#So it wasn’t just bc of the name behind the art

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 Country Honey

 ♡ featuring: ranchhand!toji x richgirl!reader

 ♡ synopsis: a spoiled, wealthy college senior is forced to spend her summer at her father’s rural farm as punishment for her reckless behavior and slipping academic performance. unbeknownst to her, a bigger storm awaits just around the corner.

 ♡ wc: 16.5k+ (AHHHHHH)

 ♡ cw/tw: afab!reader, enemies to lovers if you squint, hurt/comfort kinda sad toji, feral toji, spanking, overstimulation, edging, sadism/masochism, throat fucking, cock worship, m/f receiving, doggy style, degradation kink, brat taming, dumbification, reader is a spoiled brat a lot of the time

notes: oh god, where do i begin...i know ive been gone for so long. firstly i want to apologize, and secondly ill explain my absence in a second post. not proofread so i apologize, honestly i shouldnt have tried a long fic for my comeback bc it took way too long to finish, but either way i hope you all enjoy! art by moonlessoul on ig! comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡

“Almost there.” 

The sleek luxury car your dad drives grumbles at a rocky pace over an evidently gravelly road. If you can even call it a road—rather the patchy fragments of flattened dirt eroded by heavy traffic from a forgotten time. It’s a path shrouded by southern live oak, canopying its leaves and spearing sharp rays of summer daylight through the sunroof.  

You’re feeling every second of this bumpy ride. The wheels hop over an unsteady rock and your knees jab into your sternum. You’re pressed into an unfortunate position, with your legs pinched to your chest and the bright pink suitcase you insisted on bringing sandwiching you to the leather seat. You struggle to wiggle to a decent side that spares your sweltering face from the sun, but the other seats are also occupied with your luggage. And the front seat. And the trunk. 

Maybe that’s why you were brought here in the first place. You’re well off to a sickening amount and you’ve made no efforts to conceal your wealth. Your dad sacrificed his golden years to foster an agricultural business in the rural south, and now you reap the rewards of his labor. You know it and spend it as such. You’ve collected a textbook of names throughout the years—spoiled, bratty, coddled, pompous—each insult savored more than the last. You embraced being a spoiled rich girl and all it had to offer. Top notch schools, waitlisted parties, designer bags, and just about any opportunity you could get your greedy hands on.  

High school left like the wind and before you knew it, the 4.0 extracurricular weapon you used to be devolved into a nightlife college senior, more invested in the extravagant yacht parties than your academic probation. It was a risky misstep, but you didn’t have the heart to care when your dad could easily pay your way to graduation. At this rate you’d be a couple years behind your peers. Your dad wasn’t having any of it. 

The festivities stopped. No unlimited debit card and especially no spending. This could possibly be your final senior summer, and instead of celebrating with friends you’re making up for your transgressions. The worst part is the rural retreat he’s currently driving you to with no sign of civilization for miles.  

You could die right now. 

“How much longer?” You drawl on the last syllable, flicking your phone on and off in hopes that a bar or two will magically appear in the top right. He glances at you through the rearview mirror, a tinge of southern, "Just a few more minutes.”  

You let you phone fall from your limp hand and lean your head against the open window. Nothing but ancient trees and the occasional berry bush. You’re not sure if you should be more upset by the consequences of your actions or the actual actions that roped you into this mess. Instead of ruminating on your mistakes, you allow your eyelids to droop in the oppressive warmth. 

“We’re here darling.” Your eyes shoot open. So soon, and surely not after the forest you’d been traversing moments ago. You’re able to scoot up more, the sound of stone-pathed roads rattling in your ears. You tuck your knees underneath you and lift yourself up now that the terrain was smoother, poking your torso out the window. A bane of light strikes you immediately, and you blink away its brilliance to reveal crystal blue skies. 

Your mouth shapes an ‘O’, and you push your designer glasses over your forehead. “...No way” you gawk, taken by the view your father cultivated. 

This is nothing like the previous tunnel, and certainly nothing like the skyscrapers you’ve grown accustomed to. It’s an endless expanse disrupted by stone and crowded with overgrown wheat, bobbing in the mild breeze. They travel up the winding hill, ducking under wooden fences to border the farmhouse. The two-story ivory home exudes simplicity, strung with hanging pothos that wrap around the spacious porch and decorative shuttered windows painted like strawberries. From your limited view you notice the large red wooden barn peeking out behind the house, and a dirt trail leading to productive areas; a small stable, cattle, and other farm animals coexist in a sector made for their comfort. Beside the home is the largest Magnolia tree you’ve ever seen, with branches extending over the pitched, fabled roof and overhanging eaves with sweeping petals. It’s purposefully overgrown and homely, a humble size incomparable to the mansion you were raised in. 

Your father pulls up to the oak gate with a tattered sign overhead: Welcome to Pleasantview Farms.  

The lack of security, never mind the lack of extravagance, is astonishing to you. It’s unexpected of your father—the man that required you have a designated butler all throughout secondary school. “You never told me about all this” you yell from outside the window, still gazing at distant rolling hills of dewy grass. “You never asked” he chuckles, and turns onto another hill leading up to the house. You look beneath you; patches of flowering weeds fighting their way past the pavement. 

He parks in an open plot half occupied by a wheelbarrow, packed to the brim with haybales. “We’re here.” He turns the car off and steps out to open your side. Your luggage slams onto the dirt before you do, and you yelp.  

“No, it’s gonna get dirty!” He laughs and brushes specs of soil off your precious bag. “And if it does, you’ll be alright pumpkin.” You groan and attempt to get out without sacrificing your hot pink slides, when your first foot gives into silt. You scream and stumble onto dry earth, leaving your phone behind to *splat* in the mud. You kick off the mud barely clinging to your shoes until you catch a glimpse of your glittery phone charm on the floor. It takes you a second to process the mud-covered device slowly descending, but when your brain synapses finally link, you expel an ear-shattering shriek. To which your dad stifles a smile at the dramatic performance. 

He picks it up and wipes the debris on his ivory shirt. “One more reason for you not to have it” he says and tucks it away in his pocket while you’re struck with a permanent look of horror. 

The front door swings open, and you turn to see a thin older woman. Slightly older than your father, her face is gentle and creased with living. Her hair fades from light gray to dark brown at the very tips, tied neatly into a bun with a coiled band. She removes her pale-yellow gloves and stuffs them into the back pocket of her bleached trousers, jogging up to you. “Good afternoon, Annie” he smiles, and she stretches a wide grin that nearly shuts her eyes. “Hello, sir. Is everything alright?”  

“Yup, just kids being kids” he snickers and plants both hands on either side of your shoulders. “This is my daughter.” 

“Good afternoon” you meek, devastated and contemplating the status of your phone. She audibly gasps and grabs your hands, and you jolt. “You’re even more beautiful in person. I’ve heard so much about you.” It’s like she’s studying your face with the way she gazes into your eyes, to which they fall onto your cheeks and hair. You’re not one to shy away from flattery, but the direct compliments spread embarrassment across your ears. 

“Keep her company while I get these from the car, will you? Maybe show her around.” She nods, and leads you on an impromptu tour through the house.  

“There isn’t much to see ‘round here, but I’ll try to make it interestin’ for ya” she jokes. The entryway is quaint, keeping nothing but rubber boots covered in dirt and farming tools used for today’s workload. “This where we keep what we need for today. S’just better to pick it up from the front.” You nod.  

Further in, the hallways are decorated with baby pictures of you at various photoshoots. On the left side, she shows you a pastel green kitchen embellished with colorful floral paintings above the handles. Annie talks with her hands, “This is my domain. Damn near painted the whole thing. Took a lot of convincin’, but I got it eventually.”  

“Do you live here?” you questioned. “We all do!”  

“All?” 

“Mhm”, she hums, “Me, Terrace, Lionel, and...” she trails off at the end. You’re surprised that they’re living where they work, and even more surprised that she’s all smiles while doing it. “Do you...like living here?” 

“Of course! Pays well, lots'a vacation time, and everything’s compensated.” You tilt your head slightly, “Where do you guys' sleep?” 

“We got our own place out back, all of us. Sweet deal, huh?” she says, patting your back. “And who was the other person that works here?” you ask. 

Annie waves off the idea, stating “You don’t have to worry ‘bout him, he’s not really the talkin’ type.” 

Perhaps it was her bluntness or her motherly cadence, but you quickly became comfortable with her presence dragging you around like a lost puppy. She showed you the living room that appeared to be vomited on by all things antique and vintage, and the bathroom tiled an ugly orange pattern. She led you outside, where a garden blossoming with peonies and hibiscus was trimmed carefully to adorn the pebbled path and fit around the barn. Far-out past the back gate you saw what you assumed was their living quarters, separated from miles of tillage. 

By the time she finished her grand tour, you made it upstairs together to regroup with your dad. The second floor was reserved for your bedrooms and attached bathrooms. Entering your room, there’s nothing special about it. It seems like your dad attempted to buy things similar to your style, but couldn’t quite figure it out. You weren’t expecting much of anything considering this was your first—and most likely last—time being here, but it’s truly mediocre. “Whaddaya think pumpkin?”  

“I love it” you choke out a lie and plop onto the red plaid bedding. Your luggage is lined up by the dresser, and you have quite the unpacking session awaiting you. Annie leans on the doorway. “I’ll let ya get settled in. We can do more in the morning.” Your dad leaves with her, and when you’re left alone stewing in the reality, you fall back onto the comforter. 

One day is entertaining, you’d even call it an enjoyable experience. But the entire summer? You spend the rest of the day emptying out suitcase after suitcase, and turn in under the heavy blankets starving off a midnight chill. 

You’re up before the crack of dawn, contemplating what you’ll wear as if that matters while you’re shoveling shit and carrying chicken feed. You throw on something impractical either way—a plaid button up tied to crop, tight denim shorts, and a brand new pair of shiny cowboy boots you just couldn’t resist buying when the trip was announced. You stomp your way to the back porch and are immediately hit with the bittersweet scent of humid pastures and last night’s rain within the tepid wind. It’s utterly quiet besides the distant echo of cattle and pigs, cicadas humming an airy tune. Your eyes latch onto the barn, slightly parted with a dim light going on the inside.  

You recall what Annie said to you during the tour when you asked what’s in the barn: “I suggest you leave it alone, nothin’ worth lookin’ at in there.” Her clear avoidance intrigued you, and the more she dodges actual answers the more curious you become. You tread carefully on the path so you don’t alert whoever or whatever’s inside. As you plant one weightless foot over the other, you stop.  

A deep, gritty voice; thick like the bark of an ancient redwood. He grunts then *chop*, followed by something solid rolling on a prickly surface. Another thick groan and another *chop*. You get closer to the barn and slide across it, practically dragging yourself against Annie’s wishes.  

*Chop* 

You clutch the side of the parted door. 

*Chop* 

You peak your head in. The two story barn houses an array of soils and tools used for farming on the bottom, and clumps of hay piled high at the top. 

The older man with a mop of inky hair hangs his head low, honed in on the objective beneath him. The sharp end of the axe steadies above his head, then cuts through the air as it lands deep within the stump. He goes for another swing, beads of sweat meandering between his pecs, down the carved muscle of his abdominal and disappearing below his chiseled v-line. He digs his thick calloused fingers into the crevice and splits it. It’s as if his physique was crafted by careful hands, weaving marble like silk only Roman gods could mimic. 

Your entirely distracted by the unexpected scene before you when the silence is cut by a clatter. His breaths are sharp and purposeful as he kicks it off the stand and trudges to the uncut pile of logs. You watch him with wandering eyes, taking mental notes of scars hiding underneath the fine hair spread across his torso. This isn’t the grumpy old man you imagined when Annie spoke so brazenly about him. 

He hasn’t glanced at you once, despite standing right in front of the post he’s chopping on. It’s slightly aggravating. You’ve never had to ask for anyone’s attention before. You bathed in wealth, just enough to make even the snobbiest trust-fund kid turn his head. He must be blind. So, you wait until he comes to his senses, tapping your foot with your arms crossed over your chest.   

And you do that...for a while. More than a few minutes pass, and you’re still standing here. You stir in the silence and methodical chopping, feeling flustered at how needy you look waiting for a man's response. A piece of wood—more important than you? Impossible. In a last-ditch attempt, you clear your throat rather dramatically. Nothing. A log rolls by your foot and the older man walks up to you only to kneel down and grab the wood before going back to his task. Heat creeps onto your cheeks. Are you fucking kidding me?  

“Are you hard of hearing, mister?” you finally ask, batting your eyelashes at him. It’s a deep contrast to the irritation boiling in your stomach, so much so you have to choke back the vulgar words bubbling at the surface.  He glimpses you with frosted olive eyes and swings the axe over his head. In a mild country accent he replies, “No.”  

“...Oh.” You’re struck with palpable quiet once again. You’re fixed to the floor, struggling with something to say that doesn’t start with ‘fuck you’. As you’re about to open your mouth, he speaks.  

“Heard ya the first time.  If ya wanna talk, use your words.” You stare in utter disbelief. Was it audacity or straight stupidity? You can’t imagine anyone disrespecting their employer’s child, let alone commanding them.   

“Excuse me?” He tosses the last log in the pile.  

“Hm? Should I do it in a way you’ll understand?” he brings his fist to his lips, clearing his throat as you did.  There’s a glint through that frost, the twinkle of an obvious shit-stirrer. You’re pissed no doubt, but the corner of your lip twitches at a challenge. 

The most important tool to a wealthy family is humility. You can’t be too self-centered or prideful to strangers, dropping hints of sugary kindness as to not sour your perception. Perception is truly everything. Even so, the flowered words you’ve been taught to wield with grace wilt at the sight of him. 

“Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, huh?” You scoff, plopping down on the stump. He wipes his dirt-dusted hands on the back of his overalls, straps dangling at his thighs. “Not sure what ya mean.” 

“From what I’m getting, you’re a grumpy asshole. That description sound correct?” 

“‘M only an ass when trust-fund kids call me like I'm a dog.” 

“You know, the way Annie talks about you I thought you’d be some geriatric old man on his death bed! Turns out you’ve still got a couple more months in you—congrats!” 

He laughs, “‘Preciate it. If I’m correct you must be papa’s spoiled little brat from the big city?” 

“Mhm. Don’t worry, this was your first offense so I’ll let it slide. Remember to get on your knees when you apologize.” He pretends to ponder the idea, “Think I’ll pass. You can pick up one ‘o them bags up though and bring ‘er up to the field.” 

You pause for a second, blinking. Instantly you double over with snorting laughter, the kind that tints your face and gathers tears at your lashes. You’re even clutching your stomach from how funny it is. When you come up from your fit, he’s there with his arms crossed under his chest. That’s when you realize he wasn’t joking by any means. You gape in disbelief, a chuckle still caught in your throat. 

“Wait…you’re serious?” He walks over to one of the sacks and tosses it at your feet. “Well, get to work. I’ll show ya where to put it.” You purse your lips when a giggle slips, “Do you really think that’s gonna happen? Must be the age catching up with your brain.” 

“I think it is gonna happen cause yer in my area. If you wanna be here, you’re gonna work. Nothin’s free ‘round these parts.” You hop off the stump and stand in front of him. Unfortunately, your attempt to size him up fails as your crane your neck to meet his gaze. “You can’t make me do anything. In fact, this is my property, and you’re here to do your job. So go do it” you terse. 

“Nah, that’s not how this works. You’re on the farm now, not some bullshit country club you go to on weekends. Take yer ass to that bag and pick it up.” 

You feign a pout, “Isn’t a pretty girl in your presence enough hard work already?” 

“Not when she has so much mouth. The pretty ones know how to shut up.” 

“I wouldn’t have so much mouth if you didn’t back talk.” He gets in close, only inches away from your face. 

“Either go pick flowers, whatever girly shit you do, or do what I tell you to do.” 

“I’ll tell my dad you’re forcing me into manual labor.” 

“Aww, go ahead” he mocks with a smirk. He walks towards the door, wrapped in golden sunlight. Curious, you try tugging on the sack and nearly face-plant over the weight of it. There’s no way he expects you to carry it on your own. He turns back around, laced with mirth. 

“By the way, name’s Toji. Welcome home, sweetheart.” 

“Go do it yourself since you’re so good at it! You egotistical, selfish, brutish-” 

“Pompous ass instigatin’ little-” 

“-Callous disrespectful pig!” 

“-Brat.”  

The words topple over themselves and you both can’t get a full sentence in as insults are hurled like physical objects. The few days you’ve spent on the farm so far have been nothing short of hell, specifically around Toji. You’ve never worked this hard in your life; then again, that’s not saying much. He'd disregard your lack of general strength and enthusiasm. Sometimes he’d hold the underside of the bag to take some of the weight off, to which you often added “why don’t you just grab the whole damn thing?” A smirk and curt response were simply “Nope.” 

Most days you merely dragged a few bags to the pick-up truck and spent the rest of the day lounging around the garden. You’d stumble into the kitchen, a bead of sweat barely manifesting on your brow, and complain to Annie about Toji’s evil plan to make you contribute. 

Today is no different and you laze on the chair with your back bent over it, groaning in theatrical agony. Annie sits across from you funneling blueberry muffin batter into a silver muffin tin. “Yea, yea, I hear ya” she jokes.  

“Annie, do something” you drawl. She throws her hands up, “Can’t. Thats on you, now.” You scrape the side of the bowl and pop a blueberry-dipped finger in your mouth.  

“Don’t eat raw egg, hun” she says, turning her back to put the tray in the oven. You unconsciously take another swipe, then the door swings open. Heavy cowboy boots trail to the kitchen, and you glance at the doorway. Toji leans on it with his hands in his pockets, white tank sprinkled with grass blades.  

“Shit” you mumble.  

“’M lookin for ya and here you are stuffing your face.” 

“The girl neva worked a day in her life an’ you want her to be your assistant” Annie jests.  

“’S about time, ain’t it? We’re not done yet. C’mon.” You let out another reluctant groan and follow behind him. “This is bullshit, nobody does this on a normal day.” 

“Yea, nobody you know.” 

In front of the wheelbarrow bags upon bags are filled to the brim with juicy red apples and the truck is just a few feet away. Your eyebrow twitches imagining the weight in your arms. “You can go fuck yourself if you think-” before you can finish your sentence, a bag is dropped into your arms that briefly sends you to the ground. Toji picks up two and flings them over his back. “What? Too weak?” He walks to the truck, ignoring the glare burning holes in the back of his head. Too weak, my ass. You definitely couldn’t beat him in a fight, but you damn sure wouldn’t let him talk down on you after proving your competence. You pull it up and haul it backwards, not without a few mild choice words. 

“Jerk.” 

The pungent odor of slurry and trough feed overcome any habitable air near the pig farm. The clothespin you have clamped around your nose barely blocks the smell. It’s the middle of the day, rays rippling heat off the stench and sending it for miles. Your cowboy boots struggle to sit upright on the uneven terrain blanketed with mud.  

You don’t dare to open your mouth and complain in fear of it invading your sinuses. It’s your fault for nagging endlessly about the “back-breaking” work Toji forced you to do. your criticisms were met with some rendition of “suck it up”, and arguing only went in circles. Consistent arguing—from the moment you woke up to the last minutes of your shift, where you mouthed off one too many times for his liking. When you threatened to find another shift with someone else, he laughed in your face, a “good luck” drowning in derision.  

 Eventually Terrace got word of your grievances and offered part of his work to you. You accepted too soon without consulting Annie, happy to just rub it in Toji’s face that he’d be on his own carrying the bags. Simply the concept of it—Toji hunched over and covered in sweat with heaps of cargo—satiated your pride, and you’d count the days until he groveled and begged for your help again. 

Except that’s not the case. As you fight the urge to sink into the mud a seed of regret grows in a more reasonable part of your mind. You could ask for your position back, where he’d probably be waiting with that shit-eating grin of his and “I told you so” written all over his face. Or you could be stubborn and prove whatever point you’re trying to make. Stupidly headstrong, you swallow the urge to vomit and plod into the pig pen.  

The squelch of damp earth and God-knows-what underneath your boots is enough to make you sick. You’re balancing two full buckets of pigswill on either side of you, resisting the lack of steadiness that causes you to lean unfavorably. It’s no help that there’s filthy pigs all around you, snorting and trotting along. One bumps into the bucket and you shriek; your foot goes airborne and impending doom flashes before your eyes. Luckily, you gain stability and plant it firmly into the ground with an awful bubbling noise. The mess has soiled your boots coming up to your calves, and you frantically check for mud-to-skin contact. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, but it’d definitely be the end of your day. Suddenly, a whistle from the other side of the wooden fence grabs your attention. 

“Go on then, pig queen!” Toji yells, elbows propped on the edge. His accent gets thicker when he yells. He’s not affected by the smell in the slightest, and it almost looks like he’s breathing in extra hard to taunt the shortage of oxygen reaching your brain. 

“Fuck you!” you yell in a nasally tone. He adjusts his cowboy hat, “I’d focus on what’s in front of ya. Wouldn’t wanna slip in shit, right?” You scoff and continue to the troughs.  

You can’t imagine how Terrace, let alone anyone does it—from the constant clamor of livestock to sinking in pools of muck for hours. There’s dirt on your knees, clothes, in places you never imagined dirt could reach. The pigs seem excited as you place the pails on the rim, whereas you exert a long sigh for the fulfilled trek. They come running in unison as if something triggered in their brains, pushing past each other to get there first. Once they’re emptied, a partial weight lifts from your shoulders. You shoot an arrogant sneer at Toji, and watch the corner of his scar tip up just a little. You’re still pinned to the side, and a wet snout gently prods your exposed leg. It tickles and you laugh at its cluelessness. “Hey, I’m not on the menu.”  

As you slither out the crowd, a sneaky puddle attempts to take you out. You cling to the embarrassment, to Toji standing right there ready to mock you. You won’t give him the satisfaction. From there you take careful steps, one cautious foot after the other. Toji meets you around the entrance, and you’re about to reach the gate. You’re oozing confidence now; you might even brag to your father about the effortlessness of it all, that living on a farm is nothing, that you were able to accomplish anything— 

Slip. Crash! 

You’re knocked clean off your ass, so fast it doesn’t register until a few blinks pass. You hold a breath and the blurriness fades.  

Brown. It’s on your face.  

It’s truly everywhere—mud sloshing around in your boots, seeping into your clothes, sticking to the crevices, your fingers intertwined in the mass below.  

The emotion you try to stifle boils over into a horrified squeal, a tune that exceeds the pigs. And you scream and scream. Once for the mud and twice for the death of your designer boots. You’re so entwined in your own screams that you barely catch the laughter a few feet away.  

It’s him, doubled over with a practically red face. “I get you wanna be one of the pigs but you don’t hafta roll in it too!” Toji chortles. He can’t contain himself, wiping the tears on his glove. 

Your ears feel hot. “Shut the fuck up and get me out of here!” 

“Relax, relax. Gimmie a second.” The footsteps get further away, and you stumble to the gate to open. It doesn’t matter now that the damage is done, and you look like some terrifying swamp monster from myth. The lower half of you could only be concocted in a child's nightmares. 

Something snakes in the trampled grass, then it pauses. “Here.” Sooner than you can turn your head, you’re blasted with water. It rains on you like a thundershower and you cover your face from the assault. Denim weighs heavy, and your hair sticks to your face. You feel the dirt washing off, but now you’re soaked in a mixture of water and sodden debris. Wet, you’re spitting out water and treating your fingers like windshield wipers. The hose finally drops, and your eyes trail from the hand to the face.  

That shit-eating grin. 

“No need to thank me, miss piggy.” 

Your lip twitches. Should you kill him? Absolutely. Is it worth it? In this moment, yes. You’re doused, dirty, nose blind, and no longer hanging on to your act of humility. You have to get him back, at least once. It doesn’t matter if you have to wait all summer for it, creeping in doorways for the perfect time to demean him. There’s no level playing field—either your way or nothing. A smile stretches across your face. 

“You’re so right, darling. Now let me show you just how much I appreciate you.” You saunter to him, and he awaits with open arms. Before he can grab you, you dodge him and snatch the hose from the ground.  

Aim and fire, full force directly at his face. The blast knocks his hat off and into the air, swaying in the balmy breeze. His arm falls short of snatching it, plopping into the pen to blend with shit. You can’t hear the muffled curses he spouts, but damn is it satisfying to silence him. Then he reaches for you to which you promptly escape his span. You take time hosing down any remaining dry spots, and once the hose is down, he launches. You yelp and return to his face, and the abruptness makes him slip. Right into the mud you just shook off, he lands butt-first. It splatters his cargo pants and creates polka dot patterns on the white tank stretching to accommodate his frame. “You little-” 

Another burst of water. He tries to stand on slippery foundation and quickly falls, earth splashing back on him. You understand why he was laughing so hard and you can’t stop giggling at the misery of inescapable rain showers.  

“Looks like you needed some too! I can smell you from here!” you laugh. His snicker comes off more conniving than it should, and you brace for whatever hell you’ll have to pay later. He bolts up, and you make a run for it. Just when he thinks he has you, he slips again.  

“Poor grandpa! Someone get his life alert!” you cackle, dropping the hose and sprinting for the hills. You’re too afraid to turn around when you know for a fact he is mere feet away from capturing you. You cut through air, nothing but crumpling grass and laughter carried by the wind. It’s exhilarating...fun?  

You're confused by your own actions. You smell horrible, your hair is sticky, disgusting slop clings to you like a second skin, the sun is only baking the scent, and your self-proclaimed rival is chasing you.  

You should be mortified, and somehow, you’ve never felt better. 

Motes of dust scatter within the golden hue of mornings wake. The window’s cracked open, and remnants of last night's chill carry through sunrise. You’ve sat in this claw tub for way too long, melting in steam and lavender bubbles that slowly dissipate the longer you linger. A self-care day is what you need, especially after the “incident” that still makes your skin crawl weeks later. Simply your mud mask, waning candles, and rustling leaves. It’s rare you get silence like this nowadays, with Toji constantly on your back bickering about trivial problems.  

You can’t place your finger on what bothers you more, or if you’re really even bothered at all. Ironically, spending more time mulling over what you hate than actually hating him. You can mouth your contempt for him endlessly like an affirmation on deaf ears, but it never truly manifests.  

He’s annoying, selfish, crude, and disrespectful. 

Oh, and did I mention very annoying? 

It’s almost a bonding experience between you two; you’ve memorized the way his lips curve before a snarky remark, the deep crease on one side of his eyebrow when they furrow at something stupid you unintentionally did, his jaw clenching from held back words. His laugh—deep and resounding, unleashing a toxic mix of vomit and thrill in your stomach. You anticipate it, practice your insults in the shower for it, as if...you’re actually looking forward to it? 

You steep further into the fragrant bath, hoping you’ll somehow be sucked into an alternate reality where you don’t have to face those conflicting emotions. To your displeasure, the conflict is brought directly to you.  

A roaring engine disrupts your personal spa, and you jolt up. It sounds like a monster truck convention decided to congregate right below your bathroom window, and you definitely can’t relax under these conditions. You loosely wrap the towel around yourself and peer out over the windowsill. You can’t see a face, but you see that distinct cowboy hat stained over its silver conchos. 

“Hey!” you yell. No response, but how could you expect him to when the hood is propped up. He must be wrenching something inside judging by the way his back muscles methodically tighten. 

“HEY!”  

“TOJI!” That gets his attention and he squints above, wrench still in hand. “Oh! What are ya doing there?” 

“This is my bathroom you idiot!” 

He pans between the vehicle and your window. “Oops!” 

“Turn it off, I’m trying to have my beauty bath in peace!” 

  “Welp, can’t do anything about that now, can we?” He makes no attempt to turn it off, nor does he give you any more attention as he turns around and resumes working like nothing happened. 

You run downstairs completely haggard, mud mask hardly washed off with a pair of mismatched socks and a baggy shirt. The rumbling gets louder, and you don’t have the patience for appearances when you step into those clod-smeared boots.  

The screen door swings open and you march to the side of the house, towel bunched in your arms. 

He doesn’t regard you until you launch it at his face, which he promptly catches without looking. “Thanks, needed somethin’ to dry off.” He wipes the oil streaks from his face and neck while you stand there scowling. His eyebrows narrow. 

“What’s the problem now?” You should've predicted he’d say this, as every time a dispute arises over his uncivil actions he asks the same clueless question. 

“What...God, you’re so annoying sometimes! Do you not understand how it doesn’t make any sense for you to be here and-” He’s spacing off, scratching the side of his head with the wrench. It drives you up the wall when he acts like this. 

“Listen to me!” That triggers him back to the present, and the light flickers in his eyes just to deadpan you. “You done?” 

“No, I’m not done. Say you’re sorry” you command. He takes the hat off his head and places it on his chest. “My apologies, princess. I’ll be sure to call the company and let them know their machine is too loud for your prissy little ass” he smiles, coy and bowing. You nudge him and the wind rushes from his nose. 

“When you call them, let them know their piece of shit junk needs to be out of commission.” 

“Well, this piece of shit lasts a lifetime.” 

“What even is this?” You’re analyzing it, and it reminds you of the illegal three-wheelers certain people ride through the city. It has no seatbelt or roof, and a row of sharp spinning blades hooked to the back. 

“City girl’s never heard of this, huh? ‘Sa tiller. Gets the job done durin’ plantin’ season.” You step towards it, but Toji stops you from going further with his arm. “Don’t go near the blades.” 

“Obviously.” You shoo him and climb into the seat of tiller. You sink into the leather seat, lay back, and cross your feet on the wheel. Toji grimaces, but that subtle sign that you’re inconveniencing him eggs you on. 

“Get yer feet off the wheel.” 

“Mm, nah. It’s not hurting anyone.” 

“’S hurting me.” 

“Hmph, okay.” You switch your feet to the opposite cross, and he looks up to an invisible God, probably begging it to give him the strength to not throw you off. 

“What did I-” 

“Sorry, can’t hear you over the engine!” you scream. He sighs and hunches back over the hood. “Jus’ be quiet for me, have to finish this.” Funny how he asks for quiet in these deafening circumstances. 

You didn’t plan on watching him work, but you hate to admit it’s kind of interesting. It’s the quietest he’s ever been, sweat trickling down his temples from the apparent heat on the inside. This must’ve been what Annie meant at the beginning, about his silence and reluctance to speak unless being spoken to. The scars scattered on his bicep shift with the cranking wrench, and you can’t help but focus on it. They’re too deep to be cat scratches and healed with a bunched sheen under its darker edges. There’s one under his collarbone, too, peeking past his shirt neckline dark and jagged. Your mind wanders, for the past life he had—what was his family like, why does he choose to live here, why are there so many scars, what led him to- 

“You’re staring.” You snap out of it, to him wiping the excess oil on his shirt. 

“Sorry.” 

“Oh? Where’d that hospitality come from all of a sudden?” You can’t explain why, but there’s a solemn pit burning in your stomach. Perhaps you’d lighten up a bit, at least for now. “Appreciate it while it lasts” you remark. He grins and gets back to work. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Changin’ the ignition coil. That’s why she sounds like hell.” 

Your ears perk up, “She?” 

“Yup.” 

“Does she have a name?” 

“Nope.” 

“Can I name her?” He puts the replacement coil on, “Knock yourself out.” 

“Hmm…how about….Priscilla?” He can’t purse his lips quick enough to stop the laugh that escapes.  

“Hey! I think Priscilla’s a cute name” you add. “Yeah, for an old woman.” 

“No way, an old woman name would be something like ‘Gertrude’.” 

“Gertrude’s on the same level as Priscilla.” 

“Either way it’s fitting, isn’t it? An old woman for an old man.” His scar tips up. “Ha ha. Think I’m pretty fit for an old man, though.” 

Your eyes reluctantly snap to his chest muscles peeking through the shirt. “You manage.” He pushes the coil away from the flywheel. 

“Maybe Rosy? Oh, or Susie.” 

“Think I’ll just call ‘er (Y/N).” 

“Huh? Why my name?” 

“So when you make me mad, I can curse her out instead of you. Best part is she won’t talk back.” He tightens the last screws and shuts the hood. Immediately the banging stops, and the engine reduces to a whir. You clap sarcastically, “Nice job! You get a C minus.” 

“Why not an A?” 

“You’ll get an A when you stop pissing me off.” 

Sticky sunbeams melt and mold into your pores, stiff from the aftereffects of its suffocating warmth. The sky gives way to a heatwave, where shimmering hot sheets scorch the ground and ripple like a retreating ocean. Lionel taught you how to harvest fruit before the rooster’s crow, and you reaped the rewards of your labor all morning. You’re numbed to the moisture collecting on your face at this point, as its vicious, stuffy humidity swallows your breaths and envelops your bleary eyes. You chose to shut them over battling the sun, bathing in its essence. It would settle in the late afternoon and blend to a forgiving mess of sunset swatches, but in the meantime, you’d soak up a bronzing tan.  

You brought a blanket to the nearest tree you could find, an expansive canopy spearheading small manageable daylight. You’re leafing through the pages of a non-fiction novel you never finished with a makeshift flower bookmark tucked under your thumb. You occasionally stop to dive in the compensation for your earlier efforts; a basket of scarlet strawberries twisted around prickly stems. 

The book tugs from your grasp and you prop up your sunglasses, gazing at the perpetrator. 

It only takes a glance to notice how badly burnt Toij’s body is. Does he really need someone to remind him to apply sunscreen, a basic necessity, or did he get too wrapped up in his work again? Toji was, if nothing else, a hard worker. You caught yourself on more than one occasion observing him. You saw it in the way the other farmers freely asked for his help, and how he’d give it for nothing in return. He moved like the wind, stoic demeanor all consuming, to behave like the rough muteness he pushed upon himself. 

A rosy shade diffuses on the apples of his cheeks and clearly separates from the protected and unprotected parts of his flesh. Its shape outlines a tank top he must’ve been wearing with the bottom hiked up, bright rubescent pattern surrounding his surprisingly smooth pecs. You take a mental note to nag him about it next time. The smudged outline of your glasses reflects on his glistening lower abdomen and his chest heaves like a marathon in the desert.  

“What ya reading?” he asks. His eyes drag across the page. “None of your business” you retort, hazy and lax from summer’s embrace. He peers over the book and passes it off to you.  

“Don’t seem like the reading type.” He plops down on the grass with a basket of dirt and carrots, few contorted to an inedible extent. “Neither do you.” He digs his fingers in the basket and begins fishing out the deformed carrots. The usual banter, macerated by exhaustion, ghosts by with little intent. 

“If you’re looking for help, I don’t feel like it.” 

“I know.” 

You both don’t say anything for a while, taking in the warmth, the cicadas buzzing in a faraway tree, the brewing pause between your bodies, unsaid words binding you to selfish outcomes, depriving you of your deepest hunger. The book is no longer as interesting as you remember. You’re more inclined to watch the sunburnt farmer. 

He picks up another clump. Inching along the carrot is a ladybug. Toji regards it for a second with the same eyes that chop trees and drag metal. At first, he does nothing. Then you track the tip of his finger as it prods slightly, goading the ladybug onto it. He carries it with the same unwavering stoicism to a blade of grass, where the ladybug hops off and continues its journey.  

Speechless would be an understatement. Truthfully, he’s the last person you’d expect to act that way. Those battered palms, bruised and scarred, tattered with memories, could appear so gentle. Those same hands would afford the fragile beings of mankind a moment of mercy. Only you are granted the privilege of Toji’s micro movements; his shoulders slumping from their usual solidity, his eyelids relaxing, jaw unclenching. Is this what he wanted you to see? Is that why he came here, sitting in the shade of a rival you thought you had? You must be staring for too long because- 

“…What?”  

“Oh. Uh, nothing.” 

He returns to what he was doing.  

“It’s about the search for meaning in life. A psychiatrist's perspective.” 

“Your book?” He asks, sifting through the sod. 

“Yeah.” 

“So…did he figure it out?” 

“He believes that the primary human drive is not pleasure, but the pursuit of what we find meaningful.” He doesn’t react, but a curious part of you wanted him to respond. Tell you a story or spill his guts, lay bare in front of you so that you may latch on to something, anything that isn’t rumors or hushed whispers for the man unknown to everyone. He checks another carrot—it’s as if he’s looking past it, like a light switched off, engulfed in a reflection pulling him further and further. 

You point the tip of a strawberry to him and his attention diverts, “You want?”  

“Can’t. Hands full.”  

You eye them; thick and calloused, fingernails lined with soil, probably sore along with the rest of his body. You can’t bear to watch—surely not because you care, but because of your sudden aptitude to kindness.  

“Just come here.” He leans over cautiously, and the shock is palpable when you press it to his lips. He seems to contemplate the risk of poison for a second.  

“If I wanted to kill you, it would’ve happened already. Open.” He obediently parts his mouth, and you feed it to him. Toji’s eye contact stuns like a spell from a Greek myth—devastatingly enchanting and hard to disengage. Just when you think you have the upper hand, you’re quickly reminded that dynamic can easily change. He rolls his tongue over the bite mark and sucks the juices, and you can’t look away—you won’t. 

 It’s the sun. it has to be. It’s getting to you both.  

You flinch when his lips ghosts against your knuckles. Soft and slightly chapped. Sugary liquid pools at the plush center of his lips where your eyes linger for too long, and he licks that up too. It’s over as quick as it began. Then you’re stuck stirring in the disarray of your own deluded thoughts.  

His scar curls with a growing smirk. It’s a shallow cut, but sunken, nonetheless. You tell yourself it’s the weather when your thumb moves from the strawberry to his face. Languid, careful motions where the hollow of his cheek would be, like gaining the trust of a wild animal. He doesn’t budge, and you press it to the corner of his mouth. 

“How’d you get this mark on your face?” 

“Not important” he responds curt. 

“Why? I wanna know.” His jaw clenches, reappearing stiff and guarded. “Don’t push it.” 

You trace it, fixating, studying the feeling. You drag downwards, tugging it slightly.  

“…like someone cut you” you mutter. 

Suddenly, he stands up with the basket. His joy fades to indifference; eyes encased in a dense fog. You retreat to your side, and he doesn’t acknowledge you as he starts down the hill. 

“I-“  

“I have to get this to Lionel. See ya.” 

You’re given the back of him, receding into the distance. There’s a dull pounding in your ears, a twitch in your limbs that pleads for you to follow. But what would you say? What could you say? It doesn’t come to fruition.  

The space between you widens with each step. 

“-we’re expecting to see cloudy skies and storms for the re-” the portable radio buzzes in and out of connection, “-prepare for the weather by-”. Annie fiddles with the tuner to get it back on track. It crackles and scratches, but the connection can’t be regained, finally diminishing to static. 

You weren’t listening either way, huddled with your knees close to your chest on the window seat, resting your head as raindrops trickle down the glass and pitter-patter the windowsill. The trees bend to the will of the raging wind, and they’re being pulled every which direction. Ceramic settles behind you, and you crane your neck to Annie, then the novelty mug resembling an orange. You don’t reach for it, but you stare for a while, teabag bleeding burgundy under the millions of candles placed around. 

“Thank you for the tea.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

You’ve had a hard time sleeping lately. Conflictingly so, since you’d imagine more sleep would be had with Toji coming around less. It’s what you wanted. Him chasing you was exhausting, wasn’t it? His behavior, his manners, him—it was just a bother. You should be glad you haven’t seen him since the incident. 

If he pained you, why are you kept awake, fumbling with the covers, incessantly thinking of Toji? You put together witty remarks for when you cross paths again, new creative insults, schemes you’ll act out to piss him off—all of this for someone you tried to get away from for half the summer. You assumed a week would pass and everything would be back to normal. But one week turned into two, then three. Your stay is coming to a close, and as you reflect, you’re forced to reconsider the unspoken reality gnawing at your thoughts since the moment you first met. 

That you were free to be dirty, to curse, to learn, to get mud on your face and dirt underneath your fingernails. You could lounge in an outfit from days ago or dance in the fury of midsummer. You were stupid, but not inferior the way wealthy upperclassmen made you out to be. You had the freedom to be stupid. There were no hierarchies or social status between you—simply hard work and hostility. Somehow that, being tangled in the thorns of a never-ending war, felt better than the yacht parties you’d been accustomed to. 

He sets your blood aflame, but noting ignites a fire in you like Toji. 

Annie sits crisscross on the loveseat, warming her hands with the cup. You return her content smile.  

“Everythin’ alright, sugar?” 

“Think I messed up.” 

“Hm? How so?” 

“I feel like...I overstepped. Actually, I know I did, and I feel bad. Even though I think I shouldn’t.” 

Annie exhales a soft laugh, “Assumin’ this is about Toji?” 

You nod, and she traces the rim of the cup. “If ya don’t care about ‘im, don’t feel bad.” You don’t reply, and she continues, “Though...I have a sneaky suspicion you care more than you'd like to admit.” 

You bury your head further into you. “Feelings are weird” you mumble. 

“They defnintely are. But sometimes it’s good to listen to ya heart. Take it from an old lady.” 

“...” 

“When ya feel bad about somethin’ ya did, the best way’s to apologize.” 

You peek through your arms, “Has he ever told you? Like, about his life?” 

She wanders in thought, recollecting an old memory, “Nope. Youngin’ showed up on the farm one day all scratched up and been workin’ ever since.” 

If nobody knew, you wouldn’t expect him to comply with your demands. You’re conscious of what needs to be done, but doubt surfaces. What does my heart tell me? 

You start tying your boots and throw on a hoodie in a pile by the door.  

“Do you know where he is?” 

“Not a clue.” That’s fine. Today, you’d be the one chasing after him. 

The brunt of the storm smacks you in the face once the door flies open. “Careful out there!” she hollers, and you shut the screen behind you. Your fight or flight refuses to let go of the knob as the squall persists, invoking a shrouded sea of churning clouds and indigo, banging against the foundation of the house. You scale the side and notice the barn, no light inside. You go around the back and it’s the same, wheat failing to resist the storm. However, for a split second you squint and spot a flicker. It’s faint and the size of a firefly from your view, coming from the stables further down. There’s a chance it isn’t him, but you don’t have much room for hypotheticals.   

The safety of the overhang leaves you, and you’re in the middle of a downpour. Running, inching the line of being knocked off your feet from an abrupt gust. You’re submerged in seconds, but you don’t stop running. If your heart tells you to endure, then you will. Raindrops threaten to invade your eyes, whacking you repeatedly in the face, but you shut tight and go forward. The last stretch to the stable feels like clawing up a mountain. The flurry hauls your clothes, and your steps get heavier and heavier as nature batters the earth. 

Then the sleeve shielding your face grazes something solid. You glue yourself to the side of it and pry your eyes open. An oil lantern, shining bright in the dark. You shuffle around for the sliding door and slip inside. The interior is cozy, haybales piled wherever they could fit and a couple large wooden stables supported by beams. The power must’ve went out everywhere, oil lanterns casting dimly.  

Your instinct to breathe ceases when you see Toji. His cowboy hat is tilted back, paisley bandana tied loosely around his neck with an ear of wheat tucked in his teeth. He glances at the sound of the door slamming. You’re blanking, even after you mulled over those sleepless evenings. It doesn’t help that your heart won’t function properly.  

“...Hey” he says, a tone unrepresentative of his avoidance. He grins—in the exact way you like—and picks the straw out. 

You’re irritated he’s even attempting to talk to you as normal. 

“It’s rainin’. You should be inside.” He grabs his shirt and pats your face dry. You don’t complain; a musky scent of cedar and salt when you inhale. “I could say the same to you. Why are you out here?” you murmur through the cloth. 

“Horses get a little antsy when the weathers like this. Came by to calm em’ down.” He pets the blonde mane of one of lighter horses, covered in brown spots.  They look comfortable around him, loose lower jaw slanting to his touch. You’re forgetting how to talk. There he goes again, subverting your expectations. 

“What kind of horse is it?” 

“Spotted draft horse. She’s real gentle, wouldn’t hurt a fly.” 

“She’s pretty.” He flashes his canines, “Her name’s Marie.” 

“Old woman name” you say under your breath. He laughs. “Wanna pet ‘er?” 

You’re shy but interested, shuffling closer to the stable. The tips of your ears blossom when his palm encloses your wrist, rough skin abrading yours. Then he guides you to the side of Marie’s neck. “You’re gonna pet here. Nice an’ slow, yeah?” he instructs, way too close. It’s silky, and you’re absorbed in the feeling of it on your fingertips. She neigh’s mildly and you jolt. Toji keeps you still. 

“Atta girl” he whispers, husky and painfully smooth in your ear. It fills your head like a shot of whiskey and a tipsy glow flows from your face. Your muscles tense, troubled from your anticipated apology and the unforeseen shift in feelings for him. There’s no way you can do this without stumbling. 

“I didn’t know you liked horses so much.” He lets go. 

“Yup. Used to have one.” You turn to him. His pleasant expression remains, but it’s solemn, bittersweet. You take a long breath and let it spill. 

“I’m sorry for what I did before. I realized I made you uncomfortable asking those questions. It won’t happen again.” 

He subdues his hum and he’s awkward in his stance, rubbing the back of his head like a guilty child. “I was never mad. I just...” He trails off. 

“Never mind that. Big man still pissed at you?” he asks, like mood switch occurred. If he won’t dwell on it, you’ll try not to either. You connect the dots to your father's pet name. 

“That’s what you call him?” you giggle. 

“Yup, since I got to the farm.” 

“I hope not, if he is I’ll probably never leave.” 

“Is that a bad thing?” It’s a humorless joke, wavering someplace unsure. 

“It would be if I never finished school.” 

“What ya majoring in?” You’re hesitant to say for the possible doubt he’ll display. You dance around the answer. 

“Promise you won’t laugh.” His expression contorts to confusion. “Fine...I promise.” 

“Humanitarianism.” He goes blank like a mannequin, and by the way his lip fights a flit he’s holding in his laughter as much as possible. 

“Forget it-” 

“I didn’t laugh. What ya gonna do with your degree?” 

“I want to help people.”   

He folds his arms over his chest, “But you don’t wanna help me?” 

“N-not that kind of help. Like, housing help, financial help. No one should have to work as hard as you...” 

“So, you wanna help old broke runaways like me, huh?” 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“I mean it’s admirable, darlin’, but I work here cause I want to. ’S a good gig, takes the mind off o’ things.”  

Your mouth moves before your brain, “...What things?” 

“Thought you weren’t gonna ask me shit like that anymore.” 

“My bad.” 

“I’ll give you what you want.” He locks the gate to the stable. Your blood feels hotter when he’s fixed on you.  

“Y’know...the thing about foster care is you’re never guaranteed a good home, or even a home at all.” Toji simpers out of place, out of tune like a broken piano. “I was one of the lucky few that got sent home to home. Got attached just to get thrown back in the same shithole with the other rejects. It hurt at first, but after a while you get so used to the feeling that you’re not wanted or needed. And when a foster kid grows out of the system and they throw your ass on the street, gotta get it however you can.”  Though he tells it like the casual reminiscence of childhood, you know better than that. 

“So, I taught myself to survive, no matter the cost and regardless of who it hurt. I’ve done some irredeemable shit. Held people at gunpoint, beat them up for money, stole their valuables, all the shit they worked hard for.”   

“I fought for food, shelter. Hell, anything I could get my hands on. I never killed anyone but damn sure got close, all for an overnight motel stay and sometimes a couple cigs.”  He ambles to you and you automatically back up. Your space is squeezed to capacity, and whenever you get a portion of relief, he seals it. You take a step; he takes one more. 

“You wanted to know how I got this, right?” He taps the corner of his mouth where the scar is. 

“I entered a fighting ring for money, the kind that trades boxing gloves for knives. And boy, was I desperate. He chucked that blade at my mouth and I crushed his throat, sliced him across the eyes. I bled for a while but it kept me full for a few days.” Your back hits the door and he cages you.  

“‘Ventually the wanted flyers started coming out. Thought about turning myself in, but what kind of asshole admits to his crimes? So, I kept running, running from everything. I can’t remember how long I went for. But then I ended up here.”   

Rain pelts the roof. You remind yourself to inhale and exhale. It’s a conscious thought, in and out, processing the secrets revealed. There’s nowhere to hide, yet you don’t feel unease—solely the faint pang of sorrow. Toji appears warm under the rich glimmer. The rugged contours meld to his lowered gaze, lips twisted in a frown you hardly recognize. He looks entirely different, disconnected from your quarrels. To you this feels like it should be an attempt at intimidation, but the way he's boxing you in screams loose and unsteady. A wounded beast bearing its fangs as a defense mechanism. His arms are corded in muscle and riddled with injuries, likely from the upsets, days of begging for food, wondering when his next meal will be or if he just consumed his last, where he will go to survive, how he will survive.   

“Are you scared now?”  

He’s a vagrant. He lived on the fringes of society, avoiding the law and committing horrific acts for his own benefit. He hurt people. Who’s to say he wouldn’t hurt you next? Annie was right. Toji is right. You need to be afraid.  

Instantly, his little quirks made sense. The barriers he built and his hesitation to speak, forbearing and tolerant in spite of the bruises. He was afraid of being thrown away again, to be the same teen casted to the streets—proven useless. 

You’re inches away. It’s unsaid, begging you to repel him. There’s no rationale in your actions.  

You stand on your toes and catch his lips in a kiss.  

Brief, charged with the comfort that got lost on your tongue. His lips requite yours and leave traces of bourbon. You didn’t know he drank. It’s so brief you linger in the aftermath of heat, hoping you can satiate your interest with two, maybe three more kisses. 

Your noses graze each other. His half-lidded eyes captivate you, freezing you in time, to plinking mist and airy touches, yearning on the brink of impulse. He hovers over your lips, shuddering on the expel. Then he withdraws. 

“Ya have no sense of danger.” 

You can’t think straight, haven’t been able to for some time now. “You’re not scary. Just annoying.”  

“...I'm glad.” 

He grabs his sherpa lined jacket off a haybale and wraps it around your torso. It’s far too big and pieces of hay poke your lower back. He pulls the hood over, “This should be good. C’mon, let’s get ya back in the house.” Toji opens the stable doors. Tiny droplets percolate at your frigid feet, and you stick your head out. 

Fog clings to the edge of the horizon. The storm ended, and the land washed anew.  

“Ouch.”  

“Careful, hun.” 

The sewing needle pricks your thumb from the other side of the glove again and you flinch, though you probably have tons of holes in your skin at the moment. You’re by no means the best at sewing, but it’s not like Toji could do any better based on the tears in the leather. You’re curled like a shrimp on the dining chair, weaving the needle through a heavy-duty fabric you found in the sewing basket Annie gave you. Floral pin cushions, yarn, thread, and bunches of fabric are splayed across the gingham table.  

It’s likely Toji would’ve slaved it to the bone and never ask for another pair, so when you got to your room and found them in the jacket pocket you felt inclined to assist. Plus, it’s a good distraction from the half-embarrassment half-shock you grieved from your boldness the other day.  

A draft pierces the chiffon curtains. It’s getting colder and the final day of your vacation has arrived, both short and torturously long. You think about the things that passed the time, the person that shortened your days to summertime laughter and mischief. Before the farm, you would’ve relished in a going away party with a performer and glittering spotlight. Yet, as cattle moo and land are tilled for the upcoming season, the profoundness of being ordinary is more pleasant than the former. 

You pull the last thread through the patch and admire your amateur mend, navy fabric accented amongst the mahogany leather. Vanilla and lemon permeate the house while a bundt cake rises in the oven. 

Annie hands you a few stationery notecards smudged with flour fingerprints. “Write somethin’ nice for ‘em. Don’t think they’ll be able to say goodbye before you go. ‘S gettin’ busier and busier nowadays.” You nod and start writing messages of appreciation for Lionel and Terrace, thanking them for putting up with your cluelessness.  

“Should I write one for you, too?” 

“You can jus’ tell me now” she beams. 

“Well, Annie, thank you for everything—for showing me around, cooking for everyone, making sure we’re all healthy and full. Most of all, thanks for treating me like family.” 

She tussles your hair, “You’ll always be family, honeybun.” 

Hooves on stone trot near the house and your heart skips a beat. You walk to the screen door and see Marie’s long mane, then Toji holding the reins. He looks like a true cowboy, double stitched western belt with a taut plaid flannel and chestnut cowboy hat to match his boots. You open the door and lean on the porch column. 

“Wanna go for a ride?” he calls. 

“Usually, guys say that when they have an expensive car.” 

“Well, this here’s an expensive horse. That good enough for ya?” 

“...I guess it’ll have to do” you say, continuing to Marie with a delicate caress on her neck. 

He holds his hand out, “Up.” 

“To where?” 

“Stop askin’ so many questions.” You roll your eyes and grab his wrist. He abruptly hauls your body weight over Marie and you squeak. It's higher than you thought and you struggle to adjust your legs in the right position on the saddle. 

“Might wanna hold on.”  

You scoff, “I can handle myself.” As soon as you say that, Marie breaks into a sprint. You would’ve flown off the mare if not for your flailing arms finding safety around Toji’s waist. “You did that on purpose, you ass!” you scream.  

“I have no idea what ya talkin’ ‘bout.” You can hear the smile when he says that.  

Hammered dirt belches behind as you leave a thick forest similar to the one you drove through for your arrival. It’s a scene from a storybook, carving through a colorful meadow bursting with wildflowers. They teeter in the headwind and so do you, hair whipping onto your face from the speed. The canopy that once enveloped you becomes a faint, fading outline against the sky and bushes shrink to specks. The landscape melts like an impressionism painting. 

Toji has expert control over the mare and his stature stands tall in spite of haste. You scale the hills, appreciating the natural foundation carving willowy trees, the miles of foliage, the cattails in a small sparkling river etched in a meandering bank. Birds sing their evening songs, and an animal rustles through the grass. Eventually you pause at the summit, immersed in a vast, unspoiled scenery stretching infinitely. Toji hasn’t said much, but neither do you.  

“I thought you’d wanna see this” he mutters. 

“How come?” 

“When ya weren’t working, you’d just climb to the hilltops and... stare. Never knew what you were staring at, but I assumed it was the view.” 

“You don’t see stuff like this in the city. It’s so peaceful here.” 

“It never gets old.” You look at him, corners of his mouth mellow. You recall the way they felt and butterflies involuntarily bloom from a deep pit in your stomach. 

You yank the hat from his head and try it on. “Hey, give it here.” You duck his grasp and push it down.  

“It looks cute on me.” 

“So what?” 

“You don’t think it matches my shoes?” 

“I think you’re a brat.”  

“Hmm” you say, feigning contemplation. “You should know, women don’t like angry old men. It’s so uncute.” 

  “Heh, really. I’m uncute?” he laughs. “Yeah, among a few other things.” 

“Well I’m sorry, princess, but you’re a real pain in the ass too.” 

“The feeling’s mutual” you retort. 

“...Is it?” You don’t have a remark for that. The sun recedes into the horizon, radiating burnt orange and red. He uses the reigns to guide Marie back in the direction of the farm. “I’ll miss the countryside.” The brim of his hat dips over your eyes and you don't correct yourself when you lean to his back, calmed from the rocking sway.  

Toji pulls the reigns at the stairs and gets off. You impassively accept his aid as he  

 scoops and sets you down.  

The buzzing porch light attracts moths with its fluorescence. Amidst the prolonged awkward silence and clumsy gestures, you’re searching for your soul’s response like Annie mentioned. Whenever you tried, the message got tangled on your tongue. Given another chance, it eludes you again. 

“I guess this is it.” 

“Yup” he agrees. 

“Try not to miss me too much.”  

He smirks, “I’ll do my best. Goodnight, little miss.” 

He left and it’s time for you to get some sleep. But you can’t. You’re wide awake, glued to the ceiling thinking about him like your life depends on it. Maybe the instigator in you was waiting for confrontation, or the truth hurts more than you thought it would. You sit up like you’re expecting something, like you just lost a long-fought battle. You need the last word.  

It’s a quaint home with tawny wood accents. Jacket and gloves in tow, you can’t formulate a single justifiable reason for being at his front door. You lie and tell yourself it’s to return his possessions, as if you ever cared, like his hat isn’t resting on your dresser. You knock twice. 

Toji unlocks the door wearing nothing but his jeans, hair shaggier than usual. “Look who’s here” he says, a tinge of shock and something sweeter. You shove the items to him. “Your jacket, and uh…your gloves were bad, so I sewed them up. Try to take better care of your things.” He slings it to the side. 

“Heh. Yes, ma’am.” 

“So…um.” 

“Is that all you’re here for?” Not in the slightest. You’re here to get something off your chest, right? You’re not even sure what you’re mad about anymore. 

“Y-yeah.” 

“Alright then, see ya in the mornin’.” The door slowly winds closed, but you interrupt, “Were you trying to insinuate something?”  

It stops and he cracks it further, smile growing. “Not tryin’ to insinuate anything I haven’t noticed already” 

You’re burning under his gaze. “Wha…I swear, your ego is insane. You should be grateful I’ve been so nice-“ 

“Your eyes tend to…” he regards you from head to toe, “…roam. You’re not as subtle as you think.” 

“Like I wanna look at you.” 

“I wouldn’t mind if ya did.” 

“God, you’re so far up your own-“ 

“You haven’t left yet.” His relaxed demeanor aggravates you, as if he's fully aware of why you’re here. He edges closer, chest inches away from yours, voice slow and gravelly in the dead of night. 

“There’s somethin’ you want, right? Ask for it.”  

Your pulse travels to your ears. Longing teetering on the cusp of fire. 

“Fuck this.” You turn to leave, when suddenly your arm gets snatched back and pulled into the room. The door shuts and you’re flung against it, though there’s no room to move when Toji’s pressed chest-to-chest. His breathing heaves, and you can feel it rising and falling laden with yours as he’s loomed over you. 

“What’s with the sass, huh?” he chides. His grip is bruising, but the small victory of a sinking composure sends a chill up your spine you’d rather not think about. 

“You started it, don’t act so innocent now.” You can tell he’s physically holding back, the shakiness in his little breaths becoming more evident. The wild blaze in his eyes eats you up with greed. 

“You really need to be taught some fucking manners.” 

“You’re gonna punish me?” You’re both at a whisper, too scared to speak the words you’ve been keeping to yourselves. 

“I wanna do so much worse.” 

“Then do it.” 

He holds your neck in place and you succumb to raw and unrestrained fervor. Rough, uncoordinated kisses being dragged over the expanse of your lips and you’re hardly able to maintain the pace. Your free hand curls through his tresses and pushes him deeper into you. He groans through those rushed, bruising kisses reddening your lips and immediately hunts for more.  

You didn’t expect Toji to be a gentle lover by any means, but it’s the way his mouth never leaves yours, a certain thirst that can’t be satiated no matter how much he drinks. You bite his bottom lip, teeth collide and he repeats the feast all over again. You can’t tell if he’s trying to savor it or devour you in one go.  

His hands snake from your neck to the fat of your ass, and he delivers a quick smack before hoisting you around his waist. Trails of spit connect where you part for air, but he swiftly chases it with tongue, pushing into your mouth and clouding your head. You intertwine, wet and feverish as it explores your mouth.  

He’s ruthlessly scouring fulfillment, drunk off the pleasure he finds in swallowing your moans and traversing your numbing lips. You’re sweating, hot in all the right places, and you return the favor with similar passion. Your lower back aches but he doesn’t give any inclination that he’ll let up soon, grinding on the delicate, sticky lace of your panties exposed from your hiked up dress.  

“Fuck, I can feel it through your clothes” he groans, lazily undulating his hips.  

“S-shut up- ah!” Your stammering gets caught in a moan when the fabric presses against your clit just right. He wears a sleazy grin, moving slower to coax the barely audible whimper that escaped you a moment ago. “I wouldn’t mind if ya made a little noise” he husks. You’re shaky, trying to compose your trembling vocals threatening to call his name. In regular circumstances, you would’ve let yourself have it. But this is Toji, and the mischievous urge you reserve for him wants to shoot down his boosted ego. 

“Maybe you’re not doing good enough.”  

“Really...” Toji’s huffs a humorless laugh, and you have half the mind to acknowledge that you just fucked up. He enriches the kiss and movements get a little angrier, bulge rutting into you furiously.  

“Then I’ll make it so good for ya, darlin’” he rasps, “So good you’ll hafta beg me.” 

It’s impossibly big, and sliding against the aching mess restrained in his pants doesn’t quell your concerns. You swear you can feel the dim thump thump thump through it. 

You unlatch again, severing a trail of spit when you briefly make eye contact. They’re crazed, far and near at the same time and somehow sparkling the prettiest shade of hazel green. He immediately claims space on your neck. Sucking and biting, feral groaning between your pulse point that drums whenever his appendage glides along a sweet spot. His teeth graze harsh against your skin and you can feel purple and blue burgeoning like watercolor splotches on an untouched canvas.  

And he must be long gone, pinning you between the door and his haughty strength, spit glistening on your neck. You’re using whatever pride you have left to clamp your mouth shut, though it’s obvious to Toji as his lips curl when your breath stutters. He detaches with a wet smack, and you can't angle away from the onslaught of tender kisses along the underside of your jaw.  

He lifts you across the room, to the edge of his wooden platform bed draped in a deer pattern quilt. Your knees are wobbly on the descent and it hits when your feet touch the ground, almost slumping onto the mattress. Before you can, he grabs a fistful of hair at the back of your head and holds you upright. 

“Stand straight” he barks, dangerously commanding. In one fell swoop, using one hand, he flips the buckle on his belt open and yanks it out the loops. His pants sag at his hips and the tent peaks with more room. He wraps the leather around your wrists and ties it over itself, securing tight—maybe too tight—at the end.  

“On your fucking knees.” You don’t drop on the first order.  

“Make me.” Typical—but he’s happy to guide you. He tugs your hair to the ground, and you thud onto the hardwood floors by your knees.  

You knew Toji was hot, stealing glances of his shirtless torso plowing in the summer rays—but God, he truly is alluring. Straight below him you get the best view of the veins winding down his lower abdomen, the planes of his abs shining in the already low light. Underneath his pecs, full chest pulling taut with yearning, unruly need. In no time he unzips his fly and kicks his pants at his ankles, revealing firm boxer briefs and a dripping, milky stain trailing to the side. Your eyes follow, where his throbbing cockhead peaks out, rosy brown with pearls of greedy precome dribbling down. You can’t resist staring, devouring the sight and adding onto the stickiness coating your inner thighs. You lean in and pepper a few kisses on his tip. He hisses. 

“Are you losing your composure?” you ask, reveling in his twitching abs. He grins, and you return the same, “Not yet. You’ll know when I do. I promise.”  

You lick a long, mouthwatering stripe on it and he rasps a groan. He’s quick to snatch your scalp and tilt up, forcing you to gaze at him. “Look at me. Don’t take your eyes off me.” They appear darker, drunken. 

He tugs the boxers down and his cock springs out centimeters from your face, glistening and flushed. He taps it on your lip and smears the sheen. You don’t break eye contact as required, especially when you lick your bottom lip to taste him. 

 “Fuck, such a slut.” He prods at your mouth and you gladly open, closing your puckered lips around the bulbous tip. “Nice and open for me” he mutters. It’s partly a mutter, resembling a hoarse ramble as he slides the length of his veiny, thrumming cock past your cheek fat constricting around him.  

“Yeah, t-that’s it—fuck—just like that.” Your eyes water and beaded tears gather at your lashes, but he craves the back of your throat—he’ll make it fit if he needs to. You’re adjusting to his size, forcing yourself to accommodate him and hollowing your cheeks as best as you can, fulfilling a twisted desire to satisfy him. Your palate scraping his sensitive tip elicits a deep, gravelly moan that sends vibrations straight to your clit.  

“Mm, that pretty mouth taking it so well f’me.” You open your throat and allow him to push further, swelling a noticeable bulge through your skin. He’s straining your mouth to capacity, and it’s only when your nose meets his pubes and his balls are flush with you that you try breathing.  

It’s no use with his cock barreling down your throat. He keeps a firm grip on the back of your head, watching your body retch at the size of him for amusement. Then he pulls out and you dry heave from the sudden influx of normal air in your lungs. You’re soaked all the way through, hazy, hurting, but desperate for more. Too horny to remember your pride. What even is pride when you can’t tell the difference between drool and tears? 

You’re French kissing his dick as if he’s not there, slobbering and licking it up, rolling your tongue over his frenulum like an animal in heat. Shame will overcome you by morning; in the meantime, you’ll indulge, drain him so that he can’t fathom speaking the word “brat” again. You loll your tongue and he smiles. 

“I didn’t even fuck you yet and you’re already this bad?” He’s one to talk when his comebacks crack at the back of his throat, muscles sweaty and tense from your ministrations. “I’m a good man, so I’ll help ya out.”  

Without warning, he drives himself all the way down your throat. You gag, but he’s relentless. He has hands on both sides of your head and he puts his foot on the edge of the bed, angling himself to probe deeper in your throat. Laden balls slap your chin and an amalgam of sloshing and gagging bubbles from the inundated scene in your mouth. Obscene noises cloud your ears. You can only lean on the support of the bed and take every brutal, solid thrust. His groans accelerate, “You’re—hngh—droolin a little bit, huh, princess. Haah—is it t'much for you, hm? T-tell me baby, fuck.” 

It really is. It’s so intense; eyeliner smudged across your face, tears shimmering, drool coating your puffy lips and his cock rubbing your voice raw. He uses you like a fleshlight and your panties are soaked through. The twitching gets more apparent and he channels a string of curses as his hips lose coordination. “On your f-face or—ungh, your mouth. Choose darlin'.”  You respond by staying still, looking at him with what little eyesight you have through cloudy tears.  

“Such a pretty comeslut” he moans, “Don’t be wasteful—hah-ah—you’re gonna be soo fucking good and swallow it all, okay?” He might as well be rambling to himself, mouthing off on questions you couldn’t possibly answer. His bangs stick to his forehead, and he emits an endless measure of moans and curses at the precipice. Hips stuttering, legs quivering sporadically, “(Y/N), m’coming, coming—ugh, fuck—oh fuck.”  

You see the exact moment he disregards ego; head lulled back, lip sagging open while he chases the high. Guttural groans meander in the space, and he pumps enough come from his spit-soaked balls to coat your throat. You wince and fresh tears are stirred from the sheer amount you’re gulping. He lags and finally relaxes, twitching sensitively when you swallow with his half-hard length still inside. Then he shudders once more when he retreats. 

Toji leans down to kiss you, wrapping tongue over tongue. You’d hope the kisses soothe your chafed throat, but to no avail. It’s not ideal that there’s a tingle in your knees, and the same position made your legs go numb. Your wrists burn as well, diagonal lines creasing your skin around the leather. Luckily, Toji scoops you and sets you rather gently on the mattress. That’s the extent of his kindness, however, as he begins shredding the straps from your dress. They snap with a pop, the sound of money going down the drain. The luxurious silk is torn from you and you’re indifferent. There’s an unquenchable need for him—everywhere, under you, inside you, however you can achieve closeness. “I need you. Now” he grunts. 

He manhandles you on your stomach with your ass raised in the air. Cool wind brushes against the pounding fever between your legs, and the sopping lace hangs by a thread.  

“Shit, you’re wet.” It’s obvious from the outside, drenched fabric a shade darker, fused uncomfortably to your pulsing pussy and reflecting on your plush thighs. He won’t take his eyes off it; he stares like he can eat through them. He peels the fabric back painfully slow, watching it furl into itself. “These just get ‘n the way.” Some slick leaves with it and slides down his hand, then he absorbs the main course. 

Glistening, syrupy fluid blankets your pussy and forms cobwebs of mess around your inner thighs and taint. You’re so wet it’s uncomfortable, and you shift around on your knees trying to quell the inescapable throbbing in your clit. He spreads your cheeks apart, practically salivating, “Look at ya.”  

Your windpipe was ripped from you, but you can scarcely hoarse “Stop staring.” His hot laughter sends shivers through you, but he holds you still before you can move forward. “Aww, too wet for your own good?” 

“Must be so sensitive” he coos, veiled in feigned concern. The pad of his thumb hovers, damn near salivating. “Tell me where it hurts, darlin’.” He flicks gently over the bud and you flinch. “Here?” 

He rubs calculated, unhurried circles on it. It doesn’t suffice—it couldn’t, because each time you lean to his touch, he recedes just a little. Because of course he wouldn't let you satisfy your desires without paying first. It’s maddening to almost get what you want and fall short repeatedly. You whimper pathetically, and he teases, “I know, darlin’, I know.”   

“Hurry up already” you whine. He quickly lands a stern, stinging swat to your ass and you recoil. “No attitude. Had enough’a that.” 

He positions two fingers at your glossy entrance, “Want help? Show me how bad ya want it.” You should’ve told him to go fuck himself, or at least you would have if you weren’t trembling with carnal hunger. You turn back to him glassy-eyed and he smiles—sympathy won’t work here. So you slope over his waiting fingers and glide them inside. They’re thicker than you thought they’d be. A delicious burn around the ring of your cunt from your walls stretching, it takes some adapting to get used to it.  

Once you do, though, you’re bouncing on them knuckle-deep, coating his palm in juices sluicing down his wrist. He doesn’t move an inch, but he drags his digits in a ‘come hither’ motion that sends tiny sparks bursting through your body. The notion of fucking yourself on his fingers should’ve been obscene, but you can feel yourself climbing to the edge. You’re panting, wiggling your hips with buzzing stars in your vision at the way it scrapes and kneads your walls. “You can’t hate me that much. Suckin’ me up and I’m not even movin’” he taunts. 

You don’t realize how loud you’re moaning, how your pussy talks louder than you do, sloppily sliding and squelching. “Fuck—you’re so messy. Where’s your resolve, huh? Nothing mean to say?”  

“Hah-ah” You clench rapidly, heartbeat in your ears. Until your stuttering heart and legs get worse, and you’re losing momentum. Your muscles burn from the inside out like a tiring workout, and you can’t keep up the pace that would’ve attained ecstasy. Just like that, it’s ripped away from you. 

And you cry. 

Hot, frustrated tears spill down your cheeks and you stop moving. He removes his wrinkled fingers. One side of the mattress sinks near you, and he thumbs the tears from your blushed cheeks and nose, your dazed lashes and pouty lips. “S’okay.” He pecks the corner of your eye, prompting a tear he samples. “Done fightin’ me?” 

You nod absentmindedly. “What do you want?” It’s simple, but you make eye contact with him. Jaw clenched, huffing as if he’s battling his own assurance. Your eyes water again. “Please...” 

You can’t read his face, but he leaves the mattress. It’s eerily quiet.  

“Y’know just how to get me.”  

A shattered gasp dies in your throat when you feel a warm, cruel stripe from your clit to your taint. Once, twice, his broken puffs fanning the flames. Both hands spread your legs wider and he nuzzles your folds, placing open-mouthed kisses, savoring your arousal. Then he immerses himself.  

He put up a good farce for a while, but the crumbling began at his desperate, tangled tongue—ravenous and starving, he ate you like a decadent main course he’d never taste again. He was starved—slurping and sucking, releasing with a juicy smack and diving back in. He’s on his knees, grunting low at your drooling slit. He didn’t care about your quivering thighs, honeyed liquid building in layers on his chin, the weak cries you managed. None of it mattered. Because you—you were heady and sweet, and as he drowned in your scent, he wished to be breathless forever.  

“S’fuckin’ good—oh, fuck, make a mess on my face.” He swats your ass, pointed tongue massaging your clit while he gropes the doughy flesh. It’s pliable in his hands and it gives him something to anchor while he drawls lecherous swipes over your swollen gooeyness. “Ngh—p-please—close-” Your stomach turns knot after knot, damp with sweat and sensing a rapid euphoria surging all too fast. Your mistake for announcing it, because he focuses his attention on a self-indulgent make-out session with your clit. “Come. Come on my face, princess—” You start to spasm, and the vulgar noises coming from Toji disperse in your ears. 

“Toji” you moan, and sooner fall apart in his arms. White-hot pleasure courses through your convulsing cunt and a chain of violent aftershocks render you silent. What makes you even shakier, though, is that he doesn't stop. 

He cleans his plate, imbibing the perfumed essence gushing from you. He peppers kisses around your contractions, deaf to your croaked sobs. If you weren’t bound, you’d push his head away. You attempt to use your foot to nudge him off, but you didn’t expect to make a dent in someone his size. He intertwines his hands with your sweaty ones, calm thumb swaying back and forth; it would be comforting if he wasn’t ruining you at the moment.  

The intensity of his deliberate tongue only makes the aftershocks worse, and your hands start to jolt as you cry out, “Ahn--no more, p-please!” You feel his smile on your folds and he persists. His lapping gets more aggressive and so do your tremors, loud and unrestrained moans torn from you.  

He finally unlatches, landing a final smack on your puffy pussy. Your heads swimming in an infectious trance, but you’re undeserving of a break as you whirl behind you and see him pumping his flushed cock. It stands at attention and even seems bigger than before, colored deep with need pearling at the divot. 

“Need you or ’m gonna go crazy.” Toji keeps a firm hand at the base of your spine—it arches your back and shoves your words into the bed. He drags his bulbous head along your sensitive cunt, collecting the slick trickling onto the damp sheets before rimming the slit. A hint of fatigue crosses your face and he takes notice. “Heh, done already? We haven’t even started yet.” 

The image of him entering you for the first time burns into your memory; his brows are knitted, bottom lip tucked under teeth and his breath hitches. If you were fucked out, he was getting there. He presses into your spine like he’s trying to prevent himself from coming on the spot, paused but lingering. Tunnel visioned on your soaked, bulging pussy stretching around him, snuggling his leaden length like a heated blanket. And you drink in the pain, a dulcet blaze engulfing you as sore muscles clench and unclench.  

“You’ve been quiet, pretty thing” he muses, “Where’s your resolve, huh? Nothin’ mean to say?” With his veins adorning your walls and your mushy brain bouncing around in your head, you can’t bring yourself to talk shit. He pulls out completely, watching a mix of precome and wetness connect your bodies. 

Suddenly, he bottoms out. “Ahn--fu-ah!” It shreds a whimper from you and he mocks your cracking moans, though he seems to be breaking, himself. The sharp snap of his hips contacts skin-on-skin, earning each sloppy slap echoing in the room. His lips are parted, swamped in infinite, unbridled lust. The carnal itch he’d been holding off on for weeks seeps through, satiating his most indulgent appetite. “O-oh, God, shit, look at the m-mess you’re making.” He drives out to his frenulum and shoves it back in with no mercy, no sign of slowing down. Long, deep strokes leaving you slack jawed and teary. Every drag of his dick imprints his name on your tongue, heavy balls smacking your tender clit.  

“You hear that? Listen.” He goes quiet, to let the indecent plap plap plap’s resound. Your cheeks turn hot from humiliation. The side rail of the bed screeches the hardwood floors, and the belt buckle you’re secured to clicks occasionally.  

“You’re my filthy slut” he grins, striking your rouged cheek. He’s rough, but you weren’t searching for friendliness, neither of you did. At your core, you knew it—Toji bullying himself into your cervix is a poison you’d drink habitually. A poison so incredibly captivating, you’re burning just to feel his crowning ardor. 

He’s sandwiched between your swollen lips and he can’t get enough, virtually drunk from it. He winds another branding swat on your backside, then the other. The crackling fire of his hand thwacking delicate flesh merges pleasure with pain. “You've been such a brat all summer” he taunts, “Needed me to put you in your place, huh, you fucking slut?” Another mean swat, and he laughs crudely at you little gasp. “You like this shit, don’t you? Wanna be manhandled like a fucking whore.” Both cheeks are a severe fiery color, beginning to welt, but he resumes. And you’re drenching him. A creamy, gooey ring forming at the base of his dick, tracing translucent strings when he pummels your poor leaking pussy. 

“M’sorry, so s-sorry” you babble. Apologizing for what? You don’t know, but the delirium spills truths you should’ve voiced ages ago. You're utterly incoherent; you might as well stay silent. “Aww, I know” he cloys, soft and sultry compared to the angry strokes he’s delivering. Shockwaves burst and fizzle on your clit and you flutter around him. Your ass ripples against him, hoarse voice funneling strings of curses, scrotum pummeling your overworked bundle of nerves. You want to come so bad it hurts, and you find yourself arching a little harder, spreading your legs a little wider—just begging him to use you entirely, to melt, become his. 

“Pleasepleaseplease” you whimper, at the height of your intensity. Then sweltering, frenetic spasms suffocate Toji’s shaft as you ride the orgasm seemingly crashing into you. You shudder violently, pleading with your body to attain some level of poise. It has other plans, however, provoking you to flitting tears from dragged-out, toe-curling tremors. You grip him like a vice and he struggles to pull out, but when does he’s rubbing circles on your aching nub. You’re lost in a bottomless sensation, but you hear his voice in your dampened ears, “Mm, I got ya.” 

The pressure on your wrists lessens, and you realize you can move them freely. Your arms are numb returning to a normal position, and you support yourself on your feeble elbows when you feel your legs being parted again. In the fleeting instant you’re allowed to settle, the vast trail of his tongue laps at your shuddery cunt. "P-please wait—ngh, I can’t-” you wail, and you turn to the commotion to see Toji, growling and devouring your silken arousal.  

He’s absolutely corrupted, a feral glint in his blearily blinking eyes, chest heaving salaciously as he kneads your thighs. You paw at his hair, toiling to crawl away from his unsparing mouth but he follows. He releases you and you inch away from him. “Where ya goin’? Heh, tryna run?” he teases. You don’t get very far, because he grapples your waist and pulls you back. “Not done ‘till I say it’s done.”  

Then he’s climbing on the bed with you, and you can do nothing but snivel in protest as he maneuvers you to hike your leg over his. He lays on his side, locking you in his embrace and smears his cock between your puffy folds. “Am I being mean to you?”, he slides in with ease, savoring the sweet mess spewing on cue, “’M sorry, I’m just an ‘angry old man’, after all.”  

He pounds your chubby cunt with wild abandon. You feel each vast stroke pummeling your tumid core, squelching amidst your languid bodies. You can’t close your legs—as badly as you want to—and you’re forced to endure frantic twitching from your lit nerves. He strips your breasts of the flimsy lace bra and alternates among pinching your nipple and molding the valley to his palms. He twists it harsh and you muster a pathetic babble, to which he laughs—mocking and unhinged, “My poor baby, you can’t handle it anymore.”  

Anymore was an understatement, it was overwhelming—to a degree that you’d gone quiet, enveloped in vehemence. You're scratching up his bicep with the other tangled in the sheets, knuckles turned white and your head thrown back. You want to push him off, but you’re milking his stuttering hips, drawing him closer. It isn’t enough and it’s too much. “F-fuck, it’s so swollen” he moves from your chest to your vulva, “I can touch right? Y-yea, you don’t mind.” His intoxicating voice is at a whisper in your ear, laying like liquor in your cotton-filled mind. With his cock dragging against your walls and hammering your g-spot, mercilessly circling his pads on your clit, eliciting every short “ah, ah” from your swollen lips, you’re far from combative.  

He precisely rolls his hips and it’s unbearably hot, broken mewls fleeing you. Your mouth sags, drool shameless down your mouth as he kisses your cervix without trying. He wraps his hand around your throat, boring into your teary eyes. You can’t escape his overbearing presence, isolated from everything besides his eye contact. He is everything.  

“Who’s pussy is this?” He gradually squeezes tighter and you pule in response. Since that didn’t work, he accentuates the words with every tantalizing thrust: 

“Who’s” 

“Pussy” 

“Is this?” 

You narrowly choke out, “Your pussy”, and like something snapped his rhythm get faster, nastier. The asphyxiation reaches you brain and floods you, aswoon on a pillowy cloud. He’s faltering, pumps getting sloppier, “Thaaat’s right, ‘nd I’ll use this pretty pussy whenever I need.” His stomach flinches but he doesn’t stop chasing that high, eyes thoroughly glassed, “’N you’re gonna be a good girl and take it—ha, f-fuck—be a good girl, o-okay?” Your pupils retreat to the back of your head, and you arch off the bed as your body begins to tremble. He’s glued to you, “One more, let it out f’me. Please, fuck, I need it—hah—need you to come on my dick—”  

Your breath gets stuck in your throat, and you unravel. A stream of liquid coats the blanket and you’re speechless as you convulse uncontrollably, legs betraying you for strong spasms. You go limp but Toji props you up, bucking his hips when his own legs start to jolt. “That’s a good girl—Ohh yes. Y-you're so good f'me, princess. Coming—hahh—gonna come all over your pretty cunt—”  

His balls tighten, and he manages some slushy, vile pumps before he pulls out. He spurts all over your tummy and hypersensitive vulva, painting it in thick white layers. He persists, groaning until he’s fully hollow, emptying his sack in globs. His staggering pants and shaking reduce to hitching, and he relaxes your exhausted weight. You weep softly, clinging to him as he presses selfish kisses from your lips to your wet lashes. He caresses your cheek, sweaty and disheveled in the dim light. Then your eyesight starts to blur. 

Your sight peels back, permitting warm sunlight basked over the bed. It takes a split second to notice you’re resting on pillows not nearly as comfortable as yours, and the wood paneling was uncharacteristic of your assigned room. It takes another second to notice your galled throat, stinging backside, and the arm loose on your naked waist. You peer over your shoulder, to that mop of ink sprawled on the pillow. He looks peaceful, though you’re not sure how you slept soundly when he snores like a brute. 

You slip from his arms to sit up. The floor’s freezing, but by the time you get to stand you’re pulled back into the covers. Entangled in limbs, you gaze at Toji, who still has his eyes closed. His face appears softened up close. There’s a small scar near his hairline that you hadn’t spotted. You trace the scar, outlining it to the one on his lip. He nips your finger. 

“I wanna sleep” he grumbles. 

“Then you should’ve let me leave” 

“No.” You card your fingers through his hair, and he sighs into it. A fine gray strand peaks out amongst the rest. “You’re turning gray, old man.” 

“The way I had you last night, I wouldn’t say ‘old man’.” Your remembrance makes your ears hot and you clasp a hand over his mouth. He laughs and pecks it, “You’re leaving today. Let’s get you packed up” he muffles. 

Little did he know, you’d talk to your father that afternoon, asking to stay for a couple more months. The countryside welcomed you—and what a humbling experience it was. 

© mooishbeam - please don't steal, copy, or post my work to other platforms :)

[koishua]

stress painted the rest of my remaining canvases to make this a set

[explorevenus]

dessert before dinner ♡ gale dekarios x f!reader

nsfw (18+) - minors DNI or i will call the cops and also ur mom

word count - 4.3k

description - domestic life with you has turned gale into a big softie, in more ways than one-- he's already got the dad bod, why wait for the baby to match?

aka dad bod malewife gale wants to knock u up :3

tags/warnings - dad bod gale w mild self esteem issues at the beginning but he gets over it, technically bg3 spoilers ig (takes place post-game), food mentions, praise, p in v, creampie, breeding kink but fluffy cus gale is sappy, inappropriate use of the Weave, inappropriate use of mage hand

a/n - this piece was commissioned by my LOVELY LOVELY SWEET BABY ANGEL @d10nyx WHO DESERVES EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD AND MORE AND IS SUCH A FUCKIN SAINT FOR BEING SO PATIENT FOR THIS ;n; pls go check out her work i adore her so bad

also just as a note b4 i get One Billion Asks about it for posting this-- i am not abandoning 'something permanent' nor am i abandoning writing for resident evil just bc i am posting one singular bg3 fic !!!!!!!!!! might seem obvious but i just wanted to get ahead of it bc i'm paranoid and have seen it happen to other ppl ;~;

my masterlist ♡

fic under the cut, thanks so much for reading and i hope u enjoy ;w;

-venus ♡

Life post-Netherbrain softened Gale Dekarios in many ways. 

Some of the most obvious ways included the relief of tension that came with no longer bearing the weight of the world on his back, ridding himself of the curse that plagued so many of his living years, and finally being able to settle down back home in Waterdeep. 

But if you asked Gale, the one thing that softened him the most was you. You, you, you. Ever since the moment you tugged him out of that collapsing portal, everything Gale did was for you, and by the looks of it, that wouldn’t be changing anytime soon. 

Stability was something Gale hadn’t had in a long time, and while he wouldn’t exactly call running around Faerun fighting deities and monsters and people alike ‘stability,’ he could at the very least find that stability in you. Every battle, every brutal journey through the swamp or the Astral Plane or the wreckage of Baldur’s Gate, you were right there with him. 

And now you were home. 

Home had long since become anywhere with you, of course, but now you were really home, back in Waterdeep with Gale and his family and his beloved Tara, and what’s more, you had his last name. You were truly his and he was truly yours, in every possible sense. With his days spent teaching the art of illusion magic to the next generation of hopeful mages and his evenings spent returning home to his precious wife, Gale wasn’t sure it would be scientifically possible for him to be any happier, let alone any more fortunate. 

Gale was in the kitchen preparing dinner when you returned home, having spent the afternoon handling a few errands and wandering about the city. It always came as a delight for him to see you exploring his hometown in the same ways he did growing up, discovering all the neat little oddities and secrets that lay beneath the unassuming surface. 

He turned over his shoulder to face you at the sound of the door creaking open and then clicking shut, a smitten grin tugging at his face already. The sight of his beloved would never cease to fluster him, after all. 

“There she is,” Your handsome wizard greeted warmly, “The lovely and– might I say, stunningly beautiful– Princess of Waterdeep.” 

Just like that, you were blushing too, approaching to wrap your arms around him at the waist from behind, pressing a sweet kiss to his shoulder, affectionately roaming every inch of him you could get your hands on with a gentle touch. 

Yes, life post-Netherbrain softened Gale Dekarios in many ways, and his figure was no exception.

It was no secret Gale had an appreciation for the little indulgences in life, like rich wine and too many sweets, alarm clocks shut off when they really shouldn’t be, cozy bedding and plush furniture and hearty ‘marry me’ dinners. But, luxuries like that were rather few and far between when the two of you were on the road, and long days of traveling by foot and fighting to survive made for great exercise at the time. 

Suffice it to say, having a stable home and living without being under the constant threat of death meant you weren’t quite as active as you used to be. With time, his cheeks filled out a little more, and his clothes became a bit snug as lean muscle gave way to plush flesh. His skin glowed. He looked relaxed and nourished, he looked healthy, and you couldn’t get enough of him if you tried. 

Your wandering hands did make him a little timid in the moment, however– he hadn’t put on a concerning amount of extra padding by any means, but still, this new look was taking some getting used to. 

“Quite alright, my love?” Gale asked with a soft laugh as your hands came to rest at his hips, your kisses trailing up the side of his neck. His skin was glowing warm beneath your attention. 

“Mhm,” You hummed innocently, nodding, your hands sliding forward to feel along the delicate roundness of his belly through his shirt. “I just missed you today, dearest, and you look so delightful. I have half a mind to talk you into dessert before dinner, hm?” 

Your beloved husband was well and truly burning up now, stuttering over whatever he had going on the stove and very much considering abandoning it in favor of bending you over the countertop, but something made him hesitate. 

With a bashful laugh, as though he were trying to play it off, Gale replied, “Right, well, I suppose I could use the exercise.” 

Your brows furrowed with confusion and you glanced up at him over his shoulder, trying to read his expression. He said that so casually, like he didn’t think anything of it, and it broke your heart a little bit. 

“For all it may be worth, I think you look divine,” You said, face straight and meaning every word of it. Even if Gale was trying to laugh it off, it wasn’t a joke to you. Quietly, you added, “I would argue a bit of fluff suits you well, my darling.” 

Thankfully Gale tended to be rather easily convinced by you. 

His posture relaxed a little bit, and now the laugh that puffed out from between his lips was noticeably more genuine. “Perhaps it’s about time we put ‘a bit of fluff’ on you. I fear my mother will lose her head soon if I don’t.” 

You tilted your head and narrowed your eyes with playful curiosity. “Your mother? And what concern is that of hers, hm?”

“Only the same concern of every mother, dearest,” He grinned as though it were obvious, “Grandbabies.” 

This response of his gave you pause. Gale’s mother hadn’t exactly been quiet about her desire for grandchildren since the day you met her, but she’d never gone too far, never pestered you to the point of being uncomfortable, and never made it out to be particularly urgent– you wondered if perhaps she’d been less patient on the topic with Gale. 

Your pause had a lot less to do with the pressure to please his mother and a lot more to do with the undeniable fact that the thought of Gale fucking a baby into you made your knees go weak. You weren’t even sure you were breathing for a moment, until it occurred to you that you’d been quiet for too long and any further hesitation to respond could be taken the wrong way. 

Clearing your throat softly, you continued the playful banter, “I think my earlier suggestion stands to remedy that concern as well, no? Dessert before dinner?” 

What you didn’t know was that Gale had been thinking about this a lot more often than he was letting on. Sure, the pestering of his baby-crazy relatives was one factor, but more than anything, the safety and security he’d felt in the year since you’d married had him throwing himself into the romantics of domesticity with abandon. When you first met, he never imagined such a future would be possible for him. The chaos and uncertainty that came along with defeating the Absolute brought death far closer than most people would see the other side of, and yet you made it. 

Against all odds, hand-in-hand, you still made it. And every night since your wedding, as you tucked into bed alongside one another, he dreamt of you glowing with the radiance of motherhood. He didn’t want to pressure you– after everything that had happened, it felt like a lot to ask of you to also bear his child, like that might be pushing his luck… though you had all but just confirmed your interest with that last remark, and that didn’t make it past him. 

Gale turned off the stove so as not to burn the masterpiece he’d been cooking before turning around to face you, his broad hands coming up to cradle your face. The look he gave you was intensely romantic and almost vulnerable, his eyes gazing deep down into your own as he asked, “My darling, do you know how long I’ve yearned to make you a mother?” 

Your heart was hammering now, warmth creeping up your cheeks as you found yourself unable to break eye contact, not that you wanted to anyway. Bashfully, your hands came to rest upon his soft shoulders, feeling his own heart pulsing away in his chest, his cheeks going rosy with the same warmth. There was always a certain synchronicity between you and Gale. 

Voice lowering to a near whisper, the emotion behind your words just as strong, you replied, “How long?” 

The look he gave you was tender and reverent. Your husband clicked his tongue and smiled at the floor before cupping your jaw in his two strong hands, meeting your eyes once again. Tone rich with sincerity, he began, “Back in the Grove, seeing you with all the little Tieflings… a lot of people would have disregarded them as scoundrels, but not you, my darling. 

“You embraced their mischief– not only embraced it, but nurtured it. Refined it. You treated them with patience and respect, and you didn’t look down upon them, you kneeled to their level. At every turn, you protected them, but you never patronized them. You learned just as much from them as they learned from you.” 

He paused for a moment, thumbs stroking over your flushed cheeks, his own skin burning just as hot. Pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose, Gale continued, “I’m sure you can imagine how that sent off the train of thought. For the longest time, I bit it back. It felt like a pipe dream, and I didn’t want to kid myself– I’ve done enough of that for two lifetimes. But then the Netherbrain fell, the Absolute released her iron grip on the commonwealth of Faerun, and what’s more, you accepted my hand in marriage. 

“The first morning I woke up next to you in the safety of our marital bed, it didn’t feel like such a distant reality anymore. There you were right before me, and in my mind’s eye, you were bathed in the golden glow of dawn and fertility, your nightgown clinging to your divine, ripening figure. Ever since that moment, the image of you with child has dominated my every waking thought. I crave it like the sweetest wine, my heart, to see you become plump and radiant with motherhood.” 

Leave it to Gale to so easily render you weak in the knees with his poetics. The way he described it, you could see it too. You could see the silk of your nightgown becoming snug around your middle as your belly would come to rise like pastry, you could see the vein in Gale’s brow tense while he would struggle to put a crib together. You could see your grocery lists growing to include nappies and baby food, you could see a space at the dining table occupied by a high chair. 

He was right, it didn’t feel distant at all. It felt so close you could taste it, the veil between this reality and that one now paper thin, like a cobweb you could just blow away. 

Before you could think up a response, he was speaking again, his tone delicate and low, “Just imagine it, dearest. A child born of you and I would have the purest connection to the Weave imaginable, and you would make a gorgeous mother… You know I adore you always, but I must confess, I’m not sure I would be able to leave you be, seeing you like that. It might just require the strength of a thousand men to pry me away.” 

You puffed out a laugh, your face and the tips of your ears burning with bashfulness. Leaning forward to hide your face away in his soft chest, you teased, “So it wasn’t your mother who put you up to this?” 

“Ah, I’m afraid not, my darling,” He cracked a grin, planting a smooch to the crown of your head. “At least not entirely. This was a hole I dug the both of us into largely on my own, I’ll admit.” 

His hands slid down to rest upon your hips, and for a moment, you just held each other like that. It felt cozy, it felt comfortable, like time itself had paused around you. In all your days, no one but Gale could make you feel like that so consistently. You almost wondered if there might be some subtle illusion magic at play in moments like these, but you knew all too well that Gale’s charm had very little to do with the Weave– he was just like that, and you were all the more fortunate for it. 

Gale’s hold on your hips tightened in an affectionate squeeze before his arms were snaking around you, one at your lower back and one where your thighs met your bottom. He lifted you from your feet and spun you around to face the other way, propping you up on the countertop in one smooth movement, the tightening front of his pants nestled right up against the crotch of your underwear through your dress. 

Your breath hitched in your throat at the feeling, and he didn’t make it any easier for you to remember how to breathe when his next move was to stoop his head down and smother your throat with languid kisses. 

“Gale,” You gasped, hips rutting forward to knock into his own, your head spinning as the distinct outline of his arousal grinded right up against your clit. “Gods above, you’re going to be the death of me…” 

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest at your accusation, his teeth nipping playfully at your pulse point before he spoke against your skin, “Always a flair for dramatics with you, my beloved bride… though if that should turn out to be true, then you’d die how you lived; ravished, revered and adored by your most loyal wizard.” 

Just as soon as he’d put you there, Gale was plucking you up from the countertop again, and while it was your immediate assumption that he was going to carry you off to the bedroom, it would seem he didn't even have the patience for that. Your back hit the dining table with a gentle thud, though the ever mindful wizard braced the back of your head gracefully with an oven mitt just in time. 

You dissolved into a fit of squirms, giggles, and quiet yelps as his lips and teeth met your neck in a display of needy attention, his fingertips crackling with magic as they found their way up beneath the skirt of your dress. Grip printing into your hips, he dragged you back until your clothed cunt was flush with his bulge again, and the electric shock of pleasure that rang through you in response threatened to knock the wind out of you. 

Gale wouldn't, you thought to yourself, surely he wouldn't enchant his-- 

He tilted your chin up with his knuckle, a brutally smug grin plastered on his rosy face as your eyes met again. "Are you with me, dearest?" His thumb came forward to stroke over the plush of your bottom lip, almost pulling it into a pout himself. 

"Yeah," You shivered, nodding without even really thinking about it. You couldn't even bring yourself to poke fun at him for that like you might have otherwise. "Did you--" 

"Shh," Gale cooed, untying the laces of his trousers to relieve some of the pressure before he folded over you and rolled his hips forward again, caging you between the table and his warm, plush frame. The barrier between you was lesser now, and you felt it immediately.

He was radiating the Weave, delicate strands seeping through the thin fabric of your undergarments to kiss, lick, and tingle over your flesh. The sensation wasn't completely foreign-- taking a master wizard as a partner and lover for life naturally lent itself to inappropriate use of the arcane-- but no two intimate encounters with him were ever alike. Sometimes it made you wonder just how many of those hours he spent locked away in his tower were giving him ideas. 

In hardly any time at all you could feel yourself soaking through your panties, your hips rutting forward to chase him and your mind slipping away into a helpless little puddle of mush, and he had barely even touched you yet. It was all by design, of course-- he didn't want to get too cocky and risk wasting a drop of himself that could otherwise be getting you pregnant. 

Discarding his shirt and dragging your panties down with shaking hands, Gale groaned at the sight of your arousal, the extent of it. You were right drooling between your legs, pussy glistening with the very same juices that drenched and clung to your underwear. He couldn't help but dip two fingers between your silky folds to collect your nectar for himself. As soon as it hit his tongue he felt like he couldn't breathe. Your taste was creamy and sweet like icing, a flavor he wouldn't ever tire of even if it was the only thing he could ever have again. He could devour you for a lifetime and still hunger for eternity. 

"You're going to grow so beautifully," He said lowly, eyes half-lidded and his pupils blown wide as saucers. In you he saw nothing but the future. One hand shoving his pants and briefs down his thighs and the other planting itself upon your stomach, his cock sprang up to kiss the plump flesh of his own belly as he continued, "I will thank the divines for the remainder of my life that I should have the pleasure of watching you ripen with our fruit." 

You could have cried. Your bottom lip did wobble a little bit as you gazed up at him, choking up, and he stooped down to kiss you immediately. 

"None of that," He mumbled against your lips, dragging his stiff, weeping cock through your folds to keep you good and dizzy, every contact of his skin against yours still buzzing with the arcane. "I have you, okay? I have you. I love you. You're alright." 

Nodding in response, feeling the tears dry up right then and there, your lips parted in preparation to respond but all that came out was a deep, pleasured cry. Gale was sinking into your hole like he was made for you, stretching you open with slow, delicate thrusts, his breath heavy and lustful in your ear. 

Stuffing you full of himself until the head of him was threatening to kiss your cervix, Gale stilled for a moment, nipping at the shell of your ear before kissing your cheek affectionately and checking in with you, "Feeling good, my darling?" 

"Mhm," You nodded, and as soon as your approval registered to him, he began to move. 

Bliss. Pure and uncut bliss. That quiet little hum of approval quickly melted into staggered breaths and mewls, your hands finding purchase in kneading at the dough of his waist. You really couldn't get over how well the extra weight suited him, how perfectly it softened his edges and padded out the warmest parts of his physique. He was made for a body like this, a little bit round and squishy and sweet. You wanted to swallow him in one bite. 

Every stroke of his cock inside you felt like true euphoria, crackles and tingles of pleasure radiating outward from each and every nerve ending, and he felt it too. You could tell by the look on his face, the way his mouth hung open with deep, wanton moans, the way he shivered and stuttered with damn near every thrust. 

"G-Gale," You cried out, nails printing into his flesh as you tried to tug him down to you. 

Typically he would have obliged you without hesitation, but Gale had other plans at the moment. Bracing himself against the fine oak wood to the right side of your head, his other hand gripped at your thigh and angled your leg up with ease. Before you could register what he was about to do, he was already doing it. 

Folding you into a half mating press, he drove into you deep, the Weave sinking into your bloodstream with a staggering intensity that nearly made you scream. 

Swallowing your cries with his own lips, Gale kissed you just about as deeply as he was fucking you, his facial hair scratching and tickling at your cheeks as his silky tongue slipped over your own. Every knock of his hips against your own had the dining table rattling too, the walls of your marital home ringing with the sounds of sex, the obscene squelching of your pussy sucking him in, the needy whines and moans slipping from you both. 

You felt like you were on fire in the best possible way. Every square inch of your body was alight with lust and magic, your legs hooked around his hips to draw him even closer. The two of you could fuse together and you would still want to get closer. 

Soon enough, your throbbing clit was met with the unexpected pressure of arcane fingertips, measured strokes of a figure-eight over your swollen bud that coaxed you higher and higher and higher until you felt like you were weightless there on that table, lifting from it, your lips only parting from his own as your head fell back against the oven mitt in a desperate gasp for breath. 

That breath was almost immediately followed by a broken cry of his name, the stimulation causing your greedy cunt to clench and pulse around him, again, by design. Sinking down on his elbow so he could speak directly into your ear, his cock stroking so deeply into you that it nearly felt like it was prodding at your lungs, Gale groaned, "That's it, pup, there you are... Such pretty noises from my good girl, my darling little wife..." 

"I love you, I love you, I--" 

Cutting you off with a kiss, Gale replied, "I love you more, and I'll give you as many babies as it takes to prove it."

Your vision went white, thighs wrenching tight around his hips as you plummeted over the edge unlike ever before. It felt like traveling through a lightning bolt, your spine arching up into a fine point, your stomach pressing up against his own as he emptied his load inside you, mage hand still circling your puffy clit. 

Ropes and ropes of creamy seed flooded your hole until you were stuffed to the brim, leaving behind that delicious pressure that came along with being stretched so full. Your bottom half felt heavy as you fought to catch your breath beneath him, tears leaking from your dewy eyes. 

"N-No more, no more with the mage hand," You stammered, sucking in a sharp breath as its thumb and forefinger took your clit in a delicate pinch. 

Another second or two passed in which he continued to have his fun before deciding you'd had enough. The stimulation to your bud slowly ceased, but as he withdrew his softening sex from you, you quickly realized you didn't feel any less full. 

Brows knitting together, you squirmed and struggled to sit up, watching Gale turn his back to dampen a washcloth before returning to you, gently wiping the sweat from your brow and the slick from your inner thighs, brushing your hair away from your face reverently. "Shh, shh. Just sit still for a moment longer, alright? Let me get you cleaned up." 

He continued his gentle work until you were refreshed and sparkling before scooping you up from the dining table like a princess in his arms, carrying you off to the bedroom to get you both changed. 

It was only as the two of you entered the room and you caught sight of yourself in the floor-length mirror that you realized Gale's mage hand was still very much at work, its thick middle and ring fingers plugging you up nicely. Not a drop was wasted with the diligent digits blocking the way. 

Gale helped you out of your dress and into a soft nightgown, and in your exhaustion you were ready to just crash into bed for the night. Curling up atop the covers as Gale changed into loungewear of his own, you were about to fall asleep right then and there when he woke you with a loving grin. 

"Huh?" You mumbled, reaching up to rub your eyes, and as his own raked over the image of your beautiful body, he couldn't stop thinking about the many ways it would come to develop over the next several months. 

"We still haven't eaten, my love." 

You groaned, burying your face back into the bedding stubbornly. "But I'm tired..." 

"You were the one who wanted dessert before dinner, sweetest," He teased. "We've had our dessert, and now it's time for dinner. Besides, I thought we agreed to fluff you up a bit?"

A bashful smile tugging at your cheeks, you narrowed your eyes at him playfully, huffing out, "Okay, okay, fine," reaching your arms out for him to carry you again, and you were so lucky he loved to baby you. 

Gale didn't hesitate to take you into his arms, your head nestled up against his chest as you returned to the kitchen together. He placed you gently down in a chair at the dining table before assessing what he'd left on the stove earlier. His 'masterpiece' was now ice cold and unappealing to him, and surely his darling wife deserved better than cold and unappealing. 

Turning over his shoulder to look at you, Gale asked you a question that you didn't think you'd ever hear him ask; "How about tavern food tonight?"

[urhoneycombwitch]

shrine of your lights

🍯 honey flavour: edibles and a church wedding to attend. what could go wrong with Eddie as your plus one? 

🐝 the bees: FWB!Eddie x reader 

wc: 4.8k

content warnings: a smidge of Catholic blasphemy, weed usage, friends w/ benefits Eddie, R is a bit of a love (and relationship) skeptic and Eddie is lovesick, R+E are in their 20’s, pining, public sex (no one but them observes tho), R has hair long enough to tuck behind ears, R gets a hickey but skin tone/color is not described, R has breasts and a V, softdom Eddie, marking kink (?)

foreword: I listened to Say You Love Me by Fleetwood Mac for this. LOL. kind of AU bc it’s a few years after ssn 4 and everyone is alive and just fine (lovesick but oh well can’t b helped) based on this anon thank u for inspiring me!!!!

The stained glass window in front of you looms tall, afternoon light streaming through and casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the polished wood flooring. You stretch out a hand into the warm beam of sun, admiring the way the colors catch and bounce off your dainty star-chain bracelet.

When Eddie had suggested you two eat some weed brownies as a precursor to your (very distant, very Catholic) cousin’s wedding, you hadn’t quite expected to get as stoned as you are now. Since Eddie hasn’t attended any major life functions sober since 1981, and seeing as how you refuse to step foot inside a church space without some sort of social lubricant, the weed wasn’t a hard sell at all. 

To be fair, Eddie had warned you of their potency, and you had snuck another quarter of a brownie when his back was turned: but christ, your tolerance must be crazy low or something, ‘cuz a window has no right to be this mesmerizing. 

You’ve been staring at it for the past five minutes, in your own little world while a steady stream of wedding guests file in through the big oak doors and mill about before the ceremony. The warm, still air of the church is heady with the smell of fresh florals and incense, and a line of votive candles flicker and wink against the windowsill.

Casting a glance over your shoulder, you see Eddie’s still speaking in gentle tones with an elderly woman (whom you’re likely related to, hard to say) near the foyer, all charming smile and sincere hand pressed to the slip of bare chest his button-down displays. You’ve got to hand it to the guy, he’s really great at endearing himself to total strangers; he’s been a natural shoe-in for any plus-one you’ve needed over the past few years.

While Eddie is perfectly in his element, holding what looks to be an engaging conversation while stoned to all hell, your focus is drawn back to the window. You should probably be on the arm of your guest, seeing as how it’s your family wedding after all, but the swirling lights and colors are too alluring to pull yourself away from.

“Beautiful piece of art, isn’t it?”

The voice behind you is unfamiliar, and proper social graces here would call for an introduction, perhaps a firm handshake, but your limbs and tongue feel so loose and the reply is out of your mouth before you can think twice- “God, yeah. S’fucking gorgeous. I want one for my house.”

There’s a light cough, and when you turn on your low-heeled Mary Janes it’s under the amused eye of a priest- in full priest-garb. Green velvet robes and little hat and everything.

You realize your error- swearing and taking the Lord’s name in vain- but the brief stint in Catholic school from when you were 6 is unfortunately not recalled in time to stop the scramble of swears mixed with apologies that come tumbling out. 

“Oh shit- I mean- fuck. Oh god. Sorry, Father, I didn’t mean-”

The priest- old as hell but thankfully with sense of humor still intact- smiles kindly at you and takes your hand in both of his, patting graciously. “No apologies are necessary, my dear. The beauty of God can be overwhelming and awe-inducing.”

You nod jerkily, grabbing on to his excuse- “Yes, yep. That’s exactly what happened. Struck down by the awe.”

The priest nods to you, and then to Eddie (who’s appeared at your side like a guard dog that sensed trouble), then wanders off down a row of pews to greet other guests.

You’re nearly doubled over with the effort it takes to conceal your laughter, Eddie stroking a calming hand down your back and chuckling with you under his breath. 

“Struck down by the awe, huh?” he echoes as you straighten back up and dab at the tears gathering against your lashline. “You really are somethin’.”

“That was so embarrassing but guess what-” here you lean in, voice a conspiratorial whisper as Eddie raises his eyebrows to look down his nose at you- “I don’t give a fuck ‘cuz I’m hi-igh.”

This last word is sung with a two-note lilt, and you turn back to the comfort of the sunny window as Eddie steps in beside you, shaking his head. “I told you to start with a lower dose, ya goose. Did you take more when I wasn’t looking?”

You shrug a shoulder, the soft linen of your cardigan brushing up against the hard leather of Eddie’s jacket. “Maybe. Couldn’t say. You gonna steal this window for me or what?”

He blows out a breath, pretending to appraise the size and heft, rapping his ringed knuckles against the sill- “Well normally I’d say ‘anything for my girl’, but we’d need a shrink ray for this type’a heist.”

“Maybe Dustin has one we can borrow.”

He sucks his front teeth, playing along, shaking his head in faux-disappointment. “Nah, little shit’s only got a ham radio. Useless when it comes to religious robbery.”

Eddie looks overly pleased when you giggle, but some of the humor in his face falls to concern as he reaches out to squeeze your upper arms. “Hey. You doin’ okay? If you’re too stoned to sit through the ceremony, I can find us a little spot to hole up in. I’m good at finding those.”

“I know you are,” you reply, waving away his worry. “I’m fine, honest. Do I look high?”

He holds you at arm’s length, giving you a contemplative once-over. “Nope. You look beautiful.”

You roll your eyes, affectionately, then smooth your palms over the front of your black slip dress and pull the scalloped sleeves of your cardigan into place. “Well, of that I am aware.”

Eddie winks, and you really wish you were sober enough that the warmth of his hands and the smell of his cologne would have less of an effect but high as you are, you want nothing more than to burrow into his neck and taste the salt of his skin. 

“Do I look high?” he asks, pulling away to do a little spin so you can appraise his appearance. 

Eddie Munson, as it turns out, cleans up very well for family functions: smart black boots, maroon button-down tucked into a pair of flare-legged trousers, worn but well-kept leather jacket to top the outfit off. And in signature Eddie fashion, little glints of silver highlight the ensemble- his usual chunky rings, stacked layers of thin chain necklaces, metal buckles on his coat and at his waist, even a set of tiny hoops (courtesy of your jewelry drawer) in his ears. 

The dryness in your mouth has nothing to do with your intoxication as you blink back to the present and give Eddie a once-over. “Uhm. Nope. You look sober. And very hot.”

He grins at you, wolfish, but then a bright chord of organ music signals the start of the ceremony. With a steady hand on your back, he leads you to a pew near the last row; when you’re both seated, his hand runs smoothly down to rest on your thigh, drumming a lazy beat with his thumb against you as the processional starts. 

Your cousin Marion looks lovely swathed in white tulle, contrasted with her groom in a black tux. Her mother, your aunt- Karen? Karina? can’t recall- dabs at her tears with a delicate lace handkerchief in the front pew as the couple exchanges vows, promising eternal and ineffable love until their ultimate demise, etcetera. 

You’re not someone who’s ever fallen prone to the gushy emotions that love seems to create in so many of your peers. While Nancy and Robin will dole out tissues to each other during some cheesy romcom, you’ll get ribbed for being so stoic. None of your breakups have ever ended in giant blowouts or dramatics from your side- hard to fight for something when you hadn’t really cared about it in the first place. 

That’s why you consider yourself so lucky, when it comes to Eddie. After the two of you ended your high school fling due to graduation, you’d come back to Hawkins after a few years of college and found yourself sneaking out like a teenager again to hang out with Eddie Munson. 

He told you he doesn’t want anything serious, either, and that he’s just fine being friends who sleep around and go to all of each other’s parties.

You almost believe him. 

He’s been to every one of your nephew’s hockey games this past season, and you’ve spent two cozy Christmases so far at the trailer with him and Wayne; every party in between has ended with Eddie driving you home, or (more frequently) back to his place. Your collective relatives and friends haven’t asked about your relationship status in years, and it’s all thanks to Eddie’s presence in your life: if the two of you aren’t technically dating, it’s really no one’s business. 

The old priest from earlier is droning on about some bible verse; uncomfortable on the hard bench and feeling restless, you shift your hips, and Eddie digs his fingers into the meat of your thigh.

“Quit. Squirming,” he murmurs, lips at your ear. When you shiver and still, he pats your leg and straightens again, eyes fixed to the front altar.

You and Eddie make it through the ceremony with minimal damage, only getting one dirty look from an older man in the pew ahead when you’d snickered at a dirty joke (courtesy of your benchmate). Marion and her new husband greet their guests one by one as everyone filters outside, and you coast easily through the interaction, kissing your cousin on both cheeks and fawning over her dress and giving just the right amount of congrats before Eddie plucks at your elbow to subtly redirect your attention. 

“Let’s get some food in you,” he says, linking your arms together as you follow the receiving line outdoors.

The reception is held just next to the church building in a surprisingly lovely courtyard. Sunlight filters through the willow trees at the edge of a grass yard, where a picnic basket awaits on each spread quilt. People are kicking off their dress shoes, unwinding with the lure of nature, kids chasing each other through the paths between blankets as adults wiggle their toes into the grass and dig into the luncheon.

Possibly, you’re high and over-romanticizing, but you can tell by the look on Eddie’s face he’s there with you, taking it all in from your blanket in a quiet corner of the yard. 

There are finger sandwiches in the basket, along with some fresh fruit and plastic utensils and plates to eat off of; Eddie fixes you a plate and you dig in happily, sock feet tucked under yourself, yours and Eddie’s shoes in a jumble nearby. 

“Could eat anything when I’m high,” you muse, then bite into a sandwich that has the perfect cream-cheese-to-cucumber ratio with a contented sigh. “Food is so good.”

Eddie snaps a baby carrot with his back teeth, then snorts at you before reaching out to tuck one side of your hair behind your ear before it gets eaten along with your food. “I know you can eat anything when you’re high. I once saw you scooping up apple pie with potato chips.”

You give him a sidelong frown, mouth full of bread and veg as you defend yourself- “Yeah, and it was great. Dee-licious. Would do it again if-”

Your name is being called, and you swivel to see a young man about your age weaving along the spaces between blankets towards yours and Eddie’s spot.

“Tony!” In a neat bit of multitasking, you manage to swallow your food and rise to your feet (albeit unsteadily, with Eddie’s hand snapping out to support your efforts), then hold your arms out to envelop the boy in a hug. “Oh my god, it’s been ages.”

Anthony Townsend has grown up in the time you’ve spent away- the last recollection you have of your former childhood neighbor is his mop of red hair bouncing with the trampoline his parents bought him in 6th grade. He grew into his looks, for sure- the awkwardness of pre-teen ears and too-big front teeth have settled into a very kind and handsome face.

He looks genuinely pleased to see you, returning your hug with a squeeze, pulling back to hold both your hands and ask about where you’ve been. You breeze through a highlighted version of the last few years, leaving out all the interdimensional monster bullshit and focusing the questions back on him.

Tony’s telling you about his father’s veterinary practice that’s still running smoothly when you feel Eddie at your back, and Tony falters, dropping your hands.

Social cues come a tad slow to you, under the influence, and you think Tony’s stumbling because you haven’t introduced him yet (how were you supposed to know Eddie’s been glaring daggers at the poor kid ever since you’d hugged him?), and you attempt to remedy your mistake with a casual remark- “You know, Eddie here has been feeding the stray cats at our place every night, a whole colony of them- there’s gotta be, what, ten of ‘em now?”

You turn to Eddie for confirmation, reeling a little at the dark scowl he’s still sporting as he nods. “Yup. Somethin’ like.”

Tony scratches at the back of his neck, freckled cheeks pink as he begins to back away- “Um, yeah. Cool. Well it was great to see you! I gotta…”

With a vague gesture, he turns and tails it back to his blanket on the other side of the yard. You whirl on Eddie, his face smoothing back into relaxed indifference, even as you hiss, “What the hell was that?”

Eddie shrugs. “Don’t know what you mean, princess.”

“That,” you repeat, waving an arm in the air for emphasis. “I know I’m not sober but you were being weird, even by my standards.” 

There’s this look that Eddie gets, sometimes, when one of you bumps against the walls of your loosely-defined relationship- a brief flash of pain and sadness before it gets hidden away behind his comfortable mask of bravado.

He’s got it now- a small pinch in his eyebrows, doey eyes swimming with emotion, and you put a hand on his leather-clad arm as the pieces fall into place. “Were you… are you jealous?”

In the span of a blink, the mask is back up, and with a dry laugh that’s so unlike him, Eddie shakes his head. “Nah. What do I have to be jealous of, huh? ‘S not like we belong to each other.”

Maybe on a different day, with half the weed in your system, you’d be able to let this comment slide. But there’s something deeply hurtful about it, sinking and twisting in your stomach like a stone. Your grip tightens on Eddie’s arm, tears stinging hot at your eyes, voice a watery, desperate thing- “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”

Eddie is quick to comfort you, once he realizes you’re close to crying- “Shit, sweetheart. Okay. You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to think…” Your voice is still shaky with emotion as Eddie lets you hold on to him, gently shushing you even though there’s no one near enough to hear. “You’re important to me, Eddie. I never wanna make you mad, or upset, or-”

“I’m not.” Eddie cuts smoothly into your rambling, placing his hands on either side of your neck as you cling to him, cool rings kissing into your skin. “I’m not mad, promise. I was just being an asshole for no reason, okay? Could never be mad at you.”

His thumb strokes at the column of your throat, your breath and heart rate lulled to normal under his touch, his expression returning to the gentle fondness you’re used to seeing.

“Let’s finish up lunch, hm?” Eddie says, and with a final soft squeeze he pulls away from you, taking with him the warmth of his palms.  

It’s always like this, with him, at least in front of your respective families- any PDA is kept to a strict minimum, nothing too intimate or drawn out so as not to attract attention. You’d implemented this rule from the beginning, and Eddie has been nothing but respectful of it, your peace of mind over not wanting a label pacified.

But right now? The lack of Eddie’s arms around you or his lips on yours was starting to make you ache. 

You both settle into the blanket again, conversation flowing around mouthfuls of food as you catch Eddie up with the latest family gossip, laughing when he bats your pointer finger out of the air (as if anyone is really paying attention to you two giggling loons). 

Someone’s brought a radio and has it dialed to a soft rock station; you gasp and shove at Eddie (sprawled out like a house cat after a full meal in the sun), exclaiming “It’s Fleetwood Mac and you love Fleetwood Mac!”

“I so don’t,” he grumbles, but rises easily when you tug at him to stand sock-to-sock feet with you in the grass. 

You both fall into a smooth rhythm, Eddie’s hands staying (respectably) on your hips, yours looped around his neck, doing a slow little rotation. He gazes at you as you sway back and forth in each other’s arms, the scrutiny making you titter and fidget.

“What?”

“Thought I told you to quit squirmin’,' ' comes his answer, hands tightening into the meat of your waist. “Let me look at you a minute.”

So you let him look. 

While his chocolate eyes roam your face, you trail a hand up to curl a lock of his hair around your finger. Eddie leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut, giving you room to do some staring of your own at those long, dark lashes. 

After another slow circle, Eddie inhales and draws himself back, clearing his throat. “Not that I’m not enjoying this, sweetheart, but we’re gonna start getting looks if you don’t quit using me as your personal stress toy.”

You snort. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“All good,” he replies, dimples springing into his cheeks, teasing again- “When we get home later you can pet me like a dog, if you want. Just gotta tone you down ‘cuz you get touchy when you’re high.”

Eddie’s being a perfect gentleman. He’s sticking to your rules and looking out for you.

So why is it making you so sad?

You realize, with a stunning clarity, that you don’t want to wait until you’re back at the trailer to touch Eddie. That you’re starting to crave him when he leaves, whether it’s for a day or an hour or just out of bed to get a snack. 

Fuck it, you think, and bend to scoop up your shoes. 

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” you tell Eddie, slipping on your shoes then starting towards the building. When you realize he’s not following, you pause, giving him a look over your shoulder- “Aren’t you coming?”

Eddie blinks, wondering if you’re insinuating what he thinks you’re insinuating or if he’s just really, really high. “Um. Uh…”

You don’t leave room for the shock to sink in, turning on your heel and smirking when you hear him swear under his breath and scramble to catch up. 

In a narrow hallway lined with portraits of long-dead saints, you push Eddie against the wall, mouth sealing over his and hands roaming hungrily over his body.

“Fuck,” he gasps out, in between kisses, your fingers tugging at the root of his hair, near the nape of his neck where it stings the best- “what’s got you so worked up, princess?”

“You.” The answer is an honest one. You slip your tongue between Eddie’s teeth and the boy moans, melting into you.

Peppering kisses down Eddie’s face, your lips settle into the hollow just under his jaw, then part to give room to your teeth. Eddie stiffens as you bite down, sensitive skin pierced by your mouth; it’s his turn to be the squirmy one as you suck a bruise into that soft spot. 

His cock is filling out, as proved by the steadily-growing bulge behind his zipper. You give a mean little wiggle of your hips and Eddie jolts so hard you lose your spot on his neck, popping off him with a wet smack.

“Angel, you have to stop.” Eddie sounds absolutely wrecked as he tries to maintain some distance, head tipped back to stare at the popcorn ceiling. “M’not gonna last if you keep doing that. Let me take you home, we can-”

“Shhh.” You quiet him with a pointer finger smooshed against his lips, your other hand tilted to your ear. “You hear that?”

Eddie strains to hear distant cheers and hip hip hoorays from the festivities a few corridors away; when he nods, you whisper, “That’s the cake cutting. We have a good ten minutes before anyone thinks to come back here.”

At first, Eddie thinks he’s off the hook when you release him completely, walking swiftly towards the main sanctuary. But then, because you’re a temptress, you beckon him with an impatient wave.

And because he’s so easy for you, he follows.

It’s like that window has a magnetic pull- you’re back under the prismatic glow of the stained glass, brushing a hand across the wide sill to dust it before hopping up to perch there. You fit neatly between the split row of votive candles (all snuffed out by now), enough room for your knees to part and for Eddie to fill the space. 

You cross your arms around his neck, drawing him in with another deep kiss as his hands find your waist.

“Want you to mark me up,” you murmur, and when Eddie draws back, wary, you let your chin tip up. The crown of your head knocks into the window, exposing your throat. “Show them I’m yours, Eds.”

Only have to tell him twice, apparently, ‘cuz his teeth sink into your stretch of soft skin without further qualms. The feeling of his tongue soothing over the sore spot makes you jump, hips bucking forward into his hand that you didn’t even notice had trailed up the inside of your dress.

His long fingers pet at the wet patch that’s seeping through your underwear, catching at your clit on an upstroke, your gasp a harsh noise in the otherwise silent sanctuary.

Eddie begins to rub at you through the fabric in earnest now, tight circles with his thumb even as he pulls his mouth from your neck to assess his handiwork. “Yeah, fuck, sweetheart, that’s gonna leave a mark. You want everyone to know who you belong to, huh?”

Your bundle of nerves throbs under Eddie’s touch and you curse, hands weaving tight into his hair again. “Shit, Eddie, yeah- just like that…”

He dips back into the well of your neck with his teeth, keeps just the right amount of pressure on your clit, and that tension coiling in your lower stomach is just about to snap before you stop him with a hand around his wrist.

“Sorry,” you pant through the apology, forehead crushed to Eddie’s collarbone as you try and catch your breath. “Was about to come and I want you inside of me for that.”

“Jesus fucking christ.”

Eddie fumbles with his belt buckles as you giggle, chastising- “Hush and mind your manners, Munson. That’s blaspheming and we’re about to fuck in a church.”

“I’ll show you manners.” Eddie has his pants and briefs shoved to mid-thigh before you can draw breath to tell him off; one hand smears precum down the shaft of his ruddy cock as the other pushes your dress up and hooks your panties to the side. 

You’re wet and worked up enough that he slides into the heat of you with ease, breath punching out with the way his cock completely fills you. When Eddie pulls out and sinks back in, you let out a keening whine and scrabble for purchase on his leather jacket. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, that’s it-” his voice is a dark rumble, each word punctuated with a snap of his hips, the squelch of your slick walls responding. “So wet for me. That’s my good girl. You like gettin’ off to being mine, huh, angel?”

You nod, head lolling against the window, and Eddie grins wicked even though you can’t see it. “Come on. Show me whose pussy this is.”

When his hand snakes between your bodies to press against your clit with his thumb, you come with a long, strained whimper, ankles crossing at the small of Eddie’s back to draw him closer while the velvet walls of your cunt spasm. 

Eddie’s free hand shoots out to the supporting wood arch of the window for stability as he angles his hips up, longing for that glossy honey-eyed look you get sometimes: and there it is, your eyes half-lidded and brow pinched in pleasure as his cock hits against that gummy spot, the tremble of your thighs locked around his waist as your orgasm peaks. 

Once he’s fucked you through the height of it, Eddie dips to bite at the taut muscle where your neck and shoulder meet, clamping down on the words threatening to flood out as his hips stutter. He comes hard, deep groan muffled into your neck, curses and praises spilling out in mindless babbling: “Fuck fuck, angel, that’s it, honey, shit, you’re so wet. All for me, huh, baby? Doin’ so good…”

He sags into your arms, pinning you to the window, chests heaving in tandem as you both catch your breath. You stroke a hand down his back, towards his ass, and then to the edge of his pants.

When he realizes that you’re trying to tuck him back into his clothes he whines at you, but you’re quick to shush him. “We’re cuttin’ it close with timing already, Eds. Help me out?”

Reluctantly, Eddie pulls away from the wet warmth of you to re-dress. Once his belt is in place he attends to you, helping shift the hem of your dress back down, rubbing his finger lightly under the skin of your eye where some mascara had smudged.

“I’ll double back for the keys and we’ll go home, ‘kay?” Eddie says, nose nudging into your cheek. “Wait here. You got some wicked marks and everyone will know we just fucked.”

“Pfft. No they won’t. Who would actually fuck in a church?” You push Eddie back playfully, hopping down from the sill with a wink. “You’ve gotta be sick to do that. Good thing my family believes you to be a perfect goody-two-shoes.”

Eddie stares as you make for the doors back to the courtyard, shrugging off his incredulity- “Eddie. It’s fine. So they’ll think we made out a bit. Who cares? Not me. And plus…” here you trail off and point, mischievous, Eddie’s eye’s following the line to his sock feet- “...you kinda have a no-shoes situation goin’ on. Gotta fix that.”

When you disappear through the doors, Eddie slams a palm to his chest, in awe- then feels the outline of the lighter in his inner pocket. With a practiced twist, he has it out and lit in a second, holding the flame to the wick of a votive candle.

“I don’t know how these candles work, exactly, or if atheists are allowed to…” Eddie clears his throat, glances over his shoulder to confirm you’re still out of earshot, then whispers above the flickering light: “Please let this be real life and not just some high-fueled fantasy because this is kind of huge for me. Okay thanks. Amen, or whatever.”

Eddie blows out the candle like it’s a birthday wish then hurries to catch up with you, sock feet silent against the wood floor as he calls out your name- “Slow down and have a heart, babe, I’ve got no grip!”

[seokjinsonlyone]

this how i think bts would be if you both knew you liked each other but you weren’t dating yet

a/n: you guys been looking forward to this one hope it lives up to your expectations 🥹👉👈 and you should like totally lemme know what you thought about it after you're done

namjoon:

calls you on the phone every night; asks about your day and genuinely wants to know every little detail no matter how insignificant; gets shy when you ask about his

always extends an invite to you to join him at a museum; he goes to so many so often so he understands if you can’t go every time but he really likes it when you can go; likes hearing your thoughts on different pieces no matter how ridiculous bc you’re really not that well versed in art and architecture; he also likes the look in your eye and how intently you listen to him when he actually explains the intent behind the art

wraps his arms all the way around you, completely engulfing you when you hug; gives you an extra squeeze and rubs circles on your lower back before letting go

pet names start slipping out willy nilly; beautiful, princess, pretty girl, lovely; like the more and longer he likes you the less your name come out his mouth

he got mad rizz dog; like everyone once in a while he's gonna hit you with a pick up line that catches you off guard; gon have you giggling and blushing; but he also will be giggling and blushing afterward bc he gets shy after being cute

lowkey wants your approval for everything; doesn’t NEED it but he’d like it tho for sure; like would let you listen to his unreleased music and wait with bated breath while you listened until you gushed about how good it all was

if someone came up to him while y’all were hanging out and started flirting with him he would not notice at all; you’d wait until he was done carrying on the conversation and (semi)jokingly be like “so when’s the date” and he’d be soooo confused; “huh?” “they were totally flirting with you!” “really?” “if they smiled any harder they cheeks would’ve split open and did you see how hard they were laughing? you not that funny joon 🙄” “i’m sorry i didn’t notice. i promise i wasn’t flirting back tho. the only person i wanna flirt with is you.”

seokjin:

turns red whenever you’re around; like just constantly feels called out even if no one said anything bc it’s like he knows how he feels, all his friends know how he feels, and most importantly you know how he feels; embarazzing

becomes your local fruit dealer; like whenever his family or friends give him a bunch of produce from their various farms you’re definitely on the list of people he gifts them too; he gives you a bigger share than his members too <3

sends you pictures of the food he cooks and always saves you a plate after hearing you talk about how good it looks

asks for your switch code and invites you to play games with him whenever he has down time; like will stay up to 4am playing mario strikers or nintendo switch sports with you

gets really good at origami bc one time you met up and he felt awkward not having anything to get you so he used the gum wrapper in his pocket to make you a paper airplane; now every time you meet up he has a new paper sculpture; like you end up with a whole drawer of paper hats, planes, cups, flowers, frogs, ninja stars; has a cute little message written inside that makes you smile each time you unfold them

overly helpful; like he tryna do whatever he can for you; he’s holding your bag, opening doors for you, at one point he even goes so far as to lay his jacket on the bench y’all sitting on so your butt won’t be cold 💀

his number one goal when y’all are around each other is to make you laugh; like it doesn’t really matter if you’re laughing with him or at him as long as he hears that cackle he considers the interaction a success

yoongi:

not used to initiating any kind of interaction (outside of work) with people so he just lingers around you and hopes something happens; takes you a while to realize that’s his way of asking for attention

pretty much willing to go along with whatever to make you happy; like if you were complaining about never having anyone to go to the store with he’d offer himself up so fast and that’s how you’d end up with him in ulta helping you pick out lashes

has to get scolded by seokjin repeatedly bc the one text he sent him in the past month was left on read but he replies to you almost immediately every time you message him

silently takes care of you; like if you were eating together and got choked up on something he's just gonna get up and get you a bottle of water then slide it over without ever looking you in the eye; or if you complained about your hands being cold he'd start carrying around those hand warmer pouch thingies waiting for the next time you said something then he'd just put them in your pocket

starts opening up to you 🥺

it may not last for long but when you’re speaking with him he’ll look directly into your eyes

his hands flinch a lot when you're around; sometimes he's just hit with the inexplicable urge to hold your hand or touch you in some sort of way but he hasn't quite figured out y'all's dynamic yet so he's afraid to go for it

hoseok:

becomes zendayafied; like if you think it’s bad with jimin… you ain’t seen the worst of it; you might as well be richard pryor at the apollo the way he be cracking up over any and every little thing you do; his laugh can be heard halfway across the world

he stalks your ig page and replies to all your stories with a series of emojis; shows them to his friends and goes on and on about how cute you are

sends you a bouquet of flowers and texts you a little later on asking if you got them so you send him a picture of you holding them and he responds “☹️ i was hoping you’d be in the pic but all i see are flowers”

notices the little things about you; like he’s the type to compliment your earrings or your nail color

thinks everything you do is like super great; like if you drew a little doodle on a post it note or something he's gonna keep it and in his phone case; like 100% the type to actually display a painting you did in his house even if you feel like it looks like an 8 year old did it

has a special hyper focus on you; i just imagine y'all being at a party and you're in a group and he's being hobi ya know chopping it up with everyone kekeing and the like and you could be there next to him but not really actively participating in the conversation but if you tried to slip away to like get a drink or whatever he would grab your wrist and licherally stop mid sentence to ask you where you were going; would leave the group to go do whatever you wanted to do as well

adds a bunch of heart emojis to your contact in his phone; [yn ❤️😍💜🥰💞😘💖🤩💓😚💘]

jimin:

buys you a scarf when it gets chilly bc he notices you never have one on and he doesn’t want you to catch a cold; personally wraps it around your neck himself before you go outside

perpetual flirt; like there's some kind of innuendo to everything he says to you

is able to pick up on your moods scary easily so he knows when you’re a bit off and lets you know he’s willing to listen if u wanna talk; whether you choose to take him up on his offer or not he gives a really big, tight, long hug which helps you out more than you’re willing to admit

is easily flustered by you; like if you told him you liked his hair or his sweater or something he's gonna do that thing he does where he looks down, smiles, and then hides his face

always trying to impress you; like if you told him you admired people who were good at art he finna brush up on his skills a little and then next time you see him he gon have a sketch pad in fron t of him doing some crazy doodles; or if you told him you liked his voice when you're around he'll be acting like he's being nonchalant playing it cool but be putting in mad effort humming one of your favorite songs adding in some jazmine sullivan type runs

tries to meet up with you as much as possible; like your presence is addicting to him and he wants to take in all that he can; definitely calls you at some point if he can't see you that day even if it's like 1am and you're definitely asleep he's gonna chance it and call you; "are you awake?" "no" "oh i'm sorry i'm sorry i just missed you today" "missed you too mini" "i bet you looked pretty" "thank you but you have to let me get back to sleep" "alright alright imma let you go but one more question" "what's up?" *starts giggling* "what are you wearing right now?😏" "😐 i'm hanging up" *giggles even harder* "okay okay i'm done i'm sorry for waking you sleep tight beautiful" "night mini"; and then he's awake for another hour and a half staring at the ceiling with a big smile on his face thinking about how much he likes you

always walks you to your door when he's dropping you off home and won't leave until you inside with the door closed even if you insist on seeing him off as well so you just gotta watch him walk off from the window

taehyung:

gets shy after complimenting you; the “you look really pretty today” to tata mic face pipeline is strong

goes out of his way to find out when you'll be at certain places and then acts like it's a coincidence when y'all run into each other

feels all tingly inside when you like something he recommended; like if he recommended you a song and you listened to it later and then texted him about how much you loved it you would not be able to wipe the grin off his face

he fishes for compliments from you; like will get all dolled up in his 3 piece suit, hair slicked back just bc he knows you’ll be around and wants you to tell him he looks nice; if you don’t initiate it he will; will stand next to you and be like “ahh i just felt like wearing this today, it’s my favorite one. i think it looks nice. doesn’t it?”

squishes your cheeks between his hands when he deems you as being too cute

takes an active interest in your interests; like if you were really into some group and you told him about it he'd go and listen to their songs and send you his favorites and if they ever toured he's definitely getting y'all tickets to their show; or if you really liked to do paper mache or something he's gonna set aside a day for you to show him how to do it

has his arm around the back of your chair when y’all sit next to each other bc he can’t work up the nerve to actually put his arm around you

jungkook:

walks so close to you that your hand bumps together with every step; takes about five minutes of contemplation and hand flinching before he takes your hand in his; probably puts your conjoined hands in his pocket; looks down at you for about five seconds to gauge your reaction but quickly looks away when you make eye contact; tips of his ears are red the whole time

invites you over to play with his dogs, literally; no funny business is happening; he can’t be with you like that when he likes you as much as he does not until y’all are official just so he has confirmation that you’re on the same page

he be staring at you; like whenever you not looking at him he’s looking at you; watching, observing, admiring, mentally cataloguing all your little quirks, stockpiling them for a rainy day (re: waiting for the right time he can jokingly imitate you)

sometimes it feels like it’s one step forward two steps back with him bc every time he reaches what he feels is “the next level” he has to stop and reevaluate his feelings so he gets distant; but when he’s sure of how he feels again he goes back to following behind you like a lil puppy

his crush on you gets fatter whenever y’all are in a group conversation bc you always notice when he’s trying to say something but can’t find the right timing and create an opening for him to speak

always sits next to you; like there could be 10 empty seats in a room and he's always gonna jam himself as close to you as possible even if he doesn't plan on saying anything

y'all would have a couple late night convenience store dates; like y'all would be on the phone at like midnight talking about how you're craving ramen and snacks and next thing you know he's offering to pick you up and then you sitting next to him in da local 7/11 wit a cup ramen, a diet coke, and some sour gummy worms; he'd lightly gasp and go stiff for a second before relaxing a bit if you randomly laid your head on his shoulder after you finished your food complaining about how full and tired you were; would go back and forth with himself over whether he should just wrap his arm around you but ultimately just decides on leaning his head against yours in return

[thehighladywrites]

The Airhead chronicles

…and the run-in.

-> Pairing: Cassian x bimbo/ditzy reader

-> Summary: suggestive themes, cassian getting bricked up bc reader is super cute, reader being an absolute sweetheart, daddy cassian radiating big dick energy. cassian runs into you while he runs errands, peaking his curiosity. he’s determined to find out more about his mysterious mate. what were you doing in velaris and how the hell did she have a house in the most fancy and exclusive neighborhood? cassian himself had been on the waiting list for over 60 years… he asks her out on a date to find out more.

-> Author’s note: This one is my favorite so far, I’m trying to build a mysterious air around reader bc she might not be bright but best believe she’s a baddie. Also if you see any typos, no you didn’t

Part one Part three

Cassian was going insane.

He only knew your name and where you lived and it wasn’t enough. He wanted to know everything about you. What made you smile, cry, laugh, pissed off. What kind of food you like, your favorite color - He wanted to know you inside and out.

Your little kiss had left him with a thundering heart and a hard cock. It was a wonder that he didn’t break down your door and storm in just to be in your presence for a few seconds.

He almost felt embarrassed as he stood behind a building, watching you enter the coffee shop across Feyre’s art studio. Cassian wasn’t stalking you or anything, he genuinely happened to spot you strolling through the streets while he was running errands. Panic took over and his first insight was to hide.

The streets of Velaris echoed with the enchanting click of your 5-inch, black platform heels, announcing your arrival. You had such a light around you, smiling at strangers and kids. Your outfit, showcasing a black, sexy yet sophisticated skirt paired with a white top, black sheer tights, and a maroon bag thrown over your shoulder, exuded a captivating sense of style. The only reminiscent element of your previous style Cassian saw that night, was the attention-grabbing almost stripper heels.

Your unconventional fashion choice, though beautiful, set you apart from the usual attire of Night Court women, revealing that you were not a native of this place. What brought you to Velaris? Cassian pondered if your stylish yet professional outfit hinted at a specific job or occupation.

Decided that he wanted some answers, he made his way to the coffee shop. His ears picked up on your sweet voice as it was heard throughout the shop.

“Hi, how are you? Can i please have a caramel latte with extra caramel and whipped cream on top? Okay, thank you!!” You had your hands behind your arms as you hummed a little song. The ring of the door bell caught your attention as you whipped your head to the door, your freshly styled hair swaying. Your heart started beating faster as you saw who walked through the door. Letting out a shriek, you threw yourself in Cassians arms as you felt his chest rumble with a chuckle. “ Hi Cassie!! Whatcha doin here?” His hands tightened around your waist as he smelled your intoxicating perfume when you pressed your soft body against his hard one.

“ Hi there, darling. I was just walking around town and decided to stop for some coffee. What are you doing?” He flipped the question, praying that you wouldn’t sense his lie. Curiously, Cassian also wondered about your destination as you appeared business-ready and on the move. The barista called your name and you skipped over to get your sweet drink. It was honestly a wonder your teeth hadn’t rotted away, you loved eating sweet things. “ I’m just getting a little something to drink. Um, actually, can you hold my drink, I just need to get my money out.” Your painted lips had a cute pout as your brows furrowed in concentration, pulling out your money. “Nonsense, I’ll pay for your drink, since I owe you one, remember.” You looked up at him with big eyes. “ Thanks Cassie, you’re such a nice guy!” He merely laughed, “Paying for a lady’s drink is a standard courtesy, sweetheart.” You smiled and sipped on your drink, blushing furiously.

Oh, he looked so good today. Perhaps because it was night, you didn’t see his face clearly, because he was looking a million times hotter than he did thst night. So ruggedly handsome and manly, ugh you were totally turning into mush…

After paying for your drinks and ordering his own, he opened the door for you and offered you his elbow but you opted to grip his bicep instead. Your stomach flipped as you felt the hard muscle ripple with each step. Wow, he must work out like everyday to look like this. “ Wanna taste my drink, Cassie?” you offered as you pushed the hot drink in his face.

He didn’t have it in him to tell you that he absolutely didn’t drink sweet drinks, in fact he hated them. It was too much sugar and he always stuck to his strict routine and food habits, and you had ordered not only a caramel latte, it was also one with extra caramel and whipped cream on top. Basically death in a cup, a stark contrast from his black coffee.

But Cassian took one look at you and folded. Your eyes had hope in them and he’d rather have his wings shredded than kill that shine. “ Sure, I’ll have some, pretty. “

It was an effort not to make a face as the sickly sweet drink hit his tongue but you seemed so happy and he’d drink the whole thing with no complaints if you’d ask him. Your giggles brought him back from his thoughts as he looked at you curiously.

“Whatcha laughing at? Something on my face?”

You flashed him an adorable smile and said,

” You got some of my lipgloss on your lips, just give me ooooone second. There we go! You looked so silly!” He froze when you took your thumb and wiped away the gloss on his soft lips. His legs felt like jelly when you just grabbed his bicep and dragged him along, telling him about your plans for the day.

Man, you were going to be the death of him.

“You have everything? Or is there something else you need, sweetheart?” Gods, you wanted to plant a fat kiss right ln his lips. Would that be wrong? No, of course not!! Hmm… Maybe at the end of the shopping spree? “ Mhm, I have everything, Cassie,” you coo’d gently, watching as his arms bulged from carrying so many bags.

He had spent the entire day with you, bouncing from store to store. He absolutely didn’t let you pay, insisting that you’d never pay for a single thing in his presence. Carrying your bags was out of the question aswell, he told you to just look pretty and grab his arm, which you didn’t say no to. Finally he escorted you home again, and this time he truly payed attention to where you lived. You lived in a massive townhouse in the nicest neighborhood of Velaris, he was curious on how you managed to snag something like this. These neighborhoods had been incredibly difficult to find houses in, let alone such a fine house such as your own. It made him wonder what you worked with or if you had inherited it somehow.

There was a mysterious air surrounding you that he was just dying to find out about. In his eyes, you were something of a puzzle that needed solving. He recognized the hypocrisy of his statement as he also hadn’t told you much about himself, but he could feel it in his bones that there was more to you.

No, he couldn’t let this be, Cassian wanted to get to know his mate, so he asked you out.

“ Go on a date with me, Y/n. Does tomorrow work for you?” You tilted your head and meekly told him something that made him smile.

”Yay, that sounds so much fun, I’ll be wearing something pink. Hmm, or maybe green… No, no definitely pink! What heels should I wear though?… “ Cassian felt his heart beating faster as his cheeks heated. You stood infront of your stairs as you pondered over what hairstyle you were going to pick.

He stepped closer, towering over you as you felt his heat radiating from his chest. “I’ll pick you up at 8, be ready by then sweetheart.” Cassian was hit by deja vu as you once again stood on your tippy toes and gave his cheek a kiss, leaving a lipstain print on his cheek. “ Can’t wait, Cassie!! See you tomorrow.”

He gave your forehead a kiss, right by your hairline as he got a wiff of your shampoo. You smelt heavenly and he didn’t want to let you go. But it was only until tomorrow evening and if he didn’t have the power to wait until then, then he had some serious issues. “ It’s a date then, pretty girl.” He watched as you smiled at him before skipping inside and locking your door.

Cassian felt your excitement through the bond, and felt happier than he had in a long time. He simply couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

[ichorai]

get better ; hobie brown.

track nine of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; hobie brown x spider!cottagecore!reader (gender neutral)

synopsis ; electric guitars and strawberries, leather jackets and quilted skirts, city spiders and cottage spiders. the two of you were perfect for each other.

words ; 5.5k

themes ; fluff, mild angst & action, established relationship (dating)

warnings / includes ; mentions of death, a nightmare/mild panic attack, reader is a mutant on top of being a spider (has the ability to conjure flowers), reader's universe is basically cottagecore universe, pav is there even tho he shouldn't be bcs i wanted to include him, hobie is an amazing bf and affectionately calls reader 'cheeky' :( and a little charles xavier mention bcs <3 the x-men are everything to me

main masterlist.

London was a cold, dreary place. You didn’t belong there, no, sticking out like a sore thumb from the cold, harsh corners of buildings that grazed the clouds and the damp, narrow streets. But you were there anyway, almost as often as you spent time in your own quaint universe, where York was nothing but homey cottages and endless green fields of flowers, strawberries, and farmer’s markets.

You were there for your boyfriend, who cared for the people of the city enough to criticize its leaders—a feat the large portion of the country couldn’t be bothered doing.

Today was a long day of protesting. Inhumane laws were being passed, the government was in shambles, and the PM was a fucking joke. You wanted to be there for him and show him support—it wasn’t your universe, sure, but it was important to you, anyway. Nobody deserved to live in fear of tomorrow.

The two of you made your way back up into Hobie’s dingy little apartment when the sky began to grey with gloomy clouds and cold rain dribbled down dirty rooftops. Hobie slammed the door behind him, the faded Sex Pistols poster loosely tacked on the back warbling with the sudden movement. In turn, you made a bee-line for his bed on the opposite side of the room—really, Hobie’s apartment was just a narrow rectangle, with a cramped bed in one corner, a beaten-up green sofa in another, and the kitchen furthest away from the door. There was another door by the other end that led to the bathroom with cracked mirrors. All the walls were covered with art, posters, random memorabilia, and stickers. 

It was a claustrophobe’s nightmare, but it was home to Hobie, which made it your home, as well.

You moaned with relief when you laid down on his thick comforter, shutting your eyes for a moment. Still leaning against the door, Hobie watched you eagle-spread over his bed with a small, amused smile. 

He could never get over how funny you looked, surrounded by dark colors and ripped clothes and filthy artwork, when you yourself were the exact opposite—all soft hues and gentle nature and sunshine. Hobie loved that about you. How you were unabashedly so lovely no matter where you were, or what you were doing.

“You falling asleep on me, Cheeky?” he asked, voice lilting with the affectionate pet name, languidly striding over to sit onto the mattress beside you. The bed creaked with protest under the additional weight.

“Mhm,” you hummed in reply, turning your head so you could offer him a tired grin. “Rain always gets me sleepy.”

The silver of his piercings glinted with what little light streamed through his window. “Take a nap, then, yeah? I’ll wake you up for dinner.” 

With your final murmur of thanks, Hobie dipped down to sweep the hair away from your face, placing a chaste kiss to your forehead, before standing back up to go fix himself a snack. 

Hours later, when you had only begun to twitch with the beginnings of a nightmare, Hobie had gently shaken you awake, beaming at the way your nose wrinkled and your heavy eyes fluttered open to meet his bright ones. 

“Rise and shine,” he greeted, smoothing out the creases of the shirt you were wearing. “Well, it’s not really shinin’ out there, innit? Rise and gloom.” 

A steaming cup of peppermint tea was pushed into your hands. You didn’t even have to taste it to know that he’d added just the right amount of sugar for you. “Thanks, Hobie,” you mumbled, craning your neck to kiss his cheek.

“Got you somethin’ from the chippie—it’s in the microwave whenever you want it.”

Still groggy, you loosely wound your arms around his neck to tug him into a warm embrace, careful not to spill any of the tea. Half of your body was slung over his legs, the other hanging off the bed. Without hesitation, Hobie’s long arms came around to pull you tighter against him, hugging you close. 

“Argh, you’re just too good to me,” you whispered, clutching him tight. “How much was the food?”

“Ah, ah,” he said, pulling away to click his tongue and shake his head. “Don’t worry about it. My shitty universe, my shitty quid.”

With an affectionate roll of your eyes, you pulled away from him. “Alright, well, next time we’re at my place, I’m treating you.”

“Would expect nothing less, Cheeky.”

The two of you shared the microwaved dinner from the chippie together, the large fries nearly burning your tongue and the fish drenched in far too much vinegar for your taste, but the two of you ate it happily regardless. 

After the food was cleaned out, you curled up into Hobie’s sofa—which smelled just like the mango perfume you had given to him for his birthday—and brandished the sewing kit you had kept here, hidden beneath the cushions. Your boyfriend took a seat beside you, his guitar situated over his lap and a dull pocket knife gripped in his hand. He took to engraving his initials against its side (and planned on engraving yours right next to it), as you pulled his leather vest closer, stitching one of the patches that had come loose back on. 

A comfortable silence stretched over the both of you, like a warm blanket draped over your shoulders. It was only broken by Hobie’s disjointed humming to a song you couldn’t recognize, and the soft pattering of rain outside. 

Once he was done with the ‘B’ of his last name, he peered over your shoulder, leaning down to press a kiss to the base of your neck. “How’s it coming?”

You turned with a sweet smile, one that made Hobie’s chest warm. To him, you were the literal embodiment of sunshine. “All fixed,” you chirped, nudging him slightly. “How’s the guitar?”

“Good as ever. D’you mind if I put your name next to mine?”

Your eyes shone. “Go ahead,” you replied, before reaching down to fish something out of your pocket. “Oh, I totally forgot—I embroidered this for you! Made it from my own synthesized silk ‘n everything.”

It was another patch, about half the size of his palm, depicting a bright red strawberry sitting against an equally vibrant yellow backdrop. A genuine smile flickered over Hobie’s countenance. 

“Oh, this is wicked, Y/N! Looks fuckin’ fab,” he exclaimed, leaning closer to inspect all the tiny details. Somehow, his beam grew wider. Hobie situated the patch over an empty spot on his vest. “Could you sew it here?”

You nodded whilst humming an affirmative. A rush of heat pulsed over your face when Hobie leaned down to kiss your cheek, pulling back with an obnoxious mwah. 

“You’re a talent, you know that? Thank you.”

It was a few minutes later when you showed him his vest—finally ready and decked out with a multitude of both new and fixed patches. In turn, he showed you your name etched right next to his. Overwhelmed by just how much you loved your boyfriend, every single bit of his punk, anarchist self, you threw yourself into his open arms, hugging him tight. A flower appeared behind his ear, and he pinched it between two fingers, pulling it away to inspect its small white petals and smooth green stem. With a hum, Hobie pushed it back onto his ear and returned your embrace.

A week later, you and Hobie were at another underground music concert, filled to the brim with punk rock enthusiasts and anarchists of the very same ilk as him. Seeing as he was the last gig to play, the night ended with an elongated guitar riff, and Hobie’s fist thrusting high up as the final notes crashed against the cheering crowd. It wasn’t long before he was hopping off the rickety stage, immediately greeted with your wide smile and more tiny flowers blooming within the moist cracks of the sidewalk by your feet. 

“You did amazing!” you exclaimed, bouncing on the heels of your feet excitedly. “Argh, I’m so proud of you! When you did that thing—with that guitar—and then you just—AH! I loved it, Hobie!”

Your boyfriend slung an arm over your shoulders, briefly pressing his nose against your hairline. “Thanks, Cheeky.” He glanced at the large box you were holding. “What’s all this now?”

“Merchandise,” you chirped with bright eyes. “Made it all myself back in my universe. Free of charge, of course. Everyone deserves to enjoy art without worrying about its price.”

Hobie swore he fell in love with you just a smidge more right then and there.

With nimble fingers, he plucked a bundle out of the box, unfurling it to reveal a dark black t-shirt with a messy crimson scrawl of ANARCHY! across the chest. To his fond delight, there was a little flower drawn just beneath the large text. A touch of him, and a touch of you.

Not waiting another second, Hobie slipped the shirt over his head, one of his piercings momentarily snagging against the collar. You were quick to shift the box onto one arm so you could help him safely tug the shirt down without ripping his earlobe into two. 

After murmuring his thanks, Hobie cupped his palms over his hands to yell, “Oi, you lot! Come ‘round here for free shirts! Made by the loveliest person I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing!”

The two of you stayed at the venue until all your shirts were given away, and even then there were a few stragglers left, disappointed they hadn’t gotten anything.

“Come to Hobie’s next gig, I’ll bring some more things by then,” you reassured them with a kind smile. 

After another series of goodbyes, Hobie finally pulled you out of the dingy venue, his hand curled over your upper back and your arm wrapped around his hips. 

Hobie was a true artist. Everything he touched, he could turn into something of beauty, something raw and pure and breathtaking. When you had vocalized such thoughts to him, he smirked, loose and humored. 

“Don’t like labels,” he said, gaze fixed on his guitar and the uncapped marker he was using to draw just beneath the strings. “You sure you’re not biased?”

“Not at all,” you hummed in reply, leaning against him. The two of you were in your universe, laying spread over a checkered blanket on a vast field not too far from your little cottage. The grass was greener than what Hobie had back home, and the air was clearer and lighter than anything he’d ever breathed before. Somehow, the breeze that whistled between the two of you smelled of strawberries and peaches—or maybe that was your perfume. Hobie couldn’t get enough of it, either way. Your universe was beautiful—nearly as beautiful as you were. 

Whilst he was concentrating on his scribbled drawings, you were tinkering with one of your web shooters—a series of miniscule gadgets with brown fixings to wrap around your wrist. Once you clicked it back into place, you jutted it out to Hobie, the round capsules hovering only inches beneath his nose.

He laughed, gently pulling your hand away so he wouldn’t go cross-eyed. “You make these yourself?”

“Synthesized them with all natural ingredients. Took a lot of trial-and-error, but I think I’ve finally perfected the colored formula,” you said, pressing down with both your middle and index finger, showing him how the webs shot out so far he couldn’t even see where it disappeared within the swishing blades of grass.

Arching a brow, he echoed, “Colored formula?”

You grinned. “Take a look. I made them green! I think it’s much prettier than plain ol’ white,” you said.

“Green spider webs, huh? You really are something else,” he surmised with a half-chuckle, half-snort, a goofy smile to his lips. Your excitement was beginning to rub off on him, so he took your hands again, admiring your craftsmanship. “These are so fucking cool.”

“I could make you colored webs, too—whatever color you want!” You perked up with the idea, smiling brighter than the golden sun hanging sweetly in the soft pink sky (the skies were pink during the day in your universe, it was trippy as hell). Little flowers bloomed around you, a few appearing in the surrounding grass, some popping into his hair, others materializing on your flowing blouse.

Flustered, you reached over to pluck out the flowers in his hair, murmuring a quiet apology. 

“Nah, it’s cute,” he reassured you, shooting you a curious look. “So—does your universe have others that are also called ‘mutants’ or is it just you?”

“There’s not a lot of us,” you admitted. “It was scary, at first. I was completely… normal until I hit thirteen years old—all of a sudden, flowers started blooming everywhere and I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t control it and it only grew worse the more scared I got. A man named Charles Xavier took me under his wing at his school for gifted students—well, that’s just a code word for mutants—and he helped me train to control it. Obviously… not well enough—flowers still sprout when I feel strong emotions.”

Hobie’s nose wrinkled. “My fault. You like me a bit too much, Cheeky.”

With a playful shove, you huffed out a tinkering laugh. “Anyways, while I was at the school, there was a student with the ability to turn objects radioactive. Highly dangerous, and he could’ve been used as a weapon of war if in the wrong hands. One day, he was just fucking around and… he accidentally turned a spider radioactive. He didn’t tell anyone because he was scared he was going to get in trouble. Lo and behold, it got loose, and the next day, it bit me while I was out on a walk. So not only was I a mutant, I became a Spider, as well. I trained with my newfound powers every day in the Danger Room. I graduated top of nearly all my classes. And not too long after, Miguel came popping out of nowhere—the look on his face when flowers started appearing all over his suit was hilarious.” You chuckled lightly, leaning your head against Hobie’s shoulder. “Your powers are much cooler, though. I wish I had electric abilities.”

The marker in Hobie’s hand was quickly capped, and put to the side so he could raise it to stroke the back of your head. “Flower power is cool as fuck, what are you on about?”

You smiled. Another flower, a fragile pink thing, blossomed onto his lap. Hobie barked out a roguish laugh.

“I love you,” you hummed. 

“Love you back, Cheeky.”

Nueva York was the exact antithesis to your world. Everything was new and modern and cutting-edge, heavy on minimalism and plain white canvases of nothing. It lacked art and humanity and just… life, in general. You didn’t really enjoy coming to this universe—the only reason you did was to help out with anomalies whenever you were needed. Though you didn’t quite agree with Miguel’s canon theory (it was messy and evidently didn’t apply to every Spider), you had to agree that villains running amok in rogue universes was no good for anyone. You had personal experience with the matter when a glitching Mysterio came tumbling through a farmer’s market in your universe, baskets of fruit flying every which way and bouquets trampled beneath his descent. 

Today, however, you were called in because of your boyfriend. His hologram had appeared over your wrist, offering you a loose smile and a two-fingered salute.

“Hey, Hobie,” you greeted, pausing your baking and brushing errant strands of your hair away with flour-covered hands. “What’s going on?”

“I’m at HQ. Heading over to see Miguel. D’you mind coming, if you’re not too busy?”

“Oh, uh, sure,” you said, heading over to the wash basin to rinse off your hands. “Is everything okay?”

The hologram of Hobie hummed, warbling as you rushed to change out of your clothes and into your suit—a white top with beige and green accents, webbing into a spiral around an embroidered collection of flowers on your chest shaped into a spider. Your boyfriend lowered his voice to say, “The original is here.”

“Original?”

“The first anomaly.”

“Oh,” you said, eyes widening a fraction. Oh. 

Hobie pursed his lips. Though he was doing well to hide it, you could see the buried worry behind his dark irises. The both of you were well aware that Miguel wouldn’t take this lightly. “Yeah. You’ll be here?”

“I’ll be there. See you in a minute, yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll be waiting by the Spider-burger place. Love ya, Cheeky.” With that, he flickered out of view. You blew out a breath, snagged a bag from your room, and pressed a few buttons on your watch. A glowing orange portal opened by your kitchen door. You stepped through, and a tunnel, an elevator, and a hall later, you found yourself at the heart of Spider Society.

Hundreds of Spidermen, Spiderwomen, and Arachnids alike were passing by, chattering aimlessly, or rushing to wrangle their anomalies to the Go-Home Machine. After weaving through the crowd, you made your way to the McSpiders booth, where they sold the most delicious burgers, but you didn’t think you had time for that today. 

Hobie was waiting at one of the tables, Pav glued to his side, and Gwen on the other. 

Your boyfriend waved, shooting you a wink just as Pavitr shot up, dashing forward to envelop you in a tight hug. 

“It’s been so long!” the younger Spider exclaimed. “How’ve you been? How are you?”

“I’m good, Pav,” you warmly replied, patting his back affectionately. Then, you waved to Gwen, who looked a little uncomfortable at the predicament she was in, but tried her best to push it down for a moment to say hello.

You gave her a warm embrace, squeezing tight, a nonverbal confirmation of telling her you were there for her. Knowing that she was technically universeless, both you and Hobie would often let her crash over at your respective places. In fact, she slept in one of your extra rooms so much it was practically hers by now, filled with plenty of her personal belongings. She was one of your closest friends, and seeing her so anxious did nothing but fill you with worry. 

Once you pulled away from your two friends, you gave Hobie a quick hug, kissing his cheek. Pav cooed obnoxiously whilst Gwen lightly joked for the two of you to get a room.

Hobie shoved at the blonde’s shoulder with scoff. “Come off it, we wouldn’t have the time anyway.” 

Finally, you turned your gaze to the last one in the group—Miles Morales. 

It was certainly strange to see him in the flesh, when he was such a popular topic of discussion amongst the verse-traveling Spiders. He was a gangly yet handsome boy, with a head of dark, curly hair, and large brown eyes. 

He offered you a nervous smile. “So, uh, you must be Y/N! I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I can say the same thing,” you replied, thinking back to all the times Gwen would lounge in your bed and tell you about her time helping Miles with Kingpin. “It’s nice to put a face to your name after all this time.”

“Yeah, yeah, same.” Awkward as ever, Miles let out something akin to a laugh. His eyes darted down when he noticed Hobie’s hand slipping over your midriff. “So! You’re Hobie’s partner, right? I thought he didn’t believe in consistency.”

You grinned when Hobie drummed his fingers along your hip, shrugging in a nonchalant manner. “If I was inconsistent all the time, that’d be me being consistent, no? Keep with the times, mate.”

Confused, Miles’ lips parted to ask another question but you shook your head. “Just don’t question it. God knows how many times I’ve stumped myself trying to figure him out.”

Hobie shot you an amused look. Before anyone could say anything else, Gwen swung onto her feet, shifting her weight in a fidgety manner. “We should probably get a move on, before Miguel gets mad.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. You guys mind filling me in with what happened on the way?”

And so the five of you set off, with Pav and Gwen taking turns on telling you what had transpired in Mumbhattan, with Hobie occasionally chiming in. Miles was far too enamored by all the other Spiders to really pay attention to what they were saying. 

Once you were all informed, you supplied a worried look in Miles’ direction. Stopping a canon event from happening… Miguel definitely wouldn’t be happy about that.

Sensing your eyes on him, Miles met your eyes. “Is there something on my face?” he asked. 

“Oh, no. Sorry. I was just distracted.” A flower popped on your shoulder, and another appeared in Miles’ hair. He pulled it out with a surprised raise of his brows.

“Huh. That’s new,” he said with a slightly curious smile. “So, you and Hobie! I guess I just didn’t expect him to be with someone so…”

You tilted your head. “So…?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You guys look, like, complete opposites.”

Pavitr clapped his hands. “Well, opposites do attract!”

With half a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth, Hobie chimed, “We aren’t complete opposites. We both have a crippling hatred for capitalism and greedy billionaire corporations.”

“That we do,” you agreed, beaming warmly at him. Suddenly, you perked up, remembering what you had brought with you. “Oh, I almost forgot! Pav, Gwen—I made you tote bags a while ago and haven’t gotten the chance to give it to you guys. They’re all made from ethically sourced materials, of course. Sorry, Miles, I would’ve made you one if I’d known I was going to meet you today.”

“It’s no problem. There’ll be a next time, right?” he said, watching as you handed the rolled up bags to an excited Pav, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a litany of thank you so much, this is amazing on his tongue, and a hesitant Gwen, smiling despite being so strung-up to face Miguel. 

“Right… A next time…” you echoed, unsure if there’d even be a next time if Miguel had his way with things.

Everything was going wrong. 

Miguel went too far, as he often did in his tunnel-visioned haze for order, and trapped Miles in a laser cage, intending to keep him in Nueva York while his father died back in his home universe. A sick feeling curdled within the pits of your stomach—none of this felt right to you. Peter and Gwen were yelling at Miguel, their words washing over you in a blur, like the crashing and the retreat of a wave against an unsuspecting shore. 

You watched helplessly as Miles turned around, betrayal lacing heavily across his crestfallen features, staring at the people he had once considered his friends. For half a second, Miles caught your gaze. Anxious flowers—various shades of violet and scarlet—blossomed by your feet. To your side, your boyfriend held both his hands up, gaze fixed on Miles.

“Palms,” he silently mouthed. 

Heeding his advice, Miles pressed both his palms against the barrier.

And three beats of a heart later, he had broken free. A blast of energy pushed everybody back a few feet, and you could hear Hobie’s faint laughter echo right beside your ear. You couldn’t help but smile along with him. 

Someone had to look out for the little guy, right?

Apparently, Miguel had other ideas. He wasn’t a rational man. No, he was a perfectionist to the core, needing everything to go according to his plan, his theory, his ideology. When the stakes were this high, who was to say no to him? And now, he had somehow convinced nearly the entire population of the Spider Society to chase after a fifteen year old.

Then what? Lock him up? Force him away from his home and wait out his father’s death?

No. It wasn’t right. None of it was.

As pandemonium broke out during the chase after Miles, Hobie gave you a glance. “Just for the record, I quit,” he announced. It wasn’t directed at you, per se, but it was important to him that you knew of his stance. That he wouldn’t sit around and idly twiddle his thumbs at this bullshit. 

A portal opened behind him, bathing his dark skin in a bright clementine glow. He unclasped his watch and let it fall to the ground. “You coming, Cheeky?”

“I’ll meet you at your place,” you reassured him. An unspoken trust me hung heavy between you. A white little wildflower appeared in his hair, but Hobie didn’t move to pluck it away. Instead, he ducked his head to press a lasting kiss onto your forehead. You shot him a fond grin before leaning forward to peck his cheek in return, and hurriedly rushed off to go help Miles, canary-hued flowers floating behind you with every swing.

It was by pure chance that you happened upon Miles and Peter, the latter begging for him to hold his baby, which he most definitely shouldn’t have brought along to a chase. You hid behind a large metal pipe, waiting for Miles to leave Peter. It wasn’t long before Miles was running away again, believing his mentor had betrayed him once again, and you were quick to follow after him. Green webs shot out from the fixings on your wrist, and you caught up to the younger Spider in no time.

“Miles!” you exclaimed.

“Please, just let me go back home!” he yelled, stress and panic coiled around his words as he rounded around cars and signs.

Guilt settled around your lungs in a constricting manner. You’d lend him your watch to get home, but with a quick glance behind you, noting the several dozens of Spiders hot on your tail, you realized that there was no way that he’d make it there in time without them following after. There had to be another way.

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” you replied, trying your best to convey that you were on his side. “Trust me, I’m with you on this! If not for you becoming Spider-Man, there’d be no Spider Society, and I would’ve never met Hobie. Of course I’d try to help you, Miles! Listen to me—there’s a bullet train that goes to the moon here—if you draw all the Spiders away from HQ, then you can use the Go-Home machine to get back to your universe!”

Miles shot you an initially dubious glance, which soon melded into one of cautious appreciation. “Where?”

“A couple miles that way! You won’t miss it—it’s a huge glass tube going up to space.” You nodded in the direction he was to be headed. “Good luck, Miles. I’m rooting for you!”

With a shout of his gratitude and a slight smile, Miles swung away from you. 

It’s a shame that this was goodbye. Both you and Hobie were really starting to grow on him.

It was raining again, as it almost always was in gloomy London. You were in bed with Hobie, having passed out after letting him know about how you helped Miles, and listening to him tell you about the watch he made for Gwen, knowing she’d most likely need it later down the line if things didn’t work out. He was taking up most of the space on the bed, one arm behind his head on the pillow and the other curved beneath the small of your waist, fingers splayed out over your stomach. Chests rising and falling in synchronized tandem, you were curled up onto your side so that your spine brushed against his side with each breath.

Nightmares weren’t a common thing for you, but when they did slink into your unconscious mind, they were always terrifyingly realistic, and always of the same event. Your canon event. 

Tonight was no different. 

Soft pink skies. Swinging through the trees after something—someone. Prowler. 

The forest gave way to steep mountains. Steep stones and ice and cliffs. The pink above you bled into a menacing shade of purple.

Nets of webbing shooting from your wrists. Desperation. Pleads on your tongue, but you didn’t quite know what you were saying. 

The villain tripped over the webbing, rolling down a mountainside that tapered off into a sheer drop. You darted forward, shooting out a web to catch the Prowler.

But it was too late. 

They tipped over the edge, stray pebbles tumbling down in their wake. If the Prowler screamed, you couldn’t hear it over the thrumming blood in your ears. 

It took over a minute for their body to hit the ground with a sickening thud. 

Horror stained your insides black. You weren’t quick enough. You failed.

You made your way down the mountain, wide eyes fixed on the motionless body. You crept forward, checking for a pulse. Dead. 

Gingerly, you peeled the mask away from their face. The hazy face of your best friend stared back up at you, beaten and bloody. 

Your fault, your fault, your fault—

You woke up with a gut-wrenching sob, jolting up with a broken wail. Hobie had startled from his slumber at the sudden commotion, quick to prop himself up on an elbow, his hand shooting out to properly wrap around you.

Comforting words were murmured into your hair. You only cried harder, gently pushing the blankets away from you, feeling overwhelmingly hot and crowded. It took you another moment to realize that you were hyperventilating, large flowers popping up everywhere around the two of you. 

“Breathe,” you could hear your boyfriend say, tracing slow circles along your lower back. “That’s it, love. You got this.”

After a few minutes, your breaths had slowed down, and the tears stopped flowing. You sniffled quietly, turning to Hobie with an apology on the tip of your tongue.

“Don’t apologize,” he said, seeming to know exactly what was on your mind. “You alright?”

“Nightmare,” you whispered in return, voice hoarse with disuse and thirst. “My canon event. It’s my fault Prowler died. My best friend.”

Another circle along your spine. “You wanna talk about it?”

Your eyes, puffy and red-rimmed, blinked back more cresting tears. You nodded, croaking out the tragic story of you and your best friend—the Spider and the Prowler. Hobie listened intently, humming soothingly into your skin. 

Once you were finished, he adamantly shook his head. “You can’t blame yourself for that. It’s not your fault.”

But it is, you wanted to say. You swallowed the words, deciding instead to remain quiet and simply lean further into his touch. 

“I love you,” he said, voice low and soothing. “You hear me, Cheeky?”

“I hear you. Thank you for… for always being there for me. You’re the punkest punk that’s ever punked.” 

A hum rumbled from his throat. “I’ll always be here for you. I trust you’ll do the same for me. We’re all broken, but… it’s a good thing we Spiders got sticky webs to keep us together, yeah?” A pause before Hobie backtracked, “That didn’t come out the way I intended it to but you get my point.”

You wrinkled your nose in amusement. “Yeah. I’m glad we found each other in all this chaos, Hobbes.”

“Mmh. Nothing better than a bit of chaos, innit?”

The two of you sat in silence for a bit longer, simply soaking in each other’s comforting presence. When you arched your neck to press a lasting kiss along the underside of Hobie’s jaw, you could feel his face shift with a fond smile. Before he could reciprocate the gesture, a tangerine glow shone from outside the window, warbling with the rain, but still a stark juxtaposition to the macabre grey of the city.

Both you and Hobie peered out of the window, limbs still tangled. 

Outside was Gwen, her cowl pulled over her uneven strands of blonde-pink hair, hexagonal portal rings shifting behind her. Her features were solemn and grim as she locked eyes with the both of you. You and Hobie glanced at each other. Small pink flowers started to bloom along the windowsill, much to your chagrin.

With not another second of hesitation, the two of you leapt out of bed, hastily yanking on your suits and swinging out of the window to join Gwen.

To join her in saving Miles Morales, and, ultimately, the multiverse.

[simpforboys]

may i request a lo’ak x reader where she’s the golden girl in the omatikayan clan? like there’s talk of her beauty and talent in the hunt? i would love lo’ak just pining for reader and being so in love with her, i can imagine her just being so kind and caring to lo’ak who only heard of insults and complaints before but now that reader is there, he feels so seen and loved and its just FLUFFY LO’AK FIC ACK

STOP BC I LITERALLY LOVE THIS

she looks just like a dream

lo’ak sully x fem!omatikaya!reader

summary: lo’ak finds comfort in you, the shining star.

warnings: mentions of jake being stern with lo’ak (our poor baby >:( ), minor name calling, you love lo’ak a lot, fluff fluff fluff

peyral is the woman who neytiri said was the best hunter in the first movie btw just for those who don’t know!!

the sun just seemed to shine on you, following you around anywhere you went.

you brightened anyone’s day up just by being near them, your elegance and kindness allowing them to instantly cheer up.

the omatikayas began to refer to you as, “y/n the shining star.”

daughter of peyral, being a naturally born hunter was bound to happen.

you were trained from a young age and eventually perfected the art of hunting. you knew how to hunt, loved to dance with your people during festivities, and sang wonderfully with the elders.

you were practically perfect in everyone’s eyes.

especially lo’ak’s.

the poor boy had been so helplessly drawn to you, being trapped in whatever trance you seemed to put him in.

he would have never expected you to fall for him.

you smiled widely as you called out a war cry, your people yelping behind you as your ikrans soared through the sky.

jake sully, the olo’eyktan, had been fond of your skills and wanted to you guide a group through the sky people attacks.

your ikran landed on the high camp as others followed. you jumped off the girl, petting her head as you unattached your queue.

“sìltsan (well done).” you praised.

the village came over to congratulate you on the successful attack, smiling brightly as your eyes wandered for lo’ak.

lo’ak was already looking at you, his ears down as his father began to scold him. but he wasn’t listening, because you just seemed so golden.

you looked just like a dream, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

neteyam nudged him with his shoulder, causing lo’ak to break out of his daze.

when you finally caught him, he was getting scolded by his father.

“irayo (thank you).” you nodded to your people, but all you wanted to do was rest with your mate.

you scurried out of the crowd, going over to where lo’ak stood with his head hung low.

“jake,” you bowed your head at the olo’eyktan.

“y/n.” he bowed his head back, a sign of respect.

“with your permission, may i help your son heal?” you grabbed lo’ak’s arm and held it gently, your three fingers running up and down his skin gently.

jake sighed, still disappointed in his son. but neytiri gave him a look, and jake nodded at you.

you pulled lo’ak away, a smile on his face now that he finally got to see you.

“what had happened?” you asked. the both of you began to walk into your secret area, a place within the forest.

“i wanted to help carry out the weapons with everyone else. of course, the sky people had come from above which caused neteyam to almost get blown up.” lo’ak frowned at his words.

you looked at the boy, cupping his face to make him stare at you.

“what did your father say?”

“called me a disappointment, yet again. how i put everyone in danger.”

“it is not your fault.” you comforted the boy.

he pulled you into his body, holding you tightly as his chest rose and fell against your own.

“i am proud of you, lo’ak.” you whispered in his ear, scratching his braided scalp as he purred against you.

“i don’t deserve you.” he said softly.

“you are insulting me by thinking that. you deserve me just as much as i deserve you.”

“i just don’t know why you would pick a skxawng (idiot) like me out of all the boys in the clan. i just mess everything up.”

the boy now pulled away from you, looking down at his feet as you looked at him with doe eyes. his tail hung down by his legs, a sign of sadness.

“ma lo’ak,” you grabbed his chin softly and guided him back to your face.

“oel ngati kameie (i see you). i have always seen you,” you placed your hand on his, holding it up so he could see as you interlocked it. his four fingers fit perfectly between your three.

“i did not know how much you could adore someone until i met you. you make me completely, and i hope i make you feel completed.”

lo’ak’s ears shifted up as he stared at you, eyes sparkling under the eclipse.

his heart was pounding in his chest, butterflies in his stomach with a blush to his blue cheeks.

he loved you so much.

“i love you, y/n.” he blurted out.

it was the first time you had said the special words.

you grinned widely, tail up in excitement.

“i love you, ma lo’ak.”

you grabbed the boy and pulled him into a kiss, his smile making your heart flutter as he pulled you closer to him.

————-

tags: @mayhemories

+ send me a message if you wanna be tagged in my works!!!

[1-49]

TOURIST GUIDE: The top 7 things you don’t want to be doing when in Paris.

Imagine,

the brightest, most perfect winter’s day imaginable. Crisp, chilly, and beautiful. Warm cafés, busy streets, and gentle breezes ──── stellar architecture, metros, and museums. If anything, Paris is the most magical place on earth, but having Sungchan there makes it even more so.

That being said,

here is a list of the Top 8 things and situations to look out for, & don’t indulge in when you are in Paris if you don’t want to fall in love. A doomed guide for both tourists and locals, eh.

tags: fluff, love, sure it carries its angst though ⁝ fun concept to approach given i wasn’t going to write a fic nor it fits exactly into headcanon, so yeah. he has made me dizzy with his paris photos im sooo sorry. wc. 3k

Fan fact: The French term ‘Coup de foudre’ describes when someone feels completely blown away by someone they have recently met. In literal terms, it means lightning strike. If you have been ‘struck by lightning’ in this way, a common feeling is that you can tell the person everything bc they just get you

Good luck!

THE CRASH

A stunning stranger seated a short distance away from you in a small cafe is always a threat—but this is not just any stunning stranger. As you converse with your friend, he’s also conversing with his group of friends. Passing phones and a camera make their giggles sound like a good time. 

Every chance you get, you glance at him while speaking with your friend because it’s so tempting to do so. Little sparks shoot out the moment the stare is returned; when your gazes meet halfway; when he’s caught, too, for naively trying to get your attention.

When your friend catches on to the fact that you’re looking at what is behind her rather than her.

When she turns around to reinvestigate the situation and notices that he’s staring in your direction, she instantly understands.

When she gives him a smile and turns back to face you, who moved too slowly to stop her.

The stranger which then believes that you both had a conversation about him.

The friend who first exposed you is also the one who is now pushing you to use the restroom; for if he meets you halfway again, chances are good he’s into you too.

Her point is validated when you find yourself in a small hallway, pretending to scroll through your phone, as he moves toward you.

Scents of rich vanilla, chocolate, coffee, and wine fill the dimly lit secluded part of the café, which has burgundy walls. His physique is too large to fit in the narrow hallway. His eyes and smile translate love. His confession is full of tenderness, affection, & promising good times.

THE ‘NO’ PLAN

It’s already outside of your plan to plan the remainder of your day. Order breaks out. Chaos ensues. What was already set in motion was interrupted by him, a tourist named Sungchan. But a Paris show-off won’t be a show-off without a museum, so there goes that theory. 

In any case, a museum or art gallery is a must, so thirty minutes later, you are showing him around one of the many museums. The grand rooms echo with silence as you hope that the angels are praying for you to make it to the end of the tour. It’s simply so overwhelming to be next to such beauty. You can’t stop thinking how much he fits the scene. 

The line of his nose; his lips; the shadows of his collarbones; the wrinkles of his smile; the flow of your hair; the trickle of his laugh—for all of these, he is worthy of a museum.

So when you finally get your hands on the previously ‘passed-around’ camera, an exhibit of blue curiosities rests on his shoulders. Quickly, you take some pictures of him with the Rothko piece. It’s impossible to determine which is more beautiful—him or the artwork. 

There are repercussions for that, as he leads you to allow him to take a picture of you—his ulterior motive, though, to have a picture of you forever. You’ll be with him no matter what, even after he leaves this city and you behind.

JUST TOURISTY THINGS

Time will separate the two of you, just as a river divides Paris, but as you continue to stroll beside the Seine, where musicians sing of hopeless love and painters craft their works in the open, the issue of time is not a priority. If anything, all the time in the world at this moment is yours.

He grabs your hands and spins the two of you around, his hair brushed with sun-kissed shades of cinnamon brown. Claiming he isn’t immune to music, so you can’t be critical and should just follow his example.

But when the spinning becomes too intense and he feels lightheaded, he tries to steady himself by staring into your eyes for longer than he should. Your proximity scares you, but you’re concerned and ask if he’s okay. 

A smile appears on his face as a result of your concern for him, while a heavenly presence is tipping from his eyes as he’s making a promise that he’s good, if not better than ever.

A smile that inspires hope & makes you believe. A smile that undoubtedly had great power to bring you both to this point. He’s beautiful in every sense. Mentality, personalty, appearance.

He’s even surpassing the Eiffel Tower in terms of beauty with ease!

Your captured images, with him as the subject, create the most ideal postcards, and as you’re showing them to him, it’s when a feeling of sad nostalgia envelops you prior to even parting ways with him. You come to the realization that you desire to spend more time with him, not just one day.

But all you get is one day... 

A magic day... that is gradually starting to turn into a night—and as the two of you walk on the fresh-washed gravel paths through the Luxembourg Gardens, the wind becomes clearer and sharper.

Even the bare trees, which you’re used to seeing against the sky, seem to be feeling the warmth of his touch as he insists on pushing and spreading his fingers inside your palm. His vibrance makes even the leafless trees feel less lonely. He takes your hand in such a way that you aren’t even allowed to give him a warning look. Hand in hand, you have no choice but to chase after him.

NO DESTINATION BACK UP

Does it even matter that he doesn’t know the city? 

The ecstasy you are running on is surley telling you that it’s all about getting lost and  discovering yourself in unfamiliar places—and that’s all because of him.

The startled look in this stranger’s eyes as you two nearly cross a street at a red light due to his rushing… 

As he begins to apologize while biting his lower lip, claiming he didn’t mean to. 

His deer-eyes in the headlights are all that you can focus on really. It’s tempting to say, ‘It’s okay,’ but there is something about his apologetic expression that makes you feel as though he’s completely enclosing you in his gaze. 

His eyes are hugging you while he apologizes. It has been a long time since you felt something like that—felt completely safe. Sincerely, and risk-free. He’s a walking green light. So then, it’s a bit sadistic of you to wish for his apology to last longer. 

But how can you not?

When his hand squeezes yours even harder, and he turns all starry eyes while biting his lip in fear?

Someone you would definitely want to try and fit into your pocket, regardless of his height or width.

CRAMPED SPACES

When the cruelness of the night finally reaches your bones, chasing a tiny, romantic restaurant is the only way to soothe the cold.

The warmth of the atmosphere meshes with his gray cardigan, and you find yourself moving more and more into his comfort zone due to the crowded space, where many are seeking refuge for the same reason as you two. 

His rich scent fills the air around you and his knees keep touching yours due to the close proximity. The wine glass dangles in his hand and his lips become more and more affected, picking up a cherry hue.

His collarbones exhibit every movement of his body, and for whatever reason, you feel an insatiable urge to reach for the soft, grey wool and uncover more.

You’re so invested in this delicate area it’s making you feel absolutely irrational. The constant spreading of his hand through his lush hair and pushing it behind is only adding to your obsession. Regardless of how often he does this, the silky hair flies back into his eyes every time.

He has this habit of dipping his small fork into your chocolate mousse, taking a bite, then flirting while he listens to you talk and plays with the fork, letting the sharp tips sink into his soft lips.

The gesture merely begs for your attention, so in order to stay true to yourself, you greet him by clinking glasses with him. But as soon as his glass touches yours, you have to look him in the eyes again and be so sincere... You lose either way.

This gorgeous person’s natural flirtatious charm can’t be escaped. His focus shifting between your lips and eyes as he attentively listens to you is quite possibly the hottest thing about him. 

And although he insists on practising some French words, he continually mispronounces ‘croissants’ and ‘creme brulee’. He got ‘Bonjour’, ‘Bonsoir’, and ‘baguette’ right, which is worthy of notice; and the greatest reward would be a peck on the cheek, which he hasn’t yet received...

The fork remains sunk in his lips. If there’s one dessert that can be described as the ‘most scrumptious’, it’s him.

UNDERGROUND MISHAPS

Running with him in hand is a somewhat exciting experience. You aren’t sure where he got his stamina, but you’re sprinting down the stairs and will have some downtime when you two board the next metro.

When you reach underground platform though, a sea of tourists waits impatiently to go home or explore the outside world.

His hand carefully slides around your waist as you wait, standing side by side, your chests exploding from all the running. Whether it’s to protect you or keep you to himself, the intent is unclear.

And just as you’re about to look up to give him another warning glance, you realize that you’ve already forgotten how many there were. His adorable facial expressions are the reason you never succeed.

Obviously, the wine has increased his energy—his feelings are in his eyes. 

His features quickly and suddenly take on an emotive tone. A line appears between his brows and a hint of melancholy on his face as recognition dawns. Maybe the effects of the end of the day are finally starting to catch up with him.

You realize that he’s a lot of fun—the type of person who always sees the glass half full but who is also, presumably, grounded enough to realize that something is in the way and the glass isn’t quite enough full. Though he’ll eventually have to face it... saying goodbye to you is probably the biggest treat.

His hand is trembling inside yours...

... whether from anger, sadness, or excitement, it can be all of them or then

“Sungchan,”

You barely have time to finish what you started before he pulls you in and gives you a hug. Metros, come and go. People are walking past you, but he freezes this moment.

His coat’s lapels seem kind enough to part away, giving you more personal space and allowing your ear to fall directly on his heart.

His hand falls effortlessly over your head, as soft as a snowflake as he says, “It’d ruin everything if we said anything. Let’s not.” He carasses your hair and then plants a kiss.

A hug so strong that it keeps you safe from the passing of time. 

However, even this beam of sunshine has a heart, and it rains. Not even he has the complete ability to stop time from passing. The earth orbits, and the leaves dissipate.

Though what he can do is, 

he can certainly seize some of the light in the circumstance as he pulls on your hand once more, making the promise of, “Trust me.”

FALLING IN LOVE

There is definitely a sense of a ‘Trust me’ irony in the situation however, about how you won’t fall in love with him.

He seems to be pointing you in the direction of the photo booth at the end of the platform, which he noticed while your bodies were merging together. 

You’re fairly certain that those will be your favourite, worst-ever photos of the two of you, but the only memory you can physically hug, so you decide not to argue.

Naturally, the cubicle is small, but what do you expect from a metro photo booth?

The sweet giant battles his height and shoulders to enter, and when he does, he just hovers above you, looking down. His palms pressed against two different walls, and his neck bent at an awkward angle because you have taken all the ‘what can hardly be called a’ seat. 

Like it is your fault, right?

With a tongue poke to his cheek and raised brows, he’s subtly advising you to do ‘this one thing.’

Like hell, “I’m not sitting in your lap,” you bat your eyelashes at him. 

“It’s too late to back out. Plus, I don’t think there’s any other way to make this work.”

The goofy grin morphs his whole face into what it would be to stand under the sun; his cheeks rise higher the more he shows teeth. He’s so cute. It melts your heart.

Your mouth stays open in shock as you say, “But it is you who wanted this,” before you endearingly defend yourself. “This was your idea.” How very ‘trust me’ of him. In the end, you accept. “Okay, fine,” you sulk while pouting.

Satisfied, he clicks his tongue. You both knew that you would accept; you just wanted to have some fun, didn’t you?

You eventually create room for him to sit, but when it comes time for you to sit, you hesitate. But then you feel his hands dragging your waist down, and the next thing you know, you’re in his lap. He has lost all patience.

You sigh with annoyance, but even you know it is all a front. 

Now hesitant to move, your back remains pressed against his chest, and you’re even halfway there trying to maintain your balance on your feet instead of lounging comfortably in his lap. However, his back hug is particularly effective because it feels like his palm is pressing deeper into your tummy, encouraging you to relax even more into him.

His thighs radiate unnecessary heat, and his warm breath tickles the side of your neck as his chin rests on your shoulder. He teases you, whispering, “You can face me you know, I don’t bite.”

There is an absolute anarchy, there beneath his palm, in your belly. Not the whispering tone!! 

You tilt your head back (ironically, letting it rest where his shoulder and neck meet), gazing at the near ceiling and mentally calculating the number of seconds until you lose your mind.

He rests with you, for a minute, or two… his heart densely kicking in your back, but you swear it’s a peaceful moment. He’s able to magically stop the flow of time, no matter what!

Perhaps outside of the small world that you two inhabit, the metro passes by for the fifth time, and perhaps the waiting area is swept by cleaners once more while your shoes peek out from under the curtain, threatening to blow your cover.

However, time never really stops—especially in this place, the City of Light, Paris, a city that never sleeps.

“Let—um” His voice cracks for the first time before he finally says, “Uh—Let us take those pictures.”

You shut your eyes, allowing the angst of the situation to have its way with you before turning to face him.

His brows appear flat, and the crack between them is even deeper than it used to be. Even his lips are fuller than they used to be. Or could it simply be the face-to-face intimacy that is causing them to appear in such a way?

All this time, you thought it was just a playful lust, an undeniable attraction, when, in fact, what you’re finding is love—love looking straight into your eyes.

You no longer need to hold it within you. You just admit it, completely aware that nothing will change but that it will undoubtedly have some significance because it’s better to let things out than to hold them inside.

“Sungchan,” you pause for a moment, “I don’t want you to leave.”

Like you haven’t already felt them, he takes your hand and puts it over his heart, allowing you to feel the butterflies surging through his chest. Your lips to your eyes is the route he prefers to travel most. “I don’t want to leave either,” he admits voice light and airy.

As you look at him, every time the photo booth camera flashes a bright light, the butterflies burst rhythmically—because of that, and as much at the magic, and at the calculated touch of a girl who, in the past, had learned to trust no one. Yet, here you are, choosing to trust someone you have just met & won’t see again.

Your hands tremble against his cheeks as you gently cup his face and begin your slow, careful inspection. His tense muscles slowly relax under your touch as you run a finger across the peak of his eyebrow.

You feel an influx of emotions as you begin to understand that this person is an angel. You’re tracing every inch of him into your brain—soaking up every star in his eyes and every mole on his face—because an angel like this can never be met twice...

His greatest quality, you think, even in this kind of ‘damned’ situation, is that he can’t stay serious; a smile lights up his face. The only word that adequately expresses how you feel is wanting to ‘devour’ the damned smile that lingers close to your lips. He’s irresistible.

Cute or sexy are terms that are so confusing with him. You aren’t sure to which he’s supposed to be leaning towards. It’s driving you crazy. He simply can not be defined.

And the more he holds you, the more confident he gets. He started off politely, treating you like a paper bird, and then he abruptly stops apologizing. His lashes start to make out slowly with the narrow look he gives you. His thumb glides over your bottom lip. There is only one meaning to it.

Conversely, the photos taken are sitting in the photo outlet. You whisper, “Sungchan,” gesturing to the pictures and apparently indicating that ‘your work here is done.’ 

His firm grip on your jaw, however, fiercely brings your face into his. His winey breath is coating your lips.

“But,” you knit your brows, “our series of pho—”

His index finger stops your lips from moving mid-sentence. “Let’s make another one.”

“You—you’re getting too comfortable in this,” You stagger over what you are saying as his nose brushes against yours, “for-for well, for something that will never happen again.” 

“That’s exactly why I need those photos,” he says, chewing the inside of his cheeks in response to your somewhat insensitive comment.

“And we—And we,” you keep breaking, “We’ve been her—

“Can I kiss you?” He brutally cuts you off.

His sugary lower lip is already pressed against yours. It no longer interests him what you’re saying. It’s a quiet question, but there is some dangerously real intent behind it.

Yes, but can he beg for a kiss?

Sure,

as if he’s breathing in the air that he knows he’ll be missing out on, his lips remain waiting for a sign before they get messy.

His thumb ignites ‘instant fire’ in every pore on your cheek with each precise circle. It’s more like he is consuming you in advance. 

Your thoughts are numb, and your heart is stuck in your throat. You don’t want to forget any part of it all, and you’re bound to in the high you’re experiencing right now... He was right when he advised it to be documented.

The gaping mouths. The tender lip-stroking. The deep, slow breathing. The hot air exchange.

His teeth clenched in pain. The energy he surrounds you with is so intense.

Your “Fuck!”

& Sungchan’s “Please,”

occur simultaneously.

© 𝟭-𝟰𝟵. do not copy, translate, repost, and modify my works.

[aromanticautiesworld]

MARTINER PLS IM BEGGING FOR ANYTHING FERN X READER 😓

Specifically a gn!musician reader who's chill and easy going, (sort of balances fern out/similar to marshall lee) who teases fern sometimes and becomes friends with fern, fern develops a crush on them and gets jealousy of the friendship between finn and the reader and finally gets the guts to confess.

ADD ANYTHING TO THE PROMPT BC YOURE A GREAT WRITER <333

AHGJH THANK U!! i LOVE this req btw im gonna incorporate it into my belief system

////

fern with a musician gn!reader (art by mee!)

word count: 1789

The first time, he met you through Finn.

One lousy sunday evening Finn invited you over (he will often invite people over to the treehouse with no warning), the sky was halfway dark, and you looked like you walked all the way here.

You wore a large case on your back, hair tied up and a pencil slid behind your ear. Slung across your shoulder was a duffel bag which he would soon discover was full of paper (paper is weird to think about. It used to be trees, and he’s kinda related to trees now. It’s not cannibalism yet, but it’s close. Corpse desecration, maybe. He doesn’t feel that strongly about it anyways, nor does he feel very close to the trees, even if he technically is) with scrawled half-written lyrics all over them.

“Anyone home?” You half-yell from the bottom of the treehouse. Finn was out on the deck, doing who-the-hecking-gob-knows-what with Jake.

Fern sits perched from his up hiding spot (you could only see his glowing eyes, if you were looking up). He slithers down the ladder, remaining unseen (he doesn’t want to be. They’re a new person. New people are scary), tail flicking.

When you notice him, you quickly turn around. “Hey,” You squint. “Finn?”

There is a pause as he is torn between opting out of this conversation entirely and actually talking. “Fern, actually.”

“Oh. Cool name,”

“I picked it.”

“My parents gave me mine, but I’m considering changing it.”

“Why would you wanna change your name?”

You shrug, “I like to live my life on the edge. Me n’ your roommate got a jam sesh happening right now, you should join,”

There’s a beat of silence. “…I don’t think I’m invited. Grass boys can’t play the flute. Grass boys can’t even breathe.” Fern crosses his arms and looks down, frowning.

Worry flickers over your eyes, if you blink you’ll miss it. “Hmm…” You look to the side, in thought. “Well, now you are. ‘Grass boy’.” You smile ever so slightly when using the nickname he’s given for himself.

“Hey! Only I get to call myself that!”

“Sure, grass boy. C’mon, he’s probably out on the deck,” You walk to the ladder, gesturing for him to follow.

And, for no reason he can think of, he follows you. It’s like he wants to be around you, which is weird. He usually stops himself from being around people, they either treat him like he is Finn or like he’s the opposite. He’s not either, though.

He picks off a flower from his shoulder. Where did that come from?

The fourth time, you had a BFF sleepover. Fern had crawled onto the outside of the tree, to both not intrude and not do something wrong (it was the worst thing when Jake looked at him like that. He doesn’t want you to look at him like that too). The distant sounds of the Candy Kingdom and Jake lamenting at not winning card wars are all the sounds there are, up there.

Until the sounds of someone crawling onto the roof with him.

He sharply turns, ready to fight off whatever evil was trying to kidnap Finn or Jake (or both) this time. But no, it’s just you again.

“Was Jake too mean in card wars?”

“No, I just lost. They’re playing elimination, I don’t feel like watching the rest.”

You plop down right next to him.

“Y’ever been there?” You look up at the sky.

Fern squints, “That cloud?”

“No, pom-pom. The sky.” (This was a new nickname, made after the discovery of his dandelion tail).

“No. Wait! Yes. Magic man was doing some b-s with my bro, so I had to meet the immortal King of Mars.”

“Then what?”

“He died.”

You snort. It wasn’t an intentional joke, but he gets that weird buzzy feeling again.

“Whoa, poms. You’re like, covered in flowers.”

Finn groans. “Aghh! Again??” He sits up and rushes to brush the reds, yellows and oranges off himself.

He turns to you smiling at him in his flower frenzy, frown heavy upon his face.

“What?” He asks, accusatory, grass puffed up (the image reminds you of an angry cat).

“Nothing. Just you.”

Fern’s tail twitches, he de-puffs and he brings his knees to his chest.

It’s quiet again, you both sitting in comfortable silence.

“We may not have sunshine, or starlight, or weather,

But we've got each other, and that's even better.

You don't need the sun to keep you warm when you've got arms,

Wishes come from you and not a random shooting star.

We may not have storm clouds, but the sky's always blue,

We've got something special here

And what we have is you

What we have is you

What we have is you…”

You look over to grass-boy, asking if he liked it, but you stop yourself halfway. He was asleep.

You brush the stray hairs out of his face, before climbing back off the roof to probably lose card wars again. Such is the tragedy of sleepovers.

Fern would later wake up, and have an important realization.

Fern messes around with his…Finn’s old racecar track toy. He then drops it to the floor.

“I got a question for you, Finn.”

“What’s up, dude?”

“If I…hypothetically…liked…someone… how would I go about doin’ that?”

“You got a crush?”

“No! It’s hypothetical.”

Finn squints at him.

“Hypothetical.”

Finn continues to squint.

“Hy-po-the-ti--”

“No no, I got it.”

“Okay.”

“Well…I would say you tell them how you feel.”

Flowers cover his face again. “Noooooo!! What if they don’t like me back? What if they like someone else?”

Finn shrugs, “Then they don’t like you back. I had a crush on PB for years, she never liked me back and we’re still friends.”

“But what if…”

“Dude.” Finn stops him. “You got this.”

Fern would appreciate his cheering on, but he’s not so sure Finn would say the same thing had he known it was you, or that he’s got this. He knows you like spending time with Finn more than him.

The ???th time (he’s lost count), you invited him along again, with Finn, (and basically everyone else in Ooo, to be honest. It happens when you’re friends with Finn) to a TV night for your birthday. It was an old one you scavenged up, “My Little Pony” or something (his favorite character is Rainbow Dash).

After many weeks of toeing around the idea of asking you out (that time you guys made pancakes, when you went for a dip in the river He’s going to do it tonight.

You sat next to him (close. to him), singing along to the many, many songs over the noise of the crowd behind the couch.

“No, I do not love the groom, in my heart there is no room—” You lean into him and he mumbles along with the lyrics, small smile on his face.

“Finally the moment has arrived! For me, to be one lucky bride…” Finn is also singing. He pauses, staring off into space, before snapping up. “Oh yeah!”

“Hm?” You look across Fern to him.

“C’mere dude, I gotta show you something!”

You get up from his side, going with Finn, and leaving him disappointed.

He follows the duo, though the mild party and to the hallway where Finn was lugging a huge box.

“I got you a present!”

“Oh, awesome,”

“You wanna open it?”

“Hold on,” You pull a pair of scissors out of your pocket. Why it was in there, no one will ever know.

Fern then gets hit by the realization that he forgot to get you a present. How the heck did he think he could just /show up/ to your party without one?

“Oh, Finn, this is so cool! Thanks so much,” You admire the new guitar you’d window shopped for a few weeks ago, which Finn had apparently taken notice of.

“It’s NP, DW about it.”

“Why are you talking in acronyms?”

“It’s a new thing I’m trying out.”

Fern shuffles over to you. “Hey, um, [ ]? Can I talk to you about something?”

“What’s up?”

He lowers his head more. “Can I talk to you about it in private?”

You look back at Finn, then nod and gesture for him to follow into a more secluded hallway, the muffled sounds of dance music vibrating through the walls.

You don’t say anything, and instead are listening intently (terrifying). Fern has to take a deep breath to steady himself.

“I….um….” He begins to fidget with his hands, “I think you’re really cool. And…you’re one of the only people who doesn’t look at me like a monster. And I like hanging out with you and I wanna hang out more and…”

You nod, urging him to continue.

“…andddddd I—”

“AAAAAAAH!” A scream from the party interrupts him.

“GIANT WORM!”

You both immediately run out, to see a monster breaking through one of the walls of your house, jerking around violently as Finn already had his sword around its neck (?).

Fern rushes in, grass sword already whipped out.

He joins Finn on its head (? Again. It’s a worm) stabbing it, rapidly. Its pink blood drips down the side of its face, onto your floor. It begins jerking and twitching even more violently now, trying to shake Fern off.

Finn struggles, and tries to get a stable footing, before the force it’s using to try and get both him and Fern off plunges Finn’s sword right through its neck.

Its head falls right to the floor, Fern still on it, who is still stabbing.

Finn continues to fight the rest of the worm’s body, which has since retreated outside and is currently trying to spit acid at him, leaving barren spots in the grass with only mildly dissolved dirt.

You crouch in front of Fern, putting your hand on his shoulder.

“I think it’s had enough, grass boy,”

He looks up at you, then back down at the corpse-head, and re-sheathes the grass sword.

“What were you saying?”

Feen blinks. What was he saying?

You stare at him, intently.

Oh yeah, absolute fear. “I…..”

“……reallyreallylikeyou. Alotalot.” He snaps his eyes shut when he says it, only opening one a moment later to gauge your reaction.

You knew this already, but you wanted to wait until he was sure of his feelings.“Awww, I like you too! you little pom-pom.” You squish his (flower covered) face.

“Stop it!” He complains.

“Nope, we're partners. You can’t escape me now,”

‘Nooooooooooo…”

“Go Fern! Yeahhh!” Finn shouts from where he stood on the decapitated corpse on the worm, covered in pink blood.

You giggle, before it slowly subsides. “Wait a minute. How am I gonna pay for my house?”

[charmercharm3r]

Overstay

BC

Masterlist

wc: 5.3k

Requested (though I’ve lost the request and can’t find it so if the person who asked sees this, I hope you like it!)

Synopsis: Your photography job was getting boring, then came your next client.

warnings: smut, explicit sexual content, idol!chan, photographer!female reader, oral (m receiving), bit of ass slapping, praising, protected sex, nicknames, just a bit of work-after-hours fun

-

Photography is a beautiful thing, you’d always thought, capturing life in real time and being able to share that. That passion for the art medium is what made you want to pursue photography as a career, never did you think you’d grow tired of it.

But people grow and start to fall out of love with the things they swore they’d never give up. You were working for a magazine company that generally focused on lifestyle and fashion, the target audience being young. That meant there were celebrity features every month to keep the magazine’s traction high.

You weren’t doing what you planned, capturing life and whatnot. No, instead you were photographing people that were put on a pedestal, some you’d come to realize after meeting weren’t remotely the same on camera as they were behind it. Some of the people you photographed weren’t worthy of their power to influence people, especially the audience your company sought after. Your hope for humanity had slowly begun to waver, growing tired of dealing with the same shallow, cold hearted people.

Until you met the model for this October’s issue. Bang Chan, you’d learned his name was. You didn’t really take the time to look into detail of the clients you were to work with after realizing they weren’t worth learning about. But your coworkers were just so excited he was going to be here, only having positive things to say about him that you couldn’t help but do a bit more research— in preparation, of course. 

A quick google search showed he was nothing if not incredibly well established. Self made and sincere, he seemed to hold so much weight on his shoulders, you wondered how he could be so young and so accomplished, for he was around the same age as you. Sure, both your careers were thriving, but aside from his immediate occupation as an idol, Chan has producer, lyricist, and a few other titles under his name. You? You were just a photographer who hated her job. 

The day of the cover shoot with Chan, you’d come in earlier than most to help set up as usual, making sure you had everything you needed. If Chan wasn’t comfortable, nobody working the set was. It was tradition for you to bring in some coffee for whoever was there earliest and another cup for the model, labeling it with his name and setting aside for when he arrived.

It couldn’t have been more than forty five minutes since you’d gotten to set when the door opened, walking in your client for the day. Alone. He was alone. Unusual, you’d thought, because generally there was an army of assistants and stylists following behind them.

His face was hidden beneath a hat and mask, dressed in an all black set of hoodie and gym shorts with just sandals on his feet. Your coworkers weren’t joking when they said he was humble, none of the other celebrities you’ve worked with ever came in with less than guns blazing. It was a shock to your professional system so early in the morning, to say the least.

He walked in with his head up high, looking for any signs that he was in the right place. It was sort of cute how he scanned the room like a lost puppy.

“Bang Chan?” You called out, setting your camera bag aside in exchange for greeting him properly. 

“That’s me,” he held up a hand, waving shyly.

The steps of your boots echoed throughout the concrete room, lack of bodies present only adding to the sound. The few employees that were here with you stopped to greet him as well, though going back to their work immediately.

When you reached him, you held out a hand for him to shake, to which he took politely. It was hard to ignore the difference in size of your hands, his much larger yet surprisingly gently to the touch. What was also hard to miss was how pretty his hands were, fingers long and slim and knuckles slightly bruised red. Perhaps he was just cold, or maybe he enjoyed a good work out. Would it be unprofessional of you to find out?

“I’m Y/N, head photographer. I appreciate the punctuality, but I don’t think we were expecting you until later?” Reluctantly, you let go of his grip, leading Chan towards the area where he could put his stuff and relax. Conveniently, it was also where you’d left your camera bag. 

“No, you’re right. I like to come in a bit earlier and get a feel for everything. Also get to know everyone I’m working with.” He was soft spoken, voice slightly groggy as if he’d just woken up.

Laughing and thanking him for his wonderful company so early in the morning, you offered him the traditional cup of iced coffee. “Oh, I don’t drink coffee,” his voice trailed off as if he truly felt bad. “Caffeine just doesn’t do much for me.”

“No worries. I’m sure you can give it to one of the interns when they arrive. They’re so excited to meet you, wouldn’t stop talking about it since we found out you were the one that’s gonna be on our cover.” You didn’t mean to out your employees like that, but something about Chan made talking just feel so easy, like you could say anything without judgment. 

The tips of Chan’s ears began to blush red, only noticing when he brought a hand up to thumb at the lobe of his earring. Cute, you thought.

“Ah, I see,” he shied away again, placing his bag on the table next to yours and pulling his hat tighter to his head.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let the vultures get you.” Placing a gentle hand on his bicep, you could feel him tense beneath the hoodie’s fabric.

Conversation with him flowed easily, Chan was a great conversationalist. Your hunch about being judgment free around him was right, for it seemed like Chan had a positive outlook on just about anything you’d said. He seemed like he was genuinely engaged and wanted to keep talking. The dimple in his cheek when he smiled was ever so endearing, you wanted to eat him up right then and there. For a moment, just as your hands brushed when the both of you moved to get more comfortable, you thought maybe he was a bit more interested in just the mundane conversation.

Though, there wasn’t much time to dwell on the slight rise in temperature in your cheeks, it was getting closer to when you’d both have to begin working. You’d explained the theme and idea you had in mind for the shoot, taking him towards the area you’d photograph him. The black backdrop was rather large, a deep red velvet couch in the very middle of it. The lighting setup was warm, not too yellow that would make the vibe more sultry rather than sunny. All the different outfit variations stylists put together were just a bit off to the side of the backdrop, mostly black and leather. “I thought we could take a more mature approach to this month’s shoot. But don’t feel pressured to do anything you don’t want to do,” you reassured him.

With a kind smile and thankful tone, Chan replied, “I never do.”

The shoot itself went smoothly, staff sprinkling various flower petals around Chan, who laid horizontally on his side towards the camera, and tossing them into the air as you took many different shots. Then, he asked for one of the light pink flowers, holding the stem and running the edge over his prettily painted red lips. Most of the shoot could’ve been rated PG until he did that, his eyes boring into yours as if he was looking for a reaction.

Chan sat up when you looked at him from over your camera, needing to see the image for yourself. He looked so comfortably sexy in all the right ways, an idea came to mind. “Could you take the jacket off? Just hang it off your shoulders,” you asked, trying to feign confidence that was wavering the longer he stared at you. 

He complied easily, corners of his lips peeking up and showing his dimples again while. After a moment of following your instructions, Chan stood, removing the jacket all together and slinging it over his shoulder. It took you by surprise how he started to pose by himself, movements fluid and natural. It made for some great shots. Then he placed the stem of the flower in his mouth, now free hand tucking under the hem of his tank top. You could see through your camera lense the bulge of his hand beneath the fabric, laying over his pectoral as the bottom rode up and exposed the plane of his stomach. It was like he knew you had to physically stop yourself from drooling, see him eye you like a hawk. Another devious smile played along his plump lips, mocking, toying from afar. A dull throbbing between your legs made you flex your abdomen, breath hitching. Bang Chan was humble, kind, genuine, and absolutely knew the effect he had on you.

The entirety of the rest of the shoot, you attempted to steer your mind back to work. Professional. You are a professional. A nice smile and cute dimples cannot and will not sway me, you thought again. 

Chan was as everyone talked about him. He spoke to everyone that worked with him, even the giddy interns, for a few minutes to thank them. But being with him for the shoot didn’t last very long after it was done, his manager trying to drag him out of the photo studio for his next schedule. 

You were attempting to seem indifferent about his leaving, eyes doing their best to focus on monitoring the pictures when Chan made his way to where you were sat. He stood behind you, placing one arm on the back and the other on the armrest of your chair, leaning over your shoulder. The warmth of his breath tickled your neck, indicating just how close he truly was. “Thank you,” he spoke softly, as if intended for your ears only.

It was hard to keep your cool when the smell of his cologne lingered in the air so deliciously. “Thank you, too. You’re a great model.” You gestured to the unedited pictures on the screen before you and smiled, only partially peering over your shoulder at him.

“Only because I had a great photographer.”

There was no missing the intentional flirtiness in his voice, not when his hand on the armrest was slowly creeping towards your forearm, fingertips only barely grazing your skin. Your gaze drifted from the screen to where he lingered, just watching. How he wasn’t fully touching you made the burning in your core light brighter, wanting nothing more than for him to take you fully into his embrace, engulf you in his brain hazing scent.

It was incredibly unprofessional, and could potentially end your career. Never had you ever thought of a client like this. Guess there’s a first time for everything.

The call of Chan’s name made you both snap your heads around, finding his manager beckoning for their departure and mentioning how he’d already overstayed his welcome. A deep sigh left his lips, and just as he was about to pull away, you grabbed his hand to stop him. “You’re always welcome here.”

A deep blush flushed his cheeks this time, trailing down his neck where his collar bones peaked out from beneath his shirt. It was dizzying to think that the shy, hard worker you’d met this morning was now feeling comfortable enough around you that he’d risk being late to his next schedule to stay and talk to you, not that you were complaining.

As badly as you wanted to act on your needs— the ones between your legs that’s been screaming for relief since the shoot started— your job wasn’t worth throwing away no matter how much you hated it. Meeting Chan today gave you the small taste of what you’d come to love about photography in the first place. So you let him leave with those few parting words, watching him saunter away with a cheeky grin and blushing skin.

Early to arrive, last to leave, as usual you stayed until all of the other employees decided to call it a night. It felt like there was just too much to do, you couldn’t go home even as the sun had set and the only light was coming from the other room. You’d taken to sitting on the prop couch where the shoot had taken place, laptop in your hands as you scrolled through the pictures of Chan. It was impossible to get him out of your head no matter how hard you tried, he was everywhere and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

Just as you were about to give up on work and close your laptop, the echoing of the door rang out. Footsteps grew closer to where you sat, but didn’t bother getting up. You’d thought it was just one of your coworkers coming back to help.

Then stepping into your line of vision, Chan peered around the corner. He was still dressed in the outfit he wore when he’d first come this morning, except instead of a hoodie, just a black shirt covered him. A tight black shirt.

“Oh? You’re still here?” He called out, waddling a bit closer before stopping and scratching his neck.

You held up your laptop, smiling sweetly. “What are you doing here?”

Chan awkwardly padded over to the table he’d initially left his stuff, grabbing a black lump of fabric. “Left this,” he laughed nervously. “Are you allowed to be here this late?”

“Are you allowed to be here at all?” The quick retort made him smile again, inching closer to the couch slowly.

“I generally don’t have places to be at midnight.” He stood at the end of the couch now, leaning onto the edge of it on his palms.

“It’s midnight?” The time truly awoke you now, eyes widening and looking at the clock on your computer.

His exasperated laugh felt heavy in weight, tired and exhausted as Chan slumped into the other end of the couch. “I see you’re a workaholic, too.”

You sighed, running your hands through your hair. “There’s just so much that needs to be done and so little time to do it.”

“I get it. Today’s actually the first time in a while that it didn’t feel like I was at work.” Closing the laptop and placing it on the floor, you turned your full attention to him now.

Seeing your sudden enthusiasm, Chan shifted his body to face you as well, resting his arm over the back of the red couch. “Really? Why is that?” Your voice was playful, hinting almost as you unconsciously scooted closer to him. 

There was no one around to see you press your legs together, reminded by his scent of how Chan posed for you before. The slight peak of his abs you’d caught replayed in your head, the warmth of his hand on your skin before he left. There was no one but you and him, sitting so casually next to one another just having a friendly conversation about the stress of work. There was no one around to tell you not to shift and tuck your knees underneath you, almost leaning into Chan’s arm that was still resting between you two.

“This might be a bit weird but…” his voice trailed off again, looking at your face for anything telling him to stop talking. Except there was none, and he continued, “I feel comfortable… around you, I mean.”

“Yeah? I’m glad. You’re a lot more fun to work with than others, for sure.”

“How so?” Chan leaned in closer, pressing the topic of first impressions.

It wasn’t the question itself that made you nervous, moreso how he asked it, how he waited for you to answer. There was an expression on his face that implied he was expecting a certain answer. The air was wafting with tension, as was your core. If you kept silent any longer, you were sure Chan would think you didn’t want what he was sure to be implying. After all, he didn’t need to stay when he’d already gotten what he’d come back for. Right?

“I was surprised you don’t drink coffee.”

“I’ve got a lot of stamina,” the answer slipped from

his mouth, whether it was playful or intentful, you didn’t know but hoped for the latter.

With a grin of your own, “I don’t doubt it.”

“What else?” Chan was getting confident now, less of an embarrassing flush across his neck and more anticipation.

You pondered shallowly, making him wait for your response. “You’re funny.”

“Funny? That’s it?”

“Do you really need the stroke to your ego?” If you weren’t hyper aware of everything at the moment, you might not have caught the way his chest slightly puffed.

“Amongst other things.” Your head tilted as the grin Chan wore turned devious, tempting in how close in proximity he was becoming.

“You didn’t just come back for your jacket, did you?”

The air swirled thick with pheromones, prominent from your lower half. If it wasn’t seeping from your pores, it sure as hell was off of Chan. The first wave of arousal you’d felt earlier because of him was hitting again, stronger now that you had him all to yourself. He was practically radiating lust, the words he spoke sealing the final nail of your coffin of desire.

“Amongst other things,” he spoke slower now, every word punctuated and voice an octave lower as his breath fanned over your lips. How you didn’t notice exactly how close he was was beyond you, head foggy with need. 

Without needing any other signs, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his, finally getting to feel them. It was a soft kiss, just feeling out one another. His hand on the backrest of the couch came to cup your cheek, pulling you deeper into him as the kiss became hungrier. Chan all but moaned into you when you balled your fists into his shirt, tugging his body down.

Your bodies moved together seamlessly, finding it easy to undress one another and get you onto your knees before him without a hitch. However long you’d been repressing the aching in your cunt, it could wait a bit longer. Because now you were kneeling between his spread legs, gesturing for Chan to raise his hips so that you could tug down his tight underwear. As his cock, hot and heavy, slapped against his lower stomach, the sinful sight of him towering over you washed a fresh wave of arousal through your body, probably dripping down your leg and onto the floor with how badly you wanted him. Chan groaned at the feeling of your breath against his cock, letting his head fall back against the couch but still watching you through heavily lidded eyes. The natural scent of his skin made you dizzier than you already were, mouth watering at the prospect of being able to feel him.

Softly, you dragged your fingertips up the inside of his calves, towards his inner thighs teasingly as you brought your lips to the skin of his right one, kissing the flesh ever so lightly. Just the tip of your tongue dragged a wet streak from there to the base of his cock, not entirely letting yourself taste him. Another strained groan echoed from his chest, urging you to hurry no matter how much he enjoyed the warm teasing of your lips. 

When you finally took the tip into your mouth, Chan let out an unrestrained moan, guttural and oh so beautiful. You’d only taken in a little of his cock and he was already falling apart. Flattening your tongue against him, you swirled it around the tip and collected the beads of precum that leaked, swallowing it without pulling off. The suctioning feeling pulled a few more whines from him, feeling satisfied in sinful ways. 

His hips lightly kicked up, wanting you to take more of him. You slid down on him slowly, engraving the weight of his cock on your tongue into your brain. And when you came to the hilt, you teased him more by attempting to swallow once more, throat constricting tightly around his cock. The action made his hips rut up into you again, this time harder. 

Stilling for a moment to let him feel you, you pulled off and let your eyes slightly cross to watch the way your saliva connected your lips to his dick. To say it was one of the hottest things Chan had ever seen would’ve been short of a compliment, right next to how you gathered your hair into a ponytail and took one of his hands to replace yours.

Your eyes grew wider as your lips wrapped around him again, then jaw going slack when you put all control into his hands, placing your own behind your back. Chan moved his hips closer to the edge of the couch and experimentally raised them, but it wasn’t enough. To get him to move faster, you pushed over his hand to guide your head, encouraging him to lead.

Once he was given this unspoken permission, Chan began gently to push you down, taking him deeper. Just before you came to sheath him completely, he suddenly roughly shoved himself into you, causing you to gag and tears well in your eyes. Water pooled in your mouth at the intrusion, drooling out the corners of your lips.

“You take me so well. That’s it, good girl,” he said breathily. 

Chan held your hair tightly, hauling you off his cock to look into your eyes. A gentle hand came up to the side of your face and swiped away the saliva from

your lips. A wicked smirk twitched his lips before guiding you back down, keeping eye contact as you took him again. 

He used your mouth like it was just a hole to be filled, and to be fair, it was. It was exactly what you wanted. You could feel the stress this man carried in the way he kept your hair in an iron locked grip, positioning you perfectly so he could thrust up and your lips meet his pelvis half way to deep throat. How sexy he looked from your position, manspreading and lightly sweaty as he seeked his high. The sound of you gagging on his cock, hitting your uvula with every upstroke, Chan’s abs contracted tightly, so close. You knew this,

growing impatient and more desperate and whining for him to abuse your pussy just as well. Three more harsh, deep thrusts and he pulled you up for air, taking rapid puffs of oxygen. Laughter echoed in your ears, his laughter watching you blink away your tears.

“Pretty girl, c’mere,” Chan reached for your arms and pulled your already weak body into his lap while simultaneously reaching for his wallet. Pulling out a condom, he ripped the foil packaging quickly and rolled it onto his cock in zero time. As badly as you wanted to slick up and down him, seeing as how he was just as ready as you, you waited, waited for him to tell you you could.

Biting your swollen lip, you pleaded with your glistening eyes for him to say yes. “Oh, you really are good, hm? Waiting for me to give you permission?” You nodded weakly, placing your hands on his shoulders and lifting yourself to sit higher. It felt natural to kiss him again, slotting your wet lips against his, let him taste himself.

Your hands wandered his body needier, like you couldn’t get enough of the way his skin felt beneath your fingers. No, you couldn’t. There was no way for it to feel like he could ever engulf you the way you wanted.

“Go ahead, baby girl. Use me. I know how badly you want to.” Upon his approval, you leaned into his lips again though not pressing fully against them, waiting until you stood his cock straight and sunk onto it slowly. Just as you did, you swallowed every one of his moans with the kiss, both your bodies buzzing in excitement and desperation. 

Clit coming into contact with the wet skin of his pelvis, the warmth of his skin sent shocks of electricity through you, wanting to rut against him. That feeling almost overrode the slight uncomfortable stretch of his cock, still adjusting to it. Chan’s hands came to run up and down your spine soothingly, he could feel the tender pulsing of your walls around him as you waited to move. A few more moments of sloppy, needy kisses, the friction against your clit started to feel more and more heavenly. 

“So big,” you murmured. Your hips began to swivel in circles, languid yet smoothly as you felt everything, everything down to the slight twitch as his abs constricted again. He kept your chest pressed against him, reluctant to let go as your fingers carded through his hair. For a bit longer you moved slow, but the need to feel the high was overwhelming.

Taking his hands from around your waist, you moved them down to rest against your ass to which Chan took handfuls of happily. With your own hands planted on his shoulders, you sped up, pressing your clit harder into his pelvis and his cock deeper into your cunt. It felt wonderful for a bit, but not quite enough. Instead you reached back and rested your palms onto his knees and flicked your hips in upwards motions, hoping to replicate that of a scooting movement. Your moans started to pick up, body moving animalistically as you found the sensation you were looking for.

Tingling took over your legs, the sound of your arousal lewdly bouncing off the concrete walls of the photo studio and the warm lighting coming from the other room made Chan look all the more alluring. As if he couldn’t have gotten any hotter, his mouth slightly parted and his hair was messy. A sweet blush took over his cheeks now, too, only barely visible like his blown out pupils. 

The more you whined in pleasure, the harder he gripped the flesh of your ass. As badly as you wanted to reach your high, it was getting harder to maintain a rhythm due to the soreness in your legs. You leaned forward and anchored onto his broad shoulder again, raising just your hips to smack back down into his. This made Chan moan out again, louder than he had all evening. 

“Fuck— just like that,” he groaned, burying his face in your neck and hair. “Ride me so well, take my cock like it’s meant for you.” His praise fueled you to move your hips faster, then he released your ass only to bring his hand down and leave a harsh slap. The sting made you ground your hips onto him hard, skin on skin echoing loudly. Chan grunted and sunk his teeth into the crook of your neck, as though he was holding back from being any louder.

Your walls constructed around him tightly, Chan was all but ready to blow. But no, he had to power through the intense pleasure. Though, your legs were growing tired, annoyed that you couldn’t use him the way you wanted.

“Lean forward,” Chan instructed as though he could hear your thoughts. Taking your ass into his hands again, he lifted you every so slightly and put your weight onto his shoulders. Just the tip of his cock stayed snug in your cunt. Keeping your hands laced in his hair, you held on, waiting for the impending fuck you’re about to endure. 

He adjusted his feet while you reattached your lips to his neck, eliciting a quiet whimper from him. Then, he testingly kicked his hips up, not sliding even half way in but the change in angle already had your eyes rolling back. At the small whine you made, it pleased Chan to know he could give it to you how he wanted.

He waited a few more seconds, but a few seconds too long because you wiggled your ass just a little, enough to make the head of his cock shift and rub your wet walls. “Fuck,” Chan cursed lowly, “impatient, are we?” His hand sent a few more taunting slaps to your ass before thrusting upwards without warning, filling you entirely. The sudden intrusion made you cry out, pleasurably so. 

Chan didn’t stop, he kept your ass cheeks spread and suspended in the air, the only reason you weren’t flying off his cock was because your hands were tangled in his hair. Truth be told, he loved the way you tugged it, the sting felt so good with how hard he was pummeling into you now. You didn’t have the mind to do anything but moan, the only coherent word from you spoken being his name. He wasn’t any better, so lost in your warm walls that he didn’t mind the feeling of your sweat mixing, also the scent of your skin messing with his head.

However, his grip began to falter and the need to feel you closer had his hands sliding around your torso again, keeping your chest pressed firmly against his. You were practically bouncing on his cock this way, ass rippling with every upstroke you met half way down, it made your moans jump and fall as well.

It was all in the angle, his cock brushing the inner part of your clit with every smack of his hips into yours. The coil in your gut strung tighter and tighter, so close to breaking. “Don’t stop— god, so big, ‘m so close. Please, don’t stop!” Your pleas came out in a higher pitch than intended, but that only made Chan continue his ministrations.

“Beg more, baby. How badly do you wanna cum?” His nails clawed into your back, probably leaving red marks to be reminisced later.

Another deep and hard thrust pushed the head of his cock into the spot that made your toes curl. “Please! So bad, need it so bad! Let me cum, please let me cum.”

“Fuck, you sound so pretty when you ask so sweetly,” his lips were practically glued to your collar bone, “cum for me, baby. Cum all over my cock.”

You loved the power he so easily has over you, simple commands slipping from his mouth making you want to do anything to please him. When he allowed, you lowered yourself just a little so that his thrusts became quicker and shallower, not pulling out completely and keeping you filled until the knot snapped. Just as you hit your peak, Chan stilled almost entirely, feeling your walls pulsing and keeping him so snug it was impossible to pull out anymore, like your cunt wanted to keep him there. And he wasn’t complaining one bit. The convulsion of your pussy practically milked him to completion into the condom alongside your own orgasm, to which it felt like lingered for minutes. 

Chan kept you tightly wrapped in his arms, sweaty and unmoving as the both of you caught your breath. It felt all too comfortable with him, much less professional and much more intimate. Though, intimate would be short in words based on the past hour you’d just spent together.

“Can I be honest?” He broke the simple silence, speaking quietly into your skin. You hummed for him to continue. “The taxi ride back here cost way more than the hoodie.” A short chuckle left your lips at his admittance. “What’s so funny, beautiful?” Chan asked, pulling away from his hiding spot in your neck so you could see the pretty flush of his cheeks, post orgasm glow suiting him well. 

“Your manager sure as hell isn’t letting you come back here, now.” He let out a laugh of his own, pulling you back into him and feeling his chest rumble.

“I won’t tell if you don’t. That is, as long as I haven’t overstayed my welcome.” 

-

A/N: i’m finally done with midterms and have more time to write. to the person that requested this, i’m so sorry it took me so long! i also apologize i can’t find the ask for it, but i remember seeing enough of the description to write this!! pls forgive me :,)

[darkdevasofdestruction]

omg yay!! okay so after reading that the reader in your lovely pyramid head fanfic befriended most of the killers (it was so cute😿) and comforting them, encouraging them, etc. i got an idea for a request with jiwoon!!

so, he develops a kind of weird friendship with a survivor, whos willing to listen to his music and his story in general and thay obviously boost his already gigantic ego but also it makes him completly enamored with the reader!!

and i imagine him to be really clingy and all, so he probably just suprises her by hugging her while shes repairing a gen or scrolling through the entity's realm and he gets so overprotective sometimes, he wont let anyone come near them when theyre together and keeps calling her affectionate names and other stuff bc hes in love!! why wouldnt he do that . but the surv is literally so obvious and dense she thinks those are just friendly gestures.

so um, this got really out of hand and is probably chaotic af, but based on that, could i request something about him acting like that? or just soft in general fic/drabble with jiwoon?? depends on what you feel like writing🥰

First of all, I’m so happy that you liked my work! Secondly, I hope you’ll like this too! <3

Though he was the newest killer brought by the Entity, for the longest time, he never got to have his go at a trial, so he got incredibly frustrated and bored, took his bat and went into the woods by himself to hit trees and bushes by himself.

At first, he was excited to be taken in a place where he could kill at his leisure without any consequence, but what CAN he kill if he can’t go array outside of the trials, and he’s not being taken to one already?

After he’s channeled most of his frustrations on whatever vegetation he found, he started singing some of his songs and practicing his choreography out there where nobody could bother him.

Or so he thought.

He wasn’t the only one with the brilliant idea of taking a walk - You, also, took frequent walks away from the Survivor’s Camp because they were never that nice with you, hence why you got along much better with the Killers.

So when you heard some acapella singing, you got really excited and went ahead to look who’s the artist - But you were also pretty shy, so as soon as you picked up a human silhouette, you hid behind a tree and peeked at the eccentric looking man.

He was singing in Korean, and from his looks, outfit and dancing skills, he looked like a k-pop idol. 

He was so talented though, you were absolutely mesmerised!

As soon as he made his final move and stopped singing, as if basking in the silent applause that he would get, should he have been at a real show... He actually DID hear clapping.

Turning around, he noticed your timid form from behind the tree, cheering on him, wearing a bashful smile on your face.

“That was really beautiful! Congratulation for you show!” he was mesmerised beyond belief --

Someone in this shithole was actually appreciating his art! He was in love! Oh, he was sooo~ in love!

He will walk all cocky towards you, putting his arm around your shoulder and pull you flushed to his chest, calling you ‘Jagi’ before he pulled out his phone to show you his full discography and pointing out at which time there were the screams of his victims synthetized, and he started explaining how he mixed them into the music, how he found out the way to manipulate the screams and grunt of pain, where to hit the person to create each sound and what not.

You didn’t care much about how macabre it sounded - You had already got used to all this chaotic mess - So you were really captivated by the whole process of creating peak art.

From then on, Jiwoon would come to the Survivor’s Camp ALL the time just to grab you by the wrist and pull you to his camp or into the forest - He’ll have you dance with him while he sang or hummed, or will have to be the spectator to his shows while he performed for you.

Sometimes you think that he has no idea what your name is, because he only calls you pet names like ‘Jagi’, ‘Jagiya’, ‘Yeobo’ or ‘Nae sarang’ and many more.

Whenever the two of you are together, he’ll keep an arm around you, sometimes his hands even wandering here and there, and would kiss your cheeks, neck or jaw, just to show off how you are his and nobody can even look at you.

His favourite time is when the two of you are in a trial and he gets to surprise you by jump-hugging you when you least expect it.

Jiwoon would drag you around the whole place just so he could show off the sounds he gets out of the victims while he mori’s them - Oh, he gets so cocky, especially when you point out which song and what part of it can fit with the same kind of scream the dead survivor made - You were really paying attention to him!

He would dip you back and pull you into a deep kiss - You really managed to stroke and inflate his ego to the maximum.

He doesn’t have much influence when in comes to keeping other killers at bay during their trial with you, but at least when you’re with him, you know you’re having fun and will always escape without a single scratch or bruise.

After all, The Trickster only loves your sweet sounds and sighs, that make for a completely different and out of bounds melody that only he gets to listen to.

[gasolinerainbowpuddles]

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘚𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 ║ ⓞⓝⓔ๏ⓞⓕⓕⓢ

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This Side of Forever

| PAIRING(s): Marcus Pike x fem!OC Bodie Edunn

| RATING: explicit material | 18+ | WORD COUNT:  6.6k | CONTENT: angsty!Marcus throughout, pining?, Bodie talks a lil whimsical but that’s bc she’s based on a Goddess ok?, half of this is me self-therapizing, lots of allusions to magic and fruit, following your dreams, is somebody gonna match my freak? vibes, accepting fate, overly sentimental bc it’s Marcus duh

| SYNOPSIS: After back to back failed relationships, Marcus tries to find meaning and distraction in his work. When he's presented with an offer that appears to be a nudge in a whole new direction, he isn't sure he can make the leap of faith.

The consultation offer had come through at just the right time. Marcus had been burnt out with his work despite the change in scenery and job title. As it turned out, being head of the International Art Theft Task Force in D.C. wasn’t a whole lot more gratifying than being Special Agent Marcus Pike with the Austin Art Squad Unit. It was a bitter pill to swallow, the rhapsodic thrill of getting a second chance at love and life in Texas turning to nothing more than ash and heartache come Virginia. 

It was torment being back in Austin for an assignment and learning that he’d ultimately been nothing more than a bridge for his would-be fiancé and her now other half to finally realize what they felt for one another. It was hard to believe this was the same woman who had told him that night at dinner she, too, felt the same things for him. That she couldn’t deny their chemistry and connection. He loved that she was independent and really thought about his offer to move to D.C. with him before she’d accepted.

And then he’d gone and followed his heart again with the proposal. The words felt like poison clinging to his lips almost the moment he uttered them, her expression one of stunned anxiety making his stomach turn.  Then it all seemed okay again when she said she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, too. Looking back it was easier to see that she didn’t feel as strongly for him as he did for her, but in the moment he’d thought that maybe it was just a lot for her to take in. He had a tendency to be too much for the people he cared about.

He spent a lot of time in the aftermath of the breakup lamenting over every word and action, playing them over and over again in his head to try to figure out where he’d gone wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself to fully regret honoring his emotions in the moment. He’d been forthright and honest from the start with her because it felt real. It was real. Until it all fell apart.

So, he finished his assignment and returned home to D.C. with nothing but an empty, cold apartment waiting for him. The thought of just leaving all this behind and starting over from scratch was becoming more and more appealing. The ghosts of the past followed him everywhere, and it was beginning to feel like he’d always be chasing some phantom of a dream that resembled happiness. His voluntary sabbatical might not have been the best idea with all this inner turmoil brewing, but he had to take a step back and at least attempt to get himself together. The third night in a row of packaged ramen noodles for dinner, ass firmly parked on the couch with reruns of Antiques Roadshow playing back to back, her email had come through.

He read it twice to make sure it hadn’t been sent in error. As the sole owner of the wildly successful spa and wellness center Eternity Hill Orchard, Bodie Edunn was looking for a consultant regarding the yet to be established Art Director position and coinciding Art Program for her resort. A former colleague and shared mutual had passed his name along to her with a soft endorsement for the job. The referral name checked out and everything seemed legitimate, but Marcus had been burned too many times to believe his luck could be this good.

A phone call with her the next day had that thought going right out the window. He could hear the smile in her voice and how genuinely excited she was that he received the offer and reached out. Before he knew it, agreements were outlined and plans were made. The last few weeks of his sabbatical were going to be spent back and forth between the few hours of travel from D.C. to the mountains of Virginia where Eternity Hill Orchard was located.

The payday was already enough of an incentive, but the picturesque scenery as the vehicle climbed switchback roads wasn’t too bad, either. The ascent felt like he was heading to some other world entirely, and perhaps given the constant grind of life in D.C., this was a completely different life up here in the mountains. His first step onto the grounds already felt energizing, the inhale of fresh air crisp in his lungs. 

He could just make out a distant figure atop a rather grand set of steps leading up to a striking manor structure. It was somehow modern and antique all at once, as if it had been built here so long ago that it simply transcended the concept of time. Lush greenery at every opening and slope gave an impression of liveliness and growth. Small, warm white bulbs danced in the darker recesses of the flora, and Marcus could imagine the balmy, intimate glow it would emit come nighttime. 

Despite the impressive scene, he found himself eagerly skimming back to the figure coming into focus as they climbed down the stairs towards him. The pictures and videos he’d seen of her on the website did no justice to the firsthand encounter. He’d thought it was high quality editing – something to sell the whole wellness image the business touted - but seeing her here in person made it clear there was no alteration involved.

It was hard to pinpoint an age, but she looked like she’d sipped on every enchanted youth tonic from every fairytale ever told. A “glow from within” hue to her skin. Soft, supple curvature of pink appled cheeks. Piercing but kind green eyes. A sharp mouth with a delicate cupid’s bow, all balancing the mesmerizing smile underneath.

How old was she? How could someone establish and develop this level of business acumen all before the age of 50? Was she just the face of the business while some gnarled, hunched octogenarian hid away in the shadows and counted his payday? Was she some sort of trust fund baby? Was this all just an elaborate babysitting project to keep her out of the trouble that wealthy, bored children often found themselves in?

“Marcus, I’m so glad you made it,” Bodie softly greets him as she makes it to the bottom of the stairs. She envelops him before he has time to insist on a handshake, pulling back after a moment and rubbing each of his biceps in a welcoming gesture.

He isn’t sure where to put his hands, and he internally cringes at the realization of just how touch starved he is. His mouth feels a little dry, and he can only attribute some of that to the higher altitude. “Wow. Hi. I mean– Yes. You’re– It’s beautiful,” he responds a little breathlessly. “Glad to be here.”

The mischievous twinkle in her eyes blooms into the grin curving her mouth. “I’m partial, of course, but I really think there’s nowhere else as special as here. I hope you’ll come to find the same thing.”

The closer she was to him, the thinner the air felt. The sun cast a hazy blur of light around her long flax tresses, forming a little halo of brightness that made her seem all the more ethereal and divine. Bodie had several science degrees according to the website, although it didn’t say from where or when. Maybe this place was the real deal after all. Usually these retreat spaces offered little more than a whopping dose of placebo laden manipulations meant to drain desperate people’s wallets. He tried not to be so jaded about it all, very much aware of the more bitter version of himself he’d been morphing into for the past several months.

Obliging staff appeared from nowhere and whisked his things away. He really didn’t care where his things were going or where he was being led as he walked along quietly while Bodie conducted a guided tour of the grounds and the buildings. She carried herself so effortlessly and spoke so confidently. None of it sounded rehearsed, either, as they both meandered through the picturesque backdrop of the plot. She shared all the history of the resort and the scientific approach to wellness that incorporated the native resources as much as possible.

Everything he sees is nothing short of magnificent. He can envision sitting out here and painting a quick oil landscape while Bodie sits nearby and chats. He can hear her unwavering knowledge and commentary in his mind’s eye, but he forces himself to focus on the present. The sprawling backdrop of mountains and trees and orchards frame the welcoming facilities and services here. An expansive natural swimming pond lined with large rocks that lead to private cabanas and plush lounge chairs. He wonders if Bodie ever goes swimming. 

An indoor heated pool with adjacent teak sauna. Three stories worth of amenities built right into the mountainside with multiple buildings above that she explains are guest rooms. One building has a long, shared balcony with large potted trees and rooftop gardens. The other building has private balconies with big, round lounge beds and floor to ceiling fireplaces. He wonders which one of them is hers and what she sees when she wakes every morning.

The winding decks that slope into each other feel endless, and yet Marcus could enjoy hours of hearing her talk about anything and everything. It was infectious and calming, almost like walking through an art museum and discovering all the tiny surprise gems amongst the overarching beauty of artistry. Even the staff looked young in the way of someone who has never experienced a day of stress in their life. They don plain uniforms – soft white linen shirts with loose taupe colored pants – with some sporting half aprons or utility belts, depending on their job.

It was one thing for every patron thus far to look relaxed and content, but the workers also appearing well and youthful? How on earth did Bodie manage all of this? She was still talking about some sort of zero gravity massage clinic when the intrusive thoughts got the better of him.

“So how old are you anyway?” he blurts out.

The back of his neck blazes with embarrassment, but he forces himself to maintain eye contact. She smiles at him again in that easy sort of way, and his stomach flips. Whatever secret restorative methods she had up here were certainly doing something to him. Either that or he hadn’t adjusted to the altitude yet.

“I’m thirty one,” she answers graciously.

His jaw parts, all agog and inelegant, while she titters and waves off his unspoken compliment. 

“I apologize for the question. I’m usually not so–” He motions with his hand aimlessly in the air, floundering for a coherent end to his sentence. “Your methods and programs are obviously very effective.”

“I guess you could say between the mountain air and enough apples a day to keep the doctor away for a lifetime…,” she trails off and shrugs with a lopsided smile.

God, he could really get used to seeing that. It made his knees all jittery every time she directed that energy his way. He’s so wrapped up in it that he misses something she said and has to ask her to repeat herself.

“I said: I’m proud of everything we’ve built here, but I’m always looking for what else we can incorporate to enhance the experience,” she says again. “It’s always been a sort of bad habit of mine, always looking for something to take everything to the next level.”

She doesn't even know how much it resonates with him when she says it. If he had to identify a singular fault of his, it would be the hope of the next best thing. He had a well-worn pattern of romanticizing things and letting his thoughts run away, all buoyant and hopeful. A big part of that had been stripped from him after the failed marriage, divorce, and then failed proposal, but maybe that was for the best. Maybe he wouldn’t get hurt so much if he didn’t put himself so far out there.

“I get what you mean,” he commiserates. “It can be hard to feel like you’ve done all you can. That you’ve upturned every stone and made something as good as it can be.”

Bodie eyes him thoughtfully and, after a moment of contemplation, nods. “Yes. Exactly. That’s exactly it.”

“So, am I the ‘taking it to the next level’ in this equation?” he jokes, attempting to steer the conversation back to the consultation at hand and away from things that remind him of past failures.

Her grin is devastating and intoxicating, and Marcus turns a lovely shade of pink at the poor phrasing of his question.

“I-I meant– not me personally. I meant the art director and art program,” he stammers. “You know, me being here to help with that.”

“Something like that,” she replies with a gentle laugh.

It’s not until she’s finished showing him around and walking him to his private suite that his head feels clear. Every syllable that fell from her lips felt like a tugging thread, whipstitching musings and what-could-be’s across the divots in his mind and suturing them together with thoughts of her cinched in between and tucked away tight. The feeling doesn’t let up over the next few days where every interaction with her feels like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. 

This wasn’t the same sort of draw he’d experienced before with his ex-wife and ex- fiancé. This was the opposite pole of the magnet hurtling towards him and grabbing hold. This was some sameness, some kindred nucleus of existence. A funhouse mirror reflecting parts of himself back, a warped delineation. Something metaphysical and mystic putting him exactly where he was meant to be: here in this side of paradise with Bodie coming to drip soothing words of perpetuity into his ear. He belonged here, although he couldn’t exactly explain why or how he knew it to be true.

It took everything in him to focus on the task at hand. He’s better acquainted after a couple of days with the grounds, resort scheduling, and “wellness lifestyle” habits being taught and practiced. He wasn’t expecting the legitimacy in some of the newer programs, like the accredited and licensed therapists onsite who conduct group sessions as well as individualized, immersive sessions for select guests. The idea of an art based therapy program felt like a natural addition, according to Bodie. It was the “next logical step” in what Eternity Hill Orchard could offer, and he couldn’t agree more.

By the time he knew it, he’d extended his stay by three more days, but she didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, she seemed delighted that he was even able to. For some reason, he divulged his voluntary sabbatical from work and the fact that he was only able to take this job because of it. She’d simply smiled warmly and said it “sounded like fate.”

It should’ve been hokey. It should’ve been an eyeroll the moment she turned away. Instead, he found himself inclined to agree. Throughout his rapid appraisal of the resort, it started feeling less like work and more like a challenge, something stimulating and meaningful. The overwhelming sense of magic in the atmosphere had him questioning himself almost daily. He’d take breaks from his assignment and join Bodie in several of the offerings at the resort, and every time without fail his head felt cloudy and light and elastic. He hadn’t felt this way since his first few months in the FBI when the world was laid at his feet for the taking.

He almost wished this bubble would pop already so he could fall back to reality, but day after day it remained intact. Gentle brushes of her hand. Leaning closer when they spoke. Angling her body towards him whenever he sat down next to her – and there somehow was always an empty seat, like she’d saved it just for him. The warm, dizzying embrace the first day he got here was just the beginning of an endless well. He wanted so badly to know how her lips would feel against his. He tried to stop himself imagining the sorts of sounds he could pull from her, all the ways he could make her feel good. They could fall asleep here every night together, dreaming up new programs and projects.

As much as he wanted to stretch out his time with her, he loathed the idea of wearing out his welcome or, worse yet, letting hope fester long enough to make him entertain all his delusions about a life here. The trek back home to D.C. is tedious and pallid. It’s as though every foot of elevation lost on the ride down leached color and life from the world.

The dreary silence in his apartment might be the worst of all as he sets his things down and takes a long breath – one that doesn’t feel satisfying no matter how deeply he pulls for air. At least there was an objective and a deadline to keep his mind occupied and distracted from his stifling abode. He compiled his recommendations with due heed, never rushing through the retrospection and assessment he was being generously compensated to produce.

He didn’t have any legitimate reason to go back for another visit since he’d extended his initial one by so many days. Any clarifying questions could be answered via email or phone, and it better served his timeline to not travel again right now anyway. The Art Therapy Degree Program tabs in his browser stare loudly back at him. It was initially a portion of his informational findings, but he’d made the mistake of venturing into the curiosity of what it would take for him to obtain such a degree. Turns out, not very much. The extensive training and education accrued throughout his years before and during his life as an Agent meant he was fit for most bridge programs out there.

He didn’t know what to do with this new possibility, and the knowledge of it was more disquieting than anything. The awareness that something else existed out there for him felt cruel and imposing, like it was trying to force his hand to take the leap of faith. He’d done that before, and it’s what got him into the shadowlands in the first place. It started to eat at him the longer he sat with it, and what irked him most was the sole thing he knew would make him feel better: a trip to Eternity Hill Orchard. 

He racked his brain for a reason – any reason – to go up there again. He concocted some weak excuse about needing to evaluate some of the spaces before making a final recommendation, and of course Bodie was immediately receptive. He steeled himself to remain professional and impartial about things as he made his way back to the fated resort. His late start out the door meant the sun was nearly setting by the time he arrived, but it was just as enchanting as he remembered it. Bodie wasn’t at the top of the stairs to greet him this time around, but he attempted to quell the disappointment of not seeing her by reminding himself that he was here for work and that he’d see her when it was appropriate. It was bad enough that he’d let his whims bring him here again.

After checking in and getting settled, he figures a walk around the grounds is his best bet at coming across Bodie organically. So, he sets off and silently scouts potential spots for an art studio and corresponding office space. The dwindling daylight makes the endeavor less than fruitful, but he isn’t really focused on it, anyway. He’s really just out here hoping to find her. When he turns onto a secluded pathway off the side of the natural pond, the first instance of dissonance in this place emerges: a man’s aggravated voice. A few beats and then what Marcus thinks might just be Bodie’s more neutral voice. He edges closer to the sound.

“Because it’s bullshit, and you know it,” the man fumes.

“I don’t think it’s anything of the so–”

“I come here spending an ungodly amount of money, and for what? For this sham of a place?”

Marcus picks up his pace and follows the voices until he finds Bodie standing face to face with a visibly angry man. She appears in no distress despite the aggression being hurled her way. He keeps his distance until he can fully assess the situation, but his extensive federal training has him ready to intervene if needed.

“You feel like your time here has been unproductive?” She poses the question tactfully, but the man doesn’t waver.

“Well I sure as hell thought I’d get more out of it than I have! I mean, how much time and money can I throw down the drain before I speak up for myself and demand answers?”

“And what is it you were hoping to get out of your visits here?”

“I dunno! Maybe some-some sort of control back in my life?! All this wishy washy feel good bullshit hasn’t done anything! It’s all some scam to take advantage of people like me who are desperate!” he snaps, taking a step forward with arms raised to the side.

Marcus starts to close the gap but stops when Bodie gestures for him to hang back. A glance isn’t even spared his way as she focuses her attention on the angry man.

“I hear you, and I hear your frustrations. I do, however, feel that you are missing a key consideration.”

“Oh? And what’s that?” the man laughs through his nose.

“Finding and using tools to help you regain control of your life is much more beneficial than some external force coming through and offering some temporary illusion of control. And, above all that, there are things that will never be under our authority.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?!”“It means that, yes, we could create some fantasy of the self-actualization you’re after and make you feel like it’s true, but the whole illusion would fall apart the moment you left because it wouldn’t be real. There is no handing ‘it’ over to you – by us or anyone. The entire notion that control is something we give or take from you defeats the entire purpose of you learning to take hold of things yourself. And, you can learn all the coping skills and interventions under the sun, but they will never be useful if you try to pit them against something that will never be in your control no matter how hard you try to force it.”

The man stands straight and blinks a few times, the words overtly taking hold of something inside him.

“Part of control is acceptance, Gordon,” she explains and extends a comforting hand to his bicep. “You have to accept there are things you cannot and will not ever be able to control, and those are the things you have to learn to let go of. No amount of fighting them or screaming or anger will ever change that.”

The man – Gordon, apparently – deflates a bit at this and hangs his head. His voice becomes so quiet Marcus can’t make out half of what he’s saying. His body language speaks to remorse and embarrassment, but Marcus moves in closer just in case he is misreading the energy. He can hear the apologies now and the all too understanding acceptance of them from Bodie. Gordon catches sight of Marcus and quickly excuses himself with Bodie calling after him that she will follow up with him tomorrow.

“Well that’s a first,” Marcus quips, trying to break the dissipating tension altogether. “I was starting to believe nobody could get upset here.”

“Glad to have you back, Marcus,” she deadpans with a budding smile that gives her away.

“In all seriousness, that was, uh, that was pretty impressive.”

“What?”

“Deescalating that situation. Keeping your cool. Maintaining control of the conversation. Actually the sort of thing that makes a really great undercover or intelligence agent.”

“Well, you’d know what it takes, wouldn’t you?” she agrees warmly.

His smile falls a little at the reminder. He was, indeed, the person that would know. At the end of the day, he was still employed with the FBI. This fairy tale in the mountains was on borrowed time, and a couple of weeks from now, he’d be back to his usual responsibilities at work. It’ll be like none of this ever happened, the souvenir of a padded bank account the only remnant of this experience. The realization that he doesn’t want to be Special Agent Marcus Pike anymore hits him like a blow to the gut.

“Marcus? Are you okay?” She reaches out and slots her hand into his.

“Hm? What? Oh, oh yeah, I’m fine.” He forces a chuckle and waves off her worries, but he knows she won’t buy it.

“If you’re not too busy right now, I’d really love for you to join me on my walk.”

And of course he agrees. How could he not? Even if he knows he’s being led to the death of his guard, he can’t turn her down. The tranquil sky and mellow breeze amidst the lines of apple trees are no match for his racing mind. The last time he was here, it felt pacifying and calming. This time it feels as though all the defenses and excuses have been stripped from his brain, leaving nothing but the bare, candid emotions underneath.

“You know,” she begins, interrupting his storming thoughts, “I was thinking back to how you were talking about never being satisfied with what you’ve got. You know, how we’re both guilty of always looking for the next best thing. Worrying about ‘leaving a stone unturned’, as you put it. It made me think back to when I almost gave this up because I thought some place closer to the interstate was a better investment.”

Marcus listens in quiet disbelief as Bodie shares the memory of when she’d come across a great plot of land that was closer to the main highways in the area but located further away from the mountains. She was content at the time with the state of Eternity Hill Orchard, but it wasn’t anything near what it is today. It wasn’t even a fraction of what it is currently because she was so consumed with worry over whether or not there was something better out there. The new plot would’ve been more readily accessible for travelers, which could’ve potentially meant more patrons and a wider reach. It wasn’t until the last moment that she rescinded the offer and decided to keep what she already had and give it the devotion and nurturing it needed to thrive.

“I’m grateful every day that I didn’t go through with it,” she reflects. “The things that I thought were drawbacks were actually what made this place special. The seclusion. The terrain. You can’t get this atmosphere anywhere else. I could’ve lost all of it if I had let my fears override my instincts.”

“I couldn’t imagine this place anywhere else,” he concurs. 

“And I didn’t realize my unturned stone was right under my feet.” She levels him with a probing gaze and silently waits for him to speak.

“I’m supposed to start up my position again in a few weeks…..” he begins weakly.

She doesn’t respond beyond a gentle nod, and it compels him to keep going.

“But I don’t think– I feel like maybe there’s… maybe there’s something else for me.” He swallows hard and drops her hand, opting instead to lean against the sturdy base of an apple tree for some kind of support.

“You found a new opportunity, but you’re afraid it’s just another case of chasing after the next best thing?” she surmises.

“Yeah, I– Something like that. I think.” He laughs and drops his head back. “God, this is so unprofessional. I apologize. I really shouldn’t be talking like this.”

She ignores his appeal to decorum and instead pushes for candor. “So, Marcus, where’s the line between romanticizing a hypothetical and following your heart?”

When he doesn’t have an answer, she leans against the tree beside him, and Marcus feels a thousand fiery licks of magnetic pull.

“This whole experience with you has made me consider leaving my work to become an Art Therapist.” It comes out before he can stop it, but he’s rewarded with a beatific smile that makes his insides feel warm and syrupy.

“You know, I have it on good intel that there’s a really nice place up in the mountains that’s in the market for an Art Therapist. I mean, they’re awaiting a report from a consultant about how to implement the Program, but still. I mean, hey, one lucky Art Therapist might just find themselves with the freedom of creating the entire structure of the Program from start to finish.”

Marcus shakes his head, unwilling to accept the insinuation of being offered a job he wasn’t even qualified for. Yet.

“And I bet that Art Therapist would be able to help a lot of people,” she adds softly. “Could really change the lives of the people he’s around.”

He turns to meet her gaze at that and fumbles for the right thing to say. “I can’t— I couldn’t possibly ask you to—”

“You didn’t ask. I offered,” she points out. 

“So, what? I’m just– I start tomorrow, just narrowing down a list of online bridge programs? Until I find one and apply? And then magically I just use that degree here?” he scoffs.

“Either that or you could spend the next few days trying and failing to talk yourself out of it,” she muses with a grin.

He balks and stalls but can’t argue with the assertion. Truth be told, he doesn’t even feel like trying to talk himself out of it. The fight left in him to ignore his heart is quickly faltering. 

“And, if I might take a turn being unprofessional, I really, really wouldn’t mind you being here on a more … permanent basis. It was nice having you around.”

“Y-Yeah?”

“Mmmhhmmmm.”

Marcus’s eyes flit between her glittery eyes and plush lips. All those years of unfulfilled promises melt away. Every unreciprocated outpouring of love and emotion, gone by the wayside. No more were the feelings of having so much to give without anyone to give it to.

“I really want to kiss you,” he admits in a hush.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she murmurs back.

He doesn’t give himself the opportunity to linger on hesitations. He dips his head and presses his mouth against hers and finds an ardent response. The kiss is  slow and deliberate, like so much time has been lost to the absence of it that every facet must be savored. Her tongue rolls along the ridge of his lip, and he opens with a soft gasp when she pushes their bodies together.

She tastes of sugar and earth, body firm and potent. Still, he holds her like a delicate, timeless artifact meant to be admired and cherished. He follows her pull to the cool grass below and groans at the weight of his body sagging against hers. She hooks a foot behind each knee and tugs, the shift of it sending him off balance. Her pliant body eagerly accommodates his searching hands. The dip and swell of her form under his touch has his mind tracing static orbits, something barely tethered to anything resembling cognizance.

When they finally part for a breath, chests heaving and lips swollen, he sees the incisive tenacity burning bright in her eyes. She rolls their fused bodies until his back settles against the ground, and he lies as a stone unturned beneath her feet, ready to be inverted and suffused by her entirety.

“I’ve known I wanted you from the moment we spoke on the phone,” she confesses quietly. Her hand drifts down his torso, stopping carefully at the button of his waistband.

His heart lurches at the disclosure, brazen in all its laid bare inelegance. “All I could think about was getting back to you,” he confides. “All I wanted was to be back here with you.”

Bodie’s lips crash against Marcus’s with unbridled force, the curve of her tongue licking and darting its way deeper into his mouth. The light blanket of night air ripples against their exposed skin as they hastily remove piece by piece of clothing until they’re laid bare against the strewn fabric. Bodie lies staring up at him, and Marcus somehow has the inkling of clarity left enough to pause and check in.

“Is this okay?” he pants.

“Stake your claim on your path forward, Marcus,” she purrs like it’s an invitation. “Leave your mark on what fate brought to you.”

All reason and restraint leaves his body at the call. His teeth graze and nip hungrily down her neck, across her chest, and tug at the hardened nubs he finds there all pert for his attention. Her body curves up from the ground to meet the wet slip of his mouth and rocks mindlessly when it connects with her sex.“I wanna taste you, I wanna taste you” is all she hears between greedy laps of his tongue. He ruts against the mounds of fabric laid about, desperate for any sort of friction after experiencing the high of her taste. Every little moan and gasp is a brush stroke in his portrait of her pleasure. He feeds off the taction and responsiveness, using those hues and depths of bliss to bring about the definitive, live rendering. A heavenly sound slithers up her throat when he slowly inserts two stacked fingers.

“I feel you. Christ you’re so wet,” he rasps. “Come on my fingers. I wanna feel it. C’mon, baby, come for me.”

She cries out under the careful movements of his mouth and fingers, the soft tufts of his hair gripped tight in her hands as she rides it out. His groans fill the air as he laps up each and every gush of arousal. She hauls him up to share another heated kiss, almost relishing in the taste of herself on his tongue.

Marcus breaks away first, pupils blown wide, with a small shiver running up his entire body. He knows going further is risky, and he knows, just like everything else about this moment, it’s driven entirely by raw connection and want. The feeling of finally having someone to pour himself into far too overwhelming to ignore, and there’s never been anything in his life that felt more right than everything in this moment.

“I don’t usual– I just– Can I….?” He trails off with a glance down at his thick length, bobbing heavily with every movement and demanding attention.

Bodie branches her legs out wider to make room for him – for the place he wishes to be buried in. “Please.”

He wastes no time notching himself at her entrance and slowly feeding his cock inch by inch until he’s fully seated inside. They groan in unison at the assimilation of their bodies merging into one synchronous entity. He’s rambling now, unable to stop the torrent of declarations and hopes and craving. Admitting to having already imagined pinning her down just like he is right now, legs pressed against her chest so he can drive deeper. Not hiding the multitudes of ways he wants to profess and display his affection for her.

Bodie responds in kind. Each kiss of his cockhead against the mouth of her womb punctuated with a rush of oaths and calls to freefall into one another. She clings to him like he holds her next breath. They sway and pitch in turn with heavy breaths and wanton cries of bliss released to the sky. Her lids are heavy with exertion when he brings her upright and back flush against his chest, both of their knees digging into the ground.

“I wanna fuck you slow,” he pants, gently rocking his hips against the swell of her ass. “Wanna feel this forever. Want to take my time with you.”

She grinds back onto him, meeting stroke for stroke, and hums contentedly. “You feel so good. Feels so good.”

“Yeah? You like when I make you feel good? You gonna let me make you feel good?”

“You always make me feel good,” she breathes.

He groans and rolls his hips faster, harder. She turns her head to kiss him, latching a hand onto his neck to hold him there. The momentum of his thrusts hastens and sends her to her hands and knees, and Marcus drapes himself across the plane of her back with an arm winding tight around her chest as he drives deeper. All the noises he imagined are nothing compared to the real thing. He can feel her getting closer, and he goads her on.

“There you go–there you go–yeah–let me have it–let me have it, baby.”

He sinks his teeth into the rounded skin on her shoulder and bares down as she moans and clenches around him. Her soft flesh pillows around his bite as the kick of his cock pulses against her walls. She cries out from the sting of his marking but leans into it all the same. Their bodies slump to the ground, still connected at the crux of her thighs, but it’s still not close enough for him.

They lay together in quiet content as their highs level off. He presses the wet of his lips to each little indentation he left, and he hopes they’ll be gone by morning. The guilt of having marked her so deeply – and the guilt of how much that turns him on – occupy his thoughts as he pays his penitence with each kiss. She interrupts his amends and turns to face him, a playful smirk emerging when he hisses at the last drag of her satiny clutches.

His half-lidded, nebulous expression is mirrored, and she can’t stop herself from seeking intimacy again by way of a kiss, which he readily returns. He cradles her to the sinuous line of his body, and it’s as though she was always meant to fit there. The night sky looks down on them as they struggle to not let sleep take them right then and there.

“We should really head back,” Bodie reluctantly points out.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Marcus agrees.

The task of dressing is much more appealing with one another’s help, and they do so until each is as put together as before they came up the hill. They walk hand in hand back toward the main buildings with easy, lulling conversation to pass the time. Marcus smiles ear to ear when Bodie asks a staff member to move his things to her room.

“Wow, moving in together already?” he jokes.

“I feel like it just makes things easier since we’re going to be planning the rest of our lives, you know?” she lobs back with a cheeky grin. “Logistics and all that.”

“So I guess tomorrow is the start of my new life, huh?” he half-teases, but the undercurrent of nerves still comes through.

“I think you knowing about it is new, but I’m pretty sure it was waiting here for you all along.”

And in that moment he wanted to tell her all the ways he adored her. Confess all the varieties of hope she instilled in him. Scream from the rooftops how much he loved her.

But there was no need to rush. Those things could wait, now that he had forever to say them.

This fic was my contribution to @perotovar's Frith Challenge where I received Marcus Pike x Idun. I don't even know where to start with how wild of a journey this fic was to write, and honestly idek if y'all would believe me if I told you lmao.

As always, thank you for reading and sharing!

catch ya later, ♥Puddles♥

[vauxxy]

my camp half blood oc ^_^

YALL SHES ADORABLE

her name is odette van schmidt and she’s a child of dionysus 😇

her story is actually rlly funny tbh. makes me crack up a bit. so here it is

basically dionysus met her mum (a rich socialite) at a party she was throwing for the opening of an art gallery, and it was getting late so everyone was going home. odettes mum looked over at dionysus and was like ‘omfg these old geezers r soooo boring. wanna hit the club?’ and dionysus was like ‘have my baby’ SO SHE DID.

9 months later she gave birth to odette van schmidt: the lying, unstable (possible future addict), drama queen JOY of dionysus.

by the time odette turned 14, her mum was like ‘right. this girl needs to get her ass to boarding school’ bc she could not stop CAUSING A RUCKUS. she was a menace during important parties and events- not because she wasn’t good at parties; but because they weren’t fun. while her mum agreed with her, she had grown out of her party girl phase and had to settle down.

well, odette didn’t fight her mums decision to send her to boarding school. after all, that’s where the craziest shit happens, doesn’t it? especially in new york.

so imagine this: odette van schmidt, the pretty girl with weird eyes and designer clothes CHOWING DOWN ON SPECIAL BROWNIES WITH HER ROOMMATE WHO LOOKS LIKE HOMELESS MAN IN A PRETTY GIRLS BODY.

odette could NOT stop getting into trouble. always sneaking off with her friends, partying her weekends away. by the age of 15 she had developed a pretty bad habit of taking a shot of vodka every sunday morning to get through the preachy ass mandatory services.

odettes mum had enough when she found out her daughter wasn’t taking her meds everyday at 8:00, and was instead lighting up at 4:20.

odettes mum had to call her baby daddy and tell him to pick her up for the summer. odette heard this call, and jumped to the conclusion she was getting sent to REHAB. so she ran.

she ran fast and fast and fast and fast. all the way from manhattan to queens.

ofc odette always saw weird shit. but she just always chalked it up to sleep deprivation, adhd, maladaptive daydreaming, and later in her teens: drug induced hallucinations.

after walking around new york aimlessly for 3 hours to escape rehab, her mum gave her a call.

“hey odette… can you come back home? bc ur lowkey a demigod and I WONT SEND YOU TO REHAB BABY IM SORRY I WONT ITS FINE YOU WERE ONLY SMOKING WEED ITS OKAY BABY-”

BOOM. hellhound right in the middle of the dingiest 7/11 in all of queens.

odette booked it- already terrified by what her mum said, and even more so by this terrifying dog thing.

she ran down at alleyway, hoping to escape the gross mangy dog, but she wasn’t fast or sharp enough to lose it or outsmart it. the hellhound attacked her from behind, ripping through the back of her shirt and leaving a scar that ran across the length of her back.

like that shit was BIG. like, from her neck down to her hipbone.

odette was vengeful thoguh. she was more angry than she was in pain, so she took out her pocketknife and started stabbing and punching that thing away. LIKE. HOW WOULD THAT EVEN PROTECT HER FROM A HELLHOUND??? but then the mutt started chasing its tail and howling like crazy, making it easier to put it down like an old dog.

and poof.

into thin air.

“alright what the fuck”

so there she lay- sitting and panting and wheezing in an alleyway, bleeding out. so she decided to pray,

“god i’m sorry for drinking on sundays! i’m sorry for using bible pages to roll! i’ll do anything to make it up to you!”

“girl, it’s fine.”

all of a sudden, there was this middle aged guy in front of her with the same eyes as her and the worst fashion sense she’d ever seen.

“i didn’t know jesus shopped at h&m…”

“jeez, you sound like ur mother.”

after 10 awkward seconds of silence, odette passed the fuck out. bc her back is a war zone. obviously.

when she woke up the next day, she was at the most rank hospital she’d ever been to. but all the doctors were cute. they were all blonde and spoke like poets and had such gentle hands. but they were wearing the most atrocious orange shirts.

good thing I’VE got STY-

odette looked down at herself. “are you fucking kidding me.”

orange was not her colour. it was purple.

after she got all healed up, two blonde 13 year olds who looked just like her arrived at the infirmary. “hiiiiii welcome to rehabbbbbbb”

“oh my god i’m actually going to kill myself”

castor and pollux eventually cleared up mostly everything about camp (after fucking around with their new older sister a bit more, of course), and proceeded to take her to get some food in her tall ass stomach.

she ate. and then she ate a bit more. and then she complained. and then she asked if her mum has her ‘crazy meds’. and then she asked for new clothes. and then she called her mummy and asked her for new clothes or perfume or anything. and then she walked over to the big house to complain about something again.

and as soon as she walked through the doors, screaming about how she can’t party with a torn up back- she was claimed.

“oh my gods odette. we have your stuff. its fine. it’s cool. you’re my daughter btw. and no drinking at camp.”

“… why would my mum fuck a guy who shops at h&m?”

“I DO NOT SHOP AT H&M, I AM A GOD-“

odette blanked. she wasnt really good at faces. much better with names. that’s what u get for being a history buff who can’t make eye contact i guess.

“… which one, sorry?”

“… dionysus?”

“oh. that checks out.”

[otastoothbrush]

The bidders at my cookie shop

(i work at a cookie shop soooo😋)

Eisuke

he normally wouldn’t stand in line at a little cookie shop in the mall for a sub pare chocolate chip cookie but the cashier caught his eye (mc obv)

he is one of the only customers who doesn’t complain about the high prices bc he big balling

he first just wanted a chocolate chip cookie maybe a coffee too

but mc persuaded him to do the daily deal of buy 6 get one free

(an obv scam but she can bat her eyes at anyone and make them spend every penny there)

and Eisuke wasn’t any different, he actually bought one of everything

which had mc’s mouth on the floor

(she was honestly pissy bc there was a line forming behind him)

he would overly compliment mc which would have her rolling her eyes

she would try to walk to the back when she saw him coming but he would wait for her to come back up for his order to be taken

after times and times of trying to give her his number she finally takes it

eisuke’s fave cookies: koko creme + the chocolate chip

and ofc he loves mc’s coffee, literally creams for it

Baba

he would be a usual there

he also works in the mall

he works in the little magick shop all the way on the other side of the mall

but the walk is worth it to see the cute cookie shop cashier

(and he doesn’t mind walking, he got those long legs for a reason)

he knows mc by name and ALWAYS asks how mc is before ordering his cookies

he is very charming and subtly flirts to make sure she isn’t uncomfortable

he would always get a red velvet and a cheesecake brownie

(mc literally knows his order by heart he gets the same thing every time, bless his soul)

he usually asks when her break is and if she wants to head down to the food court during it

(she always says yes)

he always tries to pay for mc’s food (and he usually does if mc isn’t looking)

if mc is closing he walks the long way out the mall so he can say goodnight to her

Soryu

man isn’t a cookie person but inui dragged him here

he isn’t even a mall person but once again inui heard about the puppies in the mall and had to go, little did they know a quaint little cookie shop was by it

ofc they stopped when inui saw the spiderman cookie, which he had to get

Soryu ended up getting something like a double fudge brownie or a smores bar

he hits it off well with mc surprisingly, since he wasn’t much into small talk she did to mind taking his order

(other than his deathly stare that sorta scared her)

he really enjoyed the brownies and actually came back without inui

which had mc on edge since soryu didn’t have his little puppy dog beside him

he actually came later in the day so mc gave him some free chocolate chip which weirdly had him blushing

he devoured them, when inui tried to touch them he whipped out his gun

every time he goes back there he gets softer and softer for her

and develops an addiction to the double fudge brownies

Ota

he has a little art kiosk in the mall, he usually sells his art and sometimes draws people he see’s

his little kiosk was right by the cookie shop so he would stare all day at the cookie shop worker

he would watch her hair start to get messy and her take a breather after the long line of customers

he would draw her the most, her puppy dog eyes reminded him of his little dog koro

he would go up there everyday grabbing a yellow mellow and a large decorated cookie

he would usually pick the quirkiest one like the pumpkin with sunglasses

(even though its the middle of august)

and then two m&m cookies bc the splash of color reminds him of his water paintings

he would joke around with mc a lot

even across the mall from his kiosk

if mc had a loud customer he would look over at her with a concerned face

(he actually came up and put a guy in his place for yelling at her)

(he’s weirdly intimidating)

he put some drawings up of mc in his shop but she low-key never noticed

until he brought her one of his drawings of her

(she literally gave him like free cookies for a week bc of it)

Mamo

he isn’t a mall man it’s too much of a pain for him

but one day at the office some one brought in cookies and he was hooked ever since

he would go straight to the mall for the cookies every single day after work

he would usually get the monthly cookie, especially in august its his fave

the blueberry crumble✨

other than that he would get the peanut butter swirl or the sprinkles

he would die for the buttercream

he was usually grumpy so mc would draw little doodles on his coffee cup

(when she stopped he actually said something about it)

he would always try to request the ones straight out the oven, which mc caved multiple times and gave him piping hot ones

(which he burned himself on but played it off)

(now mc is super careful while handing him his cookies and even tosses a joke here and there about it)

he actually is the one that tips mc the best, like he always tips her every single time

(he tried to ask if they sold edibles before, mc was thinking about sneaking something special in her new batch)

Hikaru

he knows mc already and goes there everyday to make her life hell

(he obviously wants to eat her out)

he takes forever to order things even though mc always knows what he wants

but he continues to give her a hard time EVERYTIME

his order is always a watermelon cookie pizza and a peanut butter blossom with a dr pepper

but he likes the extra time he takes to talk to mc

he orders cookie cakes often and puts them under dumbass names like “ben dover” or “Anita dic”

mc once persuaded him to get the raspberry cream cookie and he was not in love with it

it was too “tart” for him

(which mc knew but wanted him to waste 5 dollars)

hikaru is one of those customers to bring up the price of the cookies everytime

“why is this shit 2.36 is there dope in it?”

“what dope are you smoking that is 2.36”

“not good shit”

in the end he is low-key obsessed w the cookies and HIGH-KEY obsessed with mc

Shuichi

after the plant shop he would always stop at the cookie place

usually as shu tho never shuichi

when she does see shuichi she thinks its so funny he has the same order as shu since there so different

chocolate chip pecan, a german chocolate brownie and a black coffee

shu always jokes with mc and usually flirts it up with her

(she really enjoys seeing shu he’s actually lowkey her favorite customer)

unlike shuichi which is her least fave, since how brass he is

he never acknowledges her as a person as shuichi but shu greets her very kindly everytime

every visit he takes, shu and shuichi slowly mold together

one day shuichi brings her a little succulent and thats when she puts two and two together

she gets really embarrassed and has a breakdown in the back

(but now she thinks he’s bipolar or has multiple personalities) (which is totally fine on a real note)

Rhion

very sweet boy and very soft spoken

mc can barely hear him over all the mall noise

his face is always red when he orders he can barely look at mc

but when he does look at mc, he stares

he works in the costume shop and sometimes wears masks to scare her if she doesnt see him coming

(she lowkey thinks he’s weird asf but he’s very kind and cute so she’s fine with him)

his order is a carrot cake cookie and a snicker doodle, he always gets stuff for his coworkers too bc he’s a sweetheart

he tries to give mc free costumes, really wanted her to be Alice for his mad hatter for the last three years in a row

she finally said yes

some days when he would come up to her in his mad hatter get up he would have more courage to talk to her

but she made sure he knew that he could talk to her either way and she would enjoy him

Luke

he would get the gluten free sprinkles

since this man on a PILL DIET LIKE BFFR

but eisuke brought him here and made him get a cookie and not only a coffee

so he went for the overly priced gluten free cookies

and stared at mc’s chest the whole time

he says its not creepy and he’s just admiring her bone structure

(which she still finds very creepy)

luke started to come on his own bc his new pill started being the gluten free sprinkle cookies

he would ask mc to be his model to study her bone structure (ngl she had her boss come out and serve him a couple of times bc she was a little uncomfy)

but one day he was actually the exact opposite, almost came in like he was lifeless which freaked her out a bit

(mf was malnourished asf)

mc literally hand fed him the cookies to make sure he ate

(mf was literally just buying cookies to let them stack up at his house)

MC

girl tries her best to love her job

her favorite thing to do is ice the cookies while she hates to restock

she is a closer who workers many hours and usually spends the whole day at the shop

she literally runs the place lets be for real

her favorite would be the underrated koko swirl and oatmeal rasin

she would take long breaks with baba in the food court bc she deserved it after working opening to closing

she lowkey hates when baba pays for her so everytime she goes to the magick shop she tips extra so it feels like she’s paying him back

she always doodles a cat on her cup when she gets a drink, its her little thing so everyone knows the cup is hers

she gets along the best with her coworkers and honestly gets the best tips

she does have like 9 men fiening over her

which i mean she never really minds bc it helps with the tips

ota and rhion always try to give her cookie designs, which she usually listens too bc their gods with their hands

one time she took mamo in the back of her shop and smoked weed with him

she pretends to hate eisuke but she legit thinks he’s the biggest man candy in the world

[anisespice]

“ so what? ” || tokyo rev. pt. 3

                            “ boy, I know you miss me, so what? ”

[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] 

synopsis: he wanted to be a two-timer; you got his ass back, times two. 

pairing: college!mitsuya x gn!reader

word count: 1,742 

warnings: mature language, cheating, a little ooc(?) bc ik this stylish single father would NEVER.

notes: this one was the longest compared to the other two whew. it seems that mitzy had my creative juices flowing, as he should. unfortunately, had to make him a scrub lol 

Manipulate, Mansplain, MITSUYA.

You weren’t sure what made you want to surprise him at the art building. Maybe it’s because it was on the way when you left the library, or the fact that you hadn’t seen him in a couple of weeks due to finals. Hell, it might’ve been both. But one thing was for certain, when you trotted down the long hallway and made a hard left, your boyfriend wasn’t the only one in for a surprise.

Coming to a halt at the studio entrance you instantly saw him and went to call his name, but noticed he wasn’t alone. Students normally used the space after class hours, with permission from the professor, to spend a little extra time on their individual pieces—Mitsuya being one of them. Sometimes, he’d even be the only one left. Well, imagine your confusion when you see your darling boyfriend conversing with the one person he supposedly couldn’t stand being around, without getting the urge to sew his ears shut. His phrasing, not yours.

Now, that’s not to say he couldn’t be cordial, no matter whatever creative differences there may be. Your boyfriend was always polite and according to him, this person wasn’t. Yet, as you watched them from afar one can’t help but notice they seemed to be getting along just fine for people who apparently never do. Again, his words.

So what’s changed?, you wondered. It had only been two weeks.

“Would’ya mind handing me that fabric over there?” Mitsuya pointed, the person responding with a grin.

“You got it.”

You disappeared around the corner before either of them spotted you. A little perplexed, you didn’t know if you should leave and act like you were never there, or stick around. It’s not like they’re doing anything wrong. Perhaps, you were just overthinking things. Everyone’s allowed to change their opinions about a person they might’ve misjudged, plus it’s been a minute since you’ve talked…maybe in that time Mitsuya developed a friendly relationship with his rival.

Yeah, that sounds right.

“So, uh…Have you thought about what we discussed the other night?”

A question mark formed at the top of your head; the other night? They’d been hanging out together? You stretched your ear to get a better listen, but stayed behind the corner in fear of being seen. Mitsuya heavily sighed.

“Yeah. I have thought about it...”

Silence filled the air, aside from the occasional murmur from the other students still around. You wracked your brain to understand the context behind the sudden change in the atmosphere, picking up on the tension even from behind a wall. You heard the person sigh as well, “But?”

“…It’s complicated.” Mitsuya said.

They scoffed, “Complicated? Really? You can’t keep avoiding this forever, they’re gonna find out eventually-”

“Will you keep your voice down?” he hissed. Your eyes widened a fraction, he sounded so worked up. You tried to keep from jumping to any conclusions, there had to be an explanation for this. You don’t even know if it’s you they’re talking about.

Yeah, that sounds right.

“Relax, it’s not like they’re here. What’s the matter, afraid [_____]’s already on to you or something?” The person said, Mitsuya no doubt shaking his head in response.

Well. So much for the benefit of the doubt. Your palms began to sweat as you gnawed on your lower lip. You didn’t want to assume the worst, but…he wasn't exactly making it easy—Especially not with the next few things he revealed.

“They’re not. I made sure of it.”

“Oh, right, because you told them you couldn’t stand me and how I made you wanna ‘sew your ears shut’. Mhm, yeah, exactly how much longer d’you think they’ll buy that, huh?”

“They’ve been buying it for the whole semester. What’s a little longer gonna hurt?” He chuckled, sardonically.

You couldn’t believe your ears, thoughts moving a million miles an hour, your entire perception had been completely knocked off its axis; they don’t hate each other. More importantly, they never did.

“Takashi. I don’t want to keep sharing you with someone else. It was fun sneaking around for a while, but I want us to be the real deal. Either you tell [_____] the truth…or I will.”

This wasn’t happening. This cannot be happening. Nearly half a year spent with someone who was never fully yours, and the entire time it was with the very person he told you he despised…you could just vomit. How in the fresh hell did you end up entangled in this whole ‘enemies-to-lovers’ schtick? The fact that it went on for this long was bad enough, nothing could’ve possibly made this worse.

“Oh, hi [_____]. Here to see Mitsuya?”

You felt your heart plummet to your ass. Nearly jumping out of your skin, your gaze met one of the student’s as they left the classroom—Yuzuha, you think her name was. From around the corner, you heard the sound of literal pins hit the floor. It was uncomfortably quiet, aside from the various other students who had no idea of the storm brewing just outside the door; what you’d give to be blissfully unaware like them. At least you would’ve felt a lot better compared to now.

Yuzuha raised a brow, concerned. She placed a hand on your shoulder. “You okay? Y’look like you’re gonna explode…”

Before you could even fathom a response, Mitsuya came out of the classroom himself. He tried to mask his panic, but you could see it written all over his face. Your soon-to-be-ex gulped, expression straining into faux delight as he slipped into his role of the doting boyfriend. Clearly he wasn’t sure how much you had heard, playing it safe just in case he was still in the clear.

Bastard. You wanted to rip his head clean off.

“Babe! What a surprise, uh, what are you doing here? You didn’t tell me you were dropping by.” His voice trembled ever so slightly, you almost missed it. It was impressive how dedicated he was to the charade, you’d applaud him if you weren’t so busy planning his funeral in your head.

And unfortunately for him, Yuzuha brought the coffin.

“Since when does your s/o need a reason to see you?” she asked, Mitsuya instantly sweat-dropped.

“No, that’s-!…That’s not what I meant. We’ve both just been swamped with finals, and I don’t like them traveling alone on this side of campus when it’s late, that’s all. Usually they’d let me know so I’d meet them halfway…” He scratched the back of his neck, a nervous habit of his. Come to think of it, he even did it whenever he talked about…

Oh.

In that moment of realization, all you could do was laugh. So much so, that you had to use the wall behind you to keep you standing. The duo surrounding you watched in puzzlement, slightly put off by your sudden switch. Then, to add insult to injury, the person your boyfriend ‘hated’ came around the corner, curiosity getting the best of them.

“What’s going on?” They feigned innocence.

That sent you into full blown hysterics as you slid down the wall, your tears mirroring the action as they fell down your face until you eventually hit the ground; you began to sob. Everyone else in the classroom finally grew silent themselves, all trailing out and peeking their heads around the corner to watch the drama unfold.

“[_____]? [_]-[____]!” Mitusya called out to you in alarm, swiftly crouching down to your level. It wasn’t long before he noticed your tears, thinking you were having a nervous breakdown over stress, or something. Had it crossed it mind that he was the cause? You couldn’t tell. And frankly, you didn’t care.

Even after you confronted him later, and he still tried to convince you that you had it all wrong, you just couldn’t bring yourself to care. Your boyfriend had been cheating on you with someone you never would’ve suspected because he made it so that you were none the wiser, and everything about your relationship had been a lie. What else was there to say?

That was a year ago.

The next time you crossed paths, he’d been hanging with his friends. Used to be your friends as well, but you’ve found yourself running with a different crowd nowadays. He noticed you first, and you noticed his side piece was nowhere in sight. The yearning behind his stare paired with a smile full of regret told you a story—One that clearly didn’t have a happy ending. A small part of you pitied the designer, but the rest of you pointed and laughed. He tried to have his cake and eat it, too; not your fault he dropped the whole damn thing.

When Mitsuya waved, to his surprise you waved back...until he realized too late that you weren’t waving at him. His friends suddenly grew mute, immediately putting him on edge. It didn’t dawn on him until the approaching shadows in his peripheral swaggered passed him as to why that was.

“Mitsuya.” Ran greeted, oily grin thrown over his shoulder as he barely acknowledged the fashion major. The other one wasn’t too far behind, sporting a bored expression until he grinned as well, mockingly. Mitsuya scowled, his friends also expressing their distaste with threats and jeers thrown at the brothers’ backs.

Rindou merely scoffed, shaking his head. “What a fucking joke.”

Mitsuya watched in horror as you smiled at those scumbags. He couldn’t believe his eyes, how could you involve yourself with the likes of them? The designer abruptly stood—He had to say something, anything to get you out of their sights.

But when they each wrapped an arm around you, Ran on your left and Rindou on your right, he choked on his words. No. No.

You knew about the everlasting feud between his gang and the Haitanis, one might call it poetic justice that you rebounded with not one, but both of them. As you threw Mitsuya a smug grin, and watched him fail to pretend he was disinterested as you’re whisked away by two people he had genuine hatred for, you could only think of one thing.

He pretended for a whole semester. What’s a little longer gonna hurt?

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