#THEY COUNT THE DAYS LEFT ON THE OPENING DID YOU KNOW THAT

[symbiomancy]

magic shop —tentacles ft. slime

—summary: A client brings you a thank you gift. It fucks you within an inch of your sanity.

—warnings: slime + tentacles x human, piv sex, deepthroating, bondage/restraints, anal, double (triple?) penetration, creampie, overstimulation, stomach bulge, size difference

—word count: 3,2k

—AO3 version

You stare at the box on your shop counter. It’s completely unassuming, glossy black with golden details engraved into the wood. On top of it, a little folded card with your name drawn in intricate loops and flowy handwriting.

Thank you for the love potion. I hope you enjoy this gift from my family’s slime farm.

Ah, love potions. Very much a dubious business but a business that pays well. And hey, it’s not like they can artificially make people have romantic feelings. Whoever named them love potions didn’t have their head screwed on right.

You trace the carvings on the shiny black box with your finger.

It opens smoothly. Inside, an almost translucent blue dildo rests on a velvet pillow. Oh, my, you think. It’s smooth to the touch, soft and almost jelly-like. It jiggles when you tap the pad of your finger against it. You giggle and tap it once more just for the sake of poking it. The slime flops its head against your fingers.

Oh, it’s… alive? Sentient? You don’t know exactly what to call its state of being. The slime dildo jiggles once and jumps in place once. Oh, okay, you think and hold up a finger. “Let me just close the store, yeah?” It doesn’t respond, doesn’t move again but the head of it is tilted your way, as if staring at you as you move through the store to lock the front door and flip the sign on the window.

It patiently waits where you left it. You stop in front of it and cup your hands. “I don’t want the store to get messy. Or break anything. There’s uh—” you swallow and holy shit, you’re having a conversation with a dildo-shaped slime you’re not sure is actually alive, “we can go upstairs.”

The slime doesn’t move for a moment as if considering your offer. Maybe? Shit— you make a mental note to read up on slimes and slime farms. Your teacher did briefly go over slimes while you were under her apprenticeship but that was also the day you’d latched onto the idea of customizing your wizard robes if you ever graduated. Oh, you can recall the original designs you’d drawn up in class even now, something more lingerie-adjacent than the long and heavy robes of her discipline. Where’d you put that babydoll-inspired robe you’d unpacked the other day?

You nearly startle out of your skin when the weight of the slime lands in your open palms. It wobbles in your hands briefly before it assumes its shape. You take that as a yes to your proposal and weave your way through your store towards the stairs to the second floor. Your heart is beating against your ribs like a wild horse as you ascend the stairs, turning off the lights as you reach the top.

You place the slime onto your coffee table. Your nerves are wrecked already. “So,” you start, fiddling with the rings on your fingers, “is this good enough? How is this even going to— What are we — me — we? What—” you press your lips together and take a moment to gather your thoughts. “Now what?”

The slime leaps forward until it reaches the edge of the coffee table, just a hair’s breadth away from your thigh. It jiggles, its head pressing against the slit in your wizard’s robe. You reach down and drag your fingers along its shaft, the bulging vein on its back and swallow around the lump in your throat. You want to lean down and drag your tongue across it.

The slime presses forward, between your thighs and rubs its head against your clothed cunt. You drag your fingertips down the length of its smooth shaft. It jiggles and pushes harder against your body. It’s pleasantly cool to the touch. It’s a little too thick to wrap one hand around, but you do your best. You move your hand slowly up and down the thick shaft. Precum pools at the tip and dribbles down the curve of the head and you feel compelled to lean down. You drag your tongue up the slime’s shaft — feel the slightly tacky cum on your tongue — from its balls to the very tip and dip your tongue into the slit. The slime jiggles in your hand. That’s good, you assume. It hasn’t pulled away or melted into a puddle yet. Slowly, you wrap your lips around the mushroom head tip and take it into your mouth.

The slime jiggles and pulls out of your mouth abruptly. “What?” You wipe at your mouth with the sleeve of your robe and the slime jiggles again. It swings its whole weight forward and flops pathetically at your robe. “Oh.”

You shrug off your robe and hastily pull down your underwear, kick them out of sight. The slime jiggles as if appreciating your nudity and pushes itself against your body again. The sensation is odd. It’s both firm and soft, almost like you could run your fingers through its body. It burrows between your thighs and wiggles upwards until its head hits your clit. You gasp and reach to rest your weight onto the coffee table before your knees give out. It pulses, wiggles, dragging its smooth body against your clit. You wrap your legs around it and slowly lower your hips.

The slime jiggles, wiggles against your thighs, almost as if thrashing around and you unlock your legs with haste. You stare at it, legs open, pussy wet and waiting for it, so many questions on your tongue. Maybe there’s a spell somewhere to get over this language barrier because it’s clearly intelligent and your skin is on fire and if it starts teasing you now, you might just smite it and finish the job yourself.

It positions itself against your hot, wet cunt and you exhale a breath of relief, head thrown back. It moves, positions itself, the head pressing against your entrance and you roll your hips minutely to beckon it.

It sheathes itself in your cunt with one harsh thrust. You yelp, try to reach for the edge of the table to find an anchor but its pace is too much, too harsh. The table legs drags against the floor from the force of its thrusts into your waiting cunt. Your mouth drops open, stifled, breathy moans escaping your lips as you try to pull yourself together and figure out which way is up, where to grab. It thrusts harshly and you nearly topple off the table, manage to grab onto the edge and roll knot your stomach for more leverage. Your knees drop to the plush carpet. The edge of the coffee table rams into your hips with every thrust from the slime buried into your cunt, bullying it like a jackhammer. Your sweat-slick skin drags across the glass surface. It’s thick and big and you swear you feel it in the back of your throat. Your head is spinning, the pleasure overwhelming. The coil in your core snaps abruptly.

You cum with a low moan, pussy clenching around it like a vise but the slime doesn’t stop, just keeps rutting into you as you come down from your high and spills. It’s warm and gooey and it dribbles from your cunt as the slime eases itself to a slower pace until it stops, buried inside you to the hilt. You feel full, so deliciously full and fuck, maybe it’ll stay there forever. You wouldn’t mind it, you think. It could rut into you while you’re talking to a customer and you’d be forced to keep your poker face or fold like a goddamn house of cards with your client watching your depravity.

Your cunt flutters at the thought.

Slowly, you lower yourself off the coffee table and onto all fours, ass up in the air, and press your face against your folded arms, take deep, even breaths to get your head on straight again.

The rug underneath you feels nice. Smooth. Soft, if not a little gooey. It moves, undulates underneath you, rises until it brushes against your collarbones.

Wait, what?

You pull your face away from your arms and blink a few times to get rid of the shapes in your vision. Your rug isn’t your rug. It’s dark blue, almost liquidy in consistency and it bubbles and laps at your body like waves at the beach. It’s cool to the touch.

Your cunt feels strangely empty all of a sudden. You clench around thin air with a frown and slowly sit up. The slime-like liquid on the floor wiggles as you adjust your legs — it’s the same blue hue as the slime that should be buried into your cunt. Oh, so they don’t last forever. You feel a strange sense of loss at the realization; they’re just here to fulfill an itch, then. And then they’re gone.

You should pull yourself together, get up and clean this mess up. No point in crying over something that’s over.

The slime warbles and then, something breaches it. A single thick tentacle rises from the pool that’s overrun your living room. It turns its head as if looking around and you take that time to reorient yourself. The slime gift from your client has melted into a puddle that’s overrun your living room. Something not quite of this world has used it as a portal. That opens another can of worms about slimes and portals and you should really write down how a tentacle appeared from the melted body of a slime from a nearby farm but— it looks remarkably phallic in shape. Its head is pronounced, almost mushroom in shape like male genitalia. The light streaming in from the window next to you illuminates the ridges on its body, the texture reminds you of snake scales.

You shift on your knees, your cunt aching.

The tentacle snaps around. It slowly crosses the space between you and itself, more and more of its body rising from the pool. It’s tall and thick. There are ridges on its back, and you swear they would feel so good dragging against your clit —

It lowers its head in front of your face where it hovers for a few long moments. Slowly, you reach out and drag the tip of your finger down its body. Bingo. Scale-like small ridges decorate its body.

There is movement in the corner of your eye. More tentacles rise from the slime, these ones smaller and leaner. They slither across the mass of slime and glide onto your skin, wrap themselves around your legs, creeping towards your pussy. You rise onto your knees to give them more leeway.

More tentacles shoot out from the pool on your floor and tangle around your arms, pull them together over your head. Others latch onto your skin. They traverse the expanse of your body, warm and slick, prodding and poking and squeezing. One slides underneath your breast and loops over it. Its tip circles your nipple and you gasp at the sensation, throw your head back and arch your back, nearly hitting the coffee table. A thin, glimmering tentacle shoots out, wraps around your torso and across your neck before the back of your head can actually collide with glass. It pulls you forward just as quickly, onto your knees.

The large tentacle is hovering right in front of your face now. It bumps its tip against your forehead, your cheek, your nose and then against the seam of your lips. They part involuntarily and it dives in. You feel the ridges on its stomach against your tongue but the moan gets stuck in your throat.

It eases itself out of your mouth and you nearly whimper at the loss of contact. Seriously, what’s with these things not wanting your mouth? It’s an extra hole for them to use and abuse so why are they rejecting it?

The tentacle dips down and you feel the ridges caressing your skin as it glides towards and across your cunt, dragging the ridges on its stomach against your clit and something between a moan and a gasp escapes your throat involuntarily.

You’re suddenly hauled up and backwards until your back collides with your couch. Your legs are pulled apart to expose your weeping pussy to the head tentacle. It lowers itself to your cunt’s level as if studying it. It gives an experimental nudge against your slit and then presses forward harder. The very tip slides in with little effort and then it’s pushing ahead, wiggling like it’s trying to force itself inside.

Your chest is heaving, short, shallow breaths escaping you as you desperately try to push against the tentacle but the others keep you rooted to the spot. It’s torture and agony and bliss all at once as the thick tentacle prods at you. Just a little push and it can fuck you within an inch of your life, until you beg and beg and beg it for more, to fill you up and keep you stuck on it for as long as it wants, do whatever it wants.

The head breeches your cunt and it slides all the way in with one thrust. You gasp at the sensation, chest heaving and try to breathe through the obscene stretch, the obscene sight of its shape in your stomach but it has other ideas. It starts moving, slow and deliberate as it pulls back and then dives in again, setting a ruthless pace. You’re so wet, so slippery and it almost slips out of your cunt. You dribble around it, the sound so obscene and lewd in your ears. It’s the only sound in the room other than your moans, your babbled begging for it to just take you already.

Its size is overwhelming but it feels so good, bullying its way into your cunt and drawing those ridiculous wet sounds and moans and gasps, pleading from your lips. You’re almost in tears at the euphoria, at the way this tentacle claims your cunt for itself, at the way the others hold you back and spread out to take and take and use you up like the goddamn fleshlight you are. You’d let it use you as a fleshlight again and again, fuck, maybe this one can stay and display you as a freak show to any potential client. The thought of someone staring at the way this thing defiles your holes, their cock in hand, maybe even trying to join — it sends you over the edge.

You cum with a swear on your lips, a half-baked cry stuck in your throat. Moments later, the tentacle spills into your cunt. You’re so full, you’re so incredibly full. Its cum, as translucent and pearly as itself dribbles onto your couch, slipping out from around its thick body. Your chest heaves as you try to pull yourself together, tears brimming in your eyes.

The tentacles around your legs tighten. They pull your body along like dead weight, off the couch and onto the slick floor. Your hands are maneuvered with your body but there’s no weight left in your arms and your jaw nearly collides with the floor. The tentacles yank your body upright at the last moment, tightening around your limbs to hold you on all fours without leaning any weight on your weak limbs.

Your legs are pulled apart. Tentacles press against the skin of your ass, massaging and groping and prodding.

The thick tentacle still buried snugly in your cunt purrs. Something prods at your ass. Its smooth tip presses against your puckered hole and you do your best to relax every muscle in your body. It teases for just a moment before it slides through slowly. You moan at the sensation, at being so full.

It moves first, slow and deliberate, delving deeper into your ass and then pulling back. The head tentacle in your cunt moves in tandem with it. They’re so deep, so slick you want to cry because it’s too much but they feel so good, fucking you so thoroughly in tandem. They move, they all move, every single goddamn tentacle wrapped around your body, your limbs, your tits, their tips move, sliding back and forth across your skin. One pinches your nipple and you mewl, mouth agape to take in air and cry out.

A tentacle roughly pushes into your mouth, slides down your throat and pulls back to fuck it. Your face is wet and your vision is blurry, it’s too much, one stuffing itself and its pretty cum back into your aching cunt like it wants to live there, another thrusting into your ass with vigor, you feel them both, at the way they rub against your walls, against each other. Another in your mouth, pumping into your throat, so many caressing your body.

They pause for a fraction of a moment but it's enough to have you crying out for any stimulation. They dive in with newfound vigor, like they haven’t been fucking you stupid for who knows how long now, stuffing themselves so deep into your pussy and your ass and your throat. Your eyes roll back and your whole body tenses for a moment before you come the hardest you’ve ever come. You clench down at the tentacles, and nearly scream. The tentacle in your mouth pulls back and you hear your own pathetic voice, begging and pleading and babbling for more, more, please, please, please before there is a weight on your tongue. The tentacle spits its cum onto your tongue, thick and glossy, dribbling past your open lips and down your chin.

The world comes back to you in small increments. The sound of birdsong on the other side of your window. The feeling of something pumping into your ass at a languid pace before it stops and slowly pulls out. Something shoved deep inside your cunt so far you feel like you’re about to burst. The grip on your body is tight but pleasant, almost massage-like. You blink the tears from your eyes and sniffle, try to breathe.

A wail escapes your throat when the head tentacle pulls out of your pussy with an audible pop. Its cum shoots out of you, an obscene amount dribbling onto your rug, pooling between your legs, running down your skin, hot and sticky. Your breath shudders in your throat as the tentacles ease you onto your knees. More and more dribbles out of your gaping pussy, and you almost want the tentacle to shove itself back in and take you until you can’t think anymore, pump you full of its cum again and again and again until the world comes to an end.

The tentacles on your body loosen their grip. The one around your tit gives it another squeeze and flicks your nipple and it shoots a jolt to your core. More cum dribbles from your pussy as the feeling passes and your muscles relax, fatigued and aching and sore.

The pool beneath your knees shrinks. You turn despite your screaming muscles to see the tentacles retreat into a summoning circle in the middle of the pit of slime one by one. Before long, the pool dries up entirely and the circle on the floor disappears.

You should really write down a note to get in contact with the slime farm to get to the bottom of this. Instead, you scoop up a handful of pearlescent cum from the floor, and try to shove it back into your cunt.

—a/n: anon is on, feel free to comment, go nuts, describe how many times this made you cum, god I hope it made sb cum

banners by @/cafekitsune

[sugarwarachan]

hot for teacher

chapter three previous

pairing: shouta aizawa x f!reader

synopsis: You’re not expecting your day to fall to pieces at 8:21 a.m., but life hasn’t really been going your way lately. A string of lackluster dates, followed by two dead vibrators (with missing cords!), and the only outlet left for your mounting sexual frustration—the smut blog you diligently update—has been discovered by the one person you never wanted to find it: fellow teacher Shouta Aizawa. Who might just be the inspiration behind most of the fantasies you post about.

chapter cws: just enough plot to keep the porn coming, hizashi and rumi being super obvious in their meddling, Shouta ‘talks you through it’ Aizawa, more dirty talk than is perhaps necessary, the filthiest fingering scene i've ever written, soft degradation, ("good little whore" 🤭) d/s elements but never explicitly stated

word count: 3k

andy's notes: AHHHHHH i know this is late thank you all for waiting so patiently!! AIZAWA IS DOWN SO BAD I AM GOING INSANE

Rays of sunlight dance across Shouta’s face as his alarm clock blares. Scrubbing a hand over one eye, he hits the clock and rolls over, burying his face into the pillow.

Holy fuck. 

He’s imagined you before. Knew you would look gorgeous spread out for him on any surface, but the reality of watching you cum, your mouth hanging open in that soft o, brow furrowed tight... He rolls his hips into the mattress in memory. Jesus Christ. If he’s not careful, he’ll have to rub one out before he can even start the day.

Shouta grabs his phone in an attempt to distract himself and immediately regrets it when he sees the text notification on the screen.

Hiz(ass)hi: signed us up for something!!!

He groans and presses call. It’s always better to find out exactly what his best friend's up to as soon as possible. 

“What did you do?” he asks as soon as he picks up.

Hizashi doesn’t miss a beat. “Check your email yet?”

“I appreciate what little work-life balance I have.”

“Well," Hizashi coughs, "then you might not entirely love the surprise I’ve got in store for you, but it involves a certain you-know-whoooooo.”

“Fucking hell.” Shouta swings out of bed and passes a hand through his hair, nerves shooting through his stomach. “I’m serious, did you do something weird?”

He logs into his email, half-listening to Hizashi's explanation that he volunteered them both as chaperones for the upcoming debate team competition and texted you straight after.

“Perfect opportunity to spend some more time together,” Hizashi sing-songs, just as Shouta clocks your 7:35 a.m. reply.

Count me in!

An image of you tucked into his side erupts in his head, hair tousled from sleep and sex, tired smile on your face. 

“You good, man?” Hizashi asks when Shouta lets the line stay silent. 

Hasn’t he been wanting this exactly? A chance to get to know you more?

Shouta heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, I’m good. Just really wish you’d sat next to someone else in high school.”

“Yeah, yeah. Be sure to include me in your wedding vows.”

Shouta huffs a laugh and clicks off the phone.

He doesn’t know much about the debate team, except that he can hear Bakugou and Midoriya arguing from clear down the hall. Toshinori acts as the team’s usual advisor, but he’s been in and out of the hospital lately.

He imagines the last thing that man needs is accompanying a rowdy group of teenagers on an overnight trip.

He scans the remaining names. Todoroki, Jiro, and Yaoyorozu should behave themselves, at least.

Shouta: How many of us are going?

Hiz(ass)hi: 4. You, me, Rumi, and Y/N. See you tomorrow, sucker!

Shouta isn’t good in relationships.

That’s what he’s always told himself, but it’s not entirely true. He’s simply more deliberate, more exacting in what he wants than the typical person. He sees no point in dating frivolously.

Which is probably why he spent so much time deciding how to approach you.

When Hizashi came to him with his suspicions about your blog, Shouta gave himself an ultimatum.

One story. One glimpse into your head.

It wouldn’t be fair to you to form an opinion based on words alone; words he hasn’t yet confirmed aren’t simply fantasy.  But the minute he reads the story, it unlocks a hunger in him that can’t be smothered.

He knows in his bones that it’s you. The intonation, the cadence; he can hear the way you talk to Rumi, the way you speak to the students.

And you’re fantasizing about someone taking care of you and fucking you stupid in ways he’s only considered in his head.

He never stood a chance.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a last-minute, hastily-put-together trip will result in at least one disaster.

The minibus slowly rolling to a stop along a country road is precisely such an event.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Shouta murmurs under his breath, resisting the urge to bang his hands in frustration on the steering wheel.

You peek over his shoulder. 

“Did we seriously run out of gas?”

He barely hears you; you smell like jasmine and vanilla, and if he’s not careful, he’ll turn around and haul you into his lap in front of everyone on this bus. 

Rumi laughs uproariously, rousing the students from their slumber. Jiro glares at her. “You had one job, Yamada, and you couldn’t manage filling up the tank?”

“It was full when we left, wasn’t it?” he shouts back at her.

Shouto, ever-dependable, is already typing into his phone. “There’s an inn up the road.”

Midoriya folds his body over the seat to get a look at the screen. “Oh! Do you think it’s close enough to this one temple I’ve been reading about?”

“Oi!” Bakugou barks, sweatshirt laid across his face. “Could we prioritize where to sleep and not whatever nerdy-ass thing you want to do?”

“Enough!” Aizawa bites out. “Watch your mouth, Bakugou, you’re still representing the school out here. All of you, go with Yamada and Usagiyama and book us rooms for the night. Y/N and I will stay here with the luggage.”

He ignores Hizashi’s smirk over your head.

“Some luck we have,” you say, digging a toe into the dirt as the two of you watch the group disappear into the fading light. “Do you imagine they’ll have enough rooms?”

For the sake of his sanity, they fucking will.

But as Shouta looks down the road at Hizashi’s retreating form, he knows for a fact that he sent the wrong pair of people ahead to deal with room arrangements.

Hizashi and Rumi return in a borrowed car and a slapped-together reason for the teachers sleeping co-ed that nearly makes him want to punch Yamada in the head. 

“You want to catch up on One Piece together,” is all you say, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

As you and Shouta pile into the back of the car, you nudge him with a shoulder. “Glad to know they’re both as subtle as a brick to the face.”

He nudges you back, not caring that he’s being just as subtle as his two conniving friends.

The backseat is small, and he’s by no means a small man. Even without the bumps in the road that keep jostling you close to him, you’re already practically in his lap. Excited anticipation sets loose in his belly. 

It’s been forever since he’s felt like this. Perhaps never, if he’s being honest. And by the time everyone is settled in for the night, he’s desperate to be alone with you.

“I hope you're clear that I’m not mad about this,” you say as soon as he shuts the door and faces the reality that it’s going to be very difficult fucking you in a way that doesn’t wake up the entire inn. 

He takes in your face and smiles. “Not mad about this, either.”

“Should we talk about, like, ground rules?”

He likes how direct you are, but he also knows that a part of you is asking to stall.

“I’m no expert, but the color system works for me if it works for you.”

You nod, foot tapping an anxious rhythm into the carpet. 

“Nothing has to happen. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” You smile softly, but there’s heat curling in the back of your eyes. “But I wanna feel what I felt the other night again. With you.”

He breathes out through his nose, and you grin like the little cocktease you are. 

Seriously, can he soundproof these rooms?

“You didn’t happen to bring that pleated skirt of yours, did you?"

 Your laugh is like honey. “I did happen to bring it. Should I wear it?”

“Please.”

“Got it, sir.”

The memory of your preferred words when you’ve acted out plays through his head as he suggests that you both wash up for the night. 

When you come back warm and soft from the bath, hair curling slightly at your temple, you stop straight in your tracks. 

Your eyes drop to his sweatpants and linger there.

“Eyes up here, sweetheart.”

“Sorry.” You smile sheepishly. “I was, umm. Noticing.”

His dick jumps.

“You are really big.” You’re suddenly in front of him, one hand on his chest, the other trailing down his belly. “You know, I think I’ve been wet since last night.”

Shouta’s not entirely sure what sound he makes.

“Yeah, baby?” He hitches your thigh up. “Been a little needy for me?”

You whimper your answer, faltering in your exploration of his happy trail as he rubs the pad of his fingers along your creamy slit. Your underwear is soaked through.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind a little. Like I can’t get enough.” 

“I can tell. You’re shakin’ just from this.” He pulls your panties to the side and sucks in a breath. “Oh, sweetheart. This little cunt of yours is practically drooling.”

Ignoring your little squeak, he scoops you in his arms and carries you to the bed, folding your legs on either side of his thighs. 

“Have you ever been this wet for someone else?” He doesn’t know where the question comes from, when the possession grabs hold. He cups your pussy, one hand tight on your waist. 

“No, never,” you breathe out, rolling your pelvis forward into the heel of his hand, and then you frown, bottom lip jutting out in what he knows is embarrassment. “I’ve never even cum while being fingered.” You lean forward, resting your arms around his neck. “I always thought there was something wrong with me.”

Oh.

He stills. “You trust me, sweetheart?”

You nod, a mixture of eagerness and apprehension that makes his chest squeeze. 

“Red for stop, yellow for slow down, green for good?”

You wave a hand. “Yes, yes, I know all that.”

He raises a brow, but decides he can address your tone later. One problem at a time. 

“Lay over my lap, y/n.” 

You arrange yourself accordingly, brushing your tits against his thigh as you do so. His palm twitches. 

“We’re gonna have a little lesson, sweetheart.” He caresses the back of your thighs. Your breath hitches. “Spread your knees wider, there you go. Lift your ass up for me, too, can you do that?”

Before he gives you time to think, he flips the fabric of your skirt over your hips and lands a crack on your ass. You squeal, fingers tight in the bedsheets.

“oh my fuck oh my fuck, harder,” you keen, thrusting your ass back at his palm.

Shouta bites down on his lip hard just to maintain some semblance of reason.

You’re fucking made for him.

“Did you say there was something wrong with you?”

Another smack makes the meat of your ass jiggle. You muffle the sound you make in the sheets beneath you and Shouta frowns.

“Nah ah, baby.” He lifts your chin up. “Let me hear you, huh? Can already tell you like being punished.”

“But our students might hear us, Shou,” you say, squirming in his lap. The nickname steals his breath. “I don’t want to be embarrassed like that.”

“Like that?” He raises an eyebrow and laughs softly when you rebury your face into the mattress. “We'll talk about that later, huh? But you’re right. Good thinking, sweetheart.”

Even that simple amount of praise makes your eyes glaze over. He doesn’t know if you fully understand how long he’s wanted someone to place their trust in him like this

“Grab the pillow, and use that to help stay quiet,” he directs you. “No one but me will hear you this time, okay?”

“Thank you.” You twist on your forearms to smile at him. “I know we do a lot of stopping and starting. Thanks for being cool about that, too.”

He has no idea what kind of scumbags have mistreated you before, but he’s happy to erase their influence on you however he can.

“Stopping and starting is par for the course.” He motions for you to sit up. “Should have done this first anyway.”

Shouta’s never been one to wax poetic, but the moment he presses his mouth to yours, he’s a goner. Your hands tangle in his hair and tug, demanding greater access. He grants it, grinning like a fool while you lick your way into his mouth.

“Stop smiling.” You pull away with a mock huff, but you’re smiling, too, and you don’t look annoyed in the slightest. “It makes it hard to kiss you.”

“We were in the middle of something.”

Your eyes gleam. “Are you gonna spank me again?”

He pulls you to him as a chuckle rumbles out of his chest. He cradles the back of your head and caresses the slim bit of skin exposed above your skirt. “Eager?”

You sigh and press your face into his neck. “Very.”

“Take your clothes off, then, and get back on my lap. Keep the skirt on.”

Shouta flips up the fabric again, massaging the exposed skin when you wriggle. The tips of his fingers brush dangerously close to your slit, and you drop your hips to chase the sensation.

“Ass up, sweetheart.” He jiggles his leg under you. “And answer my question.”

“Yes, yes.” A spark of irritation colors your tone. “I said there was something wrong with me.”

“Still believe that?” He finally touches you, knuckles sliding through your gummy folds, savoring the way your back bows at his touch. You’re soaking and trembling from this alone. “Your thighs are wet, honey. I’m pretty sure you’ll cum around my finger the second I slip it in.”

“Oh god.” Your voice is a reedy little gasp, high with embarrassment. 

He sees the mirror across from you on the wall, and an idea sparks. Rearranging you on his lap, he spreads your legs wide and grabs your chin, directing your gaze to where your cunt drools arousal all over his lap. 

“There’s nothing wrong with this slutty pussy of mine, is there, baby?”

The hitch in your breath is reward enough. A slow smile spreads across his face as you shake your head.

“That’s exactly right, honey. Nothing wrong with my girl.” 

He teases your hole with the tip of his fingers. You shudder in his arms, keeping your eyes locked on his in the mirror.

“You think I don’t like seeing how good I’m makin’ you feel?” 

This entire time his cock has been leaking pre and throbbing against the side of his leg. There’s no rush, he knows, because watching you like this will probably have him spilling in his briefs anyway.

He slides a finger up to the knuckle, plugging you up tight. Your eyes roll back in your head when he rolls his thumb over your swollen bud. 

"What’s wrong, sweetheart? That bratty tone from earlier gone already?” 

He adds another finger, the hand on your waist holding you still as you keep squirming. A feral part of him knows exactly how deep his cock is going to be inside you as he presses down on your lower belly.  

“Maybe you’ve never cum like this before because no one’s given you what you needed. Ever think of that, sweetheart?” His gaze scorches you in the reflection. “No one knows how much you like your cunt stuffed up tight. Little whore likes being used a bit roughly, doesn’t she?”

The sound you make is sinful, a shuddering sigh of happiness and arousal that momentarily stops his breath. 

“Please, Shouta.” You’re doing your best to be quiet, but he’s not making it easy on you. You fall into a prayer of pleas as he dangles you over the edge for just a little bit longer, the litany of praise and degradation sparking such headiness in your eyes he’s half-afraid he won’t be able to stop. 

“Keep your eyes on us. There’s my girl.” He ruts his dick against your ass, groaning into your neck. “Can’t wait to sink inside you, honey. Gonna remold this fucking pussy to the shape of me.”

He doesn’t even know what he’s saying at this point. He needs to see you cum, needs to feel your arousal drip all over his hands.

“Let me see it, baby, let me see how much you like being my good little whore.”

He slaps a hand over your mouth just as you shatter around him, swallowing the majority of your keening wail by pressing your face into the side of his neck.  

You go boneless and soft after you cum, limp in his arms and nuzzling into his chest like you belong there. 

“Gonna go clean us up,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. You hum in response, falling back on the mattress. 

He cleans you slowly, gently, and offers you one of his t-shirts to sleep in. You pat the space next to you, and he crawls in instantly, tucking you into his side. 

“I didn’t know it could feel like that.” You look up into his eyes, happiness radiating out of yours. “Thank you, Shouta.”

As your breathing slows and you fall asleep, Shouta realizes that, truthfully, he didn’t know it could feel like that, either. 

taglist: @phaticserpent, @magidzi, @hotlosergirl17, @luckybibucky, @heyithinkilike, @getoisinnocent, @personally4runa, @kennys-partner, @geektastic84, @bakery-angel, @constanttea, @aryuunachigiri, @sskorvid, @therefore-evermore, @one-scarred-mofo, @food4dead, @alphabetsoupyum, @cielito--lindo, @rentheannihilator, @juiceeypeach, @imastorytelleritsondvd, @ivydoesit23, @anotherfuckedupdayinthelifeofme, @deputy-azor, @ibby-miyoshi-nerd, @h3rmit-purrrrple420, @lousypotatoes, @hisbitch101, @greedygobbo, @ginevraxrogers, @alucardsdaddyissues, @minminroie, @honeyoru, @gothsquash, @aldebrana, @yansfanficwritings, @babypeapoddd, @fashionably-a-hippie, @junehasnotbeenfound, @citruki, @bitch-spaghetti-o

ONE LAST NOTE: If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know! I hope you enjoy this, I had a lot of fun writing it. Next chapter is the two of them being freaky and nasty and horny and fucking like bunnies

[cupofteatoyou]

What if she chose me pt3

You’ve been at Barça long enough now to know the drills by heart. Long enough to stop second-guessing yourself every time Jonatan calls your name. Long enough to know who’s watching you—and who’s really watching you.

Most of the team? You’re good with them.

Vicky laughs first at your dumb jokes and always asks for the playlist when you DJ warmups.

Ingrid brings you coffee when you show up looking like you got hit by a bus.

Aitana sends you playlists that are half bangers, half emotional damage.

Even Marta, usually composed and unreadable, offered you a quiet “bien jugado” last week that felt like a rare stamp of approval.

But Jana and Alexia?

They don’t warm. They burn.

Alexia only speaks to you when necessary—and every word feels like it's been dipped in frost and sharpened for efficiency.

Jana never speaks. Just watches. Just waits.

You gave up trying to win them over week ago.

You’re not here to be liked. You’re here to work. You can tolerate whatever agenda they have with you for few more months.

Still, some days? The air feels thick with everything that’s not being said.

The ball’s live, the pace is brutal, and the coaching staff is watching closely. You’re working on tight rotations—three defenders against two attackers, trying to close space before it opens.

You see the pass coming—Jana streaking up the center, Alexia closing on your right. You read it. Step forward. Just half a beat too slow.

The ball slips past your foot like it knew you were coming. Jana’s already moving. She scoops it up, cuts left, squares it to Alexia.

One touch.

Top corner.

Whistle.

“Reset,” Jonatan calls, but he doesn’t need to.

Because Alexia’s already on you.

“What was that?” she barks, walking straight toward you. “That step was pathetic. Either intercept or stay the hell out of the lane.”

You straighten, breath still high, sweat clinging to your neck. “I saw it late. My bad.”

“No shit it’s your bad,” she snaps. “You don’t see it. You feel it. If you wait for the ball to announce itself, you’re already too late.”

You nod once, trying to stay level.

But she’s not done.

“This isn’t some trial squad, alright? We’re not here to coddle learning curves. You want to keep up? Move your damn feet.”

The field goes quiet around you. Not silent—but quiet in that dangerous way. Like everyone’s waiting to see what happens next.

And then—

From the sideline, stretching out her legs with all the grace of a goblin in recovery, Mapi, loud enough to carry

“This level of tension requires preparation. I did zero.”

Laughter breaks across a few players—Aitana snorts into her bib, even Vicky chokes back a grin.

Alexia doesn’t laugh. But she stops.

Her jaw tightens. She shakes her head once like she’s brushing off a mosquito and stalks back into position.

You don’t look at Mapi. But you feel the look she gives you—quick, dry, full of mischief and mischief’s twin loyalty.

As the drill resets, she jogs up next to you and mutters

“Next time you hesitate, just scream ‘I volunteer as tribute!’ and go full chaos. If you’re going down, make it iconic.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself. It breaks some of the heat on your skin.

And when Jana passes you on her jog back to the line, she doesn’t say anything. just watching.

You’ve had a decent week.

No major screw-ups. No Alexia-level snipes.

Even Jana’s been… less icy. Not warm, not kind—but no stares that could peel paint. That counts for something.

The drills have been brutal though. Tight rotations, overlapping runs, one-vs-one marking that leaves your calves screaming and your head buzzing.

You’re mid-sprint when it happens—three sharp whistles from Jonatan. A pause. Then the call

“Bring it in!” Everyone slows—some jogging, some walking.

You grab your water and jog toward the circle forming around him.

The sun presses heavy on your back as Jonatan flips open his clipboard.

He doesn’t waste time.

“Ona’s out. Ankle’s recovering, but we’re not risking it this weekend.”

A subtle shift in the group.

People glance around. You already know what’s coming.

You’d heard the whispers. You’d seen the physio’s expression two days ago. Most of all ona has told you herself.

Still—knowing doesn’t make it easier.

“Starting at right back this weekend…” A beat.

“…Y/N.”

And just like that, the field goes quiet. Not silent—but still. Focused. Then—

Vicky whistles low. “Let’s gooo!”

Mapi yells, arms flung wide like she’s introducing you at a concert. “LET’S GO NORUEGA!”

Aitana claps—that short, precise, rhythmic kind of clap that says “hell yeah” without saying it.

You nod. Just once. Controlled. You’re not making it a moment. But next to you— You feel the shift. Jana doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t clap. But her stance changes—just slightly. Her weight rocks onto one foot. Shoulders pull tighter.

You glance her way, but she’s already looking past you. Like you’re just a space the sun fills.

Alexia, on your other side, stays completely still. No reaction. No comment. Just unreadable eyes locked somewhere beyond the pitch, like she didn’t even hear it.

But she did. You know she did.

Because when Jonatan moves on, giving reminders about press triggers and defensive lines, she turns slightly toward Jana.

And that is the real moment.

She looks at her. Just for a second. And Jana doesn’t look back.

She keeps staring forward like her jaw’s wired shut, like if she lets herself speak or blink, the whole thing will crack open.

The lineup’s been set.

Your name’s on it. And whether you wanted it or not, some of them treating it like a declaration of war.

Jonatan blows the whistle. Full-pitch scrimmage. Eleven versus eleven. Game speed. No holding back. You’re sharp early—tracking runners, holding your line, getting touches in tight spaces. But every time you’re near the ball, it feels like you’re being hunted.

Jana’s on you fast.

She presses harder than usual—shoulder checks, hip into your ribs, no space to breathe.

You shove back once. She doesn’t flinch.

Next play, she clips your ankle just enough to throw you off balance.

You stumble, catch yourself.

You don’t say anything.

Because maybe it’s not a foul. Maybe it’s just football. Maybe you’re imagining the edge to it.

Then Alexia cuts through midfield and calls for the switch. You track the play, fall back into position. You’re focused—locked in. You see the run coming, time your step, shift to intercept— And Jana’s already there.

You go shoulder to shoulder—too close, too much. Her elbow rides up, unintentionally or not, and hits you square in the ribs.

You hit the grass. Hard.

The whistle doesn’t come.

You sit up, coughing, wincing as the burn spreads under your ribs.

And then, over the thud of your own pulse, you hear it

“WHAT the hell, Jana?!”

Everyone freezes. Because that voice? That wasn’t Mapi. That wasn’t Vicky.

That was Ingrid. Loud. Sharp. Furious.

You’ve never heard her like this.

“You call that a challenge?!” she’s already stomping toward Jana. “She didn’t even have the ball.”

Jana stands over you, mouth tight, but for the first time—you see her hesitate.

Her eyes flick from you to Ingrid.

Then to the rest of the team, who have all gone dead quiet.

Alexia walks over, slow, casual—but there’s something cold in her stance.

“It’s a contact sport,” she says flatly, barely looking at Ingrid.

Ingrid turns.

And that’s when even Mapi steps in.

“Okay,” she says quickly, walking between them. “Whoa. Everybody breathe.”

But Ingrid’s not budging.

“It’s not contact,” she snaps. “It’s targeting. And I don’t care if she’s new or starting or replacing someone’s favorite—this is Barça, not some glorified grudge match.”

Mapi touches her arm. Gentle. Careful.

“Bebita…”

Ingrid doesn’t even look at her.

“Don’t ‘bebita’ me right now.”

Everyone goes still. Even Mapi’s eyes widen.

You’d never seen Ingrid look at her like that.

Like even she isn’t safe from the fallout.

You finally get to your feet, biting back the sting in your ribs.

“I’m fine,” you mutter.

No one listens.

Jonatan finally blows the whistle again. Hard.

“That’s enough. Take five.”

Everyone disperses slowly. Quietly. No chatter. No jokes.

Just space.

Mapi turns to you once Ingrid walks off. Her voice is low.

“You okay?”

You nod. She studies you. Then mutters— “Remind me never to piss off my girlfriend. Jesus.”

You exhale, hands on your hips, watching Ingrid pace toward the bench with the same energy she uses when she’s shutting down the world’s best attackers.

You can’t tell if she was defending you or defending Barça.

Maybe both. But one thing’s clear This isn’t about football anymore.

You don’t bother knocking anymore.

You stopped doing that weeks ago—somewhere between the second round of ankle sprains and the third box of cookies you dropped off “just because.” By now, Ona’s apartment might as well have a welcome mat that says come in, loser.

You nudge the door open with your foot, your arms full of whatever random snack Mapi shoved at you as a bribe-slash-offering "She’s injured. Let her eat like a raccoon."and two cans of recovery drink you grabbed out of habit.

Ona’s voice floats in from the couch before you’re even halfway through the door.

“You’re late.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m immobile. I get to be dramatic.”

You roll your eyes as you kick off your shoes and make your way in. The living room’s exactly as you left it two days ago—throw blanket half-off the couch, a half-zipped physio bag on the coffee table, and a tangle of athletic tape and snack wrappers in the corner like some chaotic altar to the football gods.

She’s sprawled across the couch like she’s auditioning for a very casual soap opera. One foot elevated, ankle still wrapped, hoodie two sizes too big—probably borrowed from Aitana or stolen from lost and found—and a heating pad balanced precariously across her knee.

“I brought bribes,” you announce, tossing the bag of snacks onto her lap.

“If it’s not sugar and it doesn’t crunch, I don’t want it.”

“You’re so ungrateful.”

“I’m injured,” she says, mouth already full of something chocolate-covered. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You sprained your ankle. You didn’t get exiled.”

“Same thing.”

You toss your own drink onto the rug, plop down on the floor next to her usual side of the couch, and reach for the remote. She smacks your hand away without looking.

“It’s already on.”

The TV’s playing a rerun of a La Liga match—one of those mid-table disasters where no one can finish and the camera crew looks bored.

“You’re really out here watching this voluntarily?”

“It’s either this or rewatch the 2021 Champions League final for the fiftieth time. And I’m trying not to feel powerful today.”

You laugh as you grab a cushion and settle in, back against the couch. The room smells faintly of menthol cream, warmed fabric, and that weird minty candle she always forgets to blow out.

It’s easy here.

The kind of easy that doesn’t ask for anything. Just shared space and steady breathing.

“You’re lucky I like you,” you say eventually, opening your drink.

“You say that every time.”

“And yet, I keep showing up.”

“Because I have an espresso machine and no rules.”

“No. Because your playlists are cursed and I feel bad for you.”

She gasps, half-chokes on a cookie, and throws a pillow at your head.

“My playlists are elite.”

“Your playlists have mood swings.”

“They have range.”

You dodge the second pillow, barely.

She grins, smug. You grin back, half-annoyed, fully like at home.

And for a few minutes—between the trash talking and the commercial breaks—everything feels like it’s exactly where it should be.

The match on TV drones on in the background—commentators saying a lot of words without meaning much. You and Ona sit in that familiar stretch of silence that only exists between people who don’t need to fill it.

Until she speaks.

“They still acting weird?”

You don’t ask who she means.

You know.

You keep your eyes on the bottle in your hand, rolling it back and forth across your palm.

“Weird isn’t the word,” you mutter. “More like… cold. Sharp.”

Ona hums. “Alexia?”

You nod.

“And Jana.”

She nods once, slowly. Like she expected that answer. Maybe everyone did.

“They still haven’t said anything?”

“Alexia only talks to me when it’s tactical. Like I’m an extra cone in the drill.”

“And Jana?”

You sigh.

“She doesn’t talk at all. Just stares. Like she’s waiting for me to fuck up.”

“She’s not.” You glance over. Ona shrugs.

“She already thinks you did.”

That sits heavy for a second. Because it’s true. Because the day Jonatan announced the lineup, you felt the crack in the air between you and Jana—sharp, invisible, immediate.

Like she’d drawn a new boundary in her head. One you didn’t ask to cross, but still somehow did.

“You think they hate me?”

“No,” Ona says. “I think they don’t know what to do with you.”

You blink. “What?”

She turns toward you a little, one leg still propped up under a cushion, mug nestled in her lap.

“You didn’t just show up and survive. You showed up and thrived. Fast. Too fast for people like them.”

“People like them?”

“People who were already comfortable,” she says simply. “People who don’t like being unsettled.”

You don’t reply. Not right away. Because part of you wonders if she’s right. If that’s what this is.

Not resentment. Not jealousy. Discomfort.

You’ve disrupted the balance.

And the ones who had control before—don’t anymore.

“It’s weird,” you say finally. “Feeling like you earned something and still being treated like a thief.”

Ona doesn’t argue.

She just sips her drink and leans her head back against the couch.

“You didn’t steal anything,” she says. “You were given something you worked for. If they can’t see that, it’s on them.”

A pause. Then, quieter “Let them figure themselves out. You don’t owe them comfort.”

You stare at the ceiling for a long second. Let the quiet come back. Let it settle in your bones. You don’t say thank you. You don’t need to. She already knows.

you and Ona just sit there for a while—TV still murmuring in the background, bottles slowly emptying, that easy kind of tired pressing into your limbs.

Until she shifts suddenly and looks at you.

“Okay,” she says. “So, if Alexia says something slick to you this weekend, what’s your move?”

You blink. “...what?”

“Like if she comes at you with one of those cold, condescending, Queen-of-Ice lines. What do you do?”

You pause. Think.

“Probably nod. Keep playing. Maybe mutter something under my breath when she walks away.”

Ona shakes her head with mock disappointment.

“No. Unacceptable. We’re going full unhinged this time.”

“You want me to yell at the captain mid-training?”

“Yes. Call her ‘Your Highness’ and then nutmeg her in front of everyone.”

You laugh, sharp and sudden. “Jesus, Ona.”

“She needs to be humbled.”

“You say that like I’m capable of that.”

“You are,” she says, dead serious. “I’ve seen you in tight drills. You move like vengeance in Nikes.”

You stare at her.

“That’s the nicest—and most terrifying—thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Good,” she grins. “Use it.”

You shake your head, but the tension in your chest loosens another notch.

Then—

“And if Jana tries to body you again,” Ona continues, shifting slightly on the couch, “I will limp across the pitch and throw my brace at her.”

“You’re not even cleared to jog.”

“Exactly. Imagine how unhinged I’ll look. Screaming while swinging a knee brace like a medieval weapon.”

“That’s not protection. That’s terrorism.”

“That’s loyalty.”

You laugh again, too hard this time. She grins wide, proud of herself.

“You’re insane.”

“I’m injured and bored. Let me have this.”

You lean back against the couch, shaking your head, a smile lingering on your lips despite everything.

Then she adds, quieter—but still her

“Seriously though. If they come for you, I’ve got your back. Even if I have to roll up on a scooter and swing on someone with a crutch.”

You look at her.

No teasing this time. Just gratitude.

“You’re the weirdest friend I’ve ever had.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

She nudges your shoulder with her sock-covered foot.

[bratbby333]

ੈ♡˳ the space between us — satoru gojo

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ synopsis: the world kept calling him away, and every time, you stayed behind. loving him through the silence. ˙⊹ cw: nsfw mdni, angst + smut, general reader ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ word count: 5.3k + not proofread ˙⊹ author notes: oh hiii ♡ im back my sweet angels !!! and what better way to break my almost year long hiatus than to drop some lovely gojo angst on y'all? xx i hope you enjoy. i missed y'all so much. ps: i cried a lot while writing this. the subject matter made me incredibly emotional. id love to hear your feedback. it's been along time since i've written and i feel super rusty.

You never said it out loud. Not once. But sometimes—on quiet mornings when the bed was still warm from his body, or on long nights when the silence pressed in too close—you wished he’d stay. Not just for a day, not just for a moment stolen from the storm he was destined to chase. You wished he’d stay for good.

And the guilt of it sat heavy in your chest. Because you knew what he was—what he was made for, the duties assigned to him before birth. The sorcerer world called him with open jaws and he, brave and brilliant, never flinched. You loved him for that. That fierce heart. That impossible pull toward danger, or responsibility, or whatever cause demanded more of him than you ever would.

But sometimes—God, sometimes—you wanted to be the thing he chose instead.

You never said it. Could never say it. Because to ask him to stay would be to ask him to become someone else. And you wouldn’t love him if he wasn’t this. If he wasn’t exactly who he was supposed to be. Even if this tore you apart every time he walked away.

You’d smile when he told you goodbye, like always. Said something soft, something sweet. Words filled with love and laced with a longing you could never truly vocalize. 

And then, when the door closed, you’d let yourself fall apart for a while.

He belonged to a world you could never tame. One he could never leave. He owed his life to a society that only viewed him as their best kept weapon. And maybe, deep down, you already knew the one sentiment that broke your heart: that world would never give him back. He had a duty to uphold, whether either of you liked it or not.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

Satoru hated this part. The in-between. That brief stretch of time where he was still with you, but already halfway gone. He was torn—duty on one side, devotion on the other. He knew what he was walking into, and what he was walking away from. And he hated that the two were not the same.

You didn’t know it, but he always packed last. Left it until the hour was so late, the only thing to keep him company was guilt. Not because he doubted where he had to go—he didn’t. He never did. The world out there needed him. There were things only he could do. People only he could protect. And still…

Still, every time he looked at you, he wondered how much he was asking you to endure.

He loved you more than the silence ever let him say. More than his choices made it seem. More than his job ever allowed him to show. And sometimes—when he saw the flicker of pain behind your smile, or caught your eyes lingering a second too long on his packed bag—he wondered if he was selfish for leaving.

But what was the alternative? To stay? To bury the part of him that needed to help, to run toward the fire, to be what the world demanded of him?

He couldn’t ask you to carry his weight and his shadow. And you never asked him to stay—not once. That made it worse somehow.

You let him go, every time, without guilt in your voice. But he could feel it radiating off your skin when he kissed you goodbye. Could see it swimming behind your irises with every last look you gave him.

You let him go. And he always came back, but was never sure for how long.

He didn’t know how many more goodbyes your love could survive. But if he ever had to choose—really choose—he just hoped he’d be brave enough to admit what he already knew: He loved you more than anything. And one day, maybe… Maybe you’d be the thing he stayed for.

As he zipped up his bag, Satoru felt your presence behind him—like gravity shifting in the room. When he turned, his eyes traced the familiar slope of your silhouette, leaning quietly against the doorframe. You offered him the smallest smile—tight around the edges, a flicker of false light. It might’ve fooled someone else.

But not him. Never him.

He crossed the space between you in a few long strides, stopping just shy of touching. He watched your eyes flicker—from the carpet, to the bags, to the window—and finally, to him. There was so much in that look. Resignation. Weariness. Something like fear. He lifted a hand and touched your cheek, brushing his thumb along your skin like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your sorrow.

You were always like this before he left. And he was always the one leaving.

He wasn’t surprised you were awake. You never slept well without him—not really. Even when he was just down the hall, your body seemed to know when his warmth wasn’t beside you.

“You always look at me like this,” he whispered.

“Like what?” you asked softly. Your voice was gentle, careful. But it held that quiet exhaustion—like grief dressed in calm. Like mourning someone who hadn’t died, but kept walking away anyway.

“Like you’re already saying goodbye.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Maybe because it was true. Maybe because the night was thinning too fast, and soon it would be morning, and the silence between you would be all that remained.

He kissed your forehead—tender and lingering—like he could press away the miles before they formed, then rested his forehead to yours. A fragile closeness. A moment stolen from time.

“I hate leaving,” he breathed. And he did. He hated it. But that never seemed to change anything. The world didn’t care what he felt.

Your sigh was soft but full, a quiet crack in the glass.

“I know,” you said. And you saw it—the tension in his jaw, the way his hands flexed slightly at his sides. He was holding back everything. The guilt. The longing. The part of him that wanted to say to hell with all of it and stay.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. And you both knew it. So you said the only truth you could offer.

“And you know I could never ask you to stay.”

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

At first, you counted the days. Then the weeks blurred. You would leave the porch light on some nights, pretending it was just for the moths. Pretending you weren't waiting for his shadow to fall across the doorstep.

You had to get used to the undeniable truth that even when Satoru left again, the world wouldn’t stop. The sun still rose, the birds continued to sing. Your feet still touched the floor every morning, and the calendar pages kept flipping like nothing ever changed. But you felt it—you felt him—in the negative space of everything.

The way his side of the bed stayed untouched, the sheets cool no matter how many times you ran your hands along the linens.

The way you reached for your phone on instinct, only to remember there may be no signal, no message, no voice on the other end today.

And you understood. You always had. He wasn’t leaving you—he was chasing something bigger, something necessary. And you’d never ask him to stop. Not really. That kind of love—the selfish kind—had never belonged to you. You had built yours out of waiting, out of faith, out of quiet courage. But even courage frayed when no one was watching.

Sometimes you sat with your coffee and draped yourself in his clothes. Sometimes you cried into the pillow he last slept on. Sometimes you were angry at nothing—at the way his toothbrush still sat in the cup, at how the smell of his cologne didn’t waft through the apartment, at how long the night felt without his heartbeat beside you.

And always, always, you wondered if he was safe. If he was thinking of you. If there would come a day when he didn’t come back.

But still—you held on. Because loving him meant trusting that no matter where he went, no matter what the world demanded of him, he’d find his way home. To you.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

You weren’t with him, but Satoru carried you anyway.

In the quiet moments between chaos, when the world stilled just long enough for Satoru to breathe, his mind went to you. The shape of your laugh. The crease between your brows when you were pretending not to worry. The way your voice softened when you said his name like it meant something holy.

You lived in the corners of his days. In the way he reached for his phone and caught himself. In the smell of rain, which always reminded him of the first night he realized he loved you. In the way he still made two cups of coffee in the mornings—then dumped one down the drain.

Some nights, lying alone in places that never felt like home, he’d close his eyes and trace the memory of your body beside him. Not just the touch—but the feeling of being known. That rare, raw thing you gave him: the safety of being seen and still loved.

You haunted him—but it wasn’t painful. Not exactly. It was weightless and warm and devastating. Like nostalgia dressed in your skin.

He didn’t talk about you out loud. But he wore you like armor. Like a secret prayer tucked in his chest pocket. Like if he held on tight enough, he could find his way back.

He hated leaving. Not because he doubted you. You were strong. Steady. Fierce in your love and loyalty. But because every time he walked away, it felt like he was cutting out a piece of himself and leaving it behind in your hands. And you never asked him to stay. You could beg, and he might have actually given in. But you didn’t.

You looked at him with those eyes—full of understanding and heartbreak and unspoken questions—and you watched him leave. Every damn time. And he wished he could tell you how much that cost him. How much it killed him not to choose you. Because he would. For anything else, for everything else, he would drop it all. But this one part of him was carved too deep. It was not just a duty. It was blood. It’s the weight of promises he made long before you ever touched his world. Promises he still carried, even when they burned.

He wanted you to know—to really know—that loving you wasn’t the thing that made this hard. It was the thing that kept him going. That kept his hands steady when they should shake. That gave his name meaning when the rest of the world tried to take it away. To break him down. 

And maybe Satoru didn’t always know when he was coming home, and you could do nothing more than just… wait.

But he never once forgot where home was. And you never once stopped waiting.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

The vibrating on your phone nearly stirred you from your sleep. But you were tired, exhausted. Another buzz came through, and you finally roused enough to acknowledge it. A soft groan left your lips as your hand ran along the sheets, across the empty space that should be occupied by him. On your screen, a missed call and a voicemail. It was left by the only person you craved this deeply. You sat up quickly, all the blood rushing from your head and straight to your heart. With shaky hands and a shallow breath, you clicked the notification and held the phone to your ear. 

[Voicemail – 3:13 AM]

“Hey… I know it’s late. You’re probably asleep—God, I hope you’re asleep. I hope you’re curled up in that blanket you always steal off my side of the bed. I hope you’re safe, and warm, and dreaming about something soft. Something better than the hours I keep putting between us.

I just… I needed to hear your voice, even if it’s just your voicemail. Needed to feel like I was close to something real. Something you. I keep thinking about the way you looked the last time I saw you—standing there like you were trying not to fall apart before I did. You always try to be the strong one. But I see it. I feel it.

I wish you could see how often I reach for you. Not just physically—God, of course I miss your touch—but in my head. In the quiet. When everything gets too heavy and I need something to hold onto. That’s you. It’s always you.

I hate this part. The leaving. The silence that stretches out behind it. I hate not being able to tell you when I’ll be back. Or how many more times I’ll have to walk away before I can finally stop.

But I need you to know something.

Even when I’m gone… I’m still yours. I still carry you with me, in everything I do. In every breath. In every step.

I love you. I love you so much it hurts. And I promise—when this is all done, when the dust finally settles—

I’ll find my way home. To you.”

You stared at the screen longer than necessary after the voicemail ended. Your fingers hovered over the play button like they didn’t want to let it go. The seconds ticked by. The room felt too quiet now—like the silence had gotten heavier after hearing his voice.

You should’ve been used to this by now. The voicemails. The long stretches of nothing. The ache he never meant to leave behind.

But this one was different. This one felt like him. Like his hand on your back in the middle of the night. Like his laugh in your kitchen. Like his heartbeat beneath your ear when everything was still okay. You pressed the phone to your chest and closed your eyes.

It was almost enough. Almost.

The tears came slowly, not from pain exactly—but from the way he said I love you like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Like the world was pulling him in every direction, and that tether—you—was the only thing keeping him from getting lost.

Your breath hitched when you remembered his last words. I’ll find my way home. You wanted to believe that. You needed to believe that. Because you were tired of counting days and collecting memories like currency for a future that still felt so far away.

Still, you whispered into the quiet, almost like he might somehow hear it— “I miss you. Come home soon.”

And then, because you couldn’t help it, you hit play. Just once more. Just to hear him say it again.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

You woke up too early. The sun hadn’t quite cracked through the clouds, and the house was still soaked in that hushed, blue-gray stillness. You reached for his side of the bed out of habit. Cold. Untouched. Your hand lingered there anyway, fingers splayed over the sheets like they could hold onto what wasn’t there.

The morning was slow.

You moved through it on autopilot—coffee, dishes, answering texts you didn’t really want to answer. Music played in the background, something soft and instrumental, but it just made the silence louder. Satoru’s mug sat untouched in the cabinet. His jacket still hung on the back of the chair. There were fingerprints on the mirror from the last time he’d stood behind you, arms around your waist, eyes meeting yours in the glass.

You told yourself that you were okay. Because most days, you were. But today felt heavier.

You stayed busy in hopes to ignore it. Ran errands. Folded laundry. Reorganized the bookshelf for the third time. Anything to stop your mind from circling back to that gnawing ache in your chest—the one shaped like absence and memory.

By late afternoon, the sky had darkened. A storm rolled in, lazy and low. Thunder rumbled like footsteps overhead. You curled up on the couch with a blanket that still faintly smelled like him, watching the rain trace lazy trails down the window.

You didn’t cry. But you felt close. Like the tears were sitting just behind your eyes, waiting.

Evening came and draped itself over the house. You made dinner, barely touched it. Sat in the quiet hum of the kitchen, phone by your side, half-hoping for a message, half-afraid of none.

Then— A knock at the door. Not a dream. Not a memory. A real, solid knock. Your heart stuttered.

You blinked, frozen for a moment in disbelief. Maybe it was a neighbor. A package. A mistake. But something pulled you to your feet, slow and trembling. You didn’t expect him at the door. Not exactly. You had hoped—of course—but hope was a dangerous thing when you loved someone who belonged to the world. Still, when you opened the door and saw him standing there, a little worn around the edges, a messy tousle to his hair, and eyes only for you—your heart stumbled.

“You’re here?” Your voice was barely a whisper, your throat tight from the sudden surge of emotions.

Satoru nodded, slow and quiet, like anything louder might break the spell. He dropped his bag at his feet, but didn’t move right away. He just looked at you—really looked at you—like a man who’d been wandering blind and had finally found light again.

His gaze soaked you in like water after a drought, tracing the lines of your face, the curve of your mouth, the disbelief still soft in your eyes. His chest rose and fell like something fragile had just settled inside it.

His eyes met yours with something like an apology and longing tangled together. A thousand unsaid things lived in the space between you, none of them spoken. He didn’t say anything at first—he just looked at you like he was trying to believe you were real. Like if he blinked too hard, you'd disappear.

And you didn’t say anything more. You couldn’t. Your breath hitched, and the ache in your chest swelled until it broke into motion. Like gravity snapped back into place.

You ran to him.

Threw yourself into his arms like your body remembered him before your mind caught up. Satoru’s hands were already there—one at the base of your spine, the other curling up between your shoulder blades—holding you like he’d been starved of touch. Like he’d been holding back for too long, carrying the weight of absence in every fiber of his being, and only now could finally breathe again.

He buried his face in your hair, inhaled like the scent of you could put his soul back together. You clutched at the back of his coat, fingers curling tight in the fabric as tears stung your lashes.

“I didn’t know when,” he whispered, voice rough against your ear. “I just knew I had to come back.”

And you didn’t let go. You weren’t ready to.

Because this was home. Not the house. Not the walls. Just him. And you, wrapped around him like maybe this time… maybe this time, he'd stay a little longer.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

Later, when the lights were low and the warmth of your reunion had softened into something still and quiet, you lay beside each other in the hush of the room. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty—but full. Full of unspoken questions, lingering touches, and the hum of two heartbeats finally side by side again.

His hand rested over your ribs, thumb tracing lazy, soothing circles against your skin, like he was trying to memorize your breathing. Your leg was tangled over his, your face tucked into the space beneath his collarbone where his pulse beat steady and strong.

You wanted to ask how long he’d be here. The words were right there on the edge of your mouth. Heavy. Bitter. Aching. But you didn’t.

And Satoru didn’t say either. Maybe because he didn’t know. Maybe because saying it would ruin this moment. Maybe because neither of you wanted to admit the clock had already started ticking again.

Instead, he leaned down and kissed your temple. Slow. Thoughtful. A kiss that said I know.

You turned into him just a little more and allowed yourself to pretend that this could be the new normal. That his bag wasn’t still by the door. That the world didn’t need him. That he wasn’t already halfway gone in his mind, even as his arms stayed wrapped around you.

“Did you eat today?” he asked, voice soft, breaking the silence like a hand brushing the surface of still water.

You smiled into his chest. “Eventually.”

He chuckled under his breath, that small, quiet sound that always made your stomach flutter. “Still terrible at taking care of yourself, huh?”

“Only when you’re gone,” you whispered, and immediately wished you hadn’t said it out loud.

He didn’t respond. But his arm tightened around you. And that said enough. Neither of you asked the question. Neither of you had to. Because love like this always knew when time was borrowed. Yet, you held on anyway.

The bed finally felt warm. The house you built together seemed full once more.

The extended silence that settled between you was comfortable, but you knew he was holding something in. You always did. His stillness wasn’t just rest—it was restraint. A quiet kind of tension that curled in his shoulders, even as he held you like he’d never let go again.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you murmured, idly tracing the contours of his bare chest. Satoru managed a quiet chuckle in response. 

“Yeah? Thought I was being subtle.”

“You’ve never been known for your subtleties.”

He let out a light laugh at that, he knew that to be true. His fingers traced absent shapes along your spine, a soft and sweet reciprocation of contact.

“I hate being away from you,” he responded. He couldn’t think of anything else to say other than exactly what he was feeling. He knew it wasn’t enough, but what more could he say?

Your response was simple. 

“I know.” You wanted to say more, but you couldn’t muster the courage to do so. 

“I wish that was enough to make me stay,” he replied. At his words, you shifted a little, tilting your head to look at him. Your eyes searched his, not to change his mind—but just to see him. To see as much of him as you could before he was gone again.

“You don’t have to explain. I knew what loving you meant.” 

Satoru almost sighed at your words, but his breath caught in his throat at the look in your eyes.“That doesn’t make it fair,” he noted, holding your gaze. 

“Fair’s got nothing to do with it. I’m proud of you, you know. What you do. Who you are.” After you spoke, you hesitated for a moment, for just a bit too long. Too long for his comfort.

“But?” 

And there it was. The perfect opportunity to say how you felt. You sat silently for a moment, taking a small breath. Selfishness be damned, it needed to be said. 

“But… sometimes I wish you were just mine. Just here. No heroics. No goodbyes. Just… us.”

At your confession, he shifted in bed and turned to face you more fully, brushing your hair behind your ear. His voice was thick and low, a stark contrast to his usual demeanor. His response was simple, but his words held so much more.

“I think about that too. More than I should.”

“Then why don’t you stay?” Your reply was quick, laced with a hint of desperation that you couldn’t quite hide.

Silence followed. You almost regretted asking. Almost. Satoru didn’t want to answer, but he knew you deserve the truth.

“Because if I did… I’d be choosing comfort over purpose. And someday I’d look at myself and wonder if I let the world burn just to hold on to something safe. Even if that something was… everything to me.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing down the sting. Your voice was barely a whisper. “And what if I’m the one who burns instead?”

Your words hit him hard. Satoru knew it was coming. He shifted you closer, his breath against your temple. He didn’t respond right away. He squeezed you even tighter than before, not just to comfort you, but also himself. Just to hold onto you. His silence wasn’t empty—it was deafening.

One of Satoru’s hands found yours between the two of you, fingers curling slow and sure. He noticed you were looking down at where the two of your bodies met, undoubtedly lost in thought. With his free hand, he traced the curve of your jaw before lightly tilting your chin so you would meet his gaze. And only when he had your full attention did he speak again.

 “Then let me stay with you, like this.”

Because, god, if it were up to him, just him, he’d stay. He’d stay every time. He’d never pack a bag again. Never watch you from the doorway, trying to memorize the way the early light touched your skin. He wouldn't have to keep kissing you like it might be the last time. Wouldn’t have to whisper promises into your hair that always felt too thin, too breakable.

He pressed the softest kiss onto your forehead, lingering there for a breath longer than necessary—as if trying to imprint the scent of your skin and the sweetness of your shampoo into his memory. His lips traveled downward, brushing the shell of your ear, so delicate it sent a quiet shiver through your spine.

You shifted closer, instinctively, impossibly—like there was still space left to close, like you could fold yourself into his very being if it meant not losing him again.

His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and aching, before he whispered again—low, reverent, like a secret meant only for you.

“Let me feel you… while I still can.”

The words sank beneath your skin, deeper than touch, wrapping around your ribs and blooming in your chest. They weren’t just desire—they were desperation disguised as devotion. A plea dressed up as a promise. And in that moment, you weren’t just his lover. You were his anchor. His refuge. The one thing he couldn't carry with him, but couldn’t leave behind either.

You closed your eyes, your jaw tight like you were holding back something you didn’t trust yourself to say. Your hand slipped to the back of his neck, pulling him down into a kiss that started soft—careful and delicate—but deepened just as quickly, a desperate need blooming between you like a bruise you never wanted to heal. 

You pulled away only momentarily, pausing just long enough to search his eyes, and his yours. Not a single word was said, not that it was necessary. The air was thick with a pertinent need.

Satoru kissed you again, with the kind of reverence people saved for prayers. His touch was steady, but there was tension beneath it—like he was fighting the urge to hold you too tightly, too completely. The sheets shifted around you as you moved closer, bodies finding each other like a ritual—something sacred in its repetition, even if it never got any easier. There was no rush. No wild hands or frantic breath. Just the two of you, learning each other all over again in the silence between heartache and goodbye.

He moved inside you like a promise, deep and passionate, like he never wanted you to forget how he felt. Your breath caught in unison, eyes locked, hands gripping. Everything was soft and needy, then hard and desperate, then soft again. It wasn’t just about pleasure—it was about presence. About staying with each other, fully, for as long as you could.

And then he whispered your name like a prayer, like it was the only thing tethering him to this world.

You held him tighter, legs curling around him, grounding him. Your fingers threaded into his hair, your foreheads pressed together, breath tangled. There were no masks left between you—just the raw, trembling truth of what it meant to love someone who couldn’t always stay.

“I love you.” His voice broke when he said it. A light crack in his cadence that nearly shattered you right then and there.

And you believed him—because it wasn’t just a vow. It felt different from all the other times he had said it. It was a confession. Heavy with all the things he couldn’t give you, and still full of everything he could. In that moment, there was no distance. No responsibility. No leaving. Just two souls clutching at the space where they still touched—desperate to make it last.

You kissed him like you were trying to memorize the shape of goodbye on his mouth. And he kissed you like he’d never let go. Because he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. You were far too important for him to ever consider that. 

His rhythm slowed again, drawn out like he was trying to stretch time. You cupped his face, kissing him deeply, tears slipping down your cheeks without shame. He caught them with his lips, like he could erase them, like he could kiss away the ache sitting heavy in both your chests.

Your foreheads touched, breathing intertwined. The world disappeared until there was only this– only him, only you.

“I don’t want this to end,” you whispered against his mouth. 

“I know,” he murmured, his voice thick. “Me either.”

His hands slid along your back, reverent in his touch, like he was relearning the feel of you, memorizing every inch. And maybe he was already grieving the space that would soon grow between you again.

But here, now, in this fleeting pocket of warmth and pleasure, he poured all of it into you. With every word he didn’t know how to say, his body pressed deeper into you. Every apology he couldn’t speak aloud made him grip you even tighter. Every ’I love you’ he wanted you to carry when he was gone was whispered into your ear. 

It wasn’t just desire. It was devotion. A silent vow carved into every moment with every rock of his hips. Your legs wrapped around him even tighter as if to hold him in place, like you could anchor him to this moment, to this bed, to you. He kissed you again, slower this time, as if tasting the sorrow on your tongue and offering comfort in return.

“I need you to remember this,” he breathed against your skin, his pace slow as he buried himself impossibly deep within you. “Remember me. Not the goodbyes. Not the distance. This.”

You could only nod in response, tears composed of both pleasure and heartache still falling. He kissed you harder— his own way of begging time to stop. 

And for a while, it did. Right there, in the quiet thunder of two hearts refusing to let go.

You held each other as you both came undone, not in fireworks, but in something quieter, deeper—like a tide breaking gently against the shore. The two of you remained like that—forehead to forehead, heart to heart, bodies intertwined—as the room settled around you.

The world was quiet, save for the slowing rhythm of your breath and the soft hum of the night beyond the windows. His body was still draped over yours, his weight not heavy, but grounding. He felt safe. Satoru’s face was buried in the curve of your neck, his breath warming your skin. 

Neither of you moved right away. The room was dim and soft and heavy with everything you felt. And in that fragile, fleeting stillness, you both allowed yourselves to pretend. Pretend there was no morning. No leaving. No missions. No world that needed him more than you did. Just this, just you and him, wrapped up in warmth and want and aching love, breathing together in the quiet aftermath of everything.

And for now—that was enough.

The world outside could wait. Just for a little longer.

˙⊹ author notes: im so happy to be back. i was putting a lot of pressure on myself to write constantly and follow the trends and fit in on here and it took a lot out of me. i can't promise consistent posts, but i can assure you that i will be writing things that im incredibly proud of, and i hope that y'all enjoy it as much i enjoy writing it. also, i know the smut isn't the smuttiest of all time. i was going for a different angle on this one shot. i hope it still tickled y'all as much as it did me. also, i might post a little life update because it has been sooo long since you have heard from me. just wanna keep y'all in the loop despite my absence xx

[springismss]

ᱬ⛧ teddy bear ~ k. bakugou

sum: the teddy bear i gave her. the teddy bear she gave me.

pairing: timeskip! katsuki bakugou x wife! reader

content: sfw. established relationship (married), 3-month-old child, mention of wanting another one, pet names, fluff for once.

a/n: just a little something to help me take a break from writing the next part of my villain. saw an image this is based on a few hours ago while procrastinating, and i just had to get this idea out there. our favourite explosion boy was the first one who came to mind when i wrote this. as always likes, comments and re-blogs are deeply appreciated!

word count: 1,020

links: bnha/mha masterlist | masterlist

“Kat!”. At the sound of your voice from up the stairs, the ash-blonde raised from his seat on the couch and rolled his eyes. Whenever you called him, it was for a reason that you were too stubborn to come to him yourself. Despite that, he, time and time again, still came to you whenever you called. It was the hero in him after all.

Climbing the stairs, heavy footsteps sounded before they stopped at the door in front of them. The room he shared with you. He could hear you shuffling around inside alongside your cooing voice, a voice that was aimed at your three-month-old son. “We’re just waiting on your daddy, sweetie”.

The way you spoke and the small giggle you let out had Bakugou smiling softly. If he thought he couldn’t love you any more than he already did, the day you both became parents proved him wrong. Watching what you went through and the pain you endured just to bring your son into the world made him hold a love for you that was on another level.

Pushing the already ajar door open more, he stepped in and pushed it shut again with his foot. He took a moment to watch your movements, the way you peered down over the cot that was in the corner of the room. He didn’t need to see your face to know you were smiling. “You called, (n/n)?”.

At the sound of his voice, you stood upright and looked over your shoulder at him, smiling brightly. “Oh sweetie, look, it only took daddy a week to get here”. The cooing of the baby answered you back as you laughed, turning to face your husband a second after. Sure, the two of you had been married for a good few years now, but you still couldn’t believe you were married to the Katsuki Bakugou.

If someone ever told your younger self you’d be married to a pro hero, the hotheaded and loud boy you met back in school, you knew for a fact you would have laughed in their face and told them to go away. Yet here you were, married to that man with a son who was his mirror image. Even down to the ash-blonde hair and red eyes.

Stepping forward, you stopped in front of Bakugou and held your hand out for him to take. After a few moments, you felt his fingers intertwine with yours as you looked at him. Taking a moment, you hummed before looking up into those red eyes that stole your heart. “I’ve got something to show you, but you need to sit on the bed, okay?”.

Stepping backwards towards the bed, you pulled him with you until you stopped, his body lowering to sit on the edge as you leant down to kiss his lips, lingering for a few seconds before you pulled back. “So, don’t think I need to remind you of that huge teddy bear you got me when we first dated”.

Looking over your shoulder, you glanced at the huge plush that sat on a chair in the corner next to the cot. It had been one of the first things Bakugou had won for you at a fair when you were first dating. Being the only one left, it had caught your eye, so of course, your then boyfriend had to win it for you. Especially when another extra, as he liked to call them, tried to win it for their partner. Needless to say, he was the victorious one.

“Of course, how could I forget that? You made me carry that thing around for the rest of the night”. Rolling his eyes, he smirked at the faux look of hurt on your face. “Here’s me thinking you enjoyed that, Kats”. Sticking your tongue out, you laughed when he flipped you off. “Just get to the point, love”.

Nodding your head, you made your way back over to the cot, stopping beside the bars as you cooed again at your son, who smiled when he saw you. “Do you remember what I said to you that night?”. Turning your head, you saw the confused look on his face as he raked his memories to remember what you said.

Rolling your eyes at the forgetfulness, you leaned over and scooped up your son into your arms, holding him upright. “I told you I’d get you your own teddy bear one day so…”. Turning around, you faced him as you smiled, watching the look on Bakugou’s face change. “…sorry it’s late, this one took a little time to prepare. Couldn’t have done that without you, darling”.

Casting your eyes down, the smile on your face softened as you placed a kiss on the top of your son’s head. The soft material of the teddy bear outfit he had on tickled your lips before you pulled away, walking to sit beside your husband. “It’s cheesy, I know, but he’s the cutest teddy bear that we’ve made together, Kat”.

Crossing your legs, you manoeuvred your baby in your arms before passing him over to his dad. The way the explosive hero took hold of the piece of you both made your heart swell. He may have appeared rough and angry to everyone around him, but behind closed doors, he was an entirely different person - you and your son had softened him.

Leaning your head on his shoulder, you reached a hand over and took hold of a small hand in yours. Sitting in silence, you both watched as he fell asleep, content in the arms of his daddy, who protected him and you from the bad things out there.

“You know, (y/n), I’ll have to keep getting you big ass teddy bears. Especially if it means I get ones as cute as this in return”. Laughing softly, you pushed his head with the top of yours before you moved your head, looking up at him as you cupped his face in your free hand.

“I guess I can compromise, as long as the next cute teddy bear we make is a girl”.

© springismss 2025 - don’t repost, copy, translate, steal or modify.

[m1ckeyb3rry]

“…although you could not remember much, you did recall the day he had found you, for it was in a sense a second birth, the rest of your life a dark blur up until the moment you had opened your eyes to him. Him and the deep punctures in your side, which were blackened around the edges and wept red onto his turmeric-stained tunic; him and the kelp tangling around your throat, which crumbled away as soon as his palm lit upon the firm bone of your chest; him and the brine at the corners of your mouth, which dribbled down your chin as he pinched your nose shut and pressed his lips to yours, breathing life back into a sodden, weary heart that had no choice but to accept the offering.”

Series Synopsis: The sea spits you out at Phainon’s feet and tells him to save you. You wonder if he will ever regret that he falls to his knees and obliges.

AO3 Link

Current Word Count: N/A

Status: Ongoing

Pairing(s): Phainon x F!Reader, Mydei x F!Reader

Content Warnings: it’s me again writing for amphoreus baddies despite being like an eighth of the way through 3.0 AT THE MOST, fantasy au (amphoreus?? i hardly KNOW us), i make up lore + magic because i can, i world build also because i can, random luocha relevance fsr, amnesia trope, love triangle (we are not getting both at the same damn time i fear), violence and blood and whatnot most likely, an ending i personally would not consider angsty but some might, tbh i don’t actually know where this is going to go #mightdeletelater, don’t ask me who’s endgame i oscillate sm it’ll probably just be left vague, slapping that ooc warning on here because who even am i without her…

LEVIATHAN I: ECHOES IN A SHALLOW BAY

LEVIATHAN II: THE TINDERBOX OF A HEART

LEVIATHAN III: THOSE EYES, THAT MOUTH

[harmonyrae]

Obsession

Synopsis: You've always been there. Always. But he wanted her. Protected her. While you protected him. With the Fleet & Ever on your asses, you've got to convince him to move forward. You can't lose him. You can't.

AN: This is NOT a non-MC or anti-MC fic. This is the beginning of Caleb's story in the Inked universe. In this universe, each Li has their own “FMC” (aka reader/you). I wanted to keep it a surprise that Caleb comes back after his fate was left open-ended. However, I couldn’t stop thinking about this…

For context I recommend reading Part 3 of Inked (at least).

Content Warnings: explicit language & sexual content, detailed injuries/body trauma, depression, Caleb has no will to live (but he finds it), creampie, PiV, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls), 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 3.3k

It’s been two months since the accident. And two weeks since the surgery. When you found him you weren’t sure he was even alive. Your hands were raw and bloody from digging through the rubble of the warehouse. When you finally heard a mangled groan your heart nearly stopped. His body was covered in burns, his right arm pinned down by a metal pillar. You’ll be haunted by his screams and the look in his eyes when you told him his arm couldn’t be saved. 

If you hadn’t dragged him out when you did, he’d be dead or locked in a cell until his brain could be washed clean. A brand new Caleb for the Fleet and Ever to manipulate. Not again. 

You tip the bottle to drop two small pills into your palm and grab a glass of water as you pass the kitchen. You crack open the door to his room to peek inside. The curtains billow in the breeze from the open window. You sigh and step inside, thankful for the cool air, the room is significantly less stuffy than last night. 

You set the glass and pills on his side table before tapping the panel on the wall above to turn the lights on low, just enough to see him. He hates sleeping on his back, but with the scar tissue around his prosthetic, it’s the best way to avoid further damage. You’ve been telling him he can try to lay on his side for the past 3 days, but he’s decided to stay miserable. Or maybe he’s just punishing himself. He should have been able to move the prosthetic, a high-end prototype, a week ago, but it still lies limp next to him.

As you’re dabbing his forehead with a towel his hand flies up to grab your wrist. He stares up at you with wide eyes, his chest heaving like he’s been underwater and he’s finally getting air. You sit next to him and switch the towel to your other hand, letting him hold onto your wrist. His breathing slows as you continue to dry his face. You push his damp hair out of the way and bring the towel down the sides of his neck to his chest. 

“Did you sleep?”

His hand spasms, gripping your wrist tighter. 

“Take that as a no.” 

He lets you go and rests his hand on his stomach. You stand and circle around the bed, your hands working carefully to remove his bedding. His burns had mostly healed, just a few scars remain. His arm was the only complication. If he doesn’t learn to use the prototype there’s no way he’ll survive. Being on the run meant you… needed to run and, well, protect yourself. You’ve done well enough for the time being, but you’re quickly losing steam. 

“How long?”

It’s like he read your mind. 

“I’d say, maybe another two days, three at max.”

You know exactly what he’s about to say, still, you close your eyes and pray he won’t. You turn your back to him, folding the sheet and grabbing a fresh t-shirt. 

“You need to leave me behind.”

Why did you think praying would work? There’s no one listening. You grit your teeth as you return to his bedside to help him sit up. When he doesn’t move, you feel the first layer of your defenses crumbling. You toss the shirt on the bed and cross your arms.

“We’re not doing this.”

Those eyes, the iridescent purple twined with gold. They used to be what grounded you, but now… they’re dark and lackluster. You spent the past few weeks damn near depressed over how lifeless they’ve become.

“You’re smarter than this. Leave.”

The second layer shatters like glass, shards ripping through your skin. He turns his eyes to stare out the window, the city lights blinking off as the sun rises. Your gaze travels, taking in his pale skin, the rough edges of his muscles now less defined than before, the bandages still covering lacerations that haven’t completely closed. You’ve never seen him so broken.

“You’re right, I am smart. That’s why I’m not leaving.”

Caleb lifts himself enough to turn and hurl the glass of water across the room.

“Fuck off! You’re wasting your goddamn time on me. You wanted to get away from the Fleet, congratulations, you did it, now leave. I’m dead weight and, honestly, better off –”

Your third layer was already too weak to put up much of a fight against the rage festering under the surface. You were going to snap at some point and you’re surprised you lasted this long. 

“Better off dead, Caleb? Is that what you’re about to fucking say to me? After everything? All these years, saving your ass, staying by your side and you are going to say that shit? You know what, you’re a coward. The one thing you never wanted to become, guess what, that’s you.”

His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, his anger was already boiling over. He looks over his shoulder at the side table for other things to throw at you. No, no more of this bullshit. If everything falls apart after this, so be it, but you are not giving up without a fight. You launch yourself onto the bed, grabbing his left hand and pulling it to his side. Straddling his stomach you lock his left arm in place under your thigh. You shove him backwards onto the bed and hold him down. He glares, his teeth bared, his chest turning red as he strains under you. You’re built for this, he trained you after all. He can thrash all he wants, but you are not leaving until you say what you need to say.

“You know what, I’m done. I’m done! You keep doing this and I keep my mouth shut no matter how much it hurts because that’s what I’ve always done. Right? I’ve always been your little bitch, right? Always at your side, through everything. University, Academy, Fleet training… And yet you still push me away like I’m some kind of inconvenience?”

He tries to throw you off using his hips, but you dig your fingernails into the soft skin of his chest and he grunts. 

“You know damn well I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t love you. You know I’d die for you, kill for you, burn everything to the ground just to keep you. I dragged you out of that warehouse, your arm barely hanging on and I fought to keep you alive and you treat me like this?!”

His face twists, an emotion akin to despair, or maybe regret, taking hold. 

“I dyed my fucking hair for you so when you fucked me I’d look more like her! And I didn’t care because I needed you and… fuck me, I still do. I’m not the one who left you, she was! I’ve been here. Always here.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until a tear slips down your cheek and drops to Caleb’s chest. His own eyes misty with tears as he looks up at you in the dim morning light.

“So you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to retreat so far into the hollows of your own mind, leaving me alone. I’ve never asked you for anything. But if you don’t start fighting for yourself, goddamn it Caleb…”

Your chest feels like it’s on fire and every muscle aches from being so tense. You can’t catch your breath, all your confidence rapidly disappearing. Words you never thought you’d dare to say have spilled out of your mouth and now… You ball your hands into fists and slam them down on his chest. He gasps, the hint of a moan escaping from the back of his throat. You freeze, holding his gaze as you lean back, something hard presses against your ass. It takes you by surprise. It shouldn’t, given the kind of shit he’s done with you, but now? 

“Your life is worth living, even if it’s without her.” 

His tears finally spill over, streaming down his cheeks to the pillow beneath him. His jaw tenses and he sucks in a breath through gritted teeth.

“Caleb… please… I need you to believe that.”

His lip trembles, his eyes flick between yours and dip to your mouth. That familiar warmth spreads through your chest and coils downward to your core. 

“You believe that?” 

His voice is low, barely audible. You let your hands unfurl and flatten against him. A deep sense of satisfaction settles over you from the goosebumps rising just from your touch. You lean down, so your forehead rests against his. 

“I always have.”

In all the years you’ve known him, he’s always held himself back from truly enjoying the intimacy he craves. When he agreed to casual sex you were thrilled, knowing full well you’d be the one heartbroken at the end of the day. You’ve always taken the initiative, he’d respond accordingly. But for the first time, the look of longing you’d always seen when he’d talk about her, was directed at you. Just as you’re about to convince yourself it’s all in your head, he tilts his chin up, capturing your lips with his.

His kiss is soft and slow, like he’s testing the waters. You know he can feel your hands shaking against his chest, no matter how hard you try to hold them still. He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth and it’s at this moment you realize you had a fourth layer of defense against him, keyword had. Your muscles relax and your body melts on top of his. He moans into your mouth and you gasp as his hips twitch.

“I don’t deserve you…”

He mumbles against your lips. 

“No… you don’t…”

He chuckles at your cheekiness, immediately cut off by a moan as you slip your tongue into his mouth. Just like always, he fights with you, his tongue dancing with yours to take over and completely ravage you. But this time there’s a desperation you’re not used to. His hand slips free from under your thigh and trails up your side before gripping the back of your neck. His kiss becomes more forceful now, making your pussy throb. 

“You’re making… a horrible choice… standing by me…”

Your hands slide down his chest and brace against his abs, he shivers, his lips never leaving yours for longer than a moment. 

“Love makes you… do crazy things…”

His hand finally reaches around to your lower back and he pulls you down, his hard cock pressing against your clothed core. He swallows your whimpers as you let your hips relax. His fingers play with the hem of your shirt. You immediately sit up to yank it off. His hand glides up your stomach, over the center of your chest and takes hold of your face. His grip tightens slightly and he yanks you back down to his eager lips. 

“Stop saying that…”

His voice is hoarse, fuck… your panties are soaked.

“What?” You roll your hips. “That I’m in love with you?”

Another roll of your hips has him cursing under his breath. You continue to grind on him, drinking in his sweet sounds.

“I’ve been… in love with you since… the day we met…”

His fingers twist and your bra clasp unhooks, you let him slide the straps down your arms and toss it on the floor. He curls his arm around you, sliding his hand up your bare back until you lower yourself on top of him. He moans and you smile into his kiss. Under your right breast you feel his muscles twitch. You ignore the sensation at first, but as they become more frequent you have to hold onto his face so you can pry your lips away. 

The muscles in his chest jump and twitch, he leans up to try to reach you, but you press him down. That’s when you see it. 

“Caleb, your hand.”

He blinks, confused, but follows your gaze to his prosthetic. The stiff metal has shifted, the fingers curled. When his chest twitches again, the hand jumps, fingers curling even further. You both gasp, your enthused giggle echoes through the room. 

“How… shit –”

You press messy kisses to his jaw, sucking and licking down the center of his neck. When you suckle on his Adam's apple he groans so loudly you nearly come undone. Something cold grips your thigh and you yelp. The realization that both of his hands are on you makes you tense, your entire body buzzing with excitement. 

“Ride me.”

You don’t need him to ask twice. You awkwardly lift yourself off of him to pull off your jeans and panties. After slowly peeling his sweats down his legs, you return to your seat. He holds onto your thighs while you lower your bare pussy onto his stomach. He curses, your arousal smearing over his abs, your scent filling the room. You don’t wait long before hooking your fingers into the band of his boxers and tugging them down over his hips. 

While this isn’t your first time with him, it’s your first time feeling truly wanted by him. All the other times you were just a substitute. A stand in. Temporary. Now… Now you don’t know what you are, but the stretch is more intense, your eyes immediately rolling back in your head. 

“Can I… touch you…?”

You’re about to ask why he’s even asking, but then you realize. His metal hand strokes your thigh, inching closer to your weeping cunt. You take hold of his wrist and bring him closer. He twists his wrist slowly and presses his thumb against your sensitive bundle. When you jerk he stops and you shake your head, giving him an apologetic smile.

“Cold… it was cold, it was good… more… please…”

He continues, adding a bit more pressure as his other hand wanders upwards to take hold of your breast. Your thighs burn, his cold fingers tracing your clit, the way he pinches and tugs at your nipples, you can already see stars. 

“You’re right.”

He starts thrusting, forcing you to brace your hands against the headboard above him. Staring down you search his expression, confused by the sudden comment. 

“What –”

He brings his hands to your hips and lifts you, dropping you down onto his length with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs. You let out a scream as his swollen tip bullies your most sensitive spot. The room spins as your hips slam against his. You lean back and grab onto his thighs, letting your head fall back and eyes close. 

“You - you’re always there.”

With every damn near painful thrust you feel your tits bounce. Your hair sticks to your sweat slick skin, strands plastered to your back and forehead.

“You’ve al-always been th-there.”

You force yourself to look down at him. The intensity of his stare brings a string of curses from between your lips. An adorable blush stains his cheeks, traveling to his ears and down his chest. His lips, swollen and bruised, tremble as he gasps for air. 

“Takin’ my bullshit… all for what…?”

His hands squeeze your hips.

“Because you fell in love with my… ahh fuck… with my delusional ass?”

He growls, pressing the palm of his metal hand onto your lower stomach. His eyes close, his brows knit together to focus. 

“Why y-you willingly choose me… Fuck, I can’t… You’re so goddamn tight… ”

You remove your hands from his thighs and brace them on either side of his head. As you move, he opens his eyes to stare at where you’re joined with him. A whine escapes his throat but instead of covering it up, he throws his head back and lets another rip free. If he keeps making sounds like that it’ll be over for you and you’re desperate for him to keep talking like this. Before you can stop yourself your hand wraps around his throat. You’ve barely applied any pressure, just the feeling of your fingers around his neck was all it took to tip him over the edge. 

“Shit Caleb!”

His release is explosive, the heat and strength of his spend overwhelms you. His hips continue to pulse and you can feel your own cunt suck him in further. When you finally come you’re screaming, shaking, clawing at anything your hands can latch onto. Caleb hisses as your nails dig into his chest, but it barely stops his movements. His hands remain steadfast against your hips, guiding you to ride out your orgasm. 

Your vision darkens around the edges and you feel yourself fall. Caleb lifts his body off the bed to catch you, slowly laying back with you cradled against his chest. The aftershocks of your climax barely subside as the minutes pass. You focus on every breath, savoring every soothing touch and steady heart beat.

“Why me?” 

His voice is timid, hesitant. You shift to look up at him.

“You know better than anyone…”

He instinctively lifts his right arm and tucks his hand behind his head. When he doesn’t flinch, you bite your lip to fight back a smile. You know it’s psychological, but the idea that fucking you helped him regain motor control is just too good. He tilts his head, waiting for you to continue. 

“Obsession can take you by surprise.” 

The way his eyes darken as he processes your admission has you blushing. His heartbeat quickens and his cock, still buried in your pussy, grows hard once more. Just the slightest shift of your hips makes him groan. He threads his fingers through your hair and cradles the back of your head. The suddenness of his movements take you by surprise, you squeal as he rolls you over, pinning you to the mattress. You shudder at the feeling of your hips stretching wider under his weight. The twitch of your muscles borders on painful, sending a shot of pleasure straight to your pulsing cunt. You wrap your legs around him and close your eyes as he dips his head to press messy kisses to your neck. You’ve only ever dreamed of moments like this, intimacy motivated by desire not desperation or convenience. 

“You’re saying… you’re obsessed… with me, yeah?”

You hum your approval, causing him to nip at your pulse point. Your hands make their way to his face, pulling him up so you can reclaim his lips. His intensity envelopes you, his kiss hot and almost violent. You can feel tears trickle down from his face onto yours, he gasps and sighs into your mouth. 

“I need you to… do one more thing for me…”

He finally leans back, his forehead pressed against yours. You play with the hair at the nape of his neck as you look up at him.

“Anything.”

He smiles and you hold your breath to suppress a sob, that’s a sight you’ve ached for. A sight you weren’t sure you’d ever see again.

“Dye your hair. Back to what it was. And never… compare yourself to anyone ever again.”

He leans down to kiss you again, but you turn your head just in time. He looks at you with a frown, raising a brow.

“That’s two things, genius.”

He quickly shuts you up by covering your mouth with his, sucking and biting on your bottom lip until you’re breathless. Your whimpers make his cock twitch and before you can make any more snarky comments, he’s driving his hips forward. 

The sun is setting by the time you finally convince him to rest after noticing the skin around his prosthetic was getting irritated from the exertion. You can barely stand to walk to the bathroom for a towel and when you return, he’s fast asleep. You clean him up before running a shower for yourself. As you wash you take inventory of the marks Caleb left, all at varying levels of development between a rosy pink to a dark indigo. You stare at the ceiling, the warm water soothing your scalp - you’d forgotten how much Caleb really loves to pull your hair. Is any of this real? Are your years of pining really over? Is he really… yours? 

Fuck it. He will be.  ⚙🐦‍🔥✈🐦‍🔥⚙

AN #2: I still have Sylus’s story (Vow) to finish. Then Zayne & then Xavier. Caleb’s is the final “book” in the series - which I am calling the “Under your Skin” series. Cause… ya know… they’ll all have tattoos & piercings… I haven’t been motivated to write much lately, so Xavier’s Bridgerton AU story is in the works & then my Vow is next priority. Thank you for reading!! 

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: (If you would like to be on the list for ALL works in the Under your Skin series drop a 💉in the comments.) @trishiepo0 @not-so-quite-human @kitsunetori @babyx91 @libriomancer @lilyadora @crowskitten22 @letharue @silverbrain @alastor-simp @drama-trauma @0tterteeth @mysticcollectionvoid @godzillaglitter @godoffuckedupcats @klmpun @m00nchildwrites @plsdonttakemyname @hauntedbysmut @withering-dream @lostwingz2236 @simpfortheseven @freddy-2002-blog @sylus-hunter

[havenhyunjin]

safe space — bangchan

the one where you would do anything to be a safe space for him. word count: 1k

warnings: discussions of grief and loss, although not extensively. merely trying to process complicated feelings. hurt/comfort. angst.

a/n: i’m not trying to speculate on any grieving process chan is going through, but as he’s been vocal about his struggle with the loss of a friend, i created this also hoping that he does actually have loved ones to rely on and he allows himself that grace <3. rest in love, moon.

————————————————————————

The soft vibration of the diffuser was getting to your nerves. So was the sizzling meat in the pan you were cooking on. Even the sound of an opening door proved to be unsettling. That’s when you realized the sounds weren’t bothering you; you were simply on edge for entirely different reasons.

You knew how to deal with your own grief and loss wasn’t a foreign concept. You could manage it, and you did.

Not knowing how to deal with Chris’ grief was unnerving. You had no idea how to help him, if he wanted or needed help at all, and it left you feeling powerless.

Chris closed the door behind him and greeted you softly, as you replied for him to know you were in the kitchen. He walked closer to you, and gave you a soft peck on the lips to greet you with an almost imperceptible smile.

“How are you?” you asked, although you were fully aware it was a stupid question.

He shrugged and laughed without a hint of happiness. All you could come up with was a hug that you hoped would express everything you didn’t know how to say or show.

I love you. I’m here. I’m sorry. I got you, if you need me. I hate seeing you in pain. But your pain is not a burden. And you don’t have to talk about it. I love you. I got you.

As Chris melted into your embrace, you knew he understood, like he knew you understood him. Even in the unspoken nature of the entire process, you both could count on each other unconditionally and while it didn’t get any easier, Chris was certain that your patience and your love were a lifeline he would never let go off.

He kissed you in as a thank you - gently, no rush, hoping it would convey a part of the convoluted emotional state he was in.

I love you. Thank you. I don’t ever want to burden you. One day I might be able to talk about it. I’m grateful for you. I love you. Please stay.

With the way you kissed him back, enveloping him around your arms, he was entirely sure you would stay, and it meant everything.

The only reason you pulled away was realizing your food was going to burn otherwise. He laughed a little bit at you rushing to turn off the flame, and grabbed plates for both of you to have dinner. You sat down together to eat on the couch in front of the TV, playing a documentary that neither of you were really paying attention, but the point was being close to each other as you finished your meal in silence.

Chris was used to retreating and isolating himself whenever he was having a hard time; there was no reason to bother anyone else with his problems and sadness. One of the many ways you turned his life around was opening him up to the opportunity of relying and leaning on someone else.

He was still uncomfortable not showing up all the time as the strong, invincible leader he was supposed to be, but he decidedly knew now that is not what you expect from him. You just loved him, in every version.

You were still having a hard time accepting that you couldn’t fix everything for him either. There are some things that are inevitably debilitating for him, and as much of a rock as you tried to be for him, you couldn’t make this one go away. Chris, of course, doesn’t expect you to fix anything.

Regardless, in the comfort of your steady hand holding his, and in the comfort of his sad but loving eyes looking into yours, you both felt that everything would be okay.

With a display of vulnerability that was rare but welcomed, Chris moved to lay down in your lap. He curled up next to you, laying his head down and closing his eyes.

Chris didn’t know how to deal with his grief either, and he wasn’t sure anyone really knew how to do it. The fluctuation, unpredictability and non-linear nature of his process was excruciating. He wanted control over himself back desperately, but it didn’t work like that.

As you decided to lay down behind him instead, embracing him against you as your head rested on his back, he was reminded that not being in control all the time was natural. He closed his eyes, trusting you to hold him through it all, and for one night handing over the tight, heavy leash he has been trying to keep on himself.

Even though you didn’t see it, you knew he was tearing up and all you could do was hold him tighter.

I got you. You can let go with me. I’ll stay with you forever.

Even though he was crying, he was relaxing into you at the same time.

You’ve got me. I love you. Thank you. I love you.

The sadness, pain, loss and grief would not go away, but he had one less thing to worry about; hiding it. You know that you can’t make it go away, even though you wished you could, but what you could do was stay right here with him in his terms and that was good enough.

“Chris?” you called out to him softly. He hummed to reply, sniffing his nose while still letting his long held back tears out.

“I’m right here,” you said, although it was a universally acknowledged truth. Vocalizing it felt like hugging his soul, desperately letting him know verbally, physically, emotionally, that here you stay.

He nodded. He knew. He felt it.

“I know, baby,” Chris said, turning around to face you while you both laid down and held each other close. His troubles felt soothed, and damn near healed as you began pressing soft kisses against his face. He was smiling, each little peck reminding him that although life can be mind-numbingly painful, it can also be all-consumingly wonderful.

You are the living proof of every good thing the world has to offer, and he’s grateful. He was so eternally grateful for his safe space in you.

[tenaciousarbiterpoetry]

Freaking out about the Skeletour show in Glasgow

Peacefield is a Banger

I got so excited that they were playing Majesty that I didn't immediately notice he was FUCKING FLYING. My sister was like omg flying and I was like omg Majesty and then we were both like OMG HIS MAJESTY!!!! I had joked before about him flying with the sparkly wings (which didn't make an appearance) and then he was doing a fucking defying gravity!!!!!

The new stage is phenomenal, it just keeps getting BIGGER. first the curtain with giant rips in then the new stage with stone plinths for the ghouls and lights everywhere including under the drum riser. Then the stony walls fell down to reveal the usual stained glass windows and then the stone archways fell down and nearly took out Mountain. Then it was revealed that it was actually a massive LED screen and the stained glass windows shattered and were rebuilt and shattered again. They mixed the live camera feed with animations and sometimes lyrics on the screen it was epic!

Phantom did crowd work (into pinnacle I think) as he was having a lot of fun getting us to cheer for him and clap along to the right beat.

I started noticing the double kick drum during Ritual and after. I don't know enough about drums to say what was different it just was more idk (I can't remember when he talked about having that on the new album, maybe I'm just having the hallucinations he said we would have during Spirit)

The costumes are gorgeous!!! The sparkles really work, especially on the camera feed. I adore the skeleton cassock with the spine down the back, I wanted him to sing the whole song facing upstage so I could see it properly!!! The cornette/mitre hat started to slip sideways mid song and he did a sneaky little reach with his hand the feel what was up then left the stage between songs and returned sans hat. Tbh I preferred it a little lopsided but you do you mate. And now we know why the full vestments have such impractical skirts, you don't need to walk gracefully if you are floating above the drum riser.

We were in the gods so we couldn't fully appreciate the GIANT MOVING truss grucifix of moving lights but she's a work of art. We could see the labels in the trucks as we left and they had a whole truck just for floor lights (the under drum riser lights are gorgeous) and they had at least 3 trucks just more for lights. No idea how to pack a giant moving truss of moving lights into a truck but I imagine they have a system. Also at least 3 trucks for set and one just for fascia.

There were several moments of total darkness (well as much as safely would allow) and that was atmospheric and spooky. (Like we were waiting in the night?)

Fucking cowbell ghoul is back for Umbra did not see that coming

Lost my shit when they started playing Umbra I've been waiting fucking months to hear more than the opening bars!! I cannot wait to hear it again properly (it's only 9 days not that I'm counting)

Hearing everyone belting Lachryma, Satanized and The Future is a Foreign Land was something else, and the emotions in The Darkness at the Heart of my Love and He Is !!!!!!!!

Monstrance Clock is back too I didn't see that coming either and I'm so happy!!!! And the little smirk he did when he got to say "conclusively, I give you Monstrance Clock" for the second time in YEARS, knowing we were about to lose our collective shit, was yet another wonder of no mask papa. And we did lose our shit. And the lyrics up on the screens kept us all singing after they left the stage!! I've wanted to experience that moment since I found Ghost and learned they didn't play it anymore, but now we do!!!!

We got sad about it ending and he was like "you can go out and tell everyone about the amazing time that you had. Or at least you can tell everyone about the amazing time that I had"

He really didn't talk that much, though we did get the encore speech. "Do you not know how this works? How this works is we stop playing, and then you leave."

He got his I/we/they/him mixed up which is always funny like "back at the assembly where we, no they, well I suppose I'm part of it now so we, and I thought, no they thought-"

There was a delay letting people in and my theatre brain wants to know what technical issue stopped them opening the house?? Was he stuck in the air?? Was the moving grucifix of moving lights refusing to move?? Did the LED screen decide not today satan ??

He name dropped The Cathouse but didn't know if it was still running and then was like "I know a lot about the past, but I don't know much about the future" and then straight into The Future is a Foreign Land. Musical theatre levels of speech into song and he said "this is a song my dad used to sing to me" and they changed it to 2034 (I had wondered if they were going to change it to 2025 and have a new rhyme but that works)

And I can't remember the transition into Kiss the Go Goat but it was also musical theatre levels of speech into song

[queensunshinee]

Two Birds On A Wire || Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+) Warnings: SMUT (Oral, fingering), drinking, very slow burn, I swear it's too slow, once again- I really don't know what's going on here

Word Count: 9.9k

Two birds on a wire

You and Art became friends only at Stanford. You had opportunities to be friends before; it’s impossible to ignore the fact that both of you studied at the same school since you were 12. But Art was friends with people like Patrick Zweig, and you, well, you were one of the people Patrick Zweig spent too much time laughing at.

So when you both get accepted to the same college, you’re aware of his presence because he’s on the tennis team, and his ugly face (even in your thoughts, you find it hard to lie to yourself so blatantly) is plastered on every poster, in every corner. He finds out you’re there at the beginning of the second semester, when you both end up at the same party. If anyone asks him, he came there with a purpose- to get drunk and forget that Tashi Duncan exists or that she’s dating his best friend. If anyone asks you, you got there by accident- you were practically dragged, and you planned to leave after half an hour. But then he saw you, and his confused expression turned into an amused one, then into a challenging one, and then into a series of other expressions that, to this day, you keep in a small box in your memories of Art Donaldson.

“This is weird,” was the first thing he said to you, and you could see from his flushed cheeks that he had already been drinking. Probably more than one beer. “What’s weird?” you asked in response, and he leaned his curls closer to you, expecting you to ask the question again because it was impossible to hear anything with that music blasting at such volume. “What’s weird?” you repeated directly into his ear. For a moment, you wondered if your breath could reach his nose. If that was something he would even notice. If that little breeze made his hair tickle the nape of his neck. If, if, if. “That you’re here, I guess?” You weren’t sure if there was a question mark at the end or if it was just his facial expression studying you intently. As if you had committed a crime, but he was both the cop interrogating you and the lawyer defending you. All roles at once. The thought made you swallow down a chuckle.

“I study here,” you said briefly and took a sip from the drink Josie had made for you. It had more orange juice than vodka because she knew otherwise you wouldn’t even agree to hold it. “I study here too,” he said, and now it was your turn to raise an eyebrow at him. “I know that, Donaldson,” you replied with staged ease. It took a lot out of you. This was probably the longest conversation you’d ever had, if you completely ignored that one time in ninth grade when he saw you crying over something one of his friends had said and just sat down next to you. Actually, there wasn’t much to ignore- he hadn’t said anything to you back then. He just waited for you to stop crying quietly, as if there was nothing he could say that would actually make things better. He placed his water bottle next to you and left when he saw that you were able to open it and drink on your own.

“You just know that?” he was amused. He didn’t seem angry to see you. He didn’t seem like your presence annoyed him, just that it confused him to his core. “Your face is on all the posters,” you shrugged, because it was obvious. Everyone knew Art Donaldson. He never tried to stand out. He never did anything special to make it happen, not even in high school. While people like Patrick Zweig reeked of effort, Art Donaldson drew people in effortlessly and quietly. With a calm that radiated from him in all directions. “Well, if your face were on all the posters, I’d know you were here too. What are you studying?” he asked, with a lightness that was impossible to explain. As if you had been friends your entire lives. As if the fact that he hadn’t known you were so close to him was a crime against humanity.

"Bio-chem," you said concisely, wondering if this would end the conversation, but his face said otherwise. There was genuine amazement at the subject. “Damn, (Y/N), I knew you were smart, but I didn’t know you were planning to save the world one day,” the amused look returned as you rolled your eyes. “What are you studying?” you asked, because it was the polite thing to do, and if there was one thing that could definitely be said about you- it was that you were very polite. “Tennis.” He shrugged and chuckled, as if it was the best joke he could tell. He saw the confusion on your face and quickly added, “Not really, Sports Management. But it’s not even a plan B. If I don’t make it pro, then all of this is pointless,” he explained. You wondered if he also felt this wasn’t a conversation suited for a party. If he, too, was asking himself why he was speaking to you so openly.

You nodded, assuming the conversation would end there, especially when one of his friends approached him, but Art stayed by your side, even introduced you- like you were an old friend from high school. Like you two go way back. Talking with Art was effortless and funny. His humor was on point. His manners weren’t far from yours. He didn’t touch you too much, only pulling you slightly closer when he felt you were drifting away. Almost marking territory when one of your friends came over to say hi. When Josie gave him a scrutinizing look, he simply smiled and introduced himself. She nodded, handed you a fresh cup of the same drink, and disappeared just as quickly as she had arrived.

“I could’ve made you a drink, you know,” he said suddenly, the amused look never leaving his face as he studied you. “Josie makes the perfect drink,” you replied, and he took it from your hand, taking a sip without breaking eye contact. “The perfect drink is just orange juice?” He raised an eyebrow as he handed the cup back to you. “There’s vodka in there,” you rolled your eyes, trying to regain some of the dignity you felt you had just lost. “Do you want to dance with me?” he asked. “Where did that come from?” You couldn’t hide your surprise. “We’re at a party, and I want to dance,” he shrugged for what felt like the millionth time, speaking as if every word coming out of his mouth was an undeniable fact. “I’m fine right here.” You tried to wrap up the conversation, assuming that would be the end of it and that he’d just let you stay in your quiet corner and eventually go home, just as you had planned when you first arrived.

But he took a few steps back, keeping his eyes on you. “Why settle for fine when you could be having fun?” he asked. And there was something about Art Donaldson, you learned in that moment- he always operated exactly like that. ‘Why settle for fine, when you could be having fun?’

So, you downed the drink in one gulp and decided that this time, you’d dance with him. After all, you wouldn’t see him tomorrow anyway, and you’d both go back to acting the way you did two hours ago. Life would return to normal. So, you danced- sometimes ridiculously, sometimes seriously. His hands were on your waist, and he quietly asked if it was okay. All you could do was nod, because why settle for just "okay" when you could have fun? And with Art Donaldson, you thought you might actually have fun.

An hour later, you were already on your way to your dorm. His fingers brushed against yours, each time a different one wrapping around one of your fingers, gently hinting that maybe he’d like to hold your hand but giving you the option to pull away. You were both half-drunk- him more than you, of course, otherwise you didn’t think he’d be walking away from that party with you. You tried not to focus on intrusive thoughts about high school or Patrick Zweig, because no one else deserved to intrude on this moment. You always knew Art wasn’t like them. He never acted like them. He always looked down, turned away when someone was messing with you. You appreciated that.

"Can I come in?" he asked, half-amused, looking at you. Completely prepared to hear the word 'no' if necessary. "Well, you're already here." For a moment, neither of you could believe you’d said that, but he didn’t wait for you to change your mind and stepped inside. He studied your room like he was looking for secrets. He stared at a framed childhood photo longer than you were comfortable with. He examined the posters your roommate had on the wall and the books you had on your shelf.

His lips were on yours a few minutes later- minutes that felt like an eternity. It started hesitant, restrained, almost cautious. You couldn’t believe you were kissing Art Donaldson. That was all you could think about- Fuck, fuck my life, I’m about to sleep with Art Donaldson. I’m about to lose my virginity to Art Donaldson. And the more you spiraled into those thoughts, the more intense the kiss became. His hands found their way to every exposed inch of your skin as you both settled onto your bed, never breaking apart. He kissed your neck like a starving man, like you were his last meal before execution, like his very breath depended on the exact spot where you had sprayed perfume before leaving for the party.

"I’m gonna go to the bathroom for a sec, okay?" Your voice sounded strange even to you for a moment. "Now?" He sounded confused but not upset, speaking into your neck, making it seem like physically separating from you would be painful. "I have to pee," you blurted out the first thing that came to mind, and he pulled back for a second, looking at you with sparkling eyes- whether from alcohol or something else, you couldn’t tell. He nodded, and you stood up, hurrying to the tiny bathroom attached to your room.

You looked at yourself in the mirror as you applied deodorant, shaved your legs quickly (knowing you’d regret it tomorrow), gargled mouthwash, and stared at yourself again, psyching yourself up to walk back out in nothing but a bra and panties to have sex with Art Donaldson. A sentence you had to repeat to yourself over and over just to believe it was actually happening.

When you walked out, you tried to move as seductively as you knew how. Like in the movies. In Josie’s heels, which were a size too small but, for some reason, were in the bathroom, and panties with a flower on them- but at least you had a lace bra on. You had to work with what you got. You hobbled toward him while he lay in bed with his back to you. He didn’t react at all, which made you frown in confusion and step closer.

"Art?" You murmured toward him, but he didn’t move an inch. That’s when you realized that while you had been shaving and putting on heels that made you wobble, Art Donaldson had simply fallen asleep in your bed.

The level of humiliation you felt in that moment could have been worse if he had been awake to see you limping toward him, half-naked, in those ridiculous heels and questionable underwear. So, all you did was throw on the oversized T-shirt that said "Science is Sexy" (you had your doubts, but it made Josie laugh, and she had bought it for your birthday a month ago), took off the heels, and climbed into Josie’s bed- she had already texted you earlier that she wasn’t coming back to the room that night.

By morning, Art Donaldson was gone, and if you hadn’t slept in a different bed, you might have thought you had imagined the whole thing. . . . Almost a week had passed since Art Donaldson fell asleep in your bed before you found him sitting on the steps outside the Faculty of Exact Sciences. His wave in your direction was hesitant as you kept walking toward him. "Hey," was the first thing that came to your mind to say, because what else could you even add? You felt your heart pounding, and you knew you weren’t doing a great job of hiding your confusion- hiding emotions was never your strong suit. "Hey," he smiled- that same familiar yet foreign smile. The kind that had never been directed at you before, and you had always wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of one of his smiles.

"What are you doing here?" you asked. You didn’t mean to be rude, but seriously, what the fuck was he doing here? "Finished practice early and thought it’d be nice to invite you to eat at our cafeteria. The food there’s better," he said. If there was any hesitation or nervousness in his voice, you couldn’t pinpoint it. "Oh." Again, you weren’t really sure how to talk to people like Art. "I have a four-hour lab now, so I don’t think I can. But thanks for the invite, Donaldson." The more you spoke, the steadier your voice became.

"Maybe tomorrow?" His hand moved to the back of his neck as he shook his hair, still not fully dry from the shower. "Maybe," you nodded, because what else was there to do. "Are you on Facebook?" he asked as you started walking toward the building, and he walked beside you. "No, why do you ask?" You threw the question back, it felt safer. "Everyone's on Facebook. How are you not on Facebook?" he replied, amused, nudging his shoulder against yours. "I don't know, it just feels like a waste of time," you said, half-truthfully. The full truth was that you had no one to keep in touch with. All your friends were here, at Stanford, and opening Facebook just to stay in touch with your dad felt pathetic.

"Well, do you have a phone?" His voice cracked for a second but quickly recovered. You nodded briefly, and he reached out his hand, waiting for something. "Oh, right, one sec," you said, digging through your oversized bag, which held far too many things that had no business being there, like star stickers and shoelaces. "Here," you handed him the device, and he typed in a number, calling himself so he’d have yours too.

"I wanted to apologize for, you know, falling asleep. I feel like a dick." His hand found its way to the back of his neck again. You decided to start paying attention to when he did that. "Don’t worry about it," you waved your hand dismissively. "It’s a funny story we can tell someday if anyone asks what’s the weirdest situation you’ve been in after a party," you added with a chuckle, completely ignoring the fact that he didn’t laugh. "This is my lab," you said, pointing at the classroom in front of you. He nodded, furrowing his brows slightly, but still nodded.

When you agreed to sit with Art for lunch, you didn’t understand that you had committed to a soul friendship, but when you think about it sometimes, you suspect that he already understood. Sometimes you think he planned it all with endless devotion, from the second he saw you at that party. That he decided to tie his fate to yours without giving you any way to escape. The conversations were deeper than any you’d had with someone your age before. You found yourself telling him about pets you’d had and listening when he told you about his grandmother, who raised him when his parents didn’t have the patience or ability.

The only taboo between you during those months was the years you studied together before. You didn’t bring it up with particular persistence and he didn’t know how to bring it up without feeling self-hatred and remembering bad choices and thinking about the time he wasted. The only time he said Patrick’s name near you was when he introduced you to Tashi as his girlfriend, and even then, he said it and stared at you as if he expected you to fall apart just from hearing the name of his best friend. But you didn’t fall apart, you smiled at Tashi the warmest smile he’d ever seen. And you started a conversation about her scholarship, joked as if you had no worries. As if any connection between you and the quiet girl sitting in the back corner of the class was purely coincidental. As if no one had ever laughed at you. . . . “Do you hate the fact that I’m here?” Art asked as you sat on a carousel outside a fancy building where there was a party he’d heard about by chance. “What?” you took another sip of the wine you were passing between you and mostly didn’t understand where that was coming from. You’d hardly been apart for the past few months; you went to his practices when you had free time and he sat with you in the library during his. On weekends you studied together (you were studying and Art was dozing off on your bed or his, depending on whose room you were in).

“You know what I mean,” he shrugged like a carefree person, even though his brows were furrowed and his hand brushed the back of his neck. “Here on the carousel? Here on the planet? Here in-” you started listing all the things he could’ve meant, because who even knows what Art Donaldson ever means. “Here at Stanford. Here; where you are.” he clarified. “Why would I hate that?” you were even more confused than before. “Sometimes I think you really hate me and just don’t know how to get rid of me,” he tried to chuckle but his expression gave him away. He was really scared of that.

“I don’t think it’s possible to hate you, I don’t think anyone could even not like you, Art” you sighed toward him, and it was the truth. Art pulled people in so naturally. A magnet for humans. He made everyone around him feel like they were lucky at any given moment. You weren’t an exception. The fact that he chose to spend time with you or be around you never stopped surprising you. “You’re full of shit,” he smiled his signature smirk and took another sip from the nearly empty wine bottle. “You never talk about the fact that we already knew each other. It’s like I met you here,” he got to the heart of it.

“You don’t think you really met me here?” you asked. Because to be honest with yourself, you’re not even sure he knew who you were in high school. “I always knew who you were,” you saw in the dim lighting of the park that he was shrugging, guessing exactly what was going through your mind. “Knowing who someone is isn’t the same as knowing them,” you tried to explain, “I knew who you were, I knew who your friends were, I knew you played tennis,” you said all the dry facts that characterized Art Donaldson, “but I didn’t know you. I didn’t know you liked comics, I didn’t know you talk to your grandmother three times a week, I didn’t know you prefer writing in a notebook instead of on a computer. I didn’t know you’re in love with your best friend’s girlfriend,” you said the last part casually, even though he had never told you about his feelings for Tashi. “How did you find out?” He didn’t look scared that you knew. He looked calm, like you’d just told him it was going to be sunny tomorrow. “Because I know you now. I know how you look at people you love,” you said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Art nodded to himself, like someone who just reached a deep realization he had no intention of sharing with you. “Do you really hate him? Patrick, I mean,” he tried to break the imaginary silence pact between you two.

“I don’t hate him at all,” you said. There was a time when you did hate Patrick, because he was the villain in your story. But truthfully, you probably weren’t even a character in his. So, you learned to let it go. The anger you carried was mostly toward different life circumstances, toward the fact that some people start from a certain point, and others don’t even have a way to start. You could hate Patrick when you thought about how much luck it took for you to even get to where you are, compared to the fact that Patrick had everything handed to him to get into the best college in the world, and he decided to throw it all away to play tennis.

“How can you not hate him? He was so awful to you,” Art sounded like he was, in a way, demanding that you hate him. Like he needed someone to tell him it was okay not to always love Patrick. He knew you were the right person to tell him that. He wanted to share with you his anger and disappointment and frustration and all the negative emotions that chewed him up every time he thought of his best friend. He wanted you to give him permission to be mad. But that’s not your way. You’re not an angry person- you’re forgiving and calm and level-headed. You don’t have time to be mad. Life will leave you behind if you waste it on negative feelings.

“You know, we never had much money at home,” you started to say, while Art drank you in with his eyes, just wanting to learn more about who you are. “My dad was a taxi driver and my mom used to work three jobs at once,” you explained quickly. “When Damon Jenkins, the headmaster of the Academy, called my mom in for a meeting, he told her I was gifted and that he was willing to cover all the expenses for me to transfer to the boarding school he ran. It was like a gift dropped into our laps. Like winning the lottery, in a way- realizing I could have a different future. That I wouldn’t be stuck in that same cycle. That if I played my cards right, I could actually do something with my life. Something a twelve-year-old shouldn’t have to understand, but I did,” you added, because twelve-year-olds shouldn’t worry about money. But you’d seen your parents worry since the day you were born.

“My mom sewed me two dresses, and to me, they were perfect. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from my sister and brother, so two new dresses were basically part of the celebration. My dad sat me down before we left for the academy. He told me people would always have something to say. Always. But as long as I hadn’t done anything wrong, that wasn’t my problem.”

“In our first week at school, there was this welcome party- you probably don’t remember. But Patrick laughed at my dress. The same dress my mom made for me. He said it looked like something someone bought secondhand because it was so ugly. Everyone laughed, but I didn’t care, because Patrick didn’t know how much my mom loved me. He didn’t know how much effort she put into that dress. And he didn’t know that that was his problem, not mine. Because I didn’t do anything wrong.” You took a deep breath.

“So no, most of the time I didn’t hate Patrick. I was too busy being grateful for the chance I had to one day get to Stanford. He thought we were playing some power games, but the truth is- I was never playing.” You shrugged and took the last sip from the bottle.

Art looked at you like someone would look at a protected flower. And he knew it was his job to protect you. He didn’t quite understand when that became his role, but people like Patrick weren’t going to get close to you anymore. Even if it cost Art his best friend. . . . The first time you ran into Patrick was completely by chance. He walked around campus like the place belonged to him. Like he was born there- but you suspect that people like Patrick walk that way everywhere. While life taught you to be grateful for opportunities, it hadn’t taught him the same lesson. Your eyes met in the cafeteria and for a second, he looked surprised, but you looked away too quickly for it to mean anything. It shook you enough to lose track of the conversation you were in. It shook you enough to make you want to skip lunch and head back to your room.

You’d promised Art you’d come to his game, and you’re the kind of person who, for some reason, keeps promises. So you dragged Josie along and hoped Patrick wouldn’t notice you in the crowd. You wondered how Art would act if he saw you. You wondered if his personality would shift completely. You wondered if the guy you’d gotten to know over the past few months- like any of your other friends, maybe a little more, to be honest- would suddenly become unrecognizable. You wanted to believe he wouldn’t. But you didn’t want to test that belief, so you didn’t go up to him after he won.

You texted him something short about a paper you had to finish but that you stayed through the end of his game and you were sorry you couldn’t stick around. He replied with a simple "okay". And the knock on your door came after two long hours of reading an article.

“Did he say something to you?” was the first thing Art asked as he stepped into your room without waiting for an invite. “What?” “Patrick, did he say something, and that’s why you left?” He tried to explain himself, but what came out was mostly a stream of half-sentences as he paced back and forth. “Why would Patrick say anything to me?” You looked at him with the most indifferent expression you could manage, not betraying how heavy his best friend's presence sat on your soul. “He’s supposed to go back on tour in two days. He came to visit Tashi,” Art rolled his eyes. “He didn’t even tell me he was coming, otherwise I would’ve told you in advan-” He didn’t even stop to breathe in the middle of his apology. “Art, I’m a big girl. I’m not afraid of Patrick Zweig,” you cut off his guilt with a necessary sharpness. “Besides, you had a good game. He’s probably feeling threatened seeing you play,” you added, trying to ease the tension as Art dropped himself onto your creaky twin bed. “I don’t think Patrick’s ever felt threatened by anything,” he laughed, a bitter laugh that didn’t quite suit him. “I think Patrick feels threatened all the time,” you said almost in a whisper. And even if Art heard you, he chose not to answer. . . . A year and three months later, you walked into your new apartment carrying yet another box of your stuff. Until that exact moment, you still hadn’t fully understood how Art had convinced you to start your third year of college sharing an apartment with him. It had seemed like a terrible idea at first. But over the past year, Art had planted the idea slowly and patiently. Like someone who had all the time in the world to let it grow inside your head. He talked about scholarship money. About Nike showing interest in him and offering to invest in his living conditions while they considered sponsoring him after Stanford.

“It’ll be cheaper than the dorms, and you’ll have your own room- you won’t have to share with Josie,” he’d said so many times throughout the past year. “We can do movie nights with a real TV, not on my crappy laptop,” he’d add little things he knew you liked. Your privacy. Quality time- which you barely had at all during your second year.

Until you gave in. Until you found yourself carrying boxes into an apartment with two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen you wouldn’t have dreamed of in a parallel universe.

“Hey! I told you not to carry the heavy boxes,” he shouted from his room, running toward you and tripping over trash bags full of clothes scattered on the floor. “I can carry a box of books, Art,” you almost rolled your eyes at him. “You can also watch tennis matches with me- it doesn’t mean you actually do it,” he said, grabbing the box from your hands and walking it into the room that was about to become yours. It was almost ridiculously bigger than the room you used to share with Josie on campus.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” you said, sticking your head into the empty freezer to cool off. “Took me a whole year to convince you to live a life of comfort. You’ll never be able to go back to the dorms now- not after sleeping on a real mattress and a double bed. I’ve ruined you forever,” his voice was amused as he drank from the cold water you’d left out for him. “I don’t get spoiled that easily, Donaldson. You should know that by now,” you replied, not lifting your head from the freezer to look at him. “I’m working on changing that,” he said with the same playful tone. But if you’re honest with yourself, you didn’t look his way to catch the determined look he threw at you. . . . You stood in front of your open closet. Not really looking, just letting your eyes settle on fabrics so you wouldn’t have to think about what was going to happen in an hour. The conversation you’d have with someone you barely knew, the measured smile, maybe a glass of wine to help you forget you didn’t actually want to be there. You pulled out a white shirt, slightly misshapen from the last wash. You laid it carefully on the bed. You didn’t love it, but it was neutral. And right now, that’s what you needed. From the kitchen came the sound of a drawer slamming shut. Too loud for a drawer full of utensils. “How much quinoa does one person need to survive?” Art’s voice came from the hallway- not so much through the question itself, but the way he closed the cabinet. Like he was trying to say something without saying it. “It’s not quinoa. It’s whole wheat couscous,” you answered, not raising your voice. Not looking away from the shirt.

Twenty-seven seconds passed (you counted) before you heard his footsteps down the hallway. He showed up in your doorway with an open water bottle and a towel dragging on the floor. Standing there like it just happened to be on his way. “That new?” he asked, nodding toward the shirt on the bed. “Not really.” He didn’t move. Just looked. And you didn’t ask why.

You pulled out another shirt. Maybe jeans instead of the nicer pants. Not because you were changing your mind- just testing. “What’s this guy’s name again?” he asked, one hand resting on the doorframe like he needed to hold himself back from walking in. “Jamie. I told you already, he's in my lab.” “Huh.” There it was again. That silence. Not heavy. But not easy, either.

You sat in front of the mirror. Looked for earrings. Found a small gold pair. Put them on without using the mirror. When you looked up, you saw his reflection in the hallway mirror. Leaning there, drinking water, checking his phone- or pretending to. “You think you’ll be gone a while?” “No idea.” “Because if so, I might invite people over. Or just leave the apartment dark and play depressing music. See which one messes with your conscience more.” It was a joke. Almost. You smiled, but it was too brief to be convincing. “You want me to leave the light on for you?” he asked. “Or is this one of those nights where you come back only if you really need something from the house?” You didn’t answer. Just grabbed your bag, walked out, and closed the door quietly behind you. The date wasn’t terrible. Jamie did everything right. He wasn’t too focused on himself, didn’t go on about chemistry or your shared lab. He let you lead, which you didn’t even know you needed. You don’t think you’ve ever led anything outside of your lab. You might not say it out loud, but it was nice. Being in a position where you got to decide.

He walked you home after no more than two hours. A completely acceptable amount of time. Kissed you on the cheek. Very gentlemanly. Very modest. You didn’t know whether to be glad or disappointed that his lips didn’t land on yours by the end of the night. Maybe you were hoping for more and didn’t want to admit it. Maybe his choice to “respect” you affected you the opposite way. You deserve to be respected, your inner voice said. It’s great that there was chemistry and he didn’t kiss you. It’s exactly what you need. To take things slow.

When you opened the door, Art was asleep on the couch in the dark living room, earbuds in. Listening to music at a volume loud enough to reach the hallway. It was metal—something he didn’t usually listen to. Like he was trying to drown out any unnecessary sound, no matter if it burst his eardrums or gave him a migraine. He was blocking out noise like his life depended on it. And all you could ask yourself, as you gently pulled the earbuds from his ears and covered him with a sheet, was what awful thing he thought he’d have to hear when you came back home.

When you woke up, Art was already on his feet, coffee cup in hand. Over time, you’d learned that Art wasn’t really a morning person. Not like you, at least. “You’re not gonna ask how it went, Donaldson?” you tried to start a conversation, and he handed you a cup of coffee exactly how you liked it—with soy milk he couldn’t stand. “Are you going to see him again?” he replied instead. “You don’t want to know where we went? How it was? What time I got back?” you tried to pull a reaction from him, anything. “I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a fork than talk about that nerd before I finish my coffee,” he said flatly, placing his cup in the sink. On his way out, he passed by you, pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head, paired it with a half-hug that clearly meant: end of conversation. He threw his tennis gear over his shoulder and left the apartment without another word.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that Art was acting like someone who knew something neither of you was ready to admit. . . . “Do you want to come home with me for the holidays?” you asked one evening while you were sitting on the couch watching another episode of Friends. “What?” You could guess from his surprised tone that he was looking at you with a confused expression. “Look, we don’t really do Christmas or anything- Hanukkah is the big thing at my house. And you might have to sleep on the couch ‘cause there’s no guest room, but-” you started rambling, wondering why you even brought it up. You just figured his grandma in the nursing home wouldn’t be able to host him, and two and a half weeks in a house like his sounded lonely. “I figured I’d just stay here, maybe get some extra training in or something.” You could tell he was embarrassed, and for once, you actually looked at him. “That’s dumb. I mean- my house isn’t big or anything, but it’s full of people and everyone’s loud and yelling, and there’ll be food ‘cause my mom’s an amazing cook and-” You tried to pitch something you knew wasn’t exactly appealing: your family. “Okay,” he cut you off. “I’d really like that, (Y/N). Thanks.” You’d known Art for almost two years now, and you couldn’t imagine a more sincere look than the one he gave you just then. So you just nodded, and the two of you went back to staring at Jennifer Aniston talking, without hearing a single word she said.

“So, just a reminder- my mom’s name is Sarah, and my dad’s John. My uncles will probably be there, and my grandpa’s this grumpy guy who complains about everything, but he means well. They’ll talk about Hanukkah like the miracle happened in our living room or something. You can ignore ninety percent of what they say and still understand everything.” It was a mantra you’d repeated at least ten times over the past week. But to his credit, Art didn’t comment on it while he drove. You left at six in the morning and stopped twice for coffee, and Art insisted on picking up flowers and a bottle of wine on the way, because apparently he couldn’t show up empty-handed.

“Wanna drive?” he asked at some point. “No,” you said too quickly, making him glance over with a raised eyebrow before turning his eyes back to the road. “I don’t know how to drive. It’s not that I want you to do the whole eight hours,” you added, feeling like it was kind of rude to dump it all on him. “You’re twenty-one. How do you not know how to drive?” He sounded more amused than judgy, like he didn’t actually hold it against you- just wanted to understand. “My dad tried teaching me one summer in high school and I crashed into Meredith’s trash bin -she's our neighbor- and cried for three straight hours. After that I decided driving wasn’t for me.” You said it fast, like it was a totally obvious decision.

“That’s insane. You know that, right?” He wasn’t trying to insult you, and honestly, you weren’t even offended. “I can’t believe I didn’t know that. Feels like something I should’ve known,” he added, and you just shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. A lot of super smart people never got a license. I manage just fine,” you said, with your usual conviction. “You could manage in an igloo. Doesn’t mean you should live in one,” he chuckled, and you gave him a light smack on the shoulder. “You sure you wanna pick a fight with me while we’re on the way to my house, Donaldson? My dad will poison you,” you said, and his laugh got louder.

You parked in front of your house, and it looked exactly the way you remembered it. A small garden your dad put way more effort into than he had to, an even smaller set of front steps, and beige-colored walls. You smiled without meaning to, but you knew Art was watching you, so you looked back at him. “It’s smaller than you’re probably imagining, okay?” You tried to prepare him. You didn’t want him to be surprised. Didn’t want him to hold anything your parents lacked against them. “I’m sure it’s perfect.” His smile didn’t waver for a second.

Your mom hugged him before she hugged you, which in a parallel universe might’ve been concerning, but you knew the woman who raised you well enough to understand that she showed love exactly as she felt it- with no delay. “These are for us? You’re sweet, but you really didn’t have to,” she said, taking the flowers and wine from him. “You both look way too skinny. Fancy college and they don’t feed you at all,” she concluded after giving you both a full once-over, acting like she’d known Art since birth. “Ben, Daniela, and Lily are already here. Becca’s coming tomorrow,” she gave you the general update, nodding as you and Art followed her into the house. Your brother, Ben, is nine years older than you and married to Daniela. Lily was born two years ago. They live not far from your parents. You’d never been especially close to Ben- the age gap, the boarding school, the constant distance. But Lily was like an angel dropped into the family.

You and Becca were a different story. Three years apart, and she never got the kind of chances you did. She’d always had to give up clothes she loved so you’d have something to wear, and she was never good enough in school for anyone to offer her a scholarship. College wasn’t in the cards for her. She worked mornings at a checkout counter and evenings as a waitress. Sometimes, when you thought about it too much, you wondered if she resented you for it- for all the times you heard “yes” while she heard “no.” You could cry just thinking about it too much, because she’d never done a single thing to make you feel like that.

Dinner was full of humor, just like you remembered your home to be. Every now and then you glanced over at Art to see if he was overwhelmed by the shouting, the crude jokes, or even Lily’s crying. But he was simply present, weaving tennis stories with his usual charisma. Drawing the room in with every word out of his mouth. You could feel his hand occasionally pinch your knee, a quiet reminder that he was here with you- even as his attention stayed perfectly inside the conversation.

“Sunny, can you get some fruit from the fridge?” your mom suddenly asked. “Sunny?” Art asked, shifting a curious look from her to you. “It’s just a sill-” “When she was little and started making sense of things,” Ben cut in, “she realized the sun goes down every day. And for weeks, she’d wait for sunset, hoping maybe this time it wouldn’t happen. And then when it did, she’d cry for hours about how unfair it was that for us to sleep, the sun had to leave. Every night, for weeks. The nickname stuck.” You hadn’t known Ben remembered the story in all its embarrassing detail.

All you could do was roll your eyes and ignore the way Art’s eyes sparkled as they stayed fixed on you while you pulled out fruit from the fridge. By the time your mom basically shoved you and Art into your childhood bedroom, tossing a couple of blankets your way, it was already late. “You can sleep on the bed, Donaldson,” you told him firmly. “Don’t be stupid,” he shot back. “You’re a guest in my house and you were expecting at least a couch. I didn’t know my grandpa was staying with us for the holiday,” you said, starting to lay out a layer of clothes on the inflatable mattress you found in the storage room a few minutes earlier. “Your room’s cool,” he said, ignoring your comment as he looked over the books on your shelves and the pictures you’d once pinned to a corkboard. You felt absurdly exposed. “It’s fine. I decorated it when I was six,” you rolled your eyes, and he raised an eyebrow at you.

The compromise was that every night you were there, you’d take turns sleeping arrangements. One night you on the crappy mattress, the next one, he will. You didn’t say it out loud, but you suspected the actual mattress on the bed probably didn’t meet Art’s standards either.

“Your house is perfect,” Art said into the dark, almost whispering. It was his way of erasing the awkwardness he knew you felt, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say “thank you,” because you weren’t sure if he meant it. “They really try,” you whispered back. “I don’t think anyone in my family, besides my grandma, ever tried,” he admitted. “I’m sorry,” you said the only thing left to say. “Thanks.” And you didn’t know if he was thanking you for the chance to see a family different from his and be part of it, or for letting him say what he felt without being ashamed.

“Art?” “Hmm?” “I’m glad you came,” you tried to tell him he had nothing to thank you for. “I’m glad I came too, Sunny,” he wrapped up the conversation, and each of you closed your eyes in your corner of the room. . . . It was one of those days where you felt the wind knocked out of your sails. Your last lab was a total failure, showing the exact opposite results from the research you’d been working on, which meant you’d have to redo it over the weekend. The discussion section you TA for part-time, refused to take you seriously in any way, mostly because you were, well... a girl. Which honestly made you imagine those first-year guys going up in flames. So after experiencing failure, catching the lingering sad glances Jamie kept throwing your way since your half-baked date, and a heavy dose of misogyny- you finally made it to the apartment you shared with Art around 9 PM. Wondering if he’d finally bought a corkscrew, because that bottle of wine had been yelling at you from the fridge for two weeks.

“Did you buy a cork-” The person sitting on the couch wasn’t Art. There was no sign of Art. The person sitting fully spread out on the couch, shirtless like he owned the place, was Patrick Zweig. “Oh.” You felt stupid for walking in like that.

He looked at you like you were the one who barged into the wrong apartment, even though this was your living room. Your safe space. And now, suddenly, Patrick Zweig, of all people, was in it. “Art’s in the shower,” he said quietly, and all you could do was nod and head to your room- feeling your heart beating way too fast for someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you anymore.

You were pretty sure you heard Art mutter something like, “I told you to wait in the room, why can’t you ever just do what you’re asked?!” right before you recognized the familiar rhythm of his knock. “Yeah?” you tried to keep your voice steady as you stared at your laptop screen. There was an article open in front of you that you hadn’t read a single word of- just there to make it look like everything was normal. “I didn’t know he was coming, I swear,” Art’s voice was laced with a kind of panic you’d learned to recognize by now. “He got into a fight with Tashi and had nowhere to go, and you weren’t answering your phone all day and-” “Art, breathe. It’s fine. He’s your best friend and this is your home. You can have whoever you want here. I don’t mind.” You looked at him with a calculated calm, hoping it was enough to cover what you were actually feeling. “Wanna go get dressed?” you added, smiling as you slowly took in the sight of him- wearing nothing but a towel.

“Do you want him to leave? I can find him somewhere else to stay-” He wasn’t buying the smiles or the focus on your screen. Sometimes you thought nothing you staged ever fooled him, that he could read you like an open book. “It doesn’t matter, Art. It’s been years since he was part of my life; and even then, it was barely a role.” It was a full-on lie, but he didn’t push. Just nodded and stepped out of the room, like he already knew why you needed him to do just that. You woke up earlier than usual, hungry because you hadn’t eaten anything the day before, and mostly hoping that by some miracle, Patrick would already be gone from your apartment. But there he was. In your kitchen. Holding your favorite coffee mug and drinking from the fancy tea Art bought you half-jokingly when you were both drunk. But the point stood- the tea was yours.

You felt your jaw clench at the sight of his half-smug smile. Your body tensed in front of this person who, just three years ago, made it his mission to make your life miserable every chance he got. “Art went to practice,” he said, like he was trying to break the most painfully awkward silence either of you had ever taken part in. “I’m not his babysitter,” you answered, defensive in a way that didn’t even match what he said.

“Do you want some coffee?” he asked. “I can make my own coffee,” you replied, trying to move toward the machine behind him. “It’s fine, I’ll make it- I’m already here,” he said, and somehow, in the middle of the dumb little coffee standoff, his hot tea ended up on your shirt, and your favorite mug shattered on the floor.

“I hate you.” It came out of you half-whimpered, way out of sync with your usual control. Frustration took over every part of your body, along with tears that he didn’t deserve to see- but he saw them anyway. And he looked terrified. “You just have to ruin everything, huh?” you mumbled, crouching to pick up the pieces of your mug.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick sounded lost. “I really am. I- I’ll get you a new glass. I’ll bring it to Art next time I see him,” he said, stepping back while you gathered the broken ceramic. “It’s not a glass. It’s a mug. And it has sentiment. But you wouldn’t get that, because if you had any sentiment at all -anything beyond arrogance and smugness- you wouldn’t be such a piece of shit,” you snapped, dumped the pieces into the trash, and headed to your room to change your shirt and breathe for a second.

You tried to remind yourself that you had a long day ahead. That you needed to finish your lab work. That Patrick Zweig showing up in your life like some cursed reminder of who you used to be would vanish just as easily. That he was the weak one now. The lost one. The one who didn’t know how to appreciate anything. You didn’t need his pity. You didn’t need his apologies. You had friends like Josie and Art. You liked the life you’d built for yourself. You tried to remind yourself that people like Patrick didn’t get to shake you anymore.

“I really am sorry,” he muttered when you came out of your room again. “I could not care less, Patrick,” you said in a firm voice that didn’t sound like you at all- and slammed the door behind you, hoping that when you came back, he’d be gone. . . . When you came back to the apartment, almost at the exact same time as the night before, the one sitting on the couch, alert and ready, was Art. “Hey,” you mumbled as you walked in with way too much stuff in your hands, which made him get up to help you without needing to be asked. “You want this in your room?” he asked. “If you could put it on the desk, that’d be nice,” you said and opened the fridge. You relaxed a little when you realized Patrick wasn’t there. You felt Art’s hands on your shoulders within seconds, his lips on the top of your head, making you close your eyes for a second in front of the half-empty fridge- typical of student life.

“Hey,” it was his turn to say. “I’m a shitty roommate. I should’ve at least warned you he’d be here,” he said quietly. “Art, he’s your best fr-” you sighed. “You keep saying that, but it’s not true. You’re my best friend. And I should’ve thought about you yesterday, and I didn’t. Just accept the apology.” He said it formally, still speaking into your hair. “I’m hungry,” you replied. “I made pasta and a salad,” he said and stepped away from you. It made you wonder when you’d gotten so used to his presence that you actually felt his absence the second his body heat pulled away.

“Patrick and Tashi broke up,” he said after you’d nearly finished the bottle of wine you’d been dreaming about since yesterday, and were sitting on the couch together in front of the TV. “Oh. You gonna shoot your shot, Donaldson?” you asked what you felt like you had to, but you didn’t want to hear the answer. You didn’t want him to say he was going to try with Tashi. “I don’t need any more luck than what I’ve got, Sunny,” you caught the smirk in his tone. “I’m not into Tashi. It ended the same way it started. Some things are more important than chasing someone who used to date a guy who used to be my friend.” His hand was on your knee, giving a light squeeze with a meaning you couldn’t afford to examine. You felt that if you thought too hard about it, you’d start crying.

“He’s still your friend, Art,” you said, not moving your leg away from his touch. “I don’t think so,” he replied quietly. “Why?” you asked softly, assuming the answer would be Tashi, or distance, or time. The things life just naturally leads you to. “Because I can’t love someone who treated you the way Patrick did. I tried. I can’t,” he said with a kind of honesty that sliced through whatever defenses you had left. “Why?” you asked again, your voice even softer, slightly shaking. “You know why.” Where your voice trembled, his steadied. And his face was suddenly in front of yours so fast you didn’t fully understand how you ended up at this point.

“I-” “Can I kiss you?” Art looked at you in that moment like you were holding the universe in your hands. All you could do was nod, and his lips were on yours. His hands explored every inch of your body they could reach. It felt desperate and deep and right. Like oxygen after the two days you’d both just been through. “This is all I’ve wanted to do since the second I fell asleep in your stupid dorm,” he mumbled into your neck, running his tongue over a spot just after biting it gently.

“This makes no sense,” you managed to say as you pulled his shirt off. Your hand wandered over the muscles of his stomach like a sculptor admiring his most precious work of art. He didn’t answer, but the two of you moved silently toward his room, only breaking apart to breathe and keep shedding layers of clothes. “You’re so beautiful,” he said as his hand unhooked your bra and cupped your left breast.

It was ridiculously erotic, the kind of thing Josie would giggle and roll her eyes at when you told her about it- but you didn’t care. His mouth was on your right nipple, and for a second you forgot your own name. The high-pitched sound that came out of you came from deep in your stomach. You tried to stay composed, to hold on to some dignity, but Art’s eyes met yours just as you saw your nipple in his mouth, and your breathing completely fell apart. Your hand found one of the curls at the back of his neck, and somehow you got a groan out of him without even doing much.

His mouth kept moving across your body exactly like you’d only ever let yourself imagine in your most repressed nights over the past two years. “Can I?” he asked as his face hovered near your underwear, his voice so turned on it sounded like speaking actually hurt. You were the reason. Maybe the blame. Depending on who you asked. “You can do anything,” you declared. And it was true. You felt like if he wanted to start painting you fully nude right then, you’d let him. “That’s the sexiest thing you could’ve said to me,” he said, and your underwear ended up on the floor.

“No one’s ever-” You felt a little embarrassed as you started to say no one had ever been where he was right now, but you caught the look in his eyes. Calming. “Do you want to stop?” he asked, with a calm you had no idea where he summoned from. “No!” It came out almost as a yell.

“Okay,” he nodded, and his mouth started to explore your pussy- first in light, teasing licks, then in slow, swirling motions you didn’t think a human tongue could make. The sounds coming out of you made him moan into you. His fingers joined in, and you could feel the intensity of the orgasm building so fast you didn’t even have time to warn him, but he stayed exactly where he was, whispering into you that you were perfect. That he’d never tasted anyone like you. Only when your legs stopped trembling did he start kissing his way up your stomach, soft and slow, until his forehead rested against yours. It felt like a small victory. You didn’t know whose, but you wanted to believe neither of you had lost.

“Do you want me to...?” you asked softly, reaching for the waistband of his boxers. He was clearly struggling. But he only shook his head. “Tonight was about you. I want it to be about you.” He smiled and lay down beside you, playing with your hair while you felt your eyes start to drift shut.

You think this might be the definition of peace and calmness. And somehow, all these years had been hiding it from you. . . . In the morning, you were hit with panic when you woke up and Art wasn’t next to you. Even if you weren’t in his bed, you knew you wouldn’t be able to forget the night you’d just shared. It wasn’t like the first night -at that party- when he’d fallen asleep and you never talked about it again. This time, there was intimacy. The kind you were scared to lose. A person so deeply part of your life, it sometimes felt like he filled every inch of you.

When you came out to the kitchen, you saw your broken mug on the table, glued back together with what you could only assume was some shitty glue he found at the house. 'Went to practice. Tried to fix it, but water still leaks through the cracks. Sorry, Sunny. We’ll get you a new one.' The note was short, the handwriting barely legible. But you looked at that mug with tears in your eyes and knew that the sentiment had completely changed- and somehow you loved it just as much.

Maybe even more. . . .

So, I honestly don’t even know what this is. As always, I’d love to hear from you- my DMs are always open. And hey, I hope at least some of you weren’t bored out of your minds reading this...... Talk to me ❤️

[coolemmasulivan2]

Nightmares

Pairing: Mason Mount x Reader

Summary: You sneak out of the bed to avoid waking Mason with your nightmares, but he wakes up anyway, because he can't sleep without you.

Word count: 1025

Home A place where I can go To take this off my shoulders Someone take me home

Work had been overwhelming lately, the kind of stress that clings to you even in sleep. For days now, your nights had been filled with nightmares, each one jarring you awake, and waking Mason with you. And every time, you felt even more guilty.

"You don't need to sleep in another room." He had whispered the night before, brushing your hair back gently after you startled awake again. "I'm fine. I don't mind. It's easier for you if I'm next to you."

He meant it. You knew he did. But you also knew it wasn't true, not completely. The tiredness was written all over his face. Mason, who usually sprang out of bed for training without a hint of complaint, had started lingering under the covers until the last possible minute.

After he left that morning, and before you headed off to work, you quietly made up the bed in one of the guest rooms.

Tonight, once he was asleep, you would sneak out. You hated the idea of being apart from him, but the coach was trusting him more and more, and the least you could do was let him rest.

You were cuddled up against Mason on the sofa, the familiar weight of his arm around you. Your new favorite show was playing softly in the background and Ace was snoring quietly from his bed on the floor.

These were the moments that let your body truly relax after another long and draining day at work. You let out a deep sigh and closed your eyes for a second.

"You should quit." Mason said, fingers tracing slow and soothing patterns along your arm. "You know that, right?"

"I know. I know!" You replied, opening your eyes with a small groan. "I just… I don't want to leave the team buried in more work."

He shook his head gently. "Babe, you've got to think about you for once. That job is messing with you. You're not quitting because you want to, you're quitting because your health is more important."

You hesitated, eyes flicking back to the TV. He was right. You were exhausted, inside and out.

"I'll give them my resignation letter at the end of the week." You said quietly.

Mason gently grabbed your jaw so you had to look at him. His gaze was steady, warm.

"Promise me."

You nodded. "I promise."

He smiled and kissed your forehead. He pulled you even closer into his arms and you finally let yourself melt into him.

When it was time to go to bed, you made sure to stay awake until Mason had drifted off. It wasn't hard, he had nearly fallen asleep on the sofa before you both made it to the bedroom.

Ten minutes later, when his breathing had settled, you gently slipped out from under the covers. You grabbed your phone from the nightstand and took one last glance at your boyfriend, before you silently left the room.

You chose the guest room furthest from your own, just in case you made any noise in the night. The room was colder than you expected, but you climbed into bed quickly, pulling the covers tightly around you. With a quiet and tired sigh, you closed your eyes.

Mason stirred, reaching out for you, but his hand was only met with cold sheets.

Frowning, he sat up, glancing around the dark room. The ensuite bathroom light was off. He grabbed his phone: 3 am.

"Y/n?" He called softly, but there was no answer.

Throwing off the covers, he got up to look for you. Ace was curled up alone in the living room and the kitchen was also empty. His brows furrowed.

When he found you, you were tangled in the sheets, tossing and turning, having another nightmare.

He turned on the light and rushed to your side, sitting on the edge of the bed and gently shaking your shoulder.

"Y/N." He said. You mumbled something under your breath. "Babe, wake up." You jolted awake, your heart racing. Sweat clung to your skin and for a moment, you didn't even recognize where you were. Then your eyes locked on Mason's. "You're fine. Everything's fine."

"I'm sorry." You whispered.

"Why are you apologizing?" He asked, gently cupping your cheek with his hand.

"I woke you up again. You need your rest." You said. "You shouldn't have to keep waking up because of me and my nightmares."

His expression softened. "Wait… is that why you're here? You didn't want to wake me up?" You nodded. Mason let out a quiet sigh and shook his head. "I didn't wake up because of your nightmare, love. I woke up because you weren't in our bed." He reached for your hand, wrapping his fingers around yours gently but firmly. "I can't sleep without you."

You looked at him, eyes glassy with emotion. "Mason…"

"I mean it!" He said, voice low. "It doesn't matter if I wake up a few times, or if you need me in the middle of the night. I just… I want you next to me."

"But I hate that I'm messing with your sleep."

He leaned in and rested his forehead against yours. "You're not messing anything up. You're going through something, and I want to be there for you. That's what love is, right? Not just the easy stuff."

You hesitated for a moment, then took a shaky breath. "I'm going to hand in my resignation letter tomorrow."

Mason's eyes softened even more, a proud smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah?"

You nodded. "I can't keep putting myself last. I'm tired, Mase."

He grabbed your hand again and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'm proud of you."

"Thank you." You whispered.

He stood up and offered his hand to you. "Come back to bed?"

You took his hand and let him pull you up, wrapping yourself in his warmth as he guided you back down the hallway.

Once you were both tucked under the covers again, Mason pulled you close, your head resting on his chest.

"I love you." He murmured into your hair.

You smiled into the dark. "I love you more."

[riamaple]

Life on Your Line (Ch. 5)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader

Summary: Cursed to sacrifice your life to save another, you were never able to connect with others, always meant to drift before you could belong. Death was all you knew. Then, one day in Brooklyn, you saved a young man, and for some reason, you kept seeing him again. And again. And again. No matter where you went, across decades, you always found your way back to him.

He was forced to live to destroy, you were forced to die to save—bound together in ways neither of you could understand.

Warnings: Angst (with an eventual happy ending). Death and Dying. Self-Sacrifice (Immortality / Resurrection). Canon-Typical Violence / Description of Wounds. Suicidal Thoughts. Implications and References to Child Death, Suicide, Self-Destructive Behavior / Self-Harm.

< PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Word Count: 4.1k

Additional Warning(s) for This Chapter: Brief Reference to Vomiting

CHAPTER 5: November 1977 - February 2004

November 9, 1977. 4:30 AM

I saved James for the 5th time on October 9 and my stomach is killing me.

I got home earlier than I thought — I should’ve known Jonny was gonna be a disaster of a date. He told me at the last minute to dress nice and then took me to a wedding. A WEDDING! I thought he was gonna take me to a fancy restaurant, but no. He took me to a wedding, pretending that I was his longtime girlfriend when this was our second date. So I pretended to break up with him and left immediately. 

Of course, I wasn’t going to date Jonny for long, but it still would’ve been nice to be with a man who doesn’t treat you like trash. He was truly a reminder of why I stopped trying to date decades ago, regardless of my curse. Too many shitty people everywhere.

I came home and just crashed onto my couch. I dozed off in the middle of the day, but then I woke up at a party at a giant mansion. Luckily, I was still in my dress from that failed date so I didn’t stick out. Or, maybe it wasn’t luck — maybe you knew well enough to put me in that dress.

When I woke up at that party, I was confused. It always takes me a moment to realize I’m not dreaming — that I’m there for one person.

I moved past all of the snobby people to find James and couldn’t help but notice how many security guards there were. There was a guard almost at every entrance and they all tried to look tough. But based on what I’ve seen from James, these men have no chance against him.

There was a hallway that didn’t have a guard. I’ve learned at this point that those are signs pointing me to James. I kept walking until I heard a loud thud from a private study. When I opened the door, I saw him right by the door, standing over a man — some politician — with a gun in his metal hand.

It’s been about 9 years since I last saw him and I missed him, but he hasn't aged a day and he looks even colder and stiffer than before. The person in charge of him is still trying to carve away the young man from Brooklyn. But when James looked up and raised his gun at me, he stopped.

He’s done this before — look at me and take a moment to realize who I am…but I think it happened faster this time. He was more of a machine than he was back on that plane, and yet James came back in those eyes quicker than before. He kept his gun up, but I managed to walk up to him without him shooting me. I think he looked nervous to see me

I wanted to talk to him, but I felt the pull so I grabbed him. He let me grab him because I think his body knows now I’m not a threat. Considering I’ve saved his ass 4 times by that point, he better know I’m not a threat. I grabbed him and pulled him away and I was stabbed in the chest. I want to say I’m used to being stabbed now, but it still sucks.

What I’m not used to, on the other hand, is getting caught after getting hurt. James shot the guard in the head as he caught me, just like he did on the plane. He helped me lie down and looked at me for a long time. He was wearing his mask like before, but I only needed to look into his eyes to see how confused he was again.

He was supposed to walk away. Let me die alone while he went back to wherever he came from like he did on the plane…but he stayed. He sat next to me, keeping me company as long as he could. I wanted to ask him where he was from — who was in charge of him — but I couldn’t say a word without coughing up blood. I really wanted to ask because if I knew…maybe I could try to free him from his prison.

But then, you’ll never believe what happened next.

James touched my face.

He moved closer and held his hand — not the metal one — against my cheek. His hand was surprisingly soft He blinked at me like he was trying to figure out where he knew me from.

I no longer believe that he doesn’t remember me because we haven't seen each other for years, or that he pretends not to know me… I think he actually doesn’t remember me. He’s always confused when he sees me. 

Are they torturing him so badly that he forgets who I am? Who he is? 

But despite forgetting me, I saw James fighting in those frost blue eyes before I died.

If they’re somehow making James forget who he is, I think I can be the one to get him to come back.

<><><>

February 2, 1978. 5:19 AM

It’s been 3 months and here I am, thinking about how James touched my face like a dumb teenager with a crush. He

Your pen and journal flew across the room before you fell back into bed, throwing the covers over yourself as you let out an irritated yell.

<><><>

August 14, 1981. 5:19 AM

I started to read about James.

I don’t know what made me do it all of a sudden, but when I walked by our archives, I had the urge to find articles about him. I asked Carl if I could look through wartime records from the 40s — he was a little confused by my request but showed me where they were. I never mention James to him.

Considering he was with Captain America for most of the war, it was easy to spot his name. There were so many stories about him and the Howling Commandos taking down HYDRA bases and freeing the prisoners.

I forgot that his middle name is Buchanan. 

James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky Barnes.

What a name.

There was also a photo of him. He was young and proud, standing tall with his unit with a smile on his face.

I almost forgot what his smile looked like. It’s pretty cute

I read the articles slowly as if it was my first time reading them. It wasn’t — I read the same papers decades ago when they arrived at my doorstep. I kept up with the news to make sure he was alive, still going out and fighting against HYDRA like the hero he was is.

I remember feeling proud of him, even though I didn’t really have the right to. I wasn’t his family or friend, or a name that would show up in his file or stories about him. But I gave him back to the world twice, so I let myself believe a little bit that I had a small hand in the man he became. A hero. A fighter. A soldier who held the line when others couldn’t.

Because of James, I allowed myself to believe — just for a while — that this curse was a blessing.

<><><>

May 30, 1987. 6:48 AM

I saved James for the 6th time on April 30. I woke up on my couch with the left side of my back burning. 

I went to bed after an uneventful day at work and woke up in a city I’ve always wanted to visit. Tokyo. It was really pretty. There were all of these neon lights that eventually did hurt my eyes, but they lit up the streets in a gorgeous way that I could barely see here in Maine.

It took me a bit to find James this time because I woke up in an empty apartment. I thought he was in the building with me, but then I saw that one of the windows was open, meaning he was outside. I found myself in a dark alley and just wandered from one place to another. I did get worried at one point because I thought maybe I missed him and I already failed. But my worries went away when I finally found him standing by a dumpster in another alleyway.

He heard me and immediately pointed his gun at me, but I didn’t care. I just knew he wouldn’t shoot me. Even if he did, I would’ve saved him anyway. He lowered his gun as I walked up to him, but then I felt the pull and noticed the red dot on his chest. I moved in front of him and the bullet hit my back.

James didn’t let me fall again. I was surprised, but he actually ran to catch me. I think he was already moving towards me before the bullet hit. He moved me out of the way, hiding me behind the dumpster before he used his own rifle to kill the sniper. It reminded me of him from the war. 

He moved me against the wall and watched me. He didn’t look as confused as before — not as distant. I asked him who was in charge of him and he didn’t respond, but I could see in his eyes that he was surprised by my question. I don’t know if he could tell me, even if he wanted to. 

I didn’t realize it for a while, but he was pressing on my wound. It wasn’t until he shifted that I realized his hand was on my back. I think he was trying to figure out what to do, but also didn’t understand why he should save me to begin with. 

I pushed his arm away and he let me. I think he finally understands that he can’t stop me from dying.

I called him James and he said he didn’t know who that was. I tried to explain, but he touched my face before I could. He’d touched my cheek before, but…it was different this time. 

You know when you wake up from a dream and you can’t seem to remember what it was about? And as the day goes on, you might remember bits and pieces but still not get the full story.

I think he’s tired of waking up from a dream. It was like he was trying to memorize my face rather than just remember the bits of me. Trying to hold onto whatever I am to him.

He was finally close enough that I managed to touch his face too. I felt his temples — there were scars there again. I couldn’t see them in the dark, but they felt new. I asked him again who was in charge of him and he didn’t tell me. Then we heard a lot of yelling in the streets — numerous men looking for the person who killed their boss. I told James to leave and he didn’t.

When he looked back at me, I didn’t know what to think.

He looked afraid. 

Afraid for what? I don’t know, but I’ve never seen him afraid. I only saw his eyes, but there was definitely fear there. I wanted to comfort him and

He reached for my necklace and opened my locket again. He stared at it for a long time before looking at me. He asked me who I was, and I said that I was someone who was there to save him. He asked why I saved him, and I said he deserved to live. 

He didn’t understand that.

He tugged lightly on my locket like he wanted to take it — to take something that would remind him of me — but I didn’t let him. I told him to leave before he was caught. He tucked my locket back into my shirt, took one last look at me, and disappeared.

But I think he knows I’ll see him again. I want to see him again.

<><><>

June 6, 1987. 9:15 PM

I’ve had many different careers in my life, and yet I always find comfort in being surrounded by texts.

Right now, I’m using my career to my advantage. I want to figure out why James’s memory is loose — why he can never remember me at first, or himself for that matter. I’m gathering any books and research papers in the library that might lead me somewhere.

I want to fig

I have to 

I will figure this out. I have to get James to come back.

<><><>

The front door slammed open and you rushed into your apartment, eyes welling up with tears and breath coming out erratically. You rushed to your bedroom and ripped the drawer of your bedside table open, your hands trembling as you grabbed your journal and pen. You quickly scribbled down the start of your entry.

January 25, 1990. 6:42 PM

I can’t fucking do this. I

The journal fell to the floor as you stumbled to your bathroom, your stomach no longer happy with your meal from earlier.

<><><>

January 25, 1990. 6:42 PM 11:25 PM

I can’t fucking do this. I

I threw up. Like, a lot. All because of a theory that seems too real.

I’ve been reading novels and stories for many decades, keeping up with history and fantasies from around the world. But I’ve always avoided reading anything gruesome or tragic — I deal with enough bloodshed and loss in my life.

But ever since my last encounter with James, I started to read about anything I could find about memory loss. I found novels, research, and memoirs about what it means to lose your memory. But then I ended up having to read horrifying cases of experiments and medical studies, and it took me a while to get through them because I have a weak stomach for this kind of thing. I know it’s ironic considering I’ve died in the most gruesome way imaginable, but when it happens to other people, it makes me sick.

For years, I wondered why James always seemed to forget me, trying to grasp me like I was just out of reach. I tried to tell myself it was because I only saw him after so many years apart or a form of amnesia, but the way he touched my face told me that there was something more to this than just forgetting — than just being forced to go on missions as a ghost. I slowly started to suspect it was some form of mind control, so I started to read about anything that was about altering the brain.

I knew something was wrong. But when I read about studies where electric shocks were used to wipe a person’s mind, I wanted to scream. 

It's not drugs. It’s not mind control. 

It’s brainwashing.

Those scars on his temples make sense. They’re burn marks. There were always new ones whenever I saw him — evidence that they were ripping him apart to make the perfect soldier, only meant to follow orders and nothing else. They’re forcing him to forget. That’s why he doesn’t remember me. His instincts tell him that I’m a friend, but his mind has to piece me back together.

No wonder he looked so scared when I told him to leave. Leaving means to go back to THEM and get burned and torn apart all over again. I wish he told me who was doing this to him. If I knew, then maybe I could get the authorities involved — put him on someone’s radar and find a way to get him out. I have to find out next time. I have to free him.

But how do you free someone who doesn’t even know they need to be freed? Every time I see him, he looks at me like I’m a distant memory, something slipping through his fingers even though I’m standing right there. And yet, he always reaches for me, just enough to make me see that James is still in there. I need James 

But if I keep showing up as a reminder of who he was, does he feel more pain when they shock him? Does it hurt more when there are more memories to burn away?

I don’t want to hurt him, but I don’t want him to die either. I need him to survive long enough for someone to free him. 

I have to save him over and over and over again. I don’t care how many times it takes. 

<><><>

October 7, 1998. 7:26 AM

I saved James for the 7th time on September 7, and I woke up just in time to miss my baby’s 100th birthday.

You have a twisted sense of humor.

I was gonna spend the whole day celebrating her, but that day happened yesterday. I’m so bitter about it but I know that doesn’t change the fact that you’ve always been fucked up.

But still, you couldn’t have given me this? I’m sure with how you’ve controlled my life, you have some say in deciding when James needs me. I’m not mad about saving him — I’m mad that you couldn’t have let me comfortably walk around yesterday to celebrate my baby girl. Get some of our favorite eclairs and maybe a teddy bear — one that has a dress and pretty shoes that she would’ve liked.

You let me lose her when she was 6. You know I still grieve over her. Did you not have the decency to let me enjoy my baby’s big day?

I fell asleep after finishing my book and I woke up in the middle of a fight at a warehouse. I was hiding behind a crate, surrounded by weapons and gadgets, listening to a bunch of men yelling in what I could only assume was Russian. 

I looked over the crate and I saw James killing men left and right. He was more robotic than before — every move he made was calculated and efficient. It’s been 11 years since I last saved him, and he's only become more skilled at ending lives. There was so much blood and those men didn’t have a chance. 

Then I felt the pull and looked over to see one of the men hiding too, but he had grabbed a…I think it was a gun? It looked strange like it’s been tinkered with. It reminded me of the weird, strange weapon James fought against back in the war. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure James was attacking an arms dealer of some kind at the warehouse — the weapons they were using were not normal.

I ran in front of the man as he shot at James and holy shit — whatever he used was painful. It got me in my thigh, which was surprising because I’m so used to getting hit in the chest or stomach. Leg wounds aren’t lethal, but that just meant that this weapon was deadly enough to take me out like that.

The man who shot me was so confused and distracted by my presence that he got shot in the head. I looked at James and he was different. He was still terrifying but when he saw me on the floor, he turned into an animal. He went through the other men so brutally, slicing their skin so fast that their blood would hit the floor before their bodies did.

He was angry. He was normally collected, but he was horrifying then. I was actually scared that he would kill me next in his rage, but I couldn’t get away. My thigh was burning so much that I couldn’t move the rest of my body. I just closed my eyes, hoping to die quicker to stop the pain.

But then I was no longer on the floor. I opened my eyes to see his cold ones. He was carrying me in his arms — he never did that before. He held onto me tight and ran out of the warehouse. I didn’t know where we were going, but he carried me like I wasn’t a burden. 

We eventually ended up in an abandoned building, empty except for some medical kits and cases with bullets. I think that was where supplies were dropped off for him. He laid me against the wall and grabbed the kits.

I never expected that he would try to help me. I could barely keep my eyes open until he started to put pressure on my leg and I screamed. Fuck, I screamed so loud because it really hurt. I don’t know how much blood I lost, but that didn’t stop James from trying to fix me.

But I didn’t want him to. There’s no point — I always die in the end. I told him to stop because it was better to end my pain than to pretend he could help me. I’ve saved him so many times, but there he was trying to return the favor. But it wouldn’t work.

I was crying from the pain. I told him to stop again and he wouldn’t listen to me. James ignored me and kept on trying to tend my wound, but I was already cold and felt death approaching. I just wanted it to stop. I tried to grab his arms and I begged him to stop.

Then he yelled.

He fucking yelled “no” at me.

He was so desperate

I have known this man for so many decades, and yet we’ve only ever spoken to each other a few times. It was only ever a few quiet words, and most of the time it was only me talking.

He’s never yelled at me before.

We just stared at each other. I was surprised but him? James was appalled by what he did, like he didn’t know he was capable of…that. In his eyes, I saw a terrified young man, bruised by war yet so loved by others. He wanted to save me. God, he really did want to save me.

I wanted to see him. So I reached up and he let me pull his mask down. He wore despair and pain in a strange way like he couldn’t figure out how he could feel this way after so many years of being a killing machine. 

He was so lost, so I held his face, touching the scars around his temples again. I asked him whose orders he was following and I saw his lips tremble, like he wanted to tell me but something in his body stopped him. I kept on asking him and he kept on opening his mouth, but no words ever left. He couldn’t tell me.

He was still holding onto my wound when I told him to let me go. He listened that time.

But instead of letting me sit against the wall, he picked me up and put me in his lap.

It was like we were back in the war when I was dying in the mountains and James held me close. That was fifty years ago and we’ve both been broken again and again since then, but the comfort I felt was the same. James said sorry to me back then, and I knew he was saying sorry again despite not speaking.

I finally got to tell him his full name. James Buchanan Barnes.

He looked at me like I said a random string of words. But I said his name again and he said he doesn’t know who that is. I said that it was his name. Hopefully, that’ll help his memory. Maybe he’ll remember who he is and escape wherever he’s from. Maybe he already has. James wanted to ask more and I wanted to say more, but I couldn’t. I lost too much blood to keep talking and stay awake.

But when I looked at him one last time, I realized something else. He was scared. He didn’t want me to die because he needed my presence. Because maybe…maybe I’m the only thing still human left inside him.

I died in his arms, but I felt his hand on my cheek before I did. He whispered Rose again and I felt my heart beat faster despite dying

I can only hope that he’ll find another way to be human without me.

<><><>

January 16, 2004. 10:38 PM

January 17, 2004. 9:13 PM

February 18, 2004. 10:10 AM

I have never been more scared in my life until January 18.

I saved James for the 8th time, but I almost failed.

NEXT CHAPTER >

General Taglist! @a-century-of-sass @clemicious @fallenxjas @paryl

Thanks for reading :)

[rizlowwritessortof]

Friends and Lovers

You and Dean were the best of friends - until the night something happened that changed everything. But when you tried to move on, Dean was always standing in your way. And when you signed up for an online dating service, he was a total dick about it. What the hell did he want from you, anyway??

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 4719

Warnings: Nothing but a little angst, arguing and smut

Square #8 for my @jacklesverse-bingo 2025!! Prompt for this one was: Online Romance. Hope you enjoy!!

“It’s just a bad idea,” Dean argued, glaring at his laptop to avoid looking at you.

“Dean, people do online dating all the time.”

He scowled at you. “People. Maybe. I still think it’s stupid. But the thing is, we’re not ‘people.’ We’re hunters.”

You rolled your eyes. “What the fuck does that have to do with it?”

He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Do you know what internet dating is to monsters? A fucking take-out menu.”

“Oh, my god. You are so dramatic.”

“These things never work out well. I know.”

Sam snorted softly from his seat at the end of the table. “Impala ‘67,’” he muttered, and Dean shot lasers his direction.

“Shut up, Sam!”

You closed your laptop and glared across the table at him. “Look, I’m sorry about your hooker and her demon pimp. But this site is different.”

“Right.”

“You won’t even listen, so this – this discussion is over.” You stood up, grabbing your laptop and moving to leave the room.

Dean leaned forward, his eyes sparking with anger as he raised his voice. “Just a bunch of assholes lying to you, that’s what you’re gonna get. And you’ll be lying to them, because you can’t be totally honest about who you are to some clueless civilian.”

That stung. “Fuck you, Dean!” you fired back as you stormed away, heading for your room. You slammed the door with extra emphasis, and the sound echoed through the bunker. You let out a muffled scream of frustration, dropping your computer onto the desktop and throwing yourself down on the bed.

He was so stubborn. You knew he was just being protective – over-protective – and that he wanted to keep you safe, but nothing fired you up more than his obstinate refusal to listen to someone’s viewpoint that didn’t align with his. He pushed your buttons in a way that no one else had ever done, and it pissed you off that you let him get to you like he did.

The argument had been going on for days. It had all started when you signed up on the dating app, Friends and Lovers. Their whole approach was the antithesis of the hook-up sites that were basically there for booty calls. No photos were allowed, each person signing up was assigned a generic name, once they filled out a form stating their pronouns, relationship preferences, general likes, dislikes, and interests. They encouraged setting up private chats, spending time getting to know each other for a few weeks before actually meeting in person. The whole premise was that building a friendship first would be a stronger foundation for a lasting relationship instead of basing everything on looks and physical attraction.

And if Dean hadn’t been snooping on your computer, he wouldn’t have known anything about it. Ok, fine, he had just asked to borrow it, and you had left the app open by accident. But he’d been riding your ass about it ever since.

This was all his fault in the first place. That night a few months ago had fucking ruined everything. Before that, you had resigned yourself to being his bestie without benefits, no matter how you really felt. Because you knew he didn’t feel the same way, so you just pushed it down and enjoyed what the two of you did have together. And then he had to go and give you that spark of hope for one quick second, that glimpse of what could be, and it had fucked it all up.

You woke gradually, reluctant to leave the warm, cozy comfort of sleep, your eyes fluttering open and blinking slowly. Dean’s green eyes were right there, looking down at you as he brushed a lock of hair from your eyes. “Hey, sleepyhead. You didn’t even make it halfway through – lightweight,” he teased.

He was so close. It finally dawned on you that you were laying on his shoulder, and he smiled in amusement at your sleepy confusion. “Are you with me?”

“Yeah, I think so. Wow, I crashed,” you muttered, yawning.

“Big time.” You looked up at him again, a sleep-drunk smile on your lips. He was still staring down at you, his smile slowly fading. Something in his eyes changed as he looked at you, moving closer, and closer, and you wondered for a second if you were still dreaming, because it looked like – oh, shit, it felt like – he was going to kiss you. You let your eyes drift closed again, and you could feel his breath, could sense his lips almost brushing against yours.

And then he froze. He stayed there, motionless, for a moment, then straightened up so suddenly that your eyes opened again, searching. He was sitting bolt upright, stiff, jaw clenched as he looked away from you. Then he leaned away, rising to his feet after you sat up in response, disoriented, your head spinning a little at the sudden change in the atmosphere.

“Guess we should hit the sack, huh? G’night.” And then he was gone, leaving you feeling suddenly cold, alone, and utterly rejected.

Your relationship – whatever it was – hadn’t been the same since. He had pulled away, keeping you at arms length, and you had pulled away, too – hurt and confused. And the longer it had gone on, the bigger the rift had grown.

Dean sat there staring at his computer, his brows bunched as he gnawed at his lower lip. Sam fixed his eyes on his brother, his lips pressed together as he shook his head. “Don’t do it, Dean.”

Dean frowned back at him. “Don’t do what?”

“Whatever it is that you’re thinking about doing.”

Dean reared back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. “How do you know I’m thinking about doing anything?”

“I can practically read the thoughts going through your brain just from your expression.”

“Shut up, Sam.” Dean leaned up to his laptop again, and Sam spoke again, more softly this time.

“Dean, I’m just saying, some things you may not be able to come back from.” Dean let out a frustrated sigh, but Sam went on. “Maybe you should just talk to her.”

When his brother looked up this time, his eyes were clouded. “She won’t talk to me. She hasn’t for a while now.” He closed his laptop and pushed back from the table. “If we’re done with therapy, I’m gonna go to bed.” He ignored Sam’s accusing stare as he left the room, heading for the peace of his own bedroom.

He pulled off his boots and sat on his bed, pillows propped behind his back, and opened his laptop. The home page of the dating site was still open there, and he looked at it for a few minutes, Sam’s words still ringing in his ears. “Fuck it. What’s the worst that can happen?” he muttered to himself, and started filling out the form.

You hummed a tune to yourself as you stared into your closet, debating on which shirt to wear with your jeans. It was your first meeting with ‘Tom,’ and you had decided to go casual. You were just meeting him for drinks, wanting to keep everything low-key to start with. Not that you still weren’t nervous, but the two of you – well, ‘Tom’ and ‘Dana’ - had been chatting regularly for three weeks now, and he seemed like a pretty nice, easy-going guy. You seemed to have a lot in common – that you could share, anyway – and he made you laugh. You both constantly referenced and quoted movies and TV shows, liked the same type of food, and he came off as pretty down-to-earth. You were looking forward to getting to know a little more about him – like his real name – and that was a good sign, right? It had been so long since you had an actual relationship with potential that you weren’t even sure how to act. The plan was to keep things loose and not get too eager to jump into more before you were both really ready. If you were ever really ready.

Neither of the guys were in view when you walked through to go to your car. You were a little relieved, not wanting to answer questions anyway. Dean would just get that expression you hated, or start in again about meeting up with some guy you didn’t really know, and you breathed a little sigh of relief. It was sunny outside, and you allowed yourself a dose of cautious optimism as you drove to town.

You walked into the restaurant, targeting a table in a back corner where you could have a little privacy. You were really looking forward to meeting ‘Tom’ in person – your conversations had been far easier than you’d expected. He had a goofy sense of humor, and you’d laughed more online with him than you had in months. You just wanted to enjoy spending time with someone who understood you. He seemed to get you.

The waitress showed up and you ordered a draft beer and some appetizers. He would be showing up soon, but you didn’t want to be sitting there staring at the door when he walked in, so you took out your phone to keep yourself busy. When you heard footsteps, you looked up, your eyes widening as you saw the last person you expected or wanted to see standing there. Dean. “What the hell are you doing here?” you asked, fighting to keep your voice steady.

He looked a little nervous, staring down at his boots as he answered. “I’m supposed to meet somebody here.” He took a deep breath, finally looking you in the eye. “Her name is ‘Dana.’”

Your eyes went wide, your mouth opening wordlessly as you stared back at him. Then you shoved your chair back, almost knocking it over, and pushed your way between the waitress and Dean as you rushed towards the door.

“Hey!” the waitress said, barely managing to keep from dropping the beer and food you’d just abandoned. She set it all down on the table and looked back towards the door. “Great. Now who’s gonna pay for this?”

Dean pulled out his wallet and dropped a couple of twenties on the table. “Keep the change.”

She smiled at him in relief and thanked him. “Listen, you’d better go after her. She seemed pretty pissed.”

Dean moved towards the door, muttering under his breath, “You have no idea.”

When he stepped outside, he spied you, leaning against the side of your car, arms folded across your chest, staring hotly in his direction. “Shit,” he breathed, walking towards you, trying to come up with words.

“This is a new low for you, Winchester,” you spat, your seething anger making your voice a little shaky.

“I know it was stupid. Sammy told me not to do it.”

“Sam knew you were doing this?!”

“No – he didn’t know. He just knew I was thinking about doing something, and he told me not to.”

“Why? Why would you do this? I really thought I was talking to a nice, normal guy, thought maybe for once… But no, you were right, it was just another asshole lying to me on the internet.”

Dean ducked his head, his jaw working as he felt the blows from her well-aimed words. “I’m sorry. I never meant…” He looked up at her, shaking his head. “I didn’t do this to hurt you.”

“Then why the hell did you do it?”

He hesitated for a second before answering. “Because maybe I’d like to get back to the way we were before.”

“Before what?” You shouted, your voice still brittle with anger, and he returned fire before he could pull it back.

“Before I fucked it all up!”

You were silent for a second, staring down at the ground, the sounds of your raised voices seeming to linger in the air between you. You finally looked up, hurt in your eyes as you spoke quietly. “Well, this didn’t exactly fix things, did it?” You turned and opened your car door, climbing inside and closing it without another word. He stood there watching as you drove away, head hung low, wishing like hell he had listened to Sam’s advice.

It was almost unbearable in the bunker for the next couple of weeks. It was miserable trying to avoid Dean while living in the same space, and you finally got up one Saturday morning, deciding it was time for a change.

You went out to the kitchen and grabbed a cup of coffee, ignoring the surprise on the brothers’ faces at your appearance. “So,” you ventured, “it’s been too long since we all hit the bar together. Tonight we’re going out for drinks. We’re gonna get drunk and we’re gonna have fun. You know, like we used to.” You turned on your heel and headed back to your room leaving them wide-eyed and jaws dropped in the kitchen.

That evening, you stood in front of the mirror in your room, critically eyeing your reflection. Black lace thigh-high stockings, short denim skirt, and a clingy silver-grey top that draped gracefully low, providing a tempting view of soft curves and a generous portion of cleavage. You smiled, happy with the results of your preparations, and turned to put on your denim jacket. You’d save the unveiling for later. One way or another, before the night was over, Dean was either gonna make a damn sandwich or get the hell out of the kitchen.

You sat at the table with the boys for a couple of beers, even though the conversation was sparse and stilted. Sam tried his best to keep things going, but Dean was obviously still not up to much small talk. When you stood up and shed your jacket before heading to the bar, the expression on his face was everything you had hoped for.

You could feel his eyes burning into you as you made your way to the bar, ordering a shot and chatting with the bartender. It wasn’t long before a guy with an expensive haircut and too many buttons undone on his shirt came sidling up to you – exactly what you had been hoping for. When he asked you to dance, you gave him a promising smile and let him lead you to the dance floor.

Dean sat at the table, staring in your direction with a death grip on his beer. You were out there having a great time, laughing and dancing, flirting your ass off from the looks of it. He ground his teeth together, then slammed the rest of his beer down in one go, standing up and stalking to the bar for another. No, fuck that, he wanted whiskey. A double.

He polished off the whiskey and ordered another before heading back to the table. Sam was watching him, but wisely pressed his lips together and kept his mouth shut. Dean’s eyes drifted back to the dance floor again, just as another song began, this time with a heavy, sultry beat. His blood came to a low simmer as he watched the asshat you were dancing with move in close behind you as you turned your back, his hands possessively on your hips as you swayed to the music. Then you did a sexy little dip and roll, and Dean felt his mouth go dry, followed by his temper reaching the boiling point.

Sam said his name as Dean stood up, killing his whiskey in one swallow, but the blood rushing in his ears drowned it out as long, purposeful strides carried him over to you. “We need to talk,” he demanded as you stopped dancing, staring up at him incredulously.

“Seriously, Dean? Right now?”

He grasped your hand with a firm grip. “Right now.”

You shrugged and rolled your eyes at your dance partner when he protested, but Dean’s murderous expression cut him off, and he backed away, hands held out in surrender. “Yeah, whatever, dude.”

“Good choice,” Dean muttered, and to keep from making a scene, you let him lead you through the bar and out the front door. He didn’t stop until the two of you were in the back parking lot next to the Impala, and then you jerked your hand away, planting your feet and glaring up at him.

“What? I was dancing, having a good time. What is so goddamn important?”

“Dancing? Really? He was practically dry-humping you on the dance floor!”

“So?” You shouted the word at him, anger sparking in your eyes. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, no words coming to his rescue. “Why do you even care?”

His jaw worked as he tried and failed to look you in the face. “Because I do.”

You moved a step closer to him. “Why?”

He huffed out a frustrated breath. “I just do.”

You rolled your eyes. “Right. Because we’re such good friends, and that guy is no good, and you’re just trying to protect me. Blah, blah, blah.”

“Yeah,” he said defiantly, and you shook your head.

“Not good enough. Every guy in the world that I look at can’t be bad news, Dean.”

His lips were pressed tightly together, the dimples that always deepened when he was angry or frustrated showing clearly in the dim light. “I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t trust anybody with me. Why don’t you just tell me why?”

“I told you why.”

You jabbed a finger his direction, your voice rising. “If you don’t tell me the fucking truth, I swear to God I’m going back in there and do him right on the dance floor!”

His glare sent a little thrill up your spine. “The fuck you will.”

“The fuck I won’t.” You whirled around and took a step back towards the bar, but he grabbed you, jerking you back and turning to trap you between his body and the car. You shoved at his chest in frustration. “Why don’t you just admit how you feel?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

He looked away, avoiding your searching eyes. “No, I fucking don’t!”

“Admit that you want to be with me.” He still avoided looking at you, and you bit at your lip hard, then forced the next few words out, fear making you feel a little sick. “If you don’t want to be with me, Dean – you’ve gotta let go. I can’t – we can’t keep doing this.”

There was a tense pause, a few seconds where you thought you might have to just walk away. When he spoke, his voice was hushed, strained. “I can’t stand watching some asshole touch you the way I want to touch you.” He finally looked at you, the intensity in his gaze making your heart jump. “Yeah, I want you, so damn bad it scares the hell out of me.”

You stared up at him, reading the truth in his eyes. “Fucking finally,” you said, standing on tiptoe, your arms wrapping around his neck as you kissed him, his body warm and solid as he crowded you against the car. He deepened the kiss with a low groan, one hand coming to rest at your waist as the other trailed slowly from your jaw down the length of your throat, finally finding your breast and kneading at it as you arched into his touch.

When you finally stopped, he leaned his forehead against yours as you both panted for air. “Where are your keys?” he asked, and you reached into the pocket of your skirt to pull them out. “I’m gonna take these in to Sam. I’ll be right back.” He kissed you again, soft and quick, and backed away, letting you open the car door and slide inside.

He was back in a flash, slipping in beside you. He leaned in to kiss you again, then raised his head, pulling his bottom lip in as if he were savoring the taste of you. “You ready?” he asked, his voice raspy and low, and you smiled, your eyes shining.

“So ready.” His lips curved in a sexy smirk as he started the car and backed out, his hand warm on your lace-covered thigh as you headed down the road.

You scooted a little closer, returning the favor and tracing little patterns on his jeans, feeling the muscle shift beneath your fingers as he braked at the stop sign at the edge of town, then stepped on the gas. His hand was stroking slowly over your thigh, moving a little higher each time until he slipped under the hem of your skirt, and he swore under his breath as he touched the bare skin above your thigh-high. “Not sure we’re gonna make it all the way home, sweetheart,” he managed to get out, and you laid your head back on the seat next to his shoulder, smiling up at him.

“I’m okay with that.”

Dean took a sharp turn onto the next gravel road, and by the time he found a trail where he could pull off and park, you had gotten your boots off. You moved so he could slide out from under the steering wheel, and he watched you with hunger in his eyes as you finished shimmying out of your skirt and began to peel off your shirt.

He watched every move as you climbed aboard his lap, nothing but black lace and silky skin, and he swore as you settled on top of him. “Jesus, baby,” he said, shifting his hips a little as you trapped his hard-on between you. “You know you’ve been driving me crazy for months now.”

He was reaching for you, but you grabbed his hands, holding them against his chest as you fixed him with a stern stare. “Well, whose fault is that?”

He ducked his head with a rueful smile. “Mine. Totally mine.” He looked back up at you as you nodded.

“Damn straight.” You tilted your head, an evil glint in your eyes, then leaned forward and gave a gentle tug on his lower lip with your teeth. “I should make you wait.” You couldn’t help but laugh when a little whine escaped his throat as he looked at you with the most pathetic sad-puppy face you’d ever seen. “Awwww,” you cooed as you bent to kiss him, shifting your hips and making him groan at the friction.

You finally let go of his hands, and then they were everywhere, exploring, squeezing, grabbing handfuls of your ass and pushing, rubbing you rhythmically against his hard cock. You raised your head, letting it drop back as you lost yourself in the sensations. “Are you gonna be mad at me if I ruin these?” he asked, plucking at the waist of your panties.

You lowered your chin and looked into his eyes. “I don’t care if you set them on fire, as long as it ends up with you inside me,” you said breathlessly, watching his face as he swore softly and moved his hands to one side of your hips, then the other, ripping the lace apart.

“Lift up for me, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a little breathless, and he tossed the ruined scrap of cloth to the floor of the car before reaching under you to cup your pussy in his hand. “Christ, baby, you’re so wet. Gonna let me slide right in, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimpered, “Hurry up, I need you.” You were fumbling at his zipper, and he chuckled softly, pushing your hands aside and taking care of it himself, shoving his clothes down as far as he could reach with you straddling him. You reached to hold him steady as you centered yourself over him and sank down on his cock, inch by delicious inch until he was fully buried inside you, so deep it ached in the best possible way.

You squeezed your eyes closed, overwhelmed for the moment. When you opened them again, Dean was watching you intently, and he cupped your face in his hand, leaning in to capture your lips in a lingering, tender kiss. “Sorry I waited so long,” he whispered, then kissed you again, slanting his mouth over yours with a moan as you opened to him, your hips grinding against him as he bucked upwards in response. “So – fucking – perfect,” he groaned in between kisses, each word emphasized with a thrust, and you reached up to brace your hands on the Impala’s roof, bearing down to take him as deep as possible.

“Dean! Fuck…” you managed to utter breathlessly as he bent his head to bite and tug at your nipple through the lace of your bra. The car was rocking and creaking in rhythm with your motion, you and Dean both panting as you fucked each other with the reckless need of passion too long suppressed.

Your orgasm hit you just when your thighs were trembling in exhaustion, electricity firing through your veins, his name a keening cry as you came undone. Dean swore as you clamped tight around him, a velvet vise that soon sent him over the edge, and he flooded you with his release, pulling you close to his chest as you collapsed against him with a whimper, your strength spent.

You clung to him, a helpless little whine smothered against his shoulder as an aftershock shuddered through you. His arms wrapped around you tight, crushing you to him as if you were going to disappear. “I got you, baby,” he said softly. “I got you.”

After a time, you sat up, leaning in to kiss him before looking into his eyes with a sweet smile. He gave you a lazy, crooked smirk in return, his head resting back against the seat. His eyes roamed over your face, then down to your chest, warming as he took in every detail of your breasts still covered in black lace. “Didn’t even get to see,” he muttered, and you laughed softly, reaching to stroke your fingertips along his jaw line.

“Well, take me home, and you can see anything you want,” you said, your smile growing as he arched an eyebrow, his cock twitching inside you. “Or we can just stay here, I guess,” you teased.

“Let’s go home, give my memory foam something to remember,” he rumbled, leaning up to kiss you. He shrugged his flannel off his shoulders, and you helped him take it off. “Here, you can use this if you wanna clean up a little, since somebody ruined your underwear.”

You moved away from him with a kiss and a sigh, getting dressed while he adjusted his clothes. He slid back behind the wheel, and you tucked yourself under his welcoming arm for the ride home.

The bunker was quiet when you got there, and the two of you made your way to Dean’s room, whispering and giggling, stealing kisses like a couple of teenagers who had broken curfew. When you made it inside, he closed the door behind you and pulled you close for a long, slow kiss, your arms around his neck. He finally let you go, and you sat on the end of the bed, taking off your boots and then peeling your stockings off as he watched appreciatively. “Hey, what do you call that little move you did on the dance floor tonight?”

You looked up at him, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “You mean this?” You stood up and shifted your hips in the little dip and swirl that had shifted him into action at the bar, watching him catch his tongue between his teeth as he moved closer to you, his eyes following every move.

“Mmmm, yeah. That.”

“Well – I call it…” You pulled your shirt off over your head and looked up at him through your lashes. “Bait.” You laughed as he shook his head, a slow grin curving his lips before he pounced on you and tackled you to the bed.

Sam paused for a second in the hallway outside on the way to his room from the shower. The sounds of muffled laughter and a little shriek from you made him smile, and he nodded his head in approval. “It’s about time,” he mumbled to himself, then went on his way.

Tag List #1:

 @saenalife    @deanscarlett    @jensensgotyoudean    @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis    @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog 

   @geeklibrarian    @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid      @mrswhozeewhatsis    @littlegreenplasticsoldier    @sleep-silent-angel  

  @darcia22    @winchesterprincessbride    @ellen-reincarnated1967    @eyes-of-a-disney-princess      @deanslittleangel2y5  

  @melanie451        @spectaculacular-sammy     @bookchic20    @jodyri    @selma-jean-blog   

        @savingapplepie-eatingthings    @kittenofdoomage    @masked-maiden42    @lean-mean-deanwinchester    @ericuhlorain  

  @undecided-garden    @ceeceewinchester    @typicalweirdbookworm          @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit    @youtoldalie 

   @tanithlowisabamf-blog    @deandoesthingstome    @jxackles    @nerdwholikesword    @soivebuiltupaworldofmagic  

  @kreweofimp  @gabavaldman    @chaos-and-the-calm67-blog    @darkx143    @disassociativedogma  

[wildernessuntothemselves]

Soulmate(s)

Genre: smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 11.3k

Summary: In a world where you get the name of your soulmate tattooed on your skin the night you turn 21, there should be no reason to even think about fucking around with anyone else. Why would you when you know that the perfect person who is made just for you is somewhere out there waiting for you to find them? 

So how the hell did you end up messing around with your two best friends and what are you going to do if neither of them ends up being your soulmate or worse, what if one of them is your soulmate?

Warnings: fem!reader, soulmates au, this is not a light fic, there will be backstabbing and manipulation, sub!soobin, dom!soobin, sub!gyu, dom!gyu, switch!gyu, switch!soobin, handjob, cunnilingus, blowjob, tit-fucking, cumming all over oc lol, use of fleshlight/vibrator, somno

Bit by bit, the boys convince you to go further, telling you that two of you are bound to be soulmates and that since you all like each other so much anyway, there would be no harm in sharing for a little bit–to explore this new intimate side to your friendship before the official reveal, and that because you all cherish each other so much, that there would be no hard feelings when the third person eventually has to gracefully step back and seek out their own soulmate after having had this unforgettable, almost sacred experience with the people closest to them in the world. It would all turn out fine if you just keep it lowkey. 

That would all be good and well were you one of the boys, but as it stands, you still find yourself holding back due to your persisting sense of unease about the taboo situation and the possible fallout despite their nonchalant reassurances, and you naturally find that you’re not experimenting with them as often as they are with each other. It’s easy to proclaim that none of you would have hard feelings when you’re not the one being left out while the other two grow closer and closer each day.

You know you have no right to feel jealous. You’re the one holding yourself back while the boys have been nothing but welcoming and enthusiastic about your participation, but you just don’t understand how they can be so chill about this. First of all, what you were doing was highly frowned upon and you’d get a lot of flack if this were to get out to others. Second of all, someone is bound to get hurt no matter what they say, and you have a bad feeling it will end up being you if the way they’ve been acting so lovey-dovey with each other is any indication. 

Just like they are right now. 

You have just woken up and headed to the kitchen to grab something to eat, pulled there by the delicious smell of pancakes cooking, but before you can step fully in and announce your presence, you see the two boys in each other’s arms–or more like Soobin in Beomgyu’s arms as the older boy tried to cook the pancakes while the other wraps his arms around his waist and teasingly jerks him off. 

“I’m seriously going to burn this.” Soobin complains, struggling to keep his eyes open and his attention on the stove in front of him. 

“That’s okay. We’ll just grab breakfast outside.” Beomgyu brushes him off, kissing his neck, but Soobin still resists. “The fire alarm will wake her up.” 

Your heart flutters at the mention of you–at least Soobin is thinking of you, right? How pathetic–but then Beomgyu chuckles. “Let it. Her lazy ass should be awake anyway.” 

You frown. Fucking asshole. 

“She’ll kick our asses.” Soobin hisses as Beomgyu brushes his palm over the head of his cock, his knees buckling at the pleasure. 

“Aw, you’re scared of her. Don’t worry, baby, I’ll protect you.” Beomgyu purrs, quickening his pace on the older boy’s cock and tearing a loud moan from him. “Just shut up about her and focus on me.” 

Fucking asshole, you repeat in your head. Well, if he’s so intent on excluding you, you won’t let him.

You announce your presence with a fake gagging sound, and both boys’ heads whip towards you, Soobin looking as if he was caught red-handed while Beomgyu maintains a smirk on his face.

“Do I really have to wake up to this first thing in the morning?” You ask sourly, pretending to be disgusted at the display to hide your jealousy. What the hell did Beomgyu mean by telling Soobin to shut up about you? Isn’t it enough that they’re doing this without you? Now he wants to banish the mention of your name too? What is he playing at? 

Oh, there you go again acting crazy over their close relationship with each other. This is exactly why this whole thing was a bad idea. Even though the three of you are very close friends, you were the third and last addition to the friendship. They had been friends for years before Soobin clumsily and literally stumbled into your life and dragged Beomgyu along with him, and even though you’d all been close since then and the boys never said or did anything outright to give you the impression that they favoured the other, you always secretly knew that you could never compete with the special bond they have with each other and that you’ll have to content yourself with being the unspoken third wheel in this friendship. Which is fine, you’ve had years to come to terms with it, but now you have to deal with being the third wheel in this illicit threeway too, and you don’t know if your heart and ego can take it.

“What’s wrong with this? You don’t like what you’re seeing?” Beomgyu teases, continuing to pump Soobin’s dick despite the other boy’s embarrassment. Not that he makes any effort to stop him. He just bites his lips and averts his eyes away from you. 

You do. You do like what you’re seeing, but sadly it also fills you with unbridled jealousy and feelings of inadequacy. 

“Not near my food. I don’t want cum splatter on my pancakes.” You hold onto your scowl, and Beomgyu laughs. “Fair enough.” 

He puts Soobin’s cock back in his pants before petting it teasingly, making the other boy whine. “We’ll finish this later, baby.” 

Beomgyu washes his hands and sets the dishes down while Soobin finishes up the last of the pancakes before making his way to the table, awkwardly struggling with his prominent boner that bunches up his sweatpants comically. 

Unfortunately, even with you sitting there at the table, they are still all over each other, chatting away about their plans for the day and what they have been up to. They try to keep you engaged and ask you questions but it’s hard for you to match their energy this early in the morning, especially when your mood has already been soured. You just sit there and listen to them talk each other’s ears off about this new album released by an artist they both like but you’re indifferent to, and all the hidden meanings behind his lyrics that throw back to previous songs only true fans will know. 

You feel completely isolated from them and it is only made worse by how touchy they’re being with each other, patting each other on the head affectionately or reaching forward to give a playful shove in jest or even just the way their bodies naturally lean close to the other person when they’re speaking. It fucking hurt your heart. 

To be fair to them, they try to include you too. Soobin makes sure to look at you when he’s talking so you can feel involved in the conversation and Beomgyu has one of his arms permanently draped around the back of your chair in a semi-embrace, but still isn’t the same. And soon your jealousy and annoyance reach their peak.

“Oh, hyung, this is so delicious! Have a taste.” Beomgyu holds up a piece of whipped cream covered strawberry but when Soobin leans in to try to have a bite, Beomgyu moves his hand and smears the whipped cream over his cheek, laughing. 

“Really, Beomgyu?” Soobin pouts, looking painfully adorable. 

“Sorry, hyung. You’re just so fun to mess with. Here, let me clean you up.” Beomgyu cradles Soobin’s face and brushes the whipped cream off with his thumb, but instead of wiping it on some tissues, he pushes it past Soobin’s plush lips and into his mouth, making the older boy suck it off. 

“There. How does it taste?” He asks, eyes dark as he watches Soobin suck on his finger. 

“Beommie.” Soobin slurs, “Stop teasing.”

“I’m not teasing.” Beomgyu denies, biting his lip, making Soobin huff and pull him into a heated kiss, obviously still affected by what happened earlier. 

God this must be your own personal hell for agreeing to this diabolical deal. The boys look so fucking hot kissing each other mere inches from you but the sight also breaks your heart as you’re left seemingly forgotten once agin.  

Are they going to end up together?

You don’t want to be the one left out. Is it horrible to admit that? But if two of you end up together, the third gets left behind—and you’re scared it’ll be you. You don’t want that to be you. They fit together so easily, like they were made for each other. How are you supposed to compete with that?

You know Beomgyu is largely the instigator in this but Soobin is also much more receptive to his advances than you have been. You know you shouldn’t feel resentful and jealous since you're not making it any better for yourself either but you can’t stop yourself from getting pissed off at Beomgyu. If the pervert could just hold back a little bit, then you wouldn’t always feel so left out. Soobin at least has the decency to shy away from flaunting in front of you, but Beomgyu doesn’t seem to care if you’re there or not. In fact it seems as if he gets a kick out of riling you up. 

God, how you want to punish him for it… well, why don’t you? You’re part of this relationship too, no matter how neglected you’ve been. You’ll show him. 

You reach forward, grabbing onto Beomgyu shirt and yanking him back, disconnecting them and pulling him towards you instead. He barely gets any chance to react before your lips are on his. 

They are not as pliable as Soobin’s. You don’t allow him any control over the kiss, making it clear right away that you’re the one in charge, and your bruised heart is somewhat soothed when he gives in immediately, opening his mouth and letting you push your tongue in. 

“Do you ever not think with your dick?” You hiss when you pull back for breath and he has the audacity to smile. 

“Sorry, princess, I am just so horny.” He tells you shamelessly and you scowl. “And so bad. Maybe you need to be punished.”

He wears a shit-eating grin, his eyes glinting with excitement. “Oh, kinky.” 

______________________

He wasn’t so excited now. Not when he was bound to a chair and forced to watch you pleasure Soobin the way you've been metaphorically bound and forced to watch them love on each other. 

He tries to voice his displeasure, tries to whine but he can't say much when your panties are stuffed in his mouth, shutting him up for once. You can see how pissed off he is and if he can talk, you're sure he would chew you both out like he was before you had the bright idea to shut him up. Beomgyu loved being the centre of attention. He wanted both of you to dote on him and he hated seeing you play with each other and ignore him–but it is exactly this, giving him a taste of his own medicine, that gives you immense pleasure. 

Beomgyu writhes in his seat, grunting unhappily as he tries to break free of his restraints, his hips bucking into thin air. 

“Calm down, Beommie. You're gonna hurt yourself.” You tell him, actually concerned, and he glares at you, fighting against his restraints harder. 

Are you taking it too far? Is he actually upset?

Scared to ruin your tentative relationship, you reach forward to finally touch him–needing to prove to yourself that he doesn’t actually hate you, and as soon as your fingers brush his nipples, his back arches and he moans out from behind his gag pathetically. 

“Fuck, baby, you’re so sensitive.” You tease, relieved, and he glares at you again but this time the intensity is tempered by the pleasure.

“Yeah, does that feel good, baby?” You coo, pulling lightly at his nipple and watching as his cock twitches and leaks precum, the sight of it making you rub your legs together in need. Fuck, you wanted him, and he wanted you too. 

He whimpers behind the makeshift gag and stares at you with big pleading brown eyes that make you weak. Fuck, why did he have to look so pretty?

“Fine, I'll be nice even though you don't deserve it.” You sigh, and instruct Soobin to get you your toy box from under your bed. He scampers away quickly to get it and for the two whole minutes he is away, Beomgyu does his best impression of a kicked puppy, whining and whimpering for you to give him some attention. 

“Damn, baby, relax. I said I’ll be nice.” You laugh, acting decidedly not nice as you kiss and nip at the skin of his thighs, so close to his cock, you can feel it almost bursting with need, and by the time Soobin comes back with your box, you’ve already left a few marks on his pretty skin which Soobin eyes up with envy for a second before their attention is quickly drawn to the item you pull out from the box. 

“Woah, why do you have this?” Soobin asks as you brandish a fleshlight, and you grin. “I got it to take care of my horny boys because I know you’re both just dying for a warm wet hole to stick your dicks into. Why, you wanna give it a try?” You ask Soobin but he surprises you by shaking his head no.

“No. Want you.” He says meekly and you frown.  “Soobin. You know I can't actually fuck you.”

“I know but…” He trails off, silently brushing his fingers between your thighs, and realization dawns on you.  “Oh you naughty boy. You wanna fuck my thighs?”

He nods eagerly and you laugh. “I suppose you can. It's dirty but I don't see why not.”

You turn towards Beomgyu, leaning forward so that your tits are hovering over his lap as you arch your back towards Soobin, letting him put his legs on either side of yours and push his cock between your thighs. 

“Oh.” You bite your lip, making eye contact with Beomgyu as Soobin's dick glides under your pussy as it moves in and out between your thighs. 

Beomgyu really doesn't look happy about being left out and you suppose you’ve tortured him enough. After all, you don’t actually want him to have a bad experience and ruin this for yourself even more. You gotta keep him happy too. 

“Don't give me that look.” You roll your eyes at him, gathering some of your spit in your mouth before letting it spill onto his cock, relishing in the sharp intake of breath he takes and the way his thighs tense as it makes contact. You then place the fleshlight at the head of his cock and slip it over it just slightly, teasing him. 

You hear a growl rise from deep in his chest and you laugh, pumping only the head of his cock, continuing to tease him. You have to admit it brings you a sick sense of pleasure to torture him like this when he's done nothing but drive you crazy lately. You want him to fall apart for you. You want to prove that he can want you as much as he wants Soobin. 

“Is it good, Beommie?” You taunt, your words coming out broken as Soobin fucks your thighs. Beomgyu's eyes narrow, staring at Soobin’s hands that were fondling your tits, and you grin with satisfaction. He’s the one feeling left out now. “Binnie’s having the time of his life fucking me and playing with my tits while Beommie’s all tied up, huh? Poor baby.”

He angrily jerks in his seat again, trying to free himself, but the sudden movement causes him to bottom out into the fleshlight, his ass falling backwards into the seat as he mewls at the sudden pleasure. Deciding you’ve been mean enough, you move your arm to continue to fuck his dick all the way with the fleshlight, and before long he was too delirious to fight anymore, his head lolling back at the pleasure and his hips shaking as he struggles to meet your fast pace. 

“There you go, Beommie. Does that feel good on your needy dick?” You ask, your voice suddenly rising in pitch as Soobin grabs your nipples and pulls on them more roughly as his hips smack against your ass harder and faster. “Pay attention to me. I thought he was the one being punished.” 

“He is. You’re the one getting to play with me however you want while he’s stuck fucking a plastic toy. Don’t be greedy, Binnie.” You chide him breathlessly, but you secretly love every bit of it. You love to have them fight over you. It soothes both your ego and your worries about being left in the dust. 

“You’re right. I'm the one who gets to do this.” Soobin says, pulling you up by the shoulders so you're sat upright instead of leaning over Beomgyu before he pulls your shirt up to expose your breasts to Beomgyu’s hungry eyes as he flicks the nipples and kisses your neck. “Beommie must be dying to do this. He talks about your tits a lot.” 

Beomgyu narrows his eyes at him in warning but Soobin doesn't care. “Yeah, what does he say about them?” 

“That he can't wait to fuck them.” He says, pushing them together to give Beomgyu a good show. He was teasing him and you’re living for it.  “Says that sometimes when we're sleeping in the same bed, your tits would fall out of your tank top and he'd have to hold himself back from climbing on top of you and fucking them until you wake up with his cum in your hair.”

You gasp, pressing your thighs closer together at Soobin's brazen revelation of Beomgyu's dirty fantasies. Your pussy flutter and drips onto Soobin's cock as he rams it between your thighs while you watch Beomgyu desperately fucking into the fleshlight in your hand, unfazed by Soobin spilling his secret fantasies to you. 

“Yeah, and what about you? I could feel your big, hard cock pressed against my ass every morning. Don't think you’re slick either.” You say and Soobin chuckles, pushing you back onto Beomgyu. You almost crash into his lap as Soobin palms your asscheeks in his big hands. “Yeah, wanna fuck your ass. That's not a secret. Me and Beomgyu wanna plug you from both ends.” 

Fuck. When did Soobin get so confident? Was all that was needed was to tie and gag Beomgyu in order to let Soobin's freak flag fly? 

“Do it then, baby.” You take the fleshlight off Beomgyu's dick, ignoring his muffled protests, and put it between your legs, offering it to Soobin to simulate him fucking you, and he is too far gone to think about it twice, immediately pushing his cock into it with a loud moan. 

“Yesss.” He hisses, hips picking up pace quickly, rocking your body back and forth to the point where you struggle to get your mouth on Beomgyu. So you grab his dick with your free hand and guide it towards you, finally taking it in and making the boy cry out at the sudden warmth surrounding his aching cock.` ~

Once he’s in your mouth, Soobin’s savage thrusts serve to push you over Beomgyu’s cock over and over again, at times making you gag on the other boy’s length, the tightening of your throat making him shake in pleasure as he meets your mouth with his desperate thrusts that choke even harder. But despite your dwindling air supply and the soreness of both your jaw and ass, you stay put, soldiering through it to fulfill the boys’ dirty fantasies and secure your spot in this ill-advised relationship. 

“Fuck–fuck–I’m close. Gonna cum inside you.” Soobin slurs, deep grunts are turning to breathy moans as his hips lose their rhythm and his large hands grasp onto your ass to push you backwards to meet his hips.

“Do it, baby.” You take your mouth off Beomgyu and replace it with your hand, maddeningly slowing your pace down on him to focus on Soobin. 

“Fill me up, Binnie. I need it bad.” You say sweetly, though your smile is anything but as you stare up at Beomgyu and watch him whimper and cry at having his own orgasm stolen from him.  

“I’m cumming. Take it, baby.” Soobin cries out, lost in his pleasure as he cums inside the fleshlight. 

When his frantic thrusts still, you pull the fleshlight off him, taking care not to spill any of his seed. You hold it up for Beomgyu to see, pushing two of your fingers inside and pumping them in a few times, coating your finger’s in Soobin white cum before you pull them out, brandishing them for Beomgyu to see. 

“Fuck, please.” He whimpers when you pull your underwear from his mouth but you quickly replace it with your fingers. 

“Taste it, baby. It’s delicious.” You mock his previous words and Beomgyu’s pretty lashes hang heavy with unshed tears. He obediently licks them clean for you, even sitting still while you push your fingers to the back of his throat and make him gag on them until the tears finally fall from his eyes. 

When you pull them back out, trailing a string of saliva behind them, Beomgyu pleads, “Please. I’m going insane. Please.”

“Aww, poor Beommie… I’ve been so cruel to you, haven’t I?” You taunt him, patting his cheek with your dirty hand and he nods. “You wanna cum now?” 

He nods again. You grin and bring the still cum filled fleshlight to his cock, pushing it down on his length and fucking him rapidly–Soobin’s thick, white cum covering his cock in seconds. 

“Oh–Oh, fuck… yeah, just like that. Please, don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.” He cries, but your evil laugh is quickly cut off when you feel a hand sneak between your legs, and look back to see Soobin grin as he rubs your sopping pussy. 

“Want you to cum too.” He tells you and you bite your lip, annoyed at him for undermining your moment of control and at yourself for how close you feel already, but you can’t keep that energy up for long because the pleasure quickly overcomes you after you’ve been on edge and neglecting yourself for so long. You frantically jerk off Beomgyu while you hump Soobin’s hand–the obscene wet noises from your activities filling the room. 

“Yes–yes–yes! Thank you!” Beomgyu screams, lifting his ass as far off the chair as he can as he bottoms out into the fleshlight, cumming and almost falling over in the process. You’re not far behind him, gasping as your legs shake and you struggle to stay up, the pleasure almost blinding you for a second.

By the time you all calm down, you’re all sweaty and dirty and achy but utterly blissed out. 

“Fuck, that was awesome.” Soobin laughs as he undoes Beomgyu’s restraints. 

“It was.” Beomgyu agrees, massaging his red wrists and ankles, “Next time, I get to tie one of you up.” 

“No way, freak.” You shudder. You hate to think what the perv would make you go through if he ever got you helpless in his hands. “Not happening.” 

He pouts. “Well, that’s just unfair.” 

“Tough shit.” You roll your eyes, standing up and heading to the bathroom to take a long hot shower. 

__________________

Even after doing all of that, you still can’t keep up with them. They’ve thrown themselves into this headfirst, as if the best-case scenario doesn’t end with someone’s heart in pieces, and you can’t bring yourself to do the same.

The relationship has gone beyond just sex. You all go on dates together now, but it still feels like you’re constantly vying for their attention. They move in sync, seamless in a way that makes you feel like an outsider in your own relationship. The inside jokes, the shared glances, the unspoken understanding between them—it gnaws at you, eating you from the inside.

Today is no exception.

This café used to be your favorite. The three of you had spent countless afternoons here—studying, venting, just existing together. It is very dear to your heart, almost like a second home. But today, it is anything but. Today, you find yourself wishing to be anywhere else.

You fiddle with your bracelet absently as the waiter arrives. Beomgyu orders without hesitation—his usual iced americano, your caramel macchiato, and—

“Strawberry matcha for Soobin,” he says easily, handing over the menus.

Your fingers pull at the bracelet, almost snapping it.

What?

“Since when does Soobin like matcha?” you asked, surprised, and a bit annoyed by how Beomgyu had made the order so casually as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Soobin hated matcha. He always said it tasted like grass so why was Beomgyu now acting like he's been a matcha connoisseur for years. 

You don't know why you’re fixated on that small, insignificant detail but it just felt like yet another thing you weren't included in. 

“Oh, since we tried that new shop, remember?” Beomgyu tells you offhandedly as if you should already know. He laughs loudly and nudges Soobin playfully, an unspoken joke between them.

“Ugh, don't remind me.” Soobin groans, hiding behind his hands, and your eyes flit between Soobin’s embarrassed expression and Beomgyu’s teasing one. 

“What, what happened?” You fake a laugh, trying to sound casual, trying to be included. 

“We almost got kicked out. You don't remember?” Beomgyu frowns then his eyes draw up in realization and he brushes the back of his neck sheepishly. “Oh right. You weren’t there.”

“No I wasn’t.” You don’t mean for your voice to come out bitter but you couldn’t help it. You clear your throat and try to cover your slip up with a tight smile. “What happened? Why did you almost get kicked out?” 

Soobin flushes, ears burning, his eyes still on Beomgyu. “Someone couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”

“No, someone couldn’t keep quiet.” Beomgyu retorts, putting a hand on Soobin’s thigh, making the older boy shift shyly and push his hand away. 

“Stop it! You’re gonna get us kicked out again.” He whines lowly and Beomgyu bites his lip and regards him with a hungry look as if he could just eat him up right then and there. 

You wish you would get kicked out so you don’t have to bear witness to your own heartbreak like this. You have been here with them many times before and you're sick of it. Each time it feels like they’re slipping away from you more and more, and you’re left chasing after their mirage.

“That sounds like fun,” you mutter, your smile fighting for its life to stay on your lips. “What else did I miss while you two were off without me?”

There was a slight hitch in Beomgyu’s smile, like he recognized the edge in your voice, but if he did he quickly masks it with his usual charm. 

“Oh, you didn’t miss much, really,” Beomgyu said, his tone remarkably casual. “Soobin just likes matcha now. That’s all.” Then he attempts to lighten up the mood, “Though I have trouble even calling what he drinks matcha. It’s all dessert flavoured processed crap that barely resembles real matcha.” 

“Oh, wow, we got a matcha supremacist over here. Not my fault, that's the only tolerable way to drink that stuff.” Soobin says defensively, but there was a fondness in his voice. He reaches out and lightly punches Beomgyu's arm, making Beomgyu let out a genuine laugh–not like the uncomfortable ones they’ve been putting on for you. 

You force a chuckle, but it rings hollow even to your own ears. You want to be part of this—to be in this relationship—but every shared glance, every effortless laugh, every unspoken understanding between them only makes you feel more and more like an outsider.

“Yeah, well maybe I’d like it too if it tasted like my caramel iced coffee.” You try to joke but the words fall flat. The boys still offer you half-hearted smiles, but they don’t quite reach their eyes.

Soobin’s smile falters—just for a second—before he masks it with something warm, something reassuring. Beomgyu’s gaze softens, like he wants to say something but can’t find the words. They exchange a glance, that unspoken connection flaring between them, and then Beomgyu finally speaks.

“Next time, we’ll definitely bring you along.” Soobin tells you, and Beomgyu nods, “Definitely… but maybe we’ll keep the fun at home this time.” 

You watch as Beomgyu leans in towards Soobin, a teasing lilt in his voice, reveling in the way Soobin laughs shyly. 

They’re in their own world. And you’re just standing outside of it.

“Yeah, sounds good,” You mutter, unsure if they even hear you. 

__________________________

You couldn’t stand back and watch them anymore. It was slowly driving you insane. You are always the third wheel, always trailing behind, and soon, you feared, you’d be forgotten entirely.

So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

If you can’t break into their world when they are together, then maybe you can when they are apart. If you can’t compete with them as a pair, then maybe you had a chance if you split them up. Maybe it’s not playing fair, but the thought of standing by while they fell into each other and leave you behind, makes your skin crawl.

Nobody knows how the soulmate thing works. Maybe it wasn’t just fate—maybe it depended on the bonds formed before the tattoos appeared, and that by standing by and letting yourself be pushed out of the relationship, you’re undermining your own chance at a happy ending. 

No, you can’t let that happen. You have to act now, or risk being left behind forever.

You start small—little things, easy to overlook. You laugh a little louder when Beomgyu makes a joke, speak a little softer when Soobin needs quiet. You’re the one who reminds them of plans they’ve made, the one who fills the silence when things go tense. You begin showing up with little things—Soobin’s favorite tea when he’s stressed, a new hair tie for Beomgyu when he forgets his (again). You slip notes into their bags, nothing big—just dumb doodles, inside jokes, gentle reminders that you’re thinking of them. You find yourself sitting between them on the couch, brushing shoulders with one of them, draping your legs over the other's lap during lazy movie nights. 

Bit by bit, you carve out your place within theirs, until the silence between their conversations starts to include you, until their glances begin to seek yours. You weren’t naive. It wasn’t enough for them to care about you—they had to want you, need you, in ways they couldn’t find in each other..

Still, it was rare to catch either of them alone, but your first opportunity came when all three of you had the day off. Beomgyu had errands to run that morning, leaving you with the perfect chance to have Soobin all to yourself, even if just for a couple of hours.

Beomgyu didn’t make it easy, though. You had woken up—not just from the sound of him moving around and getting ready in the morning, but because you were waiting. Waiting for the moment he was gone so you could finally make your move on the still-sleeping Soobin.

But Beomgyu, noticing you were already awake, didn’t leave right away. Instead, he lingered, trying to convince you to come with him instead.

"You wanna come with me?" Beomgyu asked, trying to make his voice sound cute as he gives you his signature exaggerated pout. Normally, it was an infuriating mix of annoying and endearing, but right now, it was just annoying. You had a plan, and you weren’t about to let him ruin it.

You shifted on the bed, your gaze drifting to Soobin beside you. He was still sound asleep, his breathing steady, his features relaxed in a rare kind of peace that only sleep can provide. For a moment, you envy him his rest–free of all your troubles and overthinking, and you almost feel guilty for your plan to rob him of it. 

You glance back at Beomgyu, meeting his expectant gaze. Letting out an exaggerated yawn, you stretch before sinking deeper into the blankets.

"Mmm, I think I’ll pass. Too warm, too cozy," You murmur, pulling the covers snug around you, burying yourself into the warmth.

Beomgyu huffs, rolling his eyes before stepping closer.

"Come on, baby," He drawls, voice whiny and playful. "You’re really gonna make me suffer through errands all alone? That’s so cruel." He pouts dramatically, fingers hooking onto the blanket as he gives a gentle tug. "You know I hate doing things by myself.”

You bite back the urge to snap at him. If he kept this up, he’d wake Soobin—and if that happened, there was a chance Soobin might actually agree to go with him. That would ruin everything.

Forcing a smile, you reach out, brushing your fingers over Beomgyu’s hand in a gentle attempt to placate him.

"Sorry, baby," You say, your voice laced with just the right amount of sweetness. "I’ve been exhausted from college lately, and I really need the rest. But when you come back, maybe we can all go out for lunch? We could finally try that new spot you wanted."

A perfect compromise—one that should hopefully get him off your back.

"Or," Beomgyu counters, tilting his head with a hopeful smile, "You could come with me now, and I’ll treat you to lunch there after we’re done."

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes. Of course, he wouldn’t let this go.  

"Beomgyu, I’m really tired," You say, firmer this time, making it clear you’re not budging.  

He exhales, the playful glint in his eyes dimming as his shoulders sag ever so slightly. And for a moment, guilt creeps in. As frustrating as he can, you hated seeing him sad.

"Alright, alright," He sighs, finally relenting. Leaning down, he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. "Guess I’ll survive without you."

You nod, eager for Beomgyu to leave. But he lingers for a moment longer, his eyes flickering between you and Soobin, hesitation etched in his features, as if there’s something more he wants to say.

But in the end, he just gives you a small nod and turns toward the door.

"You two have a good rest," He says, his voice light, casual, but there’s a hint of something else—something you can’t quite place—before he finally steps out, leaving behind a hush of quiet in his absence.

You watch the door for a moment, a frown tugging at your lips. Was he thinking the same thing you were? Did he, too, fear being left out? Maybe the boys weren’t as secure in this relationship as you had thought.

But when Soobin shifts beside you, the moment breaks, pulling you back to the present. You exhale softly, the tension in your shoulders easing just slightly.

Now, it was just you and him. No interruptions. No distractions. Just the quiet rise and fall of his breath, the peacefulness etched into his sleeping face.

These moments were rare—just the two of you, without Beomgyu’s overwhelming presence filling the space. And maybe, just maybe, this was how it was meant to be.

You watch him sleep for a few more minutes. You can feel the pulse of the quiet in the room, the way the light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow on his handsome face. There is something about being with him like this, without Beomgyu’s constant yapping, without the unspoken tension that always hung between the three of you, where you could actually sit back and pay attention to Soobin and everything that makes him uniquely him. 

You slowly reach out, fingertips brushing over his skin, tracing the delicate contours of his face. Where Beomgyu was all effortless charm and playful charisma, Soobin was something quieter and more familiar—tall, dark, and oh so sweet, the picture perfect image of first love that everyone yearned to have. 

Gently, you take his arm and drape it around yourself, savoring the warmth, the way it feels so natural. Then, without thinking, you lean in, pressing the lightest kiss to his lips—soft, chaste, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Do you want Soobin to be your soulmate? He’s sweet, sometimes shy and reserved, but lately, he’s shown you a side of him that’s unexpectedly bold. Could you see yourself ending up with him, waking up to this every day—wrapped in his arms, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, just enjoying the peacefulness of the early mornings?

You could. He feels safe, like a warm cozy night with whispered conversations under the soft glow of your bedside lamp. He’d know when to tease and when to hold his tongue, when to push and when to take a step back–never challenging you but never pushing you past your limits either. With him, love wouldn’t be a puzzle to solve or a bid to win the upper hand—it would be just there, steady and unwavering  A stable presence, always there, always yours. Like the boy next door—not the kind who sweeps you away in a whirlwind, but the kind you could build a steady life with.And maybe that’s enough.

With a soft sigh, you ease yourself out of his arms, ignoring the soft whimper of protest he makes in his sleep at the loss of your warmth. You press a gentle shush against his lips, soothing him even as you slip from his grasp.

Your steps are quiet as you make your way to the familiar drawer—the one that holds your box of toys. Fingers brushing over the contents, you find what you’re looking for. Your trusty wand vibrator.

You wear an excited grin on your face as you walk back to the bed and see Soobin perfectly sprawled out for you. All you had to do was pull the blanket off him gently and you had full access to his pliant body which you take full advantage of, turning the vibrator to the lowest setting before pressing it against his clothed cock. 

You start slow—so slow that at first, he barely reacts, just a faint shift in his breathing, a subtle twitch of his fingers. That’s exactly what you wanted. You didn’t want to wake him abruptly; you wanted this to build gradually, for the pleasure to have fully taken hold of his mind by the time he is slowly eased into awareness.  

Carefully, you continue, increasing the intensity in small increments, watching as he starts to squirm. His brow furrows, his fingers curl slightly, and his body shifts as if caught between dreams and reality. Every small reaction sends a thrill through you, anticipation coiling in your chest as you wait for the moment his mind finally catches up to his body.

“I… please…” He gulps, begging sweetly even in his dreams, his hips canting ever so slightly towards the vibrator, a small patch of precum staining his sleeping shorts. 

“It’s okay, baby, enjoy it.” You coo in his ear, letting your voice seep into his subconscious mind. “I got you.”

“Mmmhh.” He whimpers, bucking into the vibrating wand and craning his neck backwards, giving you the perfect opportunity to plant bruising kisses there, intent on leaving your marks for Beomgyu to see. You pay special attention to the spot right under his ear, relishing in the sweet way he keens and whines for you before you make your way down his neck to bite down on the spot joining his neck and shoulder.  

He is already far gone by the time he wakes up.

“Oh, god.” He cries, jolting awake and looking around in confusion. “Wha–” 

“Morning, Binnie.” You grin, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. 

“What's g-going on?” He rasps, his hips still ever so slightly bucking up towards the stimulation. 

“You got a bit too excited in your sleep and I thought I’d better take care of you. Aren’t I so nice?” 

“Y-yeah…” He pants, looking down at his dick and his shorts that were already stained with precum.  “Where–where is Beomgyu?”

Your face falls but you quickly school it back into a playful expression, reaching out to tweak his nipple with your fingers. “Running some errands. Why? Can't we have fun without him? Am I not enough?”

Your tone is light, teasing, but there's a quiet ache behind the words—are you too late? Have they already made their decision?

“No, no. You are.” He rests his head back and arches into your touch, giving in. “Just didn’t think you'd be interested in doing this.”

“Silly boy, of course I am interested.” You bend down to wrap your lips around his nipple, making him gasp in shock. 

“Fuck, I think I might cum in my shorts if you keep doing that.” He slurs, sweat beading on his forehead and in the dips of his shoulders. 

“Oh no, we wouldn’t wanna ruin them now, would we?” You grin, pulling down his shorts and boxers to reveal his red, weeping cock. The touch of the vibrator against his bare skin has him thrashing around, causing the wand to miss his cock repeatedly. “Please, please!” He cries as if he’s not the one making it harder on himself. 

“Shhh, calm down, baby. Do you need me to hold it?” You drawl, reaching out to grab his cock with one hand as you press the vibrator directly under the head of his cock with the other, making him lose it, moaning loudly at the intense direct stimulation. “Holy shit, I’m gonna cum. I really need to cum. Can I please cum?”

“Hmm, what if I said no? Will you hold it?” You pretend to actually think about it and he whines in despair. “No, please, I can’t. I feel like I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“Yeah, is it really that bad?” You coo as if you’re talking to a pet, and Soobin nods pitifully. “So bad. Need you so bad. You’re driving me crazy.”

You laugh gleefully. Soobin is so easy. As weak as he is for Beomgyu, he can be for you too. After all, he has never been subtle about his lust for you. Whenever you wear anything even slightly revealing around the house, he openly gawks at you, almost as if he doesn’t realize that you’re able to feel his stare on you and see the boner he half-heartedly tries to hide. 

“Aww, poor, baby. I can’t have you lose your mind, now can I?” You tease his slit with your thumb as you increase the speed of the vibrator to maximum, making him arch his back and cry out as his pleasure quickly reaches its peak. “Cum for me, Binnie. Let it all out, baby.” 

White hot cum starts spurting from his slit, and you keep the vibrator pressed just under the head of his cock while you use your other hand to jerk him off, milking every last drop from his balls and painting his tummy and chest with it. 

“Goood boy.” You coo, marvelling at the amount of cum he lets out, making a right mess of himself. 

“Thank you.” He pants meekly, body shaking with the aftershocks of his orgasm and the continued stimulation from the vibrator. Before long, it becomes too much, and he cringes back, “Ah, please, too much.” 

You begrudgingly turn off the vibrator and take your hand off him, wishing you could keep his attention on you for a little longer. You run your index finger through the little pool of cum in the dip of his tummy and swirl it around. “Look at the mess you made, baby. Did you need it that bad?” You ask, seeking confirmation from him that he wants you as much as you want him. “Has Beomgyu not been taking care of you?” 

“No, he has but…” He throws his arm over his face to hide behind it. “Just wanted you so bad.” 

You smile happily and take his arm away, forcing him to face you. This is exactly what you wanted. “You’re so cute.” You bend down to kiss him and he quickly reciprocates, his lips slow and languid, but eager nonetheless, matching your every move but letting you lead. 

When you eventually part, he asks, searching your face, “What caused this change of heart? You don't usually initiate these things.”

You shrug, feeling called out. “Can't I think you look hot in your sleep?”

You watch him blush, and you smile, successfully throwing him off your scent. “Hey I wouldn't mind if you woke me up like this every day.”

“I know. I wake up to your boner against my ass every day, remember?” You laugh, and he blushes even deeper, and mumbles, “I haven’t gotten you off yet.”

“No, you didn’t.” You grin, happy at his enthusiasm. “How do you intend to fix that?”

“You could ride my thigh.” He says shyly and you laugh, dutifully taking your pants off and straddling his sweats clad thigh. “Another fantasy of yours?”

He nods, grabbing fistfulls of your ass and helping you grind against the cotton material, not caring about messing it up anymore. In fact, he stares hypnotized as the wet patch grows bigger and bigger with your arousal. 

You’ve never thought about this before but it feels surprisingly good, especially as he tenses his thick thigh and uses his large hands to press you firmly against it, your entire pussy getting stimulated at once.

“Fuck, that feels good.” You moan, throwing your head back, and Soobin reaches out to pull the neckline of your tank top over your breasts, exposing them to his hungry eyes. 

“Fuck, these are pretty. Wish you'd walk around the house topless from now on.” 

“What is it with you boys and tits? You like them that much?” You laugh, making sure to bounce on his thigh a little, making your breasts jiggle from the motion and the horny boy reach for his hardening cock to stroke it. 

“Yeah, they’re so fucking sexy.” He groans, fisting his cock in a blur as he encourages you to grind against his thigh faster and harder, the lewd scene getting to his empty head. “Are you close?” He asks, already feeling the desperation, and you nod, biting your lip. “Yes, baby, gonna squirt all over your thigh. You ready for it? 

He nods enthusiastically, pinching the head of his cock and squeezing out a few large drops of precum. “Fuck, please, do it. Please.” 

You reach out for the discarded vibrator, bringing it to life and pressing it against your clit. It doesn’t take long for you to cry out and cum all over his thigh, your release soaking his sweats and pushing the horny boy over the edge again, except this time, he aims towards you, shooting his cum all over your body, some of it landing on your tits that he loves so much. 

“Fuck, that’s so hot.” He groans, reaching out to cup them in his dirty hands, clearly admiring the view. 

You’re both so blissed out, that you don’t notice that Beomgyu has come back from his errands and has made his way into the room until he speaks out, his voice playful but with an edge of frustration to it. “Hey, what the hell? You having fun without me?” He makes his way towards the bed, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

He leans in, trying to capture your lips with his but you quickly raise your hand, pushing him back. “I’m beat, Gyu.” Your tone is flat, not allowing for much give and take from him. You don't want him to overtake this moment. You’ve worked too hard for it. You want the only impression of this morning left on Soobin's brain to be just you and how good you can make him feel. You can't have Beomgyu waltzing in and hijacking all your hard work. 

He freezes for a moment, clearly thrown off by your unexpected resistance. “That's not fair. How can you expect me to see you both so filthy and covered in Soobin’s cum like this and not get horny?”

“I don't expect anything. You can be horny all you want.” You shrug, the moment feels oddly satisfying. It’s like giving him a taste of his own medicine—making him feel the sting of alienation he has unknowingly inflicted on you too many times.  

Beomgyu stands there, stunned, the usual playful energy suddenly replaced by something unreadable. His expression flickers, unsure if you’re joking or serious, and he looks like he’s reconsidering his next move. 

“You’re really going to do this to me?” He finally asks, a mix of disbelief and amusement in his voice, as he runs a hand through his hair, trying to put on some of his usual confidence.

You smile faintly, leaning closer, but keeping just enough distance to make your point. “You can jerk off to the thought of my tits. You like doing that, right?”

He steps back, a laugh escaping his lips. “You’re such a fucking tease, you know that?” 

“I can help you get off, Beommie.” Soobin offers and you fight to keep the ugly scowl off your face. Damn it, why is Soobin so damn easy?

But to your surprise, Beomgyu declines his offer. “That's okay, baby. You both look exhausted. I'll let it pass this time, but you better wait for me next time.” He jokes, throwing a pointed look at you. 

You chew on your lip nervously. You wonder if he can tell what you’re doing. Beomgyu has always been unexpectedly perceptive, after all. 

Well, you better hope and pray that he is as easily distracted by some tits like Soobin is. 

_____________________

Your chance to make a move on Beomgyu comes when Soobin has a late lecture, leaving you and Beomgyu with some time to kill by yourselves. So you set up a “playdate” with him, luring him in with the promise of playing video games, though you don’t really have to do much to convince him. The boy cannot survive by himself for long, and you suspect it’s because even he will drive himself crazy if left alone with his motor mouth.

You put on a convincing set up of his favourite games and snacks, planning to start off by actually playing for a little bit before you make your move, making it look natural.  

But Beomgyu surprises you when he walks into the living room holding a new game in his hands with a proud smile on his face. “Babe, look what I got!” 

You glance up from the couch, raising an eyebrow. The game wasn’t something he would normally be into—it was your favorite genre, not his. You’d talked about it a few times, how much you were looking forward to playing it, but it was clear Beomgyu wasn’t particularly excited about the idea of it. 

“Huh,” You mumble in confusion, not expecting this. "You don’t even like this game, though."

Beomgyu grins, his eyes glinting with that playful, confident spark. “I know, but you’d talked my ear off so much about it that I figured the only way to get you to shut up is to buy it for you.” 

You couldn’t help the massive smile on your face at the unexpected gift. It wasn’t that Beomgyu didn’t do sweet things for you, but this was something different. You know how serious and particular he is about his games. He likes the ones he likes and never bothers with the ones he doesn't. So for him to go out of his way to get you something only you liked, means a lot despite how trivial it may seem to others. 

Still, you can’t resist teasing him just a little. "You really wanted to suck up to me, huh?" You say, a sly grin tugging at your lips. 

He shrugs nonchalantly, his smile never faltering. "Maybe," He says with a wink, his voice playful. "What can I say, I’m willing to suffer through this to make you happy. I’m hopelessly romantic and a perfect gentleman like that."

You chuckle, shaking your head, but secretly, you were touched by the effort. “Maybe next time, I’ll get you one of the stupid and clearly inferior games you like so much.”. 

“Deal. But for now, why don’t give it a try and I’ll try to not die from boredom.”

You start the game, and before long, the two of you fall into a teasing, comfortable rhythm. You poke fun at each other for the mistakes you make—him more often than you—offering tips and laughing at each other’s blunders. The playful banter fills the space, and for a while, it’s just the two of you, lost in the ease of the moment. You forget about soulmates, eternal love, and the nagging fear of being left behind.

You’re having so much fun that you end up playing longer than you’d planned. Beomgyu is loud—his laughter is constant, infectious, and he yells at the TV seemingly every two seconds as if that would help your characters play better. He makes a big deal out of everything, and it’s impossible not to be caught up in it. Every moment with him is larger than life, filled with energy and excitement. 

You can just picture a life spent with him, never a dull moment. You imagine your children thriving in that chaos, their lives full of his boundless energy. They would love him so much. He would be such a fun dad.

Your heart flutters at the thought of him as your husband and the father of your children. But is that the life you really want? Constant chaos, never a quiet moment to call your own?

You steal a quick glance at Beomgyu, but he catches you, his eyes meeting yours with a knowing look. “What?” he teases, flashing his signature lopsided smile at you. 

“You’re loud,” You blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, and immediately feel silly. Beomgyu rolls his eyes dramatically, tossing his controller aside before leaning forward, his grin growing wider as he looms over you.

“Is that all?” He asks, face mere inches from yours. You don’t know why his straightforwardness was making you so nervous. You’ve wanted this exact outcome out of this hangout anyway, but why are you now suddenly acting like your intentions had been innocent? 

“Yes.” You mutter, turning your head back towards the game, but if you thought that might deter Beomgyu then you were sorely mistaken. If anything, he uses this opportunity to press his face into the crook of your neck and pepper your skin in kisses. 

“Beomgyu…” You whine, goosebumps bursting all over your skin. “You’re gonna make us lose.” 

“Who cares? Aren’t you done already?” He huffs, one of his hands grabbing your thigh as he sucks on your sensitive skin. “Want you to pay attention to me.” 

“Stop it. I’m trying to play the game.” You keep up your act, not wanting to appear too eager. Beomgyu is more perceptive than Soobin, and if you give in too easily, he might be able to tell that you’re up to something. 

“Why? Do you only mess around with Soobin?” He snorts, trailing his hand between your legs to cup your heat, making you jump. “I want some attention too.” 

“But I’m not done playing.” Your heart rate picks up at the hint of jealousy in his voice but you keep pretending as if the game in front of you wasn’t just a blur of colours and sounds, your real focus on his hot lips against your neck and his long fingers rubbing against your pussy. 

“Then keep playing and I’ll keep playing too.” He says, pushing your shorts down your legs before pulling them onto the couch, splaying them open so he can stick his face between them and give your underwear-clad pussy a few chaste kisses. 

“Beomgyu, I’m serious…” You warn, your voice anything but, yet Beomgyu–whether playing along or too desperate to notice–still falls for it. 

“Please, baby. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t even have to stop playing. Just please let me have this.” He licks a long stripe along your covered slit before pressing a few kisses against your clit. 

“Fuck, Beomgyu.” You grit, feeling your legs shake already. You hazard a quick glance down at him, your chest bursting into flames at the sight of him looking up at you from between your legs like a horny pup. 

“Just focus on the game, baby, and let me make you feel good.” He persuades, pushing your now drenched underwear to the side so his tongue can access your pussy directly, and you fight to keep your legs from clamping around his head at the sudden spike in pleasure. 

“Fuck.” You curse under your breath, trying to bring your attention back to the game and making a miserable effort at it. The heat pooling inside you from where Beomgyu was kissing and licking at your most sensitive spots is distracting, sending a rush of warmth through your veins, making your head spin and your ears ring. 

The room quickly fills up with a mix of your breathy moans, the obscene sounds of Beomgyu’s wet kisses against your soaking pussy, and the nearly forgotten video game. You try to keep your focus on it but you give up when, out of the corner of your eyes, you see his hips working in tandem with his mouth, rocking against the couch underneath. 

“Are you seriously humping the couch right now? How pathetic.” You mock, acting as if your arousal is not currently dripping down his chin. But since when has Beomgyu been shy about his horniness? No, he meets your gaze straight on and says, “I’d be happy to stop humping the couch and bury my cock in your pussy any time you want, baby.” 

“Shut up.” You mutter, flustered at his brashness, but you can’t keep up the pretense for long, not when he pushes his tongue into your pussy and nuzzles your clit with his nose, completely burying himself in you. You have never had anything inside of you before, and the feeling of Beomgyu’s wet, rough tongue every so slightly brushing against your inner walls has you finally abandoning the game and throwing away the controller so you can pull your shirt up and play with your breasts while he tongue-fucks your pussy. 

“Fuck, you made me lose. You better make it up to me, brat.” You push his face into your pussy further, and for a second you worry that you might be hurting him, but when you look down you see that your roughness just excites him, his hips driving into the couch faster.  

And he does make it up to you. He is so inexplicably good at this, and you hate how easily he drags you towards the edge, as if he has done this many times before, his tongue knowing exactly how to lap and curl to have you gushing, his lips knowing exactly where to kiss and suck to have you whole body seize up, and before long, your panting like you’ve run a marathon and can see the finish line in sight. 

“Beomgyu! Beomgyu!” You cry out, crashing into your orgasm, unable to hold yourself back anymore from clamping your thighs around his head. Not that Beomgyu cares, continuing to literally lap up everything you give him until he has sucked you dry. 

“Oh god,” You shudder, pushing him away from your pussy. He lets you do it, using the opportunity to kiss up your body instead until he makes it to your lips, making you have a taste of your own need on his tongue. 

“Did I make it up to you?” He asks, raising a hand to your chest to roughly grope your tits. 

“Maybe.” You breathe out, the shakiness of your voice betraying you. 

“Well then maybe you can help me out too.” He says, pointedly bucking his cock against your pussy. 

“Hmm, I don’t know if it was that good.” 

“Not that good? You almost smothered me with your pussy.” He scoffs and you blush. “Don’t get me wrong, I would have died a happy man, but not that good, my ass.” 

You roll your eyes at him, pushing a hand between your bodies to grab his dick and jerk him off. “There, are you happy?” 

He closes his eyes for a moment, seemingly savouring your touch, but then he opens them again and asks, “Come on, I just let you hump my face and all you’re gonna give me is a lousy handjob? At least suck me off or let me fuck these perfect tits.” He kneads your breasts with his hands while he bucks into your grip despite his protests. “God, if my soulmate has tits like this, I wouldn’t be able to keep my dick out of her.” 

He wraps his lips around them, kissing and sucking them desperately, but your mind lingers on his words. Her? Does he think he’ll get a female soulmate then? Could it possibly be you…

“Okay.” You answer in a small voice but Beomgyu’s eager ears pick it up, and he quickly climbs over you so he’s straddling your upper body, leering down at you with dark lust in his eyes. 

“Push your tits together for me, baby.” He instructs you and you bashfully do it, looking away. “Fuck you're such a pretty whore.”

“Beomgyu.” You frown, chastising him as he rocks his hips forward, fucking his cock between your breasts. 

“Shhh, it's okay, baby. You’re my whore.” He tells you, and as you open your mouth to protest his possessive proclamation, he uses the opportunity to push his cock into your mouth, getting to fuck your tits and your mouth all in one. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s just what I wanted.” 

You frown up at him but don’t push him off. He’s looking down at you like he’s drunk off you, and isn’t that exactly what you wanted? You may not have maintained the upper hand but the way he’s looking at you like you hold his balls in your hands is enough to justify letting him do this. 

“Yeah, keep looking at me. You look so sexy with my cock in your mouth.” He continues to spit filth at you, his cock thrusting between your breasts and right into your open mouth, the pleasure clearly getting to his head if the bleary look in his eyes or the whiny tinge to his voice is any indication. You’ve got him in the palm of your hand and you didn’t even have to try. He did it all for you. 

“Say you want it, baby. Tell me you want my cum in your pretty mouth.” 

“Beo–gyuuu–” You slur, barely able to speak with his cock filling your mouth over and over again. 

“Come on, baby. You let Soobinie cover you with his cum. It is only fair for you to swallow down mine.” He coaxes, continuing to play with your breasts with his hands as he feeds you his cock. You glare up at him but really you’re loving it. This is exactly what you wanted, the boys vying for your attention. 

“Do it, please.” He begs, desperation growing more clear the longer you take to give in. Whether he knows that that would get him what he wants or he simply got lucky, you don’t know but the shiver of pleasure that zaps through you at his pathetic whimpers gets you to finally give in, looking up at him with lustful eyes and begging him oh-so-sweetly, “Please, cum in my mouth, Beommie. Wanna taste you at the back of my throat.” 

“Fuck–” He cries, grabbing your hair to steady your head and slamming his cock into your mouth, giving you exactly what you asked for. Your throat closes up around the intrusion and your eyelashes brim with tears but the look of ecstasy on Beomgyu’s face makes it all worth it. “Holy shit, you’re s-so goood…” He whines, emptying part of his load at the back of your throat before he pulls out to finish on your face, jerking himself off into overstimulation just so he can give you every last drop of his cum, covering your face in his hot, sticky seed while your mouth was filled with the salty taste of him. 

“Shit,” he breathes, his thumb gliding over your swollen lips. “You’re so pretty,” he murmurs, voice low, almost reverent.

You scoff weakly, turning your head away, your hair clinging to your skin with sweat and cum making you feel anything but beautiful. “Shut up. I must look disgusting right now.” 

But Beomgyu doesn’t relent. Instead, he reaches out, fingers brushing against your skin as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“No,” he whispers, gaze full of adoration. “You’re beautiful. The most beautiful girl in the world. And you’re mine.”

His words stun you and you blink rapidly, trying to make sense of what is happening. What the fuck is he trying to do? Has he been playing the same game you’ve just now started to play all this time?

Your stomach swirls with a confusing mix of happiness, suspicion and guilt, making you nauseous. “Beomgyu… You need to stop saying stuff like that.”

He frowns, confusion flickering across his face. “What stuff? That you’re mine? That I love you?”

You suck in a sharp breath, defensive walls springing up around you in alarm. “Yes. You can’t keep saying that to me and Soobin. You’re gonna get one of us seriously hurt.”

“Sorry, I am not a fucking coward.” Beomgyu looks pissed off, as if you’re the one making wild and dangerous proclamations. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. One of us is going to get hurt anyway, and it could be me. But I’d rather face that than live with the regret of never letting you know how I feel, of not savoring this while it lasts.”

His words hang oppressively between you, even after the intensity is long gone from his face and his eyes take on a pitiful look. They search yours desperately, pleading for something you’re not sure is okay to give.  

“Will you say it back?,” He presses, his voice trembling. “Tell me I’m not crazy.”

You hesitate. The words seem so simple…I love you–they should come easily. You’ve said them many times before, light and carefree. But now they carry a double meaning–no longer are they just an expression of unbreakable friendship… Now they hide behind them a world of heartbreak and hurt, waiting to pounce on you and tear you apart, starting with this moment as Beomgyu continues to stare at you with hope and anticipation.

You can’t withhold the words from him, and maybe you’re being stupid, trading the small hurt of holding back now for the much bigger pain of possibly taking it away later. But at this moment, you can’t bring yourself to do it. Not when he looks at you like he won’t be able to breathe if you don’t say it.

“I love you too,” You swallow hard, the words barely escaping your lips, but Beomgyu accepts them eagerly, his face lighting up, the tension fading from his features. “That’s all I needed to hear.” 

________________

A/N: the plot is finally start to plot lol what do you guys think so far

[faebeeboo]

Rating: NSFW, Smut

Type: One-shot

Tags: Reader has Boobs, Reader has a Vagina, No pronouns for Reader, Friends to Lovers, Secret Crush, Flirty Reader, Young Ford Pines, Ford Pines is Trying, Reader kind of flashes Ford, Dry Humping, Nipple Play, Enthusiastic Consent, Intercrural Sex, Porn with Feelings, Insecure Ford Pines, Implied Virgin Reader

Word Count: 5,229

Read on AO3

Tired of hiding your feelings for Ford, you arrange for a surprise. You order the prettiest thing you can find from a magazine catalogue and prepare for a dramatic and bold move to spur him into action.

You sauntered across the lawn, sweat clinging to your chest and forehead in the sticky, humid air of the late summer evening.

The cabin you lived in, just outside of town, wasn’t a very far walk from your friend’s little shack in the woods.

Friend. You supposed that was what Stanford Pines was to you, though you were hoping to change that today.

The two of you had met when he’d been caught in one of the manotaur’s traps. You’d found him hanging upside down by the ankle, arms flailing and glasses on the ground under his head.

There’s really no good way to get someone out of a snare trap like that one. They weren’t created with the victim’s wellbeing or safety in mind, and so releasing them without causing harm… it was nearly impossible.

So, you��d picked up his glasses to get them out of the way, then climbed up onto the tree just enough to reach up and slash at the rope, releasing him so he landed with his legs sprawled over his head, practically folded in half.

Knowing what you did now about how blind he was without his glasses, you could only imagine what it all must have looked like to him: you, a blur, walking up and putting your hands on your hips, staring as he spun in place, upside down. Then immediately scaling the tree and slicing through the rope in one fell swoop.

The minute you’d returned his glasses, he had blinked several times to bring you into focus, head still spinning from remaining bottom up for so long. Then he had promptly turned even more red than he already was from all the blood having rushed to his head.

He’d since described you as seeming very ‘heroic’ in that moment, after a glass of wine or two too many, shared over a game of cards.

You had already spent a good chunk of your life in Gravity Falls by that point, so you’d already become familiar with the ins and outs of the weirdness of life in the little town. It was just another day for you, while he was still discovering all the strange rules one had to live by here where it seemed like up was down and left was right.

Now, you were crossing over the gravel drive to his house, the ground crunching under your slip-on shoes. The trench coat you wore didn’t help with the heat, but it was essential for your dramatic plan.

See, your friend was easily flustered. The thing was, you weren’t certain if that was because he was actually attracted to you or because he was awkward around anything that moved. You’d once witnessed him trade a gnome a jar of butterflies for one of their bags of fairy dust.

The gnome had told him, ‘Enjoy your fairy dust!’ and Ford had said, ‘You too!’ before cringing at his own mistake. He’d laid face-down on the couch for hours after that.

Now, you were determined to get to the bottom of this once and for all, whether it meant rejection or the realization of the guilty imaginings you engaged in late at night, alone in your bed. 

Stepping up to the porch, you knocked on the door. There were footsteps that gradually got closer before Ford swung open the door, eyebrows raising when he saw you there.

He said your name. “I wasn’t expecting you. I am surprised, but, uh…” Ford blushed lightly and adjusted his glasses. “I am still pleased to see you.”

Smiling, you made your way past him into the entryway. He stammered around for a moment, closing the door and managing, “Uh, would you… Could I get you anything to drink? Or, um… a snack, perhaps?”

You glanced back at him over your shoulder. “Yes, something to drink would be lovely.” Feeling bold, you shot him a wink. “You know what I like.”

Ford turned bright red, shuffling back and forth for a moment as if he’d forgotten the way to the kitchen. “Yes, er… I, uh, I’ll— Let me just go get that for you.”

He rushed off, seemingly remembering how to get to the fridge, and you drifted slowly into the living area.

It was a bit cluttered, which was pretty typical of his living spaces, you were learning. There was hardly a clear spot on the counter when you came over to make dinner, and dirty mugs sat on nearly every surface. 

You took a seat on the couch, running your hands over the rough, worn fabric to calm your nerves. It was familiar and comforting, and the coarse texture distracted you from what you were about to do. If it went poorly, your self-esteem would likely be destroyed, along with your friendship. You’d slink off somewhere and bury yourself so deep that the next time you saw sunlight, you’d hiss and squint up at it like you were sizzling in its heat, an ant under a microscope.

Ford returned holding a can of soda, which you gratefully took from him. You popped it open and took a sip of the sugary, carbonated drink, licking it from your lips.

While you sipped, Ford shuffled nervously and sat at the other end of the couch. “It’s… It’s nice of you to stop by. Was there anything in particular you needed?”

Here it was, the moment of truth; time to set up for your big reveal. You sat the can of soda aside on the end table by the couch. 

“Well…” you uncrossed your legs and didn’t miss the way his eyes followed the motion. Toying with the tie around your trench coat, you continued, “I wanted your opinion on something.”

“M-my… my opinion?” he asked, swallowing hard and shifting slightly on the couch. “What, uh… what can I help you with?”

“The thing is, I got this new outfit from a magazine.” Subtly, you shifted closer on the couch. “Only, I’m not sure how I feel about it, now that it’s here. So I was hoping you’d tell me what you think of it.”

He chuckled nervously, eyes darting away. “I hardly think I’m the best person to… Well, I’m not the best judge of fashion.” Ford cleared his throat, shuffling a little to the side to face you more fully. “And I— I wouldn’t want to say anything that might… offend you.”

“Oh, come on, Ford,” you waved a hand at him and scooted even closer, less subtle this time. “I trust your opinion.”

“Alright,” he nodded, seeming to square his shoulders and lift his chin like he was preparing to be hit. “Then… perhaps you could describe it to me, and I’ll let you know what I think.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “Oh no, I’m wearing it right now, Ford. Under this.” You gestured towards the trench coat. 

His eyes widened, darting down to where you were toying with the tie around your waist. “U-under..?”

Fiddling with his hands, he glanced away. “Well, I uh… I suppose, if you’re comfortable showing me, I could… give it a look and offer my, um… my assessment.”

“Great!” you smiled, getting to your feet.

With more dramaticism than necessary, you walked a little ways from the couch, facing the opposite direction. Tugged loose the waistband, unbuttoned the front. The whole time, you felt Ford’s eyes on your back, the room charged with nervous energy, like a live wire sparked and sputtered against the floor. 

You opened the sides of the trench coat, revealing your outfit first to the bookshelves on the other side of the room. Then in one smooth, practiced motion, you turned to face him and let the trench coat drop to the floor behind you.

There was the sound of Ford’s sharp intake of breath, and you saw his hands at his sides clench, grabbing fistfuls of the couch fabric. He lifted his tense shoulders and sat with his feet on tiptoes, knees raised higher like he just needed to tense every muscle he had at his disposal. 

The piece of lingerie you wore was relatively modest, the kind that made a partner desperate, showing just enough skin to tease without baring it all. The bra cups were designed to clip in the front, pressing your breasts together and making for a display of cleavage you hoped would be irresistible. Lace trim ran over the top, and there was a tiny, delicate bow at the center, between your breasts. It flared out into translucent material directly underneath your cups.

Ford was silent, his eyes immediately going to your cleavage, then your bared stomach, then your cleavage again before darting away like he couldn’t decide where to look. “I-it’s, uh… a really lovely outfit,” he practically croaked.

“Now, Stanford Pines, how could you possibly know that?” Your hands went to your hips. “You barely even looked at it.”

He swallowed hard, and suddenly he seemed fascinated by the plaid wallpaper. “I’m simply trying to be respectful.” His voice sounded weak. “I don’t want to stare, or make you… uncomfortable.”

“Well, I’m asking you to look,” you said softly. “So why would I be uncomfortable?”

Finally, he tore his eyes away from the apparent charm of the wall and looked at you. He seemed to slowly drink in the outfit, his grip on the couch cushions tightening.

“You look…” His voice came out breathier than intended, so he cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and tried again. “You look beautiful.”

Before you could comment or show your delight beyond a pleased smile, he stumbled on ahead, speaking rapidly.

“I mean, that color suits your skin tone perfectly, and the design is masterful, it’s a delicate piece, really pretty, I like the placement of the bow on the front, I wonder kind of fabric they used to get that translucent effect, you said you got it from a magazine so how did you know the sizing would be correct?”

It was all just one big run-on sentence. That was what Ford tended to do when he got this ramped up on nervous energy.

Getting closer, you stepped forward til your knees nearly touched his. That shut him up. You were close enough that he could reach out and touch you now, if he could just find the nerve.

“I’m glad you like it,” you whispered, shifting your chest a little, folding your hands in front of you and using your arms to press your breasts together. 

His eyes followed where you told them to go, trailing down to your cleavage, and he swallowed hard, a slave to your whims. Ford seemed to be frozen in place for the moment, his mouth hanging open, this dull look in his eyes like that brilliant brain of his had stopped working for once. 

You watched him swallow hard again and try to speak, but all that escaped him was a little huff that sounded suspiciously like a whine.

Feeling emboldened by his reaction, you stepped even closer, leaning in to place your hands on either side of his legs. He leaned back, but not to get away. No, instead he leaned back to make room for you, eyes darting up to yours before moving back down to your breasts hanging in front of him.

“I bought it for you, y’know,” you murmured, and you didn’t miss the hitch in his breath.

His eyes darted up to meet yours. “M-m-m-me?” he practically squeaked, his voice several octaves higher than normal. 

“Yep,” you cooed, popping the ‘p’ and smiling alluringly. “‘S all for you. No one else gets to see me in it.”

Ford blinked rapidly up at you, his eyes darting once again down to your chest.

“How does that make you feel?”

The poor man actually wheezed a little, looking to the side as if for some unknown rescuer, some device that could keep his eyes from orbiting your breasts, dangling in front of him like a carrot on a stick.

“I-I-I… I’m not sure what to say,” he finally stammered, gaze returning to where you wanted it. His fingers twitched against the couch, like he wanted to reach out but was holding himself back.

“It’s okay,” you purred. “You can touch.”

With a broken, guttural groan, he surged forward, his lips finding the swell of your breasts where he began mouthing along your skin. You were surprised by his fervor, but quickly recovered, your hand moving to the back of his head encouragingly as he opened his mouth wide, tongue hanging out, and licked a stripe along both breasts, moaning pathetically as he did.

His hands found your waist, drawing you closer and dragging you into his lap. His instincts seemed to take over, telling his body what to do as he shifted his hips upwards, letting you feel the excitement between his legs.

“W-wait,” you panted, pulling back slightly, breathing heavily despite your mouth not having been nearly as active as his. He pulled off your breast with a pop, leaving a red mark behind, his mouth still hanging open and eyes glassy.

“Don’t get me wrong, I am thoroughly enjoying what you’re doing,” you whispered, reaching out to cup his face. “I just… want to make sure you know what you’re doing. Y’know, before we… commit.”

He whispered your name with enraptured devotion, tilting his head to press his cheek against your hand. “I never even dreamed… I mean, never in a million years… I wouldn’t have ever guessed that someone like you would be interested in someone like me.”

“What do you mean by ‘someone like you’?” you asked, frowning and gently caressing his stubbled jaw.

Ford blushed and looked away, stammering, “W-well, I just… you’re so beautiful,” he breathed, blinking rapidly as he looked fixedly at your shoulder, brushing his fingers along it in a featherlight touch. “And I’m so… awkward. Socially stunted.” His eyes met yours again. “A geek.”

“That might be true,” you brushed his hair back from his forehead, leaning down and pressing a tender kiss there, “but you are also kind, and sweet, and so handsome.”

Swallowing hard, he met your gaze with wide eyes. “You… You think I’m handsome?”

“Of course I do,” you murmured, running your fingers along his jaw, then trailing your thumbs back over his cheekbones. “You’ve got a strong jaw, broad shoulders, thick lashes… and don’t even get me started on those big brown eyes.”

He batted said big brown eyes up at you, then you were rewarded with a lopsided grin. His hands tightened their grip on your waist.

“So you like me?”

“Yes, Ford. I do. I really do.”

“Woah.”

There was a pause where he just stared for a few moments before you nervously cleared your throat and wet your lips.

“Do, uh… Do you like me, too?”

Ford’s eyes went wide again, and he tilted his head back, leaning forward to gaze earnestly up at you. “Of course I do!” His tone mirrored your earlier one, when he asked disbelievingly for confirmation that you found him handsome. “You’re beautiful, and confident, and I’d trust you with my life. I guess I kind of have a few times. Like that run-in with the Mega Ultra Super Ducks…” He shuddered.

You had named that one. He’d insisted he wasn’t going to use it, but hadn’t been able to come up with a punny name to replace it. He’d told you it would be a ‘filler name’ until he came up with the real one, but you’d seen him writing it in his journal.

“So…” you whispered, dropping your chin and looking down at his lips.

“So,” he repeated quietly, voice low and rough.

It was unclear which of you leaned in first, but suddenly you were kissing. It was sloppy, but he was eager and his hands were on you so you couldn’t complain.

God, those hands. You’d been dreaming of them for as long as you’d known him, imagining them on your skin, touching you in places no one else had been, at least not for a long time.

Now it was real, your imagination come to life in front of you. Six fingers made for an impossibly wide hand, and they rubbed down your waist before finally going down to cup your ass and drag you closer.

You let out an approving hum against his lips, shifting in his lap. The tiniest movement of your hips drew a groan from him, which you happily swallowed down, your mouths moving in sync.

He reached up, hand pressing between your shoulder blades. He absentmindedly twisted one of the bows between his thumb and finger, and the lingerie came loose, falling forward.

Ford jumped, eyes going wide, and he drew as far away as he could with you still in his lap.

“I am so sorr—”

“No, it’s fine,” you breathed, letting the top fall forward and flashing him a grin. “It’s made to come off easily.”

His pupils visibly blew when his gaze fixed on your now-bare breasts. Slowly leaning forward, he glanced up at you, watching for any signs of discomfort or protest. When you voiced none, he leaned all the way in and pressed a gentle kiss to your nipple.

The feathery touch of his lips there sent a shudder through you, and you reached up to clutch the back of his neck. He continued just peppering the gentlest kisses there, his hands just as gentle on your waist.

It was driving you crazy. His hands, his lips, all on you but not enough; there was no friction, his touch barely there, just skimming over you like he’d scald himself if he got too close. 

You threaded your fingers through his hair and clenched your hand into a fist, tugging hard enough to draw a gasp from him and make him lean his head back to look up at you.

His eyes were almost black with desire, and he was panting softly, cheeks flushed and glasses askew.

“Ford,” you shifted, grinding your hips down against his and watching his eyes roll back, lashes fluttering at the most minuscule bit of stimulation. “If you don’t touch me harder than that, I’m gonna lose it.”

He blinked owlishly up at you, then shook his head, his glasses falling back into place. “Sorry, I don’t… entirely understand. You… You do want me to touch you harder, or you don’t?”

“I do,” you insisted, tugging harder on his hair.

“Oh. Okay. I wasn’t sure, because you said if I didn’t, you’d ‘lose it’ and I wasn’t sure if that was meant as a positive expression or—”

You shut him up with a kiss.

He made no complaint, obediently opening his mouth when you pressed your tongue to his lips. You were teasing him by dipping it in and retracting, reveling in the little whine he made, trying to chase after it by gripping your hips and leaning closer so you were nearly bent backwards.

Teeth scraped your lower lip, lightly dragging over your skin, and you moaned into the kiss, both hands moving to his shoulders as you shuffled forward, closer, trying to mold your body to his. 

Finally, he seemed to be getting more warm in his shoes, and his lips trailed down your jaw, to your neck, collarbone, and finally dragging along the curve of your breast. He hesitated over your nipple, leaning his head back to look at you. His glasses had fogged up, and you would have laughed at that if you weren’t so unbelievably wired right then.

“Could I..?” Ford trailed off, eyes darting back down.

“God, please,” you groaned, then grabbed his head and dragged him forward until his face was buried between your breasts.

He moaned, turning his face to mouth at the side of it, tongue out and lapping at your skin. You had a fleeting thought that your skin was a little sweaty from the trench coat you’d donned in the oppressive summer heat, but any worries you may have had died when his lips latched on and sucked.

Your thighs jolted on either side of him and a gasp left your lips. Arching, you felt Ford’s hands slide along your bare back, up to your shoulder blades, pressing you closer and opening his mouth wider, like he couldn’t get enough.

Ford continued lapping and sucking, and you were so caught up in the feeling that at first you didn’t notice him thrusting up against nothing, until he whimpered softly.

Pulling away just enough to look down at him, you slid your hand under his chin to make him gaze up at you, his brown eyes glassy.

“Ford… I don’t want to rush straight into this and, um… go all the way,” you murmured, biting your lip.

He swallowed hard and nodded. “I understa—”

“But,” you continued, pressing a finger to his lips to shush him, “…there are other ways to have fun together.”

The shuddering breath that left his lips then was like a reward, paired with the way he shivered and his hips twitched. 

“Alright.” His Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and you watched with rapt attention. His voice was low and raspy, and it cracked a little on his next question. “What, uh… what did you have in mind?”

You leaned forward to whisper into his ear. His eyes slowly widened, but he nodded, his voice utterly broken when he whispered, “Okay.”

The two of you were a little unevenly dressed, so you sat back and let him unbutton his shirt with shaking, six-fingered hands.

He seemed eager and enthusiastic enough, just a bit nervous. It was to be expected, and you could relate because you were feeling the same tornado of emotions.

You’d liked him for so long now, pining after him and watching him talk and talk, sometimes about concepts that made you feel like your brain had been stuck in a deep-frier and left to get crispy, but you listened because you loved to see him passionate about something. It didn’t matter if you didn’t understand—telling you about it made him happy.

What if this sucks? What if you’ve built it up too much in your head and it’s not all you dreamed it’d be?

You shoved those anxious thoughts down, stuffing them back in the potty you fished them out of and flushing. It was going to be good not because of the act itself, but because it was Ford. There were emotions involved, and you were already unbelievably horny for this man.

Ford had the shirt fully unbuttoned now, still hanging on his shoulders. He reached down to start on his slacks.

Now, you watched as he popped the button loose and unzipped it. Already you could see the tent in his underwear, erection straining to get loose.

His eyes flickered up to your rapt attention before he slowly slid the pants down his thighs. You sat up on your knees, giving him room to kick off the offending garment.

When only Ford’s underwear remained, you glanced up at him with an enthusiastic sort of impatience. Seeing the anticipation in your expression, he laughed nervously before slowly, agonizingly slowly, sliding the band of his white briefs down. His erection sprang up, eager to join the party.

Grinning and meeting his eye, you reached out, but paused and waited for his say so. At his nod, you pressed a finger to the leaking tip.

Curiously, you rolled the bead of liquid between your thumb and forefinger. Then you sucked those fingers clean.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, lashes fluttering and head falling back with a broken sigh of your name. “You’re going to kill me. I am going to have a heart attack and die.”

“Oh, come on, Ford,” you popped your finger loose from your lips, eyes training on the new bead of liquid that had sprung forth to replace the previous. “This is new for me, too. I’m just exploring all my options, like a true scientist.”

Ford’s cheeks flushed, and he peered at you over his glasses. You knew from experience that he couldn’t see anything without them, unless he got really close.

Without warning, you wrapped a hand around him and pumped slowly down. His hips jolted upwards and a shaky, surprised breath left his parted lips.

“H-hey,” he whimpered with a shaking voice. “If…” Ford paused to swallow, seeming to have a bit of trouble with it. “If you want to do that thing you mentioned… we’re gonna have to start, before I, um…”

Catching his meaning, you grinned, very pleased with yourself. Your nerves had practically evaporated and left only anticipation in their wake. 

Still, you had mercy and released your hold on him. “Lay back for me,” you murmured, gently pressing him down to a reclined position, sideways on the couch. You remained hovering over his lap, sitting up on your knees and toying with your lacy bottoms.

They definitely weren’t an everyday pair of underwear—they were pretty uncomfortable—but Ford seemed to like them, judging by his expression.

Lips parted, eyes fixed on the bit of hair visible over the low-riding panties. His hands came up slowly on either side of your thighs until they rested on your hips, thumb brushing against the fabric.

His adam’s apple bobbed, and he glanced up at you for… consent? Encouragement? You weren’t entirely sure, but you gave him both.

“Go ahead,” you murmured, caressing his jaw. “It’s alright.”

Moving at a crawling pace that had you reveling in the tenderness of the moment while also wishing he’d just tear the damn things off of you, he drew the underwear down, letting out a shuddering breath once it was clear of your hips and he could really see you.

The angle didn’t allow for him to see your already-dripping heat, but he still seemed fascinated, hand moving inward and thumb pressing gently into the dip between the lips. The little bit of stimulation made you inhale sharply, head falling back on a sigh.

He seemed to grow more confident then; though you could hear him gulp, he gripped your hips and dragged you down closer to his lap.

Slowly, you sank down, not taking him in, just letting his cock slot between your folds and gently rubbing back and forth. After so much buildup, you swore you were going to finish right away, but you changed your pace to slow its approach.

“Ohhhh goddddd,” Ford moaned, head falling back, and you swore you’d never heard anything hotter than a super-genius losing his cool, all because you were rubbing your pussy against him. He whispered your name, grip on your hips tightening.

He began guiding your movements, back and forth, though occasionally you rolled in a circle that had the head of his cock catching on your clit in a way that made both of you moan.

“Ford,” you murmured, breathing heavily and leaning down to press your forehead to his, the movement of your hips shifting you up and down.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whimpered, gazing up at you through foggy glasses. His hands came up to massage and knead your breasts, and you hummed approvingly, eyes squeezing closed. You weren’t going to last long at this rate.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Ford breathed, cupping your face. “Please. I want to see you.”

Lashes fluttered as you opened your eyes again, gazing down into his soulful brown ones, so deep you swore that if you looked too far, you’d get lost and never come up for air. 

That actually didn’t sound too bad. Air was overrated anyway.

You didn’t have to worry about trying to stave off your own impending orgasm to make it last, because Ford suddenly came with no warning.

It shot up and splattered on his belly, sticking in the brown hairs there and painting them a shiny off-white. His body twitched underneath you, and he cried out, head falling back, mouth open wide. He was panting, arms now splayed up over his head on the couch cushion.

Dear God. It was, by far, the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. You tensed up and hunched forward, pressing your forehead against his shoulder and slowing as your own orgasm began crashing over you, prolonging the waves of pleasure by riding them out on Ford’s cock.

It was a mess. There was an uncomfortable wetness between your legs, and his spend was all in his body hair. But you didn’t want to move, wishing you could just stay there, lying naked with him and ignoring whatever obligations you both had forever.

Despite the hint of discomfort, the closeness was worth it. You sighed happily and settled with your head against his shoulder, hunched down to avoid full contact.

Eventually though, you had to get up because you were putting his legs to sleep, and you couldn’t lay flat on his chest to relieve the pressure without making it worse by getting his come all over you and rubbing it into the hair even more.

Disentangling yourself, you looked down at his now-soft cock, curious. You stuck a finger under it and lifted slightly, watching it flop back down.

Ford’s eyes went wide and he stuttered your name. You just laughed. “What? I’m a scientist.”

“You’re a menace, is what you are,” he mumbled, swinging his legs over the side of the couch and carefully getting up. The shuffle that ensued was a little awkward, both of you trying to clean up the messes you had made, but it was also so endearing and so real.

This was what it meant, to be that close to someone else. It wasn’t always hot and heavy makeout sessions and smooth movements; sometimes it was clumsily fumbling around for something to clean yourself with, feeling a little weird about walking through someone’s house naked but feeling giddy with the thought that it could become more familiar.

You could end up regularly doing things like this with Ford. Not just the sexy things, but kissing and cuddling and getting up before him to make breakfast, only to have him wake up halfway through and wrap his arms around you from behind.

…Okay, maybe you were idealizing it a little. But you couldn’t help but feel a sense of anticipation, like you couldn’t wait to see where things went from here.

A bit more talking was in order, defining the relationship and having a chat about expectations, but for now… For now, you were just enjoying watching the way he frowned with a cute little wrinkle between his knit brows, the little bit of a double chin he had as he looked down to wipe himself clean with a tissue.

It was all so casual. You were ecstatic.

Ford noticed you watching him and glanced up. His cheeks slowly and steadily turned red, eyes darting to the side.

“Wh… What is it?”

You shrugged. “Nothing.”

Crossing the room, you wrapped your arms loosely around his waist and gazed up at him. “I just think you’re cute.”

Ford’s blush deepened, but he gently reached up to cup your cheek before reconsidering, letting his hand drop to your shoulder as he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

Oh yeah. You could get used to this.

[moonlight-prose]

this prompt with husband tommy miller because i know damn well that man writes love letters, i just KNOW it "I tried to burn the letters, the memories, but the fire wouldn’t take them! It’s like the universe won’t let me forget you!"

an old owl calling

a/n: the speed at which i wrote this request shocked me honestly. i haven't had this much inspo for tommy since s1 came out. but us watching the first episode together and barking over how good this man looks is sparking the creativity again. also i'm just a massive sucker for angst and he called for it immediately. i genuinely can't even explain how much i missed him, but hopefully this does that for me.

summary: memories were bullets you could never dig out from a body that had seen too much. flashes of when you were happy together, moments in time you ached to return to. loving tommy was easier than breathing - letting him go took everything you had. he only wished he could say the same.

word count: 3.8k+

pairing: tommy miller x reader

warnings: not explicit, angst, gratuitous prose for the angst (i'm back to my roots), heartbreak, blood + wounds as an allegory for love, past relationship, arguments, tw addiction, ptsd, mutual pining, they're a bit toxic ngl, second chance romance, confessions, idiots in love.

Snow packed under your boots as you trudged forward, a rile slung over one shoulder and a pistol at your side older than you ever thought you’d get to be. Hard to believe three years ago you dug it out of a garage that might as well have belonged to a grandfather. Maybe it did—what with the records piled in disintegrating cardboard boxes, and photo albums housing reminiscent black and white photos of a time where there was no one left.

No person to tell the stories, no one to even remember them.

You supposed that was the way of things now. Memories held weight—too much of it to carry. The significance of time you’d never get back, people who you knew to be dead back in a place you tried to wipe from your memory. Alcohol helped. Pills subdued the grief, the agony of remembering. But their faces took up space in your mind, spreading like a tumor along an already weary amygdala.

“Good morning.” The pleasantry tasted false on the tip of your tongue. Lies you told yourself to appease the ache in your throat; if you ignored the pain it might go away.

Joel’s grim expression never failed to spill comfort into your chest—your own version of old reliable. “Good would be less snow on the ground.”

“Then just a plain morning,” you dryly shot back, glee itching at your heart with the peek of his grin. “Do I have watch today?”

“Not today.” He groaned with the effort of standing too quick, his knees popping subtly. A sound overshadowed by the heavy thump of his boots. “List says you’re out on a patrol nearby. Just to check for any strays that might show up with the cold weather comin’ in.”

“Sounds easy enough. Who’s the partner?” You could feel the regret echo in your stomach, pulling sharp at old wounds you never bothered to stitch up.

“Tommy.”

One day in the near future the mere echo of his name off someone else’s tongue wouldn’t violently split you open. The curve of each letter, the scribble of his own hand writing on that fucking paper beside yours, might be just another person in the long run. Hoping for it felt like a sin, yet ripping him out of your life altogether echoed with a salvation you weren’t strong enough to give yourself.

You tried not to gasp in anguish, but Joel—ever the perceptive man—caught how your face twitched. The shake of your hand, blunt and ripped fingernails buried in the calloused skin of your palm.

Memories were a bitch to hold onto; each one shining with their own brutality. His smile, the feel of lips along the column of your neck, the touch of hands gripping your thighs. He echoed with sentimental domesticity that would never be. A man who allowed his promises to fray at the end of their already thin rope, having forgotten that you were clutching the other end with sore fingers and a hoarse cry for help.

“You don’t have to go,” Joel offered.

A quick fix to an already lethal disease.

“Yes I do,” you replied, blunt and void of what you struggled to swallow down. “It’s what I was assigned. I’ll keep to that schedule.”

“I’m just sayin’ if you wanted somethin’ else-”

“When have you ever known me to run from responsibilities?” The pen held little ink left, the signature of your past scribbled and faded beside Tommy’s. “Let him know I’ll be by the stables.”

“I just…” Joel coughed, thumbing the edge of his jacket. “You should know this. Even if he’d hate me for admitting it. But Tommy requested you.”

Your brows furrowed; the little anger you held onto shuffling to the back of your mind. “Is that even allowed?”

“What can I say he’s got pull with the right people.”

“And he used it for this?”

Joel huffed, scrubbing at the side of his face. “He didn’t use it for just this darlin’. He used it for you.”

“Yeah right-”

“But you knew that already.” He saw through your false need for stability and dug into hot flesh and pulsing veins—determined to find that one singular wound which hurt the most. “I don’t need to know all of it. What my brother does is up to him, but you’re both hurt and this town is too small to pretend he doesn’t exist.”

How could you tell Joel it was easier to forget the existence of someone so hazardous to your already brittle soul? Tommy didn’t remain a man at the end of it all. He existed as the arrow already embedded in your heel, the knife that turned sharp and jagged in an already fragile heart.

No matter how you tried—burying volatile emotions in a grave that reached the core of your being—you couldn’t stop yourself from loving him.

One way or another you’d claw your way back to him, dragging along the dirt and filth to feel the warmth of his smile against your skin.

But to accept that would crack open a part of your heart you weren’t ready to confront yet. Satisfied to float in the oblivious bliss of being a heartbroken hollow shell of who Tommy once loved.

You last saw him a week ago in passing. He was engrossed in a conversation with the town’s council, the lines beneath his eyes dark and apparent, his face paler than you were used to seeing. Passing it off as the cold air—winter making itself known with the hastening snow storm—you did what you could to rip out the feelings of guilt that rose to the surface.

He wasn’t sleeping, this much you knew. Not when he once stumbled into your bed, exhausted and broken from yet another day of fixing what continued to break. He’d find his spot beside you, hands entwined in yours against the steady thump of your chest, face buried in the back of your neck. Healing always came easier when he woke up to the sight of your eyes—the curl of a sleep addled smile pressed against his chapped ones.

The papers stuffed in your coat pocket burned your skin. Familiar scrawls of a handwriting you could picture with your eyes closed, his words carved with ink to haunt you at the end of it all. He wrote three of them—one for each year he loved you.

Paragraphs of the emotions he’d never admit out loud. Pleas and apologies to forgive how he pushed you away, rambling promises that depicted a better man. Someone you could take back with open arms and a delicate heart.

The fictional idealized version of himself he longed to become.

You bundled them up wherever you went. Toying with the thin strand of twine he used to wrap the papers together. A soft touch—the thread entangled and twisted with a love you couldn’t forget.

You didn’t bother to wait for Tommy to arrive at the stables, swinging your leg up and over Comet. His black coat was a stark contrast to the first snowfall of the season. His hooves already packed with white fluff as he trotted out towards the familiar pathway through town—the sway and dip of each shift a comfort you could lose yourself in, your fingers tight around the reigns and knees tapping slightly to quicken the pace.

Tommy would catch up.

“You’re meant to have a partner before heading out.”

The frigid air burned your lungs with each breath. “I’m capable of handling myself out there.”

“Doesn’t matter Soot.”

“We’re resorting to name calling?”

Jimmy scoffed. “Last I checked I wasn’t the master of lighting fires.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The echo of hooves on the ground should have alerted you. The hair on the back of your neck rose fast enough to give you whiplash at the sound of his voice. Just a small shout of hello and yet your insides were turning over, heart squeezed with the strength of his fist as it curled around the helpless organ. He smiled at Jimmy, coming to a stop at your side—the horse’s chuffed breath forming a cloud in the air. As if offering his own greeting to the people who knew him best.

“You plannin’ on taking off without me?” he asked, finally turning his head to meet your gaze.

Eyes you looked into more times than your own burned a hole in the center of your chest. The hue of brown sparked with something dangerous. An understanding that this was more than just a patrol. This was Tommy finally pinning you down, getting you in a space where you couldn’t avoid his words.

The confrontation you never allowed to happen was down the snow covered pathway; you longed to crawl back into your house and cower beneath the covers.

“You took too long,” you snapped, clicking your tongue to kick Comet into gear.

“And waitin’ was too much work?”

He followed close behind just out of sight. A part of you felt grateful for the small convenience of taking the lead, but you could feel his stare burning a hole in the back of your head. No matter how much you tried to run from it this was bound to happen eventually.

What were you to do when your souls were bound long before tragedy struck the world? When you knew him as a younger man—his face free of lines and hair still short enough to fall along his forehead in curls.

“You’re the one who set this up. I just did my job and showed up.”

“I don’t like this,” he grumbled.

“Like what? Patrolling? Then why did you pick it-”

“What you’re doin’!” Clicking loud enough to ricochet off the trees, he caught up to your side. “I don’t like you talkin’ to me like I’m a fuckin’ stranger.”

You sighed, leading Comet down the path lined with hoof prints. “How else am I supposed to talk to you Miller? We’re…”

“A hell of a lot more than strangers.”

“Yeah. You can say that.” Stubbornness is what kept you alive. The instinct to dig your heels in and wait it out was how you found your way to Jackson, surviving alone all those years before Tommy came across you. Half dead, buried beneath snow, and yet still the whisper of your name from his lips sent you careening back to life.

“Fuck this shit,” he muttered, flicking the reigns until you were cut off—Comet reeling back with a displeased sound you felt in the base of your throat. “Talk to me Soot. Yell at me. Call me a fuckin’ bastard for pushing you away. Curse my existence and spit at me, but please stop treatin’ me like I don’t exist.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Tommy.”

The break in his anger, the pain in his eyes, filled you with a sick satisfaction you loathed the second it entered your heart. You didn’t want to hurt him. Not like he hurt you. You were just trying to survive.

“We can walk it from here,” you said, dropping to the ground and slinging Comet’s reigns around an old post hammered into the dirt.

He followed in quick succession, matching your stride as he yanked out the gun attached to his hip—always on edge when it came to protecting you. The anger was palpable, thick enough to slice through as it hung over your shoulders like an ashen colored storm cloud waiting to drown you both. You stewed in what flared to life at the base of your stomach. The rage of a fight never had lingered, peeking its head out no matter how hard you tried to rid yourself of what remained.

The love would always exist. A passion you couldn’t bring yourself to release. You knew that was why you came here today—expecting a fight with bared teeth and growled curse words that would make even Joel blush.

An inevitable explosion of all you were to one another. A ticking time bomb, counting down faster than either of you expected.

“I know what I did was fucked up,” he began, the truth flowing with ease past a mouth you dreamed of at night. “You think I wouldn’t have written those letters if I didn’t know? You deserved a better man than I ever could be, but I wanna be that man baby.”

Your teeth sunk into any part of your cheek hard enough to make you wince. “Let’s just get this over with okay?”

“No. We’re gonna have it out. Right here.”

“We’re in the middle of the woods Tommy. Stop pulling this shit would you? This isn’t the time for your games-”

“Well I wouldn’t have had to pull a move like this if you would acknowledge my damn existence in town.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The stoic expression threw him off guard, his eyes narrowing with the challenge of splitting you right down to the marrow of who he knew. Someone he longed to recognize.

He scoffed, meeting your bullheaded response with horns of his own. “You don’t know what I’m talkin’ about huh? Well forgive me Soot if I call fuckin’ bullshit.”

“Tommy-”

“You’re lying right to my face thinkin’ I won’t see it. But you forget I know you. I know you better than anyone in town ever wished they could.” Your first mistake was leading him to familiar ground—the hard headed version of you that kept him on edge twenty years ago, intent on getting what you wanted. “Better than any of those old men who practically lick their fuckin’ lips at the sight of you.”

The words struck you—caving in a small opening he pried open with his hands until blood ran down his knuckles. He was keeping tabs on you in the two months you were separated. Watching how certain men in the town nearly cheered at the knowledge you were single again. Jealousy ran deep in Tommy’s veins—a trait you learned to love and accept. But this was different.

This held an edge he no longer walked with the trepidation of a man scared to lose you.

He didn’t give a shit about the consequences when he was living them. Tommy reaped what he sowed and sunk his teeth into the end result—a flare of covetousness surging back into an older version of himself. He never liked when you had lovers in the past, always greedy for what they’d never get. Your friendship, your shining attention.

But to see it turned on himself left you gasping for breath. Lust wrapped tight and hot around the base of your spine, sparking feelings that never went away.

“You think I never saw the way they looked at you? I know what I had—what I lost. So you’re gonna stand there and talk to me. I know you probably didn’t read those letters, but that isn’t stoppin’ me from telling it to your face that I’m sorry. That I would take everything back in a heartbeat.”

“Tommy…don’t-”

“And yes I pulled every string available to get you here. Yes I’m a selfish bastard who probably doesn’t deserve your attention anymore. But I need you to hear me-”

“Shut up!”

He straightened, his jaw clamping shut at the roar of your voice echoing off the trees. His words overwhelmed you, dragged you into a place you barely escaped from a month ago. Pain laced each breath you took. But that wasn’t what had your temper flaring, bringing to life the person who fought for everything they had. Someone who learned that life didn’t offer good things unless you were willing to fight tooth and nail for it.

“What the fuck are you smiling at?” you growled, watching his lips curve into a crooked grin.

“There you are,” he murmured. “I thought I lost you.”

The fighter he knew still resided just below the surface of your cold front. The person who dragged themselves through hell to get here, seeking a place of comfort after years of torture. You did it without help. You managed without him. And yet you no longer had to, you didn’t want to; the lack of his warmth evident in how numb you felt, how your heart barely fluttered anymore.

Tommy Miller didn’t save you, but he sure as hell was determined to protect the parts you kept alive.

“I read the letters,” you hoarsely admitted, ripping the band aid off without hesitation.

“I know you did.” He sighed, his breath forming in the air and obstructing him from view. “I know why you won’t talk about ‘em.”

“That’s not it.” Sucking in a breath felt like needles puncturing the crumbling remnants of a person who deserved love. You know you did. So why couldn’t you accept it when it came crawling back? “I just… I wanted…”

His solemn nod sliced off another piece of you, dropping it to the ground without a care in the world. “To forget me.”

“You’re so…” Hot tears collided with your frozen skin, the words thick like molasses in the back of your throat. “You were everything to me Tommy. And when you gave up on what we had-”

“I didn’t give up. I’d never do that.”

“You left me!” you shouted, voice cracked and chest heaving for air that wouldn’t come. A match that refused to ignite, striking haplessly against whatever it could reach. “You walked out when all I wanted was to know this version of you. Every part.”

Stumbling towards you he reached out, brown eyes muddled by wounds he tried to hide—grief he couldn’t weigh on your shoulders. He could barely carry it on his own. You knew the man he was before kissing him, long before you dragged him into that bed and let him between your thighs. Horrors trailed after him in a red streak of what he did, the torture he caused, the deaths tainting his hands.

But you still let him touch you. With red stains and all you allowed him to grip your body like a lifeline, mouth meshed with his as tears trailed past your temples.

You loved him in spite of the darkness.

“I wrote it down for you,” he said, eyes cast to the forest—on guard in more ways than one. “I put it all in those letters. All the bad shit I’ve done, all the people I killed. I laid it all out for you to see. But if you want to forget me-”

Throwing your hands up, you no longer tried to stifle the tears—the anguish he should see play out on an already exhausted face. "I tried to burn the letters, the memories, but the fire wouldn’t take them! It’s like the universe won’t let me forget you!"

“Baby…”

Your sobs echoed off an empty forest blanketed by picturesque scenery—such an opposition for the cracking of your heart you were certain he could hear. “I couldn’t start a fire to throw them in Tommy. I couldn’t… I don’t want to forget you. Why would I? When I still love you.”

Silence filled the air, the forest taking over for the words left unsaid. You could hear an owl calling in the distance, the rustle of a rabbit in the bushes as it ripped what leaves still remained to pieces. The forest thrived in the absence of humanity. You could see how it ignored the anger, the frustration that fell a part on the floor.

The forest didn’t need you.

Not the way Tommy did.

The shock dissipated as you stood there heaving in gasping breaths, fighting back whimpering pleas for him to say something—to not let the final piece of you break and land in the snow. He surged towards you, gloved hand gripping the back of your neck to yank your face close, his still chapped lips finding your frozen ones with ease. And for the first time in two months you could breathe.

“I love you,” he mumbled against your open mouth, tongue delving into a space he longed to taste again. “Can’t fuckin’ survive without you baby.”

You didn’t bother responding, slinging an arm around his neck to drag him even closer. His kiss burned you, the match finally striking with perfect ease to light that roaring fire. Loving him came quick, overtaking who you once were in order to build someone new. Someone he could cherish and keep safe at the end of the world.

His grip dropped to your hips, pulling you close enough to feel through the layers of coats and sweaters. Later you might laugh at how careless you were so out in the open. A story told over whiskey, the tipsy relief of contentment fueling teasing words and touches that strayed far past appropriate.

Tucking his hands into your back pockets, he ran his nose along the side of your still frozen cheek—lips curled into a smile you mimicked. “I liked writin’ you those letters.”

“Yeah?” you sighed, catching his lips softly.

“Mhm.”

“Write me some more.”

He chuckled, cupping the side of your neck, thumb running along the fluttering vein. “I can do that.”

“I hope you know… I really missed you.” Breathing the words against his cheek, you felt his hold tighten—as if terrified to let you go after all that happened.

“Me too,” he whispered, pressing his face into your neck, breathing the scent of your cold skin. “It nearly killed me bein’ away from you.”

“Then stay.”

His head shot up, clear eyes catching yours. “I’m never leavin’ you again honey. Till the day I fuckin’ die I’ll be by your side.”

Heat bloomed beneath your cheeks, eyes shining with unshed tears. “That might be sooner than later if we’re out here any longer.”

That familiar bright smile brought back the feeling in your chest—heart fluttering in time with his. “Then let’s head home yeah?”

Home. A word uttered in the darkness of long days and weary limbs begging for reprieve in the comfort of a squeaky old mattress. It sounded jarring coming from him with ease. As if he’d been longing for your shared space, where love could flourish and a future solidified with each day spent within the walls of an old house.

The space had seen people before you, it might see others after you, but for this brief time on this planet it was yours.

“Okay,” you replied softly, reverence dripping from the word. “Let’s go home.”