making his back bow and burn. It’s painful. Obviously, trying to stitch a body back together, or rather making a body make when it was so tired of creating—

(Feather after feather after feather, for how long?)

He’s glad his sessions are in a different room, a spare, horrifyingly metallic exam room across the hospital. It reeks like iron and isopropyl alcohol, but Keigo doesn’t mind. The filmy paper that rolls from the exam table gets soaked with his sweat as opposed to his familiar bed dressings.

Not to mention, it’s nice, not having to hear his neighbor’s screams and pleadings to God, any god, for reprieve. Calming.

(He feels less guilty. Less like it was his own hand that scarred up their bodies. If he can’t hear them, he only thinks of his own agony under ‘helping’ hands.)

His body is exhausted at the end of each day, and even his restlessness fades with the necessities of his body.

He doesn’t see you, and practically forgets about you.

It’s a week or so later when he takes one of his strolls, and finds you tucked away into your nook, dimly lit and with a blanket over your lap.

Keigo feels it as he nears you, that comfort that your expression bleeds into his very soul. Even as he watches your healthy hand nervously toy with the thin knit in your lap, it doesn’t dim you.

The lamplight dances in your eyes as you nod to him, “Fancy seeing you here, pretty eyes.”

“You’d never know it, but I live just down the hallway— me,” He touches his chest proudly, surprised by his own jest.

You gave a fake gasp, mirroring him easily, “Never knew I had such a well-known soul in my neighborhood. Forgive my transgression.”

Bending at the waist, as much as you can with your right leg extended, straight, you choke on laughter.

Keigo follows you in it, giggling, genuinely giggling, high and light and girlish like he’d never heard from himself before.

He snapped his mouth shut, thickly swallowing and shaking his head.

“No need to be shy,” You assured him with an affectionate turn of the head. “You have a lovely laugh.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, cute.”

Your head tilted farther, confused, “I’m simply being kind to you.”

Why didn’t he have the snark to reply to that? Probably because he was half-dead and on painkillers for nearly a month. He’d beat himself up about it later, maybe.

There wasn’t an ounce of malice in your tone, just earnestness that tugged at his own insecurities.

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

Keigo takes a few moments to respond, shaking his head without mind to the way his too-long hair flops in his face.

The banter isn’t forced, but it’s not welcomed yet.

As comfortable as you feel to him, Keigo isn’t comfortable.

“Same old, same old,” Living hell. “Boring, mostly. Painful, but dull. It’s crazy how much hell smells like cheap disinfectant, huh?”

You agree, quietly, “I’m pretty sure there’s many hells in this place.”

Keigo doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t.

You both regard the stars again with growing reverence. Specks of light dance back in your eyes as you both settle into the hard cushions like they were made of goose down and Sherpa.

...

Your conversations are... disjointed, to say the least.

There’s an inability for words and phrases to flow between you. There’s starts and stops, stalls like an engine that putters on tarry oil without ever truly firing. There are good feelings, still, safety in silence before words as you stargaze together through the comfort of a window.

It should feel disarming, to be so far from the sky yet have no way to reach it. And it is, but Keigo can swallow the reality these days. It’s easier when there’s someone on the mend close by, sharing in the discomfort of a rawed mind and the comfort of a yellow-toned fluorescent bulb.

It’s unspoken kinship. Keigo never had time for it in the past, but now it was all he had. There had to be some cruel irony in it (as if there wasn’t enough in his life), but he couldn’t make himself mind.

Everything he’d once excelled at, everything he had was gone. He was barren and stripped (don’t think about it—), exposed to the elements in all the worst ways. At least the hospital was clean and safe, relatively.

It feels safest with you near.

Sure, your conversations were clearly that of two horribly broken people, but that wasn’t new or surprising. It simply was.

“Do you know constellations?” You ask one night, a colder one, where you’ve got two blankets over your lap.

Keigo thought for a moment, “A handful, but I never took to stargazing, you know?”

You don’t relate, just chew your lip, the light of the dim lamp dancing across your irises.

“Can I show you some?”

“...Constellations?”

“What else?” You crack a smile. “Come on, pretty eyes.”

Whatever you’d like, he’d do.

He can’t refuse, he’s already getting weak for you.

Shifting, Keigo joins you on your typical couch for the first time. Your IV poles, thrumming and humming their own rhymes harmonize, quietly and mostly imperceptible.

You regard him even more warmly, so close, a little smile playing on your lips.

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

“Like... astrology. What’s your sign?”

You wiggle your eyebrows, knowing the double-meaning of your words.

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

“Capricorn,” He huffs back. He keeps his back off the stone-like cushions of the couch— his scarring had been itchy the whole day prior— so itchy—

You tap the plastic-y fabric gap between the two of you, grabbing his attention, “Hey, pretty eyes. Stick with me, let me show you where that one is.”

So, you do.

Your light-filled eyes trace the sky’s nighttime freckles, searching until you find what you’re looking for.

“There,” Your finger raises, tracing the patterns in the air. “That’s Capricorn, can you see?”

Not really, the stars are just a meaningless smatter. If there’s some sort of pattern he’s supposed to find, he comes up with none.

“Not in the slightest,” Keigo rolls his eyes. “Show me again?”

You don’t reply, but rather scoot a bit closer, mirror his hunch and pose with precision and tiny adjustments.

He doesn’t dare to breathe as you carefully grab his arm, extending it. You lay your cheek over his bicep, watching from the closest view to his own that you could.

“Do you see now?”

The only starlight he sees is right in front of him, soft cheek pressed against atrophying muscles. Sharing your heat so graciously as you would so easily come to, you chatter about the stories that are written in the stars, by all cultures, for so long.

Keigo hears, but he’s far more focused on how he wishes you were even closer.

...

After that night, you always share the same couch.

You face forward, right leg always extended and stiff-looking. Keigo doesn’t mind, hardly notices. He faces you, fragile back bandaged and kept away from the unforgiving grit of the uncomfortable couch. It looks a bit uncomfortable, the posing of it all, but with the words flowing easier, neither of you mind.

You keep showing him stars, the constellations you can remember and see in the night sky.

Keigo makes fun and crafts his own, connecting new dots and winding stories about them.

“See those three there?” He guides your hand, close enough to share your breath. “That’s the comb of the chicken. Star comb, if you will.”

You snort, rolling your eyes and pulling your hand from his grip, “There’s no cock in the stars, pretty eyes. Chickens can’t fly anyways.”

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

As much as you’re both learning to be human again, there isn’t talk of your injuries. Maybe, there’s mutual curiosity (you��ve been here two months. just for a broken arm, why?), but like fuck Keigo wants to broach the subject.

“S-sorry,” you stumble over your words, physically retreating. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

It is a fact, chickens can’t fly, but Keigo isn’t a chicken. He’s a debauched, defamed hero whose home is the same set of a milky white, hospital ward walls. Once, a real hero, before the war, before selling his morals just for a chance at rest, before blue flame— burning—

“Pretty eyes,” Your voice trembles, shaking and lonesome. “Come back here, now. Come on.”

You’re holding his cheeks, unkempt nails pressing (blessedly) a bit too hard into his cheeks. The heat of you is so close, almost scalding him, but he wants more of it, more of the heat that doesn’t burn—

“You’re okay, pretty eyes, s-see?” You hold yourself together, jerking your head to the wide window and glittering stars. “We’re just stargazing.”

Keigo’s has tears leaking down his face, but neither of you acknowledge them. You release him, quietly spinning another tale about a hero hung in the cosmos. He thanks you for it silently by tugging you into his side.

(It was the first night you really touched him.)

(The light in your eyes was so close, he wanted it all for himself.)

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

From the weakest to the strongest quirk, no one could revive his dead wings. There was no root to push from the scar tissue, nor resolve left in Keigo to try and make new pins and feathers sprout.

His back isn’t fertile. It’s just as poisoned as the rest of him.

...

He wonders where you disappear to during the day. He takes his strolls then, too. Waves to nurses these days, not charming, just friendly, trying to make a little brightness.

There’s one day where he asks one of the nurses he knows best for a pair of scissors.

She looks at him, worried, “Don’t tell me we need to put you on psych watch.”

“What? No,” Keigo shakes his head, shaggy hair quivering around the frame of his face. “I just need a bit of a haircut.”

“... We can ask the Commission to bring someone in—”

“I can do it myself.”

She doesn’t argue with the firmness of his voice, rather, she hands him a pair of safety scissors with bright purple handles. They’re for a child, but Keigo’s fine with that. They’d do.

When he was younger, and in a pinch (and so poor he tried to eat grass and lick scraps from metallic packaging of discarded junk food wrappers) he’d cut his hair with his own feathers.

Safety scissors would be even easier.

It did mean that he had to confront his own visage, which he had gotten too good at avoiding.

The bathroom in his room is small, it would’ve been claustrophobic if he was still carrying a twenty-five-foot wingspan.

But, he isn’t. It was just him and the scars on his back that he definitely wasn’t ready to see.

He’s caught glimpses of himself over the past weeks, but nothing substantial. No view that would’ve given himself time to scrutinize over his imperfection.

The dull hospital mirror reveals too much about him. It feels too vulnerable, makes his chest tighten, as he stares himself in his ‘pretty eyes’.

Purple stamps below his eyes, probably not from sleeplessness itself, just the sheer exhaustion of living. The one under his left is an odd maroon color, mixing with the scar that is burned into that half of his face.

The skin was once soft, plump cheeks always tended too and well taken care of by expensive skincare products. Now, it’s charred and gaunt. Healing, but still obviously scarred heavy and deep. The weak beard he’s been growing (accidently) is patchy around the thickened tissue.

It bothers him—

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror.

It helps to take care of himself for the first time in a long while.

He shaves with the cheap foam and single blade razor they’d given him in the toiletries pack the first days he was there, while he was still numbed out and half-dead. The metal glides over his skin, stripping away the numbness just a little. The stubble and cream slide down the drain and away.

His hair is different. The waves had for so long been pushed back and held that way with the winds of his flights. The longer, feathery patches now hang around his face, dangling down and mingling with the too-long sections that curl over his ears and down his neck.

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can.

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant.

All the same, the trim feels good.

Though, his mood goes sour when the screaming starts for the day.

The far wall of the bathroom was shared by him and his shrieking neighbor, and he took great care to never shower when they were singing their awful chorus. It grates on his ears; he should’ve been a bit empathetic to their suffering, but he didn’t care that much. It was so regular, that the screaming that might’ve once sent each one of his feathers (don’t think about, don’t fucking think about it) sharp as the razor in his hand, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Just a poke at his temple, a jab and a drop of water that irks him more than anything else.

It is a... somewhat pleasant distraction. He can focus more on his fellow patient than his own haggard appearance, the scar, the lack of red at his back—

It’s all okay, ‘okay’, until the patient starts babbling.

“M-make it stop!”

Keigo stills.

A scream tears through the drywall. Even without his wings, it makes him thrum, far-too sensitive.

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!”

There’s a thud and thump from the other room.

“Please, please!”

Keigo’s heart stutters in his chest, and the razor falls from his hand, clattering into the sink.

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

It’s your screaming and shrieking that’s burrowed in his ears. It’s your voice that’s trembling in desperation that has him running out of his room, nearly pulling out his IVs as the pole teeters and follows behind him.

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

A nurse is trying to stop him, urging him to settle but he can’t. There's an urgency in his chest he hasn’t felt since back before and he has to heed it. He needs to.

He pulls his forearm from the nurse’s grasp, hissing in his own pain, muscles pulling and aching with disuse but he doesn’t care.

The nurses drag him back from your door, and they almost have him, almost have him on the ground.

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

He clocks the nearest nurse with a tight fist, ignoring his atrophied muscles and kicking with everything he could muster.

They release him, probably out of shock. (He’d been such a model patient, so complacent and quiet until then.)

Then, he stumbles into your room, and sees you, and wants to die.

...

There’s plenty of times in his life where Keigo felt like an animal. When the Commission first got their hands on him, they took to studying and picking his quirk about to figure out the most efficient way to rebuild it to their needs and uses. Now then, he felt very much like an experiment, only half-human. He was too young to really ‘get’ it, but the feeling persisted.

Sometimes, he felt similarly when he played celebrity. The talk shows, the modeling and media felt hoops he had to jump through just to get a decent night’s sleep. It was an additional job aside from heroics, one he excelled at and entertained him. But that didn’t mean each flash of a camera didn’t suck him dry of a bit of his dignity.

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

You’re writhing and arching in your bed, curls of smoke rising from your papery hospital gown. Every machine in your room is screaming with you, bloody and loud and angry—

And scared. Keigo recognized well, and it drove pins into his heart to realize it was you.

It’s even worse when he realizes some part of you is burning.

At your bedside, he freezes.

Nylon straps wrap around your wrist, around your cast, and keep you held tight to the bed. You’re tied down, held to the plastic bed frame as you wretch and scream.

You don’t even notice him.

The smoke rises from your burning hospital gown. He rips it away, tears the burning section away with his shaking hand. It’s crass, and Keigo sees a bit too much. The gauze wrapping your leg below is burning as well, in little veins of char that burns black and smoldering.

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

He was trained, once, to see this type of horror and not bat an eye. That training was gone, and all that remained was his starshine with a writhing, molten wound.

Keigo is numb as the nurses drag him back to his room, trying to decide if he prefers the apathy and numbness to injury that his old heroism gave him, or the blinding pain of empathy when someone you... care about is hurt.

He can’t decide which he’d rather suffer with.

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

Keigo still takes his walks in the late evening, even if you aren’t there. If anything, he needs them more. He’s restless, always listening for the screams or howls from the next room over. His annoyance towards them was gone, and all that remained was a concern that knotted in the pit of his stomach.

There’s a sigh of relief on his lips when he finds you, nestled into a pile of blankets with your IV pole, watching the stars with sad eyes.

He joins you on your couch, cracking a decent joke that you don’t respond to.

Then, there’s silence.

It’s as loud as the stars are bright. The expanse of sound is filled by the hum of the cold air and distant beeping.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice shakes. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that. It’s not... Easy to look at. Or, I imagine it’s not.”

Keigo wants to rip the apology from your tongue and burn it.

“No, please, it’s alright,” He’s begging too much. “I get it.”

As much as he can, anyways.

You’re quiet again, biting your lip so hard it must be close to breaking skin.

“Can we... talk about things?” You ask, softer. “I can’t keep pretending.”

“...’Pretending’?” Keigo knows, but he selfishly wants to hear you say it.

“Well, you didn’t think I’ve been here for two months for my bum arm, right?” You laugh weakly. “And I’m well-aware that you don’t have wings.”

We just don’t talk about it.

“It’s nicer to look at the stars and pretend everything’s fine,” Keigo lays the statement down and regrets it.

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

It’s deafening to Keigo, he wants to speak, scream, but you’re quiet next to him. He can fill voids with his voice so, so easily, yet he turns in on himself.

“I know, it’s all hard,” Tears drip down from your words, though your cheeks remain dry. “I know, but there was a War two months ago, and we’re still holed up in a place like this, and we never talk about why.”

You turn to him, light dancing slowly in your eyes. Your lips part to speak, but no sound comes out.

“... I didn’t want to ask.” Keigo speaks, gaze shifting down to your leg. He questioned why a broken arm would keep you here, but you can’t just ask that. “It’s bad form to ask a stranger about their injuries unnecessarily when they’re traumatized.”

“But we’re not strangers, not anymore.”

Keigo can’t disagree.

...

You had been in a conbini when Gigantomakia tore through your little suburb. It was a few miles away, but the ground shook as if the goliath was just outside the automatic doors.

Your demon was near, though.

It was a man from the PLF who tore into you so badly. Just some random, emboldened civilian who ascribed to Destro’s ideology hard enough to think about taking out his frustrations on ‘weaker-quirked’ individuals.

That meant the young couple getting slushies in the corner, the old man behind the cash register, and you.

(You’d told your roommate you’d be home quick to help her study—)

(Your roommate is dead, under several tons of rubble.)

“The old man died before the heroes even started trying to rescue anyone. The couple was begging each other to hold on, but only one of them lasted. He died within a few weeks of being taken here.”

There was just you.

You’d hardly been touched by the man, the fucking villain, who’d set his mark on you. But it was more than enough to leave a writhing scar.

Keigo asks to see it, and quietly, you oblige him.

You’re in a gown, you always have been. The hem of it is pulled up by your visibility shaking fingers, and slowly reveals the scar in the lowlight of the ever-present lamp. He’d seen it once, but that didn’t change how startling it was.

It’s molten.

The skin is gnarled, twisting and scarred worse than anything Keigo’s ever seen. It was like the gore of a torn flesh was frozen over your right side, from your calf, to your thighs to your pretty hips—

“It goes higher, but that’s not exactly couth to show you,” you joke, but neither of you laugh.

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. It calms down, when it’s dark. Nighttime and all. It stops being so ornery.”

Keigo has a laundry list of questions, but with the expression on your face that just bleeds exhaustion into the air, and the fresh burns from the restraints on your wrists, he keeps quiet.

Maybe, three months ago, he’d jabber on about the injury, try to gode some information out on the villain, profile him, track him and beat the tar out of him for touching you—

But this is the present, and Keigo is a wingless soul. All he has is a prescription for painkillers on a rigid schedule, and the awareness that you both appreciate each other.

Keigo scoots to your uninjured side, lifting his arm up and around your shoulder. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but he doesn’t mind.

You tense for a moment, turning to him with wide eyes, scared like he’s never seen.

Then, you melt into him.

...

Keigo’s busy with healers the week, though none speak his language, literally. They’re international, foreign aid that’s been flown in to try to pick up the disaster of a society that’s been left in the wake of the War and the dissolution of Tartarus.

None of them make progress.

As much as it burns (haha) him to his core, he’s accepting the reality, slowly but surely.

...

Endeavor visits him.

It’s the morning after a particularly sweet night with you. You still sit together in the starlight, though you’ve run out of constellations to show him. It’s less quiet than it used to be, just little banter that flows between the two of you. It feels more genuine than his old bluntness, welcome after so much odd tension when you first started enjoying the heat of each other’s presence and the far-off stars.

You’d taken to spending time together during the day as well... As much as you could. Strapping you to your bed was for your own safety. Your broken arm had snapped the first few days at the hospital because of the severity of your spasms and flares. The nurses keep you wrapped up, but Keigo drags a chair close to your bed and talks to you as much as he can.

It helps you relax.

Though the days fill with tension as you try to negate the inevitability of your molten scar coming to life, nights remain calm.

And so, so sweet.

You’ve taken to tucking into his side, telling him little treasured facts about the cosmos. It’s easier to guide his eyes like that, as your cheek rests over his collarbone.

It lingers with him, the feeling of your casual touch, so tentatively offered and so graciously received.

He traces his own constellations over your gown, mindful of the flesh beneath that heats beneath his palm when he gets too close.

After one of those wonderful, early nights, Enji Todoroki enters his room with all of the gusto one would expect. Which is not very much, but the sheer presence of him is enough to make Keigo quake.

Just like the little boy from Kyushu, Keigo regards him with stars in his eyes.

The hero, not a speck of flame on him (thank god) pulls up a chair near his bed. Keigo sits cross-legged and cocks his head to the side.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods, number one?” Keigo smiles.

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

“Since my injuries, I’m mostly on bedrest,” Enji replied, folding his hands on his chin. “I’m number fifteen now, and that number will more than likely just drop. I’m not much of a hero with only one lung. I’m planning to officially retire at the end of the month.”

Keigo’s chest goes tight and it feels like he’s joking. He tosses on a tight smile.

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

“I’m no pillar. I never was,” Enji sighs, running a hand over his scarred cheek. “The kids can handle this.”

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

“That’s not fair—” He had been tossed into this all too early and god it fucked him up—

“Hawks,” Enji sighed. “There’s hardly anyone left to fight. They’re either dead, missing part of themselves, or gone.”

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart.

“Since when are you this selfish?” Keigo’s own words surprise him, but he doesn’t back down. “And this wordy, number one? You’ve changed.”

He spits the last phrase like an insult. He hates himself for it and would hate himself even more for it later.

Enji’s face remains solid and unwavering. The twitch in his brow is the only indication that Keigo’s words were even heard.

“Since we lost, Keigo. Things have changed.”

Keigo knew, of course, but it didn’t stop the anger from rolling his belly.

“Oh, like I don’t fucking know,” If Keigo still had his wings, they would’ve been extended and fluffed, angry as the pinched skin of his forehead.

This was his hero, he couldn’t be giving up too—

“Rest, Hawks,” Enji stand up, “You deserve it.”

Seems Endeavor really died. Enji’s face is worn, his expression neutral and jaw slack. He looks hollowed out and empty, not an ounce or morsel of fight left in him, even for a flightless bird in need of some encouragement.

There’s more to be said, but Keigo’s too angry to listen and Enji doesn’t have the energy to try.

Whatever news the old hero had come to bring was left undelivered.

...

You settle together the next few nights, both so damn tired, even though you’ve done nothing other than lay around a hospital for so-many weeks.

The air always vibrates between the two of you, that comfortable warmth shared between mingling breath and senses. Light dances in your eyes, twisting and bouncing like something otherworldly.

(Maybe it is.)

Your fingers lace together, held in Keigo’s lap. You trace the others hand in relaxing little lines and shapes, trying to soothe each other’s wounds, always.

“One of the doctors said the scar might start shrinking,” You break the tender silence, nosing into his jaw in the same way an affectionate cat would. “They’re not entirely sure, but it’s been stable for a few days.”

Keigo’s feathery (don’t think about it) eyebrows shot up, “That’s amazing, and there’s only a few spasms this week, too.”

(He kept good tabs on you, he had to.)

You hummed in agreement, a sad smile playing on your lips as it so often did.

With a quick blink, the light bouncing in your eyes faded, and the world felt a bit colder.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get out of here,” You pressed closer to him. “There’s shelters, and some cities are taking refugees, but I don’t—”

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

(Keigo, mind you, is still focusing on the lack of light in your eyes and the chill of the air in the room.)

Something stirs, deep in his gut, but he doesn’t say anything. How Keigo used to have such a mouth, he didn’t know. These days, all he can is act, like somehow the loss of his wings came with the loss of his tongue.

Tugging you by the waist, mindful of the tender scar, he pulls you close, internally resolving.

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

(It’s his last visitor at the hospital.)

There are no trumpeters, guards, or the like. It’s just the haggard president, matching Keigo with his dark circles and creased with new wrinkles and far-more grey sections in her slicked back hair.

The air stands still as she pulls up a chair, burying her head in her hands.

She, the Main Suit, has never been one to inquire as to how he is. Many of the others at the Commission were sweet, kind to him in youth, but she was all business.

Some things never change.

She breaks the silence of the room, “... do you want to be done, Hawks?”

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

They meet each other’s gazes; twenty years of fucked-up emotion being shared between the pair of them.

“We’ve done everything. Every healer, every quirk, every treatment, conventional or otherwise,” she’s too soft. “There’s nothing left to try.”

He knew that, he had to know that, right?

His throat feels sticky as he swallows down bile, the scars on his back burning anew. It’s somatic, it has to be, but his flesh crawls and writhes just like yours. His starshine. He hates the way his mind is racing, just as fast as it always has, but his body lacks the ability to keep up.

He grounds himself in the thought of you, his starshine. Your body. Your heat.

His narrow pupils refocus on the light tremble in her shoulders.

“I’m being honest, so I’ll ask again,” She meets his gaze, grey eyes as soulless and full as ever. “Do you want to be done?”

“Well, obviously I can't fight—”

“I mean it. All of it, Hawks. Maybe a few media appearances, but all this... shit. You’ve done enough.”

You’ve done enough.

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

That’s all he’d ever been, right? That is him, he is Hawks, for fuck’s sake, no one other than Dabi (may he rot and die and immolate in hell) even called him his actual name in years.

Keigo is Hawks.

His mouth is dry, and he tries to ignore the tears pricking his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s beginning to cry, and definitely not sure why tension is draining from his shoulders as he sighs out an answer.

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

Hospital beds are a hot commodity, and now that Keigo had thrown in the towel (along with everyone else) to stop trying with his wings, he was to be discharged within a few days.

(“Just a few more days to adjust your body to your new medications—”)

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

Your last night together is so bittersweet, you taste it on each other’s tongues.

You have an episode early in the day. Your screaming wakes the floor, the burning smell of flesh cementing that it was you.

Keigo’s only half-lucid when he shoves into your room, holding your hands while nurses desperately try to administer pain medication.

It’s too much for you, the crawling edges of the scar once again consuming you in the molten, glowing amber veins of heat that tore through you so terribly.

You sleep the day away. Keigo stays with you for much of it, stroking the bones in the back of your hands.

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night.

His own IVs have been removed, he’s to be discharged first thing in the morning—

And he wants one more night of stargazing, please, please—

(Why’s he clutching at you so dearly?)

But you’re not in the common room.

Rather, you’re under a few thin blankets, eyes tired and lightless. Your arm is out of its cast, laying over the bed clothes. It scares him shitless at first as he tentatively enters. It’s you though, and the moment you see him, it’s like a flame, a good one, heats the room full and wide. A few specks of light dance in between your irises as your skin crinkles in a gentle smile.

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

The knowledge settles in the room like a weight that neither of you can move. So, Keigo takes to it and does what he can.

As opposed to his normal perch next to his bed, he sits beside you, removing the restraints on your wrists and helping you to sit up.

Keigo fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a folded square of paper and placing it at your bedside. It’s his phone number, an odd detail. Relationships usually shared far-earlier.

But there is nothing linear or normal about the two of you, or the situation you both sit and stewed in.

You both are making peace with it at your own pace.

The bed creaks as you move to sit beside him, legs dangling from the bed. There’s gooseflesh beneath your gown, the boring pattern obscured by the darkness of the room, but the molten lines of the scar ever-visible.

“I’m glad you’re getting out of here.”

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

His hand finds your waist, careful like he always is, but so giving in the same breath.

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

It’s inherent, and has been forever. Since the moment you both stargazed in the common room and watched the worlds high above twist and shine without regard to your own hells, you’ve been ensnared in the other and neither of you have a want or need to let go.

Even with the inevitably of progress.

Keigo drowns in these thoughts, and has been since Endeavor visited and he was reminded of the harsh reality just outside of their tree-ringed prison. The reality he has to return to—

He presses his lips to yours, more desperate and needy than he had before.

Keigo had taken his share of you before, little pecks and the rub of the bridge of his nose over your jaw and cheeks. He had been a bit greedier with his hands, uncaring of the eyes of the night nurses when he’d touched you in the common room.

But he’s insatiable that last night.

The sheets of the plastic bed are too scratchy, they’re too harsh for you, and it burns Keigo to his core as he lowers you down. He cradles what he can, as your fingers latch onto his clothes (real clothes) and tug him as close as you can get.

The machines in your room cry, but they’re forgotten.

You nip at his bottom lip, dragging yours across his clean-shaven jaw before laying into his neck with kiss after kiss. His muscles shake, holding him over you, both of you atrophied but uncaring.

You suck a deep, throbbing bruise on the fragile skin of his neck. It’s something dark that won’t fade for a week. The thought stirs something in his chest, a white-hot feeling that wants to crack his ribs and consume him. He doesn’t give in, he can’t—

“Stay with me, pretty eyes,” you whisper, so sweet and gentle as you push floppy strands of hair from his face. “Stay here, just for a little while longer.”

The reminder jolts him back, back to you, and the way your body (so tired, but unwavering) jumps and rolls under his touch. He’s a glutton for attention, always has been, but your particular brand and sounds keep pulse hot and hard.

Shaky fingers pull his shirt over his head, sweaty palms push the gown over your hips. By the starlight, you’re both seeing too much of each other, but this is a goodbye, there’s no time to dwell on the discomfort.

Keigo tries to be careful as he adjusts your legs, tries to be mindful of the raw skin and flesh that makes you whine and half-writhe. You clutch at him, still trying to pull him closer despite the proximity and heat, like you need him as opposed to just wanting him.

There’s no fanfare in it, just more rushed kisses and the swirling of fingertips over covered clit. You catch each other’s gasps in the mingling of breaths you share. It’s choking, suffocating, yet entirely not enough. You beg, quietly, for more. Your fingers latch onto his wrist and urge him to help pull your panties off and away.

More, more, more.

By the time he slides into you, you're still tense, but so is he, and in a pile of tension and fear and wishful-thinking, you both come undone, and undone, and undone—

...

Keigo leaves the next morning.

The press is there, flash bulbs blinding him after so long with just fluorescents and starlight. He manages an easy wave or two, no autographs or gleaming smiles, just business and numbness that he needed to hold onto, so he didn’t fucking break.

He slips into the Commission’s car and leaves behind the hospital, you, and its wall of man-laid greenery and prays to forget it all quickly. He has enough to mourn.

...

Keigo wants to off himself when he arrives back at his penthouse.

How can he not?

His ‘home’ (if he couldn’t even call it that) is a dusty, time capsule of everything before. Before he got fucked up with the League, before the PLF, before the war, before Jin—

Every untouched bit of his life from when it was a few, precious fractions better stands unturned. A discarded jacket, wing slits visible and frayed. Scattered dead feathers that make his skin crawl. Memorabilia too, old merchandise that he never cared much about, but he definitely didn’t need to be seeing it now that ‘Hawks’ had burned up and died.

All disgusting reminders.

Something burning fills the base of his skull when his gaze fixates on one of the old plumes. He reaches out to touch the spine of it, instinctually expecting a little jolt of feeling from it, like he always had.

But there’s nothing. It’s dead, decaying, and so is he.

The reality of it breaks him, quick, hard and hot. He burns alive a second time.

He clears the liquor cabinet while blaring music from his over-priced stereo system loud enough to make his ears ache and throb. The music isn’t drowning anything out, but it’s better to pretend.

He finds a bottle of old pills and downs them with a few swigs of expensive whiskey and lets go.

...

When he comes to, he’s staring into a smashed mirror, with his own nails crusted in blood from thin welts in the skin of the scar on his face.

Much to his chagrin, he hasn’t forgotten anything. The memories of blue flames, red feathers, and the smell of your skin mixed with isopropyl alcohol feel brighter than ever. He grounds on them as he sobers up, latching onto the pain of his scar tissue and the solace you gave.

And won’t ever give him again.

Something in him wilts as he defeatedly goes to his phone, arranging any number of things to get him the fuck out.

...

The penthouse is sold, his more important belongings gathered in bland boxes.

And he leaves. There’s no sentiment holding him there, not anymore.

Fukuoka is gone and some distant memory as he drives (yes, he forgot that he had that skill) him and his things to his new home.

His penthouse had been immaculate. Crisp interior design, new shapes and colors that were on trend. He was hardly home to appreciate the modern beauty of it, but he’d received enough compliments from random hookups to know that it landed aesthetically.

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

His penthouse had been sold to the highest bidder and far behind as he arrives at his new, high home in the sleekness of his far-too fancy, disused car.

...

He gets a call from an unknown number, another one, on some snowy day, deep in winter.

Keigo debates answering it. He almost lets it slip to voicemail. The only calls worth answering are the handful from the Commission that he has to heed, or the odd one from Rumi, Fuyumi, and on occasion, Endeavor.

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it.

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears—

“Starshine?” He sounds breathless, the air leached from his chest as he white-knuckles his thighs.

He’d given up on you contacting him, yet there you were, or at least your voice, mechanical and high bouncing around preciously in the walls of the cabin

There’s a moment of silence, nearly, just your light breathing that receiver picks up.

Your voice trembles when you break it, “Y-yeah, it’s me, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call—”

You don’t need to be sorry; he would wait for you forever, and then some.

“I d-don’t actually have a phone? Mine got trashed, uh, back then. I’m on the hospital’s line.”

Keigo hadn’t really considered that, he’s slipped the paper with his number on your bedside without a thought.

How much had you lost?

“No worries, chickadee,” Keigo is sure his smile is audible. “Why call now? Miss me too much?”

He had no idea.

You laugh, though it soured as you spoke, “I get discharged tomorrow.”

Keigo’s heart seizes again and he’s sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest.

“The guy who gave me the scar and all? He fucked up a few other people, word eventually got here. Once the scar stops... glowing, it rests. If you make it until then, you’re good.”

And alive.

“The whole injury is stable, has been for a week now,” Surprisingly, there’s no relief in your voice. “They need my bed, so they’re releasing me.”

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

Keigo doesn’t say it, but the question hangs in the air and is quickly answered.

“They got me a spot in one of the shelters close by... It’s only a couple hours by train!” You try to sound happy, but it’s so hollow and unnatural; it makes Keigo physically sit up.

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?”

Keigo hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud.

Something is buried in his chest, something warm and molten, like the old veins of your scar, just kinder and better. It’s full of urges, so seldom used, selectively as needed throughout his career as a hero.

The need to keep something precious safe.

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

“Pretty eyes?” You sound scared through the phone. “A-Are you alright? I can call back—”

“No, don’t, do not.” Keigo lets the flame fill his chest, welcoming it. “You’re not going to that shelter.”

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

“You do.” Keigo keeps his voice even, the muscles in his back writhing. If he still had his wings, they’d be puffed out and large. Impassioned with feeling he finally let breath between his ribs. “I’ll come get you, tomorrow.”

“... P-Pardon?”

He doesn’t hesitate, and for a moment, he starts to feel like his old self.

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawks x reader #hawks #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #hawks x you #takami keigo x you #hawks fanfic #hawks imagines #my hero academia #mha x reader #anyways tag wall #enjoy loves #smorch

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spencerspecifics · 3 years

Note

HI HI HI PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE WRITE MOREID AT PRIDE AND SOME PINING AND SPENCER THINKS DEREK IS STRAIGHT BUT HE ISN'T AND THEY KIIIITTTTTHHHHH

I absolutely love your energy fuck yes!! I’m so sorry this took forever, ive got school, work and some other personal things happening so I appreciate your patience!

No TW, B u t, a creep hits on Spencer at pride, so if that is upsetting please note that! Thanks :)

———————————————————————

Pride

———————————————————————

Garcia had been pestering Spencer about going to pride for the past week now, and it was slowly driving him insane.

He used almost every excuse he could think of. When he first turned her down, he had simply said, “Sorry, I’m going to be busy that week.” And of course, Garcia being Garcia, she stole his calendar to see what he was busy with (spoiler alert: he had nothing. Except a reminder to go grocery shopping, and email some professors and research scientists back).

So, she persisted, and he came up with a dozen more excuses; “I was considering flying out to see my mom”, “The local museum has a new interactive archeology exhibit for adults, and I want to learn more about ancient structures”, “I have to do a presentation on thermodynamics”.

None of those excuses work, as she sniffed out every lie, “Spencer, you hate flying to Vegas last minute, that archaeology exhibit has been open for months, and your calendar is empty!”

So with her persistence, and legitimate bullying, Spencer found himself finally agreeing. “Fine, but come over to my apartment before we leave so you can help me.” After all, he wasn’t really familiar with pride parades, and what the scene was like there. He was going to be a fish out of water, he already knew that for certain.

True to her word, Garcia showed up an hour before the pride parade was set to start, carrying a coffee in each hand- how she possibly knocked on his apartment door, Spencer didn’t know.

“I brought you a pick me up, that way you have no excuse to be in a bad mood!” She spoke in her signature sing song voice as Spencer let her inside, she barreled in like a hurricane. God, Spencer wasn’t ready for this.

“Thanks..” Spencer decided to reply with that lame response, and not with what he was actually thinking. He took the coffee from her wordlessly as she stepped in further, going to sit down on his couch.

“You excited?” Garcia asked as she set her cup down on his cluttered coffee table. Reid just shrugged, “I don’t know. I don’t do great with crowds.”

“But you do great with disarming murderers?” “You know that’s different-” Spencer said, doing his best to argue, “Reid it is literally not. Both are anxiety inducing, but one is life or death, and it’s not pride. So you can do this.”

Spencer sighed, resigning himself to not arguing with Garcia. Because she was right, though at times her arguments sounded wild. He just had to get over this anxiety and show up at pride, he could do this, right?

Wrong. So, very, wrong. They had left his apartment with thirty minutes to spare, deciding to walk over to where pride was being held- as it was only a few blocks away in a public park.

And as soon as they got there, Spencer wanted out. There were so many people, more than he estimated (and his estimations were usually spot on.), and there was just chaos everywhere. Music, dancing, shouting, singing, drag queens running around happily. Spencer wasn’t sure what to do. He was out of his element.

Garcia seemed to sense that, though, as she dragged Spencer over to some stalls that sold pride flags, pins, and other miscellaneous pride related things.

“C’mon Reid, why don’t you look around and find something you like?” She offered up, something for him to do- something for him to stay busy with. He could do that. Spencer nodded simply, Garcia stayed by his side- looking at pride related wear for herself.

Spencer ended up deciding on a small pin that simply said; “love all”, planning to stick it on his messenger bag strap. Garcia bought a pin as well, but hers just had her pronouns on them; “she/her/hers”.

Looking at all the pride apparel was a good distraction for Spencer, he felt a lot more calmer now- though that didn’t stop him from feeling like he stuck out like a sore thumb. He’s just not familiar with this world, and it’s awkward to suddenly be in the middle of it.

Spencer was in the middle of looking at another booth that sold flags, possibly considering buying himself a small one to stick in his pencil cup at work, because Garcia left him to go compliment a drag queen- when a voice broke through.

“Hey, pretty boy!”

That was a voice all too familiar, what on earth was Morgan doing here? Spencer looked up at him as he made his way towards him. “Hey,” Spencer spoke awkwardly. Not sure what to say.

Spencer was gay. He was fine with admitting he was gay, but he hadn’t really told the team. He thought they figured it out on their own. And they probably had, but still, having his coworker see him at a pride event- it was anxiety inducing.

“What’re- what’re you doing here?” Spencer asked, stumbling over his words as he dropped the small flag he was holding back onto the vendors table.

“Oh, well I’m on the local PFLAG committee. I’m just here to hand out flyers and stuff. But I’m glad to see you’re here, I’m guessing Garcia’s here too?” He asked Spencer casually, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on Spencer.

He was on the PFLAG committee? Why? To help queer people, obviously, but that had to mean he was gay or something- Spencer couldn’t stop his mind from coming up with every possible answer to why Derek was on the committee.

Spencer just nodded in response, he moved himself back from the vendors table to get out of the way, so other customers could look at the flags being sold.

“Yeah, she’s- there.” Reid pointed her out, as if on cue she came out of the thick crowd that had started to gather back up, the parade portion of pride had concluded by now, and people were coming over to the vendors section.

“Hey, Babygirl!” Derek called over to her, and Garcia somehow lit up with a smile brighter than the one she was wearing before, “Well, hey!” She responded enthusiastically, walking up swiftly to give Derek a quick embrace, which he happily returned.

“I wasn’t sure how long you were staying for, but I’m glad I caught you!” Garcia started rambling to Derek, about how the drag queen she met was so nice; “Her name was Mysteria Hysteria. Isn’t that genius?”.

Spencer just stepped back from them both, not sure what to do, not sure if he fully belonged. Pride was a nice event, it was. But the longer he stood around, the more he felt like he should be leaving. Everyone was laughing and smiling, everyone was just happy. And Spencer couldn’t stop racking his brain. In the beginning, he couldn’t stop thinking because of his anxiety, but now he was searching his brain for a reason why Derek was here and what it meant.

Of course, a stupid large portion of Spencer’s mind went to “maybe Morgan likes men”, and then an even larger and stupider portion of his mind had the absurdity to think; “maybe he’s interested in me”. Which Spencer did not even want to remotely entertain, because if he fell down that rabbit hole, he’d never climb back out.

Because yes, he did like Derek. He liked him a lot, the start for his liking towards the man was innocuous enough- which is why it was a problem for Spencer. He didn’t realized he liked Morgan until it was too late. And now he had been battling these feelings for years. Spencer wasn’t ever going to act on them, he just had to live with them- which he had been doing, which he has been content with. But this new information, about Morgan being here, being part of PFLAG- it was going to make Reid’s mind implode in on itself.

Reid decided the best thing was to say; “I’m gonna get some water, I’ll be back.” To which Derek and Garcia both nodded to, and Spencer was off, away from the vendors stand and the only two people he knew at pride.

And while that was a good thing, it was simultaneously not so good. Because now he was alone, overwhelmed, and thinking too much. And now he had a task to do, find himself some water.

That task seemed to be more difficult than anticipated, as the prides layout was a confusing maze, spencer had to pass in front of a group of drag queens in order to get to the food trucks that were on site- but he eventually got there.

He walked up to the first food truck he saw, it didn’t matter what they sold, he wasn’t getting it.

“What can I get for you?” The cashier asked him, “Just a water, please.” He ordered, the cashier nodded and pulled a bottle out from a cooler that was nearby within the truck, handing it over to spencer as they told him his total, a dollar twenty five. Spencer paid quickly, stepping back and away from the food truck, as he wasn’t sure where else to go now. He didn’t want to go back towards Derek or Garcia, he honestly wanted to go home.

He just needed a minute, some space and time to breathe and relax. He was stressing himself out. And about what? Nothing of goddamn importance, just a stupid crush he had been living with for a while now.

Spencer had been leaning against the back the food truck for not long, only a couple of minutes as he was absorbed in thought as he fiddled with the cap on the water bottle.

He was doing his best to follow the grounding techniques he had learned, something to help him calm down, when suddenly- a stranger emerged out of the crowd.

“Hey there, handsome.” The man said confidently as he strode up to introduce himself Spencer. Spencer looked up to meet his eyes, the man in question was a fine looking guy, chiseled jawline, long shoulder length hair, a bit of facial stubble. He was handsome. “Hello,” Spencer answered hollowly in response. In an ordinary situation, he would try and seem more lively- but he wasn’t in a normal situation, not at all.

The anxiety of attending pride was stress enough on its own, but now knowing the guy he had been drooling over for years was here- and worked as a PFLAG volunteer? It was enough to make him lose his mind.

The man didn’t seem to notice Spencer’s empty response, however, as he answered suavely in response; “I couldn’t help but notice you from across the way. I’m Fabian,” Thankfully, the man- Fabian, didn’t stick his hand out for a handshake, instead casually pushing his hair back a bit.

“I’m Spencer,” Reid replied simply, knowing it was best to ride this odd social interaction out, rather than try and fight it. “That’s a lovely name,” Fabian complimented, “Is this your first time at pride, Spencer?” He asked him casually, taking a step forward, closer to Spencer. He was all too confident for Spencer, he too comfortable with invading Spencer’s space. If Spencer could’ve, he would’ve stepped back.

“Uh, yeah. My friend dragged me along.” Reid explained, twisting the bottle cap back onto his half empty water bottle. Fabian nodded, “Your boyfriend didn’t take you?” Fabian asked him. That was a leading question, Spencer had alarm bells ringing in his head the second he heard it. “No. He- um- he met up with us here.” Spencer replied unconvincingly, Fabian obviously did not believe a word he said.

“Well,” Fabian took another step forward, practically blocking Reid in against the back of the food truck, leaning in farther to whisper in Spencer’s ear; “I don’t see him around. So, why don’t you and I get out of here? Hm?”

Spencer wasn’t sure of what to do. He wanted to kick this guy in the crotch and just book it, but he wasn’t sure if his FBI status would protect him in this scenario. He wasn’t sure what could protect him in this scenario.

“Pretty boy! There you are!” A saving grace broke through, and suddenly Fabian was stepping back, and Morgan was walking up.

Thank god, thank fucking god, that’s all Spencer could manage to think as Derek came to stand beside him. “Hey, babe.” Spencer said, cringing at his voice, at what he just said. But that feeling only lasted for a moment as Fabian was still standing right there, staring them both down now.

Spencer could only throw his wish in the sky and hope Derek caught it coming down, ‘please catch along to why I’m calling you babe’ Reid was trying to say.

And Derek caught it, “Hey, baby, was worried about you. Who’s your friend?” He said in his smooth voice, a voice Spencer couldn’t forget. He especially couldn’t forget now, being called ‘baby’ was something Spencer especially could not forget.

“I’m Fabian, you’re Spencer’s boyfriend?” Fabian asked, as if them both calling each other ‘babe’ counted for nothing. “Yeah, I’m Derek.” Morgan responded simply, sliding his hand around Spencer’s waist as if to prove a point. Fabian just nodded, looking between Spencer and Derek one last time before talking; “Well, it was nice to meet you, I’ve gotta get going. See you.”

And then, he was off, fast walking away from Derek and Reid, escaping the terrible situation he had created. Fabian quickly disappeared into the thick crowd, and by then Spencer had his hand squeezing his water bottle all too tightly- as evident by the terrible crunch sound it made. He was too anxious to let go.

“Hey, are you okay?” Derek asked him softly, pulling his hand away from Spencer’s waist. “Can we find somewhere else- can we go sit down?” Spencer asked him quickly. Reid didn’t want to talk about it right this second, right where it had happened. He wanted to leave, he wanted to leave pride and never come back.

Derek didn’t ask a single follow up question as he led Reid away from the food trucks, taking him back towards the vendors stands, and then a bit further back, into the normal-not-so-pride-parade-filled park area. Somewhere less stressful, less scary.

“What did that guy want?” Derek asked Spencer casually as they made their way towards a bench that was sat under a large oak tree. Spencer didn’t speak right away, instead he waited until they were seated to start talking.

“He was trying to flirt, but then he wanted me to leave with him.” Spencer explained as he took a deep breath in, just being away from all the loud sounds and sights was helping him calm down. Derek rubbed Spencer’s back in slow, circular motions as Spencer kept talking.

“He was a classic example of a narcissistic personality, it just made me so uncomfortable- he invaded my space.”

“He was a creep, Reid. Simple as that,” Derek kept rubbing Spencer’s back slowly, Spencer nodded. “I know. Sorry, it shook me up.” Spencer attempted to apologized, and Derek was immediately having none of that.

“Reid, no. Don’t apologize for that, don’t you dare. He was a creep, I’m sorry you got caught up with him. It’s okay if you’re shaken up. We can stay here until you feel up to going back, or we can leave. But I’m not leaving you.”

And so they sat for a good amount of time on that park bench, at one point Derek stopped rubbing Spencer’s back, instead just keeping his arm stretched out against the back of the bench and against Spencer’s back. Spencer loved it, but he knew if he thought about it for too long he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking. That was his biggest problem, he couldn’t stop thinking.

He had to know, he decided, he couldn’t just wonder why Derek was on the committee for PFLAG. He wanted to know, he had to.

“Derek?” He spoke up softly, sounds of laughing and shouting and music were still heard in the distance, but they were safe from the sounds under the tree. “Mhm?” Derek hummed in response, looking up at the aforementioned tree that was providing shade for them.

His eyes were tracing the way the branches curved and bent around each other, it was something he did to pass the time. Spencer thought he was extraordinary for it, Derek loved to see where things went; he was curious- after all these years, and all the bad they had seen together, Derek still loved to search and find the beauty.

“Why are you on the PFLAG committee ?” Spencer asked him, it was thankfully an innocuous enough ask to not draw too much of Derek profilings side out to pry apart his question. Derek shrugged, and was quiet for a second before responding, “I know what it’s like to be a scared kid, unsure of his identity. If I can help someone through that, that’s all that matters. Same reason I’m in the BAU, to help people.”

Spencer stayed quiet, Derek’s reason was so sincere and so sweet and kind- and only driving him to think further. Was Derek still unsure of his identity? Was he an ally? Why did he have to make Spencer swoon so hard without even trying?

“So, you’re just an ally?” Spencer approached Derek carefully with that question, not wanting to impose or be rude- but just feign simple curiosity, praying Derek wasn’t using his profiling skills right now to decode Spencer’s fake motive.

Derek didn’t notice, thankfully, as he chuckled lowly in response; “No, pretty boy, I’m bisexual. I don’t really tell the team, but it’s not confidential information. Plus, Garcia found Grindr on my phone. Can’t hide anything from that girl.”

Spencer nodded, mumbling something in response about how Garcia had hacked his email to make sure he was free for pride. And then, the two fell into silence again. But it didn’t last for long, because Derek wanted to know just as much, why was Spencer here?

“What about you, Reid?” Derek asked him cautiously, the way you approach a puppy you find on the side of the road. Calm and slow, trying to get him to trust him bit by bit. “What about me?” Spencer asked, not wanting to answer anything about himself unless Derek was specific.

“Are you an ally?” Morgan asked him, leaving the question open ended. Spencer could say as little or as much as he wanted. This is how you get him to open up, Derek knew that for a fact. “Um.. yeah, I mean- who isn’t? I just- I have to be. I’m.. gay.” Spencer admitted all too awkwardly, not at all in a normal fashion. But nothing about Spencer was in normal fashion.

Derek nodded slowly, not responding as he stared back up, tracing his eyes over the tree branches yet again.

A few hours had passed, Spencer and Derek eventually left their peaceful bench under the large oak tree, and instead moved back towards the parking lot.

“Garcia’s got a ride home already- I think she got that drag queen to get her home.” Derek explained as they approached his truck, Spencer nodded as he followed Derek. “Anyways,” Derek continued speaking, “I can give you a ride home. Let’s get going.”

“You don’t have to-“ Spencer started, Derek immediately shut him down. “I want to, c’mon. It’s late, you’re tired. I know you are. Let me take you home.” Spencer just nodded in agreement, he couldn’t argue with Derek, even if he did try. Morgan was a stubborn man.

So, Spencer followed Derek into his truck, and they sat in comfortable silence as they started on their journey back to Spencer’s safe space, his apartment.

By the time Derek pulled his truck into the apartments parking lot, Spencer knew something was just the slightest bit wrong. Derek had barely spoken for the entire ride, and usually he loves to say something, to make Spencer smile or laugh, or even just nod and mumble in agreement. But he had done none of that on the way to Spencers.

“Are you alright?” Spencer asked, turning to face Derek as he put the vehicle in park. Derek didn’t meet his eyes, staring at the steering wheel instead as he spoke; “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just thinking.”

“About what?” Spencer pried, absentmindedly unbuckling his seatbelt as he spoke, “About today.” Derek said, not explaining further. “Was today bad?”

Derek shook his head, “No. It started weird, it’s ending pretty good, though. But I’m gonna regret today forever if I don’t do something right now.”

Now, Spencer was confused. Not sure at all what Derek could be talking about, “What do you mean?” He asked, voice quieter than before.

Derek said nothing as he unbuckled his own seatbelt, turning to face Spencer as well, and then he leaned in- closer than they had ever been before. Their noses were almost touching, and Spencer didn’t move. Instead, he watched Derek’s eyes expectantly.

Then, Derek broke through, they were no longer intersecting each other’s personal space- now they were fully destroying each other’s atmospheres. Derek’s lips were on Spencer’s, a chaste, soft, quick kiss- something Spencer would have wanted to go for a lot longer. But then, he pulled away just as fast.

“...That’s what I meant..” He mumbled after a second, looking back towards the steering wheel, looking away from Spencer- and more importantly, not seeing the smile on Spencer’s face.

Spencer couldn’t help it. He knew it was terrible to be smiling right now- he should jump and say something to fix what was happening. But he had to smile, he couldn’t believe that had actually just happened, his brain was still computing and re-circuiting, trying to savor the memory and not forget how Derek’s lips felt against his.

Spencer dragged himself out of his own head quickly, though. He did all he could think of to do in the moment, get Derek back. “Morgan.” Spencer said, tugging on Derek’s sleeve as he did so, forcing him to look back at Spencer and meet his eyes again.

But Spencer didn’t say anything, and he didn’t give Derek the chance to speak, either. Instead, he leant forward, pressing his lips against Derek’s. This is all he had wanted to know for the longest time, and now he had it.

Maybe pride wasn’t so bad after all, you just have to be with the right people for it to work out.

———————————————————————

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pascalpanic · 3 years

Text

Caffeine Rush: Chapter Seven / Decaf

W/C: 4k

Warnings: language, dirty thoughts, all of the dirty thoughts because Javi is a horndog, male masturbation... general spice. pining that could make a pine cone tremble.

A/N: welcome to pining central, enjoy your stay :) (ps when Steve says “Javier Peña” I need you to read that in the voice of Anthony Mackie going “SEBASTIAN STAN”)

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter || Masterlist

ordinary coffee that has had most of its caffeine removed from it before the beans are roasted.

You are a goddamn test on Javier’s self control. He feels like those biblical stories of men fighting back against temptation to prove themselves to God, except the only thing he has to prove is to himself. To you.

He’s always been enraptured by you, captivated by your smile and laugh but since you went ice skating, he hasn’t been able to get your body out of his mind. The way you fell asleep on him last night, nuzzled in like it was the safest place on earth. He could feel your breasts press into his skin, the warmth of your thigh hiked across his abdomen. If the past week has been some caffeine-induced fever dream, it’s becoming real now. You, a figment of his imagination before, maybe, are all flesh and blood and God, is he desperate for it.

Javier hangs around your apartment when you’re gone at work. He doesn’t have much else to do, considering you’re gone and he knows hardly anything about the city. He watches the daytime television on your couch, usually meanders to the coffee shop for a drink, spends some time there, and returns to the apartment.

He feels like he’s couch-surfing, like he did for a summer in his college years. He feels guilty occupying the space in your home, especially without payment. As he walks to the bathroom, he takes a long glance into your bedroom. The queen-sized bed is mussed, unmade before you left for work. The fitted sheet is pooled in the middle beneath where you sleep, the various blankets tossed about. It looks like the coziest damn thing he’s ever seen, especially after a couple of nights on a couch.

Javier almost thinks about giving in, waiting for you to ask him to sleep in your bed tonight then jumping at the chance. Maybe he will, if he’s tired enough. Maybe he won’t, but maybe he will. He can think of nothing better than the endless whir of the radiator as your perpetually-cold body nuzzles against him, brushes your nose against his bare chest.

It’s been a long time since Javi has fucked anyone, and he’s starting to feel it. He’s a little antsy, and the image of your body, your ass as you ice skate past him, haunts him like a bad dream- or rather some illicit fantasy he knows he shouldn’t be having.

Would you want him yet? You’ve told him you love him, but that was an accident. When he kisses you, you kiss back harder. Hell, you initiated the first kiss. You seem like you’ve been all-in on this relationship, taking things at a rushed pace that Javier certainly doesn’t mind. He spends a lot of the day contemplating that, standing on the tiny balcony of your apartment and smoking a couple of cigarettes.

At this point, he needs a distraction or he’s going to have to take matters into his own hands, quite literally. What better to kill the horny buzz making his head spin than to call Murphy?

The phone is in your bedroom, on the nightstand. Javier dares to sit on the edge of your bed, and actually moans aloud at the plush comfort, the way his ass sinks into it. Goddamn, he’ll have to get one of these. He wants nothing more than to lay back and fall into the bed, wait for you to get home and pound you into the comfortable mattress. But he doesn’t. He stays strong and picks up the phone, dialing the new Murphy residence in Miami.

After a couple of rings, a familiar voice answers. “Murphy’s.”

“Hey, bastard,” Javier chuckles, and he can hear the blonde man’s laughter from across the receiver.

“Javier Peña,” Steve drawls, dragging out the name. “Good to hear your voice, man. You finally come out of a ten-day celebratory drunkenness?”

“Don’t talk to me about binges,” Javier teases, but he smiles a little. He’s missed the man. He’s glad neither of them got in any trouble over the entire Los Pepes situation- God, that feels like ages ago now. It’s hard to believe he’s only been in D.C. what, eleven days? If Steve’s math is right, yeah. “No. I’m in D.C. still, if you can believe it. Just… bored.”

“Oh really?” the man scoffs, leaning against his kitchen counter in Miami with Olivia on his hip. “And why’s that? What are you still doin’ up there anyway? Thought you were goin’ to visit the old man.”

Javier shakes his head. “Plans changed. There’s, uh… there’s a girl.”

Steve lets out a wolf whistle, laughing. “And how much does she charge a night?”

“Not one of those. She works at a coffee shop around here,” he informs him. “She’s… she’s really something. Nothing I ever thought I’d be into. She’s gorgeous, man, and so energetic all the damn time. Seems like she has an IV of coffee from her shop,” he chuckles, looking off into space. He takes a pause. Steve doesn’t speak. “I wanna be with her Steve. I don’t… I don’t know if I can go back.”

He’s silent a little longer. “This is some kind of practical joke, right?” Steve says after a beat, barely holding back a laugh. Never has Javier been so sincere, so real and honest and open. And more specifically, he’s never been like this over a girl. Almost… mushy. Soft. “Tell me more,” he says, hoping the joke will give up.

Javier talks about you, describing every little detail with a grin on his face. He tells Steve about Tie Guy and ice skating and your piece of shit car, how you can spin in circles on the ice and how you remind him of a busy little bee, fluttering about the coffee shop.

Steve is genuinely rendered speechless; a hard thing to do. He blinks down at Olivia then straight ahead at the refrigerator, covered in photos and magnets and drawings. He can’t imagine Javier ever wanting something like this, like what he and Connie have, but he sure sounds like it. “That’s… something. Good for you, Javi,” Steve chuckles, resigning to sincerity. “I’m happy for you.”

Javier grumbles back. “Don’t get too happy. I have to go back to Calí in three weeks. She doesn’t want me to leave… I don’t know what to do, Murph. I can’t bring her with, you know that, but I can’t just leave her here. And I sure as hell can’t quit.”

“You could quit.”

“I’m not going to, how’s that?” Javier huffs and crosses his arms, annoyed by Steve and his goddamn wording loopholes. “I just… fuck. I’m gonna go think about it before she gets back.”

“She comin’ to your hotel? You sure you aren’t paying per night?” He smirks.

Javier’s quiet and Steve isn’t sure what it means until he talks. “I’m, uh, staying at her place. She insisted.”

Steve whistles again. “Damn. You’re whipped, Peña. Well, I’ll let you go. Call again soon. I miss ya, bud,” he tells Javier in a moment of earnesty then hangs the phone back on the receiver, bringing Olivia to her nursery to change her diaper.

Javi sighs and falls backwards on the bed, admiring the way the mattress holds his body compared to the couch. Yeah, he’ll definitely need to sleep in here tonight or he’s going to crack his spine.

The issue will be you. He could handle it on the couch; it was like a soft, adolescent form of love, innocent and warm. Of course, it could still be the same in your bed. But would it? Is there not a different set of implications that come with the two of you sharing a bed?

Snuggling with you on the couch was nice. Wonderful, perfect even. Javier loves falling asleep with you in his arms. But in your bed, arms curled around him, maybe even being his little spoon… that perfect body pressed flush to his own, your soft ass against his groin, your breathing pushing back into his chest… that would be an entirely different thing. And he wants it, he really does, but he isn’t sure he’ll be able to control himself.

He slept like shit the last night, to be honest. You on top of him prevented him from moving, and Javier is an active sleeper. His neck was at an odd angle and his back twisted. His body feels like it did after that fight with Tie Guy. He can’t- wouldn’t- invade your privacy of your bed without you home to give him the go ahead, but he’s so damn tired. Not even the coffee helps.

So Javier indulges in one of life’s little pleasures he rarely gets to experience: a nap. Curled up on his side on the couch, blankets pulled snug around his fetal-positioned body, Javier drifts off to the sound of the noon news on the television.

That’s how you find him when you come home. He’s peacefully asleep, his lips parted and mustache moving with his exhales. Well, he’s clearly alive. That’s good.

You’re not sure how long he’s been asleep, so you leave him, making yourself something to eat in the kitchen. You avoid the living room as you get settled in, changing out of your espresso-stained clothing and into something more comfortable.

When you’re all comfy, makeup removed and a warm sweater on, you sit at the other end of the couch. Javier’s curled into a ball, his feet just inches away from your legs. You hope when he moves, he’ll feel you there and wake. If not, oh well. He deserves the rest.

It’s gray and cloudy outside, and you snuggle into the corner of the couch while reading your worn copy of The Great Gatsby. It’s the one you’ve been re-reading recently, what you were reading that first day Javi wandered into your coffee shop and subsequently your life.

Javi wakes not long later, maybe half an hour, to the sound of your book crinkling. The paperback’s spine crunches with wear, and his eyes flutter open to see you tucked against a pillow. God, you look like an angel, the light from the cloudy day filtering in and illuminating you from the back. Your face is calm and peaceful, focused as your eyes trace the words of F. Scott Fitzgerald. “Hi,” Javier mumbles groggily.

Your expression turns to a smile and you set down the book. “Hey.” You take his legs and drape them across your lap, tracing your fingers across them. “How’d you sleep?”

He groans. “Okay. Neck hurts.”

“That wouldn’t be an issue if you’d just sleep with me,” you sing-song to him, stroking his legs through the comfortable pants he wears. “My bed is super cozy.”

God, does Javier know it. It felt like your love itself when he laid down and the warmth of it swallowed him, practically whole. “Maybe I’ll give in,” he sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “How was work? Sorry I didn’t visit.”

“Boring as always,” you chuckle. “What did you do today?”

Javi frowns as he thinks about it, his brain fogged with sleep. “Not much. Called Murphy, talked a while. He’s doing good.”

“Good,” you nod and smile. “When will I get to meet this elusive Steve?” You ask, softly kneading at his legs through the blanket and frowning as you realize he’s wearing… jeans. “Wait, pause. Are you seriously wearing jeans?” you ask him and laugh, lifting the blanket to confirm what you already suspected.

He frowns defensively, crossing his arms. “Maybe.”

“Why the fuck would you take a nap in jeans, Javi?” You laugh.

Javier looks away, frowning. The stubbornness shows. “I don’t own many comfortable clothes besides what I wear to work, if you haven’t noticed,” he retorts, but you can’t help but giggle. “Plus I thought I’d only be here to get fired.”

You smile at him lovingly and cup his face. “You sweet, stupid workaholic. Let’s go shopping later, get you some cozy stuff.”

Javier warms against your touch but maintains a pout. “I like jeans.”

Rolling your eyes, you huff out a laugh. “Would a pair of sweatpants be detrimental to your wardrobe, Javier?”

“Stop using big words,” he groans. “I’m barely awake.”

The large mall is annoying to Javier, full to the brim with last-minute (or maybe prepared, he never holiday-purchases) shoppers. He holds your hand, shooting feisty glares at anyone that dares to bump against his or, god forbid, your side. “Relax,” you tease and squeeze his free hand. The other carries a bag containing two hoodies, three t-shirts, and two pairs of sweatpants. “You’re not on a mission, and you certainly don’t have the knuckles to pitch another fight.”

He looks at his hands and scowls. You’re right. They’re no longer black and blue but faded yellows and greens, a spare bit of purple over the bones. The fight wasn’t that long ago, really, even though it feels like an eternity.

You drag Javier into a favorite shop of yours. He follows you around like a lost puppy while you search through clothes. He even hands you one or two tops he thinks you’d look nice in. You kiss him on the cheek and he dares to smile for a moment before returning to his stone-faced annoyance at such a packed area.

The dressing rooms are nicer, much more spaced out and offering places to rest. Javier sits in a chair across from your little cubby as you try things on. Every time you find something, you come out and model it for him. He comments, always positively, gives a little applause and smiles at the twirl you give in the big trifold mirror.

There’s one pair of leggings that hug your ass tight. Javier nearly salivates at them. “I like those,” he comments. “They look comfortable.” The same follows with a pair of jeans, even more flattering. He crosses his legs and nods, giving you similar comments.

Then come the dresses and tops. They’re all low-cut, not the wintery clothing Javier’s always seen you in. They show off your cleavage, and one scarlet colored blouse with a low neckline and fluffy sleeves makes Javier’s eyes simultaneously light up and darken. “How’s this one?” You ask, tugging at the sleeves.

“How much is it?” He asks, leaning back and looking at you through lidded eyes.

“Uh…” you tell him the cost and look back up at him, expecting a comment. “Why?”

“I’m buying that for you myself,” he smirks up at you, eyeing you up and down in a way that makes your skin feel intensely hot. The sight is stunning to him, and your flustered smile makes the smirk a little more devilish.

Javier does end up buying you the shirt, and you purchase a few other things you liked. But that scarlet shirt is stuck on Javier’s mind in replay: the subtle valley between your tits, how they filled out the shirt just perfectly and tugged at the cloth covering them, the way they look painfully soft to the touch, especially through that soft fabric. He wonders if you were wearing a bra under it. Then he has to stop himself.

You eat dinner late, chatting mindlessly over everything and nothing. Javier has no work to speak of now, so he tells you tall tales of the hunt for Escobar, some exaggerated and some underplayed. He mainly listens to you, asks about your past and your future, your family and your job. He could never tire of your voice, the soothing lull that warms him from the inside out, just like your skin flushed in that goddamn red top.

He drives the both of you home, humming softly to the songs on the radio. He’s beginning to recognize more and more of the top-40 hits on a certain preset station, songs he’d never listen to on his own. He glances over at you, gazing out of the window, and feels his body warm again- not just in his heart, but his stomach and lower too. He dares to steal a glance down, at the soft swell of your tits in that sweater. God, he wants to get you naked.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what you want and he’s too afraid to ask, too afraid to shatter this blissful phase of adoration without the sexual attraction. He wonders if you feel it too, if your clothes suddenly feel too restricting and too warm when you run a hand down his bare back.

The nightly routine ensues: you shower. Javier changes, this time into a new hoodie but leaves his legs bare, wearing only boxers on the bottom. He waits on the couch, and when you exit the bathroom, he takes his turn. He returns and sits next to you on the couch.

Tonight, when you ask him to share your bed with you, he doesn’t say no. In fact, he doesn’t say much of anything, just yawns softly and stands, taking your hand.

It’s a sacred space, your bed. Javier knows it. He rarely fucks women in his; whether it’s for his own privacy or fear they’ll fall asleep there, he can’t say. But your bed is such an intimate expression of you, and he can see it. He can see the divot in the mattress where you sleep, the way you arrange the pillows just right for your own head. It is a queen size, but it’s single-occupancy: until now, that is, and Javier feels honored you’re willing to share this holiness with him.

He gets into the bed on the other side of you, the warm blankets enveloping him, and he nearly lets out a moan at the comfort. Compared to the hotel bed and the couch, this is sleeping on a literal cloud from the heavens. He lies still, waiting to see what you do first. Not wanting to overstep anything.

His prayers are answered when you snuggle into his side. You rest your head on his chest, kissing his sternum through the soft material of the hoodie. A hand rests on the other side of your face, and your legs both encircle one of his. Javier smiles, wrapping an arm around you. He presses a kiss into your hair and murmurs a goodnight, letting his head fall back. He has no time to worry about this situation before he falls asleep.

He falls asleep almost immediately, which makes you chuckle through your half-conscious state. He seems to always radiate heat, Javier. Your layers of blankets upon blankets suddenly feel unnecessary when a heat source the strength of the summer sun fills your bed. His chest is strong and firm beneath you. The rise and fall of his chest is like a boat rocking on the ocean, putting you at ease and allowing you to rest.

Fuck. He knew this was a bad idea. Why did he do this?

The clock reads 1:48 and Javier is wide awake, staring at your popcorn-stucco-whatever the fuck it is ceiling. He wasn’t able to process this before sleep overtook him, before his consciousness was wiped and with it, his inhibitions.

Your body is pressed to his so perfectly. You sleep without a bra, and Javier can feel his arm being slightly sandwiched between your breasts, the way they press further into it every time you inhale. Your thighs are warm with sleep, and he can feel your core pressed against his hip, even while you sleep and even through the layers of clothing.

Javier feels like the embodiment of slime. You’re asleep and all he can think about is how fucking hot your body is, how much he wants to press you into this mattress and wake you with an orgasm. He wants to palm your tits and make your nipples harden through that flimsy shirt, to slide his fingers beneath your pajama bottoms and-

He can’t take it. He feels so wrong, the smell of you surrounding him and choking him like a thick perfume, even in its subtlety. He does not deserve to sleep next to you, innocently, like someone you love, when all he can think about is his own carnal desires.

Pushing back the covers, Javier gets out of bed before any more blood can flow to his slowly hardening dick. This is all wrong. He should not be doing this, thinking these things without knowing you feel the same.

But the guilt is as strong as his arousal. He watches you for a moment, torn between his options, before meandering through the darkened bedroom and finding his way into the bathroom. He turns on the bright lights and forces himself to stare at the bulbs, to make his pupils shrink from their blown state of sleep mixed with desperation. He’s fully awake now.

He needs to get the hardened length down. He can’t do this, can’t allow himself this suffering while you sleep in the next room.

The sink. Cold water. He gasps silently at the splash of the ice-cold water against his face, dampening the edges of his hoodie. It doesn’t work enough. Again. Nothing. He feels like a teenager, unable to control himself. The cold water is a good idea, though.

Javier strips down, trying to avoid the urge to take himself in hand and fix this here and now. Turning the water as cold as it can go, Javier turns on the shower and steps in.

Agony is the best term he has. It makes him want to squeal like a fucking pig as he shudders from the cold. It doesn’t work to force his erection down, but what use is it when it’s not something physical but mental stimulating him? The cold shock didn’t do shit. Javier’s still achingly hard. He turns the water warmer and sighs as it gradually turns to a tolerable temperature, one that he can relax under and allow himself to let out a deep sigh.

He has no other options, unless he wants to wait it out. Leaning against the wall, Javier strokes himself, biting his lip and hoping the water pressure will cancel any soft moans he can’t avoid. It doesn’t take long when he’s this aroused, when he knows exactly what the fantasy in his head would feel like.

Javier is panting and sweating, from the effort and the growing heat of the water. He feels disgusting but it feels so good, and he can’t help imagining you doing this to him, you spreading your legs and feeding the fire between his own.

It only takes a few minutes. He gasps as he cums, with a force he’s never brought forth with his own hand. He bites his lip so hard he’s sure he might cut it off, not allowing the desperate sounds to reach a level you could hear. When he’s done, he groans and cracks his neck. “Oh, little bee,” he whispers, agonized as he lets the water wash the evidence of his sins down the drain.

When he’s done, Javier walks into your bedroom, silently, in the dark. His previous boxers were stained with a patch of his precum; he can’t put those back on. He drops the towel and puts on different boxers.

After he’s changed, he looks at your bed longingly for a moment. The soft sheets, soft mattress, the soft body between them. But in Javier’s head, he’s forsaken his right to the warmth, the comfort.

When you wake in the morning, hours after you thought you heard the shower running, you find Javier is not in your bed. There isn’t even a warm spot where he lay, just your body shifted further from your normal sleeping position. When you wander out to make your morning coffee, you find him. He spent the night on the couch again.

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starsstruck · 4 years

Text

shampoo bottles

a friends with benefits gone wrong. harry can’t bring himself to get rid of everything you’ve left at his place after things fall apart. beat up red cars, crumpled sweatshirts and of course, shampoo bottles.

based off the song “shampoo bottles” by peach pit.

pairing: harry x reader words: 6.9k rating: M

a/n: this is just a little something i had inspiration for ! like i said its based off the song “shampoo bottles” by peach pit (great song great band). its an OU but im not regarding tour dates or quarantine or wtv, i just have dates so its easier to follow since i go back and forth a lot ! its a bit of a different writing style than ive done before so hopefully everyone likes it ! would love to hear what you think, and enjoy !

***

November 20th

The shampoo bottles taunted him.

The worst part was Harry wished they weren’t empty. He wished that there was still even a drop left in them so that he could rub it through his own hair. Although having milked them of their last contents weeks ago, they still sat in the corner of his shower.

The smell lingered on them. The sweet smell of some flower, maybe some orange blossom, he didn’t ever really know. All he knew is that he was addicted to the smell, and seeing the bottles sit in the corner as he showered made him feel like he could smell them, like he could smell you.

He remembered the day you brought the bottles over, claiming to be annoyed with the way his shampoo just wasn’t the same. The idea of you smelling like him brought a heat to his stomach, he liked the smell of your shampoo even better. And now the bottles sat there. Taunting him.

October 15th

“What’s with the bag?” Laughing as he pointed at the bag in your hand, he wondered what you could possibly be bringing with you to the washroom.

“Brought my own shampoo,” you pulled a bottle out of the canvas tote bag around you were holding, smile wide on your lips. “And some other things. Hope you don’t mind.”

He jutted his lips out in a mock pout. “What’s wrong with my things?”

“Don’t like your shampoo.” You hummed, disappearing behind the still open door frame that led to the washroom. “Don’t worry! I still like your nice moisturizer, does wonders for my skin.”

He scrambled up in his sheets at the sound of the shower turning on. Standing in the door frame of the washroom, he watched as you pulled off your underwear and dropped them aside. He knew that you could feel him watching you, and that you were pretending not to notice or care.

Stepping into the shower, shutting the glass door behind you as you let the water hit your back. He stayed where he was for a minute, until steam was beginning to fog the glass door that separated you two and he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Let me do that,” humming as he stepped into the shower next to you, just as you were reaching for the shampoo bottle that you brought.

“Awfully nice of you,” moving aside slightly, you passed him the shampoo bottle. Moving around so that he stood directly in front of, you letting you stand under the stream of water. Squeezing some shampoo out onto his hand, he put the bottle down and rubbed his hand through your hair.

“Feels nice,” you shut your eyes, Harry watched water droplets fall down your forehead that end up getting caught in your eyelashes. He brough both hands to your head, massaging the shampoo in. Taking extra time to rub his fingertips into your scalp, enjoying the content smile on your lips as you leaned into his touch.

He knew you, he knew you well. In this moment he knew that you were doing it on purpose: the small moans in the back of your throat as he rubbed his hands against your head, the way you arched your back slightly, and the way you titled your head back in the same way you did when his head was between your thighs.

Tilting your head in his hands so that the stream of water hit your scalp, rinsing out the suds. The smell around him was only of the sweet orange blossom mixed with something else, he could never put his finger on it.

“All done,” he grinned, tapping your eyelid gently. He watched as you rubbed the water from your eyes, blinking them open to gaze into his.

He kept his hands around you, dropping to your shoulder as he pulled himself closer to you. Semi hard length pressing into your thigh, your eyes dropped down and were soon followed by your hands. Jolt sent through his abdomen as your warm hands wrapped around him, lightly tugging and pulling.

“’s nice,” he mumbled, feeling the blood leave his brain and relocate between his legs. Your grip tightened around him, thumb rubbing over his tip in a way that made his hips buck into your hand. His grip around you tightened when your eyes met his again, tongue darting out to lick water from your lips.

His legs nearly buckled when you dropped down to your knees, remaining under the shower stream. He didn’t mind being in the colder side of the shower, especially if you were going to be on your knees in front of him.

“Want to get me in your mouth?” His voice nearly surprised him at its hoarseness. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had you like this before, it was just that every time you had your hands on him it drove him completely crazy.

Watching your slow nod, Harry wrapped a hand over your head, tugging on the recently washed strands as he encouraged you. Not able to take his eyes off of you as you wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, slowly easing him into your mouth until your lips met where your hand was still wrapped around him.

“Look so good like this.”

November 20th

His hand didn’t do you justice, but it was all he had. It was like the smell of your shampoo filled his senses every time he stepped foot in his shower, no every time he stepped foot in his washroom. Every time he saw those goddamn shampoo bottles sitting. Untouched.

He just couldn’t bring himself to throw them out.

Nothing could clear his mind. It had been weeks, and nothing he did could get his mind off of you. Maybe that was his own fault. He knew it was his own fault. His place was littered with traces of you.

Part of him probably got something out of his pain, but he didn’t care.

Not when he couldn’t bring himself to clean out his bathroom, because of the way your toothbrush sat so nicely next to his. Or the way you had brought him some organic soaps, claiming they smelt really good and were made out of all kind of nice essential oils.

He couldn’t even bring himself to use that bar of soap, knowing the more he used it the smaller it would get, and soon it’d be gone.

But his wallowing really hit an all time high when he found your sweatshirt.

He really thought you had taken all your clothes with you. You didn’t leave a lot of them at his place to begin with. Clothes being the one thing you claimed you didn’t need as you helped yourself freely to his closet.

But when he was going through said closet, he found a bunched up blue sweatshirt he had forgotten he kept.

September 2nd

It was an odd rainy night, and Harry didn’t feel like going out. He was no stranger to poor weather, but the rain seemed to be the last thing he needed to decided that he would rather stay in. Relieved when you had shared his opinion, agreeing to come over with a bottle of margarita mix. It was just the two of you, Harry just wanted a calm night in with his friend and maybe a couple drinks, ones they could make themselves.

Soon you were seated on his couch, leaning against the armrest with your feet pointed towards him. Cozy in your sweatshirt, gripping your drink tight between your fingers.

“Would you let me draw one for you?”

You spluttered out a laugh at his request. “God no!” Your laugh deepened when you glanced up at him. “Nothing against you, Harry. Just want a professional to do it.”

The movie put in was long forgotten, now facing each other and talking about where you should get your first tattoo. You had told him what you wanted to get, you just had no idea where it should go.

“Fine,” he huffed, playfully of course. His head felt hazy, couple of drinks have come and gone and he was still nursing another strong cocktail in his hands. “So, where are you gonna get it?”

“That’s the problem,” you muttered, taking a big sip of your drink. “I don’t think I want it really visible, like not on my arms or anything.”

Harry nodded, knowing that you were nervous about regretting a tattoo. “You thinking maybe around your ribs?”

He watched as you lifted your sweatshirt a bit, finger tips brushing over your ribcage. “I don’t know – heard it hurts really bad there.”

“Not too much,” Harry thought over his own experience, although knowing you were a bit more uneasy with needles.

“I was thinking like,” you patted the spot where you hipbone was. “My hip. Kind of cute, no?”

He bit back a smile. “Very cute.” The alcohol spoke before he could. He thought it was much more than cute, he thought that a tattoo on your hip was the best idea you’d had in years.

“Plus it’s kind of,” you paused, licking your lips. “Intimate.”

He sucked in a breath. He didn’t like the idea of someone else finding your tattoo. A tattoo that he was helping you figure out. He didn’t like the idea of someone kissing it, of someone peeling off your pants and being delighted to see a little tattoo there, just for them.

It was selfish of him, and he knew it wasn’t right. The two of you had both been single for a while and he had gotten so used to having you around, he was getting jealous at the thought of someone taking you away from him.

“You’re out of it,” you giggled, after a moment too long in silence.

Harry broke himself out of his daze. “’m not drunk,” he muttered into his glass, although he was. And the alcohol was clouding his mind, and he didn’t know what to do about it. “Hip is a really good idea.”

Mentally wincing at how eager he sounded, he watched as you nodded, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. “Think it’ll hurt a lot?”

He chuckled to himself. “It’s a tattoo darling, course it’ll hurt a bit. I can come wit’ you if you want, hold your hand and all.”

Smile broke out on your face, teeth no longer gnawing on your lip. “That’d be nice,” humming as you placed your drink on the table in front of you. “Did yours hurt a lot?”

“Couple of them were a bit more painful, yeah.” He nodded, honestly not really remembering. “Get used to it after a while. One’s on my chest were probably the worst.”

“I like your butterfly,” you moved a foot out, nudging his thigh with it. “I would be too scared to get something that big though.”

“You’ll see,” he laughed. “Once you get one you won’t be able to stop.” He mindlessly trailed his hand over his shirt, where his tattoo rested.

“Don’t know about that. I don’t know if I would want a too many,” you hummed into your cup. “I do like all of yours though.”

“Yeah?” He sat up straighter. “Which ones your favourite?”

You sit up straighter as well, shuffling towards him a bit on the couch. “Can’t choose just one.” He tried not to jolt when your fingertips met his forearm, gently trailing up and following the lines of his tattoos. “What about you?”

He was silent for another moment too long, watching your fingers move up his arm. Finally glancing up at you, meeting your eyes with a lazy smile. “Don’t know either.”

“You’re completely pissed,” you laughed at his slow response, his hand moved without thinking, and pinched your cheek.

“Maybe,” his mouth and hands were working without his mind. “Skin is burning hot darling.” Hand smoothing around your face, he moved away for a second to place his drink next to yours on the table before tapping your forehead with a cool fingertip.

“’s cold,” you laughed, eyes shutting in a slow blink. “I heard,” you paused for another moment, as Harry brought his hand away from your face. “Heard tattoos feel like a bunch of little scratches.”

“Something like that,” he hummed, not being able to recall any tattoos he’s ever gotten in this moment.

“It’s like,” he moved his hand to your waist, lightly pushing under your sweatshirt. If he weren’t so close to you, he would’ve missed the little gasp that left your lips. “Like this.”

His nails weren’t nearly long enough to properly scratch at your skin, but he slowly dragged them along your ribs. “But faster, and it’s a needle.”

“Doesn’t really sound like the same thing,” your laugh sounded nervous, nearly breathless.

“Not really no,” he laughed lightly. Shuffling even closer to you, leg pressing against your knee. The smell of your shampoo overwhelmed him, he had always loved it and in his intoxication, it was the most potent smell ever.

“What are you doing,” your voice dropped down to a whisper. Where his hand had earlier been on your cheek, he pressed a little kiss.

“I’m just,” Harry didn’t know what he was doing. He just wanted to feel your skin under his lips, he just wanted to be close to you. “Helping ya’ out with tattoo ideas.”

He pressed another series of kisses to your cheek, eliciting a sigh from your lips. You didn’t push him away, and his hand that had been scratching at your waist gripped onto your skin.

“’s just me,” he babbled. “Skin’s so warm, can’t help –” he breathed in deeply, hand on your waist moving to your knee. He gently pushed your leg aside as he settled himself in closer to you. His lips were by your jaw, and he wanted so badly to feel your own mouth under his. “– can’t help m’self.”

You didn’t move under him, except for a single hand coming up to grip the neckline of his shirt. “Le’ me,” he pleaded, voice low. “Please, let me.”

You tilted your head up a bit towards him, lips ever so lightly parted. “Go ahead.”

He took that as all the invitation he needed, mouth sliding from your chin to cover yours. He sighed into your mouth, knee coming up to the couch as he repositioned himself.

He kissed you deep, tasting you for the first time and not able to get enough of it. Your hand on his shirt slid around his neck, gripping tightly onto his skin as you pulled him closer. His hand gripped your leg, thumb rubbing small circles through the loose materials of your sweats.

“’s good, you’re so –” Harry couldn’t form one coherent sentence. He wanted to feel you everywhere, he wanted to cross this uncharted territory and feel your skin on his. A part of him, a tiny part of him in the back of his head was telling him this wasn’t right but he was pissed and he wanted you. Badly.

“Harry,” your voice was a dream. He had moved his mouth down your jaw again, this time biting and licking as he moved down your neck.

“Jus’ wanna kiss – want a taste.”

He lifted himself from you for a moment, helping you reposition yourself so that you could lay on your back, Harry hovering nearly awkwardly over you but he didn’t care. It was a flurry of lips on skin and quick moving hands. He pushed a hand under your sweatshirt, delighted in finding you not wearing a bra, while you shared lime flavoured kisses.

You were pushing your hips against his, rubbing against him in a way that made his breath catch in the back of his throat. He was hard and heavy in his sweatpants, drunk enough that he if he kept grinding against your hip in the way he was now, he wouldn’t last very long.

“Fuck,” you whimpered from under him, his fingers pinching and pulling at your nipple under your sweatshirt while his mouth met yours again.

He snaked his hand down your tummy, only hesitating when he met the band of your sweatpants. “Want to,” he panted, “wanna feel you.”

“Yes.” The single word was a moan from your lips, as his hand pushed past your pants. Fingers snaking under your underwear, he nearly choked when he pushed through your folds.

“Fuck me,” he never wanted to leave you. “You always get this wet?”

You only whimpered from under him again, head pushing into the cushion of the couch as he circled your clit. He focused on the way you whined and pleaded under him; the way you jolted when he pushed a finger inside of you, and then two.

You were warm, he couldn’t get over how hot your skin was all over and how much it made him melt. His lips were gliding all over your skin, sucking sweetly on your neck and moving roughly over your mouth. Catching your moans into his open mouth as if he could keep them forever.

“I – Harry please don’t stop,” you were squirming underneath of him. Arching yourself off the couch, pushing yourself against him.

Rush through his body at how desperate you sounded, at the way his name was moaned from your lips. “Cum fo’ me darling,” he curled his fingers inside of you, pushing every spot that made you gasp.

He worked you over the edge, eyes narrowing on every move you made. And when you clenched around his fingers, thighs clamping together and back rising from the bed, he wished he could stay in this moment forever.

After a moment you peaked your eyes open, lazy smile on your lips as he pulled you in for a deep kiss. Wet fingers slipping out from under your sweats, gripping your skin.

“So gorgeous, you – fuck –” he bucked into your hand as he felt you palm over his bulge. Your lips pressed into this straining neck, your turn to lick and bite at his skin while you grabbed at his cock over his pants.

“That’s it,” he praises, hips bucking against your hand. Your fingers trickled under the band of his sweatpants, gripping him blindly. Your other hand was patting his shoulder, nudging him with a muffled voice. “Harry, move up a bit.”

He scrambled up to his knees, pulling you up with him until he sat with his back against the couch with you on his lap. You were pushing up his shirt, kissing at his neck while your hand gently jerked him off.

“Jesus you’re –” he fell into your touch, leaning against you. The whine that left his throat as your hand left his cock came from deep in his chest. Watching closely as you spat into your hand before shifting over him again.

He couldn’t help the way he gripped your thighs as you worked your hand over him, until he was bucking his hips into your hand. A whining mess, begging you over and over again to keep going, to not stop and to never leave him.

“You are – fuck,” he held you tight as he dropped is head in the crook of your neck, breathing uneven as he came on your hand. After a moment he pulled you in for a sloppy kiss, helping you off the couch with wobbly legs to get the both of you cleaned up.

November 20th

He remembers that day like it was yesterday. The way you whined and whimpered under him for the first time, the way he found himself intoxicated (and not just by the alcohol).

Shy smiles were shared as he offered you stay the night, too late and both still too intoxicated to drive. You had decided you were too hot in your sweatshirt and grabbed one of his shirts instead. He pulled you in close under his sheets, kissing over your exposed skin and wanting to melt in the warmth coming off your body.

And apparently, you had completely forgotten about your sweatshirt.

The next morning neither of you said anything. Nothing of the sorts was even brought up again until a week later when you guys were out for a drink and he suddenly ached to have you under him. He had kissed you outside the bar, pulling you home with him until you were sat on his thigh grinding and moaning against him.

It had continued that way for a couple more weeks, neither of you really making any mention of it except for slipping hands under clothing and stealing kisses after a couple drinks.

That was, until you had sex for the first time. He was barely drunk, only needing one drink as an excuse to call you. Bugging you nonstop from outside the bar, wanting you to be there with him. He had managed to get you to drive over and pick him up, in your sweats and his shirt because you had been just about to go to bed.

You had walked him into his place, making sure he drank two glasses of water before he pulled you into bed with him, saying that since you were already ready for bed you may as well just stay the night there with him.

Cuddling into you, he couldn’t help kissing his way down until soon he had you on your back with his head between your thighs. Telling you over and over again that it was a ‘thank you’ for coming to pick him up.

But it wasn’t enough for him to grind against the mattress, while he pulled an orgasm out of you. He was greedy, he wanted another one, he wanted to feel you everywhere.

He eased you up to your knees, bending you over on the mattress with your ass in the air while he fumbled with the condom. It was everything he could’ve dreamt of and more, so much more. He couldn’t get enough, and didn’t think he ever would. Holding your close against him, chest pressed to your back as he praised you endlessly. You were just as warm around him as you were his fingers, and he had to grip you so tight to make sure it was real.

Both ending the night passed out side by side, he knew the next morning he needed to say something.

September 19th

“Bit sore,” you laughed, following him around the corner from the washroom. He was getting some breakfast ready, and the sight of you standing in his shirt and nothing else made him want to take you over the counter again.

“Sorry about that,” he smiled, mind worrying over what to say next. “I – last night was fun, yeah?”

Leaning against the counter next to him, grabbing a handful of grapes from the bowl in front of you. “It was,” you voice was quiet, nearly timid.

“I –,” he paused again, unable to form the sentences he wanted to. ‘I like fooling around with you’ or ‘I like fucking you’ didn’t sound nice rolling off the tongue. “I like doing… what we’re doing. And I want to keep doing what we’re doing. If you do too.” He bit his lips together, mentally cringing at how awkward he sounded.

“I do too,” you said, averting your eyes from his as you nodded. “Both single, and it’s been a while, and…” Harry was relieved to see you also didn’t seem to know how to voice your feelings. “We’re friends.”

He nodded slowly, watching your every move. “Then, we’re doing this? Don’t need to wait for an excuse to have you come over anymore?”

Laughing lightly, you finally met his eyes. “Yeah,” you voice was airy. “But if either of us meet someone or need to end it, we do. Right?”

“Right,” he nodded, almost too eagerly and the new agreement. “What do you want for breakfast?”

November 23rd

Apparently, he couldn’t escape you outside of his house either. Deciding that wallowing by himself wasn’t going to get him anywhere, he thought that maybe a run would help clear his mind. It worked, for a good ten minutes before he stopped dead in his tracks.

Blocks away from his place he saw a red car parked. The same make and model of your red car.

Was it you? Could it be you? What are you doing so close to his house? He hadn’t spoken to you in weeks, not since the fight that made you leave in such a rush that you left your shampoo bottles in his shower.

Tentatively walking towards the parked car, not seeing the pendant that you kept hanging off the review mirror. He decided it was too risky, that if it was your car, he wasn’t ready to see you, especially if he was snooping around your car.

But the car was still there the next day. Deciding fuck it, and walked towards it, hoping he didn’t look suspicious for whatever reason. As he got closer, he saw for a fact that there was no pendant hanging from the review mirror, and that those dents by the door were not there.

It wasn’t you.

He didn’t know if he was upset or relieved. He almost missed those dents on the door, always telling you to get it fixed. Stubborn as always, constantly telling him that “I don’t need to get it fixed if it doesn’t affect how it drives.”

That car was the last thing he saw before you left his house the last time he saw you.

November 5th

“What are you feeling for dinner?”

You hummed, opening up his fridge to stare at the contents. “We can make…” you were mumbling to yourself, examining the contents. “Do you have rice? We can make a stir fry,” you squinted in the fridge.

“Sounds good,” reaching through his cupboards for a pan, as you grabbed a cutting board and a knife, always preferring to chop the vegetables. “How’s your week?”

“Fine,” mumbling from where you stood across from him in the kitchen. “Work was the same, not to stressful right now which is nice. I, uh –”

He looked up at the hesitation in your voice. “I had a date.”

He nearly let go of the pot in his hand. He felt his stomach dropping, happy to be occupied with turning on the stove as he didn’t have to face you. “Yeah?” trying to keep his face calm before turning around to you again. “With who?”

“A guy from work,” you were averting your eyes, twisting the ring around your middle finger. You were nervous, he realized.

“How’d it go?”

“Okay,” you shrugged, looking down at your hands as they worked chopping the onion on the board in front of you. “We um –”

Finally you looked up at him. “We didn’t do anything.”

He didn’t know what to say. “Didn’t do it for you?” He tried to joke, but based off your expression he realized that really wasn’t what he should’ve said.

“Just thought you should know,” you looked away from him again, voice quiet. “Since y’know, we’re…”

Condoms had been long forgotten between the two of you. It was a silent agreement, that one should tell the other if they were going to be having sex with someone else. But for some reason, Harry had never imagined that conversation happening.

“Are you,” he tried to not let his voice shake. “Are you telling me you want to sleep with him?”

“No,” you shrugged slightly, pushing the onion around with the knife. “Don’t think that’ll happen. Just thought you should know.”

He willed himself to seem unbothered. “Okay.”

Back towards you again, pouring some oil into the pan on the burner. He could feel you watching him. Spinning back around, he saw you with your lips pressed to a thin line.

“What if I did want to sleep with him though?”

“You said you didn’t.” He desperately needed to change the subject.

“But what if?” For the first time, he realized he couldn’t read what you were thinking.

“Are you saying you want to end this?” Avoiding the question once again, he hated himself for the way he did it.

You blinked quickly, as if physically affected by his words. “I mean no, but,” you paused, and he panicked over what the end of that sentence would be. “What we’re doing its not – I mean what are we doing?”

He hated the tone of your voice, he hated how anxious you sounded. But instead of wrapping you into his arms like he wanted – and should have – he tried to swallow back any feelings he thought he might have for you. “We – we’re both taking advantage of the situation, no? Both being single and all.”

Your eyes narrowed on him. “So that’s it then? Call me over when you’ve had a few drinks and your hand isn’t enough to get you off?”

Fuck. “Darling that’s not –”

“Don’t. I practically live here, Harry. It’s not just ‘taking advantage of the situation’.”

The oil popped on the pan behind him, burner getting too hot. Swearing under his breath, turning back around to shove the pan off the heat. “I have half my things here. Wasn’t like this when we were just friends.”

Facing you again, he breathed out a sigh trying to calm himself down. “You didn’t have to bring your things over.”

You snapped your head up at his words. “That’s a low fucking blow.”

Suddenly you were moving away from him, away from the kitchen. He swore to himself again, hating himself for the way he handled the conversation. He hated himself for the way he avoided where the conversation seemed to be heading, to having him admit he wanted more from your relationship.

Calling your name behind you, watching with wide eyes as you grabbed your bag form the table, throwing it over your shoulder. “What are you…?”

“’m leaving.” Muttering as you brushed past him, heading towards the door.

Fuck. “Wait no,” he reached for your shoulder, hating the way you shrugged him off although you still spun around to him. “I – I didn’t mean it like that. I just,” he needed to say something, anything to get you to stay. “What are you saying?”

You sighed, dipping down to tug on your shoes. “I don’t know what I’m saying Harry. Maybe,” you sighed, gazing up at him. You looked tired, and sad. He hated it. “Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe we should stop.”

All his blood left his body. No. “You want to stop?” This time he wasn’t able to hide the shake in his voice.

“I gotta go Harry.” You turned away from him, reaching for the doorknob.

“Wait,” he repeated your name over and over. “Don’t leave please –”

You refused to look at him, spinning away from him. He continued calling after you, pleading you to come back but soon you were backing out of his driveway and turning around the corner.

November 24th

In hindsight, he realized he should’ve just told you he wanted you all to himself. He didn’t handle it well; he knew that then and he knows it now.

What he didn’t know at the time, what he refused to let himself think was that he wanted more with you and probably always had.

Recalling the first-time boundaries were crossed when he kissed you; the jealousy he felt when he thought about someone else being able to see the tattoo on your hip.

He remembered when you had gotten that tattoo, the skin still sensitive and wrapped in protective plastic. He still kissed at it, pulling small whimpers from the back of your throat.

He supposes that boundaries were disappearing when you started bringing over and leaving your things at his place, including those goddamn shampoo bottles. You were right to question him over the nature of your relationship, but he was too stupid and stubborn in the moment that he chose to push you away instead of admitting his feelings.

Fiddling with his phone in his hand, opening and closing your contact in his texts. He had drafted countless unsent messages, but had ultimately left you in radio silence.

And how fucked was that?

He didn’t care if it had been three weeks, or two weeks and five days to be exact. He pressed his phone to his ear, holding his breath as the phone on the other end rang.

After the second ringer, he was sure you wouldn’t pick up. He was about to end the call altogether, not having the heart to face your voicemail when a quiet “hello” spoke through the line.

“Hi,” he couldn’t breath. “It’s me – it’s Harry.”

“I know,” your voice sent a jolt through his chest.

“Didn’t think you would pick up.” He laughed humourlessly, realizing in all the fake conversations he had with you in his head he never really was prepared.

“I can hang up if you wan –”

“No,” he spoke quickly. “Sorry I just…” I love you. “I just want to talk to you, need to talk to you.”

You remained silent on the other end. “Can we meet? I can come over are we can get coffee or anything, up to you, I just need to see you.”

You were silent again, and he needed to check his phone to make sure the call was still ongoing. “I can be at yours in 15.”

His heart flipped. “Yes, that’s perfect. I – yes, see you soon.”

It was probably the longest fifteen minutes of his life. He spent it pacing around his place, trying to tidy up but ultimately not getting anything done. By the ten minute mark he was sure you weren’t coming, but right on time you were pulling that beat up red car into his driveway.

The sight of you was making him flush. Seeing you in his space, in his company like nothing had ever changed.

“How are you?” He could hear the nerves in his own voice.

“Fine,” the word was muttered, as you tentatively sat down on his couch. The very spot he had first kissed you, he realized.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, Harry, I’m not here to chit chat.”

He nodded, knowing you were right and sat far across from you on the couch, watching as you hugged your knees to your chest.

“I know, I –” he looked down at his hands, fiddling with his rings. “I miss you. And I’m really sorry for everything, for the way I handled everything.”

You looked up at him at his words, fidgeting with your sleeves. “I miss you too.”

“I really… I really fucked up and losing you was the last thing I wanted.” He needed to look away from you. “You were right, about us. We shouldn’t – I shouldn’t have let things get to be the way they did.”

“What do you mean?” Your voice was small, calculated.

“I mean… I was being selfish. I – fuck I wanted more and I was being selfish with you.”

He tried to gage your reaction, but just like last time he wasn’t able to read your expression. “When you asked me what we were doing, when you said all that I panicked. Thought you might try and end things, I was too in my ass about my feelings I just… fucked up.”

“You wanted more?”

“I did – I do.”

You were quiet, too quiet. After a moment in silence, you suddenly stood. “I have to go to the washroom.”

He could only nod, standing as well as he watched you disappear behind the door. Grabbing himself a glass of water, having no idea what you were thinking in this moment. He was wrong before, when he thought that those fifteen minutes were the longest of his life. This moment right now seemed to last so much longer.

You finally reappeared a couple minutes later, joining him in the kitchen but still standing at a distance. He had no idea what to say, he wished for you to say something, anything.

“You kept all my things.”

“What?”

You pointed to the bathroom behind you. “All my things, my toothbrush my shampoo… figured you’d throw them out.”

He smiled a weak smile. “Would never. Can’t bring myself to. Plus, you know I love the smell of your shampoo.”

“I’m sorry I left that day.” You were fiddling with the sleeves of your shirt again.

“Don’t be, I was a dick. I didn’t know … I didn’t know how to deal with my feelings. Couldn’t get my shit together. I just didn’t want to lose you.”

As you nodded, he was relieved to see your expression start softening a bit.

“I need you in my life, in any capacity. If you need time I get it, but I just can’t… I need to know you’ll be in my life.”

You were worrying your lip, slowly nodding as you took in his words. “I shouldn’t have pushed you that day. I was trying to… it wasn’t fair of me.”

“Stop apologizing darling,” he liked the way the pet name rolled off his tongue again. The two of you stood in silence for a moment again.

“I wanted more too.” Nearly giving himself whiplash for how quickly he snapped his head towards you at your words. You weren’t looking at him, eyes dropped down to where your hands tapped nervously against the counter.

“I – you did?”

You only nodded, watching as you twirled your ring around your finger.

“Never said anything…”

Glancing up at him finally, crossing your arms over your chest. “Well…neither did you. Plus, I thought I was, I don’t know, making it obvious. Spending nearly every night here and all… I was sort of trying to bring it up that day we fought.”

“Truly fucked that up, didn’t I?” He rubbed his hand over his forehead, pushing his hair up. You only hummed, and his heart nearly soared when you saw the corner of your lips twitch in a smile.

He couldn’t help the smile starting to build on his lips either, trying to swallow down his anxiety before asking you what he wanted to. “Do you still?”

“Do I still what?” You were really making him say it.

“Do you still… want more. With me.” He watched you intently, watched your eyes flick away from his; to your hands to the counter and around the room, before meeting his own again.

“Well… came over, didn’t I?”

Heat rushed through his body as he processed your words. “Is that a yes?” His words were a rush of a breath. He found himself walking across the kitchen towards you until he was standing in front of you, keeping a gap but still being the closest he’d been to you all night.

“Yes.” Every nerve in his body urged to jump forward towards you at your whispered word, but he held himself back.

“Good,” his voice matched yours: quiet, breathless.

He wanted to pull you in his arms, to push you against the counter leaving no room between the two of you but he also didn’t want to assume you’d jump right into it; maybe you’d want a bit of time, maybe you were still mad –

Any second thought flew out of his mind when the light touch of your fingertips met his neck, pulling yourself closer to him. His own hand instinctively wrapped around your waist, other hand sliding to your cheek, fitting with you like nothing ever changed.

Mouth quickly met his, and it was like kissing you for the first time all over again. You were still just as warm against him, still smelt like the shampoo that you left in his shower.

Your lips were light against his at first, a ghost of a touch as you pressed yourself against him and bunched the collar of his shirt in a fist. His hand on your cheek moved to tilt your head up to him slightly, as he held you tight against him not wanting you to ever leave.

A small sigh left your lips as he took a step forward, pushing lightly back to trap you between the counter and himself. Kiss quickly deepening as you let him taste deeper into your mouth, wandering hands pushing up under your shirt.

You were tugging at his hair as he pulled small whines from the back of your throat, gripping your thigh tightly as he helped you sit up on the counter. Mouth leaving yours with a pant, he reveled in the way you hooked your legs around him to keep him against you.

“Missed you,” he kissed the corner of your mouth. “So,” lips moved down your jaw. “Fucking much.”

He loved the sigh you made at his words; he loved every sound you made. Resting his forehead on yours for a moment, lips barely brushing. “You’re so warm darling. Missed kissing you, missed being with you.”

“Me too,” you whispered, pecking a small kiss to his mouth.

“I get to be with you, right?”

“Yes,” his heart soared at the single word. He was enamoured with the smile that took over your face. “Might still be a bit mad a you though.”

His smile matched yours, pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Sounds like I have some making up to do.”

#ah there was a mistake i reposted it okay !#hi yes #this is just my lil something hope u enjoy #its short and kinda dif writing #pls let me know what u think and share ! thank u love u #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles smut #harry styles fanfiction

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king-finnigan · 4 years

Text

5 times Jaskier got sick and 1 time Geralt did

As part of my 500 followers celebration! Masterlist!

CW: being sick, vomiting

***

He sneezes, and Geralt looks at him with narrowed eyes. “Are you getting sick?”

Jaskier scoffs, shakes his head, and continues prodding at the fire. “No.” He sneezes again. “Okay, maybe.”

“Hmm.”

He frowns. “Ooh, now that’s a ‘hmm’ I haven’t heard before. What does it mean?”

Geralt rolls his eyes and looks away, as Jaskier sneezes again. “It means I’m not going to take care of you if you get sick.”

Jaskier sneezes again. “Yeah, I figured that much.” He rubs at his eyes, which are slightly swollen from all the sneezing. “I’ll just firmly tell my body not to get sick, then. That always works.”

“Hmm.” He recognizes that one as a slightly amused ‘hmm’, and he smiles in triumph. Over the past few years, it has become a bit of a personal challenge to make Geralt laugh or smile as much as possible, and, while low on the tier list of ‘how amused is Geralt of Rivia?’, an amused ‘hmm’ is better than nothing. At least it’s better than an unamused ‘hmm’.

Like the one he gets, now, when he suddenly dissolves into a bout of coughing. “It’s fine,” he chokes out when he finally regains his breath. “Not getting sick.”

“We’re stopping at the next inn. You’ll stay there until you get better, and I’ll get some contracts.”

He wants to whine, tell Geralt he’s fine and he’s coming along with these contracts, but when he starts coughing again, he can’t help but admit that the Witcher is right. Though, when Geralt leaves him behind at the inn the next day, he finds himself wishing Geralt would stay.

II.

He’s performing ‘Toss a Coin’ when he sneezes. The audience laughs, and he plays it off as a joke, making fun of himself, so the audience won’t, before he continues with his song. After he’s done, he graciously accepts his payment and a pint of ale, before he saunters over to the corner of the tavern, sitting down opposite Geralt.

“You sneezed,” is the first thing the Witcher says to him.

“Hello, Jaskier, what a lovely performance, Jaskier, thank you for paying for our dinner tonight, Jaskier,” he says in a mock-gruff voice. He sighs, rolls his eyes. “Really, Geralt, we talked about your conversational skills.”

“You sneezed.”

He dramatically lifts his hands. “So what? People sneeze all the time! It’s dusty in here, Witcher.”

“Your voice is rough.”

“Yes, that’s what you get for performing for three hours straight. You’re welcome, by the way.” He plonks his full coin pouch on the table, gesturing at it, eyebrows in his hairline.

“You’re snotty.”

“Well, now you’re just being downright insulting, Geralt. After all these years of me traveling by your side, and you have the audacity-“

“Jaskier. I can tell you’re getting sick.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s fine.”

Geralt looks at him, blinking slowly, almost lazily. His expression is almost bored, but Jaskier can tell from the little muscle that’s pulling at his lips, that the Witcher is getting annoyed. “Hmm.” Now that’s an ‘I don’t believe you for shit but I’m tired of arguing’-hmm, he can tell.

“Alright, maybe it’s not fine.” He points at Geralt. “But don’t you dare leave me at an inn again, like last time.”

“Why not?”

Cause it hurt my feelings, and I would love for you to take care of me when I’m sick. “I don’t want to miss out on any contracts and potential inspiration.”

“Hmm.” An ‘I can tell you’re lying’-hmm.

He simply changes the subject, for now, and hopes he doesn’t get sick in the next couple of days. He thanks all his lucky stars when he doesn’t.

III.

He tries to keep quiet as he leans one hand against the tree, the other on his stomach as he retches, emptying the contents of his stomach in the leaves. He must’ve eaten something bad, or caught a stomach bug. He decides it doesn’t really matter, though, as another wave of nausea rolls over him. He gags again, trying to not make any sound.

Of course, it doesn’t work, and he soon hears Geralt’s voice behind him. “Jaskier.”

He closes his eyes, trying to keep down the bile that rises in his throat. “I’m fine.” The clipped and strained sound of his voice begs to differ.

“Hmm.” A ‘not even Roach would believe that’-hmm. Then: “Are you done?”

He holds up a finger, chokes down one last gag, before he stands up straight, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “I’m fine, let’s go.”

He turns around to find Geralt frowning at him, confused. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“No. We’re not going anywhere but back to camp.”

He sighs. “I’m fine! We can go to the next town, don’t worry about it.”

“Hmm.” He narrows his eyes. Once again a ‘hmm’ he can’t identify. Strange. “Come on, Jaskier.”

He sighs, but follows Geralt back to camp, laying down on his bedroll when the Witcher motions at it. He does have to admit, laying down makes him feel a lot better, and pretty soon he finds himself dozing off to the rhythmic sound of Geralt sharpening his blades.

When he wakes in the morning, the Witcher gives him a piece of… some sort of root. “Ginger,” the Witcher explains roughly. “Helps.”

Jaskier shrugs and eats it. It doesn’t taste entirely pleasant, but it does make him feel better, and by midday, he’s ready to set out on the road again.

IV.

“You’re limping.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not.”

“Hmm.” Another ‘I don’t believe you’-hmm. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

Jaskier stops walking when he no longer hears Roach’s hooves on the dusty path behind him, and he turns around. “Nothing! It’s really fine, there’s nothing going on. I appreciate you worrying, though, it’s very endearing.”

“Jaskier.”

He sighs, then shrugs. “Okay, maybe I got a cut on my leg last week that healed badly. So what? I assure you I’m perfectly fine, Witcher.” He starts stammering when Geralt dismounts Roach, stalking towards him. “A- and there is absolutely no reason for you to walk towards me, in- in a vaguely threatening manner- Geralt!”

He lets out an angry huff when the Witcher bends down, yanking the leg of his breeches up. “Hmm.” An ‘I’m very angry right now, but not at you’-hmm. “It’s infected.”

He shrugs again, pointedly looking everywhere but the reddened skin that surrounds the cut. “It’s fine. Nothing to worry about, r-really, and-“

He scrunches his face in confusion when Geralt lays a hand against his forehead. “You’ve got a fever. Get on Roach.”

“Geralt, as much as I have longed for you to say those three words for the past ten years, I assure you I’m perfectly fine.”

“Get. On. Roach.”

He holds his hands up in defeat. “Alright, alright! Melitele’s tits, Geralt, if I’d known you’d kick up such a fuss over a simple flesh wound, I would’ve been more careful.”

“Hmm. You should be.”

He sighs, rolls his eyes, as he climbs on Roach. Geralt climbs on the horse behind him, and Jaskier tries to fight the furious blush that starts spreading across his cheeks at the feeling of Geralt’s chest against his back. They set out to the nearest town, where the Witcher gets a room at the inn and drags him to the herbalist for something against the infection.

The ointment the old lady gives them works wonders, and within two days, the infection has cleared.

It’s hard to breathe. Harder to move. Opening his eyes for more than two seconds isn’t even an option, anymore, and every time he does manage to pry his eyelids apart, the world is swimming around him, making bile rise in his throat. He’s hot. No- he’s cold. But now he’s hot again, and he’s sweating, but he’s also shivering, and good gods, what did he do to deserve this?

He sighs when he feels something cold and wet and rough against his forehead, seeping away some of the heat. He doesn’t know whether the droplet that slides down the side of his head is sweat or water, but he decides it doesn’t matter when a bout of coughing wracks through his body.

He’s tired, he’s so bloody tired, but he can’t fall asleep when the temperature keeps changing from hot to cold to hot again, when his lungs keep constricting in his chest pathetically, making him cough and wheeze, desperate for any gulp of air he manages to suck in. The shivering becomes uncontrollable, unbearable, even though he’s sweating, still. He finally manages to pry open his eyes, finding the room around him blurry and dark. He looks around, desperate for anything recognizable, anything that doesn’t give him the feeling that he’s floating in a vast ocean of his own goddamn sweat. Finally, he finds something silver, to his right.

“Geralt,” he manages to croak out, desperately gasping for breath soon afterwards.

“I’m here.” He could cry at that familiar voice, and he might actually be, when he feels another droplet slide down the side of his head.

“I feel like shit.”

“Hmm.” And amused ‘hmm’. But slightly worried as well. “Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

“It hurts.” It does. Everything hurts. His muscles hurt, his lungs hurt, his head hurts, his eyes hurt. It fucking hurts.

Someone wipes his sweaty hair away from his forehead, knuckles trailing down his cheek lightly, and he figures someone else must be in the room because Geralt would never be this gentle with him. It’s already a bloody miracle he’s still here, really. “I know, Jaskier. I know. Try to sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

“Will you be there? When I wake up?”

“Hmm.” That’s a ‘yes’-hmm.

He sighs, his lungs aching. “Good. Cause I don’t want to wake up at all if you’re not there.” His eyes drift closed again, and he finds himself slipping into unconsciousness.

---

When he wakes up, he finds Geralt next to the bed, stuffed into an entirely too small chair, asleep. No way the position he’s in is comfortable – his neck craned at an awkward angle, his back barely supported by the hard wood. But he’s there, just as he had promised to Jaskier.

The bard smiles, and reaches out, pushing at Geralt’s knee. The Witcher wakes, amber eyes widening when he sees Jaskier. He immediately bends forward, laying his hand against Jaskier’s forehead, eyes studying his face. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit better.” He smiles. “You’re here.”

“I told you I would be.”

He laughs softly, eyes drifting closed again, sleep pulling at him limbs. “That, you did.” He shivers, the heat of the fever no longer keeping him warm. “Geralt, I’m cold.”

“There are no more blankets.”

He pouts, reaches out, eyes still closed. “You’re warm.”

He hears a long-suffering sigh, then the creaking of the chair. Footsteps across the room. He feels the dip of the bed behind him, feels strong arms closing around him, and he sighs in content, before frowning. “Won’t you get sick?”

“Witchers don’t get sick.”

“Okay,” he whispers, before falling asleep in Geralt’s arms.

---

By the time they finally leave the inn, several days later, neither of them has mentioned what happened, and Jaskier doubts either of them will.

+ I

He doesn’t think much of it when Geralt coughs a few times. He does find it strange when it happens more and more in the next few days. He grows suspicious when a fine sheen of sweat appears on the Witcher’s forehead, even if he says he’s fine and tells Jaskier to stop fussing over him like that, he’s just hot, is all. He’s had enough when red spots start to litter Geralt’s skin.

He forces the Witcher to go to an inn, and he’s glad he did, by the time they reach it. Geralt’s hunched over Roach’s neck, sweat dripping from his brow, his skin so spotted with red he almost looks sunburnt. Jaskier barely manages to get him up the stairs, and immediately drops him on the bed, where Geralt lays very still, staring up at the wooden ceiling, breathing heavily.

Jaskier helps him out of his armour, uncovering more and more red spots as he works his way down to Geralt’s boots.

“I’m fine,” Geralt rasps to him. He doesn’t believe it for shit.

“Yeah, no you’re not, Witcher. Looks like you’ve got yourself some measles.”

Geralt scoffs, though it sounds more like two pieces of sandpaper rubbed together. “Witchers don’t get measles.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, taking a washcloth, wetting it with some water from his waterskin. “Well, you did, so I suggest you change your views on that, Geralt.” He sits down on the side of the bed, gently laying the washcloth over Geralt’s brow, softly pressing it down. “You’re burning up,” he whispers.

“It’s fine.”

He smiles. “Go to sleep, Geralt. Get some rest.”

The Witcher sighs. “Hmm.” A ‘fine, alright, I’ll listen’-hmm. “I’m cold.”

Jaskier laughs softly, climbing over Geralt, laying down on his other side, hugging him to his chest. “Better?”

Geralt shakes his head frantically, weakly pushing at him – the fever’s clearly already taking a toll on him. “You’ll get sick,” he rasps.

“I had the measles as a kid. I’ll be fine, Witcher.”

“Hmm.” A content ‘hmm’. Then, suddenly: “Thank you, Jaskier. I love you.”

Geralt’s breathing evens out, as Jaskier pushes himself up on one elbow, looking down on his Witcher. Geralt is fast asleep, breathing deep and steady, face relaxed from its eternal frown. Jaskier smiles, laying down again, pulling his Witcher closer. “I love you too,” he whispers. Of course, Geralt doesn’t hear him, but he’ll say it again when he wakes up.

He’ll say it a million times if he has to – and he would mean it every time.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #drabble #500 followers celebration #5 + 1 things

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