#half and quarter circles are making my hands hurt

[stanksmcgee]

My friend hosted a mini Guilty Gear tournament, and at some point this video of a bear getting kicked in the nuts was brought up.

So here's the stupid edit I felt obliged to make

[skzdarlings]

everything ; skz ; werewolf!felix x reader

requested by @yongbbokkie: if possible, can I have Sunshine!Felix with the prompt/s: ❛ i'm waiting for your permission to let me have my way with you. ❜ and ❛ do whatever you want with me, i'm yours. ❜

((maybe it's a pining from afar situation and something puts them in close quarters and Felix just can't help himself anymore))

read on ao3

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: werewolf!au. friends2lovers. miscommunication and misunderstandings followed by resolution and smut. mentions of reader being in a past abusive relationship though the circumstances are not detailed. not omegaverse just werewolves but mentions of rut cycles and slightly different physiology.

this is, um, the wettest thing i've ever written. there is no other word for it. so much come, masturbating (reader walks in on felix), pervy masturbating using reader's stuff lol, massive breeding kink, multiple rounds, scenting, possessiveness, throat-grabbing, biting, pussy eating, squirting, dirty talk. did i mention come.

word count: 15800 words. (hope it makes up for the delay hehe)

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy <3

-

For a few moments, Felix is yours.  There is no awkwardness, no reluctance, just dancing, just friendship. 

The club is packed so tightly, the lights and music as roaring as lightning and thunder.  The extra stimulation overwhelms the senses, even werewolf senses.  He doesn’t think and neither do you.  You just dance, finding each other in the bouncing circle of your half-drunk friend group.  He smiles and you take his hand, letting him pull you across the dance floor and into his arms. 

You’ve missed this smile.  You’ve missed these arms.   

Sure, Felix is still your best friend and he is never truly far.  The distance is not literal, just emotional, and that is so much worse. 

Ever since his werewolf genes kicked in, ever since a pack took him in, things have just been… different. 

Right now, you can pretend nothing has changed.  You are far away from ivory moons waning over woodlands, of werewolf packs and supernatural powers.  His senses are diluted here, overpowered by so many moving bodies and so much wild noise. 

Felix smiles, that wonderful big smile that crinkles his eyes so sweetly.  Lights flash over him, his blonde hair nearly glowing, his freckles like stars.  He’s your best friend again.  All yours for a few precious moments. 

He’s bigger than he was, you think, with a bit of a flush, as you dance closer to him, his arms circling your body.  Or maybe I just never noticed before. 

Felix is not very tall, but he is not small either, lean and athletic and confident in every inch of his body.  It feels like he is everywhere.  Every time a strobe light flashes over him, he seems a little closer.  You breathe in his cologne, subtler than it used to be because his sense of smell is so powerful now, but still recognizable. 

You are definitely not a werewolf, but you are captivated by that smell.  Something oak, woodsy, masculine but pretty.   So very Felix.  You want to bathe in that smell, luxuriate in him.  You spent so many nights curled into his side, sharing his bed, wearing one of his hoodies, that you associate that scent with everything good, safe, and home. 

His hands dance up your sides very softly, his breath puffing across your cheek as you dance and dance.  One song pours into the next.  You lose track of time.  In forgetting the world, you forget yourself.   You slide your arms around his shoulders and press close to him. 

You used to hug him like this so easily, but you have hardly touched him at all the last few months.  Felix could never be cruel to anyone so he has not outright rejected your usual closeness, but it is obvious that your touch now makes him uncomfortable.  The last thing you ever, ever want to do is hurt Felix.   So you have followed his lead.  Every time he accidentally pulls a face –  a displeased twitch of his nose, an upset furrow of his brow – you have backed away.   

It’s just the werewolf senses, you keep telling yourself.  He’s more sensitive now, that’s all. 

He still hugs the others.  The werewolf boys love rough-housing, in fact, tumbling all over each other constantly.

That’s different.  Yes, very different than this, right here, right now, his hands sliding down your sides – slowly, like he is memorizing the shape of your waist.  He squeezes your hips and it fills you with heat.  His hot face touches yours, cheek to cheek.  The music is pounding, a frantic sound, but you are slow dancing, keeping to the rhythm of your heartbeats where they beat against each other. 

You slide a hand up the back of his neck, into his long blonde hair.  You feel the shudder move through his whole body.   It makes your legs feel weak, realizing the effect you have on him.  It seems impossible, especially with how much he has pushed you away, but there is no way he is shivering for any other reason.  He cannot possibly be cold.  The club is packed and, besides, he is not human.  He runs hot. 

So hot.  He radiates it, burning where your bodies press together.  Felix has always been the sunshine that keeps you warm, but this is a different heat.  You know better than to succumb to it, knowing this moment will pass, but right now it is so easy to cling to him, to breathe him in, to feel like the world is just you and him. 

The real world soon returns.  It’s getting late so your friends call it a night. 

“We’ll drop you off, yeah?” Chan says to you.  Felix lives with him and the other wolves now.  They all have their own apartments but they live in the same high-rise.  You live a few blocks down, close, but not quite belonging. 

“I don’t mind walking,” you say. 

You do not want to intrude and you do not want to make Felix uncomfortable.  He doesn’t even know Chan is offering you a ride because he standing so far away. 

Felix is looking at his phone, slouched against the car while everyone organizes themselves.  He is wearing a leather jacket, a white shirt, blue jeans, his long hair falling into his face.  You want to brush it back, feel it between your fingers.  You want to lift his face and see his smile.    

But he doesn’t look at you.  Now that you are outside, now that the heat has dissipated and the cold breeze carries your bland, dull, human scent, now that he can remember you are not special and not like him – now, he is someone else, and you are too, and it is cold and dreary and miserable. 

“What?”  Chan says.  He is such a good pack leader and a good friend, but it makes him utterly oblivious to little dramas like this.  “You’re not walking by yourself this late at night, don’t be crazy.  Come on.” 

The pack leader does not take no for an answer.  Even though you are not in the pack, being human, there is no refusing Bang Chan.  He grabs you by the wrist and drags you to his car. 

Jeongin is in the front seat.  Seungmin takes a back corner before Felix can lift his head, before he even knows you will be in the car too. 

Felix looks tense when realizes he is trapped with you.   Whether he takes the middle seat or the other corner, you will be beside him.  If standing together outside is so intolerable, then being in a car is going to be torturous.  

“I can walk,” you say to him. 

“What?”  He shakes his head.  When he smiles, it is not his usual smile, not something real.  You know the difference.  His proper smile brightens you but this smile makes your heart sink.  “Of course not,” he says.  “C’mon.  It’s late.  Let’s get home, yeah?”   

“Yeah,” you say, but he is already gone, taking all sense of home with him.   

You take the middle seat.  Felix rolls his window down and leans towards it.  His eyes are closed the entire journey, the wind blowing across his tired face. 

Seungmin is also a werewolf but he does not seem bothered by your human scent.  Jeongin and Chan, the other packmates, likewise seem indifferent, chatting about everything and nothing, totally unperturbed.   And you must cross paths with many werewolves during the day, but no one ever seems bothered by you. 

Felix is the only werewolf who seems to have a problem with your scent.  You do not know what it is that affects him so deeply.  You have tried changing soaps and shampoos but nothing seems to help.  It must be something natural to your human body.  Humans do not smell like werewolves in general.  Werewolves release pheromones that humans cannot smell, and it is important in forging interpersonal dynamics.  That includes romance.  Werewolves mate for life.  You know they find their true mates through smell as much as the other senses.  They are biologically wired to pursue their perfect match based on all those senses. 

You are not a werewolf.  You can never be his true mate.  In the few months since he fully and rapidly developed his werewolf senses, Felix has withdrawn from you even though he promised it would never separate you. 

You used to talk about what would happen if his werewolf genes activated.  He comes from a family of werewolves but the gene lays dormant in certain carriers.  Most werewolves develop in puberty if they develop at all.  Some people never develop their wolven senses or powers.  A minority, like Felix, are triggered by something in adulthood and succumb all at once. 

It was always a possibility, however minute, but he promised things would stay the same.  He said you were his person, that best friend did not even suffice as a word to describe your love.

You’re my world, you know, he said one night, speaking with the sort of earnest sincerity that only Felix could, his deep voice rumbling in your ear as you cuddled into him.     

You wanted to say it back but you were hurting at the time.  You ended a bad relationship a year earlier.  It took your tender heart far too long to realize how badly your ex-boyfriend was treating you.  When Felix found out the details, he was furious, though he kept it down around you.  You had never seen your best friend so emotional.  He became even more protective in the aftermath. 

He showed you, time and time again, what real love is supposed to be.  It doesn’t rush or demand, it doesn’t manipulate or coerce, and it doesn’t ask you to be small.  He would hold you all night if that’s what you needed.  He would make you laugh and let you cry. 

You slowly realized true love had been in front of you, all this time, begging to be seen. 

At least, you thought so.   After such a bad relationship, you were taking it slow, and Felix never rushed you.  You thought, maybe, one day…

But just when you were ready, everything changed.  The werewolf gene unexpectedly activated.  Felix was admitted to a wolven hospital and underwent his first transformation under a full moon.  When he came home, he was different.   Sure, he was still Felix, with his long dyed hair and his many freckles and his sun-kissed skin, but his brown eyes were so very different when he looked at you. 

If he looked at you, which he avoids these days.     

“Home sweet home,” Chan says, parking the car outside your apartment building. 

Felix wastes no time getting out of the vehicle, practically spilling onto the sidewalk in his haste.   He holds the door for you but averts his gaze. 

You thank Chan, say good night to the other boys, then you shuffle across the seat and step out of the car.   Felix still does not look at you, pretending he is distracted with something across the street. 

You are a little tipsy, your emotions easily riled.  You want to say good night so it will finally prompt him to look at you, but you are suddenly very choked up.  Thoughtlessly, you touch his arm instead.

He flinches.  It feels worse than a slap.

You do not look at him again, hurrying to the building before he can see the tears in your eyes. 

Miraculously, you hold them in until you reach your apartment.  You are one foot in the doorway when the tears spill, all the emotions you’ve suppressed over the last few months finally flooding free.  The door falls closed with a slam and the whole world collapses under you.

You drop right there, knees pulled up to your chest and face buried in your hands. 

You spent so many nights like this, crying all alone until you worked up the courage to tell Felix about your bad relationship.  He was immediately understanding.  It was so foolish to fear he would ever judge you.  He put an arm around you and held you all night.

He is the person you want to call when you are hurting.  It is agonizing to be without him.  He is the one person you need and the one person you cannot call right now. 

You let yourself feel sorry and miserable.  When the tears have subsided and you are slouched against your door, empty and tired, you make a decision to end this.  You have spent too much of your life collapsed on the floor and crying on your lonesome.  You refuse to do it again. 

As horrible as it is, you need to distance yourself from Felix.  This slow deterioration of your relationship is excruciating.   If he decides to reach out, you will be there, but you simply cannot continue to compromise yourself. 

You somehow manage to wash up and get in bed.   You sleep through the morning and rise late, delaying the inevitable a little longer by scrolling on your phone.  Felix used to be the first text of the day but there is nothing from him.  You would usually message anyway but today you put your phone aside and get out of bed. 

So much of Felix is in your apartment.  Borrowed hoodies, games, books, and so much more.  Items are littered everywhere from the bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen and back.   It takes an hour and you are not sure you find everything because he is so inextricably woven into your living space.  You do not even see it anymore because it – because he – is always there. 

You fill a cardboard box.  Your plan is to walk the couple blocks to the high-rise and return it with a vague explanation.  You are not sure what to say.  Perhaps it is best to opt for brevity.  After all, this is not a break-up because you are not a couple. 

No, you think, staring at the full box with watery eyes, this is worse. 

You make it a few steps out your door before you drop the box.  It is way, way too heavy for you to carry two feet, never mind two city blocks.  Already panting with exertion, you stare at the box taking up a huge slab of the narrow corridor. 

You really don’t want to ask him to come get it, nor do you want to make multiple trips.  You are scared that if you give him the opportunity, he will try and reassure you that nothing is wrong and you don’t need to do this.  You’ll believe him in the moment, but then it will start all over again.  

Like ripping off a bandage, it has to go all at once.  It’s time to heal. 

You push the box, budging it down the corridor inch by slow inch.  You reach the elevator and press the call button.   You calculate the logistics of pushing and shoving the box for two blocks, mostly concerned the cardboard will rip if it snags on something outside. 

Lost in thought, you don’t see a person in the elevator and accidentally shove the box at him.  He yelps, a loud cry of surprise as he jumps aside.  It makes you leap out of your skin, shooting upright to look at him. 

Some of your despondency leaves at the friendly face of your neighbour.

“Changbin!” you say.  “I’m so sorry.  I didn’t even see you there.”

“Hey now,” he says, winking, his handsome face plastered with a grin, “I’m not that short.” 

“No, of course not,” you say, laughing along with him. 

Changbin is a werewolf as well.  There are a lot of packs on this side of town because the large national park is nearby.   The wolves like to use the expansive forest when the full moon cycle swings around. 

“Moving out?” he asks with an eyebrow quirk.

“Ah,” you say.  “Not quite.”

You explain your predicament, that the box belongs to a friend and you need to somehow reach his apartment building two blocks away.  Changbin, ever the charmer and ever the helper, immediately offers his aid. 

“Oh, you don’t have to—” you start, but he has already swung the big box into his arms.

Werewolves do have supernatural strength.  Changbin looks strong, with big biceps and a stocky frame, never mind the supernatural enhancement.   He doesn’t even break a sweat.  The box might as well be empty for all the difference it makes to him.

He is kind enough to walk two blocks to the high-rise.  You chat on the way and find the conversation flows easily.   You also can’t help but notice he has no problem with your scent.  It really is just Felix who seems so repulsed. 

You ring the buzzer for Felix’s apartment but there is no answer.  You try a couple more times, embarrassed because Changbin is waiting.  Fortunately, he is very non-plussed, humming to himself while you ring the buzzer. 

After a few tries, you ring Chan instead.  He answers promptly and you explain the bare bones of the situation, that you have a box for Felix and you would appreciate if he could pass it along.   Chan agrees, of course. 

Maybe it is for the best. You can leave the box with Chan and not even have to confront Felix at all.   

Chan buzzes you into the building.  Changbin walks you to the elevator where he puts the box down.  You thank him profusely but he waves it off and states he was happy to help. 

It looks like he wants to say something more, looking at you while he rubs the back of his neck.   In the end, he says he will see you around and departs.

You exhale.  The worst of your nerves have dissipated since Felix is not even home.  You have been the one instigating your interactions the last few months so you figure if you just quietly step back, he won’t even notice. 

It pains you to admit it, that you could disappear from his life and he would just… not care.  You stuff those feelings down, down, down for now.  You prepare a friendly smile for Chan so he doesn’t ask too many questions. 

When you reach the pack floor, you give the box a good shove into the corridor.   Chan lives directly across from the elevator so you don’t have far to go.

Except there are voices in the corridor.  You turn towards the sound. 

An awful chill freezes in your blood, your whole body going rigid at what you see. 

Felix is home.  He is standing in his open doorway, half-dressed in a pair of jeans and nothing more.  His long hair looks more dishevelled than usual, like someone has been running their fingers through it. 

Someone.  He is talking to a young woman.  You don’t know her too well, simply that she is the only female werewolf in Chan’s small pack.  She is wearing more clothes than Felix but still very casual in shorts and a t-shirt, barefoot like this is her home.   You suppose it is, much more her home than yours.   

She belongs.  You do not. 

Her and Felix are standing close while they converse.  So close.  They speak to each other in hushed tones, her expression tender and sympathetic while Felix winces in seeming pain.  The details of their conversation are inarticulate at a distance but their voices are nonetheless audible. 

Your scent reaches Felix first.  He straightens so fast it would be comical under any other circumstances. 

Nothing is funny right now.  You feel like a complete and utter fool, standing in his corridor with a box of his things like he cares about them at all.  He has already moved on.  You were in denial, a stupid little human girl still clinging desperately to old memories.   

“I better go,” the woman says.  She leans up and kisses Felix on the cheek, gives him a little wink and mumbles something only he can hear.   She turns and walks into the apartment next door, giving you a genuinely friendly wave.  She has always been polite to you and you have no reason to dislike her.  You can only wave back pathetically. 

Your hand slaps your side when she disappears into her apartment.  You and Felix look at each other. 

He looks guilty.  Sweat dots his hairline, streaks his bare chest, and his face is flushed.  It is very obvious what he has been doing all morning.  

The thought of such a fantasy was once tantalizing.  The sight of him, like this, would make you dizzy. You remember the last time he casually took off his shirt, the swoop of desire that moved inside you, a sensation you did not even know you could still feel after your bad relationship.

Now that swoop is just nausea.  There is no pleasure in it at all.   

You are completely mortified. 

“Hey,” Felix says.   His deep voice breaks on a high-pitched twinge.  He clears his throat.   “Um,” he says.  He runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it even more.   He can’t seem to bring himself to meet your gaze, eyes darting all over the corridor but never you.

You curl your fingers, nails pressing hard into your palm. 

“Look,” he says, clearing his throat again.  “We need to talk about—”

You don’t want to hear it.  You can’t hear it.  You are hurt and embarrassed and devastated.  Why couldn’t he just tell you he wanted to pursue a werewolf?  It makes sense, biologically, and you can hardly fault him for the desire.   Honesty would have hurt but not like this.  Now you have to suffer the rejection of the only man you ever truly loved and suffer the fact you were not even worth a conversation. 

It is too late to talk.    

“It’s fine, Felix,” you say.  All your messy, menial scripts crumble in your mind.  Emotion takes over, bitterness and pain and irritation.   “I brought you your things,” you say, pointing to the box.  His eyes dart there for the first time, brow furrowing.  “If I find anymore, I’ll give them to Chan.  He’ll pass them along.”

“Um, what?”  He looks from the box to you. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” you say, blinking back tears.  Your feelings come out in fragments, word after word with little coherency.  “After everything I went through last year – I just – this is too much.  The werewolf thing – I just – I can’t.  I’m sorry.  I can’t have you in my life like this.  Thank you for your friendship.  The memories will always be important to me.  But it’s for the best we don’t see each other again.”

You had not planned on so much finality, but that was before.  Now you need to leave.  If you stay here another second, you are going to fall apart. 

“Good luck with everything,” you say. 

You turn to leave but he says your name.  You suck in a breath, wait a beat, and slowly turn back around. 

Felix walks partway down the hallway, his whole face screwed up with pain and confusion.  His mouth is moving but no words are coming out.  Finally he closes his eyes and shakes his head, slamming a hand into his hair. 

“Hold on,” he says.  “Hold on, I – what are you talking about?  You – you don’t want to be friends?  How can – You can’t—”  That deep voice breaks again, fracturing with emotion. 

A part of you knows that you are being too harsh, letting your own emotions dominate your words.  Another part of you is too heartbroken to care. 

“It’s for the best,” you say weakly, your voice barely more than a breath of a sound.  “Really.” 

“For the best?” he asks, voice pitching up again.   He has not looked at you so intensely for so long.  “How can you say that to me?”

Much to your horror, he starts crying first.  His tears seem to catch him by surprise too, his expression puckering as he tries to stop it.  A hand flies up, covering his eyes.  He shakes his head rapidly. 

“Felix,” you whisper. 

“For the best?” he repeats.  He drops his hand and takes a shuddering breath. 

You avert your gaze.  You can’t stand to look at his eyes so full of tears, his face so strained with hurt. 

“Did something happen?” he asks, taking a few more steps towards you.  “Was it – was it me?  You said – the werewolf thing –  Did I do something?  Please, please tell me.”

He doesn’t even realize how much he has withdrawn from you.  He is bad at controlling his face, as evidenced now, so he probably has no idea how blatant his repulsion has been.   Maybe he thought he was being subtle.  Maybe he thought you wouldn’t care, that you were just his friend and you would be content to relegate yourself to the sidelines of his life.  Maybe that is all your fault after all. 

If you were a better friend, you would have coped with his new feelings.  You would have been happy for him.  If you were a better friend, maybe he would have told you sooner. 

“You deserve a better friend than me,” you say. 

He looks at you like you are completely crazy, his head tilted, his eyes narrowing. 

“What?” he asks.  “Where is this coming from?  Please, I don’t understand.  You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying.” 

“I already told you,” you say, as calmly as you can.  “I just can’t do this anymore.  Our lives are heading in different directions and I – I – I just need to go.  I want to go.  Please.” 

You have known Felix all your life.  You were children together, hapless youths on a playground that immediately loved each other with the easy, thoughtless affection of childhood. 

He reminds you of that child now, innocently standing in the corridor with his arms hanging limp at his sides and so much bewilderment on his freckled face. 

“You want to go?” he repeats, voice low, soft.  

You nod.  After a second, he nods back, bottom lip still quivering.  A fresh stream of tears spill over his eyes.  He hiccups on a sob, turning away and covering his face.

“Fine,” he says, speaking between shaky breaths.  “Go.  I can’t – I can’t keep you here if you want to go.” 

“Thank you,” you say softly.  The elevator is still waiting when you press the call button.  You step onto it and say, “Good bye, Felix.” 

As the doors close, you hear another choking sob.  You name is lost in the sound.    

The door closes. 

-

The regret is instantaneous.  You stare at your phone for hours and even debate returning to his apartment, but in the end you do nothing. 

You replay every moment, from seeing him with the other werewolf to his confusion and your departure.  It was a long, long walk home, tears streaming down your face as your mind went back even further, remembering every moment of your friendship. 

How could this have happened?  You and Felix have always been open with each other.  He was the first person you confided in about your bad relationship and he immediately did everything to save you from it.  But when it was the other way around, when the werewolf gene activated, he turned away from your friendship.  You poured your heart out to him, trusting he would catch it and keep it safe, but he did not feel the same way. 

Secrets, confusion, heartbreak.  It plays on a loop in your mind. 

It is the middle of the night when you get a text.  He has not messaged in a while, not in a substantial way.  If you scroll back on your phone, you can see the disintegration of communication, the days when he would send message after message with any and every thought slowly petering down to brief replies and a vague acknowledgement at the very best. 

This message is more.  You can hear his voice when you read it, can picture those dark eyes. 

Tell me this isn’t real.  Please. 

You feel sick.  You are angry at him for being the one to withdraw only to suddenly turn on his heel.  You are angry at yourself for reacting so drastically and immaturely.   Mostly, you are just sad. 

If I did something, I’m sorry, he writes.  I’ll never stop being sorry.  I’ll fix it.  I’ll keep my distance.  Just don’t say I can never see you again. 

You type a reply, then delete it, then repeat.  

You say nothing. Every time you try, you see him and her in that corridor, you see him flinching from your touch, you see him recoiling at your scent.  It twists and tangles with memories of warm nights and tender smiles.  You wipe your tears and remember when he did it for you, his thumb so gently sweeping your cheek.  He used to touch you like you were precious to him.  Now he flinches from your touch.    

He does not text the next day, or the day after, or the day after that.   You are not sure if it is better or worse. 

After about a week, he messages again, stating, I miss you.   

You are at your work desk but he immediately seizes your full attention, as he always has. 

You stare at your phone.  You take a breath.   You have had a few days to decompress, to let the wound bleed.  It is still sore to the touch. 

You write, I miss you too. 

You do not check your phone for a while, listening to the relentless buzz as he sends eager message after eager message.  It feels like the old days for a minute, but slows to a stop when you do not reply.  You read them back later, his pleading, his sweetness.  It makes you spiral, on the one hand wanting to take it all back, but on the other hand picturing his flinch, his disgust, knowing it is only a matter of time before your heart breaks again. 

You do not reply.  He takes the hint and gives you a few more days, then he messages, I still have your stuff in my place too, you know? 

I know, is all you say.  I have more of your stuff too.

As predicted, you have been finding his things all over the apartment.   Even things which are technically yours are still stamped with his memory.  He helped you move into this place after the break-up.  He took you shopping and paid for so many things to get you back on your feet.  Everything from blankets to cushions to plates make you think of him.   This was just a room before he made it a home.  Without him, it is just a room again. 

There are a couple days of silence, then some of his packmates start messaging you.  You don’t think he is sending them after you, as Felix would never manipulate or coerce you like that.  They reach out of their own volition, curious because they have not seen you in a while.  But it is all so overwhelming, so you throw your phone under a pillow and go for a walk.

That is when you run into Changbin again.   His smile is charming as ever when he strikes up a friendly conversation.   

“I was wondering,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, not-so-inadvertently flexing his big bicep when he does, “I was going to ask a couple weeks ago, when I helped you with that box – ah, I was kicking myself after because I didn’t see you for a while.  But – I thought we had a nice conversation.  Maybe you and me could do something.”

“Do something,” you repeat.  It sounds like he is asking you out which is a little perplexing, because he is a werewolf and you are a human.  Surely nothing serious can come of it.  You used to think it was possible, as there are plenty of movies and romance novels to prove it, but your personal experience has led you to other conclusions.    

“A date,” he clarifies, grinning that handsome smile.  “You and me.  My treat.  No pressure.  I just think you’re clever and, ah, very beautiful, and I want to know you better.” 

A polite rejection is on the tip of your tongue.  You are not in any emotional state to try dating someone right now.   But you think of Felix and that woman in the corridor, and you think of your phone buzzing, and you think of another long, lonely night stewing in it all.   

Changbin must be looking for something casual anyway.  A werewolf would not truly settle down with a human.  Maybe this is a good opportunity to put yourself out there. 

“Sure,” you say.  “I’d like that.” 

Changbin takes you out a few days later.  You actually do enjoy yourself.  He is very charming and it is easy to talk to him, plus the date itself is very fun.  He takes you out for food then to an arcade, flopping at every game in a hilarious spectacle.  

“I’m a werewolf,” he complains later.  “I’m strong!  Those games were rigged.” 

You giggle, wrapping yourself up in the jacket he leant you.  You are walking back to the apartment building, the warm evening giving way to a cool night as you make the trek.   It is enjoyable until you reach the building, at which point you start to panic.  Does he expect to be invited into your apartment?  Does he expect… more?  The thought leaves you dizzy and not in a good way.  Changbin is so very handsome and so very likable.  Going out with him showed you that you can enjoy yourself without the crutch of a lifelong friendship. 

You don’t need Felix. 

But you still want him. 

You try to go back and find the moment it all went wrong, try to picture a different ending, but it feels impossible.  A foolish fantasy from a girl still clinging to the dying dredges of hope and affection.  There is a wonderful, handsome man at your side, a werewolf at that, and your mind is somewhere else. 

Changbin remarks on it, politely but nonetheless curiously.  He gives you a penetrating look, like he knows something is wrong and there is no use lying. 

You sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” you say.  “I just… I recently broke-up with a friend.”

“With a friend?” he asks, eyebrows jumping with surprise.  “What kind of friend?”

“A close one, very close,” you say.  “We’ve known each other forever, you see.  He’s the most wonderful person I have ever known.  He’s good to everyone, open-hearted, kind, warm.  I have truly never known a better man.  He just makes every room a little brighter when he’s in it.  You would like him, I think.  Everyone does.  He’s a werewolf but the transformation only happened for the first time this year.  Since then…”  You sniffle.  “Things have been different.  Werewolves are biologically wired to be with other werewolves and form packs… I think my human status just started affecting him negatively.”

“Biology,” Changbin says like it is a foreign word.  He looks at you with a cocked eyebrow.  “It exists, yeah, but werewolves still have hearts, you know?  It’s nice finding other werewolves so you aren’t alone, but it isn’t necessary.  Love is complicated.” 

That does give you pause for a moment.  A logical part of you knows it is true, that plenty of werewolves make relationships work with humans, but that is almost harder to accept.  If it’s just biological, then it cannot be helped.  But if it’s a choice—

“So he isn’t biologically wired to hate me now that he’s a werewolf,” you say miserably.  “It’s just something he chose to do.”

“Now, I didn’t say that,” Changbin says.  “But, if that is what happened, he’s an idiot.  If you were that obviously in love with me, ah, I wouldn’t let you go that easy.” 

“I’m not in love with him…”  The lie tumbles without an ounce of confidence.   Changbin just gives you an amused look.  Embarrassed, you drop your gaze.  “It doesn’t matter,” you say.  “He doesn’t feel the same way.  Believe me, I know how he’s been looking at me, or how he won’t. That’s why I walked away.  I was holding onto a friendship that once was and a fantasy that will never be.  It’s time to be reasonable.”

“Ah, I don’t think love is very reasonable,” he says.  “But you should stay true to yourself and do what’s right.  And, in the mean time, if you need a friend…”

You exchange smiles.  A weight lifts off your shoulder as Changbin changes the subject to friendship between you.

“I would like a friend,” you say.  “Thank you, Changbin.” 

“Ah, it’s been fun.  But give me back my jacket,” he teases.  “Since we’re friends I don’t need to impress you.  I’m cold.” 

 “I thought werewolves run hot,” you say, laughing.  You shrug off the coat and hand it to him. 

“Eh, a little bit, maybe more than humans.  But the blood really only gets hot during a rut cycle,” he says.

It is a casual statement.  He is too preoccupied with zipping up his jacket to notice you get a little flustered. 

You know a bit about ruts, namely that werewolves have a cycle which span a few days every month.  It’s a fertility and reproduction thing, pushing developed werewolves to find mates and, well, mate them.   It is a common part of the werewolf lifestyle so it is fair for Changbin to so casually mention it. 

It is not because of Changbin that you feel flustered.  You are thinking about Felix that night at the club, how burning hot he was compared to everyone else.  Now that you think of it, not even Chan felt so hot when he grabbed your wrist, nor Seungmin beside you in the car.  Felix, though, was radiating heat.  Was he starting a rut cycle?  Perhaps that explains why he was so hot and sweaty the next day during your confrontation. 

You remember the other werewolf in the corridor.  Your heart sinks again.  Was she helping him through his rut?  Then again, she left the second you arrived.  Why were they even in the hallway?  If she was spending his rut with him, surely they would have been inside together, not yapping in the hallway... 

“You look worried,” Changbin says. 

You are gnawing your bottom lip, eyes darting around as you contemplate that day.  At his words, you blink to attention, doing your best to shake the anxiety. 

“It’s nothing,” you say.  “I’m just confused about so many things right now.” 

“You know, if this guy really is so great and wonderful – and I think he is, if someone like you loves him so much – then he will probably be happy to answer your questions so you don’t feel so confused.” 

“Ugh.”  You slap a hand over your eyes and shake your head.  “Why do you have to be so decent and mentally competent and right?” 

“Jutdae,” he says, then flexes an arm and squeezes a bicep through the jacket.  “And lots of protein.”

You laugh again.  With a few more words of thanks and a promise to catch up again soon, you give him one final good night hug.  He says he might meet up with some friends so you part ways, Changbin strolling while you head inside. 

You look at your phone, considering his words as you ride the elevator to your floor.  Changbin is right.  Giving Felix the silent treatment is not helping you or him.  Even though the conversation will probably be uncomfortable in so many ways, you should talk to him.  It might not repair anything, but at least you will have closure.  That wound cannot heal so long as it is still bleeding and festering. 

You are drafting a text message in your head when you step off the elevator. 

Then you lift your eyes and stumble to a stop. 

Felix is sitting outside your apartment door.  He is wearing jeans and a blue flannel, a denim jacket on top of that.  A habitual joke is on the tip of your tongue, seeing him so decked out in his favourite colour.  It disappears at the morose look on his face.   

His long blonde hair is down around his shoulders, neglected black roots peeking at the crown of his head.  He looks a little wan and very tired, his head lolled to the side. 

He scents you before he sees you, eyes fluttering closed for a second, then he looks at you. 

He really looks at you. 

Felix always has such a softness in his gaze, but this look is searing.  It moves through you, a forceful heat twining its way around your insides.  It holds you in captivated thrall as he stands, one black boot thumping against the ground with the force of his push as he straightens himself out. 

That piercing looks crinkles as more of your scent registers to him.  His face twists with revulsion, except it is even more severe than usual.  It is so disturbed that it makes you think his past expressions were not disgust at all, because this face is so terrorized by whatever he smells. 

“Where were you?” he asks. 

You have been staring at each other in silence for so long that his voice reverberates loudly in the corridor.   It makes you jump as the smoothness of his deep voice pours into you.  It’s only been a few weeks since you last heard him speak, but somehow you forgot how profoundly that voice could affect you, especially when he drops it so deliberately. 

“Out,” you say.  You are so flustered that your body goes into defense mode, your tone sharp when you say, “I don’t need your permission for that.”   

That softens the slash of his gaze.  He shakes his head. 

“No,” he says softly.  “Of course not.  I’m sorry.”   

His apology is so sincere, eyes searching yours for something beyond the surface.  You feel like he is speaking to you without words, somehow conveying a lifetime of love in the way he looks at you, saying, it’s me.

You soften too, in every way, your voice and your posture, your heart and everything inside you.  So soft and malleable, all that heat expanding in every direction until you can imagine yourself radiating it like he did.  It feels so inappropriate to be aroused when there is so much drama between you, when a serious conversation needs to be had.  But he is looking at you so intensely, colours of emotions playing across his face.  A shaking breath draws your gaze to his lips. 

He says your name.  It feels like a touch.  You feel dizzy again, this time in a very good way, despite yourself.   

You hear his sharp intake of breath as you step a little closer.  Your scent is affecting him.  It makes him do a double-take, looking at you up and down without any subtlety.  It is blatant, searching.  For lack of a better word, predatory, a wolf on the prowl, scenting something it wants, maybe needs.   Your skirt is long, sweeping past your knees, but you feel like he can see past it somehow. 

His eyes, low on your body, flick up to your face.  Your knees knock.  That hungry look twists into something repulsed again, his brow furrowing.  It darkens his whole face.    

Of course.  He is disgusted with you and your boring human scent and he always has been.  You cannot give into hopeful delusions. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask in your most casual tone, striding up to him like you are unaffected by his presence. 

He steps to the side, staring while you fumble around in your purse for your keys. 

“I wanted to talk,” he says. 

You stare into your bag, rifling through mint wrappers and lipsticks and bus tickets.  You can feel his eyes, practically burning a hole in the side of your head.   You want to be chill, want to laugh and tell him he’s acting weird, to knock it off.  You want to be indifferent, remind him there is a distance between you now and his staring is not appropriate. 

Then he puts a hand on the door, near your head.  He moves around you, undeniably scenting you as he goes.  His other hand comes around the other side, caging you between him and the door.  Your back is to him but you can still feel his gaze, shivering when he breathes you in.  

You swallow, cringing at the wave of arousal that moves through you when his nose brushes the back of your neck. 

Werewolf instincts, you remind yourself, trying to find the resolve to snap him out of it, except that’s not what you want.  You want him to press right against you and put his mouth on your neck, to taste everything he is scenting. 

Until you remember he hates the scent.  So much so, he makes a guttural noise that sounds like a growl, rumbling at the base of his throat. 

You expect him to flinch and move away.  You imagine him shaking his head as he abandons his efforts to reconcile because you’re just not worth it. 

You are not expecting him to say, “Why do you smell like another werewolf?” 

“What?” you say.  “I – I don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” he says, taking another deep breath.  “It’s all over you.  Who is he?” 

Oh, you have been wearing Changbin’s jacket for the last half-hour.  You did not notice any smell but you are not a werewolf.   To Felix, you must be utterly smothered in it.   You wonder if it smells like a sex pheromone, given Changbin was taking you on a date, maybe permeating a desire your human senses did not notice. 

Whatever it is, it has Felix riled in a way you have never seen before.  He has been very careful to hold himself in check around you.  The worst of his werewolf symptoms have been hidden from the start.   It is part of why you are so hurt, that he would not trust you with it. 

Now it overrides his good sense.  His nose swipes the back of your neck again, his fingers curling against the door where his hands sit. 

“He’s just a friend,” you say. 

“A friend,” he repeats.  “He doesn’t smell like a friend.” 

“Well, he is,” you say.  All your desire, heartbreak, and desperation swell inside you, bursting like a firework, hot and crackling.  With a pounding heart, you turn around to face him, intent on confrontation when you snap, “Why would that even matter to you?” 

You look into his eyes.  He is so close, arms around you, that woodsy scent enveloping you.  It feels like coming home, falling into his gaze, letting the heat wash over you as he stares back.  There is something animalistic about his intensity, a predator with its hackles raised, sights set and hunger striking.    

“Felix,” you whisper, voice heavy with a thousand questions that never manifest. 

One hand leaves the door.  He grabs the back of your neck, not roughly, not cruelly, but with an undoubted and irrevocable command.  It makes another firework burst inside you.  You gasp. 

That gasp is interrupted when he dives in without any hesitation, his mouth thoroughly claiming yours in a hot, desperate kiss. 

Whenever you dared to fantasize a kiss with Felix, it was always soft, a little brief, giving it time to grow.  You never imagined so much heat overwhelming you all at once, that his mouth would be so ravishing.  You didn’t even know a kiss could move through your whole body, that when he puts his tongue in your mouth it would feel like he is already fucking you, your body throbbing with want. 

It is not just werewolf instinct because you react too.�� You drop your purse on the floor and put your hands on him, one on his chest and the other his neck, clinging to him like he clings to you.  He takes it as invitation, his other hand leaving the door to hold your waist.  His grip is powerful, but despite the supernatural strength it does not hurt.  No, Felix would never hurt you.  Oh, it was so stupid to think he ever would. 

He makes a sound that has you whimpering in turn, the low grunt pressing at your most vulnerable places.  The kiss is open-mouthed, hot and wet and messy. 

He walks you back that final step, pressing you to the door.  He cups the back of your head so you don’t hit it.

You grab the collar of his denim jacket and yank on it, pulling him even closer.  You are completely delirious with him. Everything that has happened and everything that will happen is wholly unimportant as he slots his whole body along yours. 

His leg pushes between your thighs, his hips pinning you to the door.  The thought would have you terrified a year ago, but now it just feels right.  Of course it feels right, because this is Felix, who has seen you at your most vulnerable and healed you, who has caught you every time you fall.  He will always fix what hurts.  He will always take care of you. 

Your body knows it, begging for him, hips rearing towards him.  It presses his thigh against the juncture between your legs, makes it so your flimsy skirt doesn’t matter at all.  You are not thinking when you start to rock against him. 

You forgot your body could feel so much pleasure. 

“Oh, fuck—” he says, his already deep voice somehow even lower as he curses.  

You squeak as he holds you against the door, deliberately rocking his thigh between yours with more pressure and speed than you could manage.  It makes a torrent of mortifying sounds spill past your lips, but he gathers them all up lovingly, tastes them on his tongue as he chases down your gasping breath.  Every little mewl, every breath, every squeaking hiccup is swallowed up by him. 

“Come for me, please,” he whispers, roughly.  It sounds like begging despite how much physical power he has over you.  It would scare if it was someone else, but that supernatural strength doesn’t matter because it bends to you, waiting for your permission.

You just barely remember you are in the corridor.  You hope no one chooses now to step out of their apartment.  You wonder if the other werewolves on the floor can scent whatever pheromones Felix must be giving off. 

It doesn’t matter.  You’re hurtling towards an orgasm and you can’t stop it.  You’re going to come on him, just like this, fully clothed but so wet that you can feel it gushing as he grinds his thigh against you. 

You grab onto his belt, feeling the curve of his bulge just below your palm.  It makes his breath stutter and it makes you surrender.  Your body seizes and your pussy throbs as you come, a strangled cry in your throat while rocking desperately against him.   

It settles slowly, the world coming back in increments.  You are breathing hard, clinging to each other, bodies still pressed so tightly together.  You can feel his heart beating hard and fast.  It keeps rhythm with the lingering thrum below. 

So much for conversation.  Grinding all over Felix in a semi-public space was not in the plan at all. 

“Oh my god,” you say, voice breaking as you are hit with realization.  You push at him and he goes obediently. 

“Fuck,” he says, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head.  He runs his hands through his hair, shakes out the length of it while breathing erratically. 

Your heart is still pounding.  You put your hand over your chest like that will calm it down. 

Felix looks at you.

You recognize this look. 

This look – this is the face you have been mistaking for disgust.  Now that you have seen him truly reviled, snarling at Changbin’s scent on your body, you realize it is not disgust, not at all.  It’s pain, a wincing, cringing desperation as he fights to keep everything inside him. 

It is barely contained right now, his chest still heaving, his fly still bulging, hands shaking at his sides as he stares at you with open need. 

“Oh my god,” you say again.  You lean against the door for support, closing your eyes to try and make sense of the world.  You see the events of the last month play out, the months before that, going back further and further until you shake your head to clear your mind.  “I just—”  You open your eyes, meet his anxious gaze.  “Just give me some time,” you say.  “I – I need to think – I’m so—”

“It’s okay,” he says, hands out to placate you, but careful not to touch you.  He forces himself to smile despite his own emotional tumult.  Sweat breaks out on his hairline.  “Take your time, I – I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to—I just wanted to talk—I—”

“I know,” you say.  “I know.” 

He nods sharply, clearing his throat as he turns awkwardly to the side.  He points vaguely behind him, stutters something like, “I’ll go, um, I’ll just—”

He turns on his heel and walks away, taking the corner to the stairwell so fast that you blink and he is gone. 

You can hear him bounding down the stairs.  You stand there, listening until he is too far to hear. 

With every limb shaking, you pick up your purse and finally fish out your keys.  You manage to turn the key in the lock and step inside before you crumple to your knees. 

This time your thoughts are a very different whirlwind, just as confused and just as emotional, but so conquered by sensation that you find yourself just sitting there, touching your lips, thinking of him.

There is a lot to think about.

-

You realize you have been wrong about so many things.  You and Felix should have spoken a long time ago.  You have both been skirting each other, tentatively regarding the other, worried you might hurt them.  It resulted in you both getting hurt anyway.   

You are so, so scared of making that hurt worse.  It makes you hesitate. 

A day goes by.  Felix respects your space.  On the second day, when you contemplate reaching out for a conversation – a real conversation – your phone buzzes. 

You are surprised to see that it is Bang Chan. 

Hey, he writes.  I need to talk to you right now.  It’s about Felix. 

Your heart-rate shoots through the roof, terror obliterating every other emotion.

Is he okay? you write.  What happened??

Look, I’m just gonna say it, Chan writes.  Felix is in rut.  You know what that is? 

Yes, you say. 

At first, you are relieved he is not hurt and it is something so mundane.  Then you are flustered as you recall the other night.  You remember the heat between you, the way you came on his body and the way he begged for it.   Even now, you are more aroused than embarrassed, shivering as you remember the way he looked at you. 

Right, Chan says.  Look I promise I’m not asking you to sleep with him or something.  I wouldn’t do that.  You have no responsibility for anything.   But you also gotta know that dumb kid is in love with you, right?  Like… insane in love.  Like… won’t let anyone else see him or help him even though he’s a new werewolf, hasn’t had that many ruts, and it hasn’t even been a whole month since the last one. 

You watch as each text appears, your adrenaline building with every word.  The phone shakes in your tight grip.

Didn’t someone help him with his last rut? You ask.  I saw her at his apartment.   

What??? Chan answers quickly.  No.  I sent her over to see if he needed anything, because he kept telling me to fuck off because I was telling him to call you.  I’m telling him again but he still won’t listen.  You know he thinks he’s a monster right? 

You are still reeling from the revelation that he and the girl were not an item at all, that they were truly just having a conversation.  He was flushed and sweaty because he was in rut, not because he spent all morning with her.  You were the one racing to conclusions, not even giving him a chance to explain.  You remember him stepping towards you, asking to speak, but you cut him off before he could.  You assumed he just wanted to reject you. 

Chan says Felix is in love you.  Is it possible that after a conversation with another wolf, he was gathering the courage to tell you, only for you to say you never wanted to see him again? 

Now you read the last message and your heart sinks, a painfully heavy weight in your gut.     

A monster? you write.  What do you mean? 

That doesn’t even make sense.  Felix is the kindest, most loving man you know.  Assuming werewolves are monstrous is such a medieval thought that it never occurred to you for a second that he would feel that way. 

Yeah, Chan says.  Look, he never told me the details because he said it wasn’t his story to tell, but he told me that you went through something really hard and that was why he didn’t want to stress you out with the werewolf thing. It can be pretty intense, especially at the start, and especially when you’re already an adult.  He spent his whole life thinking he was one thing only for everything to change really quickly.  He was really scared of coming on too strong and losing you because of it.   

You made his worst fears come true, you realize, numb as you stare at the screen. 

You know Felix, Chan writes, He’d rather just suffer alone than have someone else feel it too.  I told him to trust you more, that you would want to help, but there’s no getting through to him when he’s like that.  I love the guy but he can be kinda stubborn.

You both have a stubborn streak.  The last month of drama attests to that. 

What do you want me to do?  you ask.  You have more answers but you feel just as lost as before, maybe even more. 

Can you just talk to him please?  Chan says.  He holed himself up in his apartment and he won’t let anyone in.  He stopped answering my messages too.  Ruts are a Molotov cocktail of hormones.  They’re intense even if you’re experienced and he isn’t.  I just don’t want him to get hurt and not do anything about it because he doesn’t want to bother anyone. 

You remember Felix in that corridor, arms hanging limp at his sides, looking at you with so much hurt and sorrow.  Despite that, he didn’t pressure you to stay.  He listened.  He let you go because he thought you wanted that.  He stood by himself in that corridor, crying over a box of his things that he thought had a home with you. 

Tears blur your vision.  You have to rub your eyes before answering Chan. 

I’ll go to him, you write.  I don’t want him hurt either.

I know you don’t, Chan says.  You have a spare key to his place?

Yes.

Good, Chan says.  He’s not answering his door so you’re gonna need it.  Give the guy a smack for me, hey? 

His joke makes you laugh, though it is strained. You give yourself a second to compose yourself then you are on your feet.  You are in a loose house dress and tights, face bare and hair undone, but you do not waste another second.  You know you can be yourself around Felix no matter what.  You wish he understood the feeling was reciprocated.

This time, instead of running away, you run to him.  This time, you will make him understand. 

-

The two city blocks pass in a blur.  You have never moved so fast in all your life, bumping into slow stragglers as you barrel down the street. 

By the time you step off the elevator on his floor, you are warm and out of breath.  You wipe a little perspiration off your forehead as you approach. 

You were so frantic in your determination to arrive, there was no time for nerves to materialize.  They strike all at once, twisting anxiously as you knock.   You wait a minute but he doesn’t answer, just like Chan predicted.

You take a steadying breath and put the key in the lock.  Hand over your heart, you push open the door and step into the apartment.   

It does not look any different from the last time you were here.  Even your slippers are still by the door.  You disregard them now, stepping out of your shoes and venturing forward with a nervous little patter. 

If you were a werewolf, maybe you would have scented a change in the air, but it smells and feels familiar.  The apartment is very still, maybe a little warmer than usual, sunlight streaming through the windows. 

You finally hear a sound.  You leave the small foyer and make a very clumsy entrance into the room. 

You can hardly blame yourself for stumbling.  Felix is sitting on the couch in nothing but a pair of jeans.  It looks like the same blue jeans from the other night.  Yes, in fact, you are sure they are because you can see the faintest streak on his thigh.  You were embarrassed to find you were so wet that it came through your panties and skirt.  You wondered if it got on him. 

You certainly have an answer now.  

Felix is touching himself.  He is slouched back on the couch, his bare chest damp with sweat, his knees spread apart.  His jeans are pulled open and it looks roughly torn, the zipper snapped off the fly.  His hand is wrapped around his cock.  One of your t-shirts is clutched tightly in the other hand.  He is holding it against his face, covering his eyes, mouth, and nose.  He is clearly chasing the scent, knuckles whitening with how tightly he grips it.     

His abdomen clenches as he approaches a climax.  You watch as he quickly wraps the t-shirt around his cock, fucking the material.  His eyes are closed, head thrown back. 

You snap to the realization that he has no idea you’re here, so overwhelmed with your scent from the shirt.

You quickly cover your eyes with both hands and yelp his name. 

His reply is a startled yelp as well.  You peek at him through your fingers, watching as he frantically stuffs the t-shirt between the couch cushions.  He tries to stand at the same time, fighting to close his pants over an uncooperative erection that does not seem to be going down. 

“Fuck, sorry, I – hold on, fuck – I can explain—” he stammers. 

“Um, me too,” you say.    

He can’t get his pants closed but he gets himself tucked back inside.  He keeps a grip on the fly with one hand, the other running through his long hair. 

Then he is standing there, flushed and out of breath.  You slowly lower your fingers from your face. 

There is a moment of silence, both of you startled.  After a bit of staring, he cracks a nervous smile.  You tentatively return it. 

His brow smooths out, his dimple poking into his cheek.  He chuckles first, then you laugh, then you are laughing together.  It feels good, letting out all the ridiculous tension. 

“Why, uhh, why are you here?” he finally asks. 

“Um, Chan texted,” you say. 

“Oh, for the love of—”  He cuts off his own tirade, shaking his head and exhaling heavily. 

You twist your hands together, fingers budging in a nervous fidget. 

“Um, he told me… he told me…”  You forget your precise words because Felix meets your eyes, holding your gaze in his.  You lose yourself in the depth of his dark eyes.  You think your heart is beating loud enough to hear.  

You look away, overwhelmed by the intensity of his stare.  Your eyes stray to the couch, to your t-shirt poking out between the cushions.  You are startled by a jolt between your legs, like a lightning bolt of arousal, the previous scene suddenly resonating with clarity. 

“I—”  You almost choke on your words, so much nervousness, so much fear, so much need in your voice.  You meet his searching eyes, stepping forward as if compelled by them.  “I thought my scent disgusted you.” 

He blinks back at you, your words taking a moment to settle.  Then he furrows his brow and tilts his head.  A bit of hair falls forward and he tucks it back. 

“Uhhhh, what?” he asks.  “Dis—disgusted me?  You thought—”  He looks back at the couch too.  He is very flushed, his rut no doubt keeping him suspended on a perpetual edge, and his ears darken with a richer tinge of red.  “Um.  No.”  He laughs at the ridiculousness, looking at you with wide, blinking eyes.  “I, uh, I definitely don’t – I think you – I mean—”

“Um, yes,” you say, clasping your hands together again.  You rock a little on the balls of your feet.  “Yes.  I can see that, um, I think you’re not disgusted.”

“No,” it comes out on a breath.  His eyes drop from your face down your body.  You look so simple, but he looks at you like no one has ever been more beautiful.   “No, I’m not disgusted.  Why did you think that?”

“You, um, you make faces sometimes,” you say.  It sounds so petty and silly to say out loud, but it’s time to get it all out there.  “And you’ve been so distant, Felix.  I thought that maybe, now that you’re a werewolf, you didn’t want anything more to do with me.” 

His face scrunches up with bewilderment. 

“Nothing – nothing to do with you?” he asks, voice breaking where it pitches up.  It would usually make you laugh, but now is not the time as you stare back, all your insecurities and vulnerabilities on display.  He does not laugh at them either, taking a small step towards you with a tender look on his face.  “I could never feel that way,” he says.  “You’re my whole world. I – I’ve told you that.  You’re my – you’re my person.”

“Chan said you felt like a monster,” you say softly.  “I wish you would have told me how you felt.  I could have told you that you aren’t a monster, not at all.   You’re my person too, you know.” 

He exhales, shoulders deflating.  He rubs the bridge of his nose, thinking of something to say.  Eventually he shakes his head and drops his hand. 

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” he says.  “You’ve been through so much.  I couldn’t – I couldn’t ask you to take care of me too.”

“Felix,” you say, throat cloying with emotion.  You take a step closer as well.  “Felix, you’re not a burden.  I wanted so badly to take care of you.  I – I love you.”

The word love resonates like thunder.  It pierces the air, leaves a ringing aftermath. 

“You – you love me,” Felix says, like the words are incomprehensible.  “As a – as a friend – or?”  He tries to look disinterested but completely fails, staring at you with all that intensity again. 

You combat the instinct to make yourself small, to hide your vulnerabilities, to retreat into denial and just smile prettily.  You hold his gaze.  When you smile, it is honest and affectionate. 

“I love you, Felix,” you say.  “As more than a friend.  As everything.” 

“Oh,” he says.  His hand goes back into his hair, untucking it from behind his ear just to tuck it back again.  His eyes dart everywhere like he is replaying the scene and scanning it for answers.  He blinks at you.  “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” you say, with a small laugh. 

“But you – you never wanted to see me again,” he says, then lifts his brows, expression all at once understanding.  “Because you thought I didn’t want you.  Oh my god.  I’m such an idiot.”

“I’m not the brightest either,” you tease.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, closing the distance yet again with another step.  He forgets the state of his clothes and lets go of his pants, too wrapped up in his words to notice the startled drop of your eyes.  Not much is exposed, just the shape of his hips and a stubborn bulge, but it still leaves you sweating. 

“Look,” he says.  “I – I can’t just say I love you.”  Before your heart can sink, he continues frantically, “Because it’s not enough.  I do, I do love you.  The werewolf gene activated for you.  The doctors asked if I had been in any dangerous situations that might have triggered it and I said no.  They – they said it sometimes activates in peril, when you feel the need to protect yourself.  That’s what happened to me.  Except it wasn’t because I wanted to protect myself.  I wanted to protect you.”

“Me?” you say in a small voice, like you can hardly believe it.

“Yes,” he says, smiling, both hands moving as he talks.  “I felt so helpless, watching the way you were hurting.  I wanted to protect you.  I never wanted to see you suffering again.  I tried to be calm around you but pushing it down just made the feeling more desperate.  My wolf, it’s like my heart.  It’s just an animal, you know?  And it only understands loyalty and love.  And the first time I changed, I didn’t think like a person, no, but I thought of you all the same.  They could barely keep me contained in that hospital.  I just wanted to run to you. I wanted to protect you.  I wanted to keep you safe. Staying away from you… it’s been killing me.”

“Me too,” you say, so filled to brim with emotion you think you might burst.  “Oh, Felix, me too.” 

A laugh spills out of him, more of a release than humour.  You take another step towards each other, this time close enough to clasp hands between you. 

“I wish you would have told me,” you say.  “But it’s my fault too.  I know I’m still recovering in some ways.  I’m quick to think little of myself.  But I shouldn’t put you in the role of the mean voices in my head.  I’m sorry too.  So, so sorry.” 

“How could you think I’d ever be disgusted with you?” he asks in a low voice. 

When he cups your cheek, a shiver moves down your spine.  You straighten, leaning into his touch, looking at him with wanting eyes.  He swallows hard, staring back. 

“It was silly,” you say.  “I even thought you were seeing someone else.  That werewolf lady in your pack.  I thought maybe you wanted a werewolf mate and I wouldn’t be enough.” 

“That’s crazy,” he says.  “You’re my everything.” 

“And you’re mine,” you say.  

You touch his arm, just the lightest caress of your fingertips.  His skin is so hot it makes you gasp.  Your cool fingers must be a balm because his eyes close and a little sigh parts his lips. 

“Uh,” he breathes, eyes still closed.  “Sorry for what you, uh, saw, coming in—  I promise I don’t usually – ruts are just—”

You step a little closer.  You can feel his breath on your cheek when he breathes in and out. 

His hands drop to his sides as you lean in and kiss his neck.  It is just a chaste touch but it makes his eyes fly open.  He looks at you and you swear his eyes have never been so dark.   

“You want me,” he says.  When you nod, he releases another deep breath, a massive exhale of relief.  “Ruts are… intense,” he says. 

“Mm,” is your gentle reply.  Your eyes run down his bare skin, fingers itching to touch.  You meet his gaze.  “But it’s you, right?” 

Some romances depict ruts as an out of control haze.  Though Felix is certainly more intense, it is your best friend’s familiar eyes locked on yours.  You realize it actually makes him the vulnerable one, all his desires so blatant, his needs on the surface, unable to hide them for a second.  You understand why he held back, especially while you were in recovery.   There is so much of him. 

But that is what you love.  You can never have enough. 

“Yes,” he says.

His deep voice is so rough that it makes you whimper.  His hand jumps at the sound, settles on the back of your neck like it did yesterday.  Anticipation tingles from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, every inch of your body aware of him, desperate for him. 

“Yes,” he says again, staring at your mouth.  “Yes, it’s me.” 

Your breath catches when he squeezes your nape.  In the back of your mind, you recall all those little courtship rituals of werewolves, the instincts that manifest between them and their mate.  A gentle squeeze of the nape is a request for your submission, for you to put your trust in his strength and his affection.  

You do, utterly.  You rest your hands on his waist, your cool palms against his hot skin, making his eyes flash with hunger. 

“What are you waiting for?” you ask, his mouth so close, kissing a tantalizing promise.  

He smiles that real smile, eyes crinkling sweetly, sunshine radiating with all that heat. 

“I told you, ruts can be intense,” he says.  “I’m waiting for your permission to let me have my way with you.”

“You have it,” you say.  Your eyes drop to his chest and you run your hand from his collarbone all the way down to his abdomen, watching the muscles tense under the caress of your fingers. 

You smile at him, swiping at his hot skin with your fingertips as you step back.  He lets you go, hands dropping to his sides.  He moves when you do, like his whole body is tethered to yours, magnetized to your core.  Each step you take, he follows with a fixated prowl. 

“Do whatever you want with me,” you say, peeling down a strap of your dress.  “I’m yours.” 

His steps gain speed, his smile brightening.  In a matter of seconds, he is chasing you into his bedroom, laughing behind your trail of giggles as you scamper ahead of him. 

He catches you around the waist inside the bedroom, pulling your backside into his front.   The straps of your dress are both lowered and you hold it to your chest with your hand, heart pounding from excitement and the little chase. 

You make a sweet sound when his nose swipes your neck.  You tip your head, offering more skin.  It is a good thing his grip is so strong, because you tremble when he exhales, breath caressing your skin.  He gathers your dress in his hands, plucking the fabric out of your grip.  He pushes it down your body and it puddles on the floor. 

“Felix,” you say on a sigh when he kisses the back of your neck while working his fingers under your bra.  You help remove it, dropping it onto the floor.  You rock back against him when he touches you.  He uses both hands to cup your breasts and squeeze. 

“Can’t believe you thought I was disgusted,” he says.  “Like I didn’t spend my whole last rut in here thinking about you.” 

“Y-you did?” you ask, with a little whimper, because his open jeans are not doing much to shield him and you can feel how hard he is against you.  

“Yes,” he says, a hand coming up to circle your throat, gripping it possessively as he puts his teeth in your neck.  It makes you jump in his arms, body shaking. 

He holds you tight against him, the denim of his pants rough through the thin fabric of your tights. 

“I’m sorry for all that,” you rasp.  “I must have made it so hard for you.”

“Mm,” he says, grinning against your neck.  “You made it very hard.”

“Pfft.”  You slap a hand over your mouth when laughing.  “That was a terrible joke.”

“Mm. True though.” 

You squeak when he nudges you forward, so close to the bed that you stumble right onto it.   He climbs up behind you, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your back. 

“At first, I was just sad,” he says. 

He leans back to grab something off his bedside table.  You admire the length of his body as he does, the low-slung jeans, the sheen of sweat across his chest, and his subtle, slender musculature.  

You meet his gaze when he comes back.  He is kneeling over you, a cocky grin on his face.  He gathers his hair and ties it with the band he just grabbed. 

“Then I really thought about it,” he says.  “Mm, yeah, thought about hunting you down.”  He straddles your thigh, his hands planting on either side of your head.  “I’d find you and I’d remind where you belong.”  He leans down, kissing along your jaw.  “With me.  Under me.  Moaning my name.  Forgetting about everything else.” 

“Did you—”  You start but gasp, his mouth on your throat, biting, sucking, licking.  You arch your back, leaning into his mouth as he works his way down your body.  “Did you… like with my shirt… when I saw you before…”

“What?  Did I get off to your scent?” he asks.  “Yes.”  His hand follows his mouth, fingers curling into the band of your tights.  “I told myself I shouldn’t.  The last few ruts I managed.  It wasn’t fun, mostly too hot, but I got by.  But – you weren’t coming back, were you?  You left so many pretty things here that made me think of you…”

He abruptly kneels upright.  He uses both hands to grab the waistband of your tights. 

“Found one of your cardigans,” he says.  “Soft, like you.  Put it on my pillow and fucked my hand like I wanted to fuck you.” 

He rips your tights open with little effort, tearing right down to the thigh. 

“Put it on my face,” he says.  “Tasted it.  Like I wanted to taste you.” 

You moan for him, threading your fingers through his hair as he gets between your legs and opens his mouth on your pussy.  He licks right through the material of your panties, like he doesn’t care at all, tormenting you with the obstruction until it is soaked through.   You say his name over and over, your thighs already shaking just from warming up. 

“Mmm.”  He pushes himself up again, his mouth wet, tongue sweeping over his lips.  He grabs your panties by the waistband and tugs them down. 

By now, his jeans have slid down his hips.  He is so hard, beading at the tip, as wet for you as you are for him.  You watch as he uses your panties to quickly jerk his cock, gathering the wetness at the tip, then tossing them over his shoulder. 

He falls back on top of you, face between your legs, licking you with nothing in his way. 

“Wanted to find you,” he says between teasing kitten licks, looking up at you, smirking with the flick of his tongue.  “Wanted to make you come so hard – mm, fuck you so good…”  He slips two fingers inside you.  Even though it has been some time, they move with no hindrance, your pussy so wet that he sinks right in. 

“Yeah,” he says, momentarily going cross-eyed with his face so close to your pussy, watching his fingers move in and out of you.  He grins when you clench around him.  “Show you we were meant to be,” he says.  “Just like this.”  He licks you again, fingers moving so quickly that it sounds as obscenely wet as it feels.  “Wolf or not.  Knew you were mine.  Was gonna make sure you know too.” 

“Ohh,” you say, tugging at the blankets beneath you.  “Who are you and what have you done with my sunshine Felix?” 

He laughs, a low chuckle, the vibrations moving in your pussy.

“Mm, I’m right here, sweetheart,” he says.  “Right… here…” 

Then his mouth is occupied, little licks replaced with broad strokes of his tongue, then a repeating pattern that has you swelling and gushing on his tongue.  You come so hard that it makes you dizzy, head thrown back as you squirt all over his thrusting fingers. 

“That’s it,” he says, kissing your wet thighs. 

While you are recovering, he grabs you and moves you.  He arranges you neatly in the middle of the bed, making sure you are comfortable.  Then he lets down his hair and removes his jeans.

“Felix,” you say, though it is generous to describe your voice as anything but a needy whimper.   

He runs his hands up and down your trembling thighs, coaxing you open with murmurs of sweet nothings.   You let him in, stringing your arms around his neck as he fits his hips between your legs and leans over you.   You feel the head of his cock against your pussy, still throbbing with aftershocks.  You are clenching around nothing, needing him, so ready you could scream. 

You don’t scream, but sigh, like you are relieved when he gets inside you, like this is what you have been missing all along.

He takes his time despite the fever of his rut.  Maybe because of it.  His senses are so heightened, the pleasure felt so strongly.  He groans, eyes closed, putting his face in your neck and breathing deeply as he slowly rocks into you. 

“What were you thinking,” he murmurs, lips moving on your throat, “Trying to run away from me?” 

“I’m – I’m sorry,” you say, interrupted with a hiccupping little uh-uh when he rolls his hips and you feel him deeper, harder, faster. 

“You thought I wanted someone else?” he asks.  “Impossible.” 

Your eyes are closed, head thrown back.  He grabs your chin and pulls your face to him, says, “Look at me.  Right now.” 

You do, blinking your eyes open.  His thumb rubs your bottom lip and you open your mouth.  You don’t even need to think, instantly accepting the intrusion of the digit, sucking on it while holding his gaze. 

It would have terrified you a year ago, with anyone else, losing yourself to instinct like that, opening yourself up so willingly.  With Felix, it feels right, it feels good. 

“It’s you and me,” he says.  “You understand that?”

You nod, humming affirmatively around his thumb.  It rubs over your tongue, opens your mouth a little more.   You want to close your eyes with every rolling thrust into you, but he tugs your face back to him when you try. 

“You’re my mate,” he says.  “Just you.  It’s always – always been you.”  He groans on the second always, picking up some speed, making you whine against his fingers.  

He is so hot, clearly in the grips of his rut fever, but you cling to him, accepting everything he has to offer. 

 “Gonna be mine,” he says.  “That’s right, yeah?”  You nod frantically.  “Yeah.  Gonna put a ring on your finger.  You’re gonna be so good to me, aren’t you?  Gonna let me take care of you.  Gonna be my mate.  Gonna have my children.  You and me.  Home.  Oh, yes, sweetheart, that’s it—”

You clench so tightly at the mention of children.  It catches you off guard, your body’s visceral and immediate response, faster than your brain compute can why.  You have told Felix you want children one day, in the future, back when you were just friends and it was an abstract thought.  Thinking of a home with him, having his children, making a whole life together, being bound so completely …

“Fuck,” you say, his thumb sliding out of your mouth.  He cups your face to keep it locked on him, your lips brushing each other. 

“Look at me,” he whispers. 

You do, though you are so close that you barely see him.  It feels like he is everywhere, everything, around you and inside you.  You melt when he kisses you, stealing your breath as he claims you so completely.  You kiss back, messy and haphazard, all heat and wetness, but it feels good.    

“C-can’t get pregnant,” you say with a pout, a bit delirious from getting fucked, letting the words roll thoughtlessly off your tongue.  “B-birth control.”

“I know,” he says.  He moves a little, gets up so he can hold your hips and pull you onto his cock with every thrust.  “I’m stronger,” he says, just as deliriously, watching where his cock moves inside you.  “Yeah.  Gonna fill you up so much, it’ll happen anyway.  It can’t stop me.” 

He holds your hips, keeps you in place.  He thrusts into you deeply and says, “You’re mine,” and thrusts again, “You’re mine,” and thrusts again, “You’re mine,” and comes inside you. 

It is not quite like all the werewolf pornography, with exaggerated knots on preposterously sized cocks, but werewolf physiology is still a little different than human.  That difference is exacerbated on a rut.  You feel it as he comes, the way he swells and gets harder, just enough that you feel your fullest as he releases.  Pushing at you walls, stretching you around him, making you his without question. 

He doesn’t really soften after, the rut sustaining him, but the swelling goes down.  Even then, not entirely, as you feel a sharper burn when he pulls out of you.  The flicker of pain is oddly tantalizing, a biting sensation on top of so many others.  It ripples through you, makes you moan. 

Your whole body is twitching, eyes closed as you come back to yourself. 

You look up at Felix.  His eyes are between your legs, his hand running up your thigh.  You feel his thumb spread your pussy open, feel his release spilling out of you.  That is the other different element; with a werewolf, there is a lot more of everything.  

Though you know your birth control will function regardless, when you feel all that inside you… for a moment, you believe he might be strong enough to overpower it. 

It makes you giddy, pleasure moving through your body.  He smiles at you, all sunshine and sweetness.   Then he takes control of your hips and puts himself back inside you.  The refractory period on a rut is virtually nonexistent on the peak day, which is usually the second day, which is today. 

“You okay?” he asks, rocking into you slowly even though he fits so easily now, your body made to take him. 

You nod, sliding your hands over his shoulders.  You scratch across his back then up in his hair, making him grunt and close his eyes.  He leans down and kisses you, continuing to fuck you until you are making all those sweet sounds again. 

“Good?” he asks, kissing your jaw, your neck. 

“Good,” you say. 

“Not too much?” he checks. 

“Mm, no,” you say.  You give him a teasing smile.  “Not enough actually.”

“Oh, really?”  He laughs, eyes big with playful incredulity.  “Should I growl and bite more?”  He makes a playful snarl like the werewolves in all the erotica. 

It makes you laugh.  You can’t remember the last time you laughed while having sex, but it feels so good, just as good as all the hot, desperate stuff.    

“Hmm, maybe not,” he says, laughing too.  “Maybe all the making-a-bitch stuff is a bit much, hm?” 

It seems you will learn more about yourself than him over this rut, because that also makes you clench involuntarily.  He blinks with surprise, mouth in a soft ‘o’ as he looks down at you.  He laughs just a little at the look on your face, a low chuckle as his grin widens. 

You cover your mouth, blinking innocently up at him. 

“Oh shit,” he says.  “I see.” 

You pout when he pulls out of you, but there is little time to feel bereft because he flips you over onto your front.  Your face lands in the pillows, then he yanks you down the bed.  

Oh, it feels filthy suddenly, because the new angle opens you up and you can feel come dripping out of you.  It catches his eye too, because he puts his fingers there and stuffs it back inside you.  

With little effort, he gets you back under him, pushes down your shoulders and lifts up your hips.  You feel him at your entrance again, pushing the tip past the rim. 

“Is that it?” he asks, dropping his voice so low yet sounding so sweet.  “You want me to make you my bitch, baby?” 

He slams home, holding your hips up while pounding into you with relentless measure.   You grab a pillow to hold, yelping and whining into it as he fucks you with wild abandon.  

For a few seconds, you succumb to that single-minded animalistic pursuit, and you really do believe he can put a baby in you.  You start babbling the desire – begging for it, asking him to fill you up. 

“Please, please, please,” you say, gasping. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he says, draping himself over your back, not stopping his hips for a second.  “I got you.  I’ll give you a baby.  So good for me.  Made to take it from me, yeah, baby?” 

 You know you are going to come again, his angle and precision too much to withstand.  Sure enough, you are coming all over his cock in a matter of seconds, squeezing him into another orgasm too. 

He kneels behind you, throws his head back while coming.  Then he grinds inside you like he is trying to get it as deep as possible. 

“Oh, Felix,” you say, whimpering when he pulls out, still hard, the burn less this time because you are so filthy wet that he slides so easily.   You can feel his release gush out of you, his fingers chasing it, pushing back into you. 

He rubs at you until you are rocking your hips and coming on his fingers.  It is so much stimulation that your eyes water and your nose starts to sniffle. 

He rolls you over and cups your face.  You open your mouth instinctively, tilting your head to expose your neck.    He looks at you like he can’t really believe you are exist and that you are here. 

“Wow,” he says.  The hand on your face slides so he can put his thumb back in your mouth, letting you suck on it like it is giving you life.  He clenches his jaw, makes a rough sound, presses down on your needy tongue.  “Next time,” he says, while starting to put his cock back into you, “Your mouth.  And my mouth.  You’re gonna sit on my face for hours.  I’m gonna take care of you.  Oh—”

He is halfway inside you when you reach up, putting your hands on his chest.  He stops immediately, pulling out, taking back his hands, looking at you with a concerned tilt to his head. 

“Will you lay on your back?” you ask, voice hoarse. 

He blinks, like for a second he doesn’t understand words, but then he obeys.  His hair is in absolute disarray, a veritable lion’s mane.  He rakes it back, smooths it down as best he can.  He never takes his eyes off you, watching as you sit up, as you climb on top of him, as you put him back inside you and set a slower pace. 

“My turn,” you say, smiling.  “I want to take care of you too.” 

He smiles, putting his hands on your hips but not guiding them.   He lets you take the lead, moving on top of him, finding all the ways to make him moan and close his eyes and twitch inside you.   

You make him come twice that way.  After the second time, he finally starts to soften enough that you can take a break. 

You lay down beside him, squeaking with surprise when you press down on your belly and a little more come gushes out of you.  You look at each other, his face the picture of total innocence despite his hand in it.  You swat his chest, rolling onto your side and putting your head on his chest. 

He laughs, putting his arm around you, stroking your back. 

“You know I do mean it,” he says, looking down at you.  “I want everything with you.” 

“Me too,” you say.  You kiss his chest, then his neck, under his jaw, making him sigh contently.  “I love you, Felix.  Everything about you, wolf and all.” 

“I love you too,” he says, pressing you close, kissing your forehead. 

There is a long moment of content silence.  He strokes your back, up and down, lulling you to a dozy state.  It is too early to sleep and, besides, the sheets need changing before that – even though you suspect they will just be dirtied again. 

You are contemplating these sweet mundane nothings when he says, “You’re in the pack, you know.  As my mate.  That makes you one of us.” 

“Does it?” you ask. 

“Yes,” he says.  “I’m telling you this, because you’re a packmate and Chan is leader, but you’re my mate, so you have to take my side and tell him to fuck off when he tries to say I told you so.” 

You laugh, shaking your head and playfully rolling your eyes. 

“Sounds good,” you say.  “Hmm, I might go have a shower before… the next… round…” 

You do not have to look down to know that he is hard already, his blinking gaze revealing all.  You giggle together and kiss again. 

“All right, fair enough,” you say, eyes closed, exposing your neck obediently when he cups your nape.  You press against him, moaning softly when he scents your neck then sucks a bruising kiss there.  “It can wait,” you say, smiling.  “We’ve been waiting for this long enough.” 

“Mm,” he says, already slipping back into his feverish need.  He grabs you and pulls you back on top of him. 

There is not much talking for a while, but there is some laughter and plenty of smiles, and for the first time in a long time, you are looking forward to everything that follows after.   

[milkloafy]

THE GENERAL GETS HURT — JIYAN

⋆｡˚ ❀ summary: in which jiyan overexerts himself in battle and you come rushing to the borderlands to make sure he’s okay. ⋆｡˚ ❀ contents: 16+, fluff ⋆｡˚ ❀ wc: 1.0k ⋆｡˚ ❀ a/n: yk that one tweet that headcanons their tacet marks to be sensitive? yeah. :> my little tribute to jiyan in hopes of getting him soon,, good luck to anyone wishing for him who also still doesn’t have him </3

It wasn’t always easy having a general as a partner. Long nights without him, not seeing him up to months on end, having to wait until the end of the day for him to call you saying he is safe and healthy. 

It especially wasn’t easy when one night, you didn’t get your usual call from him. And it was even more difficult when you received a call from the lieutenant informing you that Jiyan almost collapsed on the field after a hard-won battle from severe Forte overexertion.  

You found yourself rushing over from the safety of Jinzhou to the dangers of the Borderland. You weren’t a solider or a Resonator yourself. In fact, you worked in research for the development of medicine and occasionally helped Jiyan’s mother out in her practice. For that reason, Jiyan preferred if you did not show up unannounced— He always wanted to take proper steps to ensure your safety when you visited. 

But given the circumstances, you were sure he would understand. 

“Where is he?” you called, breathless from rushing over here. “Is he okay?”

The lieutenant nodded at you. “Commander Jiyan is doing better now. You can find him in his quarters.”

“Thank you!” 

You just about ran over to the General’s quarters to see him for yourself. When you entered the room, you saw him half-sitting, half-laying on his bed as he massaged the back of his neck. 

“Jiyan,” you cried, relieved to see he was upright and kicking. Giving him a once over to do a quick check of any physical ailments, you sighed. “You’re alive.”

If he was surprised to see you here, he certainly didn’t show it. Jiyan greeted you with a chuckle as you walked over to him. “Of course I’m alive. I wouldn’t just leave you behind like that.”

“Yet you almost did!” you scolded, taking a seat next to him and immediately looking at the back of his neck. “Look, your Tacet mark is still hurting you. You’re even rubbing your nape.”

“It no longer hurts,” he assured, bringing his hand down to his side. “It’s only a little sore. But I thank you for coming here, and I’m sorry for worrying you.” 

Jiyan wrapped an harm around you and brought you close to him. You leaned against his shoulder and he planted a kiss on your forehead. 

“I promise, I’m okay,” he said, rubbing soothing circles into your arm. “However, if you would like to massage my sore neck, I wouldn’t be opposed.” 

You grinned, slipping off from his bed and gesturing for him to lie down on his stomach. Once he turned over, you hopped up on the mattress and draped your legs on either side of him.

At the feeling of your weight on his lower back, Jiyan stirred. 

“I don’t believe the door was locked,” he stated, almost in warning. 

“I’m only giving you a massage,” you said innocently. “Tending to your injury, even.”

“This is certainly against the code of conduct for medical professionals,” he quipped back, teasing you. “Doctors should not treat their patients in such a way.”

However, the moment your hands found their way to his upper back, around his Tacet mark, he no longer made any remarks. You rubbed gentle, yet firm, circles on the nape of his neck, being careful not to touch his sensitive mark. Thankfully, it was no longer flickering or showing signs of overexertion, but you knew the after-effects were likely lingering still. 

As your hands ran across the smoothness of his muscular body, you felt him stir underneath you once more. You giggled at his response and leaned forward onto him, placing an airy kiss on his Tacet mark. Jiyan shivered at the light touch to one of his most sensitive areas.

“Are you okay down there?” you asked playfully. “Should I get off now?”

“No, please continue your treatment,” he said without hesitation.

You laughed and went on with your massage, not stopping at his neck and shoulders, but instead placing your hands on the small of his back to get rid of any knots as well. 

Once Jiyan felt his muscles loosen up from your treatment, he nodded in contentment and rolled his shoulders back. Before you could fully get yourself off him, he turned himself over and grabbed your thighs so you stayed straddling his waist. 

“Thank you for the massage,” said Jiyan, bringing his arms around your back to pull you down onto him. 

“Anything for General Jiyan,” you teased, kissing his nose as you hovered over him. “But please, try not to overexert yourself that much next time.”

“I know if I do, you’ll come up with the cure for it somehow.” 

“I would and not share it with you as your punishment,” you scowled. 

Jiyan laughed, sitting up on the bed, your legs still around him as he held you by the waist. “I will be careful, I promise you. Now, let’s make sure the door is locked so I can properly express my gratitude for your massage, and my apologies for making you worry.” 

You grinned as you locked your arms around his neck. He managed to get off the bed with you clinging onto him. With his hands under your thighs to prevent you from slipping, he walked over to the door of his quarters and locked it.

Once your privacy was secured, Jiyan pressed your back against the door and kissed the side of your neck. You squealed at the sudden touch and you felt him grin against your skin. 

“I will accept the gratitude and apology rewards now, General,” you declared, holding your head high. 

“Good,” he said, voice low and inviting. “I have a lot of gratitude to show you.”

[cumikering]

Neighbour Ghost x reader 7

2.3k | angst, drinking irresponsibly If Simon could do it all again (part 1) (part 8/end)

“You don’t look good, sir.” The sergeant stood at attention, looking straight into his lieutenant’s eyes.

Simon had to commend the balls of Kevlar required to walk right up to him to point the fact out unprompted, but that was why he liked Sgt. Eric Jefferies the most. You had no time to waste when you raced with death on the regular - he would tell anyone they didn’t look good.

He knew he didn’t - it was the same bland face he had the pleasure to look at in the mirror each day. Annoyed, but not surprised by the darkening circles under his eyes, stark against his pale complexion. It didn’t help that he nicked himself in the jaw shaving that morning.

“Dining hall, sergeant,” he grunted.

“You’re barely eating, Riley,” Lt. Ramsay said, the same bloke who’d catch him sneaking back to his room. “You know you’re contributing to the food waste when you don’t ask for seconds, yeah?”

It was true, and the table chuckled, but Simon continued to shove whatever was on his plate into his mouth. It was enough to not starve.

“He never leaves his room anymore, not even on the weekends,” another lieutenant quipped, but was promptly elbowed by the officer next to him.

That, too, was true.

Simon had nowhere else to be, like how it always was before his mum came to Hereford. These days his flat was too empty and cold with the hole in his chest. He never came back after that night.

It wasn’t like he was thriving in his quarters either, but it was still a little better – at least it was untouched by you. Though his nights were dreamless at first, he kept waking, and waking until the dreams started.

It was a glitch in the universe, wasn’t it? That the memory that played in his mind to insanity was the last time he saw you, about crawling back to your door with limbs that didn’t feel like his, vision swaying with the lights, coming on and off, his heartbeat ringing in his head.

It’s not supposed to end this way… I want to try…

He sighed at another disturbed night. Tea would slow his mind. Instead, he found the box of Darjeeling you gifted him to take back to base. ‘So we can have the same tea over the phone,’ you’d said.

Was there a way to escape you, make you stop haunting? He needed an exorcism.

He put it back in his drawer. One day, it wouldn’t have to hurt anymore.

And the nightmares came back. It was once, then twice, and thrice a week of waking up in cold sweat in the dark.

Simon’s performance slipped. There was a reason sleep deprivation was a popular torture method. He requested sleeping medications - his career was the last thing he had and he wasn’t about to let it go. Any unrestful sleep interrupted by the vivid images his sickly mind conjured up was still better than no sleep at all.

Quitting you was impossible when the thoughts still followed. If pushing you away didn’t work, maybe basking in the memories would, even if it hurt more. Aching for your warmth, the scraps of it, he’d go anywhere you’d been to see your ghost. The pain was better than the void.

“You lads are volunteering at the soup kitchen this Saturday,” he announced to Sgt. Jefferies after hours.

“Saturday, sir?”

“It’s good for you. Reminds you why you’re doing all this.”

“Can’t tell me what to do,” he teased. “You’re not my L.T. on the weekends.”

Simon’s stare didn’t waver and the other bloke’s smile dropped.

“Copy, sir. I’ll tell the others.”

When the four burly SAS soldiers entered the kitchen, chatter and clanks stalled as all eyes turned to them.

“May… May I help you young lads?” one of the middle-aged ladies said.

Simon recognised her from his last visit, but he quickly realised this was a silly idea. He was out of place, knowing no one there.

He flashed half a smile. “Just wanted to give a hand. Got any lifting to do?”

The lieutenant and his sergeants hauled the food items to the kitchen, including the bread which he taught his sergeants to half and butter. They were offered to peel potatoes, but Simon decided it was wise to leave it to the pros instead.

People still avoided his gaze while his boys exchanged pleasantries with the other volunteers; Eric even got called handsome by the group of older ladies he impressed with his strength as he hefted the sack of potatoes. While the night was as pleasant, it wasn’t the same if you weren’t there to hold his hand and laugh at his jokes.

When the boys invited Simon to the pub at the end of the night, he said no. He thought he was ready, but even after weeks, coming back to his flat was just as sickening.

The silence pierced. Despite all the lights flicked on, the place made his skin crawl, the space too vast and empty. But he didn’t become a lieutenant from succumbing to his emotions.

As he lay in bed, he recalled that you too slept there once. That the mattress once dipped with the gentle weight of you, but unlike the bed that bounced back, you’d left a lasting imprint that disfigured his soul.

Simon wondered what you were up to, if you knew he was there drowning, miserable in his cold room. He couldn’t decide if he preferred your door to be closer or further: closer so he could catch a glimpse of you without meaning to, or further so he wouldn’t be so tempted to go over and get on his knees.

You said begging only reduced you to nothing, but for you, he’d beg and beg. There wasn’t much to lose when he wasn’t much to begin with. He was a stray for a reason.

He tossed and turned, and was granted a wink of sleep before the same bloody dream flashed in his mind.

I don’t care how hard it gets…

He sat up, feet thudding on the floor as he rubbed his face with a heavy sigh. It was always that one moment, like a broken record. Why couldn’t it be you on a night out, or kissing you on the kitchen counter, or simply, you smiling? It was a curse. If only the heart could follow where one’s feet went.

With no plans on coming here, his sleeping pills lay on his desk at base. He looked through the cabinets to distract himself, finding various bottles of dusty, unopened spirits he was gifted. They weren’t his cup of tea.

So he packed, to get his mind off you, from spiralling and digging a deeper grave for itself.

It was time for a change. With the accommodation he was provided, he never needed to rent, but he did anyway in case his mum ever needed the place. It was a good call he did, but with the divorce on the way, keeping it was pointless. He’d rather spend the extra money on his mum and nephew.

Yes, he came to remember- not to forget, but you wouldn’t leave, would you? In the dead of night, when he pulled the hoodie he’d forgotten about out of his wardrobe, he decided he’d had enough of his bloody flat and drove back to base.

He still had another weekend to before his next deployment, a two-month mission. He’d finish packing then.

“You’re right, sir, it feels good volunteering.” Eric grinned at his lieutenant. “We’re going again tomorrow. Also one of the ladies is introducing her daughter to Sam. See you there then?”

Never again. “Dining hall, sergeant.”

Simon was a fool for not finishing his lunch sooner and bolting, instead lingering for the announcement. With how atrocious he did on his tests, he must have been beyond high to still hope for a miracle, that despite everything, he still had a chance at a promotion.

He didn’t make to the top 3.

Amidst the wishes from the table, Lt. Ramsay’s turned to him. His grateful smile faltered.

Simon’s fists clenched. It was supposed to be him, his. But who was he to be mad. It was the fruit of his incompetence. He knew this was coming. Things were going to shit. The unforgiving truth was staring right at him mercilessly: he had nothing else.

He left for his office.

“Sir, sir!” Sgt. Jefferies called. “We’re heading to the pub tonight. Come with us.”

He gritted his teeth. Word travelled too fast.

“Let’s get out of the base for a bit,” he continued when he caught up to his long strides. “It’s the last weekend before we ship out.”

Simon eyed the display of vibrant bottles behind the bar as he listened to his sergeants’ orders, the names foreign to him. Above, the telly showed a rugby match rerun no one paid attention to.

“Jefferies, how much you reckon it takes me to get pissed?”

He chuckled. “You, sir? At least 10,” he said before taking a swig of his beer.

“Nah, 15 sounds more like it.” Richie, the designated driver for the evening piped up.

Sam downed his first two shots, hissing as he slammed the glasses on the bar. “Agreed. Do you know how much he lifts?” He nodded at Simon’s biceps, bulging under his loose black shirt.

It was a genuine question. Simon didn’t want to get pissed, he only wanted to forget. He didn’t mean to go over his limit he had no idea was at seven.

Drunk Simon was a weeping, blabbering mess. It didn’t help that he was massive, because his sergeants had trouble getting him to the car before Richie drove him to the address of his flat he barely managed to gurgle out before passing out.

“Sir, you’re paying for the bloody cleaning if you get sick in my car!”

Why did he think this was a good idea? He was never a drinker, barely even touched alcohol socially. It was the poison that turned his dad into a demon, and it too became his downfall. The only thing he thought he would always have – his resolve, let him down too. He’d lost you, his mum whom he was supposed to protect, his future, and now his dignity.

Desperation was a lethal sentiment.

And that dream came again, that he stumbled to your door. Legs wobbly, his vision in and out as the world spun in slow motion.

“Luv… Luv, it’s not supposed to end like this,” he slurred, the same line he always opened with.

A marionette, a prisoner in his own head, it was a loop he couldn’t escape. The awful show had to commence to end the same way each time.

“I’m sick of losing and I wouldn’t know what to do when you leave, after how much you’ve given. Instead, I left when you needed me. I should have been there for you, gone through all this with you, no matter how hard it got.

“If you would give me a chance, I’ll quit the SAS. I’d start all over again. I’ll butcher the carrots and apples with the bloody peeler, I’ll let the steakhouse mess up our reservation and eat a dozen soapy tacos… If you ever show up at my door with your pie again, I swear I’d kiss you, not scare you. And I’ll never let go. If it has to hurt, I want it to be you.”

The door clicked open, and like how it always went, it meant the dream was coming to an end.

“You make it worth it,” he muttered as his vision faded.

…

Simon gasped for air, this time staring up at blinding lights. He shielded his wet eyes, chuckling to himself.

“Bloody hell, I think I’m sick on the inside.”

“Only your past, but you are not your past.” Your voice echoed in the distance.

His body was too heavy to move. “Could you forgive me, for all of this?”

“Could you? You need to forgive more than you need to be forgiven.”

He laughed as another tear slipped.

Simon woke on his couch, still in his clothes from the night before. Dreaming of you always drained him, leaving him hollow and out of touch with his body.

He sat up with a groan, rubbing his face as the dizziness settled. He didn’t remember much after getting dragged to Richie’s car. Judging by the gnarly bruise on his arm, he probably fell last night, but he was glad he found his way back to his flat in one piece.

Stumbling to the shower, he hissed when his toe stubbed one of the boxes on the floor. It was a horrendous decision to drink so much, still having to pack the rest of his stuff. He leaned over the sink, staring at his bloodshot eyes.

His sergeant was right. He didn’t look good. He never did. What the fuck are you doing to yourself, Riley?

With his hair damp, he made his way to the kitchen. As he realised he’d packed all his tea stash in one of the bloody boxes, a series of knocks echoed in his flat.

He grumbled. It better be important for someone to disturb his peace, especially with the pounding of his head. He couldn’t be bothered putting a shirt on before he swung the door open.

It was you, a pie in hand like the first time he met you all those months ago.

“Hi, is Simon in?”

His heart lurched as he crushed you in a hug.

“Thought you said you were going to kiss me.”

@tiredmetalenthusiast @shadofireshinobi @keegansshark @two-gh0sts @eve-lie @lyenera @luvecarson @jaguarthecat @knight4xmas @unwrittenletter @mxtokko @reaperxxxxzz @footyandformula @opalesquegirl @audisive @sparrowgalaxy @fanficreblogs @strawberrystargal @damalseer @onlineoutcast @alright-i-guesss @maresoleil @mehjustalasshere @rrtxcmt

[quack-quack-snacks]

Cat Mug (A Reason to Live)

My Navigation and Masterlist

My Sweet Home Masterlist

My Cha Hyun-su Masterlist

Pairing(s): Cha Hyun-su x GN!Reader Summary: When Hyun-su first arrived at Green Home, the only plan he had for life was to end his. He never would have thought his plan to end his life caused by the lack of any reason to continue living would lead to him finding one. Warnings: Slight season 1 spoilers, self-harm (both the reader and Hyun-su), suicide ideation, smoking (weed), illegal smuggling of contraband (weed), and comfort. Word Count: 2,728 Extra Notes: Cannabis is highly illegal in Korea. This is set in an AU with no apocalypse/monsterization.

When Hyun-su first arrived at Green Home, the only plan he had for life was to end his. 

It was a few weeks into living there that he came to the terrifying realization when the blade of the weed chopper flew inches from his face. He didn’t actually want to die, he had just lost all of his reasons to live. 

Most of his days were spent inside his apartment, testing different video games for companies until his eyes dried up to the point of tears and his head throbbed in pain. The pain was a welcome distraction that helped keep his thoughts averted away from the disaster that was his life. He didn’t even have a cover or bed stand for his twin-sized mattress. It lay on the floor of his small living space, placed directly under the windows so he could watch the stars right before he fell asleep.

The stars were his only solace in this wretched world that took everything from him. Everything was gone because he offered a few quarters to a boy in high school that he tried to make friends with. At first, he blamed all the unfair treatment that he was subjected to on anything and everything around him, but after a while, he started to think it was his fault.

Maybe he was being cocky when he offered Do-hun those coins.

Maybe he was worthy of the bullying he put him through.

Maybe he deserved the way his parents blamed him for being bullied.

Maybe he earned the way his sister was embarrassed to be related to him. 

The more those thoughts circled in his mind, the more he started to actually believe them. The more he started to believe them, the more he started to hate himself for everything.

His life was on a steep slope leading to a pit of despair until he met you. 

It was around 6 p.m. on Friday, August 21 of 2020.

For you, that meant you were heading back from the grocery store after stacking up on your food for the next week.

For Hyun-su, at least on this specific Friday, it meant he was heading back from testing a game for the video game production company Syx Arus. He wasn’t in the best mood. The game was a total bust; glitches around every corner, the gun wouldn’t shoot for the majority of the time he tested it, and he ended up getting paid half of what he was promised because of his feedback being ‘too blunt and disrespectful.’

He was walking through the hallway toward his apartment with his earbuds in and his head down. His hands were stuck in his pockets as he tried to focus on how the loud music hurt his ears and not the frustration building inside him. Because his attention was directed elsewhere, he completely missed seeing you as you stood in front of your apartment door. You had been shifting the grocery bags in your hands around so you could have a free hand to unlock and open the door but let out a gasp as you felt a tall figure bump into you, sending the bag full of a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread onto the floor. You let out a wince as you heard a crunch, positive that at least a few eggs were broken. 

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry!” You heard from behind you, turning around to see a boy. He was tall, and his hair was a dark brown, almost black, unkempt mess on his head. He yanked the earbuds once residing in his ears out and you could hear the loud music blasting out of them before he paused it on his phone. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you reassured him before your lips curved into a slightly teasing smirk. “You just cleared a hand up for me. I should be thanking you,” you let out a little laugh as you finally had a free hand to slip your key into the lock of your apartment door before turning it until you heard that familiar, satisfying click, signaling the door being unlocked. 

 Just as you pushed the door open, he spoke again. “Do you need any help?”

You smiled at him over your shoulder. “Sure, could you just grab that bag?” You gestured with your head to the bag on the floor holding your broken eggs and dented bread and he gave an enthusiastic and adorably determined nod as he used one hand to hold the door open for you and the other to pick up the bag. You walked in, quickly setting your groceries down on the small dining table you had just outside of your cramped kitchen. You turned to the boy and took the bag from his hand, walking to the sink as you took the carton apart to inspect the damage. To your surprise, there wasn’t much. Only a few eggs were broken, and although you would need to put them into a different carton because the broken eggs had spilled onto this one, you still wouldn’t need to make a second trip to get more eggs. 

You turned to peek over your shoulder and saw the boy standing awkwardly outside the door to your kitchen, rocking back and forth on his heels as he looked at the miscellaneous decorations you had hanging on the walls. You breathed out a small laugh before walking to your pantry. Without turning back to look at him, you asked, “Do you like tea?”

���What?” He asked, not expecting the change from silence to a soft-spoken conversation.

“Do you like tea?” You repeated, finally turning back to look at him, two boxes of different tea flavors in your hands. “Or are you more of a coffee drinker?”

“Oh,” he replied, looking kind of stunned by your question. “Tea is fine.”

You gave him a smile at his soft-spoken words. Although this was the first time you had ever seen, let alone spoken to, the boy, you could tell he was not much of a talker or an expressive person. Setting the boxes of tea on the counter, you took out your kettle and started filling it with water before setting it on the stove with the fire turned on high. As it started to boil, you took out two mugs and placed them down on your kitchen’s bar counter where two bar stools were stationed on the other side. You gestured to one of them after setting the mugs down in their respective places and he hesitantly sat down. 

“So,” you asked as you walked back over to where you set down the tea boxes, picking them up and bringing them back over to him, hiding them behind your back for dramatic effect. “Lemon and ginger,” you pulled one box out from behind your back before quickly realizing it was the wrong box and frantically trying to switch the boxes before he could see the other flavor, an action that caused his lips to twitch in a slight smile for a moment before disappearing again. “Or spiced chai?”

“I’ll do the chai,” he decided and you nodded with a smile. 

“Good choice.”

You placed a spicy chai tea bag into his cup - a mug with a cheesy meme of a cat wearing a ski mask sitting on top of a burger on the front saying “cat burger-lar” - and placed your choice of tea in your mug - a plain white mug that said “World’s Best Grandpa” on the front. 

Waiting for the water to boil, you reached your hand across the counter to him in greeting. After introducing yourself, you asked, “I haven’t seen you around before, are you the kid who just moved into 1410?”

He nodded his head as he took your hand. “Yeah, I moved in a few weeks ago. I’m Cha Hyun-su.”

“Well I apologize for not bringing some cookies over sooner, Hyun-su,” you told him with a teasing lilt in your voice. Your eyes fluttered down to where his hand sat in yours and you did an almost imperceptible double take when you saw the scars littering his forearm beneath his black hoodie sleeve. When he noticed you saw them, he gently took his hand out of yours and tugged his sleeve down before standing up. 

“Thank you for the tea, but I should be going now,” he told you abruptly but politely and turned towards your door, intending on leaving as fast as he could, not wanting your pity or anything of the like. 

“Wait!” You called out after him and he turned just to see you quickly pouring some of the, now boiling, water into what was going to be his cup, running over to him, and giving it to him. When he looked shocked and confused, you gave him a lopsided smile. “You thanked me for the tea but you never even got to drink any.”

He looked back and forth between the mug in his hand, warming his palm through the ceramic wall, and your eyes, warming his heart with your soft gaze. He didn’t see any pity, just understanding. It was strange and he couldn’t possibly understand how you could feel his pain. 

“This is your mug,” he stated bluntly and held the mug back out to you but you just gently pushed it back towards him.

“Take it. You can give it to me next time,” you promised.

Next time.

Your words bounced around in his mind, banging off the walls of his brain until they settled and he gave you a slight nod. You walked him out the door, waving him off as he walked down the hall towards his door. 

Next time.

It was now Tuesday, August 25 of 2020, and you hadn’t seen Hyun-su since your first meeting. You were a little worried you had scared him off with your possibly too forward advances and how you’d seen his scars but decided to focus on the positive and just thought that he probably had a life of his own so he wouldn’t be roaming through the halls every day, waiting to bump into you and break your eggs again just to talk to you. 

Although you kind of wish he would.

It was 7:06 p.m. when you walked up the stairs of Green Home, sunset. You intended on heading to the roof and smoking for a bit so you would have less of a chance of being caught by anyone. As you used your shoulder to push open the doors leading to the roof, you saw the boy you’d been waiting to see for the past week standing on the edge. You let out a sigh and leaned against the wall.

“Kind of a lame way to die, is it not?” You called out to him and he flinched at your voice. Your eyes widened as he leaned farther toward the edge for a moment before regaining his balance and looking back at you. You sighed once again before giving him a sad smile. Popping yourself off the wall, you gestured for him to follow you as you walked around the entrance of the door to the stack of boxes leading to the roof of it. Hopping up, you turned around to hold a hand out for Hyun-su to grab as he followed you up. You turned back around to settle yourself down on the edge of the small box housing the exit to the stairs and dug around in your bag as Hyun-su settled down next to you. Letting out a little cry of success as you found what you were looking for, you pulled out the small mint box you used for storing your blunts. It was relatively safe and if anyone ever asked for a mint you could always just pretend to be really protective over them. That way you were just an asshole, not a criminal. 

As you pulled out your lighter and held the blunt up to your lips, you noticed Hyun-su staring at you. You tilted your head to look at him and held the blunt out for him to take. “Want some?” 

He shook his head, looking down at his lap. “I don’t smoke cigarettes.”

You gave a small laugh at his ignorance as you lifted it back to your lips. “It’s weed actually.”

His head snapped towards you comically and you laughed more, interrupting yourself again as you tried to light the spliff. “Wait, but… isn’t that illegal?”

You gave a small shrug as you finally lit the edge of the blunt and took a hit before replying. “It is. Why, are you gonna tell on me?” You leaned over slightly to bump him with your shoulder as you teased him and he vehemently shook his head no. 

“No, I just… I never would’ve thought you’d be the type of person to smoke marijuana. Kind of surprised me.”

You let out a hum of acknowledgment. “Well, I wasn’t originally from Korea, I lived in the States for most of my life until I moved here when I first turned 18. This is the last I have of the stuff I bought with me. Took a hell of a lot of work to sneak it past border control.”

He looked at you in a type of awe that made your lips tilt up in amusement. You would’ve never thought someone would look at you like that after you told them about how you illegally smuggled marijuana into a country that made it highly illegal. The slight movement of him tugging his hoodie sleeves over his hands caused you to release a breath of air before you directed your attention to where you were given a beautiful view of the sunset right from your spot on top of the building. 

He watched you as you took a hit from the blunt and released the smoke from between your lips. At that moment, he couldn’t think of anyone more beautiful than how you looked with the sun reflecting its last golden rays on your face. And to think, he would’ve missed this if he had taken that step forward just a second before you arrived behind him. “I was in a plane crash when I was 12,” you told him and his eyes widened in surprise. “It was… bad. There was a lot of fire and chaos just everywhere,” you glanced at him nervously and looked away when you saw him watching you intensely. You focused your attention on stubbing out your blunt on the rough concrete you sat on, no longer in the mood for a quick high. “Both my parents were on the flight with me, and yet - by some miracle doctors still haven’t found an explanation for,” you rolled your eyes in frustration at the thought. “I was the only one to live out of us. Most people on the plane ended up passing away with only a few coming out alive.”

Hyun-su wanted so desperately to grab your hand and comfort you but he couldn’t bring himself to lift his hand off his thigh. 

“For the longest time,” you said as you fiddled with your sleeve, rolling it up for him to see. “I hated myself for being alive when they weren’t.”

When you finally had your sleeve rolled up, he could clearly see the physical evidence of your guilt and pain. When he looked back up at you, he was met with your eyes looking back at him with that same look of understanding hiding within the lines of your pupils. 

Maybe you did understand.

“I know what it’s like to hate yourself and to want to take the pain away, but I promise you,” you reached out to grab his hand and squeezed it reassuringly, doing what he couldn’t all those moments ago. “It does get better.”

When you smiled at him, he couldn’t help but give a smile back, his lips tilting up to show his appreciation for you and your words. “Thank you.”

You shook your head, not letting go as you returned your gaze to the setting sun, the stars taking its place in the palace of the deep abyss in the sky. “Don’t thank me, just live.”

Maybe he did have a reason to live after all.

[captain-mj]

The Journal

I don't know. Cw: Ghost's backstory

Soap found the unassuming book on his desk. The edges of the paper had turned slightly yellow and they were clearly flipped through quite often. He frowned at it, wondering who went into his room and set this there. It felt... almost threatening.

Soap gently opened the book to look at the first page.

I'm writing this journal as a "therapy" exercise. Frankly I think it's fucking bollocks. I'm fine. I dream about nothing.

Well. That wasn't very helpful. The handwriting was odd. Almost scrawling, like the person who was writing had shaky hands but also couldn't be bothered to hold the pen properly.

Soap frowned. This seemed a rather personal thing to give to a person. But it was in his room.

Just one more page.

Apparently I'm supposed to introduce myself. Fine. My name is Simon Riley. I belong to the SAS. I was a POW for a couple of months. I keep hearing numbers but none of them feel right. I think parts of me are still down there.

I hurt. Everywhere. Especially when people touch me. I can't sleep. Can barely eat. My mum is worried. So does Tommy. I want to tell them to fuck off. I have. But they keep worrying. I wonder if this is how Beth felt.

On the page was a polaroid. A baby faced Simon with nasty scars on his face, still fresh and angry. He looked half dead. Dark circles under his eyes and an expression nothing like his usual. Someone had their hand on his shoulder, but he could only see their arm.

Soap sucked in a breath. There was no way Ghost gave this to him. No fucking way.

He got up and grabbed the book, going straight for Ghost's quarters, planning on returning it immediately and pretending he had found it and couldn't find Price to turn it in.

Ghost's quarters were empty. His knives were missing, but his clothes were still there, meaning he was on a mission.

Fuck.

Soap paused and tapped his foot. He wasn't sure if Price was around. How did someone get this? If he left it in his room, he was worried someone would find it. He'd have to keep it. Just to be sure.

Soap set it back on his desk. When he saw Price, he'd talk to him.

After a minute of staring at it, Soap shoved the book into a drawer and closed it tight. He left to talk to Gaz to distract himself for a few hours.

Gaz was nice enough to tell him that Ghost and Price were on a mission together and that they wouldn't be back for a few days.

No big deal.

A few days with a book that potentially had a lot of answers to some questions he had about Ghost.

Soap didn't make it the night before he was reading more pages. He never claimed to have great self control.

Good morning. I feel like a teen, writing in a diary. I've been put on new medication today. Supposed to help. It makes me dizzy for some reason.

My mum keeps making me tea. She wants to make sure I'm real. I see her hands hovering around me. If I wasn't such a shit son, I'd tell her she can hug me. The thought makes my skin crawl. I see her dead body in my dreams. I see the skull they said was hers. I want to tell her I'm okay, but I don't want to lie.

Soap felt sick. There was a drawing. It was crude, clearly done out of boredom and with no real care behind it. Soap was pretty sure it was a skull that was dripping something. Maybe blood. The ink was all black so there was no way to tell. "Mum" was written several times around it.

I dreamed about her again.

That caught Soap's attention. Her? Was Ghost into women? That seemed unlikely.

She used to speak so soothingly in spanish to me. I wonder if she was like me. Did Roba rape her too?

Soap shut the book and shoved it under his pillow. Enough of that. Nope. He didn't want to think of those words and what they meant.

Fucking too.

No.

No...

No!

The idea of something like that happening to his Lieutenant was... It just... didn't happen.

Soap pulled the book out and kept reading. Just... to prove it wasn't real.

I don't know. It's not a nice thought. Maybe I want someone else to hurt too. I tried to jack off the other day and ended up scrubbing myself raw afterward from how it made me feel. How pathetic right?

Not sure what this is doing. What benefit this has. I'm writing my thoughts. Trying to feel better. Tommy joked about me buying a hooker. I had a panic attack. it was like i was back in high school again. fucking baby.

There was a picture of someone, presumably Tommy, and Simon hanging out. They were both smoking and Tommy was making a sign with his hands. He had a giant grin on his face. Simon had a carved out Glasgow smile that looked like it hurt. Raw. it looked to be after the earlier polaroid. The dark circles hadn't gotten better, but there was more color and flesh in his face.

My mum wants me to talk to my dad. I don't know why. I don't know want to see him. Can't let him see me right now. Maybe when I'm recovered. Last time I saw him, I beat his ass. Doubt he's going to forgive me.

Bastard is pure evil. He gets off on hurting people. Got off on hurting me. I think he's trying to use the cancer as an excuse to get close to my mum again. I'll beat his ass again. I'm putting on more weight. I'll fucking do it.

There was a little stick man drawing labeled 'Simon' and 'Bitch' with Simon beating him to death. Soap thought the blood was rather well drawn, even if the stick figures wasn't.

As the week went on, he kept reading a few pages at a time. He learned... things.

Ghost liked Vanilla tea.

Ghost had been assaulted by more than one person.

Ghost's father had beaten him. A lot.

Ghost was scared of snakes.

Ghost loved his Mum.

Ghost hated most mystery movies.

Tommy was Ghost's brother and was the second most important in his life.

And that they were all dead. All of them.

He wrote an explanation of everything there. In a clinical, harsh detail.

I wish I had died down there in Mexico. I wish I had laid down in that grave and died. It's my fault. It's my fault. It's my fault.

It kept repeating and then he had just started over and wrote over the first layer.

Soap was crying. He couldn't help it. Tommy was so... young. Not to mention the descriptions Ghost gave of his family in general. The pages after that were mostly drawings or scribbles, all made with heavy hands.

Simon knocked. He could tell by the sound he made when he knocked. "Johnny?"

"When did you get back?"

"...Just now. Can I come in?"

"Yeah." Soap wiped his face so he'd look... normal. "Yeah come in."

Ghost stepped inside and saw the book. "Enjoy it?"

"What?"

"I left it for you."

"Why?"

Ghost hummed. "Thought it would be the easiest way to let you in."

Soap swallowed. "You don't do anything half assed do you?"

Ghost's eyes stared at him. Answer enough right there.

[pulisicsgirl]

breathe, you're okay - mason mount

summary: when the mounting pressure of a Women's UCL run is falling on Y/N's shoulders, she isn't handling it by herself as well as she would like everyone to believe she is

pairing: Mason Mount x footballer!reader

word count: 2.9k

warnings/tags: hurt/comfort, no established relationship, !!descriptions of a panic attack!!, discussions about mental heath, supportive Mase

requested: no

notes: surprise!! I'm sorry I haven't posted in months-- my life kind of went up in flames over the summer and I haven't had the time to write that I was hoping to. I have a few WIPs in my drafts, and I am still working on all of your requests! Please let me know what you think of this!

The hot afternoon sun beat down on you, and you felt the drops of sweat sliding down the side of your head and tickling the hairs on the back of your neck. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears as you ran up and down the field, weaving between cones, carrying the ball at your feet, running through a series of consecutive drills that were designed to refine your skills and test your endurance.

You did your best to recall the instructions that your coach had carefully laid out before the team began the drill, but with the heat and the fatigue that was seeping all the way into your bones, it seemed impossible to remember. You wound up relying on the teammate in front of you to recall what you needed to do next.

You let out a heavy sigh of relief when you heard the sound of the whistle—two short chirps, signaling for you to halt your movements. You draped your arms over your head, drawing in deep, heaving breaths as you attempted to get your heart rate under control.

You joined the rest of your teammates as they gathered around the coach, preparing for his parting words before everyone was dismissed.

“Good session today, ladies,” he clapped his hands in front of him, looking around the circle. “I’m seeing a lot of good things. A lot of improvement in our touches and finishing. You all are looking really good.”

A couple of the girls clapped at his words, the rest too exhausted to do anything but listen.

“We have the day off tomorrow, so use it well. Rest, recover, and come back Monday ready to go. We’ve got some heavy prep next week before the second leg on Friday,” he continued, and a couple others whooped, getting excited for the upcoming big game.

“They’re gonna be a really tough opponent, I’ll be honest. We know that their back line is really strong, tough to break through.” Your coach’s eyes fell on you, and you knew what was coming next before he even began to speak, your stomach sinking slightly. “But that’s what we have Miss Y/N, for, right?”

Several of the girls cheered for you. The girls near you slapped you on the back, trying to get you hyped up. And the weight that had settled in the pit of your stomach grew heavier.

The Manchester United women were on an impressive UEFA Women’s Champions League run, overcoming seemingly insurmountable odds to make it to the semifinal. And according to the media (and now your own teammates and coaches), it was all thanks to you.

In the group stage, a decisive game in which your team had gone down 2-0 in the first half had seemed hopeless until you had scored two goals in the second, assisting on the third to put your team through to the knockout games. Another three goal contributions in the quarter-final matches had put you in the spotlight of all of the team’s media coverage, thrusting a wave of attention upon you that you had never asked for.

You had gone down 1-0 in the first leg of the semi-final, and now you were playing from behind. And it seemed that everyone expected you to be the one to pull them out of it.

So now, you were left feeling the pressure as the second leg was fast approaching.

“Alright, ladies. Have a good rest of the day and a great day off tomorrow.” He clapped his hands, dismissing you all. The circle of girls dispersed, chatting among themselves.

“Am I still leaving the cones out for you?” the coach raising his eyebrows at you. You only nodded in return. “Okay, don’t work yourself to death.”

You laughed humorlessly as you fiddled with the ball at your feet, not meeting his eyes.

“Hey,” he said, resting a hand on your shoulder to try to draw your attention to him. “Get some rest tomorrow, okay? We all see how hard you’re working. Give yourself a break.”

Another nod is all that you can muster, and you don’t miss the short sigh that he lets out as he drops his hand from your shoulder and walks to join the rest of the group moving indoors.

You repositioned a few of the cones to set up your own drill and got right into it.

Across the field, on another training pitch near yours, Mason watched as you carried the ball with you up and down the field, weaving between cones, practicing a few skills that he had seen you implement in games, and taking a shot on the goal at each pass.

He was supposed to be doing a bit of extra work with a few of the boys. The men’s team had finished their training session about an hour before, but a few of them still felt like they wanted to get a bit more done before calling it a day. So here they were, running a few small three-a-side games to utilize the last of their energy that day.

But he couldn’t help but notice how you never stopped.

During the team training, you were always one of the hardest-working ones out there. When he had returned to the pitch from lunch, you were taking shots on the goal with the rest of your team nowhere in sight. He wasn’t even sure he had seen you eating lunch inside when he thought about it.

And now here you were, sprinting across the length of the field, over and over, after the rest of your team had hit the showers.

He felt a twinge of worry for you but brushed it off as one of his teammates called his name to pull his attention back to the game they were playing.

Your head was spinning as you pushed yourself to keep moving. Your entire body was drenched in sweat. Every muscle ached from overexertion as you gritted your teeth, forcing them to keep moving. The sun was dizzyingly bright as the evening set in. You could feel the heat practically radiating off of your skin. Your lungs were burning with your heaving breaths and your mouth quickly grew dry.

“That’s what we have Miss Y/N for, right?” Your coach’s words echoed through your head as you carried the ball down the field.

“Y/L/N carries the Man U Women through to the semifinal!” You recalled the title of the article as you weaved between the cones.

“I really believe Y/N Y/L/N could be the one to lead Manchester United to their first Women’s Champion’s League trophy!” You heard the words of the pundit clear as day as you planted your foot, striking the ball cleanly. It soared through the air, curving toward the goal, and struck the crossbar. The ball flew away from the goal, bouncing pathetically on the ground in the penalty area.

You took a pause, the words and expectations crashing around your mind leaving an unsettling feeling in your chest. As you stood there, you couldn’t seem to get your panting breaths to grow steadier.

Your shirt suddenly felt too tight on your neck. You grasped the fabric, pulling it away from your body in an attempt to allow yourself to breathe easier, but nothing seemed to be helping.

Your head was spinning. You felt your stomach sink, a feeling like when you plummeted down the tall hill of a rollercoaster, a sick feeling settling in your abdomen. Your skin began to crawl, and you just couldn’t stop hyperventilating.

You began to panic. Eyes searching frantically for relief. You weren’t sure what you were looking for—something, anything.

You suddenly felt like you were too out in the open, needing to seclude yourself away from the sight of prying eyes. You set into a sprint, off of the field and around the corner of the nearest part of the building to you, trying to find some shade from the hot sun and hide yourself from anyone who might see your pathetic state.

But it was too late. Mason had seen the whole thing.

They had just paused their game for a short water break. He had seen you take the shot, instead hitting the crossbar. It only took him a few seconds once you paused to realize that something wasn’t right.

He watched the way your chest rose and fell rapidly in quick, short breaths. When you began attempting to pull your shirt away from your body, he instantly knew what was taking place. He’d recognize that feeling anywhere.

You were having a panic attack, whether you realized it or not.

As soon as he saw you take off for the side of the building, he was running after you without so much as a word of explanation to his teammates.

Once in the shade of the wall you hid behind, you began pacing, unable to keep still. Every inch of your body felt jittery, and you felt unsteady on your legs. You couldn’t manage more than rapid, shallow breaths. Your throat felt tight, your breaths sounding more like wheezes, and it was starting to make your head spin. Your hands flew to your head, scratching at your scalp in an attempt to somehow rid yourself of the feeling.

You were startled by Mason swiftly rounding the corner, concern written all over his face as he stopped in front of you.

“Hey, hey, hey, you’re okay,” he spoke calmly and evenly. He quickly reached up, taking your wrists in his hands so he could gently but firmly pull your hands out of your hair to keep you from hurting yourself.

“I can’t, Mason. I can’t,” you panted, shaking your head ‘no’ frantically and still trying to weakly pull your hand from his grip.

“You’re okay, Y/N. Try to slow down your breathing,” Mason’s calm voice directly contrasted your frantic behavior, speaking in short sentences so as to not overwhelm you more. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

A short sob fell from your lips, and you felt the tears spilling over and down your cheeks.

“We’re gonna lose,” you sobbed, and his eyebrows furrowed slightly in confusion. “The semifinal, we’re gonna lose it, and it’s gonna be all my fault.”

In that moment, everything clicked into place for Mason-- the UWCL run, your success in the games leading up to the semi-final leg, the pressure from the fans and the team, the countless extra hours you had been putting in.

A loud noise in the distance, coming from the direction of the parking lot, startled you, snatching your attention and you whipped your head to the side, eyes searching frantically for the source. He released your wrists from his hand, testing the waters as he turned your head back to look at him with a hand on your cheek.

He cradled your face with a hand on either side, keeping your focus on him. His thumbs wiped the tears away that had slipped down your cheeks.

“Hey, look at me. You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you,” he repeated the affirmations he had already been telling you.

As he stroked his thumbs softly over the skin of your cheek, he felt that your breathing was already growing a bit slower. You had reached up, holding onto his wrists with both of your hands to steady yourself, feeling too unsteady on your feet. His hands were gentle and soft on your skin.

Mason watched your expression, taking long deep breaths for you to emulate. Your eyes were still wide, darting frantically around his face, but you were trying your best to follow his breathing. He continued whispering short reassurances.

“You’re safe.”

“It’s gonna be okay.”

“I’ve got you.”

You were beginning to calm down, but your eyes darted to something behind Mason, pulled away from the calm atmosphere he had tried to create for you.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” he spoke gently, pressing his forehead to yours so you would only focus on him. You were shocked at how little the intrusion on your personal space bothered you. In fact, to your surprise, the closeness seemed to settle you a little more.

You continued focusing on your breathing, gripping tightly to his wrists as if you thought he’d disappear if you let go. Your eyes were clamped closed, listening to Mason’s soft and slow breathing. You felt your pounding heart being to slow its pace.

The panic you had been feeling subsided, leaving behind a wave of extreme fatigue. You felt completely and utterly drained.

Mason must have noticed the way that your body slumped over, and he guided you to sit down on the grass, leaning back against the brick wall of the building. He sat down next to you, leaving space so he didn’t make you more nervous. But in the haze you felt in your mind, you felt a need to still be close to him, leaning over so you could place your head on his shoulder. A short pang of guilt washed over you as you noticed the crescent-shaped indents you had left on his wrists, your nails digging into the skin as you had held onto him.

The two of you sat in silence for a few minutes, your eyes slipping closed as you continued focusing on breathing slowly. A gentle breeze blew through, cooling your clammy skin and brushing through the blades of grass.

“I used to get them sometimes, too, you know?” Mason broke the silence, speaking softly.

You responded with a quiet, “hmm?” unsure of what he meant.

“Panic attacks,” he explained. “At the end of last season, before I left Chelsea. There was a lot of pressure. Any time I played, everyone had something to say about it. Even when I didn’t play, some would find a reason to be upset. It all just got to be too much.”

A deep sadness filled you while you listened to his words. “How did you get through it?”

“Ben found me having one in my car after training one day.” He was quiet for a moment. “I tried to power through it—like you. Skipping lunch and staying late to train a bit extra on the field or put in an extra session in the gym. But once Ben realized what was going on, he made sure that I was taking care of myself properly and wasn’t dealing with it on my own anymore.”

You sat up so you could look at Mason’s face, and you saw a hint of sadness there. “So I’ll tell you what he told me. There are 10 other people with you on that field at all times. If you fall down, there are 10 pairs of hands ready to help you back to your feet. If you succeed, there are 10 others to celebrate with you. But it’s not all on you.”

Your eyes were misty, welling up with tears at his words. He slipped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a secure hug as the tears began to stream down your cheeks.

“No matter the outcome of the game next week, you’re an incredible player, Y/N.” He placed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “You’ve already done so much so early in your career. The media and the fans will say what they want—don’t let them get to you. And your coaches may get carried away with their expectations for you, but it’s just because they’re so excited to see you succeed. Just be the player you know how to be, and your achievements will speak for themselves.”

“Thank you, Mason,” you whispered after pondering his words for a moment. No words could express the gratitude you felt for the relief he had brought you just by letting you know that he was there and he understood. But as he squeezed your shoulders lightly in response, you hoped he knew just how thankful you were.

Eventually, Mason helped you to your feet, guiding you back toward the fields. You were still feeling a bit weak and unsteady, so he made sure you remained upright with a gentle hold on your arm as you walked. Deciding it was time for you to call it a day, he insisted on collecting the cones that you had been training with, not allowing you to help him by picking up even one of them.

It took some convincing but you told him you would be fine to drive yourself home—his only condition was that you texted to let him know you made it there safely.

“Alright, then. Rest on your day off tomorrow. Give yourself a break, okay?” he spoke as he put the last of the cones away. “I’ll check in with you on Monday, if that’s okay.” He didn’t want to overstep any boundaries. The two of you had been friendly before today, but you wouldn’t have considered yourselves close friends. He just wanted to be sure that you knew you had people in your corner.

“Yeah, I’d like that a lot,” you nodded, smiling at him. With a final hug, he sent you on your way as he turned to rejoin his (undoubtedly confused) teammates where he had left them.

“Remember: rest!” he shouted back at you as you parted ways, and you couldn’t stop the blushing smile that worked its way onto your face.

tag list: @landoslover @chelseagirl98 @thoseboysinblue @lovelynikol16 @swimmingismywholelife @masonsrem @bracedes @neverinadream @lizzypotter14 @notsoattractivearenti

[tashid4]

Just thinking about getting drunk with your boyfriend Sero (French song cuz i felt like it)

How many sips are you up to? No idea. But the bottle is almost empty, only a quarter should remain. You just recorded Sero naked, doing the helicopter with his dick. You’re dying of laugher on the floor, phone in one hand, the bottle in the other. You’re wondering what it would feel like to have a penis? It looks kinda fun.

“Do it again!” He put his boxer back on and sat back on the floor with you “Think we’re going to stop here honey cause as you can see, I’m hard for you” A flirty smile grows on your face as you climb on his lap. “I could help you but you don’t want me to put my pretty mouth on you” “You already sucked me off twice in an hour baby” You give him a proud smile as you start grinding on his lap. Alcohol is making you really confident and you know your boyfriend would never judge you. Always ready to follow you in your fantasies.

Wanting to grab back the bottle, you almost fall headfirst onto the carpet. Fortunately, Sero catches you back by your underwear, preventing you from falling. “Outch! I think you just broke me in half” He left out a small chuckle because of your reaction and places you on the bed.

“I literally saved you. Now show me your little wound” After throwing away the bottle, he gently spread your legs, now having a full view on your covered cunt. Pulling your panties to the side he starts to fake-searching for any injury.

“Oh, I see, there’s damages. I must intervene” His tongue slowly goes from your entrance to your clit, taking a long strip of you. The feeling offers you a one-way ticket to paradise. “Yeah, right here, that’s where it hurts” you say while pushing his head deeper in you. Your heart is beating way too fast. His tongue drawing circles around your clit while his fingers slowly enter you. Yours hips automatically raise to meet him. “You're a very cooperative patient miss-“ “Shut up and keep going” He laugh and buries his head back between your thighs. “Yes ma’am”

You run your fingers through his hair, slightly pulling on them to show how good he’s making you feel. Your moan become louder and louder while he moves his tongue and fingers on you. When you reach your high, your whole body tremble but he doesn’t move, wanting to taste you until the end.

“I guess I’m a really good doctor…”

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Olympics AU - Cross Country

Catch up via this masterpost if you're new here

AU summary: Paris 2024 Olympics. Gale is on the U.S. equestrian eventing team, Bucky is a U.S. gymnast, they meet on the plane to Paris, and a love story ensues.

Author's Note: Gale's cross country run, and Bucky meets Whiskey. I won't lie, writing about Gale and his horse here is pure self-indulgence.

---

Gale can feel the energy and anticipation coursing through Whiskey’s body, the excited tension in her broad shoulders, the set of her head as she carefully watches everything around her. Like a physical thrumming that extends from her and goes right through Gale.

Other horses and riders wander around the warm-up area at all gaits, sailing over practice jumps as they await their start times. Gale is the fourteenth rider to start on the Paris Olympics cross country course, and he’s trying not to let himself be nervous about it. Horses and riders are set off at three minute intervals to complete a high intensity course that ideally takes just under nine and a half minutes to complete. Benny had been the first rider and would have finished the course a while ago now if nothing went wrong. Gale hasn’t heard word of any major incidents on the course thus far.

Riding horses teaches you how to keep yourself calm even when calm is the last thing you feel. The moment you let your control over yourself slip, your horse can feel it. They can feel every tense muscle in your body, every hesitation you make, every doubt you have. Horses teach you to sit up straight, breathe easy no matter how shaky you feel, keep your heels down and your eyes forward and never let anyone know if you’re afraid. So Gale takes a deep breath and rides Whiskey through her nerves. He lifts a hand to his safety vest to make sure it’s secure, then checks the strap of his helmet for about the fifth time. 

He checks that his eventing watch is set to 9 minutes and 18 seconds, the optimum time for the course. They’ll be starting any minute now, and they’re walking around in circles by the start box, waiting for the signal to go. Whiskey keeps picking up a nervous trot, her tail in the air and her ears perked forward. Gale lets her go a few steps before bringing her back down. “We got this, girl,” he tells her quietly. He allows himself a quick look at the massive crowd that has gathered around the start of the course. Gale and Whiskey have run countless cross country courses together, many of them with sizable crowds in recent years. But this is on another level. He wonders if John is here anywhere, like he promised to be.

Last night, Gale spent quite a while assuring John that cross country isn’t a death sentence. On average, far less than a quarter of the riders at a top level event will fall on the course. A miniscule number of those falls will be anything serious. John protested that, according to Google, cross country falls can be fatal. Gale countered him by saying a gymnastics fall can also be fatal and told him to stop Googling things.

Subsequently trying to explain to John that he’s actually fallen off several times, including on cross country, and that, in an ideal situation, he knows how to fall “safely,” did not go over well. “You broke your fucking back!” John exclaimed incredulously.

“I did not break my back. I had a stress fracture in my spine,” Gale corrected him.

“Yes! You fractured your spine!”

“And you broke your leg! But here you are.”

They’d glared at each other for several seconds before John admitted, “I just don’t want you to get hurt.” He’d never in his life expect Gale to just not do what he loves, no matter how much it may hurt, but that doesn’t make Bucky less concerned about this whole cross country thing.

Gale smiled softly at him, not used to having someone other than Benny or Marge care so much about his well-being. “Sounds like we’re in agreement, then,” he said. “I simply won’t fall off.”

It’s easy to be a little cocky when you ride horses. A good rider always knows the risks, knows their limits, knows their horse. But in the end, if you aren’t sure of yourself, you have to pretend. You have to fake it so well that you start to believe it. Gale and Bucky are the same, that way. They both know that their control over their sport stops somewhere, and all they can do is stretch their own skill as far as it’ll go and convince everyone else there’s nothing to worry about.

As Gale guides Whiskey around in another small circle and into the start box, he starts his watch. The whistle blows, and they’re off like a shot, galloping towards the first of 25 obstacles, a keyhole with brush across the top. The crowd pressed against the fences on either side of the course cheers and claps as they clear the first jump and barrel towards the next.

Whiskey soars over them all with ease, taking the corner jumps in a perfect line that will no doubt save them a few seconds on their time. She gallops uphill and downhill with just as much coordination as if she were on the flat. Even the coffin jump she hops over like it’s nothing. Gale remembers spending months with her when she was just four years old, trying to convince her that the ditch in the ground was just another obstacle to clear. Young Whiskey was convinced it was going to swallow her whole if she crossed over it, even throwing Gale into it once when she refused and ran out. But not now. Now, she’s invincible.

This, Gale thinks, is one of many things that made him fall in love with this sport. A horse has a way of making you feel like you’re flying. Like you’re untouchable. They teach you love and responsibility, softness and kindness, grit and determination. But they also take you for who you are and fill in all of the gaps. They take one look at every insecurity and worry you have, and they say, ‘I can fix that. Just hang on.’ Gale loves the tangible connection he feels with his horse. He knows her like the back of his hand, and she can read everything he thinks and feels by the way his muscles twitch, by the tone of his voice when he whispers in her ear. 

So when they run through this cross country course, Gale wants to win. But flying over jump after jump, galloping down the stretches between them, it brings him a certain kind of peace, too. Like he’s a kid again, riding for nothing more than the joy it brought him, the escape it allowed him. He finds himself grinning into the wind hitting his face. 

Gale and Benny had walked the course earlier with the rest of the riders, getting a good look at every obstacle and pacing out the lines they planned to take. The Paris course is nothing like anything he’s ever ridden before, if nothing else because of its splendor. It was designed with every little detail in mind, complete with pontoon bridges over the Grand Canal, giving a quintessential photo op for the Games. 

Aside from his awe over the course, Gale had been a little worried about the steep bank heading downhill, immediately followed by a jump straight into a water obstacle. Whiskey, still young, sometimes has a hard time balancing on the other side of downhill banks. She stumbles just the littlest bit now, and Gale has to fight to keep his weight back in the saddle until he can straighten her out. But she finds her footing and carries them over the next jump, straight into the water, which splashes all the way up to Gale’s face. 

They cross the bridges over the canal and loop around the park, through the trees and perfectly maintained hedges. As they head into the arena in front of Versailles, they’re over halfway through the course. Gale checks his watch. They have just under four minutes. There’s another large crowd gathered in the stands to watch the few jumps that are set up in the arena, and on their way out, Whiskey catches sight of someone waving a small U.S. flag over the rail of the stands. She throws her head up and spooks to the side, nearly unseating Gale, but he pushes her on.

Anyone watching on TV can hear the commentators laugh lightly and explain that Whiskey is still young for an Olympic eventer. Nine years old is the minimum age for Olympic horses, to ensure they have enough time to mature before facing intense competition. “She’s really doing extremely well,” they say.  “This is a young team, both horse and rider. And it looks to me like they may be the face of the sport for years to come.”

Gale and Whiskey have already put their small mishap behind them, though. There’s no room for dwelling on it. There’s only forward. With only a small handful of obstacles left, he can feel her tiring, but he knows she won’t give up if he won’t.

“Keep going, girl,” he whispers. Her ear flicks back at the sound of his voice before pricking forward again, and she keeps going. She’d run to the ends of the Earth for him.

—

Sometimes people tell Bucky that he’s insane. Usually it’s in reference to the gymnastics skills he incorporates into his routines, so he’s pretty sure they mean it in a good way. They tell him that what he does is crazy, especially considering the fact that the sport almost ruined his life.

But standing at the end of the cross country course, he thinks equestrians have given “insane” a whole new meaning. He actually said “what the fuck” out loud when the first rider – Benny – came galloping full speed down the final stretch, soaring over the jump at the end and racing to the finish. Because, seriously, at least Bucky has control over his own body. How can anyone tell him that he’s more insane than these people who sit on a horse’s back and charge through the woods at 20 miles per hour, clearing jumps that are several feet tall, often several feet wide, and sometimes include unnecessary twists like going downhill or through water? And what? They just trust the horse to not kill them in the process? 

That, Bucky thinks, is crazy.

Gale had tried to explain to him last night that it’s not as intimidating or dangerous as it looks. That, just like gymnasts, riders train for years, sometimes their entire lives, to be good at what they do. That the horses themselves are trained for years to be good at what they do. He tried to explain to him what the partnership between a horse and rider is like, the fact that he trusts Whiskey more than he trusts most other human beings. He’d given up eventually, though, with an amused shake of his head, telling Bucky that he’d come to understand eventually.

Bucky tried not to get too hung up on that word: eventually. That word implies a future. It implies that Gale sees a future for them beyond these games. This isn’t just a casual thing for him. It’s not just a summer fling.

Bucky has never been too great at commitment. Everything about his love life has only ever been casual. Too little love and too much life. But after only knowing Gale for a handful of days, he’s starting to think casual isn’t what he wants anymore. He isn’t sure if that scares him.

Eventually. He’ll understand eventually. Bucky decides that that’s something he wants: to understand. He wants to come to love Gale’s sport as much as he wants Gale to love his. He wants to know, as much as he can, what Gale means when he talks about the bond between horse and rider, what he feels when he looks Whiskey in the eye and can be so sure that she’ll do right by him. Gale told him that, when Bucky finally gets to meet the mare, all it will take is one look. One touch. And he’ll start to understand why Gale thinks the world of her.

Bucky knows essentially nothing about horses, but he hopes Gale is right.

So, he’s here. Exactly as he promised he would be. He’s standing with Marge at the end of the Paris Olympics cross country course, watching insane people charge over the final jump. Marge told him that it’s a keyhole. Enclosed on the bottom, top, and on either side. It’s designed to look like a horseshoe, with the Olympic rings stretched across the top. Bucky is, at least, thankful that they chose to stand here, rather than by one of the more complex obstacles. They’ve watched eleven riders come through so far, which means two didn’t finish the course. Marge has had the livestream up on her phone, but Bucky has barely watched it himself. He doesn’t need to see if and when someone falls. Not when he’s standing here, waiting for Gale to make it to the end.

Marge has quickly become a good friend to Bucky, too. He thinks she just has that kind of quality, a good energy – she’s a person you want to be around. So he’s really glad she invited him to watch with her, because he would be totally lost, confused, and probably freaking out a little bit without her. And, yeah, as Gale warned him, it would be a lot more boring.

She taps him excitedly on the shoulder as she cranes her neck to look down the final stretch. “He’s coming, he’s coming.”

Relief floods through Bucky as he turns to look in the same direction, and sure enough, there’s Whiskey, coming out of the trees around the turn with Gale on her back. She has eventing grease down her legs to protect them from the jumps, white contrasting against her sweat-darkened chestnut hair (chestnut, Gale had insisted. Not red.) Her head is much more forward than it was at the start, leaning more heavily on the bit, her nostrils flared as she sucks in as much oxygen as she can get. Her ears remain forward, alert and excited.

Bucky can hear her pounding hoofbeats against the ground as they run for the final jump, and he watches in complete awe as Whiskey seamlessly launches herself into the air from her hind end, clears the jump, and keeps sprinting for the finish. Gale looks up as he reigns her in, searching for his time on the board. 

“He’s under the optimum time,” Marge says to Bucky as they watch. She sounds impressed, and relieved. “And only a few points in penalties. They’re in really good shape.”

“Is that… surprising?” Bucky asks dumbly.

Marge looks at him and smiles, shrugging. “It depends who you ask.” When Bucky just stares at her, she laughs. “Gale and Whiskey are young. Gale is the youngest rider on the entire U.S. equestrian team. And Whiskey is the youngest horse. She’s the minimum age a horse can be at the Olympics. So, yes, to a lot of people this is very surprising.”

“And to you?”

Marge’s smile grows. “Not surprising at all.” 

Gale turns Whiskey in a small circle then, slowing her down, and his eye catches Bucky’s. Bucky is a little in love with the way Gale’s face lights up when he sees him. The way Gale urges Whiskey a few steps to the side to get closer. “You’re here!”

“I told you I would be!” Bucky calls back. And just for a moment, there’s no crowd gathered at the fences. There’s no score board or clock or cross country course around them. It’s just them. Gale is right by the fence now, reaching his hand down, seeking Bucky out, and Bucky reaches up to squeeze it in his own. He’s vaguely aware of an event photographer taking pictures of this moment. 

“Thank you,” Gale says sincerely, and Bucky doesn’t know what to do about the way it makes his heart flutter. Then Gale looks at Marge. “I think we did it,” he grins. 

“I think you did babe,” Marge laughs. “Now get outta here!”

Gale lets go of Bucky’s hand, and Bucky feels his fingers reaching out, chasing the loss, before he drops his hand back to his side. Gale nods to them both and urges Whiskey to trot off down the remaining extra bit of track, heading back for the stables. 

Marge grabs Bucky by the arm and starts pulling him through the crowd behind them. “Let’s go.”

–

Bucky is certain he isn’t supposed to be here, but Marge didn’t seem to get that memo. Or she doesn’t care, which is fine. When they approach the stables, there’s a few horses and at least double the amount of people milling about outside. Horses being untacked, hosed down, and hand walked to cool off, and collections of riders and grooms surrounding them. Marge leads Bucky straight over to Gale, who Bucky can now see is just as sweat-soaked as Whiskey. He’s removed his vest and helmet, leaving him in a white, sweat-marked team USA polo tucked into white riding pants that Bucky thinks hit him in all the right places. His hair is soaked and sticking up in crazy directions from his helmet.

The horse has been untacked, and Gale is holding her lead as a groom sprays her with cool water. Whiskey is shoving her nose against Gale’s arm, making him laugh as he rubs her forehead, right over a bright white misshapen star. Bucky manages to sneak a picture of it on his phone before Gale looks up and notices them approaching.

“Hey!” he exclaims, shoving Whiskey’s big head away from him and handing her lead to the groom, who scratches her lovingly behind the ears as he leads her away. Gale looks at Bucky even as Marge hugs him. “So? What’d you think?”

“You’re crazy. That was crazy,” Bucky insists. 

Gale laughs and rolls his eyes as Marge steps back. “Whatever you say.”

Bucky steps forward then, wrapping his arms around Gale. Gale freezes for a split second, then he hugs Bucky back, letting his tired body relax into him. “It was also amazing,” Bucky says.

“I probably smell like shit,” Gale mumbles self-consciously. He hears Marge stifle a laugh, and he knows it’s because he’s never once cared about how he looks or smells at the stables.

“I don’t care.” Bucky hugs him tighter.

When he pulls away, Benny has joined them, his horse already back in his stall. Marge hugs him, too. “You both looked incredible out there,” she says.

Bucky makes to step back, to let the three of them talk, but Gale reaches out and grabs his hand, keeping him right at his side. It feels weirdly normal, standing in a circle of friends, holding Gale’s hand, and Gale doing it like it’s nothing. It’s the first time they’ve really shared such intimate physical touch so openly.

Bucky wants more of it. 

“I think we’re in good shape,” Benny is saying. “I think we have a real chance of a medal this year.” If the US equestrian team gets a team medal in eventing, it’ll be the first since 2004. And they are bound and determined to make it happen. 

Benny looks over at Bucky. “Will you be there to watch our victory tomorrow?”

Bucky blushes, and he doesn’t even know why. “Oh, uh. I don’t know-“

“John’s got his own team finals tomorrow,” Gale says proudly, squeezing his hand. 

“Oh right, John Egan,” Benny mocks. “US gymnastics poster boy.”

Bucky is pretty sure he’s teasing him in a good way, but he can’t quite tell. Gale rolls his eyes and shoves Benny gently. “Oh fuck off.”

Then he pulls Bucky away from them. “Come on, I want you to meet someone.” He calls out to the young groom who is in the process of scraping the excess water off of Whiskey’s coat. Bucky learns that his name is Ken Lemmons, aka the only person Gale fully trusts with his horses other than himself. Kenny greets Bucky kindly and hands the lead over to Gale. “She’s barely even tired,” he chuckles, regarding Whiskey as she nuzzles at his shoulder. “Let me know if you want me to hand walk her.”

“Will do, Kenny.” Gale thanks him and the groom walks off, leaving them be. 

Gale turns his attention back to Bucky. “Bucky, meet Whiskey.”

Whiskey lowers her head the slightest bit, like she knows she’s being introduced. One big brown eye looks at Bucky curiously, her ears forward, her breath coming in hot puffs as she stomps her hoof at a fly. Bucky looks at Gale hesitantly, and Gale smiles encouragingly back at him. Then he takes Bucky’s hand in his own again and raises it up, presses it to Whiskey’s nose, Gale’s warm hand on top of his. Whiskey’s skin is soft beneath Bucky’s touch.

“You can pet her,” Gale says, taking his own hand away. 

Bucky lets his fingers rub up and down Whiskey’s nose, then the side of her cheek. When Gale tells him that she loves being scratched around her ears, he raises his hand to the top of her head and scratches gently like he saw Gale and Kenny do before. Whiskey leans into the touch, asking for more, and he laughs as he increases the pressure. 

Then she shakes her head, making Bucky pull his hand away, red horse hair stuck to his fingers. “Did I do something wrong?”

Gale laughs. “No, no she just does that. It means she likes it.” As if to confirm, Whiskey stretches forward to nuzzle Bucky’s hand again. “She likes you,” Gale adds. 

Bucky finds himself smiling, running his hand down her neck, still wet from the hose. He marvels at the way the muscles ripple beneath her skin, the way her huge hooves stomp on the ground, the sheer magnitude of her presence in front of him, all combined with the softness of her eyes. He feels like he’s maybe starting to understand what Gale meant. “She’s beautiful.”

“She is,” Gale agrees. Bucky looks back over at him, and the way Gale, sweaty and tired as he is, is framed so perfectly by the rays of sun behind him, watching, with so much love, as Bucky meets his horse for the first time – it does something to Bucky that he’s never quite felt before.  

“You’re beautiful,” he finds himself saying. 

Gale blushes, his hand still scratching Whiskey’s nose, but the way he smiles at Bucky then, so shy and so perfect and so unequivocally happy, makes Bucky feel somehow complete. 

---

---

Next Part

(Side note: much of Whiskey's personality is based off of my own mare and it's making me emotional because I love her so much thank you)

[mandiemegatron]

【 ᵁⁿᵈᵒⁱⁿᵍ ᵀʰᵉ ᴴᵘʳᵗ 】

Black Leg Sanji x cis!fem Straw Hat Reader

Rated: T for mental health discussions. Comfort, confessions, Sanji being open about his depression, we love healing Sanji in this household.

Words ; 3, 358

Trade with @shanalikeanna !! I love you forever, my lovely shana, I hope you enjoy this!!!!!! 💖💖💖

Once again, none of this would be possible without my beta and bestie, @moss-woods !! Thank you from the bottom of my heart, my love!!! 💖💖💋💋

ᴵᶠ ʸᵒᵘ ˡⁱᵏᵉ ᵐʸ ʷᵒʳᵏ, ᵖˡᵉᵃˢᵉ ʳᵉᵇˡᵒᵍ ˢᵒ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳˢ ᶜᵃⁿ ʳᵉᵃᵈ ⁱᵗ, ᵗᵒᵒ!! ᵀʰᵃⁿᵏ ʸᵒᵘ ˢᵒ ᵐᵘᶜʰ, ᵐʸ ˡᵒᵛᵉˡʸ ˡⁱˡ ᵗᵃⁿᵍᵉʳⁱⁿᵉˢ!💖💖

The first night after escaping Totto Land, everyone was on edge.

The second, everyone did their best to try and rest, but most of the Straw Hats still tossed and turned (sans Zoro, that man can and has slept through a tornado).

The third night, you'd finally decided around 3 am to get up, your thoughts still raging through your mind and keeping the sandman from blessing you with sweet, sweet sleep.

Throwing on a simple, black hoodie and dark red sweatpants, you slipped into some shoes and quietly dipped out of the women's quarters and made it upstairs to the main deck without an issue.

To your surprise, you could smell Sanji smoking; taking a look around and realizing he was up top with Nami's tangerine groves. You climbed up and gave a small wave, not wanting to startle him.

“Can't sleep either?” You ask gently, causing Sanji to snap out of his thoughts and grin up at you, going to stand but you stopped him, instead moving closer and sitting in the plush grass with him. You reached up and plucked a tangerine, giving Sanji a grin when he gently took it from you with no words said.

“Thank you,” You begin, only to stop as you notice the dark circles under his eyes. “Sanji… have you gotten any sleep?”

The blonde stops for a moment, eyes still staring at the fruit in his hands and it's seconds later when he starts moving again, silently peeling away. After it's done, he holds the slices out to you and you take half of them, gently folding his fingers over the ones left over and pushing his hand back to him.

“Don't worry, it's our secret,” you joked, giving him a sneaky grin and a small chuckle before popping a slice in your mouth.

There was a comfortable silence between you both as you ate. The moon was bright in the sky, lighting up the grove beautifully and basking you both in its light. After you were done, you took the chance to carefully ask Sanji,

“Are… are you doing okay, Sanji?”

This time, he did look at you, his usually bright eyes dull and glazed as he seemingly stared through you. “Of course,” His usual cheery voice came through, but you could feel the hurt behind his tone.

You softly reached out and grasped one of his hands, gently holding it in both of yours as you mentioned in a lightly joking tone,

“You're really bad at lying to me.”

For a long second, Sanji stared, unable to enunciate anything, though his mouth twitched a few times. He then took a long drag and let it drift out, making sure to blow it up away from you.

“Sanji… you can talk to me. I can't even imagine what you went through-”

His hand tightened around your fingers and you froze, worry for him running through your entire body. He then took a shaky breath and finally murmured out tiredly,

“I don't want to talk about it.”

You frowned sadly, holding his hand over your heart as you replied,

“You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. I just want you to know I'm here for you, always.”

Sanji sniffles softly as his gaze wanders to the grass, the aching in his heart getting harder to ignore.

“It doesn't matter-”

You squeeze his hand and comment,

“It absolutely matters Sanji, it matters to me and it matters to everyone on this crew. We're your family, we love you, Sanji.”

Nothing but another sigh came from the chef, the fight going on inside his head clearly too loud for you to get anything through to him. You could almost read the expression on his face - you don't get it, he's thinking, his gaze burning through the grassy patch.

You let his hand move back into his lap, his other hand reaching over to flick ashes off his cigarette.

“If you don't want to talk, that's okay. Do you mind listening instead, then?”

Your voice was small, so soft that it took Sanji a moment to process the words. His gaze flickered back up to you, hazy wariness hidden behind them as he nodded slightly.

You took a moment, gathering your thoughts to form into words as you gently began,

“I believe everything that happens to us happens for a reason. The good things happen to remind us that life is worth living, worth experiencing. The bad shit happens to show us how to grow, how to fight back, and to find that inner strength that you didn't even know was there.”

You shifted slightly, sitting up a bit straighter as you continued,

“I don't know what happened with you after you left. We were terrified, I was terrified. What if I never saw you again? What if I never got to tell you how amazing you were?”

Sanji also sat up more, his curled brow shifting down as he stared silently.

“Doing hard things is never easy, but having support from the people that love you makes all the difference. Even if that hard thing is just trying to survive.”

You shrug slightly, your fingers fiddling with themselves in your lap as you added,

“I heard… about Judge.”

Sanji freezes at your words, like ice cold snow had been dropped down onto him. His face twitches, the expression slightly irritated before it falls back into the previous nearly blank one.

“Sanji, have you heard the phrase, “blood is thicker than water?” Are you aware that phrase is wrong?”

Sanji lights a fresh cigarette with a slight shrug of his own, softly murmuring, “Oh.”

“The actual phrase is, “the blood of the covenant is thicker than water of the womb.”, meaning, the family you create is stronger than the family you were born into.”

You reached up and plucked another tangerine, peeling it yourself as Sanji sits, stunned and watching you with a wide, blue eye.

“I don't think I've ever met a single person with great parents. Hell, even my dad was a piece of shit too! But I can tell you, with absolute confidence, that you have a great father.”

The chef gave a single, sharp barking laugh, going to reply with a snarking bite when you cut him off with your own, sharp continuance,

“Have you forgotten so easily who you are, Sanji?”

He leans back a bit in hurt, tears welling up in his eyes as you add genuinely,

“You are Black Leg Sanji, named after your father, Red Leg Zeff. You are chef to the Straw Hat Pirates and don't you ever forget that your real father would be damn proud of how far you've come.”

You popped a few slices of tangerine into your mouth as you let your words stew, watching the tears stream down Sanji's face. You finished off the fruit and hummed softly, looking up at the sky as you spoke again.

“I think you should call him.”

You looked back to him and reached over, patting him on the shoulder a few times before getting up and brushing any dirt or grass from your butt. You threw Sanji a bright grin, your face illuminated by the moon as you softly commanded,

“Go get some sleep, Sanji. Your family will still be here in the morning.”

You turned and walked away before he could say anything, only able to watch you quietly walk back down towards the main deck door.

In the silence of the small grove, Sanji's heart beat so loud he swore the whole ship could hear it. His fingers ached, his eyes burned and his throat felt tight, like someone had welded his flesh inside together.

He knew you were right, the logic and love in your words washing over him like a warm blanket the more he thought over them.

So why couldn't he get up?

He flopped back into the grass, both eyes exposed to the shine of the moon as he puffed on his smoke. He took a last drag and put it out in the grass, intent on cleaning up after himself before he moved again. His eyes slipped shut for just a moment, his exhaustion catching up to him as his fight or flight instinct finally released its grip on him.

In seconds, Black Leg Sanji had passed out, a small smile on his lips with his body lovingly covered by the shadows from the tangerine trees.

Sanji awoke the next morning in his hammock, confusion running through him as he ran a tired hand through his hair. He groans and sits up, hopping out of his bed and slowly gets dressed, having to stop a few times as the ship rocks and he nearly trips.

Once he's dressed and more awake, he makes his way to the kitchen as usual and is surprised to find the moss head sitting at the table with a drink in his hand as you wash up dishes. It's clear that food had been made, and he goes to question you when Zoro pipes up,

“Sleep beauty finally wakes! How's it goin’, princess?” His tone is snarky and teasing but there's genuine curiosity behind the words.

Sanji only aims a kick at his head, which is blocked as usual. He huffs and straightens up his tie, giving Zoro the middle finger before sliding up behind you, completely ignoring the now furious swordsman.

“Oi! Fuck you, curlybrow!”

You're shaking your head with a roll of your eyes as Sanji asks you sweetly,

“You didn't have to do all this, mon ange! You could have woken me up-”

You looked up at him with a small grin as you commented,

“You were out like a light, Sanji. Besides, I've been watching you cook for ages, I feel like I picked up just enough to satisfy everyone.”

Sanji's cheeks burn, little hearts dancing around his head at your words. You couldn't help but breathe a soft sigh of relief, glad he was slowly returning to the man he was.

“Oh mon amour! You are the most precious thing in my life!”

Zoro gives a loud, over-exaggerated gag at that, pulling laughter from you as you finish placing the last dish into the drying rack. Sanji turns his attention back to Zoro with a snarking reply of,

“At least a woman wants to spend time with me! Your stink keeps everyone at a 5 mile radius away from you.” He proves his point by placing his hands on your hips and standing a little closer to hold you to him as he makes a face at Zoro who makes one back.

“Oh yeah? She doesn't look so comfortable from where I'm standing!”

You groan and roll your eyes again, pulling away from Sanji with burning cheeks as you make your way out of the kitchen.

“You guys can fight without me being in the middle!”

Zoro stops you before you can leave, gently grasping your wrist and pulling you to him. You give a soft “Oof!” as your body collides into Zoros, your hand pressing onto his chest to stabilize yourself.

“Oi! Shitty Swordsman! Get your grubby little hands off Y/N!”

Zoro just laughs, slinging a heavy arm around your shoulders and keeping you to him as he barks back,

“You're just mad that she doesn't hate me, ugly dandelion head!”

You pinch Zoro's nipple and he jumps, letting go of you as he shields his wounded pride and offended body part behind burning cheeks.

“The hell was that for?!”

Sanji can't help but burst out laughing, your own laughter joining in as you finally make your way out of the kitchen.

“Paybacks a bitch, Zo!”

With you gone, the two men glared and growled at each other, Sanji huffing smoke at the swordsman as Zoro puffs his chest out a bit, glaring Sanji down.

“Quit hittin” on her, you curlybrowed moron!”

“You quit it! She doesn't like stupid, ugly, unwashed assholes!”

Their foreheads smacked against each other as they growled and barked at each other, only finally breaking away as they heard you call from down the hallway,

“Sanji? Can I get your help with something?”

Sanji flashes Zoro a smug grin, puffing smoke in his face as he calls back,

“Of course I can, my darling Y/N-chaaan!”

Zoro rolls his eye as he watched the shitty love cook literally twirl and dance out the kitchen door, taking the advantage of Sanji being gone to raid the ‘secret’ cupboard that held all the good sake.

Finding an unopened bottle, Zoro uncorks it with a heavy sigh before heading back up to the crows nest.

Sanji, on the other hand, finds himself in a predicament as he searches the halls for you, confusion set on his face as he opens a few doors.

“Y/N? Where'd you go?”

He almost shrieks as a hand pulls him back, tugging him into a room and slamming the door shut. He turns and flares his nose slightly, staring you down as he presses a hand over his chest.

“Y/N! You almost gave me a heart attack,” he half-jokes, patting his chest lightly a few times as you grin up at him.

“I gotta keep you on your toes,” you replied lightly, giving him a quick wink before tugging him over to your bed. You immediately sat down and patted the space beside you, an almost expectant look on your face as you asked,

“You got some time to sit with me?”

Sanji takes in your expression and slowly sits, but not before putting out his cigarette in the small ashtray on your bedside table. His heart always thumped a few extra fast beats at your thoughtfulness.

He makes himself comfortable before he nervously asks,

“So? What did you need help with?”

Your face blossoms into bright red hues as you look down to your lap, your fingers fiddling with themselves anxiously as you slowly got out,

“I um, I just, um,” you stumble over your words, unsure of how to get them out. It takes a second, but you finally inhale before quickly spilling out in one, quick breath,

“Ireallylikeyouandidon’tknowifyoulikemetoo.”

Sanji blinks a few times, his mind trying to decipher the words that bubbled out of you, only for his head to tilt to the side as he gives a confused,

“Uh… what?”

Your cheeks darken, and you shove your face into shaking hands, trying to steady your racing heart as you groan into your palms.

You freeze as two warm hands grip lightly around your wrists, pulling your hands from your face only to find Sanji's own visage just centimeters from your own.

There's a sparkle in his uncovered eye and a wide grin on his face as he breathes out,

“You like me?”

You stiffen as your expression sinks nervously, only able to give him a soft,

“... Yeah….”

There's a single moment between you before your back is pressed onto the bed and Sanji is on top of you, his hands on either side of your head with one leg in between yours.

Shivers run over your body in anticipation, your eyes staring up into both of his as his hair dangles over you, showing every part of his beautiful face. You gently reach up and cup one of his cheeks in your palm, watching with a soaring heart as his eyes fall shut and he presses further into your palm.

“For so long…” He started, his voice just above a whisper. “I'd look at you and hope to God you could hear my thoughts racing, that you could hear how hard my heart beat for you…”

You felt your heart swell in adoration for him at his admittance, your own eyes slipping shut as he leans forward a bit to press his forehead against yours.

“For so long, all I wanted was for you to want me… the way I wanted you.”

The tip of his nose brushes against yours in a loving motion, his lips so close you could feel his breath dancing across your own.

“You don't even know how much you've healed me. My angel, my darling,” His voice cracks as he squeezes his eyes shut, fighting back tears as he pours his heart out to you. You sniffle softly, tears of your own prickling at your eyes as you open them and listen to him continue.

“There isn't a day that goes by that I just… I don't feel good enough. For you, for this crew… but the last couple days really showed me how cherished I am.”

Pulling back to stare down at you with teary eyes, Sanji somehow gets out,

“I will never take your love for granted, Y/N. I love you and I don't care if you don't feel the same-”

You cut him off with a kiss, leaning your head up just enough to capture his lips, effectively silencing him.

When you pull back, his eyes are wide, tears streaming down his face as you softly comment,

“Sanji, I love you, and I have for a long time. I thought I was going to lose you to Pudding, and that I'd never see you again,” your tears flooded down the sides of your eyes as you looked up at him. “I thought I'd never get the chance to tell you how much you meant to me.”

Sanji leans down and hugs you tightly, hiding his face in the side of your neck as he sobs silently. You cling to him, rubbing your fingers over his back and through his soft hair, murmuring loving words to him as he lets all his emotions out.

It takes a long while for Sanji to finally settle, his eyes red and achy when he finally pulls back to stare down at you. You wiped at his eyes gently as you confidently reminded him,

“Black Leg Sanji, I love you, now and forever. Do not ever forget the family you have here.”

A wide grin breaks out over his face as he leans down to kiss you, your lips melding with his as if they were made for him; like two souls made of the same star dust, colliding with each other and creating a blinding light for the world to see.

You pull away after a few moments, gently holding his face again as you murmur almost teasingly,

“I have a present for you.”

Sanji's expression makes him look like a child in a candy store with no beri limit, pulling away from you to sit back on his butt as he gushes,

“For me?! You didn't have to do that, my angel dearest,”

You cut him off with a lazy wave of your hand, sitting up and reaching into the top drawer of your desk and pulling out your small Den Den Mushi.

Sanji gives you a puzzled look as you dial in a number and hand the Den Den to him, leaning back on your headboard as it begins to ring.

Peru-peru-peru… peru-peru-peru…

Sanji almost drops your Den Den as an all too familiar voice barks out on the other end.

“This is The Baratie, Zeff speaking.”

Sanji feels like he's been punched in the chest, looking to you with watery eyes once more as you sit back with crossed arms, a smug grin on your face as you motion for him to say something.

“Carne, if this is another stupid fuckin’ prank-”

“You… shitty old man…”

There's a crackle on the other end, Sanji watching the face on the snail change from irritation to one of complete surprise.

He swears every hurt he'd ever felt in his life healed when Zeff finally spoke again.

“You shitty little eggplant…” There's another pause as he hears a sniffle from the snail.

“... My son!”

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

Grape Juice Stains

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

Warnings: brief implication of sex, hurt/comfort, angst, feelings of worthlessness, fluff

A/N: Completely self-indulgent. This is based on some recent events that happened to me, only I don't have a Larissa and I'm a cashier instead of a teacher--and it was with the Barbie movie, not a night on the town I'm okay I promise<3

In your opinion, it was a good morning–for a Monday. You woke up, ate breakfast, remembered to take your medication, and finally showered after days of struggling to even get out of bed. As you got ready for the day, you danced around the bathroom to ABBA with serotonin and confidence rushing through your veins.

With your makeup finished and hair done, you pulled on your new pair of pants and blouse, going downstairs to make your lunch. The quarters assigned to the Nevermore staff were small, but comfortable. You had spent many nights in this very kitchen with Principal Weems, letting dinner go cold as you ate a different meal. 

You were ready ten minutes early–a rare feat since you had started working anywhere. With the spare time you had, you scrolled through social media–Twitter, Snapchat, Instagram. The last two made you sick to your stomach with anger.

It was your idea to go out to Jericho Friday or Saturday night with the other teachers. Finals were right around the corner and the students had been running circles around everyone. Despite your efforts, everyone turned you down. You weren’t too fazed by it. You and Larissa ended up going out to a new restaurant in Burlington and you wouldn’t have had it any other way. But looking at your social media feed made you burn with hatred and fury.

Anger was the only thing that you could feel–anger and hurt. What was wrong? Was it something personal? Did they not like your company? You knew that you were sort of a black sheep to your coworkers–people you considered your friends at times. You had always felt a little out of place, and perhaps your relationship with Larissa did alienate you a bit. But you were always told you were pleasant, fun to have around, a joy to know. 

“Sorry, I’m gonna be out of town over the weekend.”

“Oh, I can’t. I’m so sorry! My parents are gonna be in town.”

“I’ve been absolutely exhausted all week! I’d like to recharge and catch up on grading. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay! Don’t worry about it!” you had said. Each, and every time. 

You took a deep breath and exited out of Instagram, shaking it off. You wouldn’t let this ruin your day. Realizing the time, you grabbed your water bottle filled with juice and dashed out the door, ready to greet your students at 9am. 

That was, until you were half-way to the castle and your bottle slipped out of your hand and the lid popped open on the pavement. Looking down, you weren’t surprised to see your new, pristine white pants stained pink with droplets of grape juice.

You had been worn thin for the past few weeks. From unruly students to coworkers who had no consideration for your feelings, this was the last straw. Despite the fact that students and staff alike were walking around, you finally broke down. Sobs raked through you, chest heaving and body shaking as you looked at your ruined pants and broken water bottle.

__________

“Where is she?”

“I heard someone say they saw her crying in the courtyard.”

“I hope she’s okay.”

“Obviously she’s not, she was crying.”

“Sometimes I cry for fun.”

“...what?”

A knock on the doorway brought the students from their conversation. Principal Weems stood there, confused. “Erm…where’s Ms. L/N?”

“That’s what we’re wondering,” a student answered. “Class started fifteen minutes ago and she’s not here.”

“Apparently she was seen crying in the courtyard.”

“Oh,” Larissa chirped. “Well, I’ll have Mr. Lang come in to substitute.” 

__________

Larissa made the trek up to the staff quarters, knocking on your front door softly. With no response, she took out the key you made for her specially and unlocked the door.

“Darling?” she called out, setting her keys down on the kitchen counter and creeping through the house. After checking the living room upstairs she walked down the hallway and opened your bedroom door slowly. “Sweetheart?”

You simply hummed in response.

“What’s wrong?” she asked before kicking her heels off and climbing into bed behind you. “Talk to me, please.”

Tears pooled in your eyes again and your voice cracked. “No one likes me here, Larissa.”

Her heart broke. “Oh, sweet pea,” she cooed, holding you close against her front, “that’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” you sniffled. “They went out without me. After telling me they couldn’t go out. And then posted about it on Instagram and Snapchat. And then I spilled grape juice on my white pants and they’re ruined! Larissa, I–I–”

You couldn’t get any more words out as Larissa turned you over, holding you to her chest and allowing you to cry into her neck. “It’ll be okay, darling. Everything’ll be okay.”

When you calmed down, you pulled away and smiled softly as she pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I want you to know that you belong here. When you didn’t show up for class today, your students were so worried. They love you. I love you. And every teacher who went out without you Friday night is, frankly, an asshole.”

“I know,” you mumbled. “It just…It just hurts, is all.”

“Do you want me to fire them?” Larissa joked.

You giggled. “No! No, it’s okay.”

“Oh good,” she sighed. “Because it would be hell trying to replace that many teachers.” 

Around eleven, she managed to coax you out of bed after you had fallen asleep, making you lunch before taking you outside. In the small backyard, your stained pants sat on the cushioned chair that sat at a small table. A bucket of water was on the grass and you looked confused.

“When you fell asleep, I went into Jericho to the general store,” Larissa said. “I got some packs of grape Kool-Aid so we can dye your pants.”

“I love you.” You looked at her with all the love and warmth in the world. How you managed to get Larissa Weems, you didn’t know. But never in your life had you felt so loved, so cared for, so wanted. 

Larissa smiled and pulled you in for a kiss. “I love you too, sweet pea.”

[f4ll-for-you]

Dark Deeds | Modern! Aegon

Warnings: smut, mentions of substance abuse/drug deals, mafia Aegon? I think that’s it?

This is dedicated to the wonderful @amiraisgoingthruit for listening to my Aegon rambles and being the most kind, caring soul🫶

Thank you to @arcielee for as always beta reading my mess and being the wonderful human that you are✨

Part One | Part Two

The pair of you walked into the club; it was nearing midnight and all you wanted to do was go home.

You’d already been to three parties, waiting for your boyfriend to deal with his ‘business,’ but now you were exhausted and your feet hurt, desperate to get out of your 5 inch heels.

“Last stop baby, I promise,” Aegon spoke kindly, and he kissed your forehead as he led you to your usual booth at the back.

“Better be,” you grumbled. Aegon glared at you harshly, he couldn’t deal with you being a brat tonight.

When you both sat down, Aegon immediately pulled you onto his lap, his need to feel you close. He enjoyed his 'profession' and this type of business, the heat of crowded clubs, but he also craved you to be near him, protected and safe at his side.

You slumped into him, tired and needy.

Aegon’s clients sat across from him, your back towards them. They looked through you, knowing if they acknowledged you in any way, that Aegon would have their heads on spikes.

As Aegon made his deals, his thumb brushed circles on your thigh and a wetness pooled between your legs. You tried to stop yourself, knowing you would be punished if you misbehaved, but that only seemed to turn you on more.

You leaned gently towards Aegon's ear, as if you were just sleepy, nestling into him. “Mmm, baby need you now,” you half mumbled, half moaned, begging to grind yourself into his suit-covered thigh.

“Later, sweetheart,” he growled, luckily going unnoticed by his clients.

Aegon squeezed your bottom as a warning, as he wasn’t in the mood for your bratty games. This deal would get him a quarter of a million, his biggest turn over yet.

Choosing not to listen, you continued to grind down into his thigh, your thin panties unable to hold in your dripping wetness. You slowly sped up, chasing your high as you moaned into Aegon's ear, feeling him grow beneath you.

Aegon coughed, smacking your ass gently, warning you not to continue.

Once again, you ignored this. You were too overwhelmed with pleasure to care how you looked right now.

When Aegon looked back up across the table, he realised his clients were rather enjoying the show you were putting on for them, with their flicker of jealousy of Aegon at that moment.

Noticing this, Aegon smirked, his hand tracing down your thigh slowly. You whimpered as he gently flicked and toyed with your clit. “Sorry gentleman, let’s continue, ignore my girl, she just can’t wait for Daddy sometimes.”

Usually you would be livid at this, but before you could protest, Aegon's middle finger slid between your soaking folds, curling and causing you to let out an audible moan.

“So, I am offering my stock for three quarters of a million, that is my final offer gentlemen,” Aegon continued, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening directly on his lap.

His clients, too enamoured with the scene before them, merely nodded, half listening as Aegon discussed the deal on the table.

Your moans became louder as Aegon added a second finger, his thumb rubbing against your pearl. Aegon chuckled at the mess you had created on his suit trousers. “Making such a mess for me, baby,” he commented nonchalantly.

You continued to grind down into his fingers, chasing your high intently, shaking with pleasure.

“Fuck,” you moaned loudly. Aegon was sure two of the men opposite came in their pants with how their cheeks instantly flushed red.

Aegon gently pulled his fingers from your folds, bringing them up to his mouth, licking them clean before kissing you.

“So fellas, do we have a deal?” Aegon asked expectantly.

“Of course, sir,” they mumbled simultaneously, a large bouncer behind them handing Aegon the suitcase of money.

The men left with red faces and bulging trousers. Your little show had managed to pay off after all.

“Hmm, maybe you should be needy more often baby, the customers seem to like it,” Aegon smirked as he admired the stacks of notes displayed on the table in front of him. “Especially if you’re earning me that kind of money.”

“Anything for you, my love,” you whispered into his ear, drained from your orgasm.

He pulled you to your feet and you fell asleep on Aegon's shoulder on the ride back, his driver bringing you both back to your penthouse; your heels were discarded on the floor under the seat.

“Baby, we’re home,” Aegon spoke, only receiving a mumbled response from you.

Rolling his eyes, he picked you up bridal style and carried you up to the apartment, heels in hand.

He placed you gently onto the king size bed, careful to unzip and peel away your dress, and helping you into one of his large T-shirts. As you curled into him, the last thing you remembered hearing was his sweet voice and its delivered promise.

“You are a minx, don’t think you won’t be punished in the morning,” he kissed you on your hairline as you fell into a deep sleep.

Taglist: @amiraisgoingthruit @lovelykhaleesiii @sylas-the-grim @arcielee

[golatcxr]

[KomaHina] inhale, exhale

Word count: 1481

Tags: Hurt with Comfort, Mild angst (if you squint), Vaping, Detective AU (though it has almost nothing to do with the storyline), let's pretend that Nagito doesn't have lymphoma it hurts so much please, Subtle confession

--------------------

“I thought you hated smoking?”

The question draws a lazy blink from the white-headed male.

His exhale makes it look like he’s breathing out in the frigid air of winter, yet he is not. The faint smoke swirls, only to be carried away along with the gentle breeze of August. It’s alluring, in a way, if not for the sly smile that’s facing Hinata’s way.

It’s always hard not to stare.

“Maybe, but things have changed I guess.”

Komaeda chuckles bitterly as he closes the lid of his vape pen with an audible pop. “Say, aren’t I pathetic?”

Hinata has never seen him so weary, much less going as far as to damage his own lungs with the thing that he used to despise. Hinata then takes a seat on the tire swing, careful not to fall into its hole. He wonders why many children had the guts to even stand on this thing, but either way, it’s not the children on these swings now.

It’s two detectives, admidst the blueberry scented air.

“Something must have happened, no? Your self-loathing normally doesn’t usually push you this far.” Hinata speaks up softly.

“I half-expected that you would get this wrong, but no, nothing happened. Just me and my same old self.” Komaeda lets out a breathy laugh in response, if it could ever be considered a laugh, that is.

He leans his side against the rusty chain that’s holding the swing upright and slowly turns his head to gaze at his colleague. He smiles.

Hinata has stuck around for long enough to deduct the meanings behind each and every smile Komaeda has thrown his way, though this one doesn’t seem as apparent to him.

“I’m proud of you”, “You’re wrong”, “Thank you”, “What a pity”, …

.

“?”

Mesmerizing as his green yes are, it’s easier to get lost in his gaze than to decipher them. Hinata’s nose stings a little.

“You’re so hard to read sometimes…”

Hinata doesn’t know when Komaeda has held out a hand towards him.

He gives Komaeda a quick look to confirm whether that hand is supposed to be for him to take in his or not, in the end, he decides to give in.

“I’m impressed by the amount of patience that you have, Hinata-kun.” Hinata can feel Komaeda’s thumb tracing circles on his hand, all cold and dry, as he goes on. “Let me guess, you stormed out in the middle of the night to find me because you found out what under my blanket wasn’t me, correct?”

“Why else would I be here then?” Hinata blurted out almost immediately. To say he was worried was an understatement, but his tiredness has beat him to it.

“Hah… I feel so touched knowing that.” Komaeda sighs quietly.

Hinata wonders if it’s the moon, or if his god-forsakken coworker really looked so relieved after hearing what he has just said. Komaeda has been smiling this whole time and the grip on Hinata’s hand tightens. Hinata opens and closes his mouth a few times but he doesn’t end up saying anything, instead, he stares back into the same pair of eyes that’s looking at him. He has so much to say, but they are all incomprehensible thoughts mushed together in his head. They might even look worse than the amount of work that has once bogged him down when he was working wih the court. But…

Isn’t this the perfect opportunity to have a deep talk with Komaeda?

Where does he even start?

“You want to say something.” Komaeda blankly states, which then successfully catches Hinata’s attention. “You have a habit of druming your fingers or swaying your legs when you’re itching to say something.”

Ah…

Hinata can’t help but feel a little ashamed when his feelings are stripped raw like that. Well, Komaeda is also a detective himself, is he not?

“I knew you wouldn’t scold me from the moment you caught me vaping, Hinata-kun.” He begins. “You wouldn’t scold me for running away from our quarter in the middle of the night, nor would you scold me for indulging in such… detrimental hobby.”

Komaeda’s fingers then shift slightly only to weave them into the rough ones that are within their reach. He continues.

“You know, I was beyond happy when you asked. Such scum like me does not deserve someone like you…” Komaeda trails off as he drifts his gaze down his intertwined hand. “You are observant, but sometimes, I want your eyes to be reserved for me only.”

Despite how quietly Komaeda speaks, the very few things that Hinata can hear are the sound of leaves rustling and the white-headed’s talking. It would be safe to say that this dead of the night adorns Komaeda’s voice so much it’s a far cry from the usual raspy voice that he hears when they are at work or solving a case together. Oh how he wants to put it on replay.

“Komaeda…”

“Look at me.”

Those three words snap Hinata back to locking eyes with Komaeda, only then does he realize that his eyes have wandered anywhere but not the eyes. Komaeda’s body has been way over the thick chain, to the point where he can just fall face-first if he leans a tiny bit more. Hinata quickly pulls his hand up to prevent that from happening.

Komaeda chuckles as he sits up again properly. “I’ve been thinking, when will you finally runs out of patience for me and let go of me?” His smile stays unfazed, although it’s hard to ignore the underlying bitterness of it.

“Will you be fine without me?”

“Better, as in better off dead.” Komaeda talks as if he’s joking around with it, but then again, Hinata knows what it means.

“Don’t tell me this is the reason behind your sudden interest in vaping.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“…”

Hinata brings his free hand up his forehead and heave out a long sigh. He’s conflicted about whether he should give Komaeda a slap across the face, or pull him into his embrace.

Komaeda stands up slowly and makes his way over to Hinata, now towering him. His cloudy locks drops slightly over his pale face as he lifts Hinata’s chin to make eye-contact. Droopy eyelids topping over his grayish green orbs, unlike Hinata’s heterochromatic ones. They look so much more vibrant.

“You have no idea how much your caring gestures mean to me.”

This time, Komaeda’s voice sounds more strained as he starts to caress Hinata’s face. “The way you would always look out for me, the way that you never leave me behind in a mission, everything…”

"It hurts, calling you a friend."

Hinata’s lips part slightly, and Komaeda chuckles at that.

"You get what I mean, right?"

"Yeah, and I'm positive about that."

Komaeda fishes out the vape pen in his pocket and quickly inhales it.

"Open your mouth."

The sudden request takes Hinata by surprise. He hesitates at first, but then complies anyways.

Komaeda holds Hinata's jaw to keep his mouth open and blows the smoke into it. He intentionally keeps he grip on Hinata's face for a brief second before releasing him. Hinata then immediately closes his mouth and coughs out a little, his face burning. The fresh air now smells like blueberry again, he almost forgot that Komaeda had been vaping before he arrived.

"??????"

"Sorry, it's just a way of reminding you of me." Komaeda's grin springs back onto his face as he twirls the vape in his hand.

"You could have just kissed me."

"Too bad I chose not to. Otherwise I'd go wild if you let me."

Komaeda leans his forehead against Hinata's, hands in his pockets so carefreely. The answer he was given to his subtle confession was like a weight lifted off his shoulders. For him, that's enough.

"The next time you feel insecure, you can talk to me." Hinata threads his hand into Komaeda's soft locks and strokes his head gently as he trails off. "I'd be more than willing to lend you an ear."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"And don't run away like that again."

"Alright." Komaeda's smile widens as he pulls back a little until their eyes meet again.

At this point, he decides to just shut off kinds of thoughts in his mind and lean in to capture Hinata's lips. It's an hurried kiss, yet it feels like only a split second when they part their lips. He blinks.

"Stay with me, will you?"

"Sure." Hinata finally eases up and return Komaeda's smile. "I was about to say that you should quit vaping, but before that..."

He swiftly pulls the small device out of Komaeda's pocket and holds it up. May be the vape is getting to him as well.

"Mind doing it again?"

"Gladly."

Blueberry scented vape isn't so bad after all, or perhaps it's Komaeda.

I'm back to writing after more than a year of hiatus yipee 😭

[meli-writes]

Mechismo - No. 01 /// Shore-Girl

The red-boots girl circles the 180-Dock, prances over fuel and vomit spills.

Your shore-girl — ‘cos pilots know civvies won’t ever get it. Your machine does, but you can’t fuck the machine — least per new regulations, and field-issue tech. So you take the closet thing; their warm, cock-waving, hole-haver flesh-hearts, and settle for that.

And civvies are soft, and weak, and… even over the smoke and oil she smells good.

You’re still in the combat-romper, short-short at the shoulder and thighs — mount-points for the gun show; her hands run on its centre-torso, over coolant hose that weaves into spooled intestine. No point in extra effort — ‘cos it’s never real with a civvie.

And she’ll just want a knight, in oil-stained armour, to strut her into the fanciest do on the station’s promenade and let her pouted lips sip on 200u cocktails — as if she’s bored.

“Who’s it now?” you ask, as if you’ll take her back when you’re on a merc’s pension.

“Repairman, see ‘em on C12-Deck on commute sometimes,” she says, matter-of-fact and eye-fucks the silverwear set worth more than rent. “Bigger than you, gets more scars from vending machines than you do yours—” There’s a pleased purr to the peg-lower. “—Waitress at Amputel — shit-hole dive on 270-Dock. Small like me, locs down to the ass. Think I could tangle up in her till neither of us can get free. And the—”

She runs on — down till you’ve hit the C-Deck Airlock — each ‘rival’ is hotter and richer than the last. They got fake at some point; maybe when they got better than you — but that’s near enough all of them.

Like she’s not worse.

“Do I have to remind,” you snarl at your H-Deck sump-rat — who owes dinner, boots, and half-rent to daddy. Owes you. “Why you’re supposed to wait for me?”

She stares past, at a passerby that looks you up-and-down, then her. You squeeze her hip, tight, as if to screw suspender bolts into your machine’s lower-torso.

She squeals sweeter than it does, “I did.”

The civvie gets a smile, different ones from both of you. You hover, interposed, till they’ve decided she’s yours, and crossed the lock in the opposite direction, then lift her up and onwards.

She’ll never get as high as the machine can; isn’t as good, “So where’s my gratitude?”

Lance-mates bark over your shoulder when your phone pings; confiscate it, and howl at her nudes and the closet moon while one falsettos out her texts in-between leering asks.

Shore-girl likes to be sweet, doesn’t it?

You like it?

Lance Sirocco’s got a new girl.

How fuckin’ tight is it?

Should ask her out. She’s real.

How’d you make it do that?

“I’ve paid enough for this ass,” you tell both, breathing on her tits as they stutter with her till she’s backed into her door. “Did all the fuckin’ work. I know-you-know you owe it to me.”

You stare at the cabochon that crowns her wreathed neck, at its reflection.

“Come on then — jockie-girl,” she bites. “Claim it.”

So your hand slides down, lifts her till she’s braced on the door and wrapped around you. Her fat oozes under the red velvet crop-top, like guts spilled from the pile-driven centre-torso of that dumb kid who should’ve ejected into the now-pink snow.

And she’s soft, and weak… when you press your lips to hers.

“And apologise,” she mutters into your mouth, and reaches for the door control. “You make me wait far too—” Zhweep. You fall into her quarters — on top of her, “Owww.”

It still wouldn’t hurt if she wasn’t soft, but it’s nice.

Your faint smile is target-locked, and she giggles; has to break character at last, and her roommate shadows the doorframe, “Ol’ Candlish called me, worried sick. Said you’d been accosted by a nair-do-well.”

She snorts, “Hey.” And rolls you over, ass-to-the-carpet. It’s not soft.

“So have I met your fabled pilot-girlfriend at last?” her roommate teases, it doesn’t seem to hurt. “Ya know, the one you can’t seem to shut up about?” Though there’s a bloom in her cheeks, the same colour as her top.

“Yes,” you cut in, in giggles too, before she says 'no.' An engineer would rip that soundbite outta the CCTV and make it loop in your machine on boot-up. You’d choke them out for it.

Get reprimanded.

Do it again.

“Guess I’m gonna go see Belle,” her roommate responds. “I heard she’s got the Core League footie on video. Ta-ta!”

It takes one hand to haul your girlfriend up.

She nestles in close, looks down; feels soft, and real. It’s nice to have someone to ground you, 'cos the machine won’t; to ground into the pillows, tell her what each new scar earned to spend on her. So she can be weak; herself. So the machine doesn’t take it all.

She reels back, still looking down — at the romper you’ve worn all night.

“Is that your strap under there!?”

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

originally written 15/07/2024 on cohost, in response to Making-up-Mech-Pilots' prompt:

Mech Pilot who wants what you have. Not the Machine.

for additional context, there was a running theme on cohost and its gorgeous, prominent mech fic about civilians never 'getting it' and this was a fun ode to/spin of those by making it exactly what a pilot might want. also i saw horny battletech art ngl that too.

[jungkookslipring]

I Will Never Make You Lonely: CH 2

Summary: When your life is falling apart, your 8 best friends are there to lift you up

TW: mentions of de&th, su!c!de, su!c!de tendencies, su!c!dal ideologies, depress!on, anxiety, crying. If this is in any way triggering I’d steer towards more of my happier works. 

If you or someone you love has thought of or acted on suicide, there is help and there is hope 

Call or text 988

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, non-idol AU

PSA: this is no way represents the artists. While their birth names are used in this story, this is in no way a reflection of the artist or artists in real life.

AU: this chapter is a little more lighthearted, but I wanted to add the trigger warnings just in case.

there is a tickle scene in here, so if it's not your cup of tea you are more than welcome to skip this chapter.

Ch 2

The last seven days have felt slow and dreadful, and all you could do was work. You were currently in the fourth week of your final quarter with midterms coming up soon. Although your friends have their own school work to worry about, they are starting to become worried about you. You haven't shown any signs of emotion since you received that phone call.

You would spend 12 to 16 hours each day reading, writing, deleting, and editing. However, when it was time for bed, you couldn't sleep. And even if you managed to sleep, you would have very vivid nightmares. As a result, more than half of the time, you would keep yourself busy by burning through homework assignments and projects.

Sometimes the guys would bring you food, drinks, or snacks because they knew you wouldn’t do it yourself, and you were now approaching a no-sleep streak of almost 72 hours. You truly didn’t know how you were still functioning, and they didn’t know either. One evening you were sitting at your windowsill, reading yet another case study. You closed your eyes for a split second before your heart nearly jumped out of your butt when Hyunjin, Han, and Minho burst into your room. You stared at them with your hand over your chest.

"What. the actual fuck is happening?" you ask trying to catch your breath. Hyunjin grabbed your textbook and Han grabbed a hold of your hands.

"Friday night movie night! Don't tell me you were going to skip!" Han said full of energy. Right, movie night. On any given day they would jump on your bed and quite literally drag you away from whatever you were doing so you could all binge-watch movies until the early AM, but Chris had warned them to leave you alone because you were studying. That didn't work out so well.

"If you want to study you can, we just thought you deserved a break," Minho said kindly. Han stood there swinging your arms side to side, patiently waiting for an answer.

"You haven't taken a proper break for days, y/n, and sleeping doesn't count as a break, which we know you haven't gotten a whole lot of either," Hyunjin said as he thumbed the dark circle under your eye gently. You exhaled and closed your eyes. All the shock mixed with not getting any sleep was not only mentally draining but also physically.

“I’m fine, I don’t sleep a whole lot anyways,” you said, shrugging it off, but if you spent the rest of the night studying, you were going to collapse, and the boys knew that. They suggested that you take a nice hot shower and meet them in the living room for some much-needed best-friend time. Seungmin was already on a mission to get your shower bomb that made the entire bathroom smell super citrusy and lit a candle to provide a little bit of light so that the overhead light wasn't so bright. After the shower, you walked into the bedroom and saw a pair of folded pajamas that were warm from just being pulled out of the dryer and placed on the bed. You felt so much love for those boys. There was a gentle knock at the door once you were dressed.

“Come in,” you called out. The door cracked open as Minho poked his head in the door frame. 

“I made soup if you would like any,” he said sweetly. You gave him a smile as you whispered “Thank you”. He had sad eyes and a kind smile, he knew (they all knew) how hard you were taking everything. Minho slowly pushed past the door and walked up to you. 

“Aigoo…” he whispered as he cupped your face, studying your features.  

“You must be exhausted." You nodded and looked down at the floor.

“Would you like to eat? Even if it’s just a bite or two?” he asked. You nodded slowly as he carefully took a handful of your sweater paw and led you out of your bedroom. As you stepped out of the hallway into the kitchen, you noticed that the boys were scattered in the living room. They were having soup while the TV was on low volume, making sure not to be too loud. When you walked in, they greeted you with sweet smiles. Minho handed you a bowl of soup and led you to the couch. Changbin patted the spot between him and Han, inviting you to sit. You weren't sure which movie they had picked, but it managed to distract you. After you finished your soup, Han took your bowl while Changbin snuggled you close to his side. Han came back and stroked your hair while cooing at the both of you.

“Our baby,” he said sweetly.

“She’s not a baby, she’s older than you,” Changbin jokingly sassed at Han. Han put a hand over his heart and made the most extra gasp he had ever made. You giggled and patted Changbin’s hand.

“I’m older than you too you know,” you say while trying to hide a smile. Everyone in the room burst out laughing as Changbin gave you a look of betrayal.

“By two months!” he squawked at you as he began to poke your sides. You giggled as you buried yourself further between Changbin and the couch cushions, trying to get away from Changbin’s hands.

“Oh no, you’re not going anywhere missy!” Changbin laughed as he pulled you onto his lap. He held you in his arms as he squeezed your side with one hand.

“Bihihin quit ihihihihit,” you giggled trying to fold in on yourself. Your arms were trapped under his so your whole midsection was exposed while Han grabbed a hold of your ankles to hold you down. You squeaked when Chris got on the couch, plopping himself right next to your hips, and pressed his fingers into your tummy, turning your giggles to laughter. 

“Awww there’s that laugh we love so much, tickle tickle tickle,” he teased as his eyes turned into beautiful little crescents. 

“YOU GUYHAHAHAHA YOU GUYS ARE SO BAHAHAHAHAD!” You threw your head back on Changbin’s shoulder as you continued to squeal while the boys cooed at your reaction. As the movie played on, three of the boys tickled and teased you while the rest looked on with adoration. It was heartwarming to see you smile again since they had missed it. After a few minutes, Chris and Changbin stopped tickling you, and you resumed cuddling with Changbin while Han kept your feet on his lap and tapped a beat on your calves. The group ended up having a movie marathon, with occasional pokes and squeezes from Changbin and Han.

As your favorite movie played on, Changbin noticed that you were starting to fall asleep on his chest. He began to play with your hair, alternating between massaging your head, rubbing his hand up and down your back, and gently running his fingers through your hair. The soft touches on your head and back and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat helped you fall into a peaceful sleep. Once you were asleep, Changbin nudged Han and pointed to you, indicating that you were out. Han quietly cooed at you and signaled everyone else that you were asleep. By the time the last movie had ended, it was almost 9 p.m., and Chris suggested that everyone should rest. Changbin picked you up and carried you to your bed without waking you up. He tucked you in, gave you a soft kiss on the forehead, turned off the lights, and closed the door.

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Stay tuned for CH 3!

taglist: @felixmainacc @felixburneracc @myforevermelody143 @dunno-wut-to-do @itzsana-kiddingmenow

[tailorvizsla]

TAILOR.

Imagine you happen upon the Armorer soaking away her sore muscles, tired and achy from working long hours in the forge...

Don't think about offering to rub her shoulders for her, or the noises she makes as you work out a particularly tender knot.

And certainly don't think about turning the tables and calling HER "good girl" for once.

IZZY THE OTHER HALF OF MY SMUTTY BRAINCELL THE DEVIL ON MY SHOULDER HERE YOU GO :D

the new covert has it drawbacks - like giant fucking alligators and huge fucking bats that swarm the skies at night - but it also has its positives, like the gorgeous hot springs deep, deep within the caves. they're so big that the Tribe has set up partitions so everyone can use them in relative privacy. you look forward to having a dip tonight, but as you pass by the Foundry, you notice that Armorer seems to be hammering slower than normal? you pause in the doorway to watch her, and you frown - yeah, she's obviously uncomfortable

your eyes wander around the room and you almost cluck indignantly - she's got piles of armor everywhere, it's like the entire Tribe has decided they need repairs now. ugh, she's obviously been working nonstop since this morning, so she will definitely need a break once she's done - and you know she's not stopping until all armor is repaired and her Tribe is properly protected

it's nearly midnight by the time she's done, and it's clear she's in pain. you stayed up to wait for her, and as soon as she tries to go to the showers, you take her by the hand.

"let's hit the springs, yeah?" you ask. her strong hand squeezes around yours and she nods. "That would be most enjoyable," she remarks. As the two of you walk, you notice that her gait is off. Her entire back must be killing her. Fortunately, you have a nice bacta-infused muscle cream in your quarters, so you'll be able to take care of her there.

The air grows damp and hot the further in you go. Finally, at the very end, you find her favorite one. It's nearest to the vents, so it's fairly hot. Inside, the two of you strip down, and have a quick wash before entering the hot water. It stings your calves and feet as you step in, but she doesn't even seem to notice it. Armorer sinks down onto the stone bench and moans.

You slip onto it behind her and pull her close, kissing the back of her neck. She sighs and melts. she just melts your arms. Your hands work along her back and shoulders, carefully massaging each tense muscle you find. Once she's a little looser, you start using more force, a shiver of pleasure shooting through you as her soft moans grow louder. her shoulders are hard and thick with years of hard work at the forge. and she has so few scars, even for someone who has seen as much combat as she has. you lean forward and kiss the back of her neck, brushing a damp curl forward over her shoulder. then you start to bite gently.

"cyare, did you bring me here to take liberties with me?" she asks with a rich laugh, her head falling back onto your shoulder. you find her pulse point and bite down gently.

"i'd never do something so base and inappropriate to our armorer," you whisper into her ear, your fingers working downwards. she hums in delight as you find her clit and start to massage gently.

"i see," she says. "and what precisely are you doing down there, then?"

"massaging," you return easily, your other hand rising to pinch her nipple. she sighs again, and relaxes against you. your fingers work slowly at first, then a little firmer. you squeeze and stroke and rub until her breathing comes faster and faster. her fingertips dig into your thighs as she tenses, and you've had enough experience to know there will be ten little bruises dotting your thighs. it hurts but in the best of ways. your lips fall to her shoulder again and you bite down harder this time, wrenching an actual cry from her.

her hips lift up into your hand as you circle her pearl one last time and she shakes in your arms, her breasts heaving as she gasps and undulates. you hold her throughout her orgasm, kissing and biting gently, marking her with little love bites so she'll be reminded of you each time she undresses. she sags in your arms as you embrace her from behind. the two of you stay in the water until youre both pruny and wrinkly. that night, once the two of you have gone home, you massage her back and shoulders with the cream.

then you call in a favor from doctor shen and ask her very nicely to make sure armorer takes tomorrow morning off. sure, armorer is going to be PISSED that you went behind her back like that, but you plan to have a hot breakfast ready for her by the time she gets back. ❤️