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#the idea of going home brings back some of my old thoughts
yanderestarangel · 17 hours
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HEADCANONS JKK | STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO
TW: ftm reader, praise, degradation, oc nanami (I think), manipulation, step!incest, sub!reader, dom!nanami, recorded!sex, threats, blowjob, v!sex, afab anatomy, forced feminization, use of lingerie, degradation, dark!smut, breeding, creampie, daddykink.
smut confectionery event ┆ SUNDAE ┆ forced feminization, record sex, headcanons. ˖⁺ ⊹୨ "stepfather + stepson" ୧⊹ ⁺˖
˖⁺ ⊹୨ 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓫𝓮𝓵𝓸𝔀 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓼 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓪𝓭𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓼𝓮𝓭 𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝔀. 𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓮 𝓲𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓭𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭 ୧⊹ ⁺˖
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪
𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓻𝓮𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓰𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮<3
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♡ 𝐒𝐅𝐖 ♡
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who started dating your mother because it was convenient for him to have company, he didn't really love her, but he was already forty years old and needed meaning in life. But he didn't expect that he would meet the new obsession of his life in an unconventional way... You, the son of his future wife.
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who was astonished by your beauty and beauty, he asked your mother everything about you ─ what college you went to, what you liked or didn't like and even more intrusive details, in this case if you had a boyfriend or girlfriend. Your mother answered some questions and he diverted her focus by saying "They were questions to try to be a good enough stepfather." You on the other hand didn't like his intrusion into your life and home... He noticed that and soon thought of a way to try to turn things around in his favor.
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who knew you didn't like the idea, initially your instinct said internally that there was something wrong there, but you couldn't get in the way of your mother's happiness, and he would use everything to his advantage. He started complaining to your mother that you didn't accept him as a father figure, making your mother give you an hour-long lecture talking about how his co-worker and now boyfriend was good to you and tried to be your father even if you didn't let him. Kento smirked when he saw your angry face, he knew that now you would have to let your guard down with him and finally he could act according to his initial plan.
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who deliberately goes shirtless and has sweatpants hanging loosely around his hips every morning in the kitchen. He smiles at you while the blonde hair falls on his face and the purple circles under his eyes and the woody perfume that leaves his skin, a happy path of hair would shyly follow to his crotch, giving an extra touch to his muscular appearance, especially the thick veins that they continued from his arms to his biceps. He would smirk at you as he would ask you if you slept well and if you were hungry ─ he would still see the reluctance in your eyes and would approach you, kissing the back of your hand lightly. "I'm not your enemy pretty boy... I just want to be the best for you, you know that right?" The blonde man's voice was husky and seductive, like a balm, as if he was bringing you into a tempting trap.
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who makes you feel sorry for him, manipulating you, saying that your mother didn't pay as much attention to him as she did at the beginning of the relationship and how he needed to work extra hard to make up for your household bills, saying that you were the only person who still paid for him staying in that house and putting up with your mother... ( Which was a lie, Nanami did everything he lied that your mother did, he ignored her and preferred to spend his money to buy you gifts or even buy you a car go to your college. ) he would look at you with his brown eyes eyes and place a hand on your thigh. "You'll never leave my side... Right my dear son?"
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who gradually manipulates you into staying on his side every time your mother fights with him. Saying that you can't sleep in his room because she doesn't want him there and asking if he can sleep on the floor in your room ── mentally he will be praying for you to accept that he stays in the room and offer your bed to him. If you do the second option, the blonde's heartbeat will accelerate to the point where you can hear the sound of his heartbeat. He couldn't sleep that night, controlling himself as much as possible not to touch you and make you his even in your sleepy state. Nonetheless Kento couldn't, he wanted you to want him equally as he wanted you.
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who encouraged your mother to accept the company promotion and go traveling with her bosses for days to be alone with you. He calculated exactly when she was going to leave and called the company to say that he was sick and couldn't make it, returning home to be with his sweet stepson and finally putting his final plan into practice. Make you his little toy.
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who waits for you to arrive from your appointment while happily cooking a meal for you; He saw you notice his effort and place an innocent kiss on his face. As he resumed preparing the dinner, his fingers trembled slightly over the stove. He couldn't help but think about how your kiss felt on his cheek, the warmth and tenderness that radiated through him. His mind raced with thoughts of you, imagining the future they could have together. He didn't just want to be your father figure, but your lover, to adore every inch of your body just for him.
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who listened intently to you and your day out at college, with his eyes always trying to find yours. "That's wonderful, darling," he praised, his voice velvety smooth. "You truly are such a good boy, always taking your responsibilities seriously." He came closer, running his thumb over your lower lip and feeling like it was the perfect opportunity ─ Then Nanami couldn't resist any longer. Leaning in, he captured your lips in a searing kiss, his hand sliding up your thigh beneath the table. His tongue probed your mouth eagerly, tasting the sweet essence of your youth. "I want you so badly, lad." he growled, his voice hoarse with desire. "I've wanted you since the first day I laid eyes on you."
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♡ 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 ♡
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who soon made you submit to him with dominance and words of affection, bending you over the table and sticking his thick, veiny hand into your underwear ─ finding your clit easily and applying the necessary pressure to make you moan and whimper beautifully. "Such a good boy, submitting to your stepfather," Nanami purred, his fingers expertly stroking your clit through the fabric of your underpants. He savored the way you responded to him, your moans filling the room like music to his ears. He slipped his finger into your damp entrance, coating it with your arousal before pulling away. "Is that what you want, my prince? To be touched by me? To be owned by me?" He asked, his voice husky with lust. "Tell me, and I promise to give you everything your heart desires." With a satisfied hum, he stood up abruptly, all traces of gentleness gone. Kento had finally trapped you in his trap, and you fell like a needy bunny.
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who forced you to wear expensive lingerie that he bought for you. The silk and lace fabric was short and hugged your curves, practically not even covering your breasts ─ your cunt wet your panties while you saw your stepfather's hands wander to your cell phone and press the record button, starting the perverse and forbidden little show of you two. "You're so eager for me, aren't you, my pretty little boy... You're such a slut for me." He circled around you, the camera capturing every angle of your shapely body adorned in the delicate lingerie. His fingers trailed along the lace, teasingly grazing your sensitive skin. "Spread your legs wider, boy," he commanded, his voice low and commanding. "I want to see that wet pussy of yours, ready and waiting for me."
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who saw you obediently followed his instructions, your arousal evident through the soaked fabric of your panties, Nanami couldn't resist a chuckle. "Look at you, my dumb, pretty boy..." He mocked as he pinched one of your nipples behind the thin silk fabric of your bra, making you moan like you were in heat. "Now, keep being a good boy and suck daddy's cock, can you do it right?"
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who forced you to suck his cock, pulling your hair while you felt the tip of his dick massage your soft cheeks. His camera clicked steadily, capturing your submission, sealing your fate as his willing pawn. Though he had no intention of betraying you, the threat hung heavy in the air, a tool to keep you obedient and submissive. "You know what happens if you disobey, don't you?" He warned softly, thrusting into your mouth rhythmically. "Your mother will see exactly what her little boy has become." Nanami threatened between moans, as he took his dick out of your oral cavity and slammed the hard shaft into your warm and wet tongue.
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who dragged your panties to the side and rubbed the hot tip of his fat cock across your swollen clit, seeing the quivering mess you were. Slowly, methodically, he began to pump into you, your moans filling the room like a symphony of surrender. Each thrust drove him further into your core, claiming you as his own possession. "Such a good boy, taking it like a whore for his stepfather.... Beg for more, prince," He commanded, leaning down to kiss your neck. "Beg for my release, for the chance to carry my child, You want daddy to make you daddy too, don't you? You're going to be a beautiful father baby boy...Carrying my children around like the beautiful man you are." His fingers would find your clit, rubbing it in firm circles, intensifying your pleasure. Your moans grew louder, filling the room without caring if the neighbors would hear or not. "That's it, my sweet boy," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "You're doing so well, taking me so obediently."
STEP!FATHER NANAMI KENTO - Who fills you to the brim with his hot, thick seed, the tip of his cock rhythmically hitting your sweet spot even as you tremble and feel completely filled by him. He takes his cock out of your sensitive hole while sticking three fingers inside, He would soon look into your eyes and smile. "You're going to be a daddy's boy and save all my seed right?" With a quick pat on your head, he turned off the camera and pocketed his phone. "Good boy," he muttered, already planning the next encounter. "Don't disappoint me." Though the threat still loomed, it was clear that Nanami found satisfaction in his domination. After all, what better way to ensnare someone than through their deepest desires? And you, dear boy, were caught in his web.
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𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓮, 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓮𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂'𝓻𝓮 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓮....𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓫𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓽𝓸𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓸𝔀 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓫𝓪𝓽𝓬𝓱 𝓸𝓯 𝓼𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽𝓼 🍰
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cocklessboy · 9 months
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The biggest male privilege I have so far encountered is going to the doctor.
I lived as a woman for 35 years. I have a lifetime of chronic health issues including chronic pain, chronic fatigue, respiratory issues, and neurodivergence (autistic + ADHD). There's so much wrong with my body and brain that I have never dared to make a single list of it to show a doctor because I was so sure I would be sent directly to a psychologist specializing in hypochondria (sorry, "anxiety") without getting a single test done.
And I was right. Anytime I ever tried to bring up even one of my health issues, every doctor's initial reaction was, at best, to look at me with doubt. A raised eyebrow. A seemingly casual, offhand question about whether I'd ever been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. Even female doctors!
We're not talking about super rare symptoms here either. Joint pain. Chronic joint pain since I was about 19 years old. Back pain. Trouble breathing. Allergy-like reactions to things that aren't typically allergens. Headaches. Brain fog. Severe insomnia. Sensitivity to cold and heat.
There's a lot more going on than that, but those were the things I thought I might be able to at least get some acknowledgement of. Some tests, at least. But 90% of the time I was told to go home, rest, take a few days off work, take some benzos (which they'd throw at me without hesitation), just chill out a bit, you'll be fine. Anxiety can cause all kinds of odd symptoms.
Anyone female-presenting reading this is surely nodding along. Yup, that's just how doctors are.
Except...
I started transitioning about 2.5 years ago. At this point I have a beard, male pattern baldness, a deep voice, and a flat chest. All of my doctors know that I'm trans because I still haven't managed to get all the paperwork legally changed, but when they look at me, even if they knew me as female at first, they see a man.
I knew men didn't face the same hurdles when it came to health care, but I had no idea it was this different.
The last time I saw my GP (a man, fairly young, 30s or so), I mentioned chronic pain, and he was concerned to see that it wasn't represented in my file. Previous doctors hadn't even bothered to write it down. He pushed his next appointment back to spend nearly an hour with me going through my entire body while I described every type of chronic pain I had, how long I'd had it, what causes I was aware of. He asked me if I had any theories as to why I had so much pain and looked at me with concerned expectation, hoping I might have a starting point for him. He immediately drew up referrals for pain specialists (a profession I didn't even know existed till that moment) and physical therapy. He said depending on how it goes, he may need to help me get on some degree of disability assistance from the government, since I obviously shouldn't be trying to work full-time under these circumstances.
Never a glimmer of doubt in his eye. Never did he so much as mention the word "anxiety".
There's also my psychiatrist. He diagnosed me with ADHD last year (meeting me as a man from the start, though he knew I was trans). He never doubted my symptoms or medical history. He also took my pain and sleep issues seriously from the start and has been trying to help me find medications to help both those things while I go through the long process of seeing other specialists. I've had bad reactions to almost everything I've tried, because that's what always happens. Sometimes it seems like I'm allergic to the whole world.
And then, just a few days ago, the most shocking thing happened. I'd been wondering for a while if I might have a mast cell condition like MCAS, having read a lot of informative posts by @thebibliosphere which sounded a little too relatable. Another friend suggested it might explain some of my problems, so I decided to mention it to the psychiatrist, fully prepared to laugh it off. Yeah, a friend thinks I might have it, I'm not convinced though.
His response? That's an interesting theory. It would be difficult to test for especially in this country, but that's no reason not to try treatments and see if they are helpful. He adjusted his medication recommendations immediately based on this suggestion. He's researching an elimination diet to diagnose my food sensitivities.
I casually mentioned MCAS, something routinely dismissed by doctors with female patients, and he instantly took the possibility seriously.
That's it. I've reached peak male privilege. There is nothing else that could happen that could be more insane than that.
I literally keep having to hold myself back from apologizing or hedging or trying to frame my theories as someone else's idea lest I be dismissed as a hypochondriac. I told the doctor I'd like to make a big list of every health issue I have, diagnosed and undiagnosed, every theory I've been given or come up with myself, and every medication I've tried and my reactions to it - something I've never done because I knew for a fact no doctor would take me seriously if they saw such a list all at once. He said it was a good idea and could be very helpful.
Female-presenting people are of course not going to be surprised by any of this, but in my experience, male-presenting people often are. When you've never had a doctor scoff at you, laugh at you, literally say "I won't consider that possibility until you've been cleared by a psychologist" for the most mundane of health problems, it might be hard to imagine just how demoralizing it is. How scary it becomes going to the doctor. How you can internalize the idea that you're just imagining things, making a big deal out of nothing.
Now that I'm visibly a man, all of my doctors are suddenly very concerned about the fact that I've been simply living like this for nearly four decades with no help. And I know how many women will have to go their whole lives never getting that help simply because of sexism in the medical field.
If you know a doctor, show them this story. Even if they are female. Even if they consider themselves leftists and feminists and allies. Ask them to really, truly, deep down, consider whether they really treat their male and female patients the same. Suggest that the next time they hear a valid complaint from a male patient, imagine they were a woman and consider whether you'd take it seriously. The next time they hear a frivolous-sounding complaint from a female patient, imagine they were a man and consider whether it would sound more credible.
It's hard to unlearn these biases. But it simply has to be done. I've lived both sides of this issue. And every doctor insists they treat their male and female patients the same. But some of the doctors astonished that I didn't get better care in the past are the same doctors who dismissed me before.
I'm glad I'm getting the care I need, even if it is several decades late. And I'm angry that it took so long. And I'm furious that most female-presenting people will never have this chance.
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marvelouslizzie · 7 months
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Same Lonely Night
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summary: Your roommate Bucky Barnes hears you pleasure yourself and moan something he never thought he would be into. That forces him to face his feelings for you.
pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
word count: 2.6K
warnings: 18+, masturbation, fantasies, daddy kink, no mention of y/n
A/N: This is the second part of A Lonely Night. This time we are seeing Bucky's POV and what comes next. You don't have to read that part to understand what's going on but if you want to, you can find it on my blog/masterlist. I planned this as a 3-part story and I hope I'll maintain my inspiration and motivation to write the last part. Wish me luck!
Thank you so much @notafunkiller for beta-reading and editing. You are the best!
All work is mine, please do not repost or translate without my permission.
Read more tag starts after the second paragraph of the story.
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Bucky’s head is resting on the shower wall while the water is running down. His flesh hand is still wrapped around his cock, but he doesn’t move it. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he’s trying to calm himself down. 
He really had no intention to listen to you. He was just watching the news mindlessly, but his enhanced hearing turned into a curse the moment he heard you taking a sharp breath. He couldn’t help but focus on the noises you made. That’s when he started to hear the way you were touching yourself. Every stroke, every rub, every muffled moan… 
He knew what you were doing was private and he had no right listening to it, but he couldn’t stop. He just couldn’t. How could he? You were so needy and subby. Even in your fantasy, you were begging. He wondered what you were imagining. Who were you begging? Your crush? Maybe you have been seeing someone.
That thought had never occurred to him before. You were always in your element, working, chilling at home, doing whatever you enjoyed in your spare time, and occasionally going out with your friends. You never brought someone home. Not yet at least. So he never questioned if you were seeing someone or not. Even if there was someone, he wouldn’t know, and that thought suddenly hurts him.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck.” Your moans bring him back to reality. If you are seeing someone why are you so needy? Are you just that greedy or has it been that long? He’s certainly hoping for the latter. That’s something he can relate to, and it's probably been much longer for him. That’s why he can’t stop listening. That’s why his cock is painfully hard. Normally he would just remove himself from the house, and give you some space instead of creeping like this.
“Oh please, fuck me.” He would do anything to be able to do that. Anything. Just to be in that room with you, taking his time exploring your body and satisfying your needs. Even just the thought of it drives him crazy. “Fuck me, daddy, please.” 
That surprises him on so many levels. He never thought you would be into that. You look pretty innocent. He wouldn’t assume you would have such dirty fantasies. Fucking an old man… Are you into older men or is it just a little fantasy you are playing? Maybe you are seeing someone old. Maybe that’s why your mind goes there. He doesn’t know. He has no idea what’s going on in your private life, and every word that comes out of your mouth confuses him even more. It creates more problems, but the biggest one is, when he heard daddy, his dick twitched with excitement. So it makes him question himself, too. Is he into younger women or is it because you were the one saying it? The latter somehow seems more likely. Yet all of that doesn’t change the fact that he’s listening to you and getting hard just because of it. 
“Yes, yes, yes. Right there.” He hears how your head falls onto the pillow while your whole body is shaking, and how much you are enjoying it. He knows this is his cue. He should just remove himself from the living room so he won’t get caught with a hard-on. He doesn’t miss a beat. Quickly, he turns the TV off and runs to the bathroom. 
That’s how he ended up here, head pressed against the cold shower tiles, thinking about the way you said daddy over and over again. He is trying really hard not to give in, but his cock is aching with need. A part of him thinks he should just give in. It’s not such a big deal. Everyone masturbates. You just did. Three fucking times! That thought makes him groan. If you can come three times just by masturbating,how many times could he make you come? 
So it’s not even a conscious decision when he starts to stroke himself when he starts thinking about making you come. He can’t stop himself from imagining how you would look under him or on top of him. It doesn’t matter which position. He just wants to feel you. Your moans are echoing in his head while he caresses the top of cock. Just one stroke and it makes him tremble. He can’t remember the last time he felt this turned on. He can’t remember the last time his whole body heated up like this, just at the thought of someone. But you aren’t just anybody. You are you.
Maybe it’s because it has been ages since he had sex. Perhaps it’s because of his growing crush on you. He tried to control those feelings, thinking he was too old for you. He thought you would never look in his direction. Why would you? You are intelligent, beautiful and so cute. Like all these qualities aren’t enough, you are always so thoughtful. You always ask if he wants your leftovers, or if he needs help with anything. He knows he wakes you up at night sometimes. His nightmares are loud, but you never complained. Not once. You always let him watch the news even though you would rather watch something else. You even lent some books to him. They were in such good condition he couldn't believe his eyes. It was like reading a brand-new book. So yeah, he really tried to act like it was nothing but a silly crush, but after hearing the way you moan daddy he can’t stop himself anymore. It was as if you awakened something inside him.
He doesn’t know what to do. Should he take his time or just get over with it? He keeps his fingers loose, stroking himself up and down slowly while his head still rests on the tiles. Even with minimal effort, it feels so good. He gently cups his balls, massaging them and imagining you are the one doing it. You are the one touching the most intimate parts of his body. You are the one ready to satisfy his growing need.
“Oh fuck.” A moan escapes his lips. The shower is running and you don’t have a super hearing like him, so he knows he’s safe. Still, it feels like it’s something he shouldn’t be doing. He shouldn’t be touching himself. He shouldn’t be moaning like this, yet you are so beautiful and needy… He already wanted you before hearing how you sound in bed, but now he wants you even more. He wants to be the one to bring you pleasure. He wants to be the one that satisfies all your needs so much that you would never need to touch yourself. Unless it’s to tease him.
He’s feeling guilty. So fucking guilty, but there’s no way he could stop now. Imagining you does something to him. There’s this primal need in his abdomen, building up.
His fingers tighten around his cock, moving faster than before, and he presses his lips together, trying not to make a sound. He keeps rubbing on that one sensitive part of his cock and finally, he starts coming with a choke. He keeps stroking himself, thinking it will be over soon, but it doesn’t end. There’s so much come that it surprises him. His hands continue pumping and his come paints the bathroom tiles immediately. He takes a deep breath when he’s done, trying to collect himself.
It feels like his head is spinning. He had been masturbating for quite some time, but he doesn’t remember the last time it felt this good. He opens his eyes, trying to ground himself, and all that shame he feels comes rushing in while looking at the mess he made. He groans loudly and then reaches for the showerhead. It doesn’t take long for him to clean the shower and then himself with the thought of you is still on the back of his mind. He is soaping himself, scrubbing, and then rinsing while trying to convince himself that it isn’t a big deal. It’s just masturbation. It’s normal.
Of course, he knows how normal it is. It’s like breathing, eating, or drinking water. His body needs it so he gave in, but listening to you and touching himself while thinking about you… That’s where he crossed the line. He knows it, yet he can’t bring himself to wish he never heard you. He might be a creep or a pervert, it doesn’t matter. Your voice, the way you sound while coming, and the way you touch yourself are stacked in his memory forever. It’s something no one can take away from him.
Sighing, he steps out of the shower. Drying himself doesn’t take too long. When he steps into the living room, all that welcomes him is silence. You are still in your bedroom, God knows doing what. The TV is off, and nothing seems to have moved since he ran to the bathroom. So he’s safe. You haven’t heard or suspected anything.
Quietly, he goes back to his room, finds something to put on and just looks in the mirror. Is he really too old for you or is that all in his mind? He doesn’t look older than 35, but that doesn’t change when he was born.
What if you are into that, though? What if you really like older guys? That would change everything, wouldn’t it? You would like that he’s older than you. Maybe you would even call him daddy, just like you did in your fantasy. That thought makes the blood rush back to his cock, making him feel the arousal running through his veins once again. Like he didn’t masturbate in the shower a couple of minutes ago. 
He knows his anatomy by now. He knows he’s able to get hard again pretty quickly thanks to the super soldier serum, but he hasn’t been this horny for a long time. Especially not because of the thought of someone, but the thought of you calling him daddy… 
Jesus… It makes him so hard!
Sighing, he drops his whole weight on the bed and closes his eyes, fighting the urge to touch himself again. It’s for the best if he stops thinking about you and focuses on something else, isn’t it? He tries to think of something, anything that could take his mind off of you, but nothing, absolutely nothing is more interesting. Nothing he tries to focus on lasts. His mind goes running back to you, imagining how you would look the moment he would push himself inside you. How your mouth would open, how you would throw your head back, and how wonderful it would feel.
That thought does it. It breaks his resistance. All the effort he put into not touching himself again goes out of the window, especially once he imagines you saying “Harder, please, daddy, I need it harder.” His hand goes under his boxers, slowly toying with his cock. It feels like he didn’t touch himself today, and the need is even stronger now. After a couple of strokes, he realizes he can’t move his hand properly like this, so he pushes down his shorts and boxers at the same, creating some space for movement. 
He looks down at his cock, already oozing with precum. His flesh hand moves on top of the head and smears it all the way down, making it easier for him to play with himself. He sets a steady rhythm, testing what feels right, but his precum isn’t enough to make it enjoyable. That’s when he reaches for his nightstand and takes out the bottle of lube. His metal hand works fast, opening the bottle and putting a generous amount on hisnhand, before he puts it back and starts to touch himself. 
Now it feels much better. His hand works seamlessly from the top to the bottom, repeating the same movement a couple of times. He tries to get lost in his fantasies but something feels off. He isn’t sure what it is because what he’s doing is enjoyable. Something is not enough. Maybe he should work faster. So that’s what he tries. His hand starts to move faster on his cock, but that’s not helping. 
He’s pretty sure this is what his body wants especially because he’s still rock hard. Should he be more gentle and take his sweet time? That doesn’t seem to work, either. Does he need a tighter grip? Maybe, but he can’t do more with his flesh hand. He glances at his metal hand for the first time since he started. He never used it to pleasure himself before. The flesh looked and seemed more appealing than metal, yet right now it’s not enough.
There’s a first time for everything.
He reaches for the lube once again. This time he uses his flesh hand and pours some on his metal one as he tries to convince himself that this is not a bad idea.
He goes right back into touching himself, just with his metal hand this time. It feels different, really different, and surprisingly okay. It doesn’t feel as warm. The texture is completely different yet it somehow works. His fingers start to work faster, his thumb brushing over the head and, thanks to the lube, it starts to feel much better than he ever expected. His reluctance slowly fades away and he decides to test how fast he can move his metal hand and how much his cock can actually take it. As he paces up, pleasure starts to build so unexpectedly. He takes a deep breath but keeps moving his hand. His head is now thrown back while with the flesh hand, he cups his balls, gently massaging them.
“Oh god…”
He doesn’t realize that he's just said that out loud. He just keeps working on himself, letting his whole body relax under that pleasure. He really didn’t intend to focus on you this time, but here you are again, in his mind. The image of you on top of him… You with all your charm and cuteness, touching him, making him feel this good while he takes your nipples into his mouth and sucks them until you can’t take it anymore. It drives you crazy, so you beg him to fuck you. Just like you begged while touching yourself.
“Please, please, please… I really need it, please…”
He can hear it so clearly like you are here and really begging him. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to make that really happen.
“Anything you want, doll.”
His fingers move like they have a mind of their own. He knows he should slow down a little, make this one last a bit longer because it feels amazing, but his metal hand isn’t listening to him.
“Oh fuck, fuck.” 
He knows he’s about to come. He can feel it. It’s right there, just a few strokes away. He loses his damn mind imagining you under him, split open, and getting railed by him. God, that would feel so fucking good! You looking at him with those big beautiful eyes and begging him for more… Then your name slips out of his lips like it’s the most natural thing to say at that moment. 
Right when he’s about to come, a loud noise comes from the living room. Like something has just got shattered into pieces. His eyes fly open. He grabs his shorts and puts them on quickly, tucking his freaking erection away, and opens his door to see you standing there with an oversized T-shirt on. The glass you were probably holding is on the ground, but you don’t seem to care about that. You are looking at him with wide eyes and an open mouth.
Shit! She heard me.
3K notes · View notes
queers-gambit · 4 months
Text
Love What You've Done with the Place
song by Rascal Flatts
prompt: he's never been a man built for relationships, until you come into his life. now, the house feels like a home.
pairing: Tangerine x female!reader
fandom masterlist: Bullet Train
word count: 1.8k+
warnings: more brain rot rambles, probably cursing, NOT edited, very docile, fluff, romance, hardened men being simps.
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It started with clothes. Just a few, here and there; left behind, forgotten, purposefully stuffed in his dresser for when you stayed the nights. He didn't mind, in fact, Tangerine encouraged you to bring whatever you felt comfortable with leaving since he hated how early you'd leave in the mornings to get ready for work. He found his mornings were peaceful when you were around; neither rushed, both content, starting your days on high notes with each other.
So, he made the decision and found an old sitting-vanity for you. He put it in his bedroom simply because he was fascinated with the hair and make-up process; thinking it was incredible that women had such skill. When he came home about 3 months ago, he noticed your vanity when he first got home from a particularly difficult mission. Your chair was draped in an old university tee shirt, and he smiled.
It was like watching your comfort grow and it warmed something deep in Tangerine's heart. Your make-up wasn't always in a neat array, sometimes just left from a quick touch-up; making the house feel more like a home.
Tangerine also bought a strainer for the shower's drain to catch your hair. He didn't get angry like previous boyfriends did when he found strands of your hair left behind - not on purpose or by some gross standard, but it was natural that hair shed in a shower and not every single strand could be picked up. So, to make life easier, he just quietly bought the hair trap, placed it, removed whatever empty bottles from the shower, and went about his day. But then he started to notice your hair left other places.
His counters, his sink, the floor, your vanity, his bed sheets and pillows.
Tangerine had his issues with possessiveness in the past, but this wasn't remotely similar. No, Tangerine found himself smiling when he would find your hair in his clothes; thinking it was funny, almost like a mark or badge of honor to designate him as yours. It was a brief thought, but Tangerine actually felt giddy by the idea of people just knowing he was off the market 'cause his lady's hair was clung to his suit jackets.
He liked it. He really did. He'd not admit it aloud, but he liked it.
Tangerine wasn't the most humble man in the world, but he certainly liked to flash what was his. Golden jewelry, expensive, tailored suits, shining Italian leather shoes. And now, you, the woman who invaded his heart and head - and now his home. He adored showing you off, feeling affirmed and invigorated by the longing glances men threw your way, and while he expected jealousy from other women, they seemed more impressed by your beauty and grace as well.
He remembers one night, after a several weeks long mission, he just wanted to hold you. His throat was a little choked up when he called you, knowing you were at home after reading an earlier text. So, you rushed over in the middle of the night and he'd yet to let you go home - three days later.
"You've gonna have to let me out of bed sometime," you smiled playfully. "I have work tomorrow - and no, I'm not calling out again."
"C'mon, love, don't leave me alone," he whispered, looking like a beaten down puppy. The mission was much harder than he'd let on, but Lemon usually always filled you in. He thought it was important for you to know certain details that Tangerine was sure to omit, knowing those were the details that haunted him.
"I'll be back after my shift," you promised, nuzzling his nose with your own. "I also need new panties and clean clothes."
He sighed, "Some in there," he pointed to his closet now.
"What?" You giggled.
"You've left enough behind, got a bit of a collection goin', yeah?" He smiled softly, wrapping you back up in his arms. With a sigh, he relented, "I'll let yah go to work, love, just... Need this a bit longer."
You obliged, but the next day, you were gone before he woke up. With a frown, Tangerine dropped back onto the bed - but inhaled deeply when his nose buried into your pillow. He hummed in pleasure, feeling himself brim with contentment, bringing the fluffy item to his chest and nuzzling it; your perfume left behind to soothe him.
Was Tangerine clingy? Oh, for sure! He didn't think so, but you knew better. The contract killer liked you close, liked his hands on you; even if it was just a hand on your waist or a nose near your neck. He missed you when gone, but he usually held himself back from texting you all day - wanting you to be able to focus on your job.
But that day? He was inept, just wanting you; wondering if he paid you the same salary, if you'd consider just staying home. So, he texted you several times.
This obviously threw you off a little, knowing him better than himself most days. But he just missed you, so, you sent a selfie - promising you missed him too and would be home right after work.
He saved the photo and tried not to dwell on how you said you'd "be home" and not "come to his place". He had to take a few moments to calm down, feeling his heart zing with unfamiliarity - but not being afraid of it like he had been when you first started dating. He could recognize he was happy, that he was excited to see you everyday, and that the idea of coming home to you was far too appealing to ignore any longer.
It seemed neither of you needed to actually have an official conversation about living together. Lemon didn't mind, in fact, he was the one who insisted you have your own key; adoring you and whatever affect you had on his emotionally constipated brother. So, some mornings, Tangerine wasn't surprised to find a slightly damp towel left hanging in the bathroom, nor by the make-up on his counter - you using that mirror because of the fluorescent lighting. He never put it back, he didn't move it - he liked seeing it. It meant you were still here, and the idea of it being gone made his stomach knot with anxiety. He also wasn't surprised when he went to use the shampoo you insisted would help his curls flourish (you were right), only to find it damn-near empty. His shower gel, too.
When you came home that evening, you had Target bags in hand; replacing whatever was empty, making Tangerine grin to himself by how in-sync he felt with you. He'd never had a connection such as this, only ever feeling close enough to Lemon, but you changed everything for them both.
How Tangerine ended up with someone courteous was truly beyond either of them. Someone kind, caring, adventurous, sweeter than pie - someone definitely out of Tangerine's league, something he never let himself forget. He adored you to your core - thinking someone such as you should never have gotten tangled up in someone like him, but he knew, if the time ever came, he'd never be able to let you go. In fact, most days, he had to convince himself not to just pick you up and carry you around while he did chores or ran errands.
The very idea of losing you sent his heart into his stomach; hallowing his chest in a harrowing fashion that made it hard to breathe. Just a week or two ago, Lemon found Tangerine in the kitchen, hand to his chest as if he couldn't catch his breath, heaving for air; his worry spiking, but quickly realizing what was wrong.
"Bruv, you've gotta breathe - calm down," he tried to coax. "You're having a panic attack, you've gotta just focus on breathing."
"Fuck off with that!"
"Seriously, man," Lemon insisted, catching Tangerine in a vulnerable state enough that he actually listened without much of a fight. When Tan seemed a little more under control of his own emotions, Lemon asked, "What the hell happened?"
Tangerine shook his head, "Nothing t'worry 'bout - "
"Bullshit," Lemon snapped. "I've never seen yah like that, mate, the fuck happened?"
It was embarrassing, but Tangerine managed to answer, "Just... Just started thinking that if she ever left me, I'd fucking crumble, mate."
This made Lemon frown, "She's not gonna leave you, man. You know that. The girl's madly in love with you, yeah? Like madly in love - like to a degree it makes her stupid in the head, all right? Obviously, you too," he chuckled, shaking his head as he affectionately ran a hand over the back of Tan's head. "You're workin' yourself up, 's all right. You don't have to think about that - ever - 'cause she's it for you, mate. Yeah? Hear me? She ain't goin' nowhere, not without you."
Tangerine needed the assurance. Being alone after having a taste of your love felt impossible to Tan now, something he was never bothered by before. Seriously, why give a fuck about a relationship when he had his brother? Someone who loved him unconditionally and wouldn't leave? And then he met you and understood why people gave fucks about relationships.
It was as if every room you ever entered was brightened up simply by your smile. Your laugh wasn't always the most ladylike, but it was genuine and true and always made Tangerine smile to himself. During any public outing, Tan was always close - we've established this - but he liked to play a small game. One of your love languages was physical touch, so, you liked kissing him if even just for a single second. He was aware of your lipstick, feeling the tacky substance stain his cheek, but he wouldn't wipe it off. His game was to see how long it'd take before someone would point it out; his reputation didn't always warrant others to feel secure enough to speak up. Some nights, Lemon would motion to his cheek, and other nights, you'd return home, remove your make-up, and swipe make-up remover over his cheek to clear the color away.
However, it wasn't often you ventured in public due to Tangerine's innate introverted nature. You went if The Agency made it mandatory or if you were feeling stir crazy, but majority nights, Lemon would find you both lounged on the couch in various positions.
Sometimes, you'd be watching a movie together or binging a show. Other times, you were reading a book while Tangerine poured over paperwork. And once or twice, Lemon's come home to find you belly laughing and playfully scolding Tangerine as he tried to paint your toe nails. It was a homey sight to Lemon: seeing his brother so in love and at ease, hearing your laughter, the entire flat filled with warm smells of burning candles and homemade meals.
It wasn't evident at first, but with you laying in Tangerine's arms, clothes left on the floor, bellies full of whatever meal you had prepared that evening, favorite show playing on the bedroom TV, he realized that he loved what you had done with the place.
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requesting rules and masterlist
Bullet Train masterlist
1K notes · View notes
fuckyeahdindjarin · 1 year
Text
II ║ Threads
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Joel Miller x F!Reader
{ Part I: Seams | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }
Rating: M
Summary: When Joel revisits Main Street Outfitters two weeks later, he finds you on your knees. Again.
Warnings: Very spicy thoughts but not explicit, sexual tension, sexual innuendos, some language, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!Joel, no use of Y/N
Word count: 4.3k
Notes: This crept up on me and happened just as I was finishing up edits. I am so grateful, and I hope Threads is a fitting thank you gift to you all 😘 I’m thinking about doing a sleepover celebration, we shall see!
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Joel and Pin are back ❤️ They're back because you guys have been so generous with your love, sending me so many ideas and hyping me up - I can't thank you all enough! This chapter is all thanks to Singer machine anon who bravely (affectionate 😉) shared their story of getting stuck under a sewing machine table. I hope you enjoy this one!
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A treadle sewing machine is powered mechanically by a foot pedal that is pushed back and forth by the operator's foot. 
If you're not familiar, here is a classic Singer treadle cabinet, which is no way big enough for the purposes of this story, so please exercise your imagination 😉
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Joel hovers outside the Jackson Grocer’s, arms crossed, trying to make himself look as inconspicuous as possible in front of the leafy display of butter lettuce heads.
It’s been a few months since he’s settled in, but sometimes he can’t get over how fucking nuts this place is. Looking at the shelves brimming with fresh fruits and vegetables outside, canned food and home goods inside, he could easily be standing outside the 24/7 mart in his old neighbourhood. There are even shopping baskets, for crying out loud - stacked neatly one on top of the other by the door.
A voice pipes up from his left. ‘Didn’t know you ate greens.’
Joel scowls. ‘I don’t.’
‘Why are you loiterin’, then?’ asks Tommy, picking up a couple of apples and examining them with exaggerated care.
‘I’m not loiterin’,’ he spits out the last word as if he’s above it, turning his gaze to the high street. 
Tommy tosses him a cocky grin, head tilted at a knowing angle. ‘Yeah, you are. And now you’re makin’ eyes at Bob. It’s disturbin’.’
Glancing across the main thoroughfare at the welder’s shop, where the said proprietor is cutting up wooden planks on the porch, Joel grumbles sarcastically, ‘That’s right. Bob is just my type.’
At that very moment, right next to Bob's, the door of Main Street Outfitters creaks open, and Joel recognises Lucy instantly as she sneaks out on tiptoes. She skips down the stairs and wanders up the street in what appears to be another impromptu work break.
Joel’s already taken two steps towards the shop before he remembers that he’s not alone. Braking abruptly and bringing up one hand to scratch the back of his neck, he feels Tommy’s eyes on him.
He half-turns, and snaps, ‘What?’
The younger Miller brother shrugs, pursing his lips thoughtfully. ‘Why are you going to the Outfitters again? Didn’t you just get those new jeans a couple of weeks ago?’
‘Thought I’d get a new shirt for your stupid baby shower.’
‘Joel -’
‘Sorry, sorry.’ He throws his hands up in capitulation. ‘Baby showers are not stupid. Especially in the middle of an apocalypse.’
Taking another two steps forward, a thought stops him dead in his tracks again. He can practically feel Tommy smiling smugly at his back.
For fuck’s sake.
He doesn’t turn around this time, jamming his hands into his pockets and asks, ‘Can I bring someone? To the party?’
‘We know Ellie’s comin’.’
Whipping around, he growls, ‘Tommy -’
He laughs. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Joel Miller makin’ friends in town? Maria’s right - you’re fittin’ right in, big brother.’
Rolling his eyes, Joel flips him off and stomps his way across the street.
Tommy calls out at his retreating back. ‘Say hello to Pin and tell her we’d love to have her come over on Sunday!’
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When he steps inside, the shop is as empty as it was a fortnight ago. Joel shuts the door firmly, making sure the bell jingles, so his entry doesn’t go unnoticed.
Your voice, though muffled, comes promptly. ‘Lucy! Is that you?’
He heads towards the doorway that leads to the workshop. ‘It’s Joel, actually.’
‘Oh, shit!’
His eyebrows reach for his hairline - you don’t seem to be the type to curse. Concerned, he asks, ‘You alright back there?’
There’s a touch of panic in your reply, ‘Don’t come back here. Did Lucy sneak out again?’
On your instruction, Joel hesitates in the middle of the room, talking to air. ‘Yeah, saw her leave a couple of minutes ago.’
‘Goddamnit, Lucy!’
He shuffles his feet awkwardly. ‘Uh, you sure you’re ok? Should I come back later?’
There’s a resigned sigh, then a pause. ‘Promise you won’t laugh.’
One end of his lips tugs upwards in a smile. ‘Why would I?’
‘Promise.’
At your insistence, he humours you, ‘Alright, I promise, sweetheart.’
‘Come on back.’
When he steps into the workshop, he doesn’t spot you immediately. The space is seemingly empty, everything standing still and in order. He sweeps his eyes across the room, starting with the shelving unit and the desk along the near wall, then trailing over the large timber work table in the middle, where a stack of folded shirts stands neatly.
His throat isn’t the only thing that tightens when he glances at the rug under the skylight -
‘Joel?’
Your voice draws his attention to the far corner of the room, where a sewing station is tucked into a little alcove.
Joel doesn’t know much about sewing machines, but he can recognise a vintage Singer anywhere even without the name blazoned across its elegant body. His grandmother had one in her drawing room by a sunny bay window, and he used to watch her work on it when he visited every other weekend. For a disorienting second, he can almost smell homemade cinnamon rolls and black tea.
Little did he know that things were about to get a lot more disorienting than a pleasant childhood memory.
As he steps around the work table, the rest of the sewing station comes into view, fronted by a big window, the light streaming through the glass glancing off the black sewing machine on top of a classic treadle cabinet. What looks like a half-finished dress lies on the wooden work surface, which stands on quintessential wrought metal legs, and between them - his throat constricts with a slow swallow when he realises what - or rather, who - he’s looking at.
The words barely come out, as if his tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth, as he makes his presence known. ‘I’m here, sweetheart.’
To be fair, you’re not making things easy by any means. All he can see is your backside hovering in mid-air, the rest of you out of sight under the desk. It has built-in cabinets on each end, the right side of it backed up against the far wall, and a chair is pushed to the side.
Joel stops two measured paces away, staring down at the curve of your ass and the way your top rides up, baring the small of your back. His eyes linger on the soft skin between the shirt’s hem and the waistband of your very tight jeans.
Jesus Christ. Do you always have to be on your fucking knees in this workshop?
Your small voice jolts him from his daze. ‘Well, at least you’re not laughing.’
He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from scoffing. If only you knew how laughing is the furthest thing on his mind right now. ‘What happened?’
‘A spool rolled off and I went down to get it, but I fell on the treadle accidentally - I think my shirt is snagged in the band wheel. I can’t move at all, and this Singer is an antique - I can't risk breaking it.’
Unfamiliar with what you’re talking about, he probes, ‘And where’s the band wheel?’
‘Under the table, on my right.’
You wriggle your hips, perhaps to help him locate where you’re stuck, unaware that you’re not helping. At all. 
He swallows thickly and implores you, ‘Stay still, sweetheart. I’ll take a look.’
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It’s been two whole weeks since Joel Miller came into the shop. You’ve caught glimpses of him in between - Jackson is tiny, after all. He catches your eye as he ambles down the high street with Ellie, his gruff Southern accent carrying even in the mid-afternoon bustle, too preoccupied arguing with the teenager to notice you on the other side of the road. He’s in the cafeteria a couple of times when you arrive for a late dinner, nodding at you from a few tables over, while you work up the nerve to smile back.
Every time, he’s wearing the jeans you handpicked for him, which makes your chest swell and constrict at the same time with something like - pride.
You picked out the pair for him. You assured him that he looks good. And by the way he’s wearing his confidence on his sleeve, he’s certainly taken your words to heart. 
Whenever you see other women eyeing him as he struts about town - which is entirely too often - it awakens an ugly possessiveness in you, one that twists your insides into grotesque balloon animals.
Fourteen damn days. Even in the privacy of your workshop, you can’t escape that man. The simple touch of denim provokes a visceral reaction from you, heat chases beneath your skin every time you pick up the tailor’s scissors. It doesn’t help that most of your daily tasks are not exactly cerebral, which gives this man all the more leeway to lay claim to your subconscious.
If you believed in magic, you would've thought you summoned him with the sheer energy you’ve spent thinking about him. But what kind of witchcraft conjured him up at the precise moment you get trapped like the bumbling idiot that you are?
One minute you’re reaching for the stupid thread, the next thing you know, you’re stuck, unable to move without the mechanisms of the antique Singer groaning ominously at your attempts to free yourself.
But maybe, it’s still better than Lucy finding you. She’d take a hammer to the sewing machine to get you out, no question - patience is not her strong suit - and she’d be laughing at you for days.
You hear the floorboards give behind you as Joel moves into the space, which isn’t much - when you’re sat down at the treadle cabinet, the wall is barely two steps behind.
The wooden table creaks above you as he braces one hand on the surface, and you startle at what sounds like the vicious crack of a vertebra.
‘Um - you okay?’
Joel grunts. ‘I’ll live.’
So you wait, thinking absent-mindedly how your elbows are starting to get numb. There’s a scruff of boots and what sounds like a brief struggle, before Joel sighs. ‘Back’s too stiff ‘mfraid. Gotta get on the floor to see underneath.’
Before you can squeak out a reply, there’s a boney click of what you presume is his knees as he crouches down, and an unexpected brush of denim on your left ankle surprises you. Forgetting where you are, you jump in reflex, hitting the underside of the table so hard that you screech in pain.
‘Shit!’ Joel cusses behind you, one warm hand landing on the side of your hip to steady you. ‘You ok?’
Up until this point, you’ve been too consumed with embarrassment by your predicament to even think about the position Joel found you in. But once the warm imprint of his palm registers through the denim, it hits you like one of those interstate trucks that you used to see out of your window.
You’re leaning on your forearms, ass in the air, and now - he’s behind you, getting onto his knees. You can’t decide if the back of your head or your pussy is throbbing harder as you stutter, ‘I’m fine, just - get me out, please.’
‘Alright, hang on, sweetheart.’
You swallow the childish urge to stamp your foot. He has no right going around dropping sweethearts all over the place.
There’s a throaty exhale as Joel lowers himself onto the floor, his knees bracketing yours to shift closer to you. You know he feels the shudder that chases down your spine when soft flannel grazes your bare back, heat spilling from his solid frame as he looms over you.
‘You say you’re stuck in the band wheel?’
Somehow, you manage to answer, ‘Yeah, to my right.’
He clears his throat. ‘I - uh - I’ll have to lean down pretty close to you to take a look, is that ok?’
You feel all the air leave your body, which is probably why your reply comes out far breathier than you intend it to. ‘Yes, Joel.’
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And with those two words, Joel has a problem with his jeans. Again.
They’re too tight. Again.
There’s nothing he can do as his mouth goes dry and his cock hardens with a vengeance, his self-control slipping like sand between his fingers.
He was doing so good - well, he was more or less holding it together, as much as he could be expected to while kneeling behind you. And of course, his damn knees hurt, but so does his bottom lip which is caught in his teeth, trying to regulate his breathing when his heart threatens to beat right out of his chest. 
He already has one hand on you, and goddamnit, it’s taking him all he’s got to hold back from gripping you with his other, to grasp the swell of your ass between his palms, to trace your curves up to the dip of your exposed waist, to bow his head and run his tongue along the arc of your spine -
And the jeans you’re wearing - fuck, they’re tight. He wonders idly if you wore them for him. His eyes follow the seam that runs down the cleft of your ass, the way the pockets stretch over your backside has his fingers twitching, thinking about how well you will fill his hands, and how the slow rub of denim will burn his skin.
He wants to hook his thumbs into the belt loops and pull you flush against the zipper of his jeans, where his cock is straining against - rub himself on you, grind on you, his thighs plastered to the back of yours -
‘Joel?’
Fuck.
He sways as he snaps out of his stupor, dangerously close to knocking into you, light-headed from the lack of blood to his brain. He chokes out, ‘Yeah, I got you, sweetheart.’
Get it together, you dirty bastard.
He’s careful to leave a couple of inches between his front and your ass when he bends his elbows and ducks so he can peer beneath the desk. His chest pressed flat against your lower back, he can see the bunched fabric of your shirt where it’s caught.
‘Yup, you’re right, your shirt is snagged tight in there.’
‘Can you untangle it?’
‘Think so, but I’ll need both hands.’ He pauses. ‘I’d better get on my back under you.’
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You swear you’re going to black out.
‘Pin?’ he prompts when you’ve been quiet a beat too long.
‘I - um, what do you mean by going under me?’
‘If I’m on my back, I can use both my hands, like a mechanic under a car,’ he explains. ‘If you’re uncomfortable, I can find another way -’
‘No!’ you blurt out, wincing at the desperation in your tone. ‘I mean - whatever is easiest for you. You’re the one doing me a favour here.’
‘Alright,’ he says, placated by your reassurance. ‘On your hands and knees then, sweetheart.’
Your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head. Oh, come on. Can he hear himself?
Scraping together your last vestiges of control, you push up on your palms to make space underneath you. You have to consciously lock your elbows - your joints suddenly feel like barely set pudding. 
‘Move as far to your right as possible so I can slide in.’
Shuffling on your hands and knees until you’re pressed up against the band wheel, you hear the brush of fabric on wood - must be his back against the floorboards as he slides in. To say it’s a squeeze is an understatement. His broad shoulders brush the front of your thighs as he inches in, and then, his face appears under yours, head between your hands.
His lips quirk. ‘Hi, sweetheart.’
Your breath hitches at his proximity, your wrists brushing the soft red flannel he’s wearing today. ‘Hi.’
‘You ok?’ he asks.
You’re this close to pouting. What does he think? There’s a telltale stickiness between your legs that you’re frantically trying to push to the back of your mind while you mmhmm noncommittally, hoping that he doesn’t smell your want in the tiny, claustrophobic space you’re now both caught in.
You can only assume that he’s none the wiser, since the next thing that comes of his mouth is - 
‘Climb on top of me so I can slide in closer to the band wheel.’
Someone might as well say your last rites. This is the end.
You’re taken aback when your limbs start to move on autopilot, because your faculties have well and truly abandoned ship. One trembling leg attempts to swing itself over the solid breadth of his body, but it wobbles like jelly, and your knee ends up connecting firmly with his stomach instead of landing clear on his other side.
At his grunted oomph, you panic and bang your head on the underside of the table again, which sends your whole weight sprawling onto his front with a yelp.
Joel cradles the back of your scalp with one hand. ‘Shit, you ok, sweetheart?’
The seams of your lashes sting, your head smarting with the impact, and you blink drily as your gaze focuses on Joel under you. He’s so close that you can see flecks of gold in his brown eyes, his breath hitting your face in warm puffs. Your glance at his lips, and with that one little motion, all goes quiet.
He watches you back, neither of you breathing, and in the stillness you realise that you’re fully straddling him, your palms pressing into the hard floor on either side of his ears. Your tits are crushed up against his ribs, his soft tummy warmly cushioned under you. Lower still, where your hips are nestled into the spread of his thick thighs, something stiff and long and insistent presses into you -
Your jaw goes slack when it dawns on you. 
Oh god.
He’s hard.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Joel breaks the silence, a pained frown on his brow as he shakes his head. ‘This is embarrassin’. Couldn’t fuckin’ help it, seein’ you in those jeans -’
Tongue-tied, you can only stare at him, wishing you were brave enough to say something. Tell him that you pulled extra shifts to buy this particular pair of jeans, knowing that they flatter your figure. That you’ve worn them almost every day these two weeks, hoping that he’d swing by again. 
But you can’t. 
So you pray that he can see what you can’t say by the way you’re looking at him, by the way your heart races wildly in your ribcage against his chest.
His voice cracks. ‘I understand if you want me to go -’
You unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth and cut in, ‘Don’t.’
His warm eyes widen, something like hopefulness in the way he looks up at you. ‘You don’t want me to go?’
You press your body closer into his, filling in the gaps. ‘No. Please don’t, Joel.’
He leans forward, so close that you can feel the phantom burn of his silvered beard, his palms finding the meat of your legs, blunt nails biting into the denim.
He really should be ashamed of himself, at the way his cock pulses unabashedly, nudged right between your thighs as you stare down at him, lips parted. He’s hard enough that he worries if there’s a wet spot of precum on the front of his jeans - he can feel himself leaking through his boxers. 
The wicked tip of your tongue traces a wet trail on your bottom lip, and he almost chokes on a half-buried groan deep in his chest. He knows that you don’t even know you’re doing it - and in turn, what that does to him.
It would be easy to close the two-inch gap between you. To kiss you, taste you, lick into your sweet mouth. All he needs to do is to cup the back of your head and pull you down, or crane his neck and press his lips to yours -
And Joel is someone who always follows the path of least resistance. 
But - he wants to do right by you. He knows you deserve more than a quick fumble under a table.
Sucking in a shaky breath, Joel steels himself and brushes a chaste thumb over your cheekbone. ‘Let’s get you out of here, and then we can talk, ok?’
It’s almost perverse the way his chest warms at the flicker of disappointment in your eyes as you give a reluctant nod, ‘Ok. Please be careful, the Singer’s really delicate.’
It’s hard to focus - his attention keeps drifting to how snugly you fit into his chest, between his arms, and it’s not a stretch to imagine a soft mattress underneath his back. It's funny how quickly his body has adjusted to creature comforts after months of sleeping on the cold winter ground.
Joel’s mindful that an antique sewing machine will be a pain in the ass to repair without the requisite parts, so he moves carefully, gently coaxing the band wheel back and forth to see how he can extract you. It doesn’t take long to loosen the grip of the metal teeth on your shirt, but he has to reach up and untangle the threads snagged into the mechanisms one by one.
He muses idly that this is not his method. These hands of his, with crooked knuckles that never healed right, where many a dagger, knife, gun, rifle have found a home - they break things, people.
When was the last time someone asked gentleness of him? 
He wants to scoff. That’s not what he’s good for.
Despite himself, his throat rumbles with a hum of satisfaction when the band wheel finally lets go of your shirt, the Singer whirring to life as it spins freely. He gives you a lopsided smile. ‘There you go, sweetheart.’
You smile, but don’t seem to be in a hurry to move, which pleases him. He likes looking at you from this angle, relishing in your weight on him. He takes his time running his eyes over your face, his palms coming to rest on your knees.
You duck your head prettily. ‘Thank you, Joel.'
He gives you a playful shrug. ‘Well, I owed you one for these jeans.’
You roll your eyes in good humour. ‘Actually, I told you specifically that you didn’t.’
Joel basks in the lighthearted turn in the conversation, egging you on, ‘Well, in that case, you owe me one for this instead.’
‘That’s hardly fair -’ you chide him, punching him in the shoulder in a half-hearted rebuke.
Taking the opportunity, he grabs you by the wrist, the contact prompting a bodily shudder from you that he doesn’t miss. He smirks, ‘M’fraid I don’t play fair, sweetheart.’
You glare at him in mock sternness, bold enough to demand, ‘Fine - what do you want then, Joel Miller?’
For a split second, he hesitates, woefully out of practice at whatever it is that he’s about to do. Swallowing his self-doubt, he asks, ‘Tommy and Maria are throwing a baby shower on Sunday at their house - do you want to come?’
Your shoulders stiffen. Now, that you were not expecting. Your social anxiety bubbles between your ribs and looms over you like a spector. You sputter, ‘Um, I -’
You start when his fingers draw soothing circles on the top of your knees, as if seeing straight through the source of your apprehension. He reassures you, ‘Lucy is welcome to join too. The more the merrier.’
Your eyes soften. ‘Ok. I’d love to.’
The endearing way the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles has you swaying towards him, his nose just brushing the side of yours - when the doorbell rings, cutting through the loaded silence. 
In your haste to sit up, you knock your head against the table for a third time. 
‘Ow!’ you cry. Even Joel flinches at the hard hit.
Lucy calls out, sounding dangerously close. ‘Pin? You ok, hon?’
‘Shit!’ You start scrambling backwards, bent over awkwardly, convinced that you’re one more blow away from a concussion. You’ve barely scrambled onto your feet when Lucy steps into the workshop, the world tilting on its axis for a moment as blood rushes to your brain. 
She watches in amusement as Joel drags himself from under the sewing station, head cocked to one side. ‘Hi again, stranger. You really like our shop, don’t you?’
His shirt is rumpled from where you sat on him, bits of his curls sticking up. He rubs the back of his neck, as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar. ‘I just swung by to, uh, invite you and Pin to the baby shower. Tommy and Maria’s. This Sunday.’
Lucy crosses her arms, arching an eyebrow. ‘And it’s a tradition where you’re from to talk about weekend plans under a table?’
You narrow your eyes at her. ‘Luce -’
She winks. ‘You know what? I don’t need to know the gory details - but I’m in. See you Sunday, Miller!’
Joel huffs a chuckle as Lucy disappears into the front of the shop, leaving you two alone. You smile, suddenly shy for no reason, twining your fingers to stop from fidgeting. ‘Thanks again, Joel.’
He shrugs it off, a touch of boldness in the way he stands, hands in pockets, hips cocked. ‘Pleasure was all mine, sweetheart.’
Instead of heading in the direction of the door, he takes two long strides towards you, leaning down to murmur in your ear, ‘Wear those jeans for me again on Sunday?’
Stunned, you gape at him as he turns with a crooked grin and walks off, dispatching a two-fingered salute at Lucy as he goes. Pausing by the threshold, Joel gives you one last wink that has your breath stuttering - but you only allow yourself to sag against the wall when the door closes behind him, your knees giving.
Lucy wastes no time skipping back into the workshop, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. ‘Alright, time to raid the party clothes rack, girl!’
You laugh - Sunday can’t come fast enough.
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Notes: I had the best time writing this chapter - it was fun to flip the tables on Pin, not that Joel comes out completely unscathed!
I definitely have ✨ideas✨ for these two, but I'm enjoying keeping things loose, so I have no plans to turn this into a full-blown series just yet. I hope you enjoyed this instalment, comments/reblogs/asks are so so appreciated as always ❤️
3K notes · View notes
shibaraki · 5 months
Text
AN OBSERVER OF LONGING ┊ IWAIZUMI HAJIME
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synopsis: with a few days remaining, the five of you run from Tooru and Hajime's impending departure for a little longer—and tackle some unearthed feelings along the way.
tags: NSFT, AFAB reader, childhood best friends to lovers, romantic + sexual tension, mutual pining, a lot of casual physical affection, sharing a bed, angst + fluff, masturbation, festivals, alcohol consumption (everyone) + smoking (makki), yay love confessions, emotional hurt/comfort, eventual smut, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (reader rec.)
wc: 18K
↳ written in three days while in my feels and on new medication: for the komorebi collab hosted by yours truly lmao ↰
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Like most impulsive plans it stemmed from a tipsy throwaway comment. Ruddy cheeks, the warm, honey tinge of whiskey on his breath, Hajime’s lips came loose. 
“We should go somewhere together,” he’d said, ensconced by the booth cushions. Your gaze met meaningfully across the table, half lidded and dopey. Even as Issei’s arm wrestled its way around his neck and jostled him, wrangled him closer with the promise of teasing, Hajime had not looked away from you. 
“Oh! Let’s rent a little bus, like in the movies. That’s a cute idea,” Tooru enthused, inflection slurred by the warmth of his liquor. “Hajime, who knew you could be so cute?”
“Hajime has always been cute,” Issei drawled, eyes gleaming as his knuckles successfully rub back and forth over Hajime’s skull, even as the man squirms against it. “But you’re both leaving again soon. We can’t go far, or for long”.
It had been pure luck that Tooru and Hajime managed to synchronise their brief visit home in the first place. You think that they might’ve even conspired to match their flight times as close as humanly possible, just so they could find one another in the airport upon arrival. 
“Now look. Poor ‘kawa,” Takahiro strummed his finger over Tooru’s puckered bottom lip, pink and plush as it bounces back. “Quick. Tell him he’s cuter before he starts crying”. 
And the drink-addled idea passed. You, however, let the thought marinate in the morning that followed. Knowing that it was Hajime who suggested it felt significant. He’s the quiet sentimental type. With both his and Tooru’s upcoming departures you had fully expected to be inundated with their company—savouring the remaining time you had left, never quite touching on the topic, still too tender for the three of you. It surprised you. A trip felt final. Another last hurrah. The tying of loose ends, to separate on a good note. 
Ultimately you decided to forward a link to an article detailing different overnight itineraries and festivals to the group chat with hopes of bringing it to fruition. Now you found yourself standing beside Hajime’s car under an early eventide in a pair of old sweatpants too long at the ankle and listening to them bicker, wondering why you ever got the ball rolling. 
Phone, check. Keys, check. ID, check. Wallet, check. Overnight bag—
You glare down at the offending object propped on the ground beside your feet. A good twenty minutes of your frantic afternoon had been spent trying to zip the thing shut. Check.
“But Hajime, the otter cafe!”
Tooru yelps, and you glance up in time to watch as Iwaizumi jostles and loosens his grip, “No. We don’t have time. We’re sticking to the plan".
“Are those even ethical?” Issei wonders under his breath, bending at your side to lift the case and ignoring your weak protests. It’s handed off to Hajime with ease, and you allow yourself a brief appreciative glimpse of the muscle flexing under his fitted shirt. 
You shake your head, full of mirth as you call to him, “Tooru”.
The sinking sun is crowning his head in a dewy flare. Tooru looks up from Hajime’s back and the halo slips, highlighting the hidden wispy strands of ginger by his temples. Balmed lips pouted, his brow arched in question.
“Stop fussing and sit with me”. 
The curiosity smooths out and he looks increasingly pleased at the request. It lasts a few sweet moments, broken by the smug uptick of his mouth. Tooru grins, “Of course you want to sit next to me. I’m your favourite after all”. 
Years of repetitive back and forth taught you that arguing that point was futile. With a fond eye roll, you reach across in his approach to pinch at his bicep. “Just get in the car before I change my mind,” you say. 
You duck in to sit beside Tooru as he scrambles for the window seat. Hajime is angled toward you while he fiddles with the centre console, a muscled arm wrapped around the headrest, deliberately waiting for you to meet his gaze. When you do, he mouths the words, “Thank you”. 
From the minute you met there’d always been something there. Maybe it was pheromonic, the way you know something is right the instant you find it; or maybe it was the chubby, six year old hands that plucked the cicada shell from your hair one summer morning. Presque vu, years spent waiting on the tip of your tongue. It doesn’t escape you that this might be the last chance to do anything about it. 
You’re shaken from your reverie when the car rocks on its axles. Issei throws himself into the far right passenger seat beside you with a heavy sigh. Broad shoulders push you closer into Tooru, thighs pressed together and feet parted awkwardly on either side of the rear suspension. 
Takahiro excitedly clambers in the front with an energy drink in hand, uncapped, earning an indignant shout from Hajime when he slams the door with too much force. 
“Oi—!” 
You grin as he struggles to dodge Hajime’s successive smacks. “Alright, alright! I’m sorry, be nice!” 
“I told you already, it's my dad’s car. That means no tracking dirt, no spilling anything, and no smoking inside. Capiche?”
“Aye-aye,” Issei drones, knuckles grazing your hip where he fastens his seatbelt. There is little space, yet it is oddly comforting. Tooru snorts, slumping until a head of unkempt brown hair rests heavily against your shoulder, tilting briefly to nuzzle your jaw. 
The radio switches on automatically as the engine starts, an initial splutter tapering off into a gentle hum. You reciprocate Tooru’s affection and rub your cheek over his crown, inhaling the familiar scent of coconut milk shampoo. He takes your weight without complaint, and when Issei leans forward to receive a sip of Takahiro’s energy drink, your knees knock together. 
Hakone was the chosen destination, thanks to a local festival taking place tomorrow. Of the five of you, Hajime is the best driver in terms of navigation and road knowledge. Issei is a close second. Both Tooru and Takahiro got their licences for the sake of convenience, but you doubt they could make their way around a clockwise roundabout without crying. 
Takahiro whoops, his hand thudding in line with the beat on the car roof, “Road trip, baby!” 
The scenery becomes less and less familiar, turning onto streets you do not recognise. Heading west out of Tokyo toward the Chuo Expressway, it isn’t until a passenger window is opened and a gust billows into the car that you shake the final dregs of sleep. Tooru’s hair is whipping in the wind as Hajime reaches for the radio and switches channels, bass vibrating through the speakers. 
Reality sets in like a slow simmer and excitement buzzes under your skin as the giddiness swells. You lean forward, cheek squashed unflatteringly to the back of the driver's seat, and paw at Hajime’s arm. 
“Turn it up, Haji”. 
Above the road ahead is a large blue sign detailing directions to Lake Kawaguchi—a purposeful detour, for the sake of acting like tourists. There’s a spot with a perfect view of Mount Fuji. Despite having lived only a forty minute ride from Tokyo, you can’t say you’d ever thought to look at it outside of a postcard. 
It’s nice to step into the shoes of another. View the country through a less acclimated lense. You’re taken through winding roads that thread between verdant mountains; entrenched by nature, only to be thrown out into the open as the foliage breaks. 
Lake Kawaguchi greets you brightly, the sunset surface glittering across a vast horizon. You are yelling harmoniously with Takahiro as it comes into view. Issei’s phone is already pressed against the window, scenery rolling across the camera screen as he repeatedly taps his thumb to recalibrate the focus. 
“I can hear you laughing at me,” he casts a suspicious look over his shoulder. 
You grin, “You’re such an old man”. 
“We’ll park just up here. There’s a good spot for pictures down by the bank,” Hajime says, the heel of his hand flat to the wheel as it turns left. “Not too far to walk. Pretty sure there’s a cafe just nearby, too”. 
You watch his reflection in the rear view mirror, admiring the soft crinkles by his eyes. His mouth isn’t visible but you know he’s smiling. Issei bumps his knee into yours—again. Simultaneously, Tooru bends make quiet kissing noises against your ear. Swatting them isn’t justice enough, and threatening to throw them out of the moving vehicle only makes them snicker. 
The car park is entirely deserted and unmonitored, surrounded by brush. No line markings or need for payment, just a part of the ground carved out and filled with gravel that crunches beneath the tires as it displaces. Cruising toward the far end of the lot, Hajime chooses the spot right by an old staircase that appears to lead down the bank. 
He pulls the handbrake with a resounding click and shuts off the engine. Comfortable silence befalls you as the radio cuts out. Soft, muted chirps rippled throughout the treeline, and as Issei popped open his car door, those first few notes bloomed into many more.
You climb out and step onto the uneven ground, the crisp air pinching the tips of your ears. You reach up and rub at them, running your palms over your cheeks in hopes of warmth. It isn’t cold—just refreshing. Cool enough to feel it in your sinuses when you breathe. 
“Come on,” Tooru whines. He’s already stood by the railing, weight shifting restlessly between his feet. You smile at the bounce of his hair, frame outlined in darkening sunlight, breaking through the curls like a canopy. 
An arm snakes loosely around your back and Hajime pulls you into his embrace. You fall in line with him, his pace purposefully slowed to remain at your side. He guides you forward, and once you’re close enough, the others begin to descend the staircase. 
You hear Issei whistle. Glancing up from the final step, you’re met with a watercolour come to life. Open skies, there lay smudges of orange, red and pink. No telling up from down. The surface of the lake is completely still, reflecting a perfect mirror view of Mount Fuji. 
“Wow,” you murmur, breathless. Hajime hums in agreement, awe bleeding into the sound. Tooru is crouched near the water, struck with wonder, idly swirling his fingertips over the surface as Takahiro and Issei station either side of him, the pair deep in thought. 
Dragging your eyes from the picturesque view, you take in the emotion on Hajime’s face. People always claimed him to be intimidating—he could be, without question. But to you, Hajime was made up entirely of soft lines, deliberate kindness and telegraphed movements, as though he were a gentle giant, despite being the shortest of the four players. 
He still carries some chub in his cheeks. You know, because you’re often inundated with the urge to pinch at it. This is your Hajime, the one you’ve always known; only now there’s stubble lining his jaw. 
“It’s grown back again already,” you comment sotto voce, careful not to disturb the pensive atmosphere that has settled by the lakes edge. “You really are a big boy now”.  
“It’s annoying”. 
“Looks good though,” you muse. “Kinda rugged. I like it”. 
His throat flexes as he swallows, hand coming up to itch his jawline, and you try not to stare. It’s always so easy to turn him pink. “You do?” 
Too much, you think, poking the swell of his cheek in lieu of a response. It yields under the pressure, and as he smiles it takes on the appearance of a dimple. 
Casual affection was second nature, now. You found yourself thankful for the excuse to touch, and knowing that he’ll be leaving soon has emboldened you somewhat. All those years ago you’d preemptively decided that crossing the threshold would lead to rejection, but the initial borders defining your relationship have long since blurred, and it’s hard not to wonder where you truly stand. If you got it right.
“Guys,” Takahiro demands your attention, hand cupped by his mouth with a lit cigarette held precariously between his fingers. The other is in the air waving his phone back and forth. “We’re here to marvel at the miracles of mother nature, not each other!”
You step out of Hajime’s embrace, disguising your reluctance. 
Joining their lanky huddle rewards you with a chorus of cheers as Tooru latches on to your back and props his chin atop your shoulder. He flashes an effortless peace sign. The others attempt to fit themselves into the frame mirrored on Hanamaki’s phone screen, an iridescent crack running from one corner to the other, Mount Fuji’s blushing snowy peaks crowning your heads. 
“You really gotta get that fixed,” you hear someone say. Their voice is muffled, as if they’d been talking with their lips closed, and one glimpse finds Issei trying resolutely to keep his posed smirk in place. Your own mouth flattens into a thin line to keep yourself from laughing. 
The camera shutters.
You groan, “I wasn’t ready for that one”. 
A few more are taken and sent to the group chat, eyes on you while you set a particularly sweet one as your wallpaper. Crowing with delight, you find yourself surrounded by bodies and squeezed in a firm group hug. 
“Alright, alright,” you huff. The discomfort stems more from the insistent, cramping sensation in your stomach. Your smaller hands meet a hard, muscled abdomen, pushing fruitlessly. Neither man budges. If anything, your resistance only encourages them to coil tighter. “You’re all too heavy. Get off!” 
They relent, but only at the sound of your gut rumbling. “Hungry?” Hajime asks. The sheathing sun reflects in his irises, burning bright, verdant green, as though he were part of spring itself; soft in apology.
“Food is that way,” Issei points out. “Looks like it’s open. Maybe”. 
There’s a stout, cosy structure further along, tucked atop the edge of a hill and half hidden by a cradle of Japanese maple. If you squint you could make out the moving silhouettes inside. 
Tooru cranes his neck, lips comically pursed as he looks toward the cafe. “It’s pretty romantic. If we have Hajime get on one knee out here for a picture, think they’ll give us a free meal?” 
Hajime shoves him half heartedly and clicks his tongue, “Why me? Do it yourself”. 
You watch as they share a long, unspoken moment, conversing without words. Tooru offers him a scathing look, one of total incredulity and that alone is enough to break the suspension. Hajime juts his chin in the opposite direction and turns his back, beginning a stiff march toward the cafe. 
“What was that all about?” 
“He’s so bullheaded,” Tooru muses, knuckles rapping gently to your skull as he passes. When you are offered nothing but a fond laugh in the face of your confusion, you stalk off after them. 
Petulance has you speeding ahead of the group, further picking up the pace at the sound of hurried feet. The natural instinct to run nips at your heels. As the earth begins to incline upward and your strides broaden, there’s a burn in the back of your thighs that Takahiro seems to have no issue with, if his sudden sprint ahead has anything to say about it. 
“Last one there has to pay!” 
“Bastard,” Issei hollers from the back, refusing to run and carried by his heavy gait. “Just because you’re unemployed!” 
Your lungs are burning with the exertion, laughter coming in short bursts. Issei remains in last, Tooru second, Hajime fourth. From the terrace, Takahiro pieces his thumb and forefinger together into the shape of a heart, nowhere close to apologetic. “Buy me something and I’ll give you a big wet kiss,” he returned in a singsong voice.
Issei lumbers through the gate, movements broad and slow. His brow arches, Takahiro immediately losing bravado. “You’d do that for free”. 
“Get me out of here,” Hajime mutters. “Kill me”.
You take pity on him and herd them all through the doors, “Less flirting and more pastries, please”. 
Inside is painted in rich deep browns. The fresh air weaves well with the aroma of freshly baked goods. You breathe it in, your hands dancing over shelves sparsely stocked with baskets of flatbread, loaves and cakes. While quaint, the ceilings are high, held up by large beams on which decorative lights and plants are carefully draped. 
You feel slightly awkward and out of place in your shabby old sweatpants. A calming melody is playing overhead. Soft spoken voices belonging to the few employees and fewer patrons encourage you to lower your own into a whisper. 
Hajime subtly leans down to listen as you say, “I think we should get our food to go”. 
He hides his amusement against your shoulder and you accept the brief weight with a grin. Then you feel him nod in agreement. 
Issei holds his hand out when you reach the counter. There are already multiple paper bags tucked under his arm. “Give me the goods before I change my mind,” he says, exasperation set plain on his face. 
“Thank you Issei,” you recite like a child, pressing two sweet rolls shaped like a cornet into his palm. Hajime chooses comfort—curry bread. Shared on countless late night walks home; the memories stir something melancholic deep within your chest that you’d rather not examine right now. 
Your initial concern about being out of place were not entirely unfounded. The employee behind the register greets your group kindly enough, and her smile is genuine, but you cannot ignore how her eyes seem to flicker back and forth to the disgruntled customers seated by the terrace. 
If you had to guess, they were regulars. Retired elders that lived nearby and had the privilege to spend their evenings here. Though irritating, you are honest enough to admit that your gaggle of idiots would certainly fracture this place’s peaceful ambiance. So Issei pays, feigning nonchalance at the long, wet kiss Takahiro leaves on his cheek, and you trudge back to the car with food in hand.
Tooru ambles around to the front passenger seat, hip checking Takahiro toward the back where he previously sat. You knew he might do this at some point during the trip. Eating before a car ride made him prone to nausea, and since he was young he’d claimed sitting in the front helped. Anpan held between his teeth, Tooru peers at you through the headrests and smiles with his eyes, entirely too pleased. 
Takahiro nudges your side as he clambers in. Lifting your hips, he buckles the seatbelt, and soon after you are half-draped over his lap to allow Issei to do the same. You glare at him as he wiggles his eyebrows, stopping short when he flashes you his phone. There’s a picture, this time of you and Hajime at the lake curled into each other; you’re cradled by his arms, and he by the mountainside, entirely in your own world. 
You relent, “Send me it”. 
“As I thought,” he mutters smugly. 
The lake is rarely out of view. Heading south to Hakone, the road hugs the water for most of the journey. Tooru connects his carefully curated road trip playlist to the speakers and the car swells with an old city jpop song. You pick at your sweet rolls, barely humming along; choking on feelings left to fester in your throat, unacknowledged and unspoken. 
You remember the day they told you their goals for the future. Plans to leave. Together, across from you, hands wrung in their laps. Grief filled your body like lead, and you recall thinking to yourself, half-hysterically, ‘How can I do this alone?’
That was a time in your life you couldn’t imagine a world without Tooru or Hajime in it. Day in, day out, seasons passed side by side. Three small stars converging on the same path. It never needed to be clarified—all plans were made with the tacit promise of being together. The unwillingness to part pulled even your families along and you were hard pressed to recall a first New Year shrine visit without their relatives present. Until they decided to leave. 
It’s loneliness tinged with a smidgen of guilt. You’re not truly alone. Issei and Takahiro are some of your best friends, and they weren’t going anywhere far anytime soon. Still, you can’t help but brace for the ways your orbit will further unfurl in Hajime and Tooru’s absence when they return to their lives.
Hakone is a town tucked away in the shadow of Fuji-Hakone-Izu national park. Long, mountainous roads lead you toward an expanding vista. Faces sun drenched in varying hues of red maple, pink blossom and youthful green. The next hour and a half passes in the blink of an eye and the destination closes in. You angle your head, stretching across Takahiro’s lap and squinting up to make out the shape of ropeways cutting across the burgeoning sky. Tiny, far off carriers glide along the cables. 
Something about it compels everyone to stop and take a breath. You lapse into pleasant silence. The car slows to cruise through the busy streets, music lowered into a faint buzz. It is larger than life. 
While advertised as a quaint getaway from the chaotic, fast paced lifestyle of Tokyo, in actuality Hakone is made up of seven separate villages, each with its own distinct history. Lush hills crowned with cumulus clouds of smoke from the hot springs; young families standing beneath grand, crimson painted torii gates; vendors sheltered from the sun by conical straw hats tied beneath their chins with silk. 
To get to Gora, you must first cut through Yumoto—a lively, compact area lined with shops and restaurants that have attracted an uncomfortable amount of foot traffic. Hajime drives with his body strung tight, knuckles losing colour as yet another tourist almost walks out in front of his car. 
“Almost there, man,” Issei offers sympathetically.
Hajime grunts, “Don’t talk to me”. 
Tooru is too preoccupied with taking pictures to notice his best friend's struggles. The small noises of awe only seem to push Hajime’s shoulders higher. You have to duck away from the rear view mirror and bite your inner cheek so as not to laugh.   
Eventually, the place you’ll be staying at comes into view. You all release a collective sigh of relief. The modernised ryokan is much larger than most family run facilities. It sits conspicuously on the end of a private road, concealed by forest and threadbare canopy that casts shadows across the windshield as the car pulls in, sliding effortlessly into one of the empty spaces. 
Four staff members adorning pastel yukata’s greet you by the wide genkan with a deep bow. The woman standing behind the reception desk mirrors them when she meets your eye. You’re offered a pair of new grey slippers and gently ushered out into the lobby with your outdoor shoes in hand while Hajime heads to check in. 
When he rejoins the group his expression is distinctly uncomfortable and pinched in a way you recognise as embarrassment.
“There’s been a mix up with the room—suite, I guess,” Hajime admits. Hesitant, his gaze drags up from the floor to where you’re standing beside him. “I showed her the booking but no dice. We’re stuck with a tatami room and bathroom, but she promised there’d be enough futons to roll out”. 
While it was last minute they’d all designated tasks to each other, and his task had been booking accommodations. Having expressed that he would make the effort to get you your own room for the sake of privacy and comfortability, despite your protests, you understood his immediate reaction. Letting people down—at least, his own arbitrary idea of it—never sat right with Hajime. 
“Let me go talk to her, Iwa-chan. I might even charm her into giving us some extra amenities,” Tooru grins wolfishly, already fiddling with the cuffs of his sweater. Faint freckles scattered along his forearms, some newer from the summer months. Tendons flexing with determination, he takes the proffered print out and saunters toward the counter. 
“I can be charming,” Hajime mutters childishly, shucking the cross bag higher up his shoulder. He frowns you. “Am I charming?” 
You pat his cheek. His pride always rears over the most obscure things. “In your own way”.
Takahiro voices his amusement with a heavy clap to Hajime’s back. “Yeah, man. You appeal to people’s baser instincts. Makes me wanna get knocked up in a cave and nap while you’re out hunting for boar, or something”. 
“Shut up, idiot”. 
Tooru leaned his body against the counter, closed the distance and tilted his head, a coy sequence you’ve paid witness to a thousand times. You can imagine how he’s holding the receptionist's attention, speaking in low, dulcet tones that slide through her like warm butter. 
“What a bastard,” Issei sighs. Hajime grunts his agreement, and you realise that the four of you are lined up, watching them unashamedly as if it were a piece of theatre. 
“Alright, weirdos. Move it,” you prod insistently at Takahiro’s waist, snickering when he flinches away from your fingers. “Stop staring and get your bags together so we’re ready”. 
“You sure are confident in him,” Issei smirks, picking up his luggage nonetheless. There’s a loud click as you extend your suitcase handle, pulling with force when it jams halfway. 
“You’re not? It’s Tooru—” your voice abruptly halts at the heat of another, their hand encompassing your own. Hajime relinquishes your grip and readjusts the handle without fanfare. Flustered, you clear your throat, “He always pulls through for us. Though I still think this is all a bit unnecessary”. 
“I, for one, am glad he’s with us and not against us,” Takahiro snorts, eyes flitting between the two as Tooru tips his head and laughs. The sound is trim, practised and forced to your own ears, yet manages to make the employee blush. “Kinda scary, isn’t he?” 
Unfettered affection pulls at the corner of your mouth. You smile, turning away from them before they can see and tease you for it. Without a doubt, you had missed being with them more than you realised, and the giddiness was hard to temper. 
When Tooru returns, it is with a self satisfied grin, a new set of keys and a slip of paper. “That her number?”
“Yep,” his lips pop as he flips it over between his fingers, flashing the numerical digits scrawled on the back before flippantly sticking it in his jacket pocket. “We now have a modern double, a tatami room and a private onsen. Don’t all thank me too quickly, now”. 
Hajime accepts the keys with a begrudged sigh. “You should worry about texting and thanking her before we leave”.
“Stop trying to make me a better person,” Tooru sniffed, allowing himself to be herded toward the cramped lift. You trail closely behind, shaking your head. 
The room is bigger than expected. Family sized, you’d say. Traditional with a modernised touch; the main tatami room that flowers in the moonlight as it floods in through the sliding lattice doors. Behind it comes the promising sound of running water and after setting all your shoes in the modest genkan—pointed outwards—Takahiro rushes to discover the private onsen.  
Hung in a recessed alcove is a silk scroll inscribed with calligraphy. Staggered wall shelves frame a small flatscreen TV, neatly decorated with painted vases and incense. Tucked away in the corner is a closet full of freshly aired futons. The rice straw flooring yields softly under your feet as you explore. 
Two other rooms are cordoned off, a smaller tatami room for the futons and one largely taken up by a double bed featuring a western style ensuite bathroom. Tourists must love this place, you think. It offers a palatable amount of Japanese culture, while simultaneously providing them with the simplistic comforts of their own. 
Issei makes work of the futons, nudging the low table and cushions into a corner and dragging the blankets over to the other room. Lip worried between your teeth, you find yourself hovering uselessly with no task to attend to aside from unpacking, which you thought to be just as useless. 
A hand snakes around your arm. Tooru’s, you soon recognise; impressively soft given his choice of career, lithe, and slightly balmy from a fruity smelling moisturiser his sister gifted him from her travels in South Korea. “Come on,” he insists without explanation, a dramatic weariness about him.
You are guided into the modern room and handed a travel sized torch identical to his own. You flinch away from the bright light as it abruptly begins to blink, but catch on quickly. ”Look everywhere you can think of”. 
“What’re you guys doin’ in here?”
Ignoring Takahiro’s question, you bend to flash the torchlight into the plug sockets. As Tooru peeks into the vents—giving the theatrical whisper of “all clear” with every check—you circumvent around the bed, looking under the frame and the nearby closet. 
“Makki, stop hovering like a ghost and check the bathroom for cameras. Actually, I’ll do it,” Tooru waves him off dismissively, sleuthing precariously into the small bathroom. “Gotta check the shower head. Can’t have my darling friends showing up on some dark web auction…”
Once Tooru is mollified that there are no hidden cameras the group allow themselves to settle. You are set up in the double room. It is the only door with a lock and a private bathroom, and you suspect that is why it was foisted onto you. 
Still you are conscious about the proximity, or lack thereof. Listening to them bicker and scuffle through the walls, their footfalls and voices passing beneath the crack in the bathroom doorway. Your fingers lingered on the turning lock for too long and in the end, you’d left it horizontal. The intense anticipation in your belly culminated into what you recognised as yearning—longing. 
The shower can only be described as a transparent box. Aside from a few shallow shelves left to house the complementary body wash, you’re surrounded only by clear, frameless glass panels that do nothing to obscure the view of your naked body. Anyone could walk in at any time. Standing under the warm spray, pressure just right against your shoulders, even as the dense steam fogs up the glass your gaze still falls back to the door handle. 
You run a washcloth over your skin and ignore the muted arousal that flares between your thighs. Sounds can be heard over the white noise, muffled by hollow mortar yet still clear enough that the sounds are coalesced into words. 
“Get your shoes off my futon,” Hajime demands. Hand braced against wet tile as though to touch the baritone of his voice, the other passes innocently over your sex, and you shudder. Thoughts wander. 
Tentative, you slide your fingers through your folds. Massage wet, loose circles around your clit. Eyes fall closed and you dip into your imagination. There’s a firm body behind you, cock grinding tantalisingly slow against your ass. Shaped around your back as though you were an extension of him. Your rhythm stutters when Hajime nuzzles below your ear. Tender kisses forge a path to your shoulder while his hands smooth across a resting stomach toward your chest.
Curtained by hot water as it patters away at the tension in your muscles, droplets slip into the seam of your lips and they part for breath. You lean on the tiled wall, seeking cool relief where the steam starts to overwhelm you, and slip abruptly on the condensation. With an undignified yelp, you quickly find your footing—though not without first knocking over the travel sized bottles of body wash. 
Deafening silence follows. You inhale deeply, exhaling to steady your breathing. A hesitant knock to the door gives you pause. The handle remains mournfully upright. 
“…You alive in there?” 
Your face twists into a grimace as you attempt to recompose yourself. You clear your throat. “I’m fine, Hajime. Sorry. The only thing I’m dying of is embarrassment”. 
His short laughter is warm and uninhibited. It rings true in your ears long after he’s gone. Turning away from the spray, your head tips forwards until it thumps against the glass. Shame prickling behind your eyes, you groan, “What the fuck is wrong with me”. 
Surprisingly there are no teasing comments awaiting you when you leave the privacy of your room, dried and redressed. All the screen doors have been pulled open, connecting the main room to the spare tatami room where they’ve rolled out all the futons to create one large bed. Five, together. You smile but don’t mention it. Issei greets you with a lazy wave from his place amongst the blankets. 
“Makki’s just havin’ a smoke,” his thumb points to the door leading out toward the private onsen. Through the lattice you can make out a blurred silhouette standing on the small veranda. 
“The other two?”
“Headed downstairs to ask about the festival tomorrow, and dinner”. 
“Are you looking forward to it?” you perk up, kneeling to sit cross legged on one of the beds. 
Issei smirks at your enthusiasm and hums an affirmative. Your eyes are drawn to the subtle movements of his hands where they fiddle with the inseam of his jeans. “Yeah. Heard they’re lighting some bonfires”. 
Your mouth parts with a sound of recognition. “On the mountainside, right?” 
“That's the one,” he nods and bows forward to rest an elbow on his thigh. You straighten up as he pins you under an intense stare. “I can slip away with the guys, if you want. Tomorrow. It would be a good time for you to talk to him”. 
Heat prickles over your face. Your pinch your cheek between your teeth, eyes instinctively darting to the hallway. You’re not sure whether it’s his consideration of you or your own piteous transparency that makes you want to cry. It has been this way for years; a tentative dance that never seemed to end. They all know. You wished you could still be ignorant of that. 
“Do you…” you clear your throat as your voice cracks. Issei’s gaze softens and you feel naked. “Do you honestly think that’s a good idea?”
After a short, pensive silence, Issei exhales a long breath and lays his hands flat on the futon. He leans into the heel and pushes onto his knees to drop his body heavily beside yours. 
You struggle against his weight as he slumps, flinging both arms around your waist. “Issei—!” an aborted yelp falls from your mouth when he hooks his chin over your shoulder and locks his jaw, pressing it into your back. 
“Stop! That hurts, bastard!” you squawked, pushing down against the forearm cinched across your middle like a belt. They flex under your hands, not moving an inch. You can feel his cheeks lifting as he grins. 
“Sure. When you stop feeling sorry for yourself,” he offers slyly, tightening his grip. You fall slack as the fight bleeds from your body. There’s a familiar burn behind your eyes, closely followed by a swell in your throat that the words can’t quite seem to get around. “And for the record, I do think it’s a good idea”. 
“It’s a terrible idea,” you intone flatly, smile fraying at the edges. “He’s leaving again after this, Issei”.
Issei must hear the clear defeat in your voice because he gathers you against his chest to hug you properly. “I know,” he murmurs. You breathe in the light notes of amber lingering on his skin, his big hand splayed between your shoulders.
Then you feel the unmistakable press of a kiss to your crown. “You’re a coward,” your brows knit together as you glare up at him. It's just like Issei to make it sound like you’re fussing over nothing after you’ve spent years building it up in your head. His grin widens, crooked. “But you’re our coward, and we want to see you happy”. 
You feel your irritation melt away at his sincerity. A smile curls at the corner of your mouth. The sweet atmosphere is swiftly soured as he adds, “So hurry up and fuck already”. 
Takahiro’s return is poorly timed. Shutting the lattice door behind him, he strolls in with scent of tobacco following close behind, “Who’s fucking?”
A wave of embarrassment washes over you. It makes you go hot and cold in quick succession. Issei surrenders and rolls onto his back, cushioned by the futon as you push him away, loud cackles bouncing off the walls. 
“Nobody is. Be quiet, the pair of you”.
“Is it about Hajime?” he continues, crouched before you with eyebrows wiggling suggestively. Takahiro jumps backwards with a snicker when you angle your hips to kick at him. The bitter smoky smell is much stronger around his fingers. He grabs your ankle to keep you still but Takahiro’s smug air dissipates in an instant, mouth falling open as you drag him down. “Hey—!”
Issei stays quiet with his arms tucked behind his head, happy to no longer be the target of your ire. 
That is the scene Tooru and Hajime returned to only a minute later. Having rocked forward onto the balls of his feet, Makki had accidentally pushed you down into Issei, the three of you tumbling backwards in fits of laughter. 
Spurred by the need to be included, Tooru took it upon himself to flop unceremoniously into the pile. Your pained yelp had caused quite a stir, the image of Hajime’s face twisted in worry playing on a loop in your mind. 
You inhale deeply and grimace in discomfort. The air is humid here. You can feel it sticky in your lungs, right beneath the fresh bruise blooming across your rib. Tooru’s eyes flicker, caught in the movement as you rub at your sternum. The corners of his lips downturn. 
“Sorry again,” he mumbles over the sound of gentle, trickling water from the nearby spring, knocking your elbows together. You’ve strayed toward the back of the group alongside him, his stride slowed to keep pace as you wandered around the low lit gardens to kill time before dinner. Flowers are few, evergreens abundant, stone lanterns guide you forward. 
With a forgiving sigh you link your arms to keep him close. Tooru’s rigid posture relaxes as you nuzzle against his bicep. “Nobody died. It’s fine,” you laugh quietly. 
“If it were up to Iwa-chan I might’ve”.
You roll your eyes. “I can handle a bit of roughhousing. Grew up with you, didn’t I?” 
Tooru’s face is thrown into stark relief as moonlight filters through the canopy, and you watch his small smile scrunch up into a moue. “With my sister you mean,” he says, with a fondness betraying his expression. “What a beast”.
You have vague memories. Downy brunette hair fisted in a small hand. Eyes swollen with tears. A young boy sent to the corner to think about his actions. Tooru always started those fights, not that he would ever admit it. But you knew he was fighting for his older sister’s attention more than anything else at the time. 
“Liar. She spoiled you all the time,” you tell him. “And you were as bad as each other”.
Tooru hums, the way he often does when he doesn’t believe you. Your paths converge, misstepping as he sways and you throw his too-innocent act a look of suspicion. “So,” he starts a beat later. 
It’s apparent in his eyes. That gleam of curiosity, and hesitance. Bingo. Tooru barely moves as you return your weight to his side and almost veer him onto the grass in protest. “No,” you reply. 
“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”
“No? Well if it’s not about me confessing to Hajime then please, do carry on”. 
Tooru makes a petulant, frustrated noise. There’s an indent in his cheek where the inner flesh is pinched between his teeth. You roll your eyes, scuffing your shoe to the stone path. “It wouldn’t be fair of me to confess now,” you tell him quietly. 
“You’re just scared,” Tooru returns under his breath. His expression is solemn now, as is his tone.
“And what if I am?” Your voice raises a bit, rousing the attention of the men up ahead. When they look back you muster a smile and give a reassuring wave. Your attention momentarily drawn to the huddle behind them by the bamboo gate. A small family shuffled by, heads bobbing with gratitude as the boys made room, when their toddler took notice of Takahiro and became appropriately delighted by him. 
While the mother spilled panicked apologies and took her daughter's hand, the girl stood on the very tips of her purple jelly sandals and Takahiro bent to let her pat him on the head before departing. Tooru drops the topic with an offended hum as you abandon him to rejoin the group, examining the trim of his nails to feign disinterest, “She only liked you because your hair is pink”. 
“Actually it’s strawberry blond,” Takahiro snarks, equally affronted and amused. “Just heavier on the strawberry”.
Their movements coalesce, blindly shuffling after one another back into the hotel lobby. “Should probably head back soon,” Hajime mutters as an afterthought, his gaze trailing wall to wall before landing on the clock hung above the main desk. “Should we buy some drinks and stuff for tonight?” 
“I can get it,” you volunteer at the same time that Tooru interjects with, “We’ll go get it”. 
You glare at him.
Hajime disapproves. At the very least he’s worried. It’s in the flex of his fingers, the set of his jaw, the earthen eyes narrowed at the pair of you. “Will you be okay together?” 
“Yes, Iwa-chan. This isn’t an episode of ‘My First Errand’,” he reaffirms his grip on your arm, giving it a decisive squeeze. “It’s no problem, right? Right”. 
“Right,” you say, the decision clearly made for you. You turn your attention from Tooru’s pointed smile back to Hajime and the others. “We’re good. Text us what you want and we’ll bring it up to the room”.
Murmured acquiescence ripples through the group, and Tooru ambles you out through the main entrance as you part ways. Your entwined shadows elongate, the wall mounted sconces leading a path to the small sundry nestled in the east side of the hotel. 
“You’re not going to drop this, are you?”
“No”.
“Not even if I say please?”
“No,” Tooru chimes again, tugging you through the automatic doors. The cashier acknowledges your arrival with a quick smile and continues to restock the empty shelf in front of them. 
The temperature drops as you turn onto the drinks aisle and Tooru opens the closest fridge while refusing to let go of you. “I just don’t understand why you’re not taking the chance,” he continues, frowning at the bottle labels. When he plucks the umeshu from the rack you know it’s for him. “I don’t want you to regret it”.
“They’re asking for beer and shochu,” you read tiredly from the phone in your free hand. The text chat bumps as another message comes through. “Uh… Issei wants dried calamari. We should get seaweed tempura, too”.
“Stop changing the subject”.
Annoyance sparks in your chest. “This is what we’re here to do,” you grumble, shoving your phone into your pocket and opening the adjacent fridge door with more force than necessary. You shiver at the gust of cool air. 
An indolent sigh seeps from him. “C’mon. You have to know,” Tooru murmurs, moving closer to hook his chin over your shoulder. He softly knocks your heads together. “The chances of you being rejected are less than zero”. 
“No, I don’t know that. And—even if that’s true, what then?” you shake your head, chewing your lip. “Like I told the others, it’s not a good idea”. 
“Okay,” Tooru replies, standing upright and turning to saunter away. He draws out the word as he does whenever he concedes an argument he still thinks he has won. You stare at his retreating back with a bereft sense of defeat, now cold where your arms had been linked. 
“Tooru,” you say. He makes an inquisitive noise, his nose wrinkled as he rummages through the deep fried snacks. “Being rejected and watching you two leave again—I can’t do both”. 
Your voice cracks. That strikes a chord square in his chest; the sudden crestfallen expression is evidence enough. Tooru abandons the tempura shelf and tucks the bottles of liquor under his armpit while tucking you under the other. You're a mess, a cacophony of emotion threatening to spill out through your tightly closed eyes. 
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to push you”.
“I mean. You did,” you laugh thickly, and Tooru has the decency to appear sheepish. He rubs his hand down your side. “But it’s okay. I know you mean well, you all do”.
It’s enough to see that it comes from a place of love. The extent of your yearning has affected him just as much as anyone. Tooru watched consistently over the years while you stood in place and dug, and dug, and dug, for somewhere to put your feelings. That along the line it became a crater you couldn’t climb out from. That while you were desperate to make it hospitable, desirable, to be a person Hajime could want, he had managed to blindly pivot around it his whole life. 
The electrical buzz emanating from the fridges is abnormally loud as Tooru, for a precious second, actually stalls to gather his next words. “Look. I’ve been thinking,” he says with a rather rehearsed air. 
“That’s not good”.
“Don’t be mean. Hear me out,” he grins. “It was weird for Hajime to suggest a trip so last minute, don’t you think?” 
You purse your lips thin with a contemplative hum, grabbing the snacks and shuffling along the aisle while he talks. You had thought it significant, that being the main reason you encouraged Hajime’s idea in the first place. “See, he’s a straightforward, honest guy. And he’s earnest. That’s why you think if he returned your feelings he would’ve said something, isn’t it?”
The cashier furtively looks you over as you wander closer to the counter and set them down. You offer a strained smile. “Hi, that’s everything. Tooru—what’s your point?”
Tooru pulls out his wallet and emphatically states, “My point is you’re wrong!” He hands over the money, “Oh, here. Keep the change. Thank you”. You take the carrier bag, wincing when the glass bottles clink together. “Anyway,” Tooru exhales a heavy breath, visible as he steps into the night air, “You’re underestimating his cowardice”. 
Coward was not a descriptor you’d ever ascribe to Hajime. Yourself, sure. You shoot Tooru a sidelong glance, and he smiles at your clear scepticism. “Iwa-chan is bad at being selfish. He feels a certain responsibility toward the people he cares about. Did on our old team, and with the guys, and especially with you,” Tooru continues, a warmth to his tone. “He’s probably not thinking about his own feelings. He’s mostly worried about you, and yours”.
Your pace lags until you’ve come to a stop. Tooru does so a few steps ahead. “So he brought us here for what? To let me down gently?”
“Did you listen to a word I just said?” Tooru cocks his head, the moon crowning his head, light threading through his hair as his expression is shadowed. “I think he was always aware of what could change if he outright confessed. He needed to be sure, and he needed a reason, because his gorilla brain thinks it’ll ruin your whole relationship. That’s why we’re here,” you blink at his lithe fingers, waving in your face and wriggling. “It's an excuse. Because he wants to try!”
Eyes wide, caught in the place between awed disbelief and crippling anxiety, your fingers almost slip from under the bag handle. The trip being symbolic of Hajime’s resolve—could that make sense? You swallow against the lump in your throat. Memories of every recent there-and-gone-again touch and gentle look hold new meaning as they resurface. “He said that?” 
“Well, no”.
And the lump in your throat, presumably your heart, drops straight into your stomach. You march past Tooru into the hotel lobby with a bitter laugh. 
“Wait, would you—! You’re both so frustrating”.
“Me?” you whirl around to glare at him. People linger at the edge of your vision. Those prim, soft looking women that greeted you mere hours ago are gathered at the reception desk and pretending not to stare. Lowered into a broken rasp, you tell him, “What happened to not pushing? You aren’t being fair, Tooru”. 
“This isn’t about fairness. You said you're scared,” Tooru says. Your eyes dipped low to avoid the surety in his gaze. “And that’s fine. I just want you to consider that maybe you’re not the only one who’s scared”.
His words register gradually, and they make you ache; similar to that of a bruise, as the implications become clearer, and your reply comes quietly—not whispered, with a voice that carries no strength. “Fine,” you lift your head, ball your fist tighter and the plastic handles dig into your palm. The tension smooths in Tooru’s brow. His eyes soften, squinting at the corners, and you realise you’ve begun to smile too. “I’ll keep it in mind. You’ve said your piece. What now?”
“Oh. Now we go back to the room before Hajime sends a search party, eat as much as we want and drink until we fall asleep,” Tooru says, casting a quick glance to your surroundings. He drapes arm around your shoulders haughtily, “Then at the festival tomorrow I’ll conveniently slip away with Makki and Mattsun to leave you and Hajime alone. Do with that what you will”. 
You snort, feeling an unrestrained fondness for your friends, and will yourself not to cry. “You three already had this planned, didn’t you? Issei told me the same thing”. 
“Confess, don’t confess. Either way, I think it’ll be good for you to talk alone,” he says resolutely. Tooru’s one armed embrace has the steadiness of home. You return it, hooking around his lower back, and walk together. His strides that much longer, and you feel a smidgen braver.
Returning to the room you’re greeted by the sight of three men crowded in the genkan pushing to get their shoes back on. As Tooru anticipated they were preparing to go out looking for you both. The smile on your face only grew at Hajime’s admonishments now you're considering the love behind them, Tooru’s words relaying through your memory. 
If Takahiro and Issei exchange a look at the bounce in your step, well. You happily ignore it. 
Yukatas had been laid out neatly for each of you to wear for dinner. Once you’ve changed you putter into the main room and settle on your knees, resting back on your calves. The tatami is comfortable underneath your shins. Set on the table is a lavish spread of food brought up to you by the ryokan staff. 
The heat of another body radiates to your left. Hajime smiles when you look at him and your heart thunders. He’s unbearably handsome in his complimentary robe, a darker blue than your own, and he has it loose at the neck. You feel a headache coming on with the effort it takes not to ogle his chest. 
To your right Takahiro’s navy coloured garb is worn equally loose, somehow managing to look dishevelled rather than natural. As though he had pulled it on haphazardly in his excitement to get to the food. 
Tooru saunters into the room alongside Issei. His robe matches your own. It is drawn tight at the waist and closed at the collar, closely outlining his upper half. You are always startled by how broad Tooru truly is, given how lithe his movements are. He huffs when he notices the spots rather side of you are taken. 
“Ready to eat?” Issei rumbles, sitting opposite at the low table looking nonplussed as ever. You can’t help noticing his belt is barely holding tension and could fall open at any time, both sleeves rolled up to the elbow.
“Ready as I’ll ever be. It smells incredible,” you say. The dinner is beautiful, a healthy array of colour, covered in mouth watering glaze. Seasonal flowers and leaves and decoratively cut vegetables have been used as finishing touches on each dish, artistically expressing the end of the summer. Your stomach twists in hunger as both palms come together in synchrony, “Thank you for the food”. 
You take your chopsticks and reach for the dish closest. Limbs cross over the table top. A familiar, homely scent of saffron, garlic and onion fills your senses. The gloaming moon watches you eat in the relaxed atmosphere. Soft sounds of satisfaction, the clang of cutlery. “S’good,” Hajime says. He catches you staring and lifts his chopsticks toward you, free hand cupped beneath it. “Want to try?” 
It’s unnecessary in the best way. “Mmn,” you replied, leaning forward with an indulgent smile. You don’t trust yourself to speak, the spark of giddiness was doing embarrassing things to your body. 
Could Hajime really return your feelings? Tooru certainly thinks so. Issei and Takahiro. Seemingly everyone that has been within twenty feet of you. 
Tooru watches the interaction over his glass of umeshu, radiating a smugness that can only be interpreted as ‘I see you’. You don’t particularly enjoy being seen to the bottom of; it makes you want to shrink back. It’s the strange flicker of determination on Hajime’s face that keeps you from doing so. 
You’re not the only one afraid to say something, a voice insists in the back of your head. 
The food falls apart gently on your tongue. You give a pleasantly surprised hum, engrossed in the rich flavours, and you almost miss how Hajime preens. His mouth pulled into a small, boyish grin, unable to look you in the eye. 
“Hey man, give me some,” Takahiro bemoans, his amusement on the precipice of teasing. You recline to allow Hajime to pass the dish across and instinctively know what will come next. “I see how it is. Not gonna feed me too? Favouritism at its finest—” With a flat glare he scoops a large chunk of rice and shovels it into Takahiro’s mouth mid sentence, and you hide a laugh behind your hand. 
As the plates empty your imagination wanders. It’s a careful unravelling of doubt. You’ve navigated every one of your relationships with a certain level of trepidation, Hajime most of all. Taking a forward step only when certain it wouldn’t creak. Years of doing nothing, saying nothing, because it was the safe option. You had been prepared to spend your life in that unspoken purgatory if it meant keeping Hajime, and there had been comfort in that decision. 
But now you have permission to hope and you don’t know what to do with it. You’re quieter than usual, though nobody points it out. If anything they seem relieved. Three of the four, atleast. Hajime won’t stop sending you worried glances. You wonder if he’s overthinking his actions, and your reactions, the way you’ve always done. 
The main tatami room is fragrant with the remains of dinner. You’ve gathered some pillows, shared out the snacks and poured their drinks, five sups in and counting. The boys are bickering over which movie to watch. Sake heats you from the inside out, plucks you right from your entangled thoughts and back into the present with loose limbs and a looser tongue. 
You speak loudly over them, “How about a comedy?” It’s the first one you can think of. “Tampopo?”
Issei, Takahiro and Hajime pause to consider. Tooru groans, already knowing he has lost the majority vote. “I wanted to watch ‘Before we vanish’,” he whines. “Sci-fi is better than comedy!”
“We always watch sci-fi,” Hajime remarks as he works the remote, switching the movie category to comedy and searching for ‘Tampopo’. 
“There’s a drinking game for this one,” Takahiro adds. “I think you sip every time somebody says ‘ramen’”. 
“If you want to be put on a waitlist for a new liver go ahead,” Issei says. 
The room briefly fades to darkness, lighting up not a second layer as the studio logo spins onto the screen, emphasising the shadows of Hajime’s laughter lines. “We should drink every time there’s a weird food-porn montage instead,” he suggests, sinking back onto his elbows. Your traitorous mind immediately notes the few inches between your hands. 
“Well I’ll be drinking in protest,” Tooru turns his nose up though his eyes betray him, fixed on the screen with obvious interest. “And I’m not sure I want to hear the word ‘porn’ from your mouth ever again”. 
“Porn,” Hajime says. “Porn, porn, porn”. 
“Quiet,” you hiss, focus absorbed by the opening scene. An odd pair of lovers, one delicate woman and her white-suited gangster, enter a movie theatre. Their entourage scurries behind them with champagne and a wicker basket of food, setting up a small table as though in a restaurant. 
“Oh,” the dapper man’s voice bleeds through the speakers as he approaches the camera to break the fourth wall and harangue the viewer. “So you’re at a movie too. What are you eating?”
“Dried calamari,” Issei answers loftily. Takahiro snorts into his drink. 
Scene to scene, you drink when prompted and settle into uninhibited contentment. Feet tucked up under your thighs, propped on a plush pillow. The heat from Hajime’s hand grazes your skin. Closer and closer until the simple stretch of your fingers would see them entwined. 
The movie is funny. It is also unabashedly sensual and hedonistic, and heavy handed about its themes surrounding food. From oysters to noodles, including a scene involving the two lovers using their tongues to move an egg yolk between their mouths before it bursts, you're barraged with wet slurping sounds as the characters on screen eat, and eat, and eat. 
“Hot,” Takahiro slurred, while Tooru cried, “What the hell are we watching?”
You drank twice for that one. Too tipsy to parse whether the hot flashes through your body were embarrassment or arousal or an intermingling of both. You’re overly conscious of Hajime’s movements and his closeness, so much so that the plot passes through one ear and out the other. 
The dim lamplight from the ensuite room pools across the tatami, the door left ajar to luminate the spot where you’ve lined up the liquor bottles. You squint at the labels. Fuzzy. Laughter ripples through the group at the ongoing scene, an elderly woman being chased around a grocery store and hit with a fly swatter for seemingly—fingering the food? 
You smile at the sound as you lift Tooru’s umeshu bottle to the light to measure the remains before pouring some into your glass. A hand circles your ankle, shifting back and forth to fit the peak into the gaps between his knuckles. The soft evocation of your name. Hajime is holding out his own empty cup with a half lidded gaze, the left side of his face thrown into stark relief by the TV screen. 
Something hot flares through your chest, your perspective on his tactile habits shifted; the initial desire suffuses to the very tips of your fingers. Now you’re restless with it. He’s so handsome, you think. And he’s still looking at you. 
You fill his drink too, and hope the alcohol will not steal these warm moments come morning. 
Once the movie is over your sprawled out bodies eventually migrate toward the futons Issei prepared. You forgo the bed to crawl into the covers, to the surprise of no one, and let your eyes trail after Tooru. The flush across his nose has steadily deepened throughout the night. He flicks on the electric fan and kneels to roots through his luggage, pulling a compact from the front pocket with a triumphant noise. 
“Comfortable over there?” Tooru circles the pad of his pinky into the balm and brings it to his mouth. The faint strawberry scent is enticing, preferable over the heady, bitter smell of beer. His brow quirks when you don’t reply. 
“Want some?” he asks. Slowly, you nod, and he flashes a wry smile, setting down the pot before stretching to reach you. The motion draws you in, tipping your chin up. His fingers are soft on your cheek, splayed out and cradling your jaw. 
Tooru kisses you. Your heart maintains a steady rhythm. It’s a friendly, chaste press of lips; you rub your own together as he pulls away not a second later, finding them smoother. Sweeter. The hints of strawberry linger right beneath your nose. Caught in your own world you fail to notice the other two men staring.
“Oh no,” Issei drawls. Turns off the light as he saunters in. He drapes himself across a prone, drunk Takahiro, tilting his head in Tooru’s direction. “My lips are so dry”.  
The atmosphere sparks a little. Issei’s teasing, syrupy tone is like flint striking steel. A fond, syrupy sensation settles around your bones—or perhaps that was the alcohol easing the tension. Flirting came easily amongst the others because it was without expectation. The silly pet names and heavy handed affection; it’s all a playful toeing of the line. People found your group dynamic odd no matter how much you tried to articulate it to them. You think in the end, it boiled down to trust. To safety. They all loved you in their own, individual ways, as you loved them. Maybe that's how you'd managed to be so content with Hajime's friendship. It had been enough.
Tooru hums and sits cross legged on his futon. He settles back onto his hands, smiling hazily as Hajime kicks his foot in passing, “I’ve noticed”. 
You can’t help appreciating how genuinely coy it is. Patently different to the way he behaves with strangers—not so forced. With his friends flirting is more about working for Tooru’s permission; it’s more fun that way. 
Issei purses his lips expectantly. Tooru leans forward. 
“You okay?” 
You blink. Hajime lowers onto the futon beside yours. His yukata has fallen further open to display his firm chest. Not that you’re looking. You’ve been cordoned on the far end of the room together. Takahiro is too drunk to make any purposeful decision but it’s obvious—at least to you—that Tooru and Issei chose from the remaining futons to keep you and Hajime together. 
“Sleepy,” you say, the lull to your voice earning a gentle smirk in response. 
“Want any, Iwa-chan?” Hajime’s frowns at the interruption and looks over his shoulder, taking in the suggestive intermittent puckering of Tooru’s mouth. You think at this rate there’ll be no balm left. 
“No thanks,” he says. 
“Have it your way,” Tooru grumbles from his place beside Takahiro, right in the centre. Pale legs kick at his covers until they’re rumpled a certain way, apparently satisfying to him, and he wriggles down into the mattress. “Still think we should’ve watched ‘Before we vanish’. I’m going to have nightmares about oysters”.
Issei snorts. He turns on his side, laid at the furthest end from you. “But does ‘Before we vanish’ use an egg yolk to symbolise orgasm?” his hand makes a sweeping gesture in the shadows, “I don’t think so”.
“Tha’s cinema baby,” Takahiro slurs, mouth muffled against his pillow. A beat passes. You meet Hajime’s gaze. His lips are pressed thin, trembling. You hear a smothered wheezing sound coming from Tooru’s futon, and the stillness is abruptly broken by a unanimous fit of laughter. 
“Shit,” your cheeks ache, your stomach is in knots as you pull the covers up over your persistent grin. The collective glee tapers. “I’ve,” Hajime starts after a deep breath, rubbing at his eyelids, “missed you idiots”.
Tooru sniffles at that. “Don’t make me cry,” he says, clearing the emotion cloying in his throat. You feel a pang of sympathy, overcome with it yourself. “I’ll wake up with swollen eyes and I forgot to bring gel masks”.
“Use a cold damp cloth or something”. 
“Mattsun, you're so primitive”.
Eventually the murmuring between the boys settles into silence; the kind that makes the shadows in your room a little darker, dense branches spreading across the ceilings and walls into a daunting canopy. The electric fan and the cicadas hum a cohesive song into the night. 
Through the thick of it, you hear a new whisper. Hajime calls your name and there’s barely any voice behind it—uncharacteristically timid. Blinking away the haze, your eyes adjust to the lack of light. You can see an inviting, wide open embrace. The corner of a blanket pulled back to expose his torso. 
Intention clear, you first glance at the sleeping figures over his shoulder. Tooru curled into a cocoon with his bedsheets tucked under his feet. Takahiro laid out on his belly, open mouthed and drooling. Issei on his side, arm bent beneath the pillow, breathing so shallow you’re tempted to pinch him awake. 
Hajime waits while you think. Your vision has sharpened enough to make out the trepid smile on his face. Emboldened, you crawl out of the futon and into his. 
“Looked cold over there,” he reasons. 
You hum in agreement. Compared to his body heat, you’d say it had been freezing. Despite all the hard earned muscle over the years, Hajime is pliable when he’s relaxed, doughy, and he yields when you begin to adjust your shared position. You guide his arm down to cinch around your waist and nestle against his chest, legs overlapped. Made up of yourselves but also each other. 
“Better?” he murmurs, breath tickling your ear. A final shiver dances the length of your spine as your nerves settle and anticipation thaws. You can feel his heart beating like a wing beneath your palm. 
It reminds you of when you were kids. The jagged shape of a tall, lego Godzilla had forced you to find home between him and Tooru more times than you could count. Everything had been so much bigger. Scarier. Still, those watercolour memories don’t quite hold a candle to this. 
Hajime’s hand glides down your back in repetitive, methodical strokes. It makes you feel delicate, like something in you might fracture. You try to ease your breathing as he pulls you closer. The proximity isn’t anything new, but this is something else. Different. It always is, with him, only this time you don���t need to convince yourself otherwise. 
Fingers twisting into the thin cotton of his yukata, you mumble, “Thanks, Haji”. 
You feel his lips on your temple like hot wax. Your eyes flutter closed, and all at once you feel brave enough to say it, but the moment passes as his head drops against the pillow. 
From the recesses of your memory rose the rehearsed speeches, the recipes for honmei chocolate, the imagined cliche scenarios that you left dog-eared in highschool. All the ways to say ‘I love you’. 
Hajime has always expressed love in smaller ways. You’ve observed, over the years, his little habits. Easing small burdens. He’d take the clothes off his own back if it could make your journey smoother but wouldn’t ever dream of asking you to stray from it. That’s where you differed, and what you feared. 
If he got cold feet you would need to be the brave one. 
For all that you had doubted about the nature of Hajime’s feelings towards you over the years, you could have some faith in it now. The thought of him leaving again without hearing it from you—without knowing you were an option—doesn’t bear thinking about. 
Vague and half-formed, you succumb to sleep on the end of a drowsy self imposed promise. Tomorrow, you’ll tell him. 
Wading through a cottony haze, your consciousness sharpens in increments. Every physiological response in your body is shouting that it is far too soon to rise. You groan, tilt your head and let it loll against your arm; the other is flung outside of the covers, fingertips skimming the futon edge. 
You’ve turned on your side in the night. Slowly, you realise a firm body has conformed to your back, knees nudged up behind your own, bending them toward your chest. The way you melt into their warmth and nudge against the cradle of their hips is instinctive. Then the shallow, steady breaths brushing the nape of your neck stutter on a sharp inhale and your eyes fly open, remembering where you are. 
Hajime. 
After a few seconds endured with bated breath you release the tension in your muscles. He’s asleep. 
There’s stark relief. The initial terror in your chest ebbs. Careful as you go, you slip out from Hajime’s grip. A crease forms in his nose, frowning at your absence, and you stay to see how he reaches for you even subconsciously. 
A long yawn forces your jaw open, tongue sitting like cotton as the last dregs of sleep fade. A quick look around the room tells you Takahiro is the only one up. The latticed door to the onsen is cracked open. You pull your yukata tighter to your chest to shield against the slight draft. Blood rushes down to your toes as you walk, prickling white noise filling both legs. 
Bordering the onsen is a quaint patio area mimicking a traditional veranda. There’s a mosaic garden table and two matching folding chairs, one of which is occupied by a visibly hungover Takahiro. 
“Anyone would think you had a night out,” you murmur, closing the door behind you. The air is cool again. Morning birdsong carries over from the trees.  Takahiro peeks at you through his lashes, a permanent frown etched into his brow. A headache, if you had to guess. He’s slumped in the chair with long legs stretched outward, a cigarette nestled in the ‘V’ between his fingers, held up by a loose wrist like it alone was too heavy.
The tip glows red as he takes another drag and turns his head away to exhale the smoke into the dew laden air. “Never let me mix drinks again,” he rasps.
“You say that every time,” you cross your arms over your middle and sit down. The metal is cold under your thighs, felt through the thin fabric. “Sleep well, atleast?”
“Like the dead,” he flashes a conspicuous smile as he brings the cigarette to his lips. “You?”
A voice nonchalant in a way that betrays his interest. Subtle in his teasing. Despite already knowing he would’ve seen you and Hajime on his way to the veranda, the confirmation leaves you feeling hot.
“It was comfortable,” you reply stiffly, braced to defend yourself ad nauseam. Takahiro’s eyes softened in the rousing grey-blue daylight. 
“Good,” he says. 
“That’s all?”
“What, you want me to force the subject? Figured you've had enough of that already”. 
“No,” you sigh, sinking into your chair. “…Thanks, Makki”. 
Takahiro shrugs lightheartedly and stubs his cigarette out. There’s movement from inside the room. At that moment the door slides open, and Hajime pops his head through the narrow gap. 
Your fingers twist hard around your obi. He looks sleep mussed where he’s sitting on the tatami, pushing the door further open to lean on the frame. There’s recognition and relief in his gaze as he glances from Takahiro to you. No indication he was awake before. 
“Hey,” Takahiro says. 
“Morning,” Hajime replies, sounding as though his throat is dry. A draft dances through and his face scrunches slightly at the nicotine smell. “I set an alarm for breakfast. They’ll be here in any minute”.
“The other two up?” you ask. 
“Mostly,” Hajime nods in their general direction. “Tooru’s getting in the shower and Issei’s on the phone to his little brother”.
Takahiro takes a deep inhale and pushes his centremost knuckle to his forehead. “I’ll go help put away the futons,” he states with a groan. Hajime tucks his legs in to allow him through and swats at the hand that scrubs over his hair in passing. 
He turns his attention to you. A crease from his pillow marks his cheek. “Have you been awake long?” 
“About ten minutes,” you reply, staring hard at the dense garden and dwindling into silence caught somewhere on the knife’s edge between awkward and companionable. Running water streams from the wooden spout into the onsen, making the surface ripple. You latch onto the sound. “Shame we didn’t use the onsen”.
“We’re still here another night,” Hajime says placatingly. “Use it when we’re back from the festival if you want”. 
You nod, adjusting your yukata without reason. The simple need for distraction. “Maybe,” your mind can’t help veering toward the worst case scenario. What would’ve changed by that time, tonight? What would you say, and how, if anything at all? The thought makes your stomach twist. You’re not sure you could recover if he reacted poorly. 
Blinking out of your reverie, you realise that Hajime had been talking. Heat prickles under your skin. “Sorry,” you grin awkwardly, and it feels brittle on your face. “Got lost in my thoughts”.
“About what?”
You wet your lips, like that could soften the blow. “I’m going to miss you,” you tell him. His expression falls. “Both of you,” you add hastily, which does little to reassure him. “When’s your flight again?” 
Hajime’s mouth thins, eyes dipping low. “Late tomorrow night. Or early I guess,” he answers. His shoulders shake and he laughs ruefully, “I’ll miss you too, y’know. Not sure you realise how much,” like it was a matter of fact. The earth would go around the sun and Hajime would miss you.
“Like a hole in my head,” you murmur, so quiet you’re not certain he heard you. Then, slightly louder, “Are you excited to get back to California?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m excited to leave. Got a lot of interesting stuff coming up this semester, though,” he perks up when you gesture, encouraging him to continue. Inwardly, selfishly, you only want to hear him speak a little longer. “One thing I’ve really wanted to do is biomechanical testing. We use it for detailed analysis of our players movement. So…”
The air stifles as the sun rises and drapes across the private veranda, warming the wood panels beneath your feed. Once breakfast has been laid out—and you’ve been bid an enthusiastic ‘good morning’ by the staff—you gravitate toward the same seating arrangement as the night prior. 
It’s nothing short of a buffet. A traditional Japanese-style breakfast, hot rice and miso soup, grilled fish, dried seaweed and shellfish boiled in soy sauce and sugar, all served across four hand-woven bamboo trays. There are western elements to the spread, including coffee and bread, which Tooru happily reaches for. 
“A person like you should really avoid stimulants,” Hajime muttered as he came to sit at the table. 
Tooru startled, hands poised over the steaming coffee pot. He pouted, “A person like me? What’s that supposed to mean?” 
“Paranoid, is what I mean”.
“If you're so concerned about my overactive limbic system maybe try being nicer to me!” 
The morning crawls onward with an atmosphere of trepidation. As if waiting for the other shoe to drop. You squirrel away in the ensuite bathroom again to get dressed, taking longer than necessary. Condensation from Tooru’s hot shower sticks to the tile and the mirror’s surface. The reflection is foggy, your figure like a smudge.  You regret not bringing a kimono for the festival—knowing you’ll be surrounded by all that beauty and colour and you worry you’ll look dull in comparison. 
Regardless, you smooth out any lingering creases in your outfit. Dull or otherwise it flatters your silhouette nicely. 
“Oh”.
You step out just as Takahiro angles his mouth to exhale. Smoke plumes out the open door in delicate wisps, swept away by a humid gust of wind. “Shit—sorry,” he mutters, a little flustered as he scrambles to shield you from the smoke, eyes roving over your form. 
“You okay?” you ask, unsure if you should be amused or insecure. 
He stubs his cigarette out into the ashtray balanced on the side and wipes his hands on his jeans with such speed you worried it might create static. Then, suddenly, he’s across the room with his thumb sinking into the swell of your left cheek, tobacco fingertips framing the right; he pushes them together until your mouth is puckered. There’s nothing sweet about it. Rather, it looks like he wants to squeeze you like a clementine. 
“You’re all glowy. And determined,” the crease in his brow deepens, and he adds pressure to his fingers until you’re squirming, flustered. “And you look cute”. Issei emerges from the garden at that moment. Hand up his dark turtleneck shirt, scratching idly at the hair on his belly. 
A deep groan rumbles in his throat. “What are you two doing?”
“I think it’s finally happening”. 
Drawn to Hanamaki’s incredulous outburst, Issei stares at your confused, squashed face as it is turned in his direction. His mouth parts and he squints, as though he were searching for the right words. 
What the fuck, you think. 
“What the fuck,” he says, as if plucking the thought from the air. 
“Right?”
They sidle either side of you. Tall and looming, their overbearing presence has anticipation swooping in your belly. Issei smells it like blood in the water and hooks two fingers to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Well look at that,” he teases, bending forward until your eyes cross. “Wonder who you’re getting all dressed up for. Us?”
“Fuck off,” you grumble, though it comes out muffled and terribly nasal. Takahiro laughs, and his thumb skips over your rabbit-footed pulse as his hand slides down the column of your throat and away. 
“Oi. In all seriousness you do look good,” Issei smiles. His kind eyes squint with it. They’ve made a clear effort themselves. That’s part of the fun. 
A voice floats in from the genkan, “Who are we talking about?” Tooru looks up from his phone and he beams. “Oh! You look cute,” he says, tone light and pleasant. “Hajime will like it”.
“Your reactions are worrying me a bit,” you reply dryly in favour of ignoring the heat in your cheeks. “Anyone would think I usually look awful”. 
“No,” their three voices overlap as they protest. “You never look awful,” Tooru says, shaking you gently by the shoulders. Then he stops to consider his words. “Well. Maybe that time we thought you had strep throat”.
“What Oikawa wants to say is,” Takahiro cuts in with a flat glare in the other’s direction, “We’re here to support you today, and stuff. That’s all”. 
“And stuff,” you repeat, a fond smile coming unbidden to your lips. The surge of affection has you trying to stretch your arms around three big bodies. “You’re being overbearing. But thank you”. 
Their arms come up to wrap around your lower back and reciprocate. You are corralled into a long, strong hug, compressed from every direction. They release you when Hajime returns. He is visibly stupefied at the scene, brow knit as he fiddles with the collar of his dark denim jacket. 
Your spine straightens, taking an unnecessarily deep breath. “Hi Hajime,” you say. It feels so different now, now there's all that premeditated intent behind it. Like ‘IloveyouHajime’ bunched into a single word. 
“Hi. You look…” Hajime's throat bobs. “Good. You look good”.
You glance at the boys and chew the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress your grin, “So I’ve heard”.
The sun is at its highest point when you leave the ryokan together. You are swallowed up by gold beneath the gingko trees flanking the road, a mosaic of dappled light filtering through the partial canopy and intermixed with the softly shaded ground. 
Foot traffic grew dense on the main street, teeming with life. “Stick close,” Hajime murmured next to your ear. You suppressed a shudder and took his arm so as not to stray far. The crowd herds your group closer to the heart of the festival. Sound assailed you from every direction. Thousands of lanterns have been strung up, forming a blushing canopy over the yagura, a makeshift stage housing performers and musicians, handsome taiko drummers setting the pace for participants to gather around it and dance along in circles.
There’s a sense of harmony, pigments blended into one another. Families are swathed in beautiful kimonos and silks, jinbei and traditionally woven hats. Your group stood out for their height alone—Mattsun especially, the tallest of the four men. People part to let you through, and children look skyward with awed eyes, jumping in place to see how high they could get. 
The current pushes you towards the stalls, where an amalgamation of savoury scents pervade the air. Sweet, crisp okonomiyaki sauce, intense pickled ginger, charcoal smoked meats. Hunger knots in your stomach. Hajime looks over the heads of people and spots some vendors. 
“Guys,” he raises his voice and drops his arm around your back with firm reassurance. The others pause, colliding with the moving bodies around them. “Food first. Then we can go to the games”.
You’re suitably satiated after takoyaki. The folded boat-shape container they’d handed over to you is warm in the already throbbing heat. It burns at the nape of your neck; the sun and the many stares of those around you. Takahiro, Issei and Tooru, too, keep flicking their eyes over, as if waiting for something to happen, or some kind of sign. 
Music plays over the din. A quick-tempo showy melody, like one would hear at a circus. Takahiro points at the ring toss stall. “Hey, ‘kawa. Win me something,” he says. 
“Win it yourself!”
“Don’t be like that babe,” Takahiro laments dramatically, his movements becoming languid and sloppy as he drapes himself around Tooru’s shoulders with his mouth curled into a smarmy grin. “You’re so much better at tossing than me”.
At your back, Hajime shakes with restrained amusement. Issei catches your eye and shakes his head while Tooru sniffs primly, attempting to scrunch his own smirk into a displeased pout, and relents. “Fine,” he says. “But one of you needs to win me a mask at the rifle-shooting game”.  
“I don’t need to do anything,” Issei replies dryly as they start toward the ring toss game with startling synchrony. You glance at Hajime’s face, at another tentative, uncertain beginning of a smile, and feel the limitless joy of being together ballooning inside you.
“Did you want anything?” he asks as you walk. 
Giddy, you cling closer. Part of your brain is stuck on the thought that anyone on the outside looking in would probably assume you were a couple. “If you’re feeling generous,” you exaggerate the flutter of your eyelashes, making Hajime snort. 
Hours slip through your fingers like sand. In no time at all the sky began to darken. There’s a bubbling anticipation in your chest the later it gets. You lift your head to be met with the ochre of evening, azure blending into vivid orange at the horizon. 
Issei tips his head back to take in the sky. “Fireworks are starting soon,” he announces. Tooru’s eyes flicker to you. The tangible sense of finality that had permeated the afternoon comes to a long awaited fulcrum. You’re tempted to linger amongst the stalls, simply to vy for extra time. 
“You two should go and find somewhere to sit,” Tooru insists, shaking his finger from Hajime to you, “We’ll go grab some more food and join you later”.
Hajime levels him with a flat look. “All three of you are needed for that?”
“Yes,” Tooru smiles back, an intensity to his expression. You shift your weight from left foot to right, waiting with bated breath.
After a moment of anticipatory silence, Hajime exhales his acquiescence and turns to you. “Come on then. Let’s find a spot”.
You’re pulled along with him, casting a lasting glance toward your friends and their encouraging gestures as you go. He leads two steps ahead, shoulders drawn to his ears, which are now notably pink. The fingers around your forearm are clammy and loose enough that you could break free. Instead, you overturn your wrist and slide up into his palm, aligning your hands to properly hold him. You squeeze three times, and the rigidity in his posture lessens.
Hajime leads you away from the crowded centre toward the river bank as the display starts in an explosive burst. Couples and families have dispersed there to watch the fireworks. When he manoeuvres himself to his knees you bend to sit beside him, the soft blades of grass flattened under your weight. 
The fireworks go on for close to half an hour, great pulsing strobes, fiery dandelions and starbursts of light brightening both the sky and the water. You hear nothing over the noise, not even your own breathing. A streak of gold shoots up, few becoming many, fizzling into pinpricks of light mimicking fireflies.
You wonder after it ends, "Are the Californian displays better?"
Hajime binks at you, registering the question. He makes a contemplative sound. "Bigger, yeah. Especially on the fourth of July," he brings your joined hands over his lap and you stare as he absentmindedly strokes the back of your knuckles. "Wouldn't say that makes it better. Better depends on the company".
You mumble your agreement, "Think the others missed it?"
"Would be pretty hard to miss," he smirks softly, falling into a comfortable silence. Childlike laughter chimes around you, sparklers of every colour glowing etching names and shapes into the darkness. “They’ll be around here somewhere”.
You lift your gaze, staring at his profile. Your eyes traced the line of his jaw up to the delicate shell of his ear. “Hey,” you mumble, drawing his attention away from the surroundings. Speckles of light reflect in his irises as he turns to face you, cheekbones burnished with a soft red afterglow. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something”.
His brow arches in lieu of a response. Every movement he made you mirrored without meaning to. Quieter than before, you start, “I…” and as fast as it comes your resolve withers. Stretches and thins into weak, fibrous threads.
“What’s wrong? Is it that bad?” he tries for a grin. Hajime puts on a brave face for you, he always does. But you can hear the genuine concern in this voice, and it spurs you on.
"Just don't want you to think I'm being selfish".
“You can be selfish sometimes," Hajime argues.
“Even with you?”
“Especially with me”.
You scrunch your eyes shut.
Hajime frowns and rushes to wipe the stray tear with his thumb, swiping right through it like spider silk. "Take your time," he murmurs, hands an unsteady counterpoint to the surety in his voice. Your heart beats, a desperate rattling behind your ribs. Trembling hands, damp skin. The swoop in your stomach that makes you feel as though your body is precariously balanced on a cliff's edge. This could be everything you’ve ever wanted. This is it.
A slow burn has to catch fire eventually.
So you reach inside and twist the spigot of your heart. A trickle becomes a flood fit to burst. It’s all encompassing, like love and heartbreak at the same time. You look at him and blurt, tremulously, “I’m in love with you,” then wince for having said it, as if you hadn’t really meant to.
“I have been for as long as I can remember. You’re my best friend and I was scared to say it and…” you continued, voice all in a rush, with the pained expression of someone who hadn’t meant to say that either, “I still am. Scared, that is. I'm sorry it took this long. My feelings for you were always at odds with my fear of losing you. And I’m sorry if it’s selfish. I know we don’t have much time left until you leave, and this could make everything weird, but you deserve to know that you're loved. That I love you. And—really, Hajime, if you could just stop me whenever you feel like it that would be great,” you snapped your mouth shut, white hot with embarrassment.
Hajime remained motionless, jaw slack and muscles wire-tight with tension for a long, sickening moment. The sting has you backing off, away, trying to think of something to explain, some excuse—
—Hajime surged forward and kissed you.
It is not like you imagined. There's nothing slow about it, no hesitance nor gentility. Hajime kissed as if trying to press the full weight of his want upon you. As if gravity were a mere suggestion. You suck in a sharp, surprised breath. Relaxing into it your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders to pull him impossibly close, drinking in his soft shudder when you brush the nape of his neck, making all the little hairs there stand endwise.
Hajime's lips are smoother than they look. His hands roam over your hips, kneading the soft parts of your body, and you give way to indulgence. You tilt to kiss his shallow cupid's bow, down to the corner of his mouth. Teeth nibble at your lower lip, the tip of his tongue hatching hundreds of butterflies in your stomach as he traces the seam with promise.
Another loud bang startles you out of the kiss. Laughter and whispers. You sharpen to the surroundings, noting the distant acrid smell of smoke. Rather than release you, Hajime wrapped his arms around your waist and tucked his nose into the hollow where your jaw and neck met. Faint stubble tickles your throat. Your heartbeat clamours in your ears, the blood in your body blush rushing to your head.
"Sorry," you hear him say. His lips drift across your skin as he speaks. The apology fills you with immediate dread. "Should've asked before I did that," he continued quietly.
"Fuck. Is that all?" you slump in his grip with a quiet, wet laugh. "You scared me".
Hajime rears back to look at you, enough room to share a shallow exhale. His palm, large and rough, rose to cradle your cheek. He leans his forehead against yours. You feel like you’ve eaten the sun, brimming with inexpressible tenderness.
"Sorry," he repeats, understanding washing over his expression and a sheepish, fond smile playing on his lips. Pinker than before, not cold bitten, but kiss bitten. "Waited to do that for a long time," his eyes soften in the shadows, half lidded as they flit across your features.
"You have?"
"Used to think you would be my first kiss. First everything, really," Hajime's smiles broadens at your uncertainty, awed and dumbfounded, as he maps out the curve of your jaw with his thumb. Light over your fluttering pulse point. His hand drops and the heat lingers on your neck. He swallows, a sobering moment. "I love you too. Not sure if there was ever a time that I didn’t," he pauses then, looking out toward the orange glow flickering through the treeline, expression unguarded and open. “I kept trying to find opportunities to tell you. I didn't know how. Thought it wouldn't be...”
"Fair?" you finish for him. Of course.
The bonfire has been lit. Cheers can be heard across the river. Your thoughts splinter, stuck in the present while wondering if the others found their way, or if they were hidden somewhere, watching it all unfold. The mental image of them crouched in a random bush together makes you snort, and Hajime's brow pinches.
"Just," you rush to explain, grasping his forearm. You're halfway into his lap. When had that happened? "I imagined the guys hiding somewhere trying to spy on us. S'stupid".
An impish grin graced Hajime's face, ducking his chin as though to hide it. "I wouldn't put it past them," he says. And it hits you that—Hajime has always looked at you like this. Has been saying he loved you, for a long time.
You dither, your skin suddenly cool, and your palms clammy. "Hajime," you say at the same time as he begins to speak.
"Oh—you can—"
"No, you".
"I was going to say we should head back," his voice is infused with fond exasperation, gaze dipping to your union. He clears his throat, "For some privacy. I can't touch you the way I want to, out here".
“Right, right,” you nod slowly through the rush of adrenaline. It prickles in your fingers, the skin on your arms pebbling as Hajime eases you to your feet and a strong arm snakes around your waist. His lips brush your cheek.
“This okay?” 
Melting into the crook of his elbow like it was a space carved just for you, you return a kiss to his jaw and tell him, “You don’t need to ask”. 
“Noted,” he says roughly. 
The walk to the ryokan is a blur. You hardly remember the faces of those you passed. The dancers had been bright in your periphery, their movements reduced to streaks of colour, and every beat of the taiko drum thundered in your chest. 
The quick text you sent to the group chat receives an overwhelming litany of winking emoticons and exclamation marks. Inwardly you hope Hajime doesn’t read them until after—whatever it is you’re heading back to do. Hajime notices. “What’re they saying?” 
“That, uh,” the phone screen dims as you lock it and shove it deep into your pocket. Your legs keep moving. “They promised not to be back for a while,” you shared a meaningful look and wet your lips at the ideas flitting through your mind. The taste of him lingers. Takoyaki, toothpaste and lip balm. 
Together you stumble through the lobby to your room. Hajime remains close at your heel; not once do his hands leave your waist, steadying your movements. You feel drunk. Exhilarated and swept up in the newness of it, as if in a free fall. The keycard almost slips from your trembling fingers as the door beeps open. You step into the shadowed genkan and swivel to take his face into your hands. Another beep as the door closes. You press yourself to Hajime’s front and kiss him. Natural as anything. 
Hajime leads you deeper into the room. The tatami yields under your feet. He sighs blissfully as your tongue swipes along the seam of his mouth, opening up for you and coaxing you in. It’s languid and without demand. The soft, wet sound makes your skin hot. You shudder as he sucks on your tongue, letting go to take the flesh of your bottom lip between his teeth.  
“Need you. On the bed,” you murmur, threading your fingers into his cropped hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. Starting at the crown, you make your way down the back of his head to the nape of his neck where you found him to be sensitive. He shudders, goosebumps spreading over his skin, and arousal seeps through your core. 
“Anything you want,” he breathes. A frisson of anticipation zips up your spine when he steps forward to crowd you against the bedroom door, fumbling at the handle. It swings open and your stomach tightens at the abrupt inertia, stumbling onto the bed together with an oomph. 
Hajime rises onto his forearms, flicks on the lamplight before bracing either side of your head. His nose bumps yours, a warm puff of air against your mouth as he bends his knees, slotting your hips together. You kiss him again. It’s more of a press of mouths, because you can’t stop smiling, and neither can he. 
The outline of his cock is pressed hot against you. You hook your heels into his lower back and breathe his name into his mouth. Flint sparks in your belly as he instinctively ruts forward, rising frantically to meet him. Lips part above your own in a shaky groan, quivering as he deepens the kiss. 
There’s tension buzzing under your skin, the restless, pleasant kind that diffuses into every fibre of muscle and leaves you shaking. A soft hitch of breath. You rock your hips in search of relief, feeling his cock hard in the tight confines of his jeans. “More,” your voice dwindles into a weak moan.
“Slow down,” he calls to you, gentle and placating in a way that makes your eyes sting. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” and you wish that were true.
The rustle of fabric as you undress is inordinately loud in the intimate atmosphere he draws you into. Hajime’s eyes deign to stray from you as he shucks his jacket off and pulls his shirt over his head. The blush on his chest looks like the aftershock of a shot of sake; colour that seeps through his body and stains his skin. He’s gorgeous in the warm dim light, emphasising the shadows of his pecs and the downy hair on his navel. You trace a finger through it and preen at how his abdomen clenches. 
A rough hand slips behind your knee, not quite prying them apart. Hajime thumb strokes the skin there. “Can I taste you?”
Desire tugs at the base of your spine, heart racing. You’re wet. You can feel the cool kiss of air between your thighs. With a surge of want they fall open to him. The quiet hitched breath doesn’t escape you as he looks at you. 
Palms smooth down the backs of your thighs. They ache and stretch to accommodate him. Hajime descends, forging a languorous path of wet kisses on his way. Your stomach twists in anticipation when he blows lightly over your pussy, bringing your legs up to straddle his head, kneading the soft flesh there. 
Hajime’s eyes can’t find a place to call home. Flitting from your sex to your chest to your face, mouth hovering just above where you want him. Even so you find yourself wanting to kiss him again. Wanting for more hands, more mouths, more time to learn him with. 
“You’re beautiful,” he rasps, pressing praise into the delicate skin there. It’s the expression on his face that makes you throb. The intense, unabashed want. You’ve never seen him look like that. “You’ll tell me what you like, yeah?”
You concede with a barely audible mumble, unable to trust your voice. The corner of Hajime’s mouth quirks into a smirk. Then his thumbs are tucking into the innermost creases of your thighs, gently spreading your folds. He presses a chaste kiss to your clit before licking a broad stroke through your folds. 
Forcing his eyes open, Hajime clutches at the fat around your hips. He laps at your pussy, alternating between slow and fast, firm and languid, finding a rhythm that plays your body until your hips are rolling against his face. You cling to the bedsheets, head dropping back into the pillows. “Like that. Hajime,” you gasp as flickers back and forth over your clit, breathlessness abated by the sudden rush of air to your lungs. “Fuck. Don’t stop—!”
You hear his deep inhale, and his eyes scrunch shut with a long groan as he keeps pace. It sends an echo of pleasure through you—makes you clench around nothing, an innate plea from your body. He kisses your pussy, open mouthed, sweet and precise. Heat gathers in your belly like a solar flare. The pressure has you bursting at the seams. 
“You’re gonna make me cum,” you say, voice caught in your throat. Your thighs wrap around his head, toes curling. He doesn’t push, or adjust his pace, or let his enthusiasm get the better of him. A broken moan spills from your lips, pelvis undulating with each wave. Hajime maintains the rhythm—exactly as you need it, right as your spine arches into the sheets, and your orgasm ripples through you. 
Your breathing begins to steady. Your legs fall slack, hung limp over Hajime’s shoulders. He hums, a satisfied little noise, and rests his cheek against your inner thigh as his tongue slides lazily through your folds. You take in the arousal and spit coating his cheeks, half lidded stare, the sheen of sweat on his brow, and feel a surge of affection. 
Your fingertips graze his temple. His eyes flutter at the tender touch, and Hajime tips into it, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Good?” he asks, smiling. 
“Good?” you repeat with disbelief. You grab at his shoulders to coax him back up, pleased when he goes willingly. You readjust as he buries his arms under you and gathers you close to his chest, kissing the corner of your lips. You turn and murmur into his mouth, “You’re a little too good at that”.
Hajime laughs, lolling his forehead to yours. “Just good at following instructions,” his voice goes tight at the pressure against his cock, your hips raised to feel him through his briefs. “Fuck”.
“If you want to,” you tease dazedly. He nips at your lip in retaliation. 
“Don’t feel like we have to,” Hajime reassures after a beat, hand coming to rest on your waist. He strokes up and down your flank. “I don’t have any condoms. And I know this has been pretty fast”. 
You consider him closely, love suffusing through you like a warm, pleasant fog. It spurs you to admit things you wouldn’t have otherwise. “I’m clean. We can stop if you want to,” you kiss his cheek, “But I’ve waited enough. I want you,” you kiss the bridge of his nose, “Wanna know what you feel like inside me,” you kiss his slack mouth, tasting yourself. “Want you to know what I feel like when I cum, so you can think about it when we’re apart—”
Hajime pins you to the bed like a butterfly, his jaw set tight. His eyes are dark, gone is the colour of nascent spring. You feel swallowed up by him. “Keep talking and you’re going to make me cum,” he rumbles, reaching to push down his briefs. 
“I don’t care if you cum as soon as you put it in,” you squirm, tucking your chin to watch the moment his cock slips free. He sits in his palm and wraps his fingers firmly around the base, leaning deeper into the cradle of your hips, legs splayed overtop his firm thighs.  
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Hajime replies dryly, dipping to kiss you again. You’ve lost count of how many. He positions his arm above you by the headboard and the hot weight of his cock settles on your sex. You share a soft sigh as he guides the tip through your folds, the underside nudging against your clit. 
“You know what I mean,” your focus is torn between talking and angling your hips to take more of him. “Doesn’t have to be mind blowing I just—want to be with you,” you mumble, quiet like an admission, and Hajime’s concentration comes apart at the seams. 
The air is stolen from your lungs as the tip slips in. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, seeking—something. Leverage. A tether. Chest to chest, Hajime presses you deeper into the mattress as his cock sinks into you. Slow, attentive to your shifting expression while you adjust to the stretch. 
And when he bottoms out you feel full. He’s thick. it has a sense of contentment spreading throughout your body. Eventually, “You can move, big guy”. 
Hajime gives a gasping breath, groaning your name on the next. The rough timbre of his voice makes you pulse around him. The corded muscles in his arms flex as he shifts. There’s a dull sting while he pulls out, and a startling emptiness, immediately sated as he rocks his hips forward. You arch upward, angling your hips to take him deeper, and his eyes screw shut, lips parted in a silent moan.
Hajime fucks you with slow, deliberate thrusts, gradually building a rhythm, finding a pace that you respond to. You can hardly bear to look away from him. Flushed pink with exertion, the light lovingly kissing the left side of his face, mouth swollen and red. He’s murmuring little incantations of praise that you strain to hear over the sharp slap of skin, every thrust plucking another breathless sound from your throat. 
And he’s looking right back, almost reverential. A desperate pinch to his brow. You dig your heels in, nails biting at his back. It’s all you can do to hold on. His kisses grow clumsy as his attention wanes, reaching a spit-wet hand down to play with your clit as he pistons his hips. 
“M’close,” he grunts like it pains him to admit. 
Your ears are ringing. The sticky, wet echo reverberates around the room as Hajime fucks you. His strokes press impossibly deeper and you choke on a moan, feeling him in your throat. His fingers rub faster over your swollen clit. Pleasure spreads through your belly, blood rushing between your thighs. 
“Please,” you cradle his cheek, hot against your palm. He takes it in his free hand, interlocking your fingers against the bedsheets. The intimacy has your mind going numb. You’ve become a knot of a person. That new vulnerability, the love he’s immolating you with, is what knocks you toward the edge. “Hajime,” you cling to him desperately. “Hajime”.
“Fuck. I’m cumming, I’m—” Hajime buries his face into the crook of your neck, intermittently squeezing your hand. His thrusts are harder, sloppy. He shudders to a stop, his orgasm carving him straight down the middle with a drawn out moan. 
The tension seeps from him all at once. You laugh breathlessly at his collapse, the weight both comfortable and bruising. His pelvis is nestled perfectly against your clit, and every twitch creates another wave of pleasure. You undulate your hips to chase the friction. 
The only indication that Hajime notices is the smile curling against your throat. He lets his lips drift across your pulse, folding his arms around yours until the world and it’s axis are just that—Hajime. Without needing to ask, he stays close and circles his hips even as his cock softens inside you, tipping you over the precipice. 
Time is difficult to measure while swaddled in your intimate little bubble. You’re not sure how long you spend simply holding one another, commiting how the other feels to memory. Hajime kisses your forehead. “Love you,” he says.
“Love you,” you croak back unattractively. He flinches at the sound, and props himself up to search your face. 
Eyes wide and earnest he asks, “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m alright. Just processing everything,” you reply, blinking away the sting behind your eyes. Hajime doesn’t look convinced. 
“Tell me,” he gently encourages. There’s an anxious edge to his tone that you want rid of. 
“Besides the fact that I had sex with the guy I’ve been in love with since middle school and everyone is going to know when they get back?” you laugh, making Hajime’s mouth curl as he carefully manoeuvres you both onto your sides. Better. “I’m just scared about what this means for us, I guess. Are we—you know, together now? Doing the long distance thing?” 
Giving a thoughtful hum, he hooks your knee over his hip. Whether it’s to put off the mess a little longer or keep you close, you’re not going to complain. “I want to be with you,” he says. 
“Even though we’ll be…” you squint as you think and reach inward for the specific number “…five thousand three hundred and fourteen miles apart?” 
“You looked that up?” Hajime’s smile widens, dopey and fond in a way that makes your heart ache. “But yeah. We’ll take it one step at a time”. 
“Then what’s the next step?” 
“Next?” he says. Another tender kiss to your temple, a deep, pensive inhale. “Next, we use the onsen”.
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You can’t be sure how long you stand there, sluggish and unblinking, fixated on the distant threads of grey cutting across an otherwise dark sky. It felt dissonant to the torrential downpour in your chest.
A warm body comes up behind you. Issei rests his chin on your crown, rubbing it back and forth as Takahiro knocks your elbows together, “Ready to go?”
No, you think. After a few beats of silence you phone buzzes in your hand and you scramble to check it. The background is the picture Takahiro took of you and Hajime by the lake, in a world of your own. A notification bar cuts across the screen. 
Hajime (03:34): I love you. I’ll call when I land. 
You swallow that thought and uproot yourself, “Yeah. Yeah I think so”.
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babygirl-riley · 4 months
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Hii🌸 if u don't mind would u pls write for simon w fem reader who's having a difficult pregnancy??:'( if not that's ok, luv ur stuff btw🩷
In Sickness and Health
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Simon’s heart breaks when watching going through your first pregnancy
A/N: Omg i watched my old co worked go through a hard pregnancy. It never looks easy no matter how it is going. I love this idea too ❤️
Warnings: sickness, pregnancy, hard pregnancy, underlining depression, arguments, marriage, soft!simon, husband!simon, dad!simon, fluff, little angst, swearing
simon x reader guide
simon x reader fluff/angst
When you found out you were pregnant, it was obvious. No period. Your cravings became intense. You threw up every fucking morning. Simon and you were excited that you were pregnant, people encouraging you that the morning sickness would pass. Instead. It came harder and longer. You cramped all the time, you bled once. Thinking you lost the baby when in fact you didn’t. Doctor reassured that it was normal in some women.
However, both of you didn’t expect the pregnancy to get harder than what people said it would have been. Your mom even said that what you are going through isn’t what she did. You are through your third trimester and nothing changed. Eventually your midwife came to put fluids in you since you couldn’t hold anything in. Throwing up was your new aesthetic. It got harder for you to work so you had to quit your job and stay home. Best friends with your toilet, you slept there day and night until your body grew bigger.
Simon was ordered from Price to stay home until the baby arrived and settled. Price heard from Simon about how the pregnancy has been not the best. You been up all night not being able to sleep from being too hot to throwing up to not being comfortable. Which caused Simon not to sleep, due to being worried about you. He would hold your hair up if you were too tired to even notice it was falling inside the toilet. Simon would wash your hair as you cried. Shushing you to keep you from having a panic attack.
You hated all of what was happening to you where you couldn’t enjoy being pregnant. Counting the days not to see your kid but to have her out. It was like you were hating the fact of everything no that was happening. Feeling like a curse then a miracle. Simon was the opposite even though he was heartbroken to see his love going through only hardship, the thought of having a mini both of you made him warm inside. Bringing it up once had you excited until you would hurl once more.
Simon would bend over backwards for anything you needed. Needed a bath Done. Needed a craving. Done and done again. Needed to be carried to the bed. Done. Needed a belly lift. Done. Anything was possible for Simon if it was for you. Nothing would stop him from helping you.
Was it perfect? Not always. Even when you both were tired and exhausted, you would fight, he would always be right by you. No matter what the fight was about, lately things that were ridiculous.
You both finished a fight and made up as he pet your damp hair, rubbing his other hand on your swollen belly. You were laying on his chest in bed, having your belly rest on the comfort of the mattress.
Sweat consumed you, your body working overboard on making your child and keeping you from not dying from everything else. It was silent before you sobbed. You were done, nothing for you. Your feet hurt. You felt like a whale. And your husband hated you. You’ve been only a bitch since you got pregnant and you were done.
You kept repeating in your head that he truly didn’t want to be here that you were just an excuse of a wife. That he never wanted to help you. That he wished you were gone. All because he didn’t get you your pebble ice. Simon had to leave the house for a while and what did he bring back? The stupid fucking ice. You called him a coward for leaving and not say anything about you said just for him to gift you?
Simon’s heart broke when your son burst out, your body shaking. Concern written on his face as he made your face turn to him. “Love what’s wrong?”
You cried harder as you laid your face in his shirt. “I want her out. And I feel terrible that I don’t want to do this anymore. That I have been a bitch. That I can’t stop throwing up. That this whole pregnancy hasn’t been what people have been saying.” He listened to you rubbing your back in soothing patterns. “I’ve been a terrible wife. I can’t believe I have been awful to you. You only been kind and generous and loving.”
Simon shook his head. “I could never do what you are doin’ dove,” He said quickly as he rubbed your shoulders. “This pregnancy is not been the best for ya.”
You sobbed harder as you clenched your hands into his shirt. Simon started to hush you quietly and soothingly. “You don’t deserve me.”
Simon froze from the comment, he used to say that to you at the beginning of your relationship. Telling you that he is a monster and that he would plague you with his darkness. That you were the angel and he was a demon, instead you showed him that he was the opposite. He was just lost in a broken world of his. Simon knew you were not like this. Not confident. Angry. Negative. No, you were the opposite of all of it.
Simon scooted so he would have you sit up against the frame. “Don’t you say that.” He said sternly.
You scoffed. “It’s true, I called you mean things. I said mean nasty things that are not true. Just over ice? Like how…”
“Stop,” He said stopping you dead in your tracks. “I know you didn’t mean it. Never have you showed me that. Baby,” He watched as your lips trembled, as your skin paled. “I know you love me, you are in pain just like I was. Let me help you bring yourself back as you make our child. You’re almost there love.”
You inhaled deeply as you looked away. “I’m sorry,” You turned to him and placed your hand on his cheek. “I love you Simon.”
Simon smiled and grabbed your hand kissing your knuckles. “I love you too. This is through sickness and health yeah? We promised each other that. So that is what gonna happen.”
You laid back down on him, your heart swelled with joy. You didn’t know how you got such an amazing husband. But all you knew is that he was your soulmate and you were his.
Another month went by and the baby was in distress from your body. She would be a month and half early which could lead into problems. However since your was fighting off too many things it wanted the baby to come out. You laid in the hospital bed as they induced you to push your baby girl out. You cried as Simon held his hand on yours and a cloth against your forehead.
“You got this mama,” The gynecologist announced looking up at you. “She is almost there!”
You looked at Simon concern written on your face and his. “It’s al’ight mamas. ‘M right here.” He whispered soothing you by brushing your damp strands back.
With a couple last pushes you heard a wail. Immediately relief went through your body as you laid all the way down into the bed. You panted as nurses and the doctor tended to the baby. Simon watched back and forth between you and the baby. “Go-Go see her.” You whispered gulping air.
You watched as he gave you a concerned look then nodded. You watched as he looked over the shoulders and smiled. Your heart fluttering. One of the nurses came to look over you. She said something but you couldn’t hear her. You felt nauseous and weak, lightheadedness coming in full swing.
The nurse called out as you felt your eyes roll. After that it was dark, you felt like actual sleep took hold. When you woke up, you were in a different room in the hospital, mouth was dry. When you looked over you saw Simon asleep with your baby girl against his bare chest.
You smiled. “They have been so cute,” You turned your head to see the doctor walking in. “How are you feeling?”
You hummed and coughed a bit. “Thirsty.”
“I bet. You had a blood clot form after giving birth to your baby girl. It can be common and could cause from your body being on overdrive to fix you. You are on blood thinners so take it easy. You have a healthy baby girl, she might be a little smaller than usual but that is expected from a early birth,” she explained looking over your vitals. “Your husband knows what to do. Just get to know your baby and rest.”
That you did, Simon once again by both you and both of your baby girl. Never have you felt so much relief and love. You smiled as Simon changed her diaper humming softly to her. In sickness and health. Is all you thought of as he gave you a kiss handing you your baby girl.
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luvring · 3 months
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gn!reader | iwaizumi will do a lot of things if you ask, but he's always a little awkward and embarrassed about taking photos of himself. what angle does he use, why's the lighting so bad, this is his "no one will see me" t-shirt, does his smile look forced, etc, etc., which means you only ask every once and a while, mostly as a joke, and never mind when he brushes it off with a laugh.
so when you open your messages to see an unprompted selfie of him, blurry, sitting in dim light, cheeks flushed and biting his lip to stop a grin, shocked is one word you can use to describe yourself. apparently drunk hajime is different from sober hajime, and confident enough to send a second, third photo capturing his night out with his old teammates at karaoke.
and you're not sure if it was their idea or his, but you really can't bring yourself to complain when he accidentally sends a video instead of a photo that perfectly frames his slightly unbuttoned top, messy hair that he runs his fingers through (he's brought up needing a haircut every week for the past month, but keeps pushing off setting an appointment), and raspy laugh as he tells someone off screen to shut up and sing already before turning to you with a smile.
"oh, shit, it's a video."
"pft, are you really that drunk?"
"hiii," someone—you think tooru—singsongs your name.
another complains, his voice muffled by your boyfriend moving the camera, "ugh, can you move over?"
"hi babe." hajime's low, slurred voice brings your attention back to him. "i got 94 on m'last song, jus' so y'know.
"let it go! that was all luck—"
"shut up, it's not my fault y'got 67 and sound like a dying bird. ugh," he seems to lose his train of thought and sniffles. "uh...don't worry, issei's driving m'back. i'll tell you 'bout it when i get home. see you soon, alright? love you."
the video ends, cutting off the beginning of a voice crack and off-pitch note, and the responding cackle that momentarily fills the quiet of your living room.
it's not a hard decision to save everything he's sent to your phone. the real hard decision will be tomorrow, you think, when you have to decide between teasing him to death or helping with his hangover. but then you get another notification—another text from him that reads "Cany ou tell them i'm not gonna sing adell" and you smile.
you can probably do both.
(he does end up singing, but so does everyone else. the video you get is way too loud, and way too close to the microphone, and the phone falls to the floor at some point, but it's saved to your gallery anyway. he makes you promise not to play it the next morning because it's "so headache inducing he could explode.")
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kisses4reid · 5 days
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convenient pt.3 | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,
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pt. 1 | pt.2 (you cannot read this without prior reading)
summary - spencer likes the girl from the convenience store
warnings - awkward conversations and long silences, both of them being hopeless romantics, allergies/sickness
genre - fluff!!! college!fem!reader x earlyseasons!spencer
a/n - thank you for the love and support on this series. it goes without saying i appreciate all of you all 🫶 thank u @raevyng for the cameo. sorry this is short, it’s either i upload this part or i make y’all wait for another week - i like you guys too much to do that.
“good job on you’re stem cell report, y/n. it was very informed and unique. i liked the, now who was it… william blake quote you included!” the teacher spoke before a class of 60. it was back to teaching new information before the next assessment, you were just about finished typing the professor’s notes before she spoke up. the mention of your name nearly made you jump.
a few of the students looked back up at you, some looking around because they had no clue who you were. you liked it better that way.
you also had no idea who william blake was.
“oh- um. thanks.” you say barely above a whisper. professor raena simply smiled and pushed back her shoulder length bob from her face. she started talking again, so did your friend.
“thanks? the professor who’s known to call out people for their incompetence more than smile in the classroom just praised you. that’s all you had to say?”
maybe logan wasn’t your friend per say. maybe she was just someone who sat next to you the first class and also happened to be your neighbour. she was stubborn and straight-forward, insanely intelligent and also smelt great. but she was caring, and gave you tough love when you needed it.
you glanced at her and smiled awkwardly, “i didn’t have much time to think about an answer.”
“i spend most of my time thinking about what i’d say to professor raena if she ever complimented me.”
“that’s because your-“ you suddenly muffle a cough into your hand, “obsessed with her.” you bring out a small packet of tissues from your bag and wipe your nose, nose reddening. logan leans slightly away from you and you roll your eyes.
“you’re not going to catch anything, it’s just allergies.” you lean back and try to continue typing notes but logan continues,
“you should go home, have some medicine, get some sleep.”
“i can’t, i’ve got work.” you whispered, a man in front of you turning around to shoot you with a side eye.
“you’ve told me multiple times that your manager wouldn’t care if you stole from the store. i’ve also told you many times i also don’t care.”
“yeah well… i like working there, that’s all.”
she rolls her eyes again, and waves you off, her long brown hair blocking her disappointed expression from you.
you stayed loyal to your job for two nights, for nothing. sure you got paid, and sure you got to steal some strawberry milk to ease your throat for a couple of minutes, but it felt boring. you actually started to file through the month old magazines you sold for double the price of a new one. you almost made it a third day without dying of allergies (and another secret feeling of sickness you constantly ignored), before you decided you were over it.
you stood up, flipped the door sign so the word ‘open’ faced you, and turned off half of the fluorescent lights before someone was suddenly in the corner of your eyes. spencer was opening the door so quickly you thought you were being robbed, you wouldn’t have seen him if not for the bell ringing on his entry.
“y/n.” he panted, watching your fingers hover over the last light switch. there was two lights left flickering softly above the front door and the check out desk. he looked stoic in the light, dressed in a grey sweater a little too big for him (like his mother had bought it for him telling him he’d grow into it) and black slacks. he seemed to have gotten a trim, his hair just under his ears now. “you don’t close until 1.”
he was confused, eyes wandering with a light hint of relief. like he was happy he didn’t miss you.
“yeah.” is all you said before you turned away from the light switch and returned to the register, assuming he would get his usual. but he didn’t keep walking, he just turned his body to face you. his eyes were expectant, delirious in a way like he needed something from you.
it was silent before the tension literally forced you to speak, “um. i need to close the store before i pass out. so i can uh… get home alive.” you look down and realise the pile of tissues before you was making a mountain, quickly grabbing them and stuffing them in an over filled bin.
“um.” a cat caught his tongue, he looked down to his feet.
spencer was sitting in his desk chair, scrolling on his government provided computer through forums and websites on ‘how to ask out a girl.’ not realising a majority of his team was reading them as well. he heard a small, familiar giggle behind him, quickly closing the tab and turning his head to be met with many other faces. jj slapped garcia on the shoulder with a smile, who’s hand was over her mouth, morgan and emily also smiling. spencer sighed and was about to cover for himself before morgan stepped in,
“look, pretty boy. no websites or article is ever going to teach you how to ask out a girl. they know nothing.”
emily joined, “yeah, none of those things are going to work. i mean, one of those said ‘don’t take no for an answer’. that’s straight up harassment.” she chuckled. morgan walked forward and placed a hand on spencer’s shoulder.
“all you have to do is talk. learn to what she likes, and be confident.”
“that’s easy for you to say.” spencer mumbled.
“who is this girl anyways? who’s taking our genius away from us?” garcia asked, today her hair was adorned with green themed pieces and a small pink flower clip.
spencer couldn’t help but let the corners of his mouth perk up when he thought about the girl who worked at the convenience store. the girl who’s report honestly impressed him. the girl who knew his total without looking at the register. the girl who called him good looking without noticing, like it slipped off of her tongue with no second thought. “just someone.”
you were not just someone.
“yeah you should get home. you look terrible.” spencer’s eyes widened as you raised an eyebrow, “no i mean- not terrible- you never look or have ever looked terrible- i just meant today- no you- like you’re sick and obviously- i mean you don’t obviously look terrible- it’s just uh…” he nodded at himself after he noticed a smile creeping onto your face. “you know what i mean.”
“i know i look terrible, thank you.” he was slowly walking up to the register.
“you really should go home, i shouldn’t keep you here because of some coffee.”
you eyes stung and were puffed in redness, you nose dried yet running, eyebrow lines permanent from warding off a migraine. any other customer you would stay for, but you felt less guilty with him. not because you didn’t care, because you knew he did.
“yeah, thank you.” you grabbed your bag, put your empty water bottle into it and walked over to the lights, turning off the last ones, leaving you both in darkness. spencer was waiting for you, quite creepily as he was basically just a block of void. “you sure you don’t need your 3 minute lasagne?” you joked, and he smiled.
“no, this is fine.”
this? them? you thought this man was articulate.
you opened the door with a key-accessed button that automatically locked it after it closed, and walked into the warm streetlight with spencer.
“bye spencer.” you looked up to him only to find his eyes already on you. his face was plain of emotion, except maybe it was just the lighting that made you think he looked disappointed. not at you, at himself. he was silent, hands making their way into his pockets. it was a habit, you had learned. “what’s wrong spencer?” you asked softly, sniffling immediately after.
it was cold, the wind let a stray piece of hair cross your stuffy features.
“do you like old bookstores, y/n?”
you blinked, taken aback. “yeah. i like old bookstores.” you huddled into your sweater, a darker grey compared to his with a large font displaying your university.
“okay, goodbye y/n. see you tomorrow.” he hurried off into his car and you followed him with you eyes in curiosity.
you were already walking away before he could turn around and ask you something, he felt like he had missed his chance. but there would be more. spencer closed his eyes in frustration and took a breath, starting his car before texting the team’s group chat.
“Attempt One failed. 😐👎”
there was a string of messages after but he didn’t read them. all he could think about was the percentage of people who die alone, and then the percentage of people who are like you.
the next night he appeared at the normal time, around nearly 11pm. but he wasn’t the only one, logan was there with you, studying behind you on the floor.
she was bored, and needed to get out of her room, and the only person she knew well enough was you. there in her mens pyjama pants and an over-sized shirt that read ‘RIP Princess Diana’ with a photo of owen wilson on it, her computer warmed her lap and made a soft whirling sound the in the background.
“hi y/n.” spencer waved, he felt bad about last night. you were barely walking straight when you left and he could tell you wouldn’t get out of your ‘work clothes’ (whatever you wanted to wear with a vest over it) before falling onto your mattress, and he drove away. he didn’t even offer to take and walk you home, let alone give you a ride. but his hands were sweating and his heart thumping in his ears, and he couldn’t think straight.
“oh, hi spencer.” you turned from your own textbook splayed on the counter beside you to see spencer and his tall self. a bag of apples, a 2 minute bolognese container, and a bag of coffee. you scan them, weigh the apples, and watch him.
he wasn’t meeting you eyes. you furrowed your eyebrows for a second before telling him his total with a sniffle.
“i’m sorry for not driving you home,” he lifted his head, a piece of chocolate brown hair crossing his left eye, “or walking you home. or making sure you made it home safe.”
you widened your eyes slightly and sat still before spencer cleared his throat and continued, “i was nervous, about being around you. and my friends- my colleagues- told me i need to be more confident around you so.”
logan had stopped writing, glancing through her bangs up at you both. your mouth was slightly agape before you realised how stupid you looked and how awkward you were making it.
“oh- no it’s okay spencer, you don’t have to say sorry. i was- i’m fine. um,” you tilt your head with the corner of your lips quirking up with little resistance, “you talk about me to your friends?”
spencer nodded, put his hands in his pockets and thought for a second. he wished there was a better place to do this, a better person to take over for him.
all you have to do is talk.
spencer is great at talking.
“did you know that you could be scrolling for seven weeks before you can reach the end of ‘how to ask a girl out’ results on google? i was scrolling for a long time but then my friends told me to just talk and be confident, but i’m only good at one of those thing. so i was trying to ask you out last night but then i- well i failed basically, it isn’t my strong suit,” he took a breath, “so basically i’m saying sorry for not asking you out and not driving you home.”
it was silent, even a customer stopped humming.
“and also your allergy medication isn’t strong enough for your symptoms.” he glanced down to a white and blue box by your hand. you looked down, seeing logan in the corner of your eyes, hand covering her face.
“spencer-“
“dude just ask her out.”
spencer’s face dropped, and he looked over the counter to find another woman sat down, a cringed out expression on her face. his nervousness increased after he realised this wasn’t as private a conversation as he thought. wiping his hand on his vest, he continue with a gulp,
“no i can’t. not here, um. i’ll see you on monday. and i promise i’ll uh- be better? i’ll try again, so. okay see you on monday.” he quickly took his groceries and walked off quite speedily. you watched him walk away and then once he was out of sight, you simply stared at the box of allergy medication on the counter.
logan groaned in the background and said something about growing balls, but it was tv silence for you.
you didn’t know how to go out with someone, your last relationship was in your first year of high school with a guy who thought baby’s came out of a woman’s bum. not that spencer meant he wanted a relationship, no it could just be a friend ‘going out’. totally not romantic.
you slump and stuff your face in your hands. you didn’t care if you hadn’t dated for however long, he didn’t seem to be a man-whore at all. you just cared about how you were actually going to say yes to a man you’ve only talked to inside of an off-brand convenience store on the night shift.
you muffle a scream before the same silent customer placed a carton of milk on the counter.
“$2.50.” you grumble.
you carried logan’s computer bag as she took out a box of strawberry pocky on the sidewalk. the store was locked, the air was crisp, the light was flickering. you didn’t say much until logan couldn’t stand it anymore.
“you know when you’re this silent it’s actually pretty nice, i like peaceful walks home.” you nodded, and continued your racing thoughts with your line of vision stuck on the concrete as you both walked the block to your apartments. she sighed, “but it’s odd. you love talking. a guy likes you and you go mute?”
“his name is spencer, he does something dangerous for a living, he likes old books and drinks a lot of coffee. he gets home late at night, looks skinny but can lift a box of flour above his head with ease. he’s insanely smart and reads poetry, and helped me with my stem cell report.”
you look over at logan who looks a little disgusted but mainly confused.
“he helped me lift that box of flour without me asking. i have no idea who william blake is. i have no idea how he managed to put poetry in a biology report, and i have no idea how he can admit he’s going to ask me out and then not ask me out. his favourite colour is purple, his favourite fruit is grapes but he buys apples because they’re cheaper. and his name is… spencer.”
logan stopped in her tracks, making you copy. you flung out of whatever trance you were stuck in and raised an eyebrow at logan, “what?”
“what? oh no i don’t know, maybe you’ve just never told me about a man you happen to know a lot about, and yet don’t know anything about. you sound insane- not in the ‘loony-bin way’, in the romcom way. it’s disgusting.”
you both continued to walk, climbing the stairs to the foyer of your building before she took back her bag and gave you the pocky, mumbling, “you need these more than me.”
the elevator ride was mostly silent, and that continued before you both unlocked your apartment doors right beside each other.
“you need to ask him out, if he doesn’t do it first.” she entered her apartment before you could speak, let alone think.
suddenly your apartment felt lonely.
so did spencer’s.
he was cross legged on his plush couch on a call with penelope garcia, she was squealing every second minute trying to create a plan for spencer to ask someone out.
“spence, you’re making this very hard. how am i supposed to be your coach if i only have half a team?”
“you can find someone’s address with half a fingerprint, i think you’ll be fine.” he takes a bite of his 2 minute bolognese.
“that takes the fun out of it. i can only give you tips if i know her personality.”
spencer sighed, and thought for a second, he could practically hear penelope’s growing smile knowing she had won.
“her names y/n.” garcia squealed. “she’s smart and pretty. and her favourite colour’s purple and she studies biology. she knows my groceries off my heart and she’s allergic to pollen. she works late at night at the convenience store two blocks away from my apartment building, and she likes old book stores. she’ll be introverted around an extroverted person, but extroverted around an introverted person. she can read my expressions faster than anyone else, she tries out different hairstyles when nobody’s in the store, and she’s funny.” spencer smiles to himself, “she’s pretty.”
“you mentioned that, lover boy.”
taglist: @jeffswh0re @hypotheticallyspeakingwitch @trashmonstersara @wannabewolf @evysian @navs-bhat @mywellspringoflife @daphnesutton @smalls155 @amortencjja @anuncalledbridge @belsreid @redmurderbaby @tatilolz @criminalmindsandhouse @forensicuntology @nomajdetective @ilikw @screechingphantommaker
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gatitties · 7 months
Text
War & crack II
—Task Force 141 x young!reader
—Summary: more headcanons with your team as you being chaotic
—Warnings: none
Part One / Halloween special
yeah, I didn't finish my brainstorm and I bring more things from this sudden idea 🫣
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─ Listen, you have a lot of problems.
─ And we are not talking about your jokes about death biting your ass anymore.
─ Price's going to go bald before he retires, how the hell are you still alive today? It is a mystery to them.
─ Everyone noticed during a mission where they had to stay in a safe house for a few weeks that you had the same concentration as a fly, empty thoughts behind your eyes lost in a distant point of reality.
─ You looked like another person when you were a simple civilian, Gaz had to pull you so you wouldn't get run over a couple of times for not looking at the traffic lights.
─ Price needs to put on videos of crunchy slime or Subway Surfers so you could hear what he was saying, (Soap won't admit that it also helps him focus).
─ They discovered that you can sleep in any position, seriously, whether it's standing up, in the bathtub, your body bent in an unusual way, now they understand why you complain so much about back pain.
─ Everyone looks in silence when they give you little impulses to do stupid things, like, last time you were walking to see the area and you found a woman walking her dog, you asked her if you could pet it and when she said yes you pet the woman instead of the dog, Ghost dragged you away murmuring an apology.
─ The following days they decided that you would stay at home, they simply fed your stupidity, every time they arrived you received them with the phrase 'where have you been, loca?' while playing a wolf howl in the background.
─ Luckily it was time to return to the base, during the trip you were listening to music, despite having your headphones you had the volume so high that everyone could hear it, Soap stuck to you because he liked what you were listening, the others decided to drown out the noise with some light talk.
─ Once you returned to the base you relaxed, returning to your working state, you focused again, which relieved all.
─ One day they decided that you needed a nickname since everyone had it except you, so they began to investigate your record as a cadet and even your years in the military school.
─ You kicked and fought because you were something else a while ago, but it was inevitable to find an old report where it said that you were violent with some classmates.
─ And in your anger for probably some nonsense, you ended up biting the ankles of a guy, or a group of guys, or even one of your lieutenants...
─ Soap and Gaz cried with laughter because there was a video of what was evidenced and you looked like a rabid chihuahua attacking its worst enemy.
─ Nibbles, at least it was temporary because you didn't entirely agree with the nickname.
— Since you were now known like that, you went from friendly punches to friendly bites.
─ Once you got kidnapped and you returned to the base the next day because your captors couldn't stand having you sing old Justin Bieber songs or listening to you talk about all your obsessions, they tried to cover your mouth but you just kept making too much noise, the information was not worth it.
─ You arrived in the middle of the meeting they had to prepare the rescue, having the courage to enter the room asking who they were trying to rescuing.
─ Price casually replied that they were looking for you until he did a double take, realizing you were there.
─ You were buried in a mass of muscles after the realization.
─ When you're depressed at random times (because you don't understand how your brain works and you feel bad out of nowhere), everyone will quickly notice, like even though you're not the most talkative person all the time, you usually drop some stupid comment, but on your bad days you are simply a piece of flesh and bones that walks without knowing where it's going.
─ The first time they saw you like this they tried to do something to cheer you up, Price gave you a few days off hoping your mood wasn't due to work overload, he even wrote some of your reports.
─ Soap bought stickers and decorations to your liking to decorate your prosthesis, he also told you that he could draw you a design to have your personalized arm.
─ Gaz tried to talk to you but you just didn't want to open your mouth, he chose to just keep you silent company, maybe you hug him, you need a little physical support.
─ Ghost will leave objects scattered around knowing that you would find them, knowing that they were things that you liked or had been looking for (because the poor guy always has to pick up what you forget around the common room).
— Nothing seemed to work until a stray kitten snuck in and lit up your face, so the easy answer was any baby animal would brighten your day, it was free therapy.
— You once dyed the boys' clothes pink by accident, but at least you told them that now they could go see Barbie with you.
— You promised you'd take them to see Oppenheimer, and that's why they agreed.
— You created a group chat just to send shitpost and teach them the meme path.
— Price just leaves it on seen, Ghost has the group muted, Gaz answers from time to time and Soap is the most active, he learns fast about today's shitpost.
— You really resist the urge to trim Price's beard to make it heart-shaped.
— You use the radio to sing parts of songs when you take too long to jump into action, Price scolds you for it.
— You complain that he seems constantly in a bad mood and you open a profile for him on every dating app you know, even on Grindr.
— You found Ghost's profile browsing Tinder and Soap's profile on Grindr... you decided to use it as a weapon in case you needed any favors.
— Gaz caught you red-handed, but you made a deal and he wouldn't say anything if he can profit from the manipulation.
— You hide it like you're hiding war crimes.
— Why does Price have so many likes from single moms?
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horrorartsworld · 21 days
Text
like a prayer
nun alastor/f!reader
warnings: religious talk, religion, religious themes, sacrilegious, sex in a church, choking, manipulation if you squint, mentions of blood, referring to al as ‘it’ for most of the read since reader doesn’t quite know who he is yet, didn’t proofread RAHHHH
a/n: sooooo sorry for my little hiatus, i’ve been stuck to adulting lately that i haven’t had a chance to write for shit, but here i am!! 😌 also i just wanted to say thank you to a lovely follower (@urmynextvictim) for the nun alastor idea!! and as always i hope you enjoy ;)
♪ Like a Prayer ~ Madonna ♪
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✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
The only noise in the chapel was the clicking of your heels echoing amongst the sacred walls as you strolled in, nobody else in sight with it oddly enough being a Sunday afternoon. Giving off an eerie feeling that coursed through you while you looked around for any presence of life to no avail.
Shaking it off, you finally approach what you’ve been looking for. A giant yet beautiful articulated cross stood before you, glimmering in all of its holy glory and waiting for you to spill your sinful guts to it. In which you did just that, kneeling with your hands in a praying like motion while your muttered your forgiveness. Hoping to feel somewhat rejuvenated after your long unforgiving week.
Suddenly bringing you out of your thoughts a loud bang is heard from behind you, startling you so bad that you spring up almost falling into the cross in the process with your eyes darting every which way to find where the noise had come from, a tall candlestick holder had been toppled over and now laid at its side in the middle of the walkway. “W-who’s there?” Your voice so quiet and meek that you could hardly hear yourself when speaking out to what seemed like nothingness.
“My apologies..…” This voice was more sinister and distorted like an old radio, and so close to your ear it made you jump for a second time, quickly turning to finally get a glimpse of what was tormenting you.
Eyes widening at the sight of what looked like a nun though the grin plastered amongst its face said otherwise. Red ears twitching at your small shaky breathes in your alarmed state. “…I didn’t mean to frighten you my dear..”
“W-who are you?” You manage to stammer out, The nun snickers circling you like a vulture with its red piercing dial like eyes wandering up and down your body with a certain hunger.
“Someone who wants to help you…maybe someone who you could confess to? Seems you have a lot on your mind…” A hand then clamps down onto your shoulder as it stops and stands behind you looming down on your figure.
“N-no!” You absentmindedly shout, heat rising in your cheeks at your loud outburst as you then clear your throat sheepishly. “I-i mean no… i think i’ve confessed enough for today…I should be heading home before it gets too late..” Attempting to slip away from the mysterious figure and make a beeline for the doors.
“Oh but I insist,” A low growl seems to escape from the depths of its throat causing the static in its voice to boom frightfully, following a harsh grasp on your wrist pulling you back falling into its chest from behind. “Now what did you want to confess..,” A clawed finger coming up to tuck some of your hair behind your ear while it waited for you to go on.
“I-i…um-” You start to speak, but your mind was too clouded of what this nun or whatever it was might do if you didn’t abide by its commands. By you being too caught up it started to grow impatient with you and dug its sharp claws into your wrist tightly making you hiss in pain and quickly brought you to your senses once you feel the warmth of your blood start to trickle down your palm and onto the white marble floors. “I-i’ve been having thoughts I don’t think i should speak aloud!” You quickly say feeling the sting of its claws finally let up.
An amused look crossing its face, “Darling, if you don’t speak on it now it may cause you more trouble then you want…” Bitting your lip, you think of the likely hood of how the turmoil of it all might come back to bite you if you didn’t and if not it to confess to, then who else would be more fitting? Yet, the hum of anticipation that cascaded in the air made your palms slick with sweat and a lump form in your throat. The nun, however, remained still, trying to patiently wait for you to muster a syllable.
"I... I carry quite lustful thoughts," you reveal a minute later, the admission leaving a foul taste in your mouth.
The nun, veiled behind you, did not immediately respond. The stillness was near unbearable until it’s claws were around your wounded wrist once more, bringing it up to its mouth till you felt the coolness of its tongue lapping up the blood that spilt from the marks it made. Your eyes widening at the sickening sensation it brought, trying your best not to squirm as you didn’t want to upset it further though it snickered more at your attempts to conceal yourself.
“Lustful?…Is that right?..” It clicks its tongue at you disapprovingly before you continued, “Y-yes…it’s quite unbearable..y-you see i can’t help but act on it…by…touching myself.. The feeling it brings so insatiable everytime with my release that it haunts me into the next day. An endless cycle it seems I cannot break.”
"I see..." is all that came from the nun’s response, and silence fell amongst the two of you once more.
You were unsure of how to take this, in hopes that just maybe it was coming up with a groundbreaking, world changing response that would sustain all your worry and to ease your mind. However, a sudden feeling as hard as a rock rubs up against your backside making every fiber in your being run amuck.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a special someone to fulfill those needs would you?” The question knocked around in your mind for a moment before you muttered out a quick, “No”, and that was all it took to have you bent over a pew with your skirt pulled up to your hips.
“Good girl,” It purrs tracing its fingers up the backs of your thighs, until they ghost over the fabric of your panties where your clit would be.
“W-wait! what’s your name?” You asked in a mixture of emotions, big doe eyes trying to get a glimpse of it behind you, chuckling at your sudden question, retracting its fingers until it started hiking up its habit and showing it’s hardened cock that had been neglected for far too long as it was leaking with pre-cum.
“Alastor…a pleasure to meet you…now that I suppose we’re well acquainted and you have something to scream..” He trails off pulling your panties down in one go and immediately thrusting into you, not giving you any chance to adjust to his size. You squeal in pain, gripping the pew underneath you for sense of security but Alastor places a hand over your mouth, shushing you for your vocals. He then takes his hand off your mouth and lets it travel down to your throat giving it a nice squeeze in warning to be quiet, making you choke a little with the pressure causing Alastor to moan at the sound.
Moving in and out at a normal pace, not seeming to care at all about your poor cervix which he was currently beating up with his elongated cock.
Your body growing to love the feeling he was giving to you once you adjusted, making you a whiny and moaning mess. Tears ruining your vision and making Alastor more aroused seeing them fall down your flushed cheeks, therefore making him move faster.
He groaned as he pounded into you roughly and glared down at where you two were connected, seeing your cunt taking him so well. Then suddenly this feeling came over him that decided this wasn't enough, taking his hand away from your neck and bringing his thumb down to your clit.
You cried and whined as it was all too overwhelming. You felt filthy, absolutely disgusting, but also so alive. Something you hadn't felt before compared to your own pleasure. You were trembling from a cock too big for your own little pussy to comprehend and you loved it. It was now you realised there was no chance you could come back from this, enjoying such a lewd act, letting this creature you didn’t even know fuck you dumb in a church against a pew.
"Please! Alastor mhpm I need more!" You whined rolling your hips back into him.
He growled at your words and actions, pulling out fully and bringing to your feet.
“Open..” He then taps your chin seeing you without hesitation open your mouth wide, he then leaned down and spat into it.
"Swallow dirty girl." He snarled at you.
You eagerly did as was told, hoping there would be a reward in which there was, his eyes half-lidded as he grinned down at you when he saw you followed his orders well, then shoved his whole tongue in your mouth.
He tasted just as you expected, abnormally like death with an odd hint of whiskey. Noting his tongue wasn’t normal either. It was way too long and pointed for its own good, poking at your own as they battled for dominance (which obviously he won). Filling up your mouth once he concurred your cavern and made you choke slightly, but just like before, once you adjusted you were moaning like a slut again.
Cumming for what felt like the gazillionth time not knowing which number this one was though it was definitely better than the last. You started feeling drained now, and overstimulated was an overplayed word at this point. You had no idea when Alastor would let up and it made you nervous, surely he would stop once he came you thought. Then, when would he cum? When even was his limit? Not knowing Al could fuck for hours without cumming if he wanted.
Which that was the plan. He wanted to know what you looked like, excessively overstimulated. Only knowing the feeling of him and only him.
You wished you hadn't found out what made this church feel off.
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munson-blurbs · 8 months
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Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!Reader Series
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14
Summary: Will's birthday party brings back some familiar faces and gives Eddie the perfect opportunity to make amends with Corroded Coffin, but an unexpected interruption might have him hurtling towards his old ways.
Warnings: some dirty talk (18+ only just in case), drinking/drunkenness (everyone is over 21), pregnancy and labor complications, mentions of past bullying
WC: 8.2k
Chapter 14/20
Divider credit to @saradika Special shoutout to @storiesbyrhi and @corroded-hellfire for helping with the fluffy sections and making this piece strong.
--
Afternoons at Hawkins Preschool are predictable: storytime on the carpet is followed by the kids’ pack-up routine, and once all belongings are shoved into their proper backpacks, they file out the door to go home. 
Predictable is good. It’s safe. And it certainly doesn’t include a fire drill half an hour before dismissal. 
Herding nine children through the bustling hallways and trying to ensure no one is left behind is overwhelming enough. Factor in the ear-splitting alarm and the surge of adrenaline pulsing through your students once they re-enter your classroom, and you’ve got the perfect recipe for chaos. 
Instead of fighting a losing battle to keep the kids calm and quiet, you’d opted to plunk them down with myriad art supplies and called it a day. 
Now, after the last student had been picked up, you and Will are left cleaning the mess they’d made. Broken crayons are scattered across the tabletops, there’s Play-Doh of various colors stuck to the floor, and gold glitter—when did you even acquire glitter?—dusts every surface. 
“Seriously…who thought that that timing was a good idea?” Will grumbles, tossing a Crayola stub into the crayon basket. He adopts a nasal, mocking tone. “‘What would help out our teachers? Oh, I know—let’s interrupt their dismissal routines!’”
You laugh despite your own exhaustion. Somehow, you’ll have to muster up the energy to tutor Harris tonight. 
Will reaches into the cupboard to grab his car keys, turning back around with a smile that he only offers you when he needs something. “Could I ask you for a little favor?”
There it is. “How little?” You cock one brow as you clip a stack of papers together.
“Eensy weensy. Miniscule. Microscopic–”
“The more you say it, the less I believe you.”
“Okay, okay,” Will acquiesces, twirling his keyring around his forefinger. “So, for my birthday thing on Saturday…a bunch of my childhood friends are gonna be there. Mike, Dustin, Suzie, Lucas, Max, Jane…” he lists them, ticking off each name on his fingers. “Anyway, I was hoping that maybe you could talk to Eddie about a Corroded Coffin reunion? I know they’re on a hiatus or whatever, but if anyone can convince him to play, it’s you.”
He’s not wrong; you’re the most likely person to get Eddie to do, well, anything. But asking him to make amends with Danny and Gareth and getting their band to play a gig three days from now seems like a mountainous task.
Will is staring at you, hands clasped together pleadingly. He’s too optimistic for his own good, and you can’t help but give in.
“Fine, I’ll try. But–hey, don’t get excited yet,” you warn when he pumps his fist in celebration. “‘Try’ is the key word here. I’m not making any promises.”
Your admonition goes unheeded as Will already considers it a victory. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” You give him a small, tight-lipped wave as he dashes out the door. You and Eddie were already planning to attend the party; you’d spent part of last night scouring an art store for the perfect gift. And he and Jeff were back to being thick as thieves…maybe this could work. 
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“All right, Mr. Harris,” you say with a laugh, hurriedly placing tiles of various shapes in front of him. You need to make the most of the few minutes you have left until Eddie arrives. There’s a soft, familiar flutter in your stomach as you think about seeing your boyfriend, but you know you can’t compete with him for Harris’s attention. “Can you find the…trapezoid?” The inflection in your voice makes it sound like a much more exciting task than it really is, and you hope it’s enough to wrangle his focus. 
Harris pokes out his tiny pink tongue as he assesses the tiles. He initially reaches for the blue rhombus, but as soon as his little finger touches it, he pulls away as though it’s on fire. “No…that’s not it.” You tuck your lips into your mouth to suppress your amusement as he thoughtfully taps his forefinger on his lips. A solid ten seconds pass before he triumphantly snatches up the correct tile. “Got it!” he beams, showing off the red trapezoid in his hand.
“You did! You got the trapezoid!” You hold up your hand for a high-five, frowning when he shakes his head. His overgrown curls brush along his eyebrows, and you wonder if it’s your place to suggest that Eddie take him for a haircut. “No high-five?”
“Nuh-uh,” Harris protests, now swiveling his whole body in defiance. “I want…tickles!” He holds his arms out, leaving his torso wide open.
Lips pursed in faux consideration, you lower your voice to a hushed whisper. “Hmm…I think that warrants a visit from the Tickle Monster!” You flex your fingers so they resemble claws; he instinctively scrunches up in anticipation, arms tucked into his stomach. You let out your silliest wicked cackle as your fingers dig mercilessly into his sides in pursuit of his most ticklish spots. Delighted peals of laughter emanate from his chest, and you don’t stop until the buzzer rings, signaling Eddie’s arrival.
Harris’s eyes get wide, mischief dancing behind his pupils. “Do you think the Tickle Monster should get Daddy?” he asks, keeping his voice low despite it only being the two of you. 
“Oh, absolutely.” You buzz Eddie in while formulating the game plan aloud. “I’ll grab the pizza and you go on the attack. Once the food is secured, I’ll join you.” You stick out your pinky, and he wraps his own around it. 
“Ms. Sweetheart?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
His words turn your heart into a chocolate chip cookie fresh out of the oven, ooey gooey and destined to crumble if handled too harshly. “I love you, too, Harris,” you manage, blinking back embarrassing tears. The flood of emotion is absurd; he probably tells his stuffed animals that he loves them with the same fervor, but you can’t deny the adoration with which he looks at you.
He flings his arms around you in a hug, squeezing tight. Face pressed to your ribs, his words are muffled but still audible when he says, “I don’t know why Daddy says it’s hard to say ‘I love you.’”
He doesn’t have time to further elaborate before Eddie’s knocking on the door. “Special delivery for my two favorite people!” Your heart beats faster with the knowledge that he’s on the other side, that you’ll be able to sneak in a kiss or two. 
You and Harris share devious grins, the little boy emulating your monster-esque stance from earlier. He creeps behind you on his tiptoes, and bites back a giggle when you slowly open the door, counting down from three under your breath.
“Hi–whoa!” Eddie stumbles back as Harris barrels into him, little fingers dancing across his lower stomach. You quickly snatch the pizza box from Eddie’s grasp and place it on the table before darting back to where his son has ambushed him. You start on his bicep and let your nails travel upwards until they reach the crook of his neck. 
“I’m under attack!” Eddie yelps, twitching this way and that way in a meager attempt to protect himself. “I bring you pizza and this is how I’m repaid?” He easily scoops Harris into his arms, flinging him over his shoulder. Harris lets out an exhilarated squeal, carelessly kicking his sock-clad feet into his dad’s chest. “Jesus, little dude. You’re getting too strong.” Wincing slightly from the pinch in his back as he places the boy on the floor, he gives his tush a little pat and tells him to wash up for dinner, reminding him to use soap and water.
As soon as Harris scampers off into the bathroom, Eddie’s grabbing you by the belt loops of the wide-leg jeans you’d changed into when you got home. One hand slides around your waist and the other finds purchase on your cheek as he kisses you deeply, keeping a listening ear out for the telltale pitter-patter of Harris returning. 
“Missed you,” he murmurs into your mouth, and you shiver at the intimacy this closeness brings.
You laugh quietly, biting your lower lip. “We just saw each other this morning,” you remind him, sneaking in another quick peck.
Eddie shakes his head. “Y’know what I mean. Can’t do this while you’re on the clock,” he counters, shifting his grip so both hands rest on either side of your face. You think he’s going to kiss you again, but he just gazes into your eyes. “Shit, you’re so fuckin’ pretty. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you today.” He rests the slope of his nose on yours, only snapping out of his trance at the sound of Harris rapidly switching the faucet on and off. “Let me go check on him before this place is underwater,” he whispers, giving your own ass a smack as he shuffles towards his mischievous son, a cheeky grin deepening his dimples.
You do your best to compose yourself, heat creeping up your neck and into your face. Busying yourself by placing pizza slices onto paper plates does little to distract you; it’s as though every neuron is dedicated to flooding your brain with Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. 
The way the pads of his fingertips brush against your cheeks when he holds your face. The plush moisture of his lips when he kisses your forehead. The tickle of his brown tresses when he nuzzles into you and takes a deep breath, finally able to relax after a long day. 
“Are you expecting a guest?” Eddie pipes up from the kitchen entrance. A perplexed frown overtakes your lips until he gestures to what you’ve laid out in front of you: four slices of pizza, two plain and two with olives, on four plates. 
Your vision gets a bit fuzzy with tears when you realize what you’ve done. “No, it’s, um…” Nostrils flare as you huff out a short puff of air, hot under your nose. “Force of habit, sorry.” You’ve been so diligent about only serving three slices, but your preoccupation with his touch had your mind drifting from the task at hand.
It takes him a moment to process what you mean, but when he does, his face falls. It was for Grandma. “It’s okay,” he says, cringing as the words leave his mouth. Because it’s not okay that you’re sad; it’s normal, but frustration still tugs at his heart that he can’t take it away.
It feels wrong to return the slice to the box, so you leave it where it is. Eddie balances the three plates, sliding a plain one in front of Harris. The boy digs in hungrily, sauce caught on the edges of his smile.
“How was work?” you ask Eddie, grabbing a napkin from the pile in the center of the table. It’s a simple question, one that people ask each other all the time, but it stirs up a warmth inside of him. It’s you asking him, fostering a domestic routine that he could follow for the rest of his life. He’d walk through the door of your house, wiping his shoes on the welcome mat you two had picked out together. The kids–Harris, plus another Little Munson or two–would practically knock him down trying to greet him, and he’d engulf them in bear hugs before reaching out to you, kissing your forehead with a murmured, “there’s my girl.”
“Eds?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, it was good.” He stumbles over the words, trying to clear his head of the fantasy he’d conjured up. “Lotsa paperwork, y’know.” He takes a bite of pizza, chewing thoughtfully. “What about you?”
You shrug, watching amusedly as Harris sinks his teeth into his slice and manages to pull all of the cheese off of the crust in one fell swoop. “The usual. The kids are learning about springtime, so Will decided to do a craft making flowers using finger paint and their handprints.”
“Sounds messy.”
“Oh, absolutely,” you agree with a weary grin, “but it was super cute, and Will is great with all that art stuff.” You excuse yourself from the table to get the water pitcher and three glasses, stopping when you remember your TA’s request. “He also asked me if a certain local metal band could play his birthday party on Saturday…?”
Eddie pauses mid-chew, nearly choking on his food. The cheese seems to congeal in his mouth when he tries to speak. “Um, I don’t know about that,” he finally manages, nervously massaging the back of his neck. “I haven’t talked to Danny or Gareth since…”
“I know, but you said you wanted to make things right with them,” you point out. “Maybe Jeff can test the waters? See if they’re ready to talk to you?”
“Maybe.” He averts his gaze, staring at the pizza slice without taking another bite. 
You don’t want to further push the subject in Harris’s presence; instead, you turn your attention to the little boy. “Anything fun happen at school today, Har?”
“Nah,” he responds automatically just a half-second before his eyes light up. “Actually, yeah! My friend Charlie ate a bug at recess today!”
“Ew!” you exclaim, wrinkling your nose in pure disgust, as Eddie simultaneously poses the question, “what kind of bug?”
“An ant,” Harris answers his dad nonchalantly, as though ant-eating is an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it is, which is even more unsettling. 
“Did you eat any bugs?” You’re afraid of his response; you’re unsure why you even asked in the first place. 
To your relief, he shakes his head, a forlorn look on his cherubic face. “No, I couldn’t catch any in time.”
“Thank God for small miracles,” you mutter, turning back to your original task of getting something to drink. Though if the topic of bug consumption continues, you’ll need something much stronger than water. 
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Could Corroded Coffin play again?
It’s a thought that consumes Eddie for the entirety of his drive home, barely able to listen to Harris yammering about how there’s a coin in his jacket pocket that he doesn’t remember putting there. He throws a few lackluster mhms his son’s way and hopes he’s too distracted by the mystery coin to catch on. 
We’re getting the band back together. Well, if Jake and Elwood Blues could swing it, maybe he could, too. 
He waits until Harris is asleep to call Jeff. Getting his son to do his bedtime routine is easiest on Wednesday nights; he’s usually exhausted after a full day of school and tutoring. The one time that Eddie could use an excuse to procrastinate, Harris is out like a light. 
Go to voicemail go to voicemail go to—
“‘Lo?”
Shit. “H-Hey, man,” Eddie begins awkwardly. “How’s it going? Viv doing okay?”
“We’re good. She’s ready to have this baby already. I reminded her, ‘just two more weeks,’ but then she told me to ‘fuck off’ until I’m the pregnant one, so…” he chuckles, more nervous than amused. “Everything good with you? Harris?”
“Yeah, we’re fine. Just, um,” he struggles to find the words, blurting out the first ones that enter his brain. They come out in a rush before he can stop them. “Do Gareth and Danny still hate me?”
Jeff takes a sharp breath in; his reaction does nothing to temper Eddie’s nerves. “They never hated you. They were just…disappointed? Jesus, I sound like my mom.” 
Eddie misses his friend’s anecdote, too wrapped up in his head to fully pay attention. Somehow, disappointed stings worse than the prospect of being hated, especially when the people he’s let down are ones who used to idolize him. “Do you think there’s a way they could be…undisappointed in me? Like, enough to forgive me and maybe play a gig this weekend?”
There’s an extended pause, and then a one-word response: “Christ.” 
Eddie can picture Jeff rubbing his eyes in exasperation, and he scrambles to explain. “Will Byers–you remember him? He was in Hellfire; had that weird bowl cut thing going on?”
“Mhm.”
“He’s having a birthday thing at the Hideout on Saturday and asked if we could play. Just a coupla songs.”
Jeff thinks for a moment; Eddie can hear him drumming his fingers on a nearby surface.
“Why don’t you come over tomorrow night around…6?” he ventures. “I’ll invite the guys and we can…I dunno, figure something out.”
“Thanks, man. I owe you.” He’s about to hang up when he remembers to ask, “Can I bring Harris?”
“Of course.”
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“Har, slow down!” Eddie’s barely unbuckled his son’s car seat before Harris has wriggled out of the sedan, bolting straight for Jeff’s door.
“But I haven’t seen Uncle Danny and Uncle Gareth in forever!” he laments, reaching the house far faster than Eddie. He stands on tiptoes and rings the doorbell like a madman, forefinger jamming into the button at warp speed. “Uncle Jeff! It’s me!”
Jeff opens the door with a huge smile. “Mini Munson!” He scoops the boy up into a hug. “What’s new with you, little dude?”
“I got a wiggly tooth!” Harris exclaims, jutting out his jaw and pressing his tongue against the front center of his mouth. Sure enough, the baby tooth moves slightly forward, and he giggles. “Daddy says the Tooth Fairy’s gonna come and leave me a dollar,” he matter-of-factly reports. He peeks his head over Jeff’s shoulder, squealing and squirming out of his grip when he spots the two men sitting on the couch. He flings himself onto the sofa and plunks himself down into Gareth’s lap. “Hi!”
“Hey, kiddo!” Gareth chirps. “You’re getting so big.”
“‘M five now. I had a birthday party because I turned five.” He splays out his palm to offer five fingers. 
“Did your friends go?”
“Yup!” Harris beams at the memory. “An’ Daddy an’ Grampa Wayne an’ Ms. Sweetheart.”
Danny furrows his brows. “Who’s Ms. Sweetheart?”
“She’s my almost-mommy. Daddy has to fall in love with her first.” 
“Is that so?” Gareth smirks at Eddie. His teasing look is the first crack in the wall that has separated the men for the last six months, and though Eddie is thoroughly embarrassed, it alleviates some of his anxiety.
“Uh, Har Bear, why don’t you go hang out with Auntie Viv while I talk with the guys?”
Viv holds out her left hand, looking utterly exhausted. Her right hand rests on her bump, eyes sending a telepathic message to Jeff that they have five minutes—ten minutes, if Harris behaves well—to come to a solution before she needs a break. 
Silence filters into the room as Eddie fumbles to address the mess he’s made. If Danny and Gareth are here, they’re at least willing to listen to him, which is honestly farther than he’d assumed he’d get. 
He remembers what Harris said about apologizing; technically, what you’d taught him about apologizing: the act of saying sorry, not merely implying it, makes a world of difference. 
“I was an asshole,” he starts. It’s not his most eloquent statement, but it certainly gets the point across. “Not just that night at the Hideout, or at our last practice. I was an asshole for a long time before that. And…I’m sorry.” It feels good to say it; it feels even better that they’re nodding, seeming to believe him. “You guys didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”
Of the rest of the band, Gareth is the one to speak first. “I guess I’m just wondering, why? Why be an asshole to us? We’ve always been there for you.”
“I know.” Eddie fiddles with a thread hanging from his t-shirt, pulling on it until it snaps off. He shoves it in his jeans pocket, not wanting to mess up Jeff and Viv’s place. “Honestly…I’m not sure, but I think it’s because you guys are everything I’m not.”
“What are you talking about?” Danny asks, tone heavy with disbelief. 
“In high school, I was the one you looked up to. The person you wanted to be like. And then I had a kid with some random chick I thought I knew but barely did, gave up my dreams of being a musician, and started selling weed again just to scrape by. And here you guys are. Jeff,” he motions to the friend leaning against the sofa’s arm, “you have a baby on the way with the love of your life. And all of you have goddamn college degrees and jobs that you don’t despise and don’t require you to hide from the law.” He shoves his ringed fingers into his jacket pockets, lowering his voice to barely above a whisper. “And I was nothing.”
Gareth scratches at the upholstery with one finger, absorbing everything he’s just heard. “You know we never stopped looking up to you, right?” He gives a short laugh when Eddie’s eyes widen. “Yeah, man. Leaving Chicago so you could take care of Harris? Putting your kid before yourself? That’s pretty badass.”
Danny nods. “Ed, if there’s someone here to look up to, it’s you.” Both he and Eddie visibly relax. Shoulders drop from their hunched positions, thin lips unfurling into smiles. “No matter what you went through, you never gave up. Even if it almost killed us,” he adds wryly, referring to all of the sleep-deprived Corroded Coffin practices fueled by black coffee and pure adrenaline.
“No fancy diploma can teach us how to stand up for ourselves, or how not to take shit from people, or how to be a dad,” Jeff pipes up from where he’s standing. “We learn from you, man.”
Eddie’s cheeks burn at the compliments, unsure how to accept them. He’d walked in expecting to have to beg for forgiveness, and they were the ones reassuring him. It’s now or never, and he forges ahead while he still has the courage. “Do you…can we get the band back together?” Can we be friends again is the underlying plea, but it’s too vulnerable a statement to make. “We’ll keep it low-key, I promise. Work, family, anything comes up…we can cancel or reschedule. And I won’t be a dick about it.”
The three other men look at one another, nod and turn back to Eddie with smart grins and mischievous glimmers in their eyes.
“On one condition.” Gareth crosses his arms over his chest, smirking as he sinks back against the couch. “You tell us all about this ‘Ms. Sweetheart.’”
The Hideout, normally dingy and coated in a film of sticky ale, has been decked out for Will’s birthday party. Helium-filled balloons in every color bob along the low ceiling, vibrating with the thumping bass of the old sound system. Crepe paper streamers–purple, Will’s favorite color–sway gently with the air that rushes in from opening the door. This has to be Marshall’s handiwork, and it brings a smile to your face. If anyone deserves a partner who fawns over him, it’s Will.
You spot him surrounded by a group of people as the bartender slides a row of tequila shots across the bar and into their eager hands. While they’re distracted by alcohol, you take the opportunity to dart towards the backstage area.
Eddie’s there, digging around for his lucky pick. You wrap your arms around his waist, fingers pressed into the soft dough of his tummy.
“Hey, Rockstar,” you murmur against his neck, kissing just below his earlobe. 
He turns around, jaw dropping when he sees you in a maroon slip dress. The heels on your feet have you two inches taller than usual, and he has to shift where his gaze normally lands to meet your eyes.
“Fuckin’ Christ, baby,” Eddie practically growls, kissing you deeply. One hand presses against the small of your back while the other grabs the plush of your ass, kneading it in his palm. “You’re so fuckin’ sexy. How’m I gonna go out there and play with you looking like that?”
“I’ll make it worth your while.” You giggle when he offers up a bemused smile. “If you do a good job tonight, I’ll give you a reward.” You let your fingertips graze over the metal teeth of his pants zipper, feeling him twitch at your light touch. 
“You’re dangerous,” he winks, delivering another kiss; this time, he gives your lower lip a little bite when he pulls away. His kohl-rimmed eyes draw you in just as they did that first night you’d met, but now you dive into them without the fear of drowning. 
A tactful “ahem” from the now-open doorway startles both you and Eddie, having been floating in an embrace that’s equal parts comfort and desire.
“Sorry to interrupt the lovefest, but we’re on in five,” a man’s voice calls from the doorway. You turn around to see the other three Corroded Coffin members standing there, amusement evident in their expressions.
“You must be Ms. Sweetheart,” one of the guys, soft curls resting atop his head, pipes up. His tone is teasing, but not mocking; the nickname is said with admiration and affection. “I’m Gareth, by the way.” 
“Danny,” the one with tight, wiry curls offers, giving a small wave.
Jeff just shrugs. “You know me.”
Eddie grabs his guitar, slinging the strap across his body. His pants’ fly is tight, and he wills himself to calm down before it’s time to perform. He hasn’t worried about being hard on stage since he was nineteen, but thoughts of your bodies perfectly melding into each other has him subtly adjusting himself as he turns his back to his bandmates.
“See ya out there, baby,” he says before pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. The brief contact between you has you biting your tongue in self-beration for suggesting that the band play tonight. All you want is to dance with him, allowing the steady flow of alcohol to dull your inhibitions as you pull him impossibly close. Not caring who sees or what they think. 
But this night isn’t about you or Eddie. It’s about Will, your TA-turned-friend who has kept you sane amidst your adorably chaotic students and their decidedly less adorable and more chaotic parents. He wanted Corroded Coffin to play his party, and that’s the least you could do for him. 
Will’s already teetering between tipsy and inebriated, breath tinged with the scent of tequila as he introduces you to his friends.
“This is my amazing boyfriend, Marshall.” He smacks a wet kiss to the man’s cheek. “And these are my friends from growing up: Dustin and Suzie, Lucas and Max, and Mike and Jane.” His face melts into a sappy grin as he leans on Marshall to hold him up. “You guys! We’re all in looooove!”
“Jesus Christ,” Dustin mutters, rolling his eyes and shaking his head before turning his attention back to you. “Can we get you something to drink?”
Will raises his empty glass. “I’ll take another–”
“Not you.”
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You manage to sneak in a quick conversation with Max, Suzie, and Jane before Corroded Coffin starts their set. Max is finishing up her Masters in English literature at New York University, set to graduate in two months. Suzie programs for NASA, and though Florida is a far cry from her home state of Utah, she loves her job. And Jane is a social worker at a local adoption agency, the cause close to her heart, as she was adopted by Chief Hopper years ago.
“Damn,” you laugh, taking a small sip of your vodka soda. You’re having so much fun that you don’t even care that it’s been watered down. “You’re all such badasses!”
Your admiration of their collective girl power is cut short by the sound of Corroded Coffin taking the stage. It’s as though they’d never taken an extended break; just picked up right where they left off. You cheer so loudly that there’s a pinch in your throat, but you push past it. It’s more than applause. There’s so much tucked away in your yell: I’m proud of you; you’re a rockstar; you’re my person forever, if you’ll have me.
“Hello, Hawkins!” Eddie bellows into the mic. There’s no missing the grin on his face. He’s happy. He’s in his element. He’s where he belongs. 
“No way!” Lucas exclaims, awestruck as he turns to Will.
“Dude, you got Corroded Coffin?” Mike mirrors his friend’s excitement. He slings an arm around Will’s shoulder and pulls him in for a side hug. “This is fuckin’ awesome!”
“The first song of the night goes out to our guest of honor, Will Byers!” Everyone hoots and hollers as Eddie plays the opening chords to The Clash’s Should I Stay or Should I Go. Eddie told you he remembered that the song was one of Will’s favorites growing up; his older brother had gotten him into the band. Sure enough, Will’s bopping to the rhythm, singing every word, albeit quite off-key. 
Corroded Coffin plays a few more songs from their usual setlist, nerves dissipating with each note, before Eddie speaks into the mic again. 
“This next one is for my beautiful girlfriend,” he announces, eyes gazing into yours. “Baby, if my teachers looked like you, I actually would’ve gone to class.”
He nods at Gareth, who starts playing an incredibly complicated beat. As soon as you hear it, you feel your cheeks heat up. The rest of the guys join in on their own instruments, and Eddie oozes bravado as he sings. 
“T-Teacher stop that screamin’ Teacher don’t you see Don’t wanna be no uptown fool.”
Max leans in to you and whisper-shouts, “I’ve known Eddie for years, and I’ve never seen him so…happy.”
Lucas overhears his girlfriend and adds his two cents. “That’s because we’ve never seen him in love.”
Warmth spreads all over your body, but it’s not from embarrassment. Allowing yourself to believe that Eddie loves you—is in love with you—opens a door you’d deadbolted until the time was right.  You hadn’t wanted to rush things, but the jolt of exhilaration following Lucas’s statement means you can’t deny it any longer: you love Eddie Munson. You’re in love with Eddie Munson. 
“Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad I'm hot for teacher I've got it bad, so bad I'm hot for teacher.”
Will takes the opportunity to twirl you around, and you laugh as you spin amongst new friends, your drink threatening to spill over the sides as he turns you faster.
“Hey! Thank you, by the way!” he shouts, probably a bit louder than he needs to.
“For what?”
“For getting Corroded Coffin to play!” He jerks a thumb towards the stage, stumbling a bit as he does. He’d managed to sneak another tequila shot when his boyfriend left him unattended to use the restroom, and it definitely shows. “And for, like, being there for me.”
You give him a hug, immediately understanding the full implication of his statement. “I’ll always have your back,” you promise, filled with the mingled buzzes of alcohol and belonging.
“I think of all the education that I've missed But then my homework was never quite like this!”
Eddie jumps off of the tiny stage and into the crowd of nine twenty-somethings, each at various levels of tipsiness, and reaches for you to pull you close to him. He’s sweating from constantly moving around and the stage lights, his fingers slick with perspiration as he laces them with yours. Jeff picks up the rhythm for the lead guitar while Eddie kisses you, soft and slow and sensual. He loses himself for a moment before hopping back up to join the rest of the band.
As Corroded Coffin wraps up their Van Halen cover and stops for a quick sip of water, there’s a small commotion behind the bar.
“Is there a Jeff Reynolds here?” the bartender calls out, phone receiver in hand.
Jeff gives a little wave, eyebrows raised in surprise. “That’s me.”
“Someone named Jess on the line? Says your girl is in labor and you need to get to the hospital.”
“Holy shit!” Danny claps a hand to Jeff’s back and grins. “C’mon, man! Let’s get you outta here!” 
Jeff freezes up; hands clammy as he grips the guitar’s neck. “Can you drive?” he asks Eddie. 
Eddie recognizes the fear in his friend’s voice. The selfish part of him wants to refuse to take Jeff to Hawkins General. He could easily plant his feet on the stage and keep playing, claiming that ‘the show must go on.’
No, he silently chastises himself, Jeff needs me. He needs me and I’ll be damned if I let him down again. 
“Of course,” Eddie says, trying to force a relaxed disposition. It doesn’t matter; Jeff is too overwhelmed to notice the obvious effort. 
“Take my car,” you offer, keys already dangling from your fingertips. “Eds, I can take yours and pick up Harris from Wayne’s tomorrow.” It’s easier to swap rides than to uninstall and reinstall the carseat, so you’re perplexed when Eddie shakes his head. 
Two words slip through his lips, soft but pronounced: “Need you.” 
Dustin catches wind of the situation and insists on watching Harris until you and Eddie can come back home, claiming he needs to squeeze in as much uncle-nephew bonding time as possible before returning to Florida. 
“Henderson, it’s late; don’t let him stay up,” Eddie warns as he tosses over his car keys. 
Dustin tries catching them in one hand, but they hit the center of his palm and fall to the ground. “But the best part of being an uncle is breaking the rules!” he laughs as he scoops the keys off of the floor. “By the way, I’m not drunk; just a shit baseball player.” Still, Eddie’s sigh of relief is audible when Suzie plucks the keyring from Dustin’s hand. 
With Harris taken care of, you turn your attention to your boyfriend. Eddie’s face is flushed pale, and you’re worried about him behind the wheel. “Want me to drive?” 
He nods and grabs onto your hand as you lead the two men to your car. Eddie’s doing his best to keep Jeff calm, reminding him that the doctors and nurses have everything under control until he gets there. 
“I’m gonna be a dad,” Jeff murmurs, a disbelieving chuckle permeating the otherwise silent car. “Holy shit.”
Eddie can’t help but smile back. “It only gets crazier from here.”
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The bright lights of the hospital’s waiting room are anything but soothing, especially compared to the dimly-lit bar you’d just left. You speak to the receptionist, an older woman with a tired smile and red-rouged cheeks, explaining the situation as she pages Jess while Jeff and Eddie take a seat. 
Jeff’s voice is nearly impossible to hear despite the stillness of the room. “The baby was breech at Viv’s last appointment.” He clocks Eddie’s confusion and elaborates. “Feet first, instead of the head. If they didn’t get into the right position and the doctors can’t, I dunno, flip ‘em around? They’ll have to do a c-section.” Long overdue tears spill over his lash line, and he makes no attempt to swipe them away. “I just wanna fix it and I can’t.”
Helplessness. It’s a feeling Eddie knows all too well. He spins a ring around his finger, exhaling softly as he considers a response. He can’t say it’ll be alright, because he has no idea whether or not it will be. He and Jeff both know that. 
“No matter what, I’m here for you.” Eddie’s gaze flits over to the receptionist’s desk, where Jess has now arrived and is waving her brother-in-law over. “You’re up.”
But Jeff remains in his chair, hands shoved under his thighs as though they’re glued to the seat. “I…I don’t know if I can do this. What if something happens to Viv or the baby? How can I…?” He doesn’t allow himself to complete the sentence, to finish the thought.
Instinctively, Eddie puts his hands on Jeff’s shoulders. He can feel them trembling slightly as his friend heaves another shaky breath. “Listen to me. You’re gonna do this. You’re gonna go in that room and watch your girl give birth to your baby. Because if you don’t, you’re gonna regret it for the rest of your fuckin’ life.” He glances around and lowers his voice. “I know you’re scared, okay? I get it. And once your kid is safely here, we can talk about it. But right now, you need to pull it together and go be a goddamn dad.”
Jeff nods, finally acquiring the physical stability to stand. “Thank you,” he whispers, clearing his throat and wiping the wet stains from his cheeks. He starts towards Jess before turning back to Eddie. “Could you stay until the baby’s born? If you have to get home to Harris, I understand…”
There it is: his out. He can easily use his son as an excuse, despite the fact that Dustin and Suzie were perfectly capable of babysitting him. He can hightail it out of here and never look back. He can crawl into bed and feel sorry for himself for having to step foot in a godforsaken maternity ward again.
“Yeah. I can stay.”
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Nearly an hour passes with Eddie’s head resting on your shoulder, relaying what Jeff told him. Identical knots form in your stomachs as the seriousness of the complications sets in. You don’t say a word as he speaks; you just try to shift without disturbing him. The cushion on the chair back, worn thin, digs into you uncomfortably, but you don’t dare move too much. His vulnerability is a deer that will scamper away at the slightest startle.
You think he’s fallen asleep until you feel his soft lips on your cheek, a muffled, “mine?” against your skin. You note his phrasing; it’s careful and unsure, a symptom of being in his own head for far too long. 
“Of course I’m yours,” you whisper back, pressing a kiss to his scalp. “What’s got you asking such silly questions?”
“I don’t like this.” It’s an answer and non-answer all in one. 
“Being in a hospital?”
He shakes his head, frizzed curls tickling the crook of your neck. His forehead is sticky with cooled perspiration. “Waiting to see if the baby is okay.”
The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach, immediately hollowing you out. The last time he went through this, it was when Harris was being born. You can’t think of anything to say, so you just nuzzle in closer to him and exhale.
“Why do I feel like this?” Neither of you are sure if he’s asking you, himself, or the universe. “‘S not the same. Viv’s not using drugs; Jeff stuck around the whole time…”
“Doesn’t matter. That’s not how this stuff works, y’know?” You adjust your position so you can look into his eyes. The whites are stained red with worry and exhaustion. “Your gig got interrupted, just like when Harris was born. And there's uncertainty now, too. It’s normal for these kinds of memories to get dredged up.” Your palm rests on his cheek, thumb gently stroking the skin as you ask, “can you try to get some sleep?”
“But what if Jeff needs—”
“I’ll wake you up if he needs you,” you reassure him, settling back into the chair. You lean your head against the wall; the heaviness in your eyelids battles the anxious fluttering in your stomach, but it seems as though sleep is winning. 
Eddie’s hand finds your forearm, rubbing up and down the gooseflesh that has appeared courtesy of the air conditioning blasting through the building. Shrugging off his jacket and resting the leather fabric over your shoulders, he can relax once he’s reassured that you’re comfortable. He assumes his previous position, using your shoulder as a pillow and falling asleep gradually, body jostling itself awake from the unfamiliar sleeping arrangement. Eventually, you can hear his soft snores; for the first time tonight, he’s peaceful. 
You could tell him now, a whisper under your breath that he’s unlikely to hear. I love you, Eddie. I’m in love with you. Your lips part in anticipation, but you snap them shut. You’re delirious and overwhelmed; Lucas’s throwaway comment about Eddie being in love is rattling around your brain. If you say it and Eddie hears you…
You keep it to yourself for now, letting your body rest while still supporting Eddie’s head. Tomorrow is a new day, with a new life brought into the world. Love—if that’s even what this is—will have to wait until then. 
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The soft pink of breaking daylight streams through the windows when Jeff wakes Eddie up six hours later, shaking him by the shoulders. 
“What the fuck?” Eddie grumbles, wiping the sleep from his eyes. When he registers where he is and the potential urgency of the situation, he sits up straight, head filling with fuzziness from the sudden movement. He wouldn’t call the evening restful, but he’d managed to doze off for longer than he’d expected.
“It’s a girl!” Jeff announces, beaming from ear to ear. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, bursting with enthusiasm and emotion. 
As soon as Eddie’s vision clears, he’s on his feet and pulling his best friend in for a giant hug. When he steps back, he realizes that he and Jeff sport matching misty eyes. “Dude, you’re officially a dad now. You have a daughter!”
“I have a daughter,” Jeff repeats incredulously. His eyes cloud with tears, and he blinks them away as he peers over at the empty seat next to Eddie. “Did your lady go home?”
Eddie swivels around, so caught up in the moment that he hadn’t realized he was alone. She left. She left without me; she didn’t want to stick around and deal with–
“Did Viv have the baby?” Your excited voice penetrates through his intrusive thoughts as you stroll in from the hallway. The makeup around your eyes is smudged; you’d tried to wipe some of it off in the bathroom, but water and thin hospital paper towels are no substitute for makeup wipes. “Sorry, I had to pee.”
Eddie smiles at the sight of you, still wearing his jacket. He hopes his sigh of relief is concealed by Jeff’s exuberance. “A girl. Six pounds, ten ounces.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Wanna meet her?”
“Of course!” You and Eddie begin following him down the corridor. “Wait, is Viv feeling up to having visitors?” You’re mildly ashamed to admit that, in your eagerness, you’d forgotten about the baby being breech and the possible c-section.
Jeff nods. “I think my daughter’s gonna be a gymnast, ‘cause she’d flipped herself back around between the appointment and last night.” 
There’s no masking Jeff’s pride when he says my daughter, and it makes Eddie want to hug him again. “That’s amazing,” he murmurs. There’s a small pang in his heart, a bead of resentment that Harris’s birth didn’t go so smoothly, but it’s unimportant right now. His best friend just became a father, and he refuses to let his own hang-ups take away from this moment. 
“Hi,” you whisper when Jeff opens the door to room 1007. Viv is propped up against pillows, exhausted but happier than she’s ever been before. Your gaze is immediately drawn to the hours-old bundle in her arms. “How are you?”
“Sore,” she replies truthfully, brushing her forefinger against her baby’s closed fist, “but the epidural was a lifesaver.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” you tease, unaware that your words have Eddie’s heart skipping a beat at the idea of you bearing a little Munson. “Is it okay if I hold her?” You don’t want to intrude on the new mother’s bonding time, but your insides turn to mush when the baby opens her tiny lips and yawns. 
Viv carefully places the newborn in your arms, and you gingerly adjust to support her head. Eddie swears that you holding a baby, in that dress, wearing his jacket, is the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. “Did Jeff tell you her name?” Viv asks, stifling a yawn. When you and Eddie both shake your heads, she smiles and glances at her partner. 
He clears his throat, suddenly bashful. Eddie forces himself to tear his gaze from the way you smile and coo at the baby and look over at Jeff. “Her name is Nicolette,” he starts, “but that’s a big name for a little girl, so we figured we can call her Ettie, and she’ll kinda…share a nickname with you.”
Eddie’s eyes go wide, convinced he heard incorrectly. “You…I’m her namesake?”
“Mhm,” Jeff confirms, the grin never leaving his face. What neither you nor Eddie know is that they had had a different name picked out, and had fully intended on using it until the first time Jeff held their daughter. It filled him with a feeling of wholeness, of being complete, and it strangely had him thinking of his best friend. Without Eddie taking him under his wing, he might not even be here to experience this. 
It was only by chance that he had stumbled upon Hellfire Club during his freshman year. He was running from Billy Hargrove and his posse, who were determined to beat the hell out of him simply because they could, and had ducked into the drama room to protect himself. Eddie had taken one look at his face and immediately recognized the expression of fear and defeat from being incessantly bullied. “You know how to play Dungeons & Dragons?” he’d asked, and when Jeff had managed a nod, he’d pulled up a chair and motioned for him to sit down.
Being Eddie’s friend, being part of something, gave him a reason to keep going. To live. And in that instant, he vowed to teach his child to extend kindness toward any misfits who need a place to be themselves.
“What about Nicolette?” he’d asked Viv. “Ettie for short.”
You turn to Eddie now, continuing the steady rocking rhythm that keeps Baby Ettie calm. “What do you say, Mr. Namesake? Wanna hold her?”
There’s a brief flash of panic that floods through his veins; he hasn’t held a newborn since Harris. He’d always worried about dropping him or tripping and falling. Truth be told, he was terrified until his son could hold his own head up.
It’s similar, but not the same, he reminds himself, shuffling even closer to you so you can safely transition Ettie into his arms. She stirs slightly in her swaddle but doesn’t cry.
“Hey, little lady,” he says, a delicate smile dancing on his lips. “I’m your Uncle Eddie. The coolest uncle you’ll ever have, for the record.”
“Harris is gonna love her,” you add, heart swelling at the imagery of him cuddling up to his newest cousin.
“Babe?” Viv pipes up from the bed. “Can you grab me something to eat? ‘M starving.” 
“Yeah, of course.” Jeff turns to Eddie. “Come with me? I think Viv needs to feed Ettie, anyway.”
Viv extends her arms and Eddie begrudgingly hands the baby to her. Ettie’s so adorable and small, and it makes him yearn for the days when Harris was that little. Maybe not the sleepless nights or the lack of head control, but the scent of baby powder, the toothless smiles, the way he would fall asleep in Eddie’s arms to whatever song happened to be on the radio. Harris Munson might have been the only infant to be soothed by Twisted Sister. 
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The two men make their way to the hospital cafeteria, sneakers squeaking along the freshly-waxed linoleum tiles.
“I, um, I’m really proud of the way you stepped up for Viv,” Eddie says, eyes trained on the floor. “You’re a great partner. I feel like I should be taking notes.”
Jeff laughs, shaking his head. “That's where my expertise ends. I have no idea how this whole fatherhood thing works.” 
“Wanna hear a secret?” Eddie leans in, shifting his weight onto one foot. He doesn’t wait for his friend’s response to divulge, “none of us do. We’re just…” he waves his hand aimlessly, “…figuring it out as we go.” And making plenty of mistakes along the way, he silently adds.
“I don’t know how you did this alone,” Jeff puffs out an incredulous breath. “I mean, I know you had Wayne’s help…” he trails off, not needing to further elaborate on the missing parent. 
“Yeah, me either, man. I’m just glad I’m not alone anymore.” 
Jeff stops walking, turning to face him. There’s the unmistakable look of pride that manages to make itself prominent despite his evident exhaustion as he says, “You really want this with her, don’t you?”
“Yeah, man,” Eddie chuckles. “It’s like, for the first time, I’m not just thinking about just me or just Harris. I’m thinking about us as a family.” The dinnertime conversations, the gentle ribbings, the tenderness that seamlessly weaves itself into vulnerable conversations. 
“She’s good for you,” Jeff agrees. “And you love her.”
“I mean, I—”
“That was a statement, not a question. You love her.”
And in a single breath, Eddie lets go of the fear he’s been clutching to like a life preserver. The one thing he hasn’t allowed himself to say aloud because it makes it so real, so fucking real.
“I love her.”
--
@kelsiegrin @lma1986 @munsonology @stuckontheceiling @avobabe87 @eddapwinchester @peachysink @browneyes8288 @jeremyspoke-inclasstoday
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satoruyes · 1 month
Text
co-parent bakugou
katsuki bakugou x reader (part two)
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   fwb! bakugou who often came by your dorm during college to drop off school work when you missed lectures and loads when you missed him.
fwb! bakugou who came by before bed to fuck you into your pillow and listen to your hushed moans, hushed so your roommates wouldn’t hear. (they did)
fwb! bakugou who’s scared of committing because he “couldn’t see you in his future” and was too focused on his.
fwb! bakugou who’s late night visits became more and more scarce.
fwb! bakugou who months later soft launches his new partner on his story after telling you he’s not ready for a relationship.
fwb! bakugou who stops breathing at the sight of your name popping up on his phone as he cuddles his partner while watching movies, and nearly has a stroke at the “Im pregnant.” text. 
_____
“well are ya sure it’s mine?” he asks, not daring to look away from you. you break eye contact and look outside the coffee shops’ window to focus on anything other than this conversation you’ve been dreading. “are you serious? you should know i’m not exactly one to sleep around,” you say to the man. he nods and his grip on his mug gets tighter, knuckles visibly whiter. “well, are ya keepin’ it,” he asks, “i don’t think  that’d be a bright idea for either of us.” you kind of glare but think over his words. “you know how my parents feel about abortion kats.. i’d be disowned. the second the press found out about it, my family would be done for,” your eyes start to water and a tear threatens to fall, you pause “.. i thought you said you don’t do relationships?”
katsuki stares at you and shakes his head, “those fuckin’ hormones already getting to your brain or somethin?“ he sighs, “you know i can’t do this *nickname*. i’m in a committed relationship with raya, we’re getting engaged next month. on top of that, i can’t be number one with a baby leechin’ of me.” your heart drops, “you’re.. getting engaged? i.. um.. well, congratulations. i’m sorry to burden you with all of this… and i can’t abort it anyway.. i.. i’m too far along.. and i cant do this.” you finish & get up from the table and leave.
________
baby daddy! bakugou who ends up losing contact with you for months after you block him on everything a refuse to meet up per your family’s request.
baby daddy! bakugou who nearly forgets about you years later til kirishima brings you up and shows him your instagram.
baby daddy! bakugou who gets home and stalks you from a burner account, finds out you still talk to everyone from college but him.
baby daddy! bakugou who sees a pretty little ruby-eyed girl down your timeline, her resemblance to him uncanny.
baby daddy! bakugou who pulls some strings and texts your number asking to meet his daughter, hana. 
___________
hana is 2 years old by now, forming choppy sentences and now waddling on her feet. after a week of texting, you finally fold and let him come over to meet his daughter. when you open the door to let him in he nearly finds himself choking on his spit at how beautiful you are. you looked even better than your posts, if that’s possible. you greeted him with a nod and invited him in. he takes his shoes off and head to the living room you led him to. you exchange stale pleasantries and small talk til you decide to go get your baby girl. “her name is ‘hana lei bakugou,’ as much as i wanted her to have my last name.”
you walk over to him and hand her to him, noticing the wedding band resting around his ring finger. you scoff, “wow so you two actually got married?” he nods and analyzes his daughters’ features. “shes so pretty, just like ‘er momma,” he half smiles and look up at you. “so i’ll have her back later tonight, gonna take ‘er home to meet the wife and all of that.” he goes to get off the couch. “woah, you don’t get to do that. you don’t get to come back back after all this time like nothing happened.” he looks frustrated for a second, “you can’t just- … yea yer right, ‘m sorry.’’
you nod, “how about we go up to her room and play?” he agrees and follows you into his daughter’s bedroom while carrying her.
“So.. how long have you two been in the area?” he asks, scanning his daughter's room. “I never really left, just moved closer to the city i guess,” you reply; putting hana down to the floor. She waddles over to katsuki. “hana, baby this is your father,” you look down at the little girl. At first she looks up at you with her glowing beady eyes then she looks over to Katsuki sitting over on a couch. “papa?” she asks and she points her dainty finger at him. you nod and smile. “yes baby, that's your papa.” 
katsuki looks at the little girl and she reaches up for him. “up.” she says, and he obliges. you two talk and rekindle for what seemed to be days. In reality it was just about 4 hours. “*name* it was really nice to see you again, let's go out for dinner sometime. with hana of course.” you lead him downstairs while he says his goodbyes to hana. 
-- 
“I told ya about this years ago raya, you can't be mad about this. What did you expect? for them to disappear?” bakugou yells at his wife. “well i didnt fucking expect you to go out of your way to to reach out either!” she pouts, anger and jealousy laced in her tone. “I have to own up to this responsibility now whether you like it or not, stop fuckin’ cursin’ at me. ‘m already stressed as is; ‘ion need yer bitchin’.” 
“oh so now i'm bitching because you went out and got some slut pregnant.. you're just full of it katsuki.” raya says, glaring at him now. “ya cant get mad at me because I wanna be a father, ‘nd not just leave some kid stranded out here.” 
“it's not just about the kid is it? do you miss the bitch or something? do you miss the sex? did she give you better head than I do?” raya accuses, bakugou sighs and goes to leave the room, “‘nd yea- she did give better head.” as he walks to their shared room he can hear her still yelling in the distance.
katsuki bakugou goes to sleep confused tonight. He wonders why was he such a prick. he wonders why did his heart pound so fast- why were his hands so sweaty when he saw you.
he couldn't do this. he has a wife. hes happily married, regardless of any arguments. his wife was the mayors daughter and promised him various things, she promised him glory. of course he didn't need her but it's definitely more helpful to have more "support." plus you hated him, only putting up with him for the sake of his daughter. no, it wasn't attraction- it was just nervousness. he loved his wife.
katsuki woke up to his wife, raya in his arms. she looked so pretty and peaceful like this. he snapped out of his daze and got out of bed to catch a shower. he couldn't help but find his hand reaching down to take care of himself. usually when he finds himself touching himself; its of thoughts of his wife from the night prior. but today it was you. he felt shameful but he just couldnt help it. he couldn't stop himself from thinking about you. hes only human.    
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callofdudes · 7 months
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Best idea
Y/n had to go MIA/KIA to keep the 141 safe, once Simon founds out angry cause he mourned for his best friend only to find out their alive and in hiding, demanded platonic cuddles as their “punishment”
Ok, I'm gonna get the brain juices running for this one. Another one based off a story my bestie @itsscromp and I did. But I changed it up. Hope you enjoy, it's longer than I anticipated it being.
Also, I should have fully expected the repercussions of letting you guys vote Egg as a callsign... but I'ma still use it.
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Where did you go??
Summary: They thought you were gone, dead. Turns out you were under their noses and a call away the whole time.
Cw: Angst. Nothing much else.
Your mission had gone... Well for lack of a better word it went to shit. Whole thing blew up. An ambush, a bomb, it would be a long road to explain what all in all happened but it did, and now you were paying for it. It had gotten so bad they couldn't pull you from the junction you were stuck in.
You were supposed to be infiltrating an old base which had become home to a drug ring. But no one happened to mention the mines you'd step on and fuck up your leg with. Or the live wire that alerted the whole base after said mine went off.
So now this entire base was up in arms, you have a broken leg and probably other damage. You were lucky your leg hadn't been blown off.
And to be quite frank, these men were extremely dangerous which meant your fuck up was astronomical. The second they found you you were probably going to die.
So you commed into Price, telling him your situation.
"Alright Egg, I'm going to go in on foot and bring you back to the helicopter just hang tight soldier."
"Yes sir." You lay down, catching your breath and willing yourself not to look at your leg because if it felt bad it probably looked bad too.
Not twenty minutes later Price was approaching your form, bending down to check on you. "You broken??"
"Yeah I'm pretty sure... I don't want to look though."
Price nodded, tucking his gun away and grabbed your arms. "Alright, up we go," he hauled you up into his arms, hefting you over his shoulder and going back the way he came. Just... A little quicker this time since things were looking good for the oppositions infantry.
Price brought you back to the helicopter where you were bandaged up. The mission could have been better planned so they didn't end up sending another team out.
Price had the team drop you off near some loading stations far off the location of the base.
"What... Are we doing here??"
Price got out of the helicopter and checked your leg before pulling you out with him. "I can't bring you back to base. It's a security risk if I do..."
You frowned. "What do you mean?? Where am I going then??"
"There's a secure underground safehouse that will keep you hidden. It's got the provisions you need and the people you need. They'll keep quiet and keep you safe. For now, for however long, I need you to lay low."
You opened your mouth to protest but then shut it again. "I understand. Will I get to see the others..?"
"No, you are not to contact them in any way at all. Until I contact you, you are to remain on the downlow."
Your head falls slightly, but you nod. "Alright, I can do that."
Price nodded and patted your shoulder. He picked you up and helped you into the truck waiting for you. "They'll take care of you. I'll contact you as soon as it's safe. If I do not contact you do not contact us. Got it?"
You nod once again, taking the instructions to heart. You wouldn't be able to contact Ghost, Soap or Gaz. You wouldn't be able to contact anyone. But you knew this was for the best.
So with a last goodbye Price closed the door to the truck and the soldier in the driver's seat drove down the empty road out of the landing space.
"How long will we be gone??"
"Until we get the word from Captain Price. Don't worry. It'll be kept under wraps..."
...
Price returned to the base, taking a deep breath and having had time to figure everything out. He immediately called the others into a meeting.
Considering you and Price weren't supposed to be back for the rest of the day, or even two days or more the meeting was seen as urgent.
Ghost was there first, the sergeants following his trail as they came into the office. "Price... What are you doing back?" Ghost asked sternly, hands clasped tightly as if ready for action at a moments notice.
"Relax... There won't be any fighting. I need you all to sit."
Soap threw Gaz a concerned look as they sat. "Where is y/n, are they still out there??"
Price straightened his posture. He didn't exactly want to lie to his own men, but he'd done worse and he knew this was completely for the best.
"The mission didn't go well as soon as we went in."
Ghost frowned. "Didn't go well?? These drug traders could be connected to Shepherd's on power, how did it wrong??"
"Ghost, relax." Price replied firmly. "I realize that we didn't think this over as well as we should have... Their base was much more protected than we originally thought so Egg went in blind."
"So what happened? Did you pull them??" Ghost was growing more agitated the longer they sat there.
"They commed in about an exploded mine and... We couldn't find them."
The room grew quiet. Soap and Gaz shared concerned looks as Gaz spoke up. "Did you do a full search? We're they hidden in the dirt or something and you missed??"
Price shook his head. "Too risky to go on foot and search. We didn't know how many more mines were out there." Only a small white lie, but a lie nonetheless.
Ghost squared in his chair. "Then we need to go find them. What are we sitting here for just waiting-!"
"Ghost, if they are safe they'll comm in. For now I can't risk sending men in there with the base on high alert and their supposed boss on speed dial. So for now we sit down and we wait to see if Egg comes back with anything."
Ghost was boiling up underneath. Feelings of rage that Price couldn't have waiting a little longer. Worry because they left you out there probably still alive... And fear. Because what if you weren't alive.
"I won't make any calls on it now, but this is where we are at so remain patient. I'm doing what I can to sort this out." Price had to rewire this plan to keep all of his men safe. All of his soldiers, including you.
"Dismissed."
The air was tense when everyone left. The idea you were out there alone, still alive and possibly if not injured and with no help. It scared them all.
Gaz was the first to try and get in contact with you. But any of his efforts were proving ineffective.
Soap just had to wait it out. To hope they could find you or you could find them in time.
Ghost... Ghost didn't know what to think. He knew you were capable. He knew if you were alive then you'd comm in. Once you were safe he knew you would make contact. You could protect yourself... He had to believe you would be ok.
That mentality lasted right up until a week later when Price called everyone back in to pronounce you MIA. Stamped on a card to your file and just like that, they truly had zero traces of you.
They were devastated. A week and no turn of anything from you. This is when Simon started to call your phone. Leaving you text messages.
He couldn't sleep because all his thoughts and dreams were of you. Hoping you were ok and alive. That hope was dying, waking up in cold sweats on nights he could close his eyes for even a moment.
Clutching his beating heart while his body rattled with panic, phone pressed to his ear only to hear your voice over the same simple voice mail as ever.
He couldn't be without you. You were a crucial part of his life. Of his mission. He couldn't just abandon that connection. You had to be alive.
Price cut communication with the safe house you were being taken care of. Unless it was an emergency Price knew not of your condition, only that you were safe. He too was worried, bouncing around through meetings and talking with Laswell and this and that and the other thing.
Trying to figure out what to do now that they needed a new plan and how long they could wait to re-infiltrate.
Simon had started leaving you voicemails, not knowing if he'd ever hear your voice again.
"Hey, this is Y/n, I'm currently busy but please try to leave a message so I can get back to you!"
Simon laid awake, staring up at the ceiling as he held the phone to his ear.
"Y/n.... If you can hear me you gotta respond. Please, I don't know if you'll ever hear these again but if you're somewhere out there I know you're alive. Anything, please, I..." He closed his eyes, thinking back to the last time he saw you. Taking off in that helicopter, a pat on the shoulder and a good luck...
"I miss you. And I'm not giving up on you. I'm not." He wouldn't cry... He wouldn't cry. He would not cry.
"I'm going to come find you. I know somewhere you're still alive. Even if their torturing you I promise I won't leave you out there to die you hear me."
Tears rolled down his cheeks and he covered his eyes, curling up on his bed. "I know you hear me...." He choked out. "I know you can hear me...." He stares at the phone. "Please Y/n.... Please, anything..."
He stared at the phone, waiting like you would magically pick up and reassure him even for a second that you were ok and alive and even if you weren't thriving you were still breathing.
But no...
The voicemail lasted for over an hour. Simon laid there, staring at him phone, unable to bring himself to hang up again.
His thumb hovered over the phone. He wanted to say one last thing... He opened his mouth, but he hesitated. His eyes downcast and one last tear rolled down his cheek as he ended the call once again. Only to face another restless night of no sleep.
By the eighth month mark you were pronounced KIA.
Simon had pretty much known by that point. He'd lost his best friend but he had been in denial until Price told them. They couldn't find a trace of you. No body, no tags, no clothes, no weapon. You had simply... Vanished.
Simon continues to mourn all while you were still being held up in that underground safehouse. Sitting on the small rickety bed, watching the higher ranked soldiers also staying watch at the safehouse talk in the other room.
It was beyond difficult. No contact with outside, you ate, slept, the others tended to your leg and occasionally sparred with you to help you back on your feet.
You missed your team. Your friends. Your family.
You listened to every single voicemail Simon sent. You couldn't reply. Couldn't text him back or even pick up the phone for a second to let him know you were ok.
You remained radio silent.
Even as you'd lay awake at night with your phone replaying the voicemail, listening to the recorded lapse of Simon's breathing while he stared at the phone with an empty, sorrowful expression from the other side.
You missed him so much. You wanted to see them again. But you couldn't. Not yet. Would you ever get to see them again?? They couldn't leave you down here forever.
There was a brief knock on your door as one of the sergeants nodded to you. "Food is ready, new supply just came in."
You nod, pausing the voicemail. "Thanks... I'll be out in a minute."
You sighed, turning off your phone and tucking it away, praying that you'd see them soon.
...
Simon had lost you. Didn't even get a chance to protect you. It had gotten to the point where his lack of sleep would lead to seeing figures of you disappear down hallways. In a spark of hope and joy he'd rush to find you only to find nothing...
On the off days he'd run into a recruit or a sergeant wandering the halls. As soon as they would turn around though... The illusion would shatter.
His own mind was killing him from the inside. Sending you hundred and hundreds of text messages. Every morning and night, rants about his day and what he was feeling. If he was going to pour everything out like you'd ever see it he did it now.
Knowing you'd never pick that phone up again, knowing you'd never look him in the eyes again. Knowing he'd never hear your voice or feel your touch or know your comfort ever again.
This drove him further and further into the spiral. Price had never seen Simon beat up the punching bag so much he bled all over it. He'd never seen Simon get snappy and angry I'm split decisions like he did.
He'd never seen Simon grow so desperate and over protective of Johnny and Kyle. Because Simon's new fear was he'd lose them just like he lost you...
This went on for the next three months after that. Nearly a year since you'd died and they were back out on that minefield. A proper plan, a new way in, a new goal.
Simon was desperate to tear that base apart and even find a trace of your body. Even just a piece of your clothing or your signature engraved gun hanging in their armory somewhere.
But in the end he was left with no more questions answered than when he first entered that meeting room eleven months ago.
Simon had followed the trail to the last thread. The main office of that base. Pulling open every drawer and every cabinet.
"Lt stop you're making a mess-!"
"There's got to be a file or something here! There fucking has to be!"
"Ghost stop we found the information we needed. We have the shipments contained the base is clear what could you be looking for??" Gaz asked, trying to understand what had gotten Ghost in such a frenzy.
"A kill list or an interrogation chart. Anything."
"For what Simon!?"
"For Y/n!!" Simon snapped at them both. Breathing heavy as he finishes emptying every drawer in that office.
Price stood silently in the doorway. Enough time had passed. He wouldn't put them through this anymore.
"Come on lads... I think it's time I show you something."
Their attention turned on to him. Simon was almost vibrating with rage and anxiety. He just wanted any knowledge of what happened. He knew you were dead but his soul was restless without knowing. He needed to know...
They left, Price piled them in the helicopter and the ride back was silent. Simon stared at his hands the whole time. Soap fidgeted, knee bouncing and chewing his lip anxiously.
Gaz picked at the loose strap of his gun, also attempting to distract himself from the elephant in the room.
When the helicopter landed they weren't on base. They landed on the small helipad you had been brought to some some before. Price got out, motioning the other three to follow.
"Where are we Price??" Soap looked around, not recognizing the place.
"You'll know soon enough." Price brought them to a truck, talking with the officer in charge of the station before climbing in the driver's seat.
The sergeants got comfy in the back and Simon slipped into the passenger seat. His eyes remained fixed on the passenger window, watching the open land pass by and the fields of undisturbed flowers and wildlife.
What if he had found you here? May you would have liked that better. Surrounded by the flowers and the soft blowing breeze instead of wherever your body lay, ashes or not.
He turned away, fixing his eyes to the dashboard to try and distract himself.
The ride was quiet once again. Lasting about an hour and a half before Price stopped, parking the vehicle outside a small outpost of sorts. It wasn't build very high off the ground and was concealed by trees and wildlife.
"A safehouse. Why cannae we jus' go home??" Soap asked as he jumped out of the vehicle with the others.
"I'd prefer we made a stop here." Price said, leading them to the entrance where surpisingly a soldier was there to bring them in.
"Occupied? Now there's something new." Gaz whispered to Soap.
Simon didn't understand why they were even making this stupid trip. He wanted to go back to base. He wanted to hide once again like he always did.
"Captain Price, welcome back." The soldier shook Price's hand and walked them further inside.
"Sergeant! Their here for you!" The soldier called out, walking to one of the small rooms where you were. Where you spent most of your time.
You looked up. Who was here for you?? Your eyes widened. Them, your team! It had to be them they were back!
You pushed off your bed, leaning into your good leg and moved faster than you had in almost a year. Turning the corner and there they were. Price, Simon, Johnny, Kyle. All of them.
But.... This wasn't the hopeful reunion you'd pictured in your head over and over again. No one moved. The thought of Simon rushing the hug you didn't come true as he didn't move.
Price walked over, embracing you. "Good to see you again sergeant." You hugged him tightly, so good to be held by him, embraced by Price again. You'd missed him so much.
Johnny was the second one to snap out of it, running over and wrapping his arms around you tightly. "What the hell is wrong with you doing this! You had us all sick and worried and heartbroken!!"
"It wasn't my plan... I'm sorry." You hugged Johnny back. "I'm so sorry Soap, I'm so sorry." Johnny couldn't stop his tears, not wanting to let go in fear you'd slip away again.
Gaz followed, hugging you tighter than you'd ever felt him do before. You'd never seen Gaz openly cry but he was balling, sobbing as he hugged you tightly.
"We thought you were dead, captain told us you were dead!"
"I had to do it to protect them... To protect all of us." Price knew this would probably take a bit for them all to come to terms and forgive him for, but it had to be done.
When the others were done cooing and coddling over you, there was just Simon left.
He felt alone. He felt cold and separated. He felt like he wasn't a part of the same bubble as the others... He watched them embrace and kiss and love on you... You. It was you.
You turned to him, but Simon didn't move. He didn't know if he could. He felt so consumed by his darkness and his grief it didn't allow him to step into the light.
He'd consumed himself so much if he touched you he felt he might burn. That you fall like sand from his fingertips and the illusion would shatter...
"Simon...." You whisper, stepping toward him, causing Simon to step back.
You could see the fear in his eyes. The lack of trust, the amount of hurt, the pain he must have went through to have one of his lifelines ripped away and then thrust back into his life suddenly like it was fine.
"I'm... I'm sorry Simon I didn't mean to hurt you. I listened to every voicemail you sent. I knew every text that went through. But I...."
"You could have told me you were fine! You could have told me you were ok!! Bullshit that you couldn't!! Bullshit!!" Simon thundered.
You remained silent. Simon glared at Price. This was his fault. You'd been taken away without warning. He could have kept it a secret he could have carried that knowledge and not been out through a years worth of fire from hell!
Simon threw his gun to the ground, not even carrying as he left again.
"Lieutenant! Simon!" Price called after him as Simon left the safehouse.
You placed your hand on Price's chest. "Don't... It's ok. Let me help him."
Price looked down. But he nodded.
You left the safehouse, finding Simon around the corner huddled up, shaky hands trying to light a cigarette to get his nerves to calm down and his mind to clear up.
"You hid from me." He cursed, acting like he was seconds from spitting your name into the dirt and squashing it. But you knew. You knew inside he was hurting more than anyone else on the team.
You knelt beside him, gently taking the lighter from his hands. "I never meant to hurt you. If I didn't have strict orders from Price I would have contact you right away."
"Why couldn't he have at least told us you were ok. That you were alive."
"I... I don't know Simon, you'll have to ask Price about that one. But I promise I never meant to hurt you. I listened to every voicemail, I didn't give up. I can see the pain it caused you."
You moved closer, slipping into his arms and hugging him tightly. The second you wrapped your arms around him. He felt your weight, your warmth, your heart pounding in your chest against his own.
Simon finally looked at you, tears spilling down his cheeks. He was shattered. So hurt from losing you.
"You fuckin' abandoned me!!"
"I didn't abandon you Simon. You know I would have picked up and came running back even if my leg was missing."
He knew it was true. But he was so... So angry and torn and upset. He wanted to scream and fight and he felt so small and helpless.
The real you.
Not some illusion passing corners or drifting through his peripherals. The you he could touch and hold and protect.
His arms wrapped around you tightly, never letting go of you even once. He didn't stop those tears as he pulled you impossibly closer.
"I'm here Simon. I'm not leaving again ok? I'm right here."
He remained silent, crying as he held onto you. Hiding his face in the crook of your neck. It felt like hours passed. It felt like time slowed. What felt like two hours was twenty minutes when he finally pulled away enough to look at your face.
To see the light in your glimmering eyes, to see every feature of your face that made you, you.
His sergeant. His teammate. His family.
You smiled softly, gently pulling up his mask off his head to cup his cheeks, rubbing your thumb gently over the dimple in his cheek you've seen when he shows you his smile.
"Smudged your paint a little bit," You whisper. "Let's get that fixed." You gently brush your finger over his face, feeling him start to relax at that familiar and missed touch as you fix the paint around his eyes.
"There we go. How can I help Simon. What will help make this better?"
Simon tried to flick away the rest of his tears, huffing softly. "Cuddles. And you are not allowed to say no after what you put me through. This is your punishment for making me go through that shit!"
You chuckle. "Oh, cuddles with Simon, scary. I'll pay the fine, I'll do all the punishment time of cuddles you request. Sound good?"
Simon nods his head.
"Ok, well how about we go inside now? I could use some cuddles too."
You were about to get up when Simon hugged you again. "I'm glad you're ok..."
You smiled softly, kissing the top of his head. "I am too Simon." You help his mask back on and the two of you head inside.
Simon would let out his feelings to Price sometime later when his head felt less foggy. For now, he was content to crash on the rickety old safehouse bed and koala cling to you till kingdom come.
Nuzzling up and holding you tightly, not letting you go for even a itty bitty millisecond.
And you were fine with that. You were glad you could be back with your family. Simon was glad to welcome you back. You'd be serving a lot of cuddle prison time. A strenuous task, but one all too rewarding.
Running your hand down the back of his head, scratching his back to help him relax and set himself at ease.
All he needed was to koala crush your soul into his soul, and then he'd be ok. Slowly, his eyes started to close after the exhaustion of the mission, but he fought to keep them open.
"I'll be right here when you wake up. I promise, I won't be going anywhere." You whisper to him.
"You promise?"
"I double swear it. I won't leave. I'll be right here."
He snuggled you impossibly closer and let his eyes close. He let his mind rest. His heart soak in you and heal. Slowly you could help mend what has fallen apart.
And cuddles were never a bad place to start...
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privitivium · 1 month
Note
M reader wanting to explore a haunted house not knowing that Yan!ghost lived there and while exploring M reader just felt something brush on their dick and just ignored it and thought that it was just the wind, after exploring M reader thought that it would be a good idea to sleep in one of the rooms and while he was sleeping, there was a wet feeling on his dick and ofcourse he just woke up so he's still a lil confused and looked down to see kind of a dark shade riding his dick
Also can i be 💌 anon? Also i'm friends with ⚰️ anon hehe
yes of course you can be 💌 anon,,,, coffin and heart sticker letter go great together :333 sorry it took so long, im trying to do my asks in order,,,, reader comes along to find an abandoned house and explores in short... sry 4any mistakes...
ghost yan x m reader.... cw; somno, dubcon
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exploring the forest and coming to find a small little house. two stories - three, if you count the attic.. mostly intact windows as you leisurely walk around the house, sifting through the brush; trying to scope it out, admiring it before you even try to enter.. untamed weeds and grass surrounding the front. reminding you of those urbex videos you find yourself watching just before you go to sleep... and now, to live out that dream yourself of finding an abandoned property... so scary..!! but so brag worthy..
you didn't wanna disturb anyone if they were squatting, but.. so far out here? in the forest? you take your chances, grinning to yourself as you eagerly push in through the front door - unlocked, and unjammed to your merriment!! it reminds you of the house on ahs, first season.. but not as big. the interior is definitely alike... eagerly, butterflies of excitement swarming your tummy as you you pull your phone out and record your exploration for your own enjoyment... purely in your own world and missing the shadows disappearing just out of the corner of your peripheral. too focused on recording to show your friends. going around the front, showcasing the windows nicely... you figure you should add some commentary... but it is for your enjoyment, and you dont feel like talking. why ruin this beautiful showcase of this lovely home that you would totally make your own hangout place? how cool would that beㅡ?
yelping softly as you felt something brush against your groin as you pass the presumed living room areaㅡit startles you where you almost drop your cameraㅡyour own hand cupping your crotch as to protect yourself, looking around your surroundings warily... you weren't even close to anything. and damn, that felt like a fucking hand.. shrugging it off, fussing and trying to shake your jitters out by laughing softly under your breath at how paranoid you are - making fun of yourself..
slowly edging up the stairs, noting that they were too damn creaky.. no way in fucking hell were you looking for a basement - maybe you'd come back with friends and explore that.. giddy at the thought of bringing companions as you hold out your camera; getting a nice shot of the winding hallway, before entering one of the closest rooms. completely empty. window intact.. still surprising. has no one actually explored this place? completely uncharted land!?! quickly moving closer to get a shot out of the window. you hum to yourself in satisfaction, interrupting yourself with a shiver as a cold wind brushes over you - it seems something is definitely hear, huh.. steps, following yours. so faint you nearly miss it as you exit the room... nonchalantly going into the next. a bedframe and boxspring that didnt quite fit the bedframe.. and to sleep in a haunted house... now wouldn't that be brag worthy? 
yeah, fuck it. who else can say they slept in a haunted house? yeah.. fatigue washing over you a little too coincidentally, huh.
huffing in displeasure all cool-like even when you were positively terrified.. it was only around three p.m... no where to be on a saturday afternoon.. you look over the box spring, all old and ripped up.. you've slept on worse. checking for bugs... and checking how the handle on the door locks, making sure it will still open even if you close it completely; locking it, just incase someone like yourself comes in to explore.. ( doubtful. ) you set an alarm, setting your phone by your ear and laying down on your side.. using your arm as a pillow as you lay down, curled up and cozy in your jacket, trying to ignore the cold chill that washes over you - huddling deeper in your thick clothes... snoozing away in the decrepit room, thoughts lurking in the back of your mind that man... someone's gonna find you in here and scare you awake... you definitely had a hard time falling asleep. before you knew it, you ere out like a light with no signs of feeling drowsy..
eyes blinking open, laid out on your back.. a shiver wracking your body. even your dick is freezing, you thought... and feeling itchy as though it were wet. sleepily feeling around to cup your groin in your warm hands to scratch that itch with your digits - meeting solid surface-! fatigued eyes snapping open in shock, eyes lasering in on a pure shadowy figure plotting on your cock, bouncing away as though they were merely using you as a toyㅡable to make out their thighs, zeroing in on the way their hole was fluttering around your prick so heavenlyㅡchoking up, almost tearful, as you squirm underneath throwing your head back and pushing your hips upwards -  man, you just thought you were having a wet dream... trying to will your body to sit up - to get whatever the fuck was riding your cock like a crazed freak off of you, even though... it was s-so warm.. for a ghost...
my god was it tight, squeezing down on your dick like it was trying to suck you in - was it fucking ribbed? this shadow figure sure knew what they liked, a garbled mess of moans and breathless chopped whines escaping what you can only presume their lips.. damn, even getting it on with ghosts? now that is brag worthy.. hissing in a breath through your teeth;  your lower intenstines beginning to coil as the chubby shadow figure delibrately tenses around your cock, moist and slick and snug.. they mustve been going at it for awhile even with you sleeping, huah... bucking your hips upwards with a soft huff, hole fluttering around nothing - so close to bustingㅡare you bleeding...? grunting softly under your breath as you weakly lift your fingertips to your face, scratching at the itch along your upper lip and disturbed to find a wet substance.. pulling your digits back and spotting bright crimson. head dropping back against the box spring, hissing softly, but no complaint as you trail your tingly palms along the shadow figure's thighs, squeezing - groping. thick... they seemed to like that as their own hands trail over your abdomen, inching closer and closer... leaning over as they grind their ass onto your crotch, cock burying deep into their innardsㅡ
your alarm rings outㅡspluttering as you shoot upwards, startled awake. immediately checking the time, eyes squinting at the brightness.. it's been three hours.. my god. glancing downward as your dick felt particularly cold as the wind brushes over you from the broken window, cock soft and hanging out of your pantsㅡyelping softly as you fondle yourself back into your jeans. way overtly sensitive for whatever reason. you expected to wake up hard, not soft.. i mean, damn. that dream had you gasping for air, no?... now if only you were recording yourself sleeping..
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bucksangel · 2 months
Text
don't worry, darling
pairing: avenger!bucky x civilian!reader
word count: 3.3k
summary: even though bucky is mostly healed, that doesn’t mean his nightmares go away. and a particular grueling mission brings back memories he’d rather forget. 
warnings: angsttttt, hella fluff at the end though, hurt/comfort, talk of bucky’s trauma and abuse, brief mentions of murder of a hydra agent (he deserves it), nightmares, reader is here to love and comfort bucky, also civil war and everything after didn’t happen and they all live at the tower and everything is fine bc i said so
a/n: even though this does not contain smut, my blog is 18+ so minors dni. also i wanted to write something short and sweet to get my creative juices flowing and yet, as always, i managed to go overboard
tip jar | masterlist
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It started with a whimper, a small one. Barely detectable if you weren’t already awake and snuggled against Bucky’s body. He’s lying on his side facing you with you mirroring his position, arms wrapped around each other and your head tucked into his chest. You’ve been having a hard time sleeping for the last week and a half due to Bucky being gone on a mission that didn’t allow him to contact you at all. Your restless nights were mostly due to worrying over your boyfriend’s safety, something you always do whenever he leaves. It was worse this time around, though.
It was a day before he was supposed to leave, and you knew you weren’t supposed to listen in on other people’s private conversations, but you just couldn’t help yourself. You’d come home early from work one day to find Steve and Bucky in your shared home office, stopping outside the door and getting ready to knock when you overheard something about an upcoming mission. It seemed pretty important so you decided not to interrupt them, though you couldn’t force yourself to walk away.
You’re never allowed to know anything about what Bucky’s missions entail, and some part of you wanted to listen in on their conversation to hopefully ease any worries about what might be happening to him since you’ll have a general idea of where they’re going and what they’re doing. 
According to Steve, although it was going to be a four-day mission, it was supposed to be relatively simple. Or, it would’ve been simple if it weren’t for the fact that the building they were being sent to scout was an old Hydra facility somewhere in Russia. The same Hydra facility where Bucky was held captive.
Upon hearing this piece of information you wanted to barge into the room and tell Steve off for letting Bucky be a part of this mission. It’s been nearly five years since he escaped and Bucky has mostly readjusted, has recovered from his trauma as much as one can after being tortured for decades. And you’ll be damned if anything jeopardizes that progress.
But you’d also overheard Bucky agreeing with the plans, helping Steve strategize, and going over all the information that needed to be obtained. And it wasn’t your place to tell Bucky what he could and couldn’t do. As much as you wanted to demand that he not go, he was his own person. And if he thought he could handle this mission then you’d have to find a way to support him.
The four-day mission turned into eight and by the sixth day with still no contact, you’d marched into the tower and demanded Fury call you with any and all updates he received. He said he would in a tone that made you believe he wouldn’t give you every detail, but it did help reassure you that if anything happened to Bucky then you wouldn’t be kept totally in the dark. It was nerve-wracking in the worst way, obsessively thinking over what Bucky could be going through - physically and mentally.
But on the eighth day, Fury had called you on your lunch break at work to tell you that Bucky was on his way back to the Tower and would probably be back at your apartment by early evening after the briefing and check-up in the medical wing.
All of your nerves and anxieties that built up over the last week were immediately replaced with relief flooding your body, your heart finally unclenching at knowing that Bucky would be back in a few short hours. One good thing about your job is that you don’t technically need to be in the office every day. As long as you get your work done you’re pretty much given free rein to leave whenever you want, and you’d finished your stack of paperwork maybe fifteen minutes before the phone call.
You gathered up your things quickly and stopped by your boss's office to wish her a good weekend, then made your way to your car to head home. Your heartbeat was increasing ever so slightly the closer you got to your apartment, and you had to remind yourself to focus on driving instead of daydreaming of being back in Bucky’s arms.
When you did finally get home, you made quick work of cleaning the entire apartment; changing your bed sheets, doing laundry, then pulling out food from the fridge to make dinner. You’d actually just gotten the chicken out of the oven when the front door opened, and your excitement at finally seeing your boyfriend again forced you to run out of the kitchen and down the hall. But you stopped a good six feet from the door, standing still at seeing Bucky’s bruised face and scabbed knuckles.
“Bucky?” You asked softly, finally noticing the spacey look in his eyes, the way they seemed to be glazed over.
Bucky smiled at you, though it was more of a grimace, and you could tell it was mostly forced but he still wanted to acknowledge you. He approached you slowly, and you stood still so you would not startle him - he just seemed so on edge. He stopped not even a foot away from you, had stared down at you with a look in his eyes you hoped you would never see again - it was such an empty gaze, almost emotionless. There was no life in his eyes. It didn’t feel like the dead gaze was directed at you specifically, it was more like Bucky just couldn’t muster up any emotion at all.
That’s when you knew. Something went wrong.
Slowly, he brought up his right hand and placed it on the back of your head, tilting it up so he could really look at you, letting his gaze linger on your lips. Instead of kissing them, he leans forward to press a kiss on your forehead, wrapping his left arm around your waist and pulling you into his chest. He didn’t speak as he slowly tucked you into his body, and you didn’t dare break the silence either, you simply wrapped your arms around his body as well, squeezing him tightly to let him know that you were there. You were there for him - physically, mentally, and emotionally, and you needed him to know that.
After maybe five minutes of no one speaking, of simply standing in the front hallway embracing each other, you decided to finally say something.
“I made dinner,” You whispered, running one of your hands up and down Bucky’s back. You pulled your head off of his chest but didn’t loosen your hold. “Chicken and mashed potatoes. I even made apple pie.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched again, and his attempted smile felt a little more genuine this time. His glassy eyes were filled with tears now, and he seemed oh so close to crying. You’d never seen him like this before, he was always happy, and smiling, even on days when he wouldn’t say it but you knew he still resented himself for his time as the soldier he would indulge in his hobbies to help him cope. But you’ve never seen him shut down before, and this is what this felt like.
You weren’t too sure how to help him, how to comfort him. But you had an inkling he might need some time to himself.
“How about you go shower and I can put the food away for later,” You said with a soft smile, speaking up again before Bucky had the chance to feel guilty, “I ate a couple of hours ago, I’m fine baby. Go shower.”
You lifted up on your toes and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, letting him squeeze you to his chest one more time before he released you, slumping off down the hall to the bathroom.
That was two days ago, and Bucky hasn’t spoken more than a few words at a time since. Now, it’s not like he’s avoiding you, he’s actually a little more clingy than he normally is. You can tell he wants to say something, to tell you what had happened, he just doesn’t know how. He hasn’t told you everything about what happened to him during his time as the soldier, but you know enough and don’t push him to say anything he doesn’t want to.
At night, Bucky will go out onto the small terrace outside of your apartment and stare up at the stars for hours. You don’t sit with him for all of it, just for about one hour - cuddled close to his body and talking softly and mindlessly about anything you can think of, anything that might help Bucky open up. Then, around nine or ten, you’ll give him a lingering kiss on his cheek, one on his temple, and one final kiss on his lips before going to bed, letting Bucky be alone with himself and his thoughts.
Tonight, though, Bucky’s decided to climb into bed with you soon after dinner. You both showered together, washing each other’s bodies and sharing a few lingering kisses under the spray of the shower head. You didn’t go any further, but you did make sure to spend extra time massaging his shoulders and back, placing kisses everywhere you could reach.
It’s one in the morning now, and you hear another whimper. Bucky shifts beside you, tightening his hold on you ever so slightly. Another whine. 
“Bucky?” You whisper, careful to not disturb the silence too much.
He responds with a mumbled ‘please’. Then, ‘no’.
“Buck? Baby?” You say a little louder, shifting in his hold but not able to move much due to his arms being wound around your body.
He shudders, pulling you further into him as his breathing picks up. He’s having a nightmare. Now, despite him being mostly healed, he still does have nightmares. They’ve lessened over the years, but they never truly go away.
When he’s in this mindset, you’re careful not to move too much and startle him awake. So, you simply shimmy your arm from under one of his so you can push on his chest and gently ease him onto his back. It takes a little more force than you’d like, but you’re eventually able to lay him flat on his back and untangle your body from his.
“Baby?” You whisper a little louder, placing your hand on the side of his face and rubbing your thumb along his cheekbone. “Bucky.”
He groans; louder, desperate. He’s in pain. You run your hand down his face, down his neck, then land on his chest, right above his heart. It’s increased rapidly, and you can see beads of sweat coat his forehead.
“Bucky.” Your voice is pleading, and you push on his chest a little, now hoping to startle him awake before it gets worse. You don’t want to keep him in this nightmare, so you shake him again.
“Bu-” You’re stopped short by him gasping, his eyes shooting open and his body lifting off the bed slightly as he wakes up. Relief fills your body, and you sigh gratefully. You hate when he’s in pain, whether physical or mental, but you hate not being able to do anything about it even more.
Bucky doesn’t move right away, he squeezes his eyes closed and clenches his fists momentarily. Then, when you place your hand on his cheek, his whole body goes limp, relaxing into the sheets under your touch.
“Baby,” He whispers hoarsely. “I…” He chokes back a sob, and you’re quick to adjust yourselves so you’re laying on your back and he’s laying almost entirely on top of you with his head on your chest right above your heart. He starts crying then, really crying. His arms wrap themselves around your midsection, and you wrap yours around his body as well, cradling him close to you.
“It’s okay, darling. It’s okay, you’re okay,” You mumble into his ear, pressing kisses anywhere you can reach. You continue cooing at him, whispering reassurances and declarations of love until his cries taper off into small whimpers and sniffles. You’re really worried now. Yeah, Bucky isn’t shy about expressing his emotions, and you’ve held him after nightmares and through the aftermath of difficult missions when he comes home disheartened. But he’s never been so vulnerable, and you want nothing more than to hold him close and protect him from everything bad in the world.
Silence envelops the both of you for a while. You want to allow Bucky to speak when he’s ready. And he does so after a couple of minutes.
“There was an agent; Alix, I think. I - I don’t remember his last name, but…” Bucky pauses, and you take the opportunity to place a kiss on his forehead. “For the last five or so years of me being… him, Alix was there. He’d… Any time I failed a mission, he’d be there. Out of all the Hydra agents that I’ve ever come in contact with… his punishments were the worst.”  He pauses again, sniffling softly and nuzzling his face into your chest.
“I’m so sorry, darling,” You whisper, bringing your hand up to his hair so you can run your fingers through his locks. Bucky shakes his head softly, pressing a kiss to your collarbone.
“He was there. When Steve, Natasha, and I went to the facility last week, Alix was there. And he… I don’t know. I saw him and I just went blank, my mind shut off. I know I promised I wouldn’t kill anymore, I know. I just… He just hurt me so fucking much.”
Bucky starts crying again, and you have to force yourself not to cry as well. You want to be here to support him, not break down as well because then he’ll feel guilty. He always says you’re one of the most important people in his life - Steve obviously being another one - and that seeing you cry makes him want to go feral on whoever or whatever made you sad.
“I had to,” he says, muffled by his face tucking into your neck. “I just. I couldn’t not. I thought I was ready, I thought I could go there and be okay. But I wasn’t. I… He broke me.” Bucky trails off, sighing heavily before he goes quiet again, giving you time to process this information.
“Baby,” You say, prompting Bucky to hum in acknowledgment. “Can you look at me, please?”
You know it takes a lot of effort, but he does. Bucky lifts his head from your neck, looking into your eyes with overwhelming sorrow. Bending your head, you place a quick kiss on his lips.
“This might sound odd, but I’m proud of you. You thought you were healed enough to do it, you went through the planning and probably had to hype yourself up a lot to even agree to the mission. And that’s immense progress. The fact that you even felt ready, even if you ultimately weren’t, you pushed through it and finished the mission. And that’s something to be celebrated. Sometimes recovery can be set back by certain events, but that doesn’t mean that everything else you’ve accomplished is set back as well. You tried, and I’m proud of you.”
With that said, you give Bucky another kiss, lingering a little longer this time before pulling back and holding his gaze.
“And I know you promised to not kill anyone, but I don’t blame you in this situation. I don’t know what this says about me, but even though I don’t know exactly how you killed him, and I don’t think I want to honestly, I do know he deserved far worse than what you gave him. He’s just lucky I wasn’t there because I genuinely don’t know what I would have done if I saw him.”
Bucky’s mouth forms into the smallest of smiles, and you can’t help but want to burn the world to the ground if it means he was protected from the harm it brought him.
“I know you’re the man, and that, stereotypically, men are supposed to be the protector, the provider, but you also deserve to be protected, to have everything you could ever want. And I want to give that to you. I know you are your own person and you do a damn well job of taking care of yourself, but I also want to take care of you. I want to protect you from everything bad, everything that’s ever harmed you, and everything that could potentially harm you in the future.”
You place a kiss on his forehead, squeezing the arm that’s around his upper back to hug him tighter to you.
“You’re the love of my life, baby. Now and forever.”
Bucky shudders slightly, leaning up to kiss your jaw, then one to your cheek, one on the corner of your mouth, and one final kiss to your lips. Your hand continues to run through his hair, tugging at it slightly, causing your boyfriend to sigh in contentment and tighten his hold on you as well. You’re locked in the embrace for a long moment, his lips gliding over yours as the kiss remains relatively chaste. But then, he pulls away.
“Darling,” He says, and for the first time in two days, he finally looks like he’s getting back to his old self. “I - I don’t think I’m ready to talk about everything that happened during the mission right now, I kind of just want to hear you talk so I can get my mind off of it for a little if that’s okay?” He looks a bit nervous asking for that, but you’re quick to nod, offering him a smile of your own. Bucky smiles a tad bit wider and removes one of his arms from around your body so he can slowly reach up and take hold of your hand that’s still running through his hair. Stubble tickles your palm as Bucky presses his lips there, then turns his gaze up to look into your eyes.
“I can’t even describe how much I love you. It scares me, sometimes, the things I would do for you. I need you to know that I will do everything I can to make you as happy and safe as you make me. You’re just… you’re incredible. And I can’t thank you enough for how much you’ve helped me over the past two years that we’ve been together, even the entire year before we started dating when we were just friends.”
His eyes start watering for a whole other reason now. Bucky looks so damn in love that you’d think it hurt, and you would know because that’s exactly how you feel about him.
“I - I know we haven’t talked about it, and I don’t even have a ring, but I can’t ever imagine loving anyone as much as I love you. I’m devoted to you, now and forever. I don’t know how you feel, but if you’re ever willing to…” He pauses, and you feel your heartbeat increase rapidly, a sudden happiness flooding your body.
“If I were to one day ask you to marry me, would you say yes?”
You’ve never nodded faster in your life, nor have you ever said ‘yes’ so quickly to anything Bucky has asked.
The large sigh of relief your boyfriend lets out lets you know he’s probably been thinking about this for a while, and you would swear your heart is about to burst from how much you love this man as you hold him close to your chest and place absentminded kisses on his forehead, cheeks, lips, the top of his head.
Everything stays silent for a few minutes, letting the conversation taper off. That is, until Bucky puts his head back on your shoulder, lacing his fingers with yours and bringing your hands up to kiss your knuckles.
“Can you talk to me?”
Humming in agreement, you run your hand that’s still on his back up and down in a soothing motion.
“Do you want to hear about how Sam almost broke his arm last week?”
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