#Post break up

[mendeshoney]

don’t tell me you’re my heartbreaker

Summary: You weren’t expecting Mat to come back to you.

Pairing: mat barzal x f!reader

Word Count: 10,251

Warnings: post breakup, verbal disagreement, angst, make up sex, angst with a happy ending, second chance romance

A/N: happy freaky friday, i have returned lol. thank you to @m00nlightdelights​ for beta reading this and being my hype person, ily<3

Why you had agreed to this, you had no idea.

Even now, sitting here, across from an unsurprisingly empty chair, every instinct, every nerve ending in your body is telling you to run, to flee, to get the fuck out of here and run down the few blocks it would take to get to the train station to get away from all of this.

From this, terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea. 

You anxiously checked the time on your watch once more, the glaring 6:28 PM letting you know there were exactly two minutes till the agreed time of 6:30 pm, and once that time arrived, you would start the timer for what you were considering a generous fifteen minutes. 

If he wasn’t in this chair across from you at 6:45 pm, sharp, you would give into your body’s response and bolt. 

And then that would be it, right? You’d be able to put everything that had happened into a box sealed with a neat little bow, store it away to be forgotten and move the fuck on.

You could deal with that.

…Right?

You checked your watch again.

6:29 PM.

The waiter comes back to your table, dropping off the two glasses of water, a basket of bread rolls and a little dish of butter, along with the diet coke and glass of wine you’d ordered for yourself, and the whiskey on the rocks you’d ordered for him. 

You really shouldn’t have done it. 

Would it send him the wrong message?

No. you chided yourself. There's nothing wrong with being polite. Be the bigger person.

Besides, if his tastes somehow changed in a month and a half, and if he wanted something else to drink, he could get it himself once he showed up.

If he showed up.

Immediately after the waiter turned his back on you, you reached for your wineglass and took a large gulp, trying to psych yourself up. Trying to remind yourself that despite what you were feeling, you did have the upper hand here. He asked you to be here, and you could leave at any time you wanted.

You checked your watch again as you put your wineglass back down to the table.

6:30 PM.

He gets a generous fifteen minutes and that’s it. You reminded yourself sternly. 

The second the thought formed in your head, the door to the restaurant flew open and your eyes betrayed your attempt to appear nonchalant about all of this, immediately flying to the door and observing as Mat entered in a rush of limbs, pulling the toque off of his head and smoothing a gloved hand over his hair.

You continued to watch, keeping your expression blank as he weaved through the tables and straight for you, plopping down into his seat with a hushed but rushed, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think traffic would be so crazy, had I known I swear I would’ve taken the subway or an Uber instead of taking my car, and-”

“Breathe,” you say gently, taking in the deepening flush of his cheeks. “It’s fine.”

Mat exhales, taking off his gloves and stuffing them in his jacket pocket, before shrugging it off and letting it hang on his seatback. He ruffles his hair anxiously one more time, then finally, finally looks at you.

Your stomach twists.

Shit.

You were worried about this. You’d managed to get over him - well, about eighty five percent of the way over him, at least - but you were worried that the minute he gave you his full attention, the minute you looked into his eyes, you’d be catapulted back into his orbit and it would be like the last month and a half you’d spent trying to exorcize him, your relationship, and all the memories tied up in between, would have been for nothing.

It’s not all of that quite yet, but your heart starts incessantly hammering against your ribcage anyway, and you fight to keep your expression blank, trying to resist the urge to be launched back into his gravitational pull.

His expression, however, falters, and the instant smile that spreads across his face when you manage to make and maintain eye contact for longer than a second is brilliantly bright. 

“Hi,” Mat breathes. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re technically right on time.” You counter, then lower your gaze to the drinks and bread in front of you, trying to look anywhere but at him.

Gorgeous fucker. 

Stupidly beautiful. 

Annoyingly perfect.

His eyeline follows yours, and he frowns for a second, before a look that you can only describe as fond takes over his face. “You ordered for me?”

“Just the drinks,” you clarify. “The waiter said he’d be back to take our orders once you got here.”

“Well,” he says, looking into your eyes, “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

You shrug, not really considering it a big deal and he leans forward, clasping his hands on the table when he says “It really means a lot that you agreed to meet me here.”

You assess him a little, and when you find he’s being sincere, all you can do is nod. There's still a ball of anxiety in the pit of your stomach, and your walls climb all the way up, barricading what’s left of your heart behind its stone barriers, and keeping it close. 

Mat can clearly sense this, can sense you keeping yourself at a distance if the small frown that starts to form on his lips is anything to go by, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, and he plows forward. “I know…I know that things didn’t exactly end well, and I wanted to apologize for that. I wanted…I wanted to talk this out. Talk about us.”

You nod again, because he’d said as much when he called you out of the blue this morning, but it’s what he says next that nearly gives you whiplash.

“I want to give this another shot.”

You blink, partially stunned.

That is…not what you expected him to say at all.

When he called, said he’d wanted to talk about everything, you assumed it was for closure, assumed it was so they could maybe finish the half-finished angry conversation you’d been having the day you broke up, when he called it quits out of nowhere and then walked out.

You hadn’t been expecting…this. 

“You…what?” You stutter out. 

He nods, vehement, grabbing a roll and his butter knife, stabbing a little ball of butter on the end of it and going about buttering a roll for you and then himself - a habit of his now, you’re sure - like this is all completely normal.

“Yeah,” Mat says, gaining confidence with each word he speaks. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said that day. About what you’d been trying to tell me this whole time, and you’re right. I wasn’t exactly the best boyfriend to you. I didn’t put you first, I took advantage of you, got scared, and when it mattered most to you, I couldn’t give you what you needed, but that’s not true anymore.”

He puts the roll on the little plate in front of you, then goes about making his own, continuing on like you’re not sitting there gaping at him. “I know I said a lot of things. A lot of awful things, no, horrible things, things that I didn’t mean. And I know I can never take it back, but I hope I can at least…try to make things better?”

Watching you, Mat takes a moment, gauges your reaction. You realize he’s waiting for you to say something, but the only thing you can manage is a small “huh.”

He swallows. “I uh, I know there's a lot to unpack, and I know I have a lot to explain to you, but I wanted to at least put all my cards on the table as to where I’m coming from.”

It’s all too much, and you feel like your body malfunctions a bit, your hands coming up to stop him from speaking any further. “I’m sorry…I just, I need a second to process.”

He closes his mouth, nodding, watching you closely, eyes getting a little wide as you grab your wine glass again to take another large gulp, nearly draining it before reaching for your buttered roll and taking a bite to try to calm your nerves. You both sit there, Mat watching you, and when you finish the roll after a couple of minutes and you manage to gather some semblance of sanity, you hesitantly meet his gaze.

“I don’t understand.” You say. “You…want to get back together?”

“Yeah,” he says, a little sheepish now. “I would like that.” When you don’t answer, or return his smile, it drops a little, only reaching the corners of his mouth. “Unless…unless you don’t want that?”

You grab your wineglass again, downing the last of it and trying to gather all of your thoughts.

There was…definitely a lot to unpack there.

You certainly hadn’t been prepared to discuss…getting back together with him. Even though there was a space in your still recovering heart that desperately ached for the prospect to be with him again, to go back to that little slice of paradise the two of you had managed to carve out for yourselves in the dreary winter of last year. 

To go back to spending snowy days cuddled up together in his bed, to return to your spring outings in the many parks New York had to offer, to go back to Summer with him in Vancouver and spending days at the lake, spend fall with him cozied up with warm cups of coffee or hot chocolate or spiked cider.

But that was…gone now. 

You’d worked hard in the last month and a half to convince yourself that this, him and you, your relationship and any chance of it coming back was gone. 

Because it was. You’d fought, explained that you loved him but needed a little more from him, wanted more from him. He fought back, he’d said things, called it quits and then walked out because that was what he said he wanted. And if he was willing to go that far, you need to believe it was what you should want, too.

You were right to worry about agreeing to meet with him for dinner.

I should have left at 6:25, you curse yourself. 

“I don’t know, Mat.” You say finally, honestly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The smile that had been lingering at the corner of his mouth slightly disappears. “What’s not a good idea?”

“Any of it,” you say honestly, pushing the words out of your mouth with a tired breath. “I just don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Mat’s quiet for a moment. You can’t read the expression on his face, can’t parse out what he’s thinking or what he’s feeling. It’s a little daunting, seeing as how you used to be able to read him like a book.

But trying to exorcize him from your mind when you were broken up meant forgetting, and you’d clearly managed to forget more than you originally thought. 

His whiskey on the rocks be damned. 

Said whiskey was still in his glass, untouched, and Mat stared at it for a second before looking at you, nodding. “Okay.”

You raised a brow in suspicion. “Okay?”

He nods, pulling out his wallet and flipping through a few bills. “Yeah, okay. I can respect that.”

You can’t help but stare at him, only a little confused.

When he’d called you out of the blue this morning, he seemed eager. He said he wanted to see you, have dinner, and talk to you about something important. You could practically sense the adrenaline running through his veins, could hear the hard thuds of his heartbeat through the phone. And while you knew Mat was always the kind of guy who was mature enough to take no for an answer, his response made you a little surprised that he wasn’t going down without a fight.

“Come on,” he says gently, placing a couple of bills on the table - more than enough to cover the drinks you’d ordered and a generous tip - before standing up, and extending his hand towards you. “I’ll bring you home.”

“Mat you don’t have to-”

“I’m going to,” he insists. “I asked you out, almost got here late. It’s the least I can do.”

With a moment’s hesitation you could tell Mat didn’t like by the flex of his jaw, you placed your hand in his, accepting his help as you stood up. Together, you both put on your own coats, gathered your things, and exited the restaurant. 

You follow Mat to his car, thanking him as he opens your door, making sure you were secure before getting in on the driver’s side and peeling away from the curb.

“Do you want me to stop to get you something to eat?” He offers. “I just realized I all but dragged you out of there, but you probably didn’t even eat yet.”

“No, I’m okay.” You assure him, albeit lying a little. You had been starving, but his choice of conversation curbed your appetite quickly. 

“Are you sure?” He offers. “I can stop somewhere, or order a pizza.”

You shake your head, “No, thank you. Just take me home.”

The rest of the drive is silent, save for Mat’s radio playing lowly in the background. You keep your eyes trained out the window, refusing to acknowledge Mat or his constant fidgeting. You know it’s a sign that he’s got something to say, probably wants to bring up your decision at the restaurant, or maybe insist on dinner, but thankfully, he keeps his mouth closed.

Once he gets to your apartment, he parks outside, making a point of saying “Stay right there,” as you reach for your door handle.

With a small roll of your eyes, you indulge him, waiting patiently for him to round the car and open your door for you. You take his outstretched hand, allowing him to help you onto the curb and dropping it the second you can stand upright.

He locks his car, escorting you into your building and following along with you in the elevator like he always used to.

“Always gotta make sure you get in safely,” he used to say when you chastised him about this before. “I need to see it with my own two eyes.”

When you finally reach your front door, you find that you just want him to leave, and can’t seem to get him out of your hair quick enough.

You reach for your keys in your purse, fumbling a couple of times trying to get the stupid thing into the lock. 

“Let me get it,” he offers, reaching for your shaking hands, but you snatch them away before he can touch you, taking a step back.

“I don’t need your help, Mat!” You nearly shout, almost regretting it when you take in his expression.

Almost.

“Hey,” he says, hurt lacing his voice as he frowns. “I was just trying to-”

“I know!” You sigh out, frustrated and exhausted. “I know what you were trying to do, Mat. I appreciate it.”

“Then what’s the issue?” He asks, hands gesturing between the two of you. 

“I thought tonight was about getting closure Mathew, not getting back together!” You exclaim, exasperated. You fall back against the wall closest to your door, head thumping gently back against it. “It took me by surprise and now I feel like everything is upside down.”

“It doesn’t have to be!” He counters, just as exasperated as you. “It can be simple, it can be easy, if you just let me-”

“Why would I let you say anything to me?” You snap, your angry gaze cutting him straight down the middle. 

“Because I still love you!” His confession takes you by surprise, and he crowds into your space, the heat coming off of his body in waves. “I love you, and I want this. I want us back, and I just want to work this out.”

You can’t find the words for a small moment, taken aback by the sincerity in his eyes, and how he’s behaving like nothing happened. “After the way you spoke to me when we broke up? After the things you said?” That seems to shut him up. “You really think you deserve another chance?”

At your words, Mat could see the wall you were slowly building up to keep him away, to shut him out and push him away for good. If he wasn’t upset before, he definitely was now. He feels so close to seething, his chest rising up and down with every angry breath. He is angry, yes, but not at you, never at you. At himself. He presses his hands on either side of your head, resting on the very wall he had your body pressed up against so many times before. 

Before, when he’d bring you home, press you against this wall by your door and make out with you for what felt like hours, before eventually dragging you inside when you could hear people coming up the stairs or when the elevator dinged. 

But now, he was so livid, so fucking angry with himself that he felt like if he tried hard enough, he could push his hands through the brick, felt like if he closed his fists, he’d pound into the masonry until it was rubble.

“Don’t shut me out.” He pleads. “I know what I said was awful, but-”

“No buts.” You respond. Your tone was dry, your eyes empty. You were looking right at him, but all Mat felt was hollow, like you were looking right through him instead. 

“Baby, I want to make you understand but-”

“No buts.” You repeat, a little firmer, a little louder. It took the breath right out of him. “Every time you say ‘but,’ it negates everything you said in front of it.”

You’d said that once before, he remembered. You were saying it to Tito, giving him advice on how to make up with a girl after they’d fought, explaining how to communicate better instead of making things worse. Mat remembers how tuned in he was to you talking to Tito about it, how he couldn’t help but feel like you were sharing a piece of yourself in turn, that he didn’t realize he was staring at you until someone cleared their throat.

Here and now, with your beautiful eyes looking through him like glass, he wishes he could’ve stayed in that moment. Wishes he listened to his gut all those months and didn’t take this risk.

That he didn’t risk losing you.

He was so sure all of this would have ended with him breaking your heart. 

Now you were breaking his.

“Baby,” he chokes out. “I just didn’t think that I could be what you needed back then. I didn’t think I was good enough to be what you needed, okay?”

“But if you loved me, you would’ve at least tried.” You reason.

Mat shakes his head. “I do love you. Love you. I just didn’t want you to get hurt, can’t you see that? There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re beautiful, you’re perfect, so perfect it makes my chest ache.”

“Is that why you called me clingy?” You deadpan, recalling his exact words the last time you saw one another. “Is that why you said my emotions were too much? Why you said I was asking you for too much? Is that why you said it felt like I was suffocating you by asking you for more? I’m so perfect that it makes you feel sick just being so close to me all the time? Is that the ‘ache’ you were talking about? There’s nothing wrong with me now, but you weren’t willing to try to do anything more to be with me back then? Is that why you did all of this? Because the whole ‘it’s not you it’s me’ bullshit you’re spewing right now contradicts that a lot, you know.”

“I didn’t mean that.” He pleads. “I didn’t, I swear. I just said all of that-”

“To make me believe it.” There’s no emotion in your voice or your eyes, no light, no wonder, no window into what you’re thinking. All the fire and molten heat that’s usually there is gone. 

It's all my fault. He thinks miserably. 

Mat swallows thickly, hoping he didn’t snuff out your flame and make you shutter yourself away, but it’s no use. He knows it’s his fault. “Well,” you begin, placing one palm flat on his chest and pushing. “Congratulations. I do.”

He goes easily, taking a step back even though it feels like he’s putting miles between you both. It dawns on him when his hands fall to his sides lamely that he could have touched you, kissed you one last time just then, and since he didn’t, he probably never will again.

“You were right.” You say simply. “That day, when you said that when people show their true colors we should believe them. And I believe you, Mat. I believe all of you. Especially the version of you that you really are. And that version of you? Doesn’t want to be with me.” 

After every word, all the fight dies out of him a little as you push yourself off the wall, not sparing a single glance at him as you walk away, dragging his battered heart with you as you enter your apartment, and lock him out.

~

Your heart pounds as you finally throw your apartment door shut behind you and lock it and struggle with everything in your power not to collapse to the floor.

Idiot.

Fucking beautiful idiot.

You can’t do this now, can’t cry and weep and mourn for something that was already over. But deep down, you still believed that what you both had was real. You hoped and prayed with the last shreds of positivity that you owned that for once, for one small moment, this thing with Mat would allow you to exist outside of yourself and have something real, something tangible. That he would fight for it.

And even that was taken away from you.

And yet, you should have known it was all too good to be true. Hell, you did know. And you hoped anyway.

A mild trill sounds from your purse - your phone - and you groan, trying so desperately to push the pain of your heartbreak away. 

You wipe furiously at your face, willing away tears that threaten to surface while trying to shove your emotions down. You tear off your purse, coat, scarf, and make quick work of throwing your hair into a bun before wrenching open the closet and stripping down, tossing your clothes into your hamper before stomping into your bathroom. 

Your phone rings again, and you let out a pathetic cry of frustration, stomping back to where you left it and fishing it out.

It’s Mat, and his name fills your screen with his text messages. 

Please baby, please talk to me 

Let me fix this baby

I need you to know how sorry I am

If anything baby, please believe I never meant to hurt you

I need you

You fling your phone toward your bed with an angry scream that turns into a sob, and you sink to your knees on the plush carpet of your bedroom. 

Isn’t this what you wanted, once upon a time? Someone to fight for you, fight to keep you, fight to win you back, to be lusted after, desired. 

You weren’t sure you wanted this anymore.

You’d dated others, but you never felt heartbreak with them.

You did with Mat, though. You felt every crack in your heart. Felt the sadness, the sorrow, the misery.

With Mat, he seemed to make you feel everything and more.

And that was why this hurt so bad.

Because you felt it all anyway.

You fell together anyway.

You loved him anyway.

Love him anyway.

Fuck.

~

It’s hours later, getting close to eleven at night and you’re sipping on your late night glass of wine when your apartment’s intercom buzzes.

Despite your better judgment, you get up from your spot on the couch to answer it, figuring it’s probably your neighbor two doors down who forgot her keys - again - after a night out.

You press the intercom to talk, saying “You owe me wine for this, Isabella.” 

The voice that comes back is not Isabella’s at all.

“It’s me.”

You nearly drop your wine glass, what little alcohol you’ve had tonight rushing through your veins and to your brain quickly, too quickly, and you’re pressing the intercom again before you can register what you’re doing.

“Mathew?”

“Yeah. Can I come up? I was hoping we could talk…talk again, I mean. I didn’t like how I acted earlier, and I-”

You’re pressing the buzzer to let him in before he can finish his sentence, not necessarily needing or wanting to hear the rest of his plea. The last thing you need is for anyone to spot him on your doorstep this late at night.

There was a small part of you that was grateful you’d managed to shower after the little semi-breakdown you had after getting back from dinner. Although now you regretted putting on the silky tank top and shorts pajama set.

Definitely can’t open the door wearing that. 

You quickly place your wineglass on your nightstand, running to your dresser fully intending to grab clothes to change, but then your doorbell rings, and, well.

You could stall, could change anyway, but you don’t need him in the hallway any longer than necessary in case your neighbors spot him.

So instead, you trod over to the door, opening it to find Mat standing there in black sweatpants and a black shirt, his hands in his pockets and his hair a little damp, though thoroughly disheveled, as if he’s been running his hands through it over and over again since getting out of the shower.

You step to the side, allowing him in, and he crosses the threshold, taking off his shoes and putting them next to yours like he’s done hundreds of times before. You shut the door behind him, taking your time locking it to try to catch your breath.

He goes to sit on your couch, then pauses halfway there, unsure. 

This was where it happened, after all. In your living room.

Where you’d fought, he’d spewed his venom, broke your heart, then walked out. 

Deciding you also don’t want to sit on the couch, you walk past him, leading him into your bedroom. It’s probably not the best idea, but it’s the safest alternative. 

You sit at the edge of your bed, and Mat leans himself against your dresser, feeling too antsy to sit down.

“I’m sorry,” He starts. “For how I acted earlier, I didn’t mean to make it seem like I had a right to your time.”

You shrug. “It’s okay.” 

Mat shakes his head. “It wasn’t. And it also wasn’t fair of me to ask you out to dinner and not explain my intentions behind it. Dropping that on you at dinner wasn’t fair either, and I didn’t mean to blindside you with it.”

You nod, reply on the tip of your tongue when Mat forges on. “I realize I have no right to ask anything of you, and no right to ask for the space to explain myself, but I’d like to, if you’d let me.”

It takes you a second, but you already know your answer before you’re speaking the words. “I’ll let you.” You say softly. 

This conversation has the beginnings of closure to it, and no matter what direction it goes in, you need to hear what he has to say if there’s any hope for you to either move past this, or move on from him.

So you let him talk.

Mat takes a deep breath. “I was feeling a lot of things that day. Frustration over the season, how it ended, and then family stuff, more stuff with the surgery. And you were there every step of the way, and I appreciated it, I really did. I guess I just felt…overwhelmed? Overstimulated? There was so much to do and say and I felt like I just needed to be alone for a second, just to breathe.”

He takes another breath, his eyes furrowing as he tries to recall how it was for him back then, trying to say the right things the right way. “You weren’t clingy. You weren’t suffocating me. You weren’t too much, and your emotions weren’t too much. You were always enough, you were perfectly fine. I know you just wanted to be there for me, to support me and help me through what I was feeling, but I’ve never had anyone do that for me before. Every one I’d been with before just sort of…left me to deal with it on my own.”

Mat sighs, chancing a look at you. You’re sitting there, listening to him intently, giving him your full attention like you always used to do, allowing him the time and space to gather his thoughts and feelings. 

When his gaze becomes too much, you find yourself tearing it away, staring at the floor of your bedroom instead. It stings, Mat realizes, not having you look at him like that, but he accepts it, knows he deserves it. 

“I didn’t know what it felt like to have support like that.” He explains. “I wasn’t used to it, and I was wrong to think even for a second that you wanting to be there for me, or you wanting more from me once things got better, was you just wanting my attention, or you wanting anything other than to remind me that you loved me and that you were there to help me, but that you also had your own needs, and that they weren’t being met.”

He sighs, disappointed in himself. “You poured all of yourself into my cup, and I couldn’t return the favor when it mattered most to you. I’m sorry that I didn’t see that sooner, and it shouldn’t have taken me a month and a half to come to you and apologize. I thought I was doing the right thing, walking away, but I can see now that I wasn’t. And I’m selfish enough to admit that I don’t want to let you go.”

There’s a quiet sniffle from you, and Mat feels his gut twist uncomfortably. “I understand if you don’t want this,” he says. “If you don’t want us. I know I was an asshole, I know I took too long to get my shit together and tell you what a piece of shit I was, and probably still am. I still meant what I said, though. I do want you. I want us. And I know I’ll have to work hard to get you back, and I will put in the work, I swear it to you, if you’ll still have me.”

Another sniffle, but no words. He can see you swipe at your eyes, but no words come out.

His heart cracks in his chest.

“Please, baby.” Mat says softly. He gazes down at you, from where you sit on the edge of your bed, and wishes in his head that you’d just look at him. Even if it was just for a second, even if it would be the last time.

You shake your head softly, still cast to the side, those full lips beginning to pout, your bottom lip starting to tremble, and Mat feels like a knife just plunged into his heart and twisted.

Even when you two went through rough times, even when you broke up, he never made you cry. 

And he wasn’t going to start now.

He takes a step forward, and then another, until he’s as close to you as he can be without touching you. He drops down to his knees then, and noticing there are tears beginning to well in your eyes, he decides he has to touch you.

Carefully, Mat reaches up with both hands, cupping your cheeks, and wiping gently at your tears with his thumbs. “I’m so sorry, baby.” He murmurs.

You let out a shaky breath. “It’s-”

“It’s not fine.” He insists. He applies gentle pressure behind his hands as he turns your head to face him. You blink when you meet his gaze, more tears falling onto Mat’s thumbs, and he wipes them away. When they keep coming, he lowers his hands a little and leans forward, gently kissing the tip of your nose, then the spots under your eyes, kissing your tears away.

“Tell me what I have to do, baby.” He pleads, moving closer, rising up a little on his knees to rest his forehead against yours. “I’ll do anything, I swear. Tell me what to do. Tell me what you need.”

There’s a small shake of your head, and he can feel you beginning to relax into him. “I don’t know.”

Before he can reason with himself if he should do it, if he’s lost the privilege to, he presses a soft kiss to your lips. He’s surprised when instead of shoving him away, or refusing his kiss, you kiss him back.

He can feel your hands move to his arms, gently pulling him forward, and he kisses you again, moving between your legs when you open them to press the two of you together. As the kiss deepens, he wraps one arm around your waist, banding the other across your back so he can gently grip the back of your neck, and your legs wrap around him, pulling him closer, your ankles locking at the base of his spine.

A small gasp escapes Mat when he feels you grind yourself against his shirt-covered abdomen, and the hand on the back of your neck creeps upward, grabbing a fistful of hair at the base of your skull, using it to anchor you both. At the tug of your hair, you moan, and Mat feels his whole body light up with electricity.

He murmurs your name against your lips, presses kisses there, to your chin, your cheek, working his way down to your neck, sucking little bruises into the skin. He releases your hair, trailing his hand down your arms, moves to your collarbone, sucking bruises, leaving little nips and bite marks as he goes, all the while you keep trying to tug at his hair to get him back to your lips.

Mat acquiesces once, brain going blank when your soft tongue grazes over his lips, and he accepts it, cupping the back of your head and sucking on your tongue lightly. Then, he’s pulling back just a little to kiss your lips, sucking your bottom one into his mouth, and then pulling it between his lips as he pulls away. You loosen your grip, but keep your hands in his hair, running the curls through your fingers. 

“I’ll do anything.” Mat repeats the words against your skin, his hands running down your front, settling on your hips. Picking up from where he left off on your collarbone, he presses a sweet kiss to the skin before sinking his teeth in gently, enjoying your little moans of surprise before using his tongue to satiate the little pain from the wound. “Anything to make you forgive me.”

He starts to work his way down, leaving a trail of kisses on your chest, pulling the strap of your tank top off of your shoulder before pulling the neckline down, exposing the top of your breast and immediately sucking the skin into his mouth, hard.

You let out a small whine, arching your back and pressing further against his mouth, your hands tightening their grip in his hair and Mat groans from where he’s latched to your breasts.

He tugs at the hem of your tank top, and you both part for a small, torturous second, for you to all but tear it off, flinging it somewhere to your bedroom floor before his lips are immediately back on your skin, his hands cupping your breasts in both palms, kneading them in his hands before sucking on one nipple, then the other. 

“I’ll do anything to have you again,” Mat begins, your nipple caught between his teeth. “To make you mine again.”

He rises up on his knees, his tongue purposely swiping over your nipple, your chest, your neck, and as he goes, your core throbs as you watch his tongue glide over your skin before he tucks it back into his mouth. 

“I’m so fucking sorry baby,” he says when his mouth releases your skin. “I’m so sorry.”

His eyes lock onto yours and you meet his gaze straight on, watching, waiting, until he tilts his chin just so and you meet his lips, kissing him once, twice, three times before he presses his whole body against yours, hands disappearing from your breasts to cage your body against his once more.

His tongue slips into your mouth, hands roaming over your bare back before sneaking into your hair, grabbing a fistful at the nape of your neck and pulling your head backwards. He chases your mouth, biting your lip as he pulls away slowly, trailing his lips down your chin and then latching onto the particularly sensitive part of your neck, sucking the skin into his mouth hard. 

You moan in response, can feel his tongue massaging over the spot as he continues to suck, and a sharp but delighted hiss leaves you when you feel his teeth scrape gently against the spot. His lips release you a moment later, and he eyes the blooming hickey with pride.

“Never should have let you go,” he murmurs, and then Mat’s arms move, releasing you from his caged embrace so his hands can coast down your sides, settling on your hips as he continues to leave bruising kisses on your neck, fingers dipping into the waistband of your silk sleep shorts. 

“Can I take these off of you?” He murmurs against your collarbone, and you nod, lifting your hips just so, and Mat wastes no time in tearing the material down your legs and off of your body, flinging the things to some spot in your room. 

Mat eyes your exposed pussy and can feel his heart thump against his chest. “God I missed you, missed seeing your pretty cunt every day.”

He moves to place his arms under your thighs, to pin them up next to you so he can devour you, right where you’re glistening and wet for him, but then you’re grabbing at his shirt. He thinks you want it off, so he complies, tearing it off and throwing it to wherever the rest of your clothes are, but then you’re beckoning him to you, reaching for him with your hands, and he smirks a little.

Mat presses a kiss to your pretty glistening heat, looking up at you from under his eyelashes. “I want to taste you baby, it’s been so long.”

You shake your head, a crease forming between your brows as you reach for him. He goes easily, reaching up to smooth that crease away beneath his thumb, and you cup his face, laying back on your bed and pulling him with you.

He climbs onto the bed, moving you both up the mattress until your head is resting on your pillows. He places his hands next to your face, propping himself up so he doesn’t crush you. Your legs wrap around his waist, pressing the two of you together as you kiss him, writhing beneath him like the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life. 

“It has been too long,” you say in agreement, lips ghosting over his as you speak. He can feel you trying to use the heels of your feet to push the band of his sweatpants down. “I need you now, Mat.” 

“Okay baby, okay,” He acquiesces, repeating the word as he pushes his sweatpants and boxer briefs down just enough to free his cock, feels it throb once it’s pressed between the two of you, resting against the soft skin of your belly. 

An excited noise trills from your mouth as you reach between you both, lining him up with your slick folds and grinding against him. The feeling is overwhelming, blinding Mat as he shuts his eyes and groans, rocking up against you, delirious with the friction. “Condom?” He asks belatedly, trying not to choke on his breath when the head of his cock nearly catches on the entrance to your pussy.

You shake your head emphatically, watching completely dazed as Mat reaches a hand between the two of you. 

“No, it's just been you. Only you.” His head swims at your admission, and he dips a finger inside of you, then two, collecting the wetness before bringing his coated fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean. He groans, cock pulsing again as he grinds against you. 

You reach for his face, chasing his mouth for a filthy open mouthed kiss that he’s happy to give to you. 

“Had to taste you,” he explains. “Couldn’t wait another second.”

“Need you now, Mat.” You breathe against his lips, and he nods, pulling his hips back ever so slightly until the head of his cock rests against your entrance, and then he’s pushing forward, sliding inside of you slowly. Your breath catches in your throat, and Mat can’t look away, can’t stop watching the way your eyes glaze over before they roll back into your head. 

“That’s it baby, take my cock.” He praises, eyes casting down to where he’s pushing inside of you.

You take every inch of him perfectly, as you always have, and once he’s fully inside, Mat gets in close. He’s on his knees, positioning his thighs under your own to both keep you propped up and open to him, and to keep himself close to you.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, your body consumed by the white out pleasure of Mat’s thick cock sliding into you. Your fingers are tangled in the sheets beneath you, back broken on an arch, mouth open in a silent cry. It’s been so long since you’ve taken him, and your body’s reacting like it’s the first time you’ve been with him all over again.

You’re so focused on his cock, on how full you feel, that you can barely register that he’s speaking to you, calling for you. His voice comes back to you as pleasure ripples through your body. 

“-please honey. C’mon baby, breathe,” he encourages, cupping your face in his hands. “Breathe for me baby, you can do it.”

You inhale sharply, chest heaving, gathering air in your lungs as you can feel your body begin to adjust, the blinding pleasure of him being buried inside of you starting to replace the stretch and pressure of his welcomed intrusion.

“That’s it honey, that’s my girl.” He praises, thumbs caressing your cheeks as he slowly pulls his hips back, then pushes in again. His abdomen drags against your clit, and your eyes squeeze shut again, overwhelmed by everything Mat. 

His hips move like that once, twice, three times before your orgasm shoots through you like a rocket. It’s so sudden, so unexpected that Mat nearly loses his pace. He has to bring his hands to the back of your knees and pin your legs down so he can continue to drive into you, flexing his hips and fighting past the tight squeeze of your cunt on his cock, fucking you through your orgasm just the way you love as you cry out.

Your name falls from his lips, completely dazed as he watches you. Your cry evens out into a whine, your grip on him loosening a little, and Mat bends his head to kiss you, laughing softly as when your eyes slowly blink open as he pulls away.

“Good baby?” He asks, and you can only manage a small nod in response.

Your blood feels like syrup in your veins now that he’s made you come once, and Mat loves you like this. Loves when you go soft and pliant under him, loves that you trust him to make sure he takes care of you like this.

“More,” you beg, and Mat nods, bending once for another open mouthed kiss, his tongue dragging over yours before you part.

“Love it when you come for me,” he says against your lips, moving his hips so he can fuck you with slow strokes. “Have to fight my way in every time, just to keep fucking you, just to make sure you keep coming all over me.”

“Mat!” You cry out, his hips driving into that spot inside of you that makes you see stars. 

“You’re gonna deny me this?” He asks, a slight taunt to his voice, but you can hear past it, can hear the plea in his voice, the desperation. “You’re gonna take this away from me baby?” 

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish the question. It’s no use. 

While you were alone after dinner, you’d had way too much time to yourself, to think, to overthink, to mull over every single second from the fight, to the break up, to tonight, to slamming the door in Mat’s face. 

You knew, somewhere in your heart, that you’d already forgiven Mat before he came back. That whatever his excuse, whatever his reasoning, you’d forgiven him for what had happened.

And it wasn’t until he came back asking for a second chance that you realized you’d give him that, too. You’d give him anything he asked for. 

Because you loved him.

He drove you batshit crazy, but you loved him. 

And you hadn’t exorcized him out of your life, not really. No matter how much you tried to pretend like you had.

Maybe it was your greatest flaw, but you were too forgiving of a person.

You couldn’t deny Mat a damn thing if you tried.

And you didn’t want to deny him, not anymore.

“Answer me,” Mat demands through clenched teeth, pressing down on the backs of your thighs as he begins to drive into you, merciless and desperate. “Am I going to have to fuck you like this is the last time?”

He punctuates his question with a particularly hard thrust, pushing a choked sound out of you as your pleasure starts to build and twist. 

“I want to hear you say it,” he orders, pistoning in and out of you. You can only watch him, stunned.

It was no secret he was beautiful, no secret he was stunning. But only you got to see this, this moment where he looked like a god among men.

The sweat at his hairline, the pinched look of concentration, the veins along the muscles in his arms straining as he holds you down, holds you open so he can fuck you the way he knows you like, the way he pleases you best. The way his eyes flame as he watches your every move, tracks your face so he can be sure he’s bringing you nothing but pleasure.

“Tell me,” he insists, bending his head a little to press a kiss to the inside of your knee, and you don’t miss the way it still sounds like a plea. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You nod, brows pinching together as the delicious drag of his cock brings you higher and higher, closer to your next orgasm. Mat can tell, knows exactly what you need, but he won’t give it to you.

Not yet.

“You don’t get to come again unless you say what I want to hear.” Mat says, slowing his pace to emphasize his point.

A whine sounds in your throat, and he laughs a little, resting his forehead against yours. “I know baby, I know. I know exactly what you need, everything you need. In this bedroom, in this bed, and outside of it. I know everything that you need and I promise I’ll give it to you. But I need to hear you say it. Need to hear you tell me what I want to hear.”

You can only manage a whine, too focused on the slow drag of his cock, the way it feels like you can feel every hard vein and ridge of it slowly fucking into you. Mat shakes his head at your broken noises. “I know it feels good, baby, but you can do it. Use your words, pretty girl.”

“I’m yours.” It comes out as a whisper at first, too overwhelmed by the feeling of his cock, the friction of his solid abdominal muscles against your clit as he writhes against you slowly. 

“You’re mine?” He repeats, not even trying to hide the bit of disbelief in his voice, the uncertainty. “Yeah? You’re mine? Look at me baby.” Your eyes lock onto his, and he holds your gaze as his hips grind into you. “Are you mine?” He punctuates his question with a particularly hard thrust. “Am I yours?”

You nod again, crying out “Yes!” when he starts to fuck you again. His pace is unrelenting, his hips unforgiving as he moves, driving his cock in and out of you, consistently hitting that spot deep inside you that makes you see the sun, the stars, the moon, the whole galaxy with each thrust.

“Tell me what I need to do.” He says to you. You blink lazily at him, lost in the way he fucks you, and he crowds his body in closer, dropping your thighs and cupping your face in his hands, using the muscles in his hips to fuck you deep, grinding his cock into you some more. 

“What do I need to do baby?” Mat asks again, voice a little softer. His words are loaded, multiple meanings behind the question, and you know what to say to answer them all. He waits as patiently as he can, his mouth locking yours in a deep kiss as you start to squeeze down on him. He can tell you’re getting closer, can tell you’re right on the edge, but he still needs to hear you say it. 

“Need you to make me come.” You answer finally, lips brushing against his as you speak. He nods, forehead brushing against yours from where it rests. His hand snakes between you both as he circles your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to the sensitive bud. Your back arches up in response, moving further into his touch.

“Come for me, pretty girl,” Mat pleads, keeping his hips in time with the circle he’s drawing against your clit, swallowing your cries with a kiss. “I wanna feel you come for me again.”

The dam breaks, your mouth opening on another silent cry as you breath gets caught in your throat, white light bursting as your eyes fall shut, cunt squeezing his cock impossibly tight.

Mat’s orgasm hits him like a freight train and he groans out loud, doing his best to keep his eyes open so he can watch every second of you coming all over him. His cock pulses, his come spilling inside of you in thick ropes, and he can barely breathe as your pussy squeezes around him, like you’re trying to pull him deeper inside of you.

When your orgasms subside, Mat goes to pull out of you so he can lay beside you, but your legs lock around his waist, and you pull him down to you, taking him by surprise with a sweet and gentle kiss. That gentle kiss morphs into the both of you making out lazily, you winding your hips, grinding against him while his cock rests inside of you. 

You both remain like that for what feels like hours, but is probably more like fifteen minutes straight, Mat’s cock getting hard all over again, and you can feel your arousal slowly returning, ready for a round two, if needed. Eventually, Mat’s lips trail lazily from your mouth to your cheek, chin, neck, shoulders, collarbone, moving across your chest to reach your other shoulder, other side of your neck, and so on then back again, leaving kisses in each place as he goes.

After a little while longer, your post orgasm high subsides a little and your head starts to clear bit by bit. When you manage to come back to yourself, you realize Mat’s been murmuring his apologies into your skin, over and over, only pausing when he gets back to your lips, then resuming his apologies as his lips follow the little trail he’s made.

On what you think is his eighth loop around, you tangle your hands in the curls near the nape of his neck and tug a little, removing his lips from their place against your shoulder, dragging him to your mouth and kissing him again. 

You roll the two of you so he’s on his back, his now half hard cock still nestled inside of you and your thighs bracketing his torso. Mat’s hands rest on your hips as he looks up at you, his lips a bright pink from all of the kissing. He looks dazed still, like he isn’t sure if this is all real, then his brow furrows, and regret slashes across his features.

He moves his mouth to form another apology, but you rest a single finger against his mouth, shaking your head softly. 

“I know,” you tell him. “I know you’re sorry, baby.” Slowly, you start to wind your waist, watching Mat’s eyes roll into the back of his head, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips and trying his damndest not to thrust up into you. There’s a hiss that leaves his mouth when you squeeze, and a harsh breath is punched out of his lungs.

“I’m sensitive pretty girl,” he says, definitely not half hard anymore. Mat can’t tear his eyes away from where the two of you are joined together, where he can see his own come starting to drip down his cock, watching as you fuck it back into yourself as your drop your hips down.

“Just need one more.” You promise, can already feel your body chasing after the next orgasm as you move.

Mat nods, pupils blown wide as he watches. “Take what you need baby.”

And you do, planting your hands on his chest as you begin to bounce. Your nails dig into his skin a little, dragging them down his pecs and to his lower abdomen, watching in delight as red marks bloom in their wake, Mat groaning out loud, low and deep, his hips bucking up into you. 

He always did love it when you scratched him up like this.

“More,” he pleads, and you slowly glide your palms back up to his collarbone, digging your nails in once more and dragging them back down in the same path. His body jerks a little when he moans, and then he’s grabbing your hips and sitting up, laying you down and getting onto his knees to fuck you all over again. 

Your hands move to his ass, pulling him in deeper, your nails sinking into the hard muscled flesh and dragging up to his waist, and Mat’s thrusts become harder, sharper, and your orgasm rips through you like a lightning strike.

He follows close behind, fucking past the tight grip of your pussy and coming with a hoarse shout, pinning his hips against you as his cock throbs.

You move your hands then, cupping his face and pulling him down to you, allowing him to bury his face into your neck as he tries to recover. You both breathe deeply for a while, heated skin cooling as the time passes. Eventually, Mat presses soft kisses to your neck, then shoulder, before propping himself up above you by his hands. 

“We should probably shower, shouldn’t we?” He suggests, and you nod. He carefully pulls out of you, but when you move to sit up, he gently pushes you back down, eyes glued to your pussy, where his two loads start to slowly leak out. Mat takes two fingers, gathering what’s coming out and pushes it back into you. Your back arches in response, a small hiss pushing through your clenched teeth. 

He removes his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean before leaning over you again, capturing your mouth with his, sharing your combined release. 

“Want some more?” He murmurs against your lips, and you nod, your eyes locked on one another as he reaches down, his fingers pushing back in, stroking you a couple of times before pulling them out. This time, when he brings his fingers back up, you grab his wrist before he can put them in his mouth, bringing them to your lips instead, sucking them clean. Mat’s eyes flutter, glazing over and you can feel his cock start to come back to life where it rests against your thigh.

Once his fingers drop from your mouth, he surges forward, kissing you again and you both fall back onto the bed, all thoughts of doing anything but making out leaving your minds for the next ten minutes.

Eventually, you manage to pull away, resting a hand on his chest as you part. “It’s getting late,” quickly adding, “we should probably shower now, so we can head to bed.” when you see Mat panic a little, thinking you were going to try to kick him out. 

He smiles a little, nodding. He gets up first, reaching out a hand for you to take. Once you’re both upright, Mat looks down at you and smiles a little, brushing some hair away from your face then pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You go first, I’ll gather up the clothes and get the bed ready.”

You nod with a small smile, heading into your bathroom to pee and start the shower as Mat busies himself with gathering up your clothes, tossing them into the hamper in the corner of your room. He feels his heart thump in his chest at the familiarity of taking your decorative pillows off of your bed, putting them on their designated shelf in your closet, then fluffing the pillows you actually use before bringing your comforter down.

When he finally makes his way into your bathroom, he finds you standing under the spray of the shower, watching through the glass as the water cascades down your body.

A body he almost let go, a body he knows he’s honored to be able to worship again.

He wastes no further time in stepping into the shower with you, wrapping his arms around you to pull you in close, resting his cheek on the top of your head. 

“I’ll do better, I’ll be better.” He swears to you.

Your hands rub up and down his back in a soothing pattern. “I know, Mat.” Your name falls off his lips in a soft murmur, and you pull away a little, tipping your head back just so to look up at him. “We’ll be okay,” you promise, nodding to reassure him.

He nods back, cupping the back of your head in his hand, resting it against his chest. “I know we will, baby. I’ll make sure of it.”

~

A week later, you wake up to soft and gentle fingers dancing up your bare back, winding into your hair and twirling a strand around it before working its way back down, gently stroking into the dip of your back. 

The sheets are tangled around you, the curtains in your bedroom drawn to let the mid morning sunlight pour in, and Mat is sitting on your side of the bed, his hand moving to gently caress your face when he sees he’s managed to cajole you into opening your eyes. 

“Good morning beautiful,” his voice is soft in the quiet of your room.

You smile in turn, rasping out your own “good morning” before turning onto your side to face him fully. “What got you up so early?

He shrugs, pulling your sheets down to your waist, running his hands over your skin. “Made you breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” You ask, playfully skeptic.

“I think I can manage a few eggs, bacon, and premade waffle mix pretty well, but that’s just my opinion.” He says with a small smirk, and your heart nearly leaps out of your chest.

The daylight surrounds him from behind, creating a beautiful glow around him and that’s a sign if you’ve ever seen one. You’ve always liked Mat best like this - soft and boyish in his features, but relaxed, a kind of comfort you’ve always felt from material things but never from a person.

It makes your heart skip a beat, and distantly you think, maybe this is what you’ll remember in the future - this moment, Mat surrounded by sunlight, soft skin, bed head, and waking you up for breakfast. 

Maybe you’ll remember this exact moment and know, that’s when you realized you’d always be in love with him, and neither of you ever stood a chance at anything different.

[bambi-kinos]

Why do you think Paul keeps saying to this day that John was really sweet. He really wasn't. He treated everyone like shit including Paul. Because he feel he has to? Because he was killed and people made him into something he wasn't? I don't blame John for this ). Or but because he was in love with him and that's what he remembers. John doesn"t deserve it. He's even overrated. Both P and G was/is better. I just don't get how someone like Paul who's a better man, artist and person keeps giving J so much credit. I'm not a new fan of the Beatles or Paul. I really can only see it that he was in love with him.

What else is Paul supposed to do?

Idk man I think Paul is just doing his best with what he has. He's never going to get closure on their relationship. He's never going to get an explanation that satisfies him. So he has to work with what he's got.

You have the wrong end of the stick on this, Paul isn't trying to give John credit that he hasn't earned. Paul is trying to move on from what John did to him by focusing on the good moments and remembering who John was before he was brain damaged by heroin and LSD. If your boyfriend has a TBI that changes his entire personality, is that really your boyfriend anymore? Is he really still himself? These are the questions Paul has wrestled with and it looks like he's realized he's never going to get an answer.

So he's focusing on what he does know which is that the John he knew and fell in love with was a sweet kid who sometimes let his insecurities rule him. But he was still a loving person who cared about Paul and was his closest friend for years.

Furthermore: if John was actually the raging dickhead that the internet thinks he is then he would not have had any friends to begin with. People with truly no redeeming characteristics who are assholes all the time don't get friends who defend them even after they die. The truth is that John was not actually a prick all of the time. Otherwise no one could have stood being around him. Paul calls John sweet because he knew the John that was a sweet guy, the guy that Paul loved.

You're also falling for John's own propaganda a bit. John never stopped projecting the image of being a cynical hard bitten street tough that intimidated everyone into submission with his temper. John occasionally admitted that all of this was an act (see his comments at playacting the Teddy Boy image while not actually being a gang member and why he felt he had to do it.)

But the truth is he never stopped projecting the "I'm an asshole you better not fuck with me" thing. All of this "I'm an irredeemable asshole I hate George and Paul!!!" is pure fakery. The very qualities you don't like were fabricated in large part by Yoko as part of a propaganda campaign, and from what I've read in the Dakota Years memoirs, this propaganda was out of John's control from the moment he started the Lennon Remembers interviews. John is just as much a victim of information warfare as Paul is, he just reacted to it differently and used it to barricade himself away from Paul.

That doesn't mean you have to like John or feel sorry for him or agree with Paul's decisions to try and leave the damage behind. You are reacting to the fact that Paul is visibly in pain when he talks about this stuff. He's bleeding in public and there's nothing no one can do to help him. The wounds are permanent. It is, in fact, rage inducing. John isn't here to speak for himself and try to explain. What else can we do as observers except be angry.

But Paul McCartney is 82 years old.

He's close to the end.

He doesn't want to do that, doesn't have time for it, doesn't want to spend his last years rehashing this shit.

Is there an alternative for him? All he can do now is try to make peace with it while he's alive and then he can finally get closure with John when he moves on to the next stop.

Paul doesn't call John 'sweet' for the sake of John's image. He does it to remind himself of the boy he fell in love with in 1957. Because he doesn't have a lot of time left and he wants to spend it being in love with John, not being angry at him. Paul is doing this for Paul. Simple as.

[quality-on-a-patch-of-awesome]

So here's the Tyler/Scott Twisters idea

Details on how they get together are not exactly solid yet. But it's probably an opposites attract type situation. And I imagine that they still bicker when it comes to work, but when it's just them, they fit together quite well.

Scott thinking that maybe they should just work together then, even knowing the bickering that would continue. And he knows Tyler would never work for Storm Par so he figures him going to the Wranglers makes more sense. He's pretty sure he can get the rest of the team on board.

Tyler panics. Because that would make it really real. Working together as well as dating would get so complicated and what if it doesn't work? And a whole bunch of other fears so he does the stupid thing (that makes sense in his head) and ends things.

Scott overcorrects and goes properly straight laced emotionally closed off corporate guy.

Tyler throws himself into the Wranglers and having all the fun he can with whoever he can find, even though he realises pretty early that he's a fucking idiot and he misses Scott terribly.

Years pass. They don't talk. At least not directly. And they never spend time together alone.

Events of the movie.

Tyler is at the hospital, helping out however he can, when he sees Javi and he's going to go over and say hi, until he notices that he's going into Scott's room. So then he's worrying about Scott and hiding by the door and overhears Scott say something like "I don't even know who I am anymore."

Tyler immediately assumes amnesia and doesn't stick around long enough to find out that actually Scott means that the tornadoes were a huge wake-up call for him and he hates being the straight laced corporate guy he became, even if he is good at his job and he wants to be out of that life.

Tyler in a daze for a few days, worrying and panicking and wondering how he can help. Then he gets himself together enough to go to the hospital, determined to help Scott remember who he is. Except he gets there, whatever memento of their relationship he brought with him clutched in his hands and actually has no idea what to say.

Scott lying there in a hospital bed. Maybe not super injured, but the angst of him still being in the hospital is glorious. He's watching Tyler, who he hasn't seen one-on-one in years now, stumble and stammer through just talking to him and he's not sure what he's supposed to do with that. And he really doesn't know what to say back so he just kind of lays there.

Tyler being sure he's fucked this up again and why would Scott ever want to see him so he flees. Again. But you better believe he drops whatever memento he brought with him so Scott can pick it up after he's gone and be reminded of good times.

Scott wants to talk to Tyler. To figure out what the hell that was at the hospital and also because he's just really fucking missed him. But he's still in the hospital and even if he does manage to get Tyler's number, he's not answering.

Scott eventually gets out of the hospital and he's a man on a mission to find Tyler and make him talk. Easier said than done seeing as Tyler seems to be determined to avoid him. But he eventually tracks him down and confronts him.

Tyler still thinks Scott has amnesia and he doesn't really know what to do with that and he's got the ongoing guilt about how things went down in the first place and how badly he fucked up so he's not really listening until Scott says something that makes him realise that he remembers everything.

Scott probably thinks he could throttle Tyler for being so all over the place with everything and not talking and, fuck, he'd forgotten how frustrating Tyler could be that way.

Tyler is just blown away that Scott still knows everything, knows him, but he's frozen from the shock until Scott turns to leave and he does the only thing he can think of'grab him and drag him into a kiss.

Shock.

Awe.

Surprise.

They should talk about everything before reunion sex. They don't. But I think they should still get to have a huge argument after when they finally talk about everything and admit all their feelings and finally be honest and all that.

It's not going to be easy. Of course it's not going to be easy. But they know what it's like to lose each other and they're determined not to ever do that again.

[olesya1811]

"I was nail gunning my heartbreak out while he was licking crème anglaise off some pastry classmate’s abs."

-Theo Flowerday in "The Pairing"

[thingsirealizedwhen]

i still look for your car at every red light.

things i realized when i admitted that i'm not over you, part VII

[horangboosadan]

2 MINUS 1 | JOSHUA HONG

summary: the one where Joshua wants everyone to think he’s over you but in the end, he can’t even fool himself.

genre: smau, heartbreak, post break-up, gn!reader, songfic, angst, one-shot

bonus: yn may seem fine to joshua, but “the truth is rarely pure and never simple” - Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

boo talks | main masterlist

i tried a one-shot smau bc the longer ones take so much time to write. I hope you like it. its more (bad/sad) vibes than anything else but i love the song 2 minus 1 and it works so well for a story. if you like this, there will be more eventually (which includes longer series when i manage to finish them)

[kjack89]

Oceans Apart

Watched Ocean's 11 last night for the umpteenth time and this popped into my head as I watched the scene where Danny and Tess reunite.

Should probably be part of something larger but like. Context? What context? I don't know her.

Modern AU, E/R, post-breakup. Angst because it's been too fucking long.

Enjolras peered through the windows of the tiny, nondescript restaurant, his heart doing double time in his chest as he saw the back of the man he was looking for. He’d know the hunch of those shoulders anywhere, the way the man’s shirt stretched across a deceptively well-muscled back. Once upon a time, he’d known every inch of the skin beneath that shirt.

But that was years ago. Now…

Now, he straightened, pushed the door to the restaurant open and walked inside like he was supposed to be there, skirting the hostess stand and making a beeline to the man in question, hesitating for only a moment before reaching out to lightly rest a hand on the man’s shoulder.

Grantaire froze before slowly reaching up to cover Enjolras’s hand with his own, and then—

“Fuck,” Enjolras swore, as Grantaire gripped and then twisted his fingers.

Violently.

Grantaire let go without doing any lasting damage, and Enjolras cradled his hand against his chest for a moment, his pride far more wounded than the hand. “Hello to you, too,” he grumbled, even as he drank Grantaire in with eager eyes.

It had been far, far too long.

But Grantaire wasn’t amused. “What are you doing here?” he said, in lieu of a greeting.

Enjolras jerked a shrug, flexing his fingers to make sure they all still worked before dropping his hand to his side. “I got out.”

“You got out,” Grantaire repeated, something incredulous in the three words.

“Of prison,” Enjolras supplied helpfully. “You remember, the day I went for beer and never came back. You must have noticed.”

“You don’t drink,” Grantaire said shortly, followed by an exasperated, “Don’t sit—”

But it was too late, as Enjolras sat down across from him. Almost as if on cue, a waiter appeared at the tableside, looking at them expectantly. “Can I get anything for your…”

He trailed off. “Husband,” Enjolras supplied.

“Ex,” Grantaire corrected. “Or didn’t you get the papers?”

The waiter glanced between them, eyes wide. “I’ll give you two a moment.”

He disappeared as quickly as he had arrived, and Enjolras gave Grantaire a long, measured look. Despite everything, despite, especially, the acrimony that was rolling off of Grantaire in waves, it really was good to see him.

Even if the feeling was, seemingly, not mutual.

“What are you doing here?” Grantaire repeated.

Enjolras sighed and leaned forward. “They say I paid my debt to society,” he started, but Grantaire snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Funny, I never got a check.”

Enjolras gave him a look. “But I felt I owed you a little bit more than just time served,” he continued, and Grantaire scoffed and looked away. “Hence the drop by.”

Grantaire didn’t quite meet his eyes as he reached out to trace a finger through the condensation on his water glass. “How’d you even get parole anyway?” he asked, deliberately casual. “I’d’ve thought domestic terrorism would be an automatic life sentence.”

“I wasn’t convicted for domestic terrorism,” Enjolras said.

“Right, just indicted.”

Grantaire gave him a sharp sort of smile that didn’t remotely reach his eyes, and it was Enjolras’s turn to look away. “So you did keep up with my case,” he said, aiming for levity and missing by a mile. “I wasn’t sure, considering…”

Grantaire jerked a shrug, his smile disappearing. “Well, I did try to visit you once. Turns out I wasn’t included on your approved visitors list.” Enjolras winced, but Grantaire didn’t let him interrupt. “You know, I always told you that you needed to work on your communication in our marriage, but that one I heard loud and clear.”

“That wasn’t—” Enjolras broke off, not sure where to even start explaining why he hadn’t wanted Grantaire to visit him without explaining the rest. He huffed a dry chuckle, running a hand across his mouth before telling Grantaire, a little wryly, “You don't know how many times I played this conversation out in my head the last five years.”

Grantaire just arched an eyebrow. “Did it always go this poorly?” he asked coolly.

“Yes.”

That sharp smile was back, twitching at the corners of Grantaire’s mouth. “Sounds frustrating.”

“You were never easy,” Enjolras told him, honestly. “You were always worth it.” Again Grantaire’s smile disappeared, and for just a moment, he looked—

He looked as heartbroken as Enjolras had never in a million years wanted him to be.

Enjolras cleared his throat and looked away. “Okay, I’ll make this quick,” he said, trying to steer back on subject, if only to try to alleviate the pain in his chest when he saw Grantaire looking like that. “I came here because I wanted to explain.”

His attempt working perhaps too well, as Grantaire’s expression instantly hardened. “What explanation could you possibly have that will matter one iota?”

Enjolras wet his lips before telling him, his voice low, “You may not believe me, and given everything, I don’t blame you for that, but I swear, I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

Grantaire stared at him. “Well, for someone who wasn’t trying, you sure as shit pulled it off with aplomb.” He leaned in, his eyes dark. “So by all means, Apollo, tell me, what were you trying to do?”

Enjolras met his glare evenly. “I was trying to protect you.”

“Bullshit.”

Enjolras shook his head. “It’s not. I didn’t want—”

“And did you ever stop to think about what I wanted?” Grantaire interrupted, his eyes flashing. “Because I didn’t want to be protected, not if that’s what you’re calling the last five years of my life. I wanted us to be together.”

“Pretty hard to be together from a jail cell,” Enjolras said flatly. “As the divorce papers you sent pretty clearly demonstrated.”

Grantaire shook his head. “We could’ve figured something out if you had just, I don’t know, involved me literally once—”

“Involving you would have implicated you,” Enjolras said, his voice tense, “and I couldn’t let that—”

Grantaire barked a laugh, scrubbing his hand across his face. “You think I wasn’t already implicated?” he asked, incredulous. “Tell me, do you think I’m stupid? Or naïve? That I didn’t know what you were doing all that time?”

“I—”

“Because the FBI agents who interrogated me after you were arrested didn’t seem to think so.” Grantaire let that statement sit for a moment before continuing, “We were married. We were living in the same house. Just because I don’t believe in the same Causes you do doesn’t mean I’m a complete moron.”

Enjolras just shook his head. “I never said you were,” he said quietly.

Grantaire’s lip curled. “No, you just decided to cut me out of everything.” He laughed again, dry, humorless. “I mean, hell, I wasn’t even your one phone call when you were arrested.”

He hadn’t been, but it wasn’t because Enjolras hadn’t wanted to call him. But there were multiple moving pieces that needed to fall into place, and— “I didn’t have a choice,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. “You did have a choice, Enjolras. You had a choice, you made it.”

“Fine,” Enjolras snapped, “I made a choice, and I didn’t pick you, and I’m sorry, but that doesn’t mean—”

“It was never about picking me!” Grantaire burst. “Three years of marriage before your arrest and you don’t think I had already figured out where I ranked?”

Enjolras had the sudden realization that everyone in the restaurant was staring at them, so he leaned forward and lowered his voice as he told Grantaire, with every ounce of sincerity he possessed, “And you don’t think I know that if I was in trouble, or in danger, you’d firebomb the fucking Hague to keep me safe?” Grantaire met his eyes evenly, and didn’t bother trying to deny it. “I didn’t want that for you.”

“And all I wanted was to be part of the decision,” Grantaire said tiredly, all of the fight leaving him in an instant, his shoulders slumping in what Enjolras recognized all too well as defeat. “Even if there wasn’t a thing I could say or do to change your mind, I just wanted you to care about me enough to ask.”

With that, he stood, and Enjolras stared up at him. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” Grantaire said shortly, grabbing his coat. “You did it, you should recognize the gesture.”

Enjolras scrambled to follow, trailing after him out of the restaurant. “Grantaire, please, I—”

“You what?” Grantaire asked, stopping so suddenly that Enjolras almost ran into him.

“I still love you,” Enjolras said. He said it simply, starkly, hoping the quiet declaration would reinforce that he meant it. It had been all he had come to say tonight, after all, and even if Grantaire didn’t believe anything else, didn’t believe in anything else, Enjolras needed him to believe this. “You think my choice was about me not caring enough to involve you, but how could I possibly involve you? How could I possibly tell you what was going on knowing that you would immediately put yourself at risk, and all because of me?”

Grantaire shook his head, but Enjolras didn’t let him interrupt. “The only way that I could do what I did was by knowing that you were sage. So even if you never forgive me for it, I did what I had to do to protect you.”

For one long moment, Grantaire just stared at him, and Enjolras held his breath, hoping against hope that maybe, somehow, Grantaire might find a way to forgive him, even just a little. But then Grantaire shook his head, reaching up to wipe the tear from his cheek with the heel of his palm. “Yeah. Well. Right back atcha,” he said his voice hoarse. “Goodbye, Enjolras.”

Watching Grantaire walk away from him hurt more than Enjolras could possibly have anticipated, all the more so when he saw Grantaire meet up with a dark-haired man halfway down the block, grabbing his arm and tugging him in the opposite direction.

Enjolras wasn’t sure he’d ever fully understood what heartbreak felt like before that moment.

He was staring so intently that he didn’t even notice as Combeferre joined him, squinting after Grantaire. “Why is Grantaire with him?” he asked.

Enjolras shook his head. “Pretty sure that’s who he’s seeing now,” he said dully.

“No, I get that,” Combeferre said, glancing sideways at him. “I told you this was a fool’s errand from the get, after all. But why is Grantaire with a Serbian arms dealer?”

Enjolras stared at him. “He—” Grantaire’s parting words replayed in his head, and for the first time all evening, for the first time, if he was being entirely honest, since he’d gotten the divorce papers mailed to his jail cell without so much as a note, he felt a spark of something flicker in his chest: hope.

“He’s doing what he has to do to protect me.”

[touch-starved-lurker]

i wonder what you think of me.

we used to talk so much.

were you pushing yourself to do it?

why don't you talk as much now?

i remember how important texting first was to you, you mentioned it once as we talked of something.

ive texted first at least ten times in the past week.

i remember your reasons. i remember your silence.

is talking to me too hard now?

i remember you saying that you were really sure now that you didnt want to date anyone at all, that trying had only messed you up.

i hate the thought that ive ever hurt you, with anything i've ever done.

the thought sticks like a choking cough.

[hellcheerficdatabase]

White Snow

Author: @gingertumericlemon

Rating/warning: Explicit, referenced ED

Chapter Count: 6/? (Part 2 of Spirit Stick series)

Description:

1986: Eddie's on the make in LA. Chrissy's in Seattle. They're young and in love up and down the West Coast!

1989: Eddie and Chrissy reunite in Hawkins after two years apart during the strange liminal days between Christmas and New Year's.

What happened then, what happened in between, and what happens next.

A story about growing up.

Tags: Alternate Universe- no vecna, future fic, true love, post break up, smut, angst, fluff, Eddie is becoming famous, character study, second chances, reuniting, alternating POV, multiple chapters, part of a series, status: WIP

[gallavichfanficlibrary]

hi! do you know of any fics where Mickey isn’t in prison in season 6 or 7? Like ones where he’s basically written into the canon for those seasons instead of in prison or the escape plot??

Hi! :) Here you go, four great fics:

Joy of rediscovering you - Mickey never went to prison and he is completely written into the canon of S6.

to stop our hearts from drowning - Mickey gets out of prison six months after being arrested for a crime he didn't actually commit.

to think that we could stay the same - Mickey gets out in a few days after the break up, because there's no evidence.

when the party's over 'verse series - they let Mickey out of jail after 12 hours and he doen't want to run back to Ian. Mickey is written into the canon of S6.

[cluelesspigeons]

This is written for the song ‘Save your tears’ by The Weeknd from @drarrymicrofic

Word count: 159

Drarry microfic: staring

Draco stood at the other side of the room, talking to a man Harry didn’t know. Their eyes had met once before, at the beginning of the evening. But ever since, Draco hadn’t even glanced in Harry’s direction.

But Harry couldn’t help his staring. Even if he tried so hard not to. When he saw Draco lean closer to the man he was talking with, however, involuntary tears filled Harry’s eyes. Draco’s hand curled around the man’s neck, that sweet, sweet smile playing around those familiar lips. They were mere inches apart, still Harry couldn’t look away.

Only when their lips touched, and Draco pressed his body closer to the man, did Harry finally turn his head, more tears running down his face. This was stupid. He was stupid. He should have known better.

Before he even realised what he was doing, he was already running, trying to get as far away from his broken heart as he could.

Prompt from March 10th

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[hitellie]

✨ I’ll be talking about my weight/weight loss in this post as a warning to moots/viewers. ✨

-

-

At the end of March of this year, I weighed 218 lbs.

With the break up, I decided to start drinking water over sugar filled drinks and eating portioned/balanced. The result of that obviously was I started to lose weight. I documented the journey in this app I downloaded and used pics I took of my scale on Snapchat to fill in some gaps.

As of July 31st, I weighed in at 183.7 lbs. I have lost a total of 36.3 lbs in a matter of 3 months as of that date.

I am going to weigh myself tomorrow morning and give an update because I was walking in from laundry and I noticed how tiny my thighs look to me compared to 3.5 months ago.

I would absolutely say I definitely had a glow up.

[keyarel]

Is it over now? prompt

Venti/Xiao

Tags: Drabble, Angst, Post-Break up, for xiaoven week 2024

Originally posted on X (formerly Twitter).

—

Returning to an empty home is an occurrence foreign to Xiao. He’d announce his arrival, waiting for an excited greeting from the one person he sees his future with—then, with a growing sour feeling in his chest, none would come but a deafening silence that Xiao is yet to be accustomed to.

This feeling, this situation, the absence of the one person he’d love to hear from again… it’s so awful that Xiao has the urge to vomit up the feelings he’d bottled up inside him. He’d wish, on a daily basis, that this is only a nightmare and not the reality he’s living in. But all he can do is go to bed and relive the feeling all over again—today, tomorrow, on another day—with every reminder showing up at every corner.

(The mug he uses in the morning. The scent of the fabric softener whenever he dries his clothes. The channel he’d subconsciously switch to. The forgotten clothes that are too small to fit him.)

Venti ought to have cheated instead. Perhaps Xiao would be able to move on quite quickly, resenting him and never looking back.

But Venti didn’t.

One day, he’d woken up with the knowledge that he had fallen out of love, leaving Xiao to drown in the wake of it. Never moving on, always asking if it is over now.

—

ao3

ko-fi page

commissions

twitter

[saiikavon]

“Loretta” by ginger root :)

(Sorry this took me a bit, but thank you for the prompt!)

"I don't get you, Kaiba."

He didn't mean to say it out loud. Out loud meant a confrontation, and they'd had what should have been the final one a month ago, followed by a media storm that saw their already-burning relationship reduced to ashes.

Jounouchi would carry the scars forever. He didn't want to add to them.

He wasn't sure what to expect out of Kaiba, after, but he still expected...more. Some backlash following the argument, or else a complete shutdown. Not...this. Not for Kaiba to reset himself and essentially go back to the way things were before they got together.

Same banter. Same disdainful looks. Same level of acknowledgement. Same damn posture as Kaiba turned to respond to the offhand comment, same frown pulling at his lips.

"There's a surprise. I'll wager there isn't much you do get."

"See, that's what I mean! Every time I think you're done getting into my head, you find some new way to mess with me, and I - I don't know how to - god." Jounouchi ran a hand through his hair. "How do you act like this? Like we never happened?"

Kaiba tilted his head, eyes narrowing. Like he was trying to figure out Jounouchi's angle, as if he'd ever had one.

"It's called 'moving on,' deadbeat. I suggest you try it sometime."

He didn't stay to hear another response, and Jounouchi wondered if he was just imagining the hollowness to his steps as he walked away.

[bts-fic-collection]

Hi can you recommend me some Jikook angst fics ??

I love HEAVY ANGST ,Heartbreak,exes is also okay for me.

Make me cry😕

I can indeed! :)

somebody you can lean on by tuesdead

Rating: G

Status: Complete

Word count: 6,723

Summary: Jimin has been really distant with the boys over the last few weeks, and Jungkook can't take it anymore: he needs to get to the bottom of this.

Knock On My Door (It's Always Open For You) by CaseyLove

Rating: M

Status: Complete

Word count: 30,000

Summary: Jimin’s heart is nothing but collateral damage in the wake of Jungkook’s charm.

Even after all this time, Jimin’s heart still thuds in his chest a little harder, a little faster, every time he does something even remotely attractive. But after blindly loving Jungkook for seven years, he finally comes face to face with a reason to give up on his unrequited love once and for all.

Or, in which Jungkook always visits Jimin when he’s lonely, and everything changes when their extended vacation is announced and Jimin starts pulling away from Jungkook to overcome his feelings.

I still love you, I promise by Potatogirrrl

Rating: M

Status: Complete

Word count: 37,456

Summary: “Jeongguk,” Jimin whispered in a tone so kind that Jeongguk thought he might suffocate. “I’m so sorry.” Those three words managed to make the taller man’s smile falter but before the blond could continue, that seemingly happy expression was back in place. “I wish –”

“Congratulations on your engagement, Jimin-ah,” Jeongguk cut in, not wanting to hear the rest of that sentence. Frankly, he couldn’t care less about apologies so when he saw the man in front of him nod and turn around on his heels, he felt his whole body relaxing.

It has been five years since they last saw each other – five years in which he did his best to dodge any possibility of meeting Jimin. Whatever gods made that man walk inside his café during the opening day sure had a wicked sense of humor so he found himself chuckling dryly as he dragged a smoke from his just-lit cigarette. He pressed his back against the backdoor entry just before tears started to prickle his eyes, Jimin’s words ringing in his ears over and over again.

There were days in which he wished they had never met at all.

OR

The story in which Jimin and Jeongguk learn to believe in second chances ♡

[starrnobella]

Title: Anchorage

Written for thescarletphoenixx

Quote: “I don’t know what else I could do to convince you that I really did love you at one point.”

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov

Rated General Audience

Summary: Anchorage: (n.) the desire to hold on to time as it passes, like trying to keep your grip on a rock in the middle of a river, feeling the weight of the current against your chest while your elders float on downstream, calling over the roar of the rapids, “Just let go—it’s okay—let go.”

When Steve and Bucky lose communications with Natasha on a mission, Natasha is flooded with the memories of a time where she and Steve were more than just good friends.

Word Count: 981

Links:

FFN:  https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14199024/1/Falling-Starrs-Anchorage 

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45085372