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babiebom · 11 months ago

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Sebastian NSFW Alphabet

A/N: the actual love of my life is next, be prepared for the others to either come over the next couple of weeks or the next couple of days depending on how fast I do them.

Tw: nsfw content(sex, kinks, cum, ome mention of piss yk the usual) cursing

Wc:idk

Stardew Masterlist NSFW Alphabet Masterlist

C- Cum (anything to do with cum,basically)

If you asked him to his face he’d just say that he’s okay with whatever you want but in truth he wants to ruin you completely. I think he would be very awkward and unwilling to admit that he wants to cum inside you and on you. Like he wants to go until you’re covered and filled with his cum. It’s probably a possessive thing.

E- Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

I think I’ve talked about this before? Like he’s either a virgin or he’s had one or two people that he’s slept with before. I do think he and Abigail have hooked up at least once but stopped at some point because something happened. But I do lean more towards him being a virgin right now

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing but he learns quickly and never shows that he’s clumsy with it. Acts like he’s just learning what you like in order to pretend that he’s cool calm and collected. Inside he’s freaking out because he doesn’t know what he’s doing and is VERY worried you’re not enjoying yourself.

G- Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? Etc)

He would want to be funny and relaxed in the moment, but he is quite serious because he’s kinda insecure, and wants everything to be good so he can’t really relax and be a little funny until you’re far into the relationship.

H-Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

His pubic hair is dark like his hair(I know people think he’s a redhead like his mom but I do like that his hair is dark.) he will let it get messy if he’s single but once he starts dating he trims it VERY low. Like he’s not bald but is very short in order to make everyone comfortable.

I-Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

I don’t think he’s very romantic unless you ask him to make more of an effort. I don’t think he’s entitled or even open with asking for sex, but you can tell when he wants to do the do. He’s more like….idk how to describe it. It’s just he’s like more touchy and cuddly when he’s horny? If you ask him to be more romantic he’ll do the candle thing probably or something nerdy but cute.

J- Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

One of the horniest men to ever exist ngl. Dude probably jacks off at least once a day. Let’s face it, he’s an antisocial emo, who sits in his room all day because he doesn’t want to leave it and to further that point he even has a job that requires him to not leave it. Seb has so much alone time and so many naughty thoughts that he has to rub one out in order to even concentrate properly. Luckily no one really bothers him so he has only been caught probably once and as a teenager.

K- Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Lord Jesus this man has too many to count so I might go top five. He likes role playing and dressing up for SURE. Wear that maid costume, or if you’re particularly dominant out HIM in a maid costume. Let him wear his Wizard cosplay like dude is DOWN. Bdsm. Literally(I say this word way too much)as a whole he likes bondage, he likes sadism and masochism(he will let you choose) he’s into dominant and submissive roles(again he will let you choose) it’s just FUN for him. He likes choking, and probably has a body worship kink (both ways), and overstimulation. Used to edge himself on accident and it became a thing for him

L-Location (favorite places to do the do)

In his room, or near the lake. He likes it most on his bed because after it smells like you, and he’s always dreamed of fucking a significant other in his bed during one of his jerk off sessions, and literally having you in his bed is a dream come true. Also on the couch in his room, because it’s kinda depraved. Like you two were so wrapped up in each other that you couldn’t make it to the bed that’s a couple of feet away.

He likes the lake because it gives off the exhibition vibe while honestly being kinda private. Like he’s usually the only one by the lake at a certain time (unless Demetrius comes and ruins the vibes for him even if he’s usually on the other side of the lake) and living on the mountain top means that no one is really around to snitch on him. Like his mother is too wrapped up in her husband and his sister is too wrapped up in her experiments and robots to even notice that he’s railing you by the lakeside.

M- Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

I feel like I’ve said this for EVERY character so I’m gonna try to reword it from just *you*

His mind gets him going. Like he’s always thinking of something dirty, even if he’s doing something completely innocent. Like he can be working and all of a sudden his mind is wandering because his work is so boring that it can’t help but fill the boredom with things he finds fun. Like video games and fucking you until the both of you are on the verge of passing out.

N- No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

Like the last letter, I feel like i say it a lot for each character but like anything that’s too gross. Like I think this man might go pretty far. Would probably even try piss stuff once if you really wanted it. So like anything that’s farther than that is a no.

O- Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Would say his preference is giving but in reality it’s receiving. He loves giving head, don’t get me wrong. But he will never turn down you giving him head EVER. There’s just something about how the comepletely falls apart when your mouth is on him. He could cry from how thankful he is that you’re willing to do this for him.

Giving head I would say he’s decent and get better every time. He strives for greatness(lmao like he’s an elite employee) when it comes to getting you to cum. He will always try new techniques in order to get you cumming quicker each time. He wants you to feel the best he can make you feel.

Q- Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc)

LOVES THEM. COMPLETELY!!!! Wants to be in you all day every day, and if quickies are the way to do it before he can have you all to himself, well, guess you’re gonna have a lot of quickies throughout the day. Oh well!

R-Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks?)

Like I mentioned earlier, Seb has a bit of an exhibitionist kink, it’s more that he wants to show off that he gets to fuck YOU. Like look at my hot significant other, rather than showing off his skills or himself. He doesn’t really want people to watch at all(unless it’s like Sam who he’s cool with watching) but like he does wish that people knew that he somehow bagged the hottest person alive(you). So he’ll fuck you in semi public. Like at the lakeside in the middle of the night, or in his room when he knows everyone is awake

And yes he is always game to experiment. If it’s going to make the experience better for both of you, his thought process is: why not? Willing to try almost everything once.

T- Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

I think he probably owned like a vibrating cock ring or a pocket pussy or a tenga egg or something while he was single. Now that he has you he rarely uses those things anymore unless you want him to incorporate it into sex.

Will buy toys for you, and if you buy toys for him he won’t object. Likes using them during sex, even if he doesn’t think y’all need them.

U- Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Likes to tease a decent amount, especially the more confident he gets. Will tease and laugh at you(in a mean but good way) if you’re begging or crying or something. Gives in if you beg just right though. He’s a menace not evil.

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attapullman · 11 months ago

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Bob From Stats | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: College is a wild time, but absolutely nothing could prepare you for the quiet guy from Stats riding around campus as a cowboy. Or what a good kisser he is.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: f!reader, smut, 18+ ONLY as always, dry humping, alcohol, drunken party games, mentions of studying because that gives me PTSD, semi-exaggerated Greek life for theatrical reasons

A Note From Mo: Somehow my frat!Bob, drunk Bob is Rhett, and 7 minutes in heaven ideas all rolled into one fic - wild! Massive shoutout to everyone who listened to me talk about Stats Bob (who is now officially my #2 Bob, I love him) and for supporting this here lil blog. May you find a hobby-horse-wielding future WSO to sweep you off your feet too!

If you liked this, you may also enjoy on our syllabus Bob From Pi Kapp.

“I hate this. I’m going to quit school and become a stripper.”

Anna gives you a wry look. “That joke was only funny the first time you said it.”

“So you admit I’m funny!”

The two of you have been spread out in the library the majority of the evening. Textbooks, snacks, and highlighters littering the glossy dark wood. You’re on hour five of assignments and your brain is pounding against the front of your skull. Your other classes aren’t too bad, a bit time consuming, but Statistics is a foreign language. Thinking in probable numbers? It was one thing when the nice guy who sat behind you helped explain concepts, but Anna does not have quite the same analytical mind.

The sky outside is an inky black and the library is quiet except for your frustrated huffs. It’s Saturday night. The rest of campus is indulging in cheap beers at Barney’s, slinking along Greek Row, or enjoying tonight’s episode of Saturday Night Live. It’s time to get out of here and crawl into your soft bed. Torturing yourself with Stats homework will be just as painful on Sunday.

“If I buy us a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough, can we blow this off and hang out back at the dorms?” Anna is nodding before you’ve even finished. Stuffing notebooks into backpacks and capping pens low on ink, you’re strolling down the library stairs not even five minutes later.

As the balmy evening campus air hits your face, you already feel fresher. Campus is quiet, late enough that most people are settled into their Saturday night plans. As the two of you near Greek Row, there’s a comfortable silence as you appreciate the breeze through the trees and the warm glow of campus housing windows.

That is, until a low whoop rings out. An undercurrent of boisterous cheering and what sounds like stomping feet. You exchange eyes with your roommate. What is that?

As if summoned, a group comes galloping through the neatly trimmed cypress trees around the corner. They’re stomping their feet in a rhythm, hands held mid-air to imitate holding reigns. Drunken laughs ring out between cries of “Whoa!” and “Steady there, Lucky!” To round it off, the leader of their horse play (literally) is full-on cosplaying as a cowboy, his jeans tucked into boots and a Stetson perched atop his head.

Wait, is he holding a hobby horse? It’s been decades since you’ve seen those horse heads stuck on a stick. The stuffed felt Appaloosa head is reigned in the cowboy’s hands, where he pretends to spur it back into action.

Just when you think you’ve seen it all.

The group continues its way toward you and you’re equally secondhand embarrassed and amused. As they grow closer you recognize a few guys from the Pi Kapp house and wave. But it’s Anna who makes the most shocking discovery when Mr. Cowboy tilts his brim up.

"Is that Bob from Stats?"

It takes a second to look past the brown felt hat and the hobby horse he's taking for a spin, but that's definitely the same pink-cheeked Bob Floyd who has lent you a pencil all semester.

“Howdy, ladies.” He tips his hat to you, all toothy grin and droopy drunk eyes. "Can I offer you a ride?"

You stare open-mouthed. Shocked. That slow rancher drawl is new. The unbridled confidence is new. Actually, the entire getup is new. For nine weeks you’ve seen him in the same trucker hat and sweatshirt combo while going over homework answers together. What is going on?

He’s clearly in the middle of his house party crawl, bright blue eyes half open behind his metal frames. Just as gorgeous as ever as a tendril of sandy hair curls against his forehead. Normally your reaction to him is tender, a puppy dog crush. But this wild, inebriated version of him? You’re hot under the collar.

“You think there’s room on your horse?” Ever since that first Stats class he’s made your brain feel like it’s on RedBull. The way he noticed you missing a writing utensil and offering you his extra. His kind smile when you get a homework answer completely wrong. Anna hasn’t noticed your crush, but it feels obvious with the way you can barely keep eye contact with him yet are unable to look away. Especially with that stupid cowboy hat on.

He bites his lip, considering your response, and his buddies all razz him as he drawls out, “There will be if we squeeze in.”

The wink makes your mouth dry.

Someone from the back of the group complains of the cold and the group prepares their steeds to head back to Pi Kapp. Anna explains you’re headed back to the dorms, tone deaf to the sexual tension, and Bob nods with his brow furrowed.

“Another time then.” His white tshirt practically glows in the moonlight. “Have a good night, chickadees. Get home safe!”

With another tip of his Stetson to you, Bob Floyd gallops away toward another keg.

You’re sprinting across campus, cursing how late your meeting with your advisor went. There was ten minutes to get across campus and he had spent four of those questioning whether you really needed another semester of French. You make it into the lecture hall with a minute to spare, finding your preferred spot in the lower rows where you can actually see the board. Right in front of Bob.

“What? No cowboy hat for class?” His cheeks flame red, the hope you’ve forgotten about his Saturday antics lost. He looks like himself today, his signature trucker cap keeping the hair off his face. Those friendly ultramarine eyes shyly focusing on his notebook because god forbid he makes eye contact after you’ve seen him gallop across campus on a fake horse.

He rubs the back of his neck over his soft-looking crewneck, an awkward smile playing on his lips. “It’s at the cleaners.”

You give him an amused grin before settling yourself into one of the classically uncomfortable lecture seats. Anna waves to you from where she’s rushing in, historically always late. The professor is shuffling notes at the podium as she collapses into the seat next to you, nodding her head in greeting to you and to Bob. She raises her eyebrows to you, a “remember when Bob was dressed as a cowboy” gesture, and your lips twist happily.

“Alright, class, who’s ready to talk probability?” The collective groans and hollers mark the start of lecture. You flip open your notebook and start digging around for a writing instrument in your bag. Like usual, you seem to be missing a pen or pencil when you need one most.

A tap on your shoulder. You turn and lock eyes with the frat boy-turned-cowboy with the shy smile. He holds out a pencil to you. Taking it sheepishly, you mouth a thank you and turn back to lecture. After nine weeks it shouldn’t be this embarrassing, but every week he’s given you a pencil since you whispered shoot! a little too loud on Week 1.

Risking a quick glance back at him, engrossed in the Empirical Law of Averages while he twirls his pencil, you’re not sure you can survive the rest of the semester.

By the end of the Stats lecture on Thursday, you have one brain cell to your name and seven pages of notes. What a brutal class. Midterms were quickly approaching and not a single professor had any mercy. As you pack up your stuff - including the borrowed pencil that would promptly disappear before next class - you make a study plan with Anna for that evening. She brings the chips, you’ll supply the vodka.

“Are you two not hitting the houses tonight?” He looks uncomfortable having interrupted the two of you.

Bob shifts his backpack to his other shoulder, adjusting the collar of his navy blue sweatshirt. Other than when he’s kindly exchanged homework answers before class - or been drunkenly galloping across campus - the two of you don’t speak much. The odd quip here and there, but overall the two of you exist in pencil-sharing quiet. “Everyone’s having pre-midterm parties before buckling down to study.”

“Oh, that sounds fun!” You look at Anna encouragingly. As needed as a vodka-infused study session was, one night out couldn’t hurt. And it was Thursday. No classes tomorrow meant you had three days to buckle down and attempt to understand anything you’ve learned this semester.

She eyes you warily, but agrees that Greek Row sounds like a better option than highlighting textbooks. Bob flashes you his timid smile beneath the brim of his cap. “It’ll be a fun night. Maybe I’ll see you? If not, have a good weekend!”

As he starts to walk out, a feeling takes over you. “Bob?” You watch him slow down and turn, wide blue eyes watching you from behind those unconventionally cute glasses. “You’ll be at the Pi Kapp house, yeah?” He nods. “Cool. See you around!”

Despite standing next to it the entire conversation, neither of you notice the pencil sitting on the desk, left behind as you head out for your respective weekends.

“What did you say?” You’re practically yelling to be heard over the EDM that Sigma Chi is blaring. They’ve turned their house into a rave with glow sticks, body paint, and music so loud your eardrums must be burst. The beer is warm, your arm has supernaturally purple paint smeared across it, and Anna has been unsuccessfully telling you a story for ten minutes.

Huffing, she grabs your arm and drags you toward the entrance, tossing your cups onto a random hallway table where a heated makeout session is taking place. They move out of the way just enough so the two of you can slip out of the old colonial house and out into the cool night. The ringing in your ears subsides slowly as you lean against the columns of the front porch.

“House number three? Also sucked. Three strikes and you’re out? Can we go home?” Anna grabs your wrist and pouts. She wanted movie night with vodka and a pizza from Pietro’s. You wanted to blow off steam.

But Alpha Sig had mostly been freshman and Phi Delt, while not a terrible party, had the most smarmy men on campus. The bleeding eardrums of Sigma Chi was preferable to pushing off men in polos just to grab another drink. You just wanted a semi-decently flavored alcoholic beverage - maybe three - while chatting with some friends. You weren’t asking for much.

Allowing Anna to drag you in the direction of the dorms, ready to admit defeat, you slow to a stop seeing the bricked entrance to Pi Kappa Phi. Bob’s fraternity. A few minutes wouldn’t hurt, right?

It takes a little convincing, but soon you’re in the warmly lit foyer of the Pi Kapp house. The vibe is more relaxed than Sigma Chi, with a keg in the corner, an array of liquor bottles in the kitchen, and hip-hop softly filling the house. You’re impressed they’ve even gone the extra mile with multi-colored string lights across every surface to brighten up the otherwise dark house.

“Yooooo, how’s it going?” A drunken loaf of snapback and Deep Eddy envelopes you in a hug. It’s Tyler, one of your freshman seminar PK friends. Exchanging pleasantries - the best you can with someone that far gone - he drags you further into the house. Miscellaneous groups of Greek and geed litter the hallways. Anna sees her friends from Delta Gamma and ditches you, promising to get home safe. Tyler continues on his mission to god knows where.

At least he’s considerate enough to stop in the kitchen so you can grab a whiskey lemonade to sip.

Eventually you’re spat into a sitting room of sorts, groups crowding the ring of sofas while drunkenly jeering at the game. You set yourself on the arm of one, trying to make sense of the theatrics. The latest victim laughs out a “Truth!” before everyone giggles wickedly. Are they playing truth or dare?

Your eyes gloss over the group, trying to figure out who else you know. A few PK’s you recognize, a girl who smiles but looks unfamiliar, and…a cowboy hat that is a dead giveaway.

Standing up and walking around the group, you tap him on the shoulder. The biggest blue eyes meet yours, a surprised smile splitting his face.

“You made it!” That deep drawl is back and that tingle reappears on your spine. Bob jumps up from the couch, beer bottle dwarfed in his hand, and comes to stand with you. “You having a good night?”

Ironically, your night is much better now that you’ve found him. He’s back in his cowboy gear, a worn denim shirt tucked into his jeans and those same cowboy boots scuff against the hardwood. You’re tempted to steal the felt hat from his head just so he looks a little bit more like Bob from Stats.

Squeezing your eyes shut, letting the alcohol be an excuse, you succumb to the obvious question. “I need to know - what’s with the…cowboy?” You gesture up and down, drawing a chuckle from him.

He blushes under the felt brim. “You know I have a slight accent, yeah?” You attempt to stifle your laugh as he incidentally talks in a thicker accent. “When I was a pledge they started calling me cowboy. Saw the hat while I was in town one week, ended up leaning into the joke.”

“And the hobby horse?”

He beckons you closer, bringing his lips to your ear. “Stolen from my little sister over summer break.”

There’s that wink again making your knees weak. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and takes another sip from his beer. Despite the party raging around you, nothing else seems to exist past him asking about your night and if you want another drink. You’re wrapped in the warmth of his words, itching to snuggle into his broad chest.

The spell is broken when “Cowboy Bob!” rings out from the crowd. The entire room is turned to you two. “Truth or dare, man?”

In the background of your intimate conversation with Bob, the truths and dares have reached full raunchiness. People have been stripped of clothes and dirty secrets. A bead of sweat gathers at Bob’s collar, aware that neither option is safe.

His worried gaze flits to you, as if you hold the correct answer, before tipping his hat back and exhaling, “Dare?”

It’s gutsy, but if there’s one thing you’re learning about the quiet guy from Stats, he’s full of surprises. The crowd bubbles with excitement, anticipating what dare will be dealt out. Next to you, the wannabe cowboy looks more annoyed than anything. He was enjoying talking to you not in a classroom and with a little liquid courage.

An evil smile crosses the dare-dealer’s face. He knows Bob and isn’t blind to what’s going on. He’s gonna help his buddy out on this one.

His arm stretches out and he points (with the red plastic cup in his hand) to the coat closet at the end of the hall. “Hmmmmm, I dare you to, hmm, play Seven Minutes in Heaven with…” It’s no surprise when the cup-turned-pointer lands on you.

Ice water down your back wouldn’t be as panic inducing. It’s hard to tell who swallows harder, you or Cowboy Bob. Every instinct is telling you to run, but that little voice in the back of your head wins out. As Bob starts to tell you it’s okay, they’re joking, you don’t have to, you grab his thick wrist and give him a nervous smile. You don’t even care what the punishment is for not completing a dare, this stupid drunken game has given you an opportunity.

The dealer of the dare follows the two of you down the hallway, leading the whoops and wolf whistles. Bob’s cheeks flame scarlet in the low light. You keep your chin high and eyes forward. He can definitely feel the way you’re trembling around his wrist.

Whether in anxiety or excitement it’s hard to tell.

The inside of the closet is dark, the faint light under the door casting only the faintest of shadows. Your heart is pounding, blood pulsing through your ears. Bob rubs his lips together nervously. It’s all you can do to not run your tongue along them.

“We don’t have to do anything, we can just talk.” The way he prioritizes your comfort makes heat pool between your legs. The brim of his hat is as far back as it can go, his eyes tracing the lines of your face as he gauges your emotions. He’s welcome to figure them out, you’re unsure of them yourself.

His large, warm hand rubs your forearm comfortingly, your skin too cold without his touch. You’re suffocating under his sweat-and-bergamot scent, citrusy and warm.

You bite the bullet. “What if I want to?”

His breath stops. Fingers find yours in the dark, interlocking on either side of your hips. Eyes you know are the deepest blue lock onto your gaze, a million emotions passing behind his irises. Face descending upon the space between you, tentatively showing his intentions. You meet him in the middle, caution out the window.

The kiss is gentle, puzzle pieces slotting together for the first time. He tastes like malt sugar and peppermint. Mouth warm and soft, enveloping you fully in his comfort. It’s even better than what you’ve imagined for the past nine weeks.

Bob begins to pull away, ever the gentleman. Your hand finds his collar, holding him in place. “Not yet, we still have, like, five and a half minutes.”

Despite the low light, his smile lights up the closet.

His lips return to yours in a rush, swallowing your mouth in a passionate heat. The press of his body to yours is delicious. Hands previously at your side meet your hips, lightly squeezing as you moan into his mouth. You reach up and hold the back of his neck, bringing him even closer as your lips toy with the tiniest bit of stubble along his jaw.

“You know,” he starts, holding the moan in the back of his throat. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since September.”

You pull back momentarily, a crinkle upon your brow. “Bob, we didn’t start Stats until January.”

He kisses the confusion from your face, his hands wrapping further around your body. “And you looked very pretty in that green dress at the homecoming barbecue.”

Bless your love of school spirit and free food. “Why didn’t you? Kiss me?”

“I don’t normally make a habit of kissing girls I don’t know. And clearly it takes an entire fraternity for me to get you alone.” The way his chuckle bounces against your skin has you squirming. Your schoolgirl crush on him wasn’t one-sided, and suddenly you’re hot for teacher.

You capture him in another kiss, tongue searching the seam of his lips for entrance. He obliges immediately, groaning as you explore his taste. Four hands roam skin, finding purchase in anything and everything. Your body has a mind of its own as you press against him, chest heaving with your passion. The right shift of fabric on fabric reveals that he’s equally as affected by the chemistry.

Reluctantly, he pulls away once more, threading his fingers across the back of your neck. Takes a moment to capture his breath as he sees the lust in your eyes. A deep breath. “As much as I like you, I don’t want to do anything if you’re drunk.”

Soft fingers follow the line of his arm to where it wraps around your waist. How is he this impossibly sweet? Thoughtful, respectful, and looking hot as sin with swollen lips. It’s unfair.

“I promise I’m not.” You stroke the back of his hand. “Please kiss me?”

His large hands unwrap from your waist and travel down, shifting behind your legs and pulling you up, resting your back against the wall. You tangle your legs around his waist as best you can in the small space, relishing his firm body pressed deliciously close, warm and solid. Kisses smeared across lips and jaws as noises crescendo. You’re panting as you trail down to his impossibly long neck, desperate to cover it in affection.

You’ve barely explored the expanse of skin when the door flies open, the boisterous party sounds flooding in. Reality strikes like a slap across the face. The truth-or-dare ringleader takes you in - legs wrapped around Bob and hands creeping toward your ass - and whoops in delight. Who knew Cowboy Bob had it in him!

“Time’s up, lovebirds!” He crows and reaches forward to slug Bob lightly on the shoulder.

Not skipping a beat, Bob shoves his friend back and throws up his middle finger. “Fuck off, Milburn.”

The closet door slams shut, blanketing you again in the intimacy of the moment. You’re looking at him with unsure eyes and he’s praying the moment hasn’t been ruined. He’s waited seven calendar months for this opportunity and his fingers are so close to enjoying the plump squeeze of your ass.

“We can go back to the party if you want?” Your voice is so small, nervous outside of those bold seven minutes. Tentative breaths exist between you.

In lieu of an answer, he bows his head to give you a searing yet gentle kiss.

That cramped coat closet suddenly is an inferno, his tongue slipping inside your mouth and groaning at the burning sweetness of your taste. Your hands grip his shoulders as you fight for dominance, fingers tangling in denim. Hips brushing together, still clinging to the idea of this being innocent.

An innocence immediately lost when Bob strikes up the courage and palms your ass. Soft and pliable and perfect to squeeze in his palms. He remembers the exact day you came to class in the tightest jeans known to man (laundry day) and the way he had dug his pencil in his palm to avoid a semi as your curved ass met the lecture seat. Something unavoidable now as you squirm against him, moaning your pleasure against the pulse in his neck.

Nothing has ever felt as good as rubbing against Bob Floyd’s clothed bulge. One glance down and you’re dizzy with arousal. Rutting yourself against him as best you can with your limited mobility, sloppy kisses exchanged as the two of you can barely keep your mouths closed. It feels so good, too good.

Lost in the moment, one hand slips below the hem of your skirt, warm skin on skin. Any noise from outside the closet dims to a hum. Two hearts beating rapidly as desire fully consumes, directing lips to too hot exposed skin. You murmur your need in his ear. You don’t care where you are, you need him.

Bob tucks a finger under your thong, feeling the slick coating your folds. The whine that leaves him is desperate and gruff. He groans against your throat. “Shit, I don’t have a condom.”

Undeterred, your lip catches between your teeth, core muscles contracting as you grind your hips forward. “Doesn’t mean I can’t go for a ride.”

He’s immediately on board, teasing you briefly before extricating his hand to support you better against the wall. His hands practically swallow your ass, flooding you with lust. You thrust your chest against him, desperate to touch every spot on his handsome body as your hips begin to grind.

His hands are sweltering as they trail down, effortlessly clutching the back of your thighs to give you leverage. Your clit finds friction against his jeans and your mouth hangs open as you buck frantically into him.

“Look at you move, cowgirl,” he breathes out, infatuated. The nickname spurrs you on, whimpering against his lips.

One hand clutching his bicep, holding on for desperate life, while the other snakes its way atop the damned cowboy hat that’s stayed on the entire encounter. Gripping the top of it and holding fast as you ride his clothed bulge with everything you’ve got. Denim and lace against your clit, rubbing deliciously as your brain fuzzes. His hot mouth focused at the hinge of your jaw, sucking soft bruises into the skin; moaning when you brush him just right.

“I’m close,” you whisper against his cheek. Time has stood still, but it’s embarrassing how close he’s gotten you to orgasm with just his clothed cock and strong hands.

He ruts his hips forward, meeting your thrusts in heavenly synchronization. You’re panting as the pressure on your clit catapults you, so close to the ultimate prize. Whispers of you can do it, cowgirl, cum for me, doing so good riding me, just a bit more, cowgirl fizzle your senses.

“O-oh!”

It’s intense, the blinding pleasure coursing through your body. Prolonged by the thick bulge still rutting against you, ready to burst itself. Lips tickling your ear as he praises you. You want to live in this perfect moment of bliss. A moment only perfected when Bob’s fingers grip too hard and his hips stutter up into yours. His all-consuming orgasm only muffled by the skin of your shoulder as he rides it out.

The rhythmic slowing of your breaths is all you can focus on. You breathe in, he breathes out. Small smiles and a blush barely visible in the low light.

Delicately, like he knows you might break, he releases you back to the ground; taking his time to smooth down your skirt and straight out your top. Your own hands reach up to his chest, fixing the fabric that had bunched up in your passion. Adjusting his fogged glasses to look into his beautiful eyes.

It doesn’t matter how much you clean up, one look at you two and anyone would comment you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.

With one final kiss to your lips, you feel something land on your head. The brown cowboy hat with the rip along the edge. Cowboy Bob showing off his cowgirl.

You tentatively open the closet door, eyes adjusting to the normal light. Painfully aware of the wet splotch on the obvious front of his jeans, Bob holds your body against him as a human shield. The party is still going strong - your antics have not interrupted anything - and you slip toward the front door without notice. Well…mostly, as a few wolf whistles reach your ears.

“It’s not that late, you want to go back to mine? I’m just off Thornton. It’s quiet since everyone is here.” His eyes are so hopeful in the dark night. So desperate for you to say yes. For you to be his cowgirl beyond tonight.

You wrap your arms around him and pull him close, careful to avoid the spot where your bodily fluids have drenched his jeans. “I’m in.” Your smile is blinding. “We have about nine weeks of Stats to make up.”

The brick is uncomfortable behind your back, but it’s hard to care when his lips feel so good. Broad shoulders shielding you from the hallway, trucker hat turned around and glasses in his pocket so there’s not an inch between your faces. Agreeing to meet outside before lecture was such a good idea.

Despite spending most of the time between Thursday night and Tuesday afternoon in Bob’s apartment trying every position in the book (with teasing hollers from his Pi Kapp roommates adding to the soundtrack) you can’t help but steal these five minutes. He looks so cute, to not kiss him would be a crime.

Bob squeezes your hips, lips trailing down your jaw. “What’s on your mind, cowgirl?”

“I’m trying very hard to convince myself that we pay a lot of money to attend this school and should go learn about statistics. Even though I really only want to head back to my dorm and see how sturdy that loft bed is.”

From where his nose traces your ear, a guttural whine leaves him. “You can’t say something like that and expect me to go to class.”

You pull back to look at him, fingers tickling the close cropped hair at his neck. God, he makes it so hard to want to be responsible.

“Let’s make a deal, okay? We’ll go to class, learn, and tonight you come over and for every study guide question you get right I’ll take off a piece of clothing. Sound good?” He’s practically panting as he smothers your mouth in another kiss. He’s really good at Stats. A steady stream of students files past Bob’s back, a sign that class is about to start.

You press another kiss to his lips. “Let’s go or we’ll miss out on seats. Plus I need to dig through my bag for a pencil.”

“Do you think you actually have one today?” He smirks, amused. The eighteen pencils he’s lent you say otherwise.

Your cheeks are hot under where he kisses them. “Uh…if I don’t can I borrow one? If you have one, that is.”

He lets out a soft chuckle and holds you closer, rubbing your noses softly.

“You do realize I’ve been buying pencils all semester just to give to you, right?”

Turning his cap around - insides fully melted - you know you’re in this rodeo for the long run.

Want more Frat Cowboy Bob? Hang out with Bob From Pi Kapp!

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cofigelly · 1 year ago

Text

ೀ SIX EYES

——————————————————————————pairing; college au!gojo satoru x reader

synopsis; you couldn’t help but notice a pair of wandering eyes during your 10am lecture

word count; ~2k words

contents; sfw, f!reader, no curses au, rich college student gojo, cocky/playful gojo, six eye/infinity references

notes; THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A QUICK LIL DRABBLE IDK WHAT HAPPENED? i <3 run ons and sentence fragments apparently

——————————————————————————

the first thing you noticed about him were his eyes.

well, technically, his eyes noticed you first.

in the midst of your monday 10am lecture (known for its lengthy, soul-wrenching talks about finance), you felt his sharp gaze pierce straight into your soul. it was a brief, quick glance — but it was an intentional glance, nonetheless.

you simply brushed it off. it must’ve been him zoning out, or maybe your mind was playing tricks on you. that was until you caught him repeating the same habit again. and again. over the course of the next three weeks.

that same, hungry gaze, taking in every intricacy of your features. a look that felt like it set your entire body on fire, despite the icy blue hue his pupils reflected each time you returned a glance. his stare would only last a few seconds at most, but something about it felt so intense, so overbearing— it made hold your breath each time.

in all honesty, you didn't mind the attention. in fact, you kind of reveled in it — a handsome, 6'3 guy always ogling at you every lecture. it even had you thinking that maybe he was into you?

but that was at first. as more weeks passed, the more your ego shrank. 'is there something on my face,' you wondered, patting at your cheeks to search for some sort of makeup residue or food crumb, 'do i look stupid?' the large, echoey lecture hall felt evermore revealing as you struggled to find a way to shrink into your plastic-clad seat. but you couldn't hide, not from a stare like that.

paranoia getting the best of you, you slide your phone out of your pocket as you send a hasty text to your best friend, “bro who is this guy? he keeps staring at me EVERY lecture,” you send a 0.5x photo, clearly taken from afar.

just as quickly, your friend responds, “NO FUCKIN WAY is that gojo???” “who the fuck is gojo?”

you could almost feel her attitude burst through the text bubbles, “bro… GOJO. his family is literally loaded?? did you not see his dad surpass bill gates on the global ranking of billionaires?” that text takes you a little by surprise, alternating your eyes between him and the message upon your screen. “okay maybe it’s starting to sound familiar, but still. what’s he doing cosplaying as a broke college kid in my finance class?” you sigh as you continue to tap on your screen, “idgaf that he’s loaded it’s pissing me off that he’s staring at me like 🧿🫦🧿 every lecture.”

your friend reacts with a quick “haha” to your text before responding, “idk man maybe you just caught the attention of the richest guy on campus ;)”

you decided you’ve had enough after reading that text. you’re not about to feed your delusions this early on a monday morning. you’ll admit, he’s a good —no, stunning— looking guy, but you have no time to babysit a boy who was never taught that staring was rude. not to mention, this boy isn't even in the same tax bracket as you.

brushing it off yet another time, you let out a deep sigh as you flip the page, copying your professor’s notes on the board.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

a whole month has passed and this gojo guy is growing more and more cocky with his stolen glances. he's not even trying to hide it anymore.

this fateful wednesday, as you walk into class, he immediately locks onto you. his bright blue orbs follow you from the door to your row, not releasing his gaze in the slightest after you settle into your seat. your grit your teeth in annoyance as you flip through your notebook pages. who does this guy think he is? it’s been a month and he hasn’t even procured the balls to say a single word to you. yet, he’s feasting on you like you’re his final meal on death row.

the second the class is excused, you immediately beeline towards his seat — stopping in front of his leaning frame while he packs his bag. “dude, what the hell is your problem,” scowling at him as you approach, “i’ve seen you stare at me for weeks now and it’s getting straight creepy."

his ears perk at the sound of your voice, haphazardly zipping up the final pocket of his backpack. when he looks up, his eyes glint with a hint of mischief as he scrunches his nose in a grin — a grin that’s somehow even cockier than his stare.

“i’m just taking in the view, princess,” he jeers, delight in his tone.

you stare at him incredulously as you take his confession in. so he really has been staring at you? “for one, i’m not your princess," you scoff at his clear disregard of your concern, "second, you might want to think again before you decide to stare at me one more damn time.”

he hums amusingly, shaking his foot in a steady rhythm, “you’re right. i might think about it again.” his grin is even wider now, “why, what are you going to do about it?”

“—look, i don’t know what you’re getting at,” your eyebrows furrow deeper, “but if you keep this shit up, this won’t be the last time you hear from me.”

briskly, you swing around, completely ignoring his bickers as you head straight out the hallway door.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

to gojo, everything you said on wednesday was music to his ears.

he strolled into the next lecture, on monday, with the same shit-eating grin on his face. ‘this wont be the last time he hears from you?' god, he hopes that was true. it made him wonder why he didn’t just stare at you harder in the first place.

everything about you captivated gojo satoru.

from the first day of lecture, he was already mesmerized — by the wafting scent of your cologne as you walked past his row, the way your head cocked to the side whenever you thought through a problem set, the distant clicks as you tapped the end of your pencil against your arm nervously.

he simply couldn’t help but steal that initial glance. he also couldn’t help but steal another one the lecture after.

and another. and another.

he knew he was getting ahead of himself, being so selfish with his dangerous stares, but you just had that effect on him. an effect that he's never experienced with anyone else. he bit back his pride when he couldn’t even approach you first, as he normally did with his prior interests.

there was just something so serene, so heavenly about you. he almost wanted to leave you undisturbed, opting to observe you from afar — not wanting to disrupt his delicate masterpiece from behind the red rope at the museum.

but the day you approached him changed everything. ‘how can someone so innocent have such a mouth on her,’ he chuckles to himself, taking his ipad and apple pencil out of his backpack before laying them flat on the table.

you were completely unlike his initial impression of you, much to his amusement. he prefers it this way —actually— he likes a girl who has a bit of a bite. besides, he finally has an excuse to talk to you and do what he knows best: get under your skin. metaphorically (and literally).

he glances at the door as he hears the familiar clanking of your keychain against your water bottle, more excited for the lecture than he's ever been before.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

there is no fucking way.

gojo satoru is now sitting in the seat directly next to your unassigned assigned seat in this 300-person lecture hall. the entire classroom is almost packed too. how early did he have to be to even get that seat? why is he in that seat? your thoughts are cut off as he waves his hand at you, muttering a short "yoohoo~," ushering you to sit next to him.

hell no. you still have no idea what he's playing at. is he stalking you? does he have some sort of ulterior motive? what if his scary billionaire family kills you, a dirty plebeian, for sitting so close to their perfect, trust fund baby?

you immediately switch gears, practically running away to find a new seat, catching a glimpse of his pout in the corner of your eye. you ignore him and situate yourself in the very front row, directly in front of the professor's podium. you let out a deep exhale as you unpack your notebook when you hear a loud shuffle next to you.

this guy has no shame.

gojo, in all his glory, happily claims the empty seat next to you —unloading the entire apple store (or so it feels like) onto the desk. "good choice, doll. more leg room up here," he stretches his long, lanky legs before crossing them — making sure his knee briefly makes contact with yours.

"are you serious right now— bro your entire apple ecosystem is getting onto my side of the desk," you scowl at him once again as you shove his macbook closer to him. "serious about what?" he mocks, that signature smile gleaming down on you.

"whatever this is? are you obsessed with me or something," you mutter the last part under your breath, but he takes note of you rolling your eyes at him. "hmmm," he taps his chin all philosophically, "if anything you're the one obsessed with me."

wow, this guy really is insane. you felt your eyebrow twitch in anger as you jerked your head up, "me obsessed with you? how does that even make any sense—" "you said you noticed me staring for weeks," he muses, still looking straight at you, "but you don't think i noticed you staring back?"

you scoff, "i was simply just returning your gaze; not everything is about you!” “untrue.”

after refusing to make eye contact, you finally meet his eyes. "i'm not gonna play this damn game with you, look—"

you've never seen him this close before. you've never seen anyone this close before, really. in this cramped lecture hall, with its seats compressed like sardines, it felt like he was only mere millimeters away from you. your breath hitched as the air seemed palpable, heavy. he was so close, but it felt like he was untouchable — almost as if an infinite void was cast between you two.

for the first time, he dropped that condescending smirk. he dropped the facade altogether. beyond the icy blue hues, his eyes glistened a shade that he only shows to you, a shade you've never noticed in all those times you two locked eyes. they were powdery blue — the same softness as the edges of the clouds in the sky or the frothy, tidal waves lightly crashing against the beach sand.

it made you wonder if it was physically possible for one person to hold so much power in just their eyes. a power that felt like three whole people, six eyes-worth, were constantly peering into every fiber of your being. except this time, it was intense in a whole different way, completely unlike before. the closest feeling you could think of was a warm oven, fresh after a batch of cookies — an inexplicable warmth in contrast to his icy appearance.

lost in each others' eyes, he parts his lips as if to finally say something—

"i would really appreciate if you two kept your eyes on the board instead of on each other," a voice boomed from the podium in front of you.

you both tense up, quickly spinning your bodies around to face the front as the snickers began to fill the classroom. you completely forgot about how close you were sitting to the professor.

you felt a tinge of heat start on your cheeks, creeping its way up onto the cartilage of your ears. the embarrassment was more than enough to shut you both up for the rest of the period, but you knew.

you knew you wanted to feel this way again.

——————————————————————————

final notes; i wrote this in my actual lecture hall instead of taking notes guys😎😎 (i am severely ill)

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo imagines #gojo satoru imagine #jjk x reader #jujustu kaisen x reader #gojo imagine #gojo satoru imagines #jjk fluff #gojo fluff #satoru fluff #gojo satoru fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff

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chlix · 1 month ago

Text

treatment resistant

bf! chan x fem! reader: he comforts you during a mental health episode

pairing: chan x reader

genre: ANGST like seriously, turns into comfort at the end tho 🙏🏾

word count: 4.7k

warnings: graphic depictions of depression, anxiety/anxiety attacks, and psychosis (paranoia); self worth issues; general self-loathing

a/n: i wrote this in one sitting about six months ago and deliberated posting it, but it's almost the end of the year so i feel like i should release it. i used to feel so validated by fics where reader is depressed and gets comforted, but she was never as depressed as i sometimes was, so i drew a bit from life for this one. everyone please be safe and read the warnings <3

It doesn't start with the dishes. In fact, you think your therapist might tell you that it's not about the dishes at all, but about your own poor self-image, or lack of emotional regulation, or about a thousand other things that are wrong with the way you perceive yourself and the world.

The truth is that lately you've been sleeping way too late and waking up too early, and you're so tired that you can't eat, which makes you so hungry that you can't take naps. You're between jobs and the outlook hasn't been great, your best friend keeps blowing you off in favor of her new boyfriend, and just this week you found out that your favorite bakery is no longer making the souffles that you've been using as a pick me up since you moved into this building.

You don't do well with change, or rejection, or honestly anything, lately. You wake up stressed and you go to sleep stressed. You keep your phone on Do Not Disturb because you can't bear receiving notifications. Just today you've talked yourself out of taking showers twice, only to have a meltdown when you tried to sit on your bed because you felt too dirty to touch your own sheets. You sit on the floor instead. You eat a singular banana for lunch, just to make your headache go away. Your headache does not go away. You feel both unreal and painfully solid, sinking into the ground and on the verge of floating away.

Your boyfriend, Chan, keeps texting you updates about his day, and answering them feels like an exercise in performance art. You scroll through your previous texts to make sure you're adding the right amount of exclamation points, that you're using the same recent emojis. It's like cosplaying a happier version of yourself. A better version, a version that he could love, as opposed to how you are now: greasy and gross and plastered to the floor in your hallway. The idea of him seeing you like this fills you terror, or at least it would if you hadn't burned out your capacity for feeling things already.

A new message pops up.

Chan: Hey baby ❤️ Was thinking of swinging by tonight after work? I can bring dinner with me

Just the thought of eating threatens to make you vomit. You suck in a breath and hold it as you type,

You: If you want something specific go for it! I already started cooking but we could have it another time

Chan: I don't want to waste all your hard work. We can have what you're making. I'm sure it'll be delicious :)

You: I can promise edible. Delicious is up in the air rn 😭

Chan: I have faith in you even if you don't ❤️. I'll be there around seven today

You: Okay! I love you sm, see you then! ❤️❤️❤️

You lock your phone and throw it across the room. Why do you do this to yourself? "Already started cooking?" You haven't showered today. Normally you try to deter Chan from coming over when you're having a freakazoid episode, but now you've basically invited him in? You have to be normal for an entire evening?

You fall on your back on the ground and put your hands over your face, blocking out the sunshine that insists on steaming through the cracks in the drapes. Your heart is beating so hard you worry you're going into cardiac arrest.

Get off the fucking ground, y/n, you tell yourself. You have to go cook dinner for your boyfriend.

"There is something very wrong with me," you say out loud, very quietly. The silence of your apartment swallows the words. They vanish, as if never said.

You get up.

It takes you two tries to make something even passing as edible. Your head is all over the place, and you burn batches of oil and veggies before you manage to stay in your body long enough to finish making anything. It takes an embarrassing amount of pans and spoons and bowls to make something that should be simple, and as dishes pile up in the sink you feel stupider and stupider. Why are you acting like you don't know how to cook? It's not hard to make some vegetables in stew. You don't know why it's taking every appliance in your kitchen and all of your concentration to execute such a simple task.

By the time you're done cooking, you've stressed yourself out enough that you're getting a tension headache. You close your eyes and brace yourself against the sink, rallying yourself.

Just do these dishes and then you can sit down, you think. Just one more thing.

You pick up a sponge.

You put the sponge down.

There is no way you can do these dishes.

It doesn't so much hit you like a train as the realization slowly creeps up on you. It's not that many dishes, really. It looks like a lot, because the pots and bowls are so large, but numerically there's very few items in your sink. It wouldn't even take 30 minutes to clean everything and leave it in the rack for later.

But that's not happening. The idea fills you with a cold and genuine dread, just as strong and perverse as when you'd tried to shower earlier, or sit on your bed. You can't turn on the tap because then the water will touch you, and it will feel Wrong, and then your whole body will feel Wrong, and then you'll die of Sudden Onset Wrongness. And now that you think about it, a lot of your anxiety today has revolved around water, and isn't that a symptom of rabies? Hydrophobia? Did you get rabies somehow? Would you know if you had rabies? Maybe that's the thing that's wrong with you- you're not depressed or insane or just a terrible person living a terrible life. You're just rabid. There's something eating your brain, and that's what's making you into such a fucking failure of a person.

While you're debating the possibility of brain-eating viruses, Chan comes home from work. You automatically turn towards him, a bright smile on your face, and rush to greet him.

"Hey, Channie!" you say, bouncing over to him with a pep you do not feel. "I'm so happy you're here!"

And you are, mostly. You love your boyfriend, really you do. He's loving and attentive, and he's never made you feel like anything less than the number one priority in his life. You have similar values and work ethics, which keeps you on the same page through most difficult periods in either of your lives and careers. You haven't been together long, but your bond is solid, and you really believe you're going to make it far together.

You also really believe you won't if he ever finds out what a complete nutcase you are. So you hide it. You grin at him and you appear light and joyful and easygoing and you brush off his concerns with adages and placations, and you redirect the conversation back to him, because you're a good listener and you love the sound of his voice and you much prefer that activity to any activity that involves you explaining how you laid on the floor for five hours and had an emotional breakdown while slicing cabbage. He has other things to worry about, other problems to solve without adding yourself to the list. You're supposed to be his respite, not another draining task. He doesn't need to know how hard it's been lately. You shouldn't have to say it.

So he doesn't. And you don't.

"Hey baby," he says. He sets his stuff down and kisses you in greeting. "How was your day?"

"Okay," you say. The answer feels curt, but you don't want to ruminate any more on your absolutely fruitless afternoon.

Chan doesn't comment on your strange answer. He takes his shoes off and hangs up his coat, and as he's about to walk past you he spots the mountain of dishes in the kitchen.

"Oh, were you about to do the dishes? I can do them if you'd like."

"You just got home," you protest. "You should go sit down."

"But you've been standing just as long cooking dinner, right? I should do my part."

His insistence is making something terrible expand in your gut. Instead of being flattered at his offer to help, his words feel like a violent condemnation. You should've done the dishes before he got home. You should've finished cleaning the kitchen altogether, so that he can relax in a clean environment. What kind of stupid fucking girlfriend are you, where you can't even do basic chores around the house?

"No, it's okay. I already psyched myself up to do them, so I'll do them."

Chan hums in a tone that's either playful or mocking, you genuinely can't tell which. "Okay, if you say so. Don't be afraid to tap out if the dishes get the better of you."

Great. He thinks you're so stupid you couldn't do the dishes if you tried.

You subtly regulate your breathing as you turn towards the sink. Chan disappears into the apartment out of view, and you give yourself thirty seconds to push your freak-out as far down inside you as you can.

"You're not an idiot, y/n," you tell yourself. "You can do some fucking dishes."

You reach under the sink and pull out some disposable plastic gloves. They make your hands look weirdly swollen and unfamiliar, as if they aren't your hands anymore. For a bizarre moment, you're convinced that they're genuinely not, that someone else's hands have been put on your body. You close your eyes so hard sparks fly in front of you.

Stop being crazy. Do the fucking dishes.

You turn on the water and pick up a bowl.

Chan reappears. You flash him a smile, but say nothing. Chan grins back, all dimples and crescent eyes. He's so handsome it makes you want to rip your own skin off. You thank God every day that you were born beautiful, because you could never have caught his attention with your personality alone. He'd be completely out of your league, and honestly, maybe he still is.

That thought gets shut down and pushed away. One crisis at a time. You don't have hands and you might have rabies, but you definitely have a boyfriend who loves you. There's no point in kicking yourself while you're down.

You turn back to the sink.

You cannot do these fucking dishes.

"Work was funny today," Chan says as he moves over to the stove and opens the pot.

"Mm?"

"Just some technical issues in the studio. Nothing serious, but it gave us some good bloopers."

You pick up a glass cup. You can see your reflection mirrored back at you in the curve, and your eyes are so wide. Have they always been that wide? Are your eyes drier these days than they normally are? You can't tell, because every part of you feels both dehydrated and submerged under water.

"This is really good, babe," Chan says.

You blink. "What?"

Chan holds up his bowl. "The stew. It's great. I told you it would be delicious."

You let out a pleased sound. "Thank you baby. Your encouragement really motivated me."

It was the wrong thing to say. You have no idea how, but from the way Chan's expression changes slightly as he looks at you, you know he's caught on to you acting weird.

"Is everything alright?"

Shit.

"With me? Yeah, I guess so. I've just been really tired lately."

"On the job hunt?" he asks sympathetically. It's like a stake in your heart.

"As always."

He wraps an arm around you and presses a kiss to your hair. "Don't worry, baby. You're super qualified in your field. You'll find something soon."

You need him to stop touching you or you'll start throwing pans at the wall.

"I hope so," is all you say.

"I know so. Just keep faith."

You hum again, noncommittal. It's like you're slowly losing the ability to speak. And the gloves are too tight and the water is so loud and you're nauseous and your head still hurts and it's probably not even the stress, it's probably the rabies, it's turning your brain into swiss cheese as you speak.

After another tight squeeze, Chan lets you go and retrieves his bowl from where he'd set it down. You hope he might leave you to go eat in the living room, but instead he hovers on the opposite side of the island, and continues telling you about his day. Normally, you'd love to hear the play by play of every crazy thing that happened with his group members and managers. Today, it's like nails on a chalkboard. The story is endless, keeps weaving around other anecdotes and tangents and you wish he would just shut up for one second so you can pull yourself together but you can't say that, because he isn't doing anything wrong, you're just being crazy, you're a bad and lazy girlfriend and you can't even put your own issues on hold long enough to listen to your boyfriend talk about his day. Everything is wrong wrong wrong, and you're Wrong and something is Wrong With You and it just keeps going it never stopswhy can't it all just stop-

"Y/N?"

Your name sounds like it's coming from a thousand miles away.

"Y/N? Are you okay?"

You turn to look at Chan, see his eyebrows pinched together in concern. You have no idea how long he's been saying your name.

Very calmly, you strip your gloves off and lay them to the side. You turn off the water.

"Sorry," you say. "Give me one moment, please."

You walk past him and down the hall to your bedroom, where you very calmly and gently close the door behind yourself. You climb on to your bed, filthy clothes and all, and pull two of the pillows from the end to rest on top of each other. You tie your hair back with a hair tie, press your face into the stack of pillows below you so that your whole face is covered.

And you just start screaming.

Screaming is therapeutic, apparently. Or at least, it's on the approved list of emotional regulation activities your therapist had given you. As long as you aren't screaming at anyone, it can be an effective form of release. It helps you release the tension from your core and focus that nervous energy into sound and action.

You scream into the pillow as loud as you can. You aren't sure how much it's doing to muffle your sound, but the belief that it's helping allows you to let go. It's tearing at your throat, the intensity of it. Once you start it's hard to stop, you just keep going and going and going, as if you're expelling demons.

When you finally peter out, you pause for a moment, then push yourself onto your knees. You're dizzy. Blood is rushing in your ears. It's oddly hard to breathe, as if you can't get enough air in your lungs. Even the fact of your own body is too much for you. You wish you could abandon it, just for a moment. You wish you could observe this from the outside so that you would better know how to fix it.

Eventually, your breaths calm. The buzzing recedes, leaving room for rational thought. And your chest feels....lighter. No longer is there a bomb sitting in your sternum, waiting to explode. The pressure has equalized. You look down at your hands, fisted in your bedsheets, and they look like your hands.

Cool. Cool cool cool cool cool.

You think you can probably do the dishes now.

Gingerly, you climb out of bed and make your way to the door. You open it, prepared to put your smile back on and apologize for your rude exit.

Chan is outside your door.

His eyes are wide with alarm. He looks stiff, hesitant. One of his hands is outstretched towards the door, as if about to knock.

Your face goes blank, wiring short-circuiting as you try to figure out what to say.

"Hey, y/n," Chan says, slow, testing. "Are you okay?"

Your script restarts, and a big smile automatically draws itself on your face. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Sorry about that. I just got a little overwhelmed."

"Overwhelmed?"

"Yeah. It's fine, though. Come on, you can finish telling me your story."

You grab his hand and try to pull him away from the bedroom. He doesn't budge.

"Will you tell me what's going on?"

You turn back to look at him. "Nothing's going on."

"Baby, I understand if you don't want to talk to me about it yet. But you don't need to pretend there's nothing wrong. You don't need to lie to me."

"I'm not lying."

"I heard you screaming in there."

Ice flushes through your body.

"Ah. Well, it's like I said. I got a little overwhelmed. I'm not hurt or anything. Sorry if I worried you."

"A little overwhelmed?" He's getting frustrated now, put off by your blase tone. "You look like you're on the verge of a nervous breakdown."

"No, I don't," you say, because you don't. You know what you look like when you get like this. You've trained your expressions so well that your face doesn't flush. Your eyes don't tear up. You have to look put together, because if you don't look put together then you can't convince yourself that you are put together.

"Y/n. I know you. I can tell when something's up." He sighs. "I've thought you were a bit distant for the past couple of weeks but I figured you would come to me eventually. But here we are, and you're having an anxiety attack right in front of me and you won't even admit it."

"I'm not having an anxiety attack."

"Love, I know what anxiety looks like. If you'd just let me help-"

"I'm not having an anxiety attack. I don't have anxiety. I would know if I did."

"Everyone has bad days and hard times, baby. You don't have to be defensive. I'm not accusing you of anything."

"You say you're not accusing me of anything after unilaterally diagnosing me with anxiety?"

Chan lets out a long breath. "That wasn't what I meant. I just mean-"

"You can't just assign me disorders when you decide I'm acting irrationally. You don't know my medical history. You don't even know me that well. You don't know if my behavior is normal or not."

"You can't be getting upset at me for 'not knowing you' when it's clear you're actively hiding things from me," Chan says, patience thinning. "I see you're in distress and you're picking apart my wording? I'm trying to help you."

"I didn't say I wanted your help."

"You're my partner! Of course I'm going to help you!"

"You can't!"

"Why not?"

"Because-" You choke on it and slam your lips shut.

Chan's face is drawn in irritation. He makes a go on gesture. But you can't go on. It's like the words are trapped in bubbling tar.

Your silence stretches. Chan sighs and drags a hand down his face in exhaustion. He'd gone out of his way to come visit you and now he regrets it. You've wasted his evening and ruined his mood. It's only a matter of time before he realizes you ruin everything. Hell realize he's drowning in all your mess and decide to save himself, and then you'll be alone again.

You draw in a breath of your own, but you're still lightheaded.

"Why did you invite me over if you didn't want me to see you like this?" he asks finally. "You don't have to see me every day if that's not what you want."

All the anger is gone from his voice. He's being so patient that your own stubbornness is acrid in comparison. You swallow, hard. Every muscle in your body is tense. You have the pull the words out of your throat with hooks, one syllable at a time.

"I wanted to see you," you explain, stilted and pathetic. "I thought I could pretend for long enough."

"Pretend what?"

That I'm not crazy. That I'm not falling apart. That I'm normal and easygoing and a joy to be around and definitely not rabid.

It's impossible to say. You don't know what's wrong with you, but you know that something is. You can't do the dishes. And you can't do this.

Your knees buckle and you sink to the floor of the hallway.

"Y/n?"

You don't respond. You're just staring straight ahead, all your thoughts whirring so fast that you're having trouble parsing any of them.

"Y/n? Hey, baby, sweetheart, can you look at me?"

You blink, and he's in front of you, on your level. He's trying to look calm but you can see the panic in his eyes. It only makes your chest tighter. You're dragging him down, you're cursing him. He needs to get out or you'll have his blood on your hands.

"We need to break up," you whisper.

Chan reels back like he's been slapped. "What?"

"We can't- we need to break up. I shouldn't have invited you over. I'm sorry."

"I..." Chan is at a loss for words. "You don't mean that."

But you do mean it. With everything in your body. "We can't be together."

"Baby, I don't know what you're thinking, but we don't have to break up if you don't want to. I don't want to break up."

You feel sick with his sureness. How can he claim to know you better than you know yourself?

"You don't get it," you say. Your tone is unnatural, words strange on your tongue. "We just can't be together."

"Can you tell me why you feel that way?"

"Just look at me."

"I am looking at you. And all I see is my beautiful, wonderful, perfect girlfriend who is having a very bad day and might be making some hasty decisions."

"Not a bad day. A bad life. I'm fucked up, Chan." The words come out with such a quiet malice that it shocks even yourself. "I can't even do the fucking dishes."

"I can do the dishes, love. I said it wasn't a big deal."

"No no no. It's not about the dishes." You're struggling to explain- the words are getting twisted, the thoughts all merge together- "I can't do anything. It's not about the fucking dishes. It's about- I can't-"

And you burst into tears

"I'm sorry," you say. "I'm really sorry. I just-"

"It's okay," he soothes. "It's okay. I understand now."

He doesn't. He can't, and you know that full well. You shake your head, vision blurring from your tears. You're so embarassed and it's making you cry worse. You think you must look so ugly right now. He must be repulsed by you. You're repulsed by yourself, your own misery making your skin crawl.

"Can I touch you, baby? I want to hold you."

You shouldn't. You'll infect him. You'll ruin him and take away everything that makes him good. Why is he even still talking to you? Why doesn't he leave?

"You don't have to-to feel obligated. I can just- if you give me a second-"

"I don't feel obligated," he says, patient but firm. "I love you. I want to hold you all the time."

Something in your chest cracks. You're so weak. It's pathetic. But you can't hold yourself back anymore.

"Please," you whisper, defeated.

Chan reaches out and pulls you into his arm. You're both still on the ground, but he rearranges you so you can hide your face in his shoulder, and you do, too humiliated by your tears to be able to look at his face. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and your traitorous body relaxes without your permission.

"You've been struggling for a long time haven't you?" he asks. "You didn't want me to pity you."

You don't say anything. You can't bear to.

"Well, I don't pity you. I think you're very strong, trying to deal with this on your own. You made me dinner today even though you didn't really want to, right? That was very kind of you to do. You take such good care of me, baby. You light up my life. Isn't it fair that I should get to take care of you too? Can't I return the favor by helping you now?"

"It's not the same," you mumble into his shirt, because the magnitude of the two asks isn't comparable. You chopped up some vegetables and threw them in a pot. He is witnessing you have a mental breakdown in your hallway. You're not equally yoked. It's too much to ask of anyone.

"Whether it's the same or not doesn't matter. Love isn't transactional. It doesn't have to be equal effort every single time. This isn't a favor I'm returning. I'm comforting you because you're upset, and I hate to see you cry. Do you believe me when I say I want to see you happy and smiling? That I would do anything to ensure it?"

You finally pull away from him, wiping away your tears on your sleeve. "You might have to go find a new girlfriend then," you say, voice cracking from the tears and the weight of your despair.

"I don't want a new girlfriend. I want you." He's hesitant, but he continues. "There are ways of getting help, you know. We can try some things, like therapy, or medication. I can help you. You don't have to feel this way all the time."

You shake your head. "I'm in therapy and on meds already. None of it really....works on me. I have fewer bad days than I used to but they still leave me like...like this. And they just drag on....it turns to weeks and months, and I can't....I can't do anything." You let out a shaky breath and make yourself stop talking. Even after all this, the urge to hold back is engrained in you. "You deserve better."

"I think I decide what I deserve," Chan says. "I know it's hard to open up about things like this, but what's worse than you being depressed is you hiding it from me. How can we work on this if you're pretending it's not real?"

"I wanted to be good for you. I wanted to be...to be easy."

Chan leans forward and cups your face in his hands. He looks you right in the eyes, and you see that they're glossy with their own unshed tears. "I don't need you to be easy. No one is. I just want you to be you. And I want you to let me be there for you. In everything. Including this. I want all of you. Do you think you can do that? Can you try?" He wipes away your tears with his thumb.

You swallow harshly. It goes against everything in you, everything you've taught yourself. Chan loves you. He wants to stay. Even though it may all crash and burn later, even though he might still turn on you or reject you or give up on you and declare this all a lost cause, right now he wants to stay. He believes in you. And you want to hold on to that belief as long as it lasts.

"Okay. I'll try."

A relieved smile stretches across his face.

"That's my girl," he says, and presses a kiss to your forehead. It makes something like pride settle in your chest, as if the part of you that cracked earlier might not stay jagged forever.

"Let's get off the floor, hmm? I feel like you might've spent enough time down here today."

You definitely hadn't mentioned that. Maybe he really does understand more than you'd thought possible. You don't know exactly how to feel about that, but you allow a bit of gratefulness to come through as he stands up on his own and reaches a hand down to pull you up. You wipe your eyes one last time, let out a breath, and take his hand.

#skz x reader #skz angst #skz x you #bang chan x reader #bang chan angst

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