#he splashes about so pathetically the water gets in his eyes and his nose he begs to be let out

[serethereal]

r learning how to swim is something that can be so personal

[pseudowho]

Full

Nanami Kento treats his pregnant wife like the goddess she is.

Warnings: 18+, relentlessly fluffy sex

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You were thoroughly fed-up. About as pregnant as you could possibly be, you spent your days in permanent tiredness; belly too heavy and round, and hips too sore to be comfortable in any position overnight, you knew your wonderful husband Kento would take the aches and pains from you if he could.

Lying in bed on your side, pillows wedged under your bump, between your legs, and behind your back, Kento reached a reassuring hand out to stroke your waist as you grumbled to yourself; a full hour in bed now and no chance at sleep. Holding your legs together to support your aching hips, you heaved yourself up sideways, feeling your bones and muscles creak in protest. With a lump in your throat and tears burning in your eyes, you sat on the side of the bed to gather yourself.

You heard the bed creak behind you, and soft footsteps padded round the bedroom towards you. Warm, large hands cupped your cheeks and temples, stroking you gently. You leaned forwards, resting your nose and lips against his lower tummy, nuzzling and planting soft kisses there.

"I'm sorry. You can't get any sleep with me thrashing around. I can go to the spare room if you like," you reassured Kento. You felt his disapproval rumble through his abdomen.

"Don't ever apologise. I'm sorry you're so uncomfortable. For what it's worth, you're doing an amazing job. Not long left, I'm sure. We can get you through it. I'll run you a bath."

You hummed your approval, his hand lingering in yours as he walked towards the bathroom. You heard various containers being clicked, and the bath water beginning to run, before Kento headed back to you, planting a soft kiss on your forehead. He grasped your hands and helped you to stand, before helping you to remove your pyjama bottoms.

You felt pathetic, useless, ugly, watching your gorgeous husband help you undress. As if reading your mind, he kissed his way playfully up your legs, blew a raspberry on your bump, and pulled you to him.

"You are just as lovely, if not lovelier than you've ever been. Watching you grow our baby has been a total delight and I want you to know that I still find you completely irresistible." You scoffed at him, dubious, puffy-ankled and tearful. He grasped your chin gently and pulled you to look up at him.

"I mean it," he said, voice low and so sincere you felt your eyes prick with tears. Sniffling, you rubbed your nose. "Come on. Your bath should be about ready."

Kento led you to the bath, and held your hands as you stepped in and lowered your body, sighing as the almost too hot water sank into your aching hips. Letting out a satisfied hum, you lay back in the scented water, looking at your swollen breasts and belly rising like islands out of the water. Kento watched you fondly for a moment, before slipping away to the kitchen. You faintly heard the click of the kettle, and the clinking of mugs.

Eyes closed, and slowly inhaling the steam, you watched your belly roll and jump, as your baby tumbled inside it. Stroking your tummy, you didn't notice Kento returning with a cup of tea for you. He knelt by the side of the bath, chin on one arm, as he gently splashed water over your moving bump. When his heavy hand rested atop your bump, fingers tip-tapping, your baby stopped as if listening. Kento chuckled.

"Only moving for mama again? Hello, sweetie. We can't wait to meet you." A moment of still, before Kento received a pronounced thump against his fingers. Kento continued to softly brush water over your belly and breasts, watching you intently, utterly besotted, believing with absolute certainty that he would walk through fire for you and your unborn baby.

You felt Kento's eyes bore into you, and you shifted uncomfortably, still feeling like a shadow of yourself, body taken over by something wholly undesirable. However, judging by Kento's gradually darkening eyes as he scanned your body, wet and full, he certainly did not feel the same. You felt your heart squeeze as his fingertips grazed ever so lightly against your nipples, which instantly tightened and pebbled. Kento's mouth watered.

It hadn't been his intention to become so aroused by you. His sole priority had been your comfort, to make you feel good in your body, but he felt his pyjamas growing tighter and tighter as he watched your body in the water, a Romantic-era goddess who deserved to be awash in flowers and adoration. Biting his lip, Kento mentally shook himself off, not at all wanting to bother you with his desire, knowing you were uncomfortable and exhausted, until--

"Kento, I...feel like as much as I want you right now, I just...I--" you hesitated, stumbling on your words as he frowned lightly at you. You reached a hand over the lip of the bath to stroke his bare chest as you continued, "All I mean is, in my current state, there is nothing I could possibly do to make...to make me...an attractive experience for you." You finished weakly, your words falling flat as Kento's dark eyes continued to stare you down, now hungry and, apparently, stubbornly determined to prove you wrong.

Kento hummed to himself again, remaining, as always, a man of few words. "I wish you could see yourself through my eyes," he mused, "because all I see is the love of my life, beautifully wet, carrying my baby, in a body I can taste in my dreams, telling me she's undesirable, while it's all I can do not to lift you out of this bath and sink my tongue and cock into you until you're too busy calling my name to continue thinking something so ridiculous."

You bit your lip, thighs squeezing together as you felt a familiar heat pool between your legs. Kento leaned into you, kissing you deeply, slipping his tongue into you and you gasped as he moaned at your taste. Without breaking contact with you, he reached down to the end of the bath, grabbing the shower head and adjusting its setting. You felt a warm water jet rush against your thighs, as he slowly raised it to the throbbing ache between your legs.

Your head fell back, mouth open in a silent cry and hands gripping the sides of the bath. The hot pulse of water on your aching clit hit you instantly and intensely, and Kento leaned half into the bath, taking your nipple between his teeth and holding your hips still with another hand. You whined and whimpered, hands tangling into Kento's hair, completely wordless with pleasure as he moved the shower head in small circles around your clit, licking your sore nipple.

Your tummy tightened almost painfully, as you felt your orgasm rapidly approaching, a violent one, overstimulated by the fierce rush of water and Kento's mouth on your sensitive nipples. Kento talked you through your pleasure, voice low and soft as velvet.

"Are you going to cum? I won't deny you. You've earned it. I'll make you fall apart a hundred times if that's what it takes for you to understand what you do to me." You gasped, hands furiously clutching his hair, his shoulders, his chest, your hip gripped tightly by him as you bucked and writhed in the water.

Kento pressed the showerhead firmly against your clit. "Cum," he ordered, and you shouted your pleasure as your orgasm hit you like a train, completely blinded by bliss, face screwed up and whimpering.

Throwing the showerhead aside and turning off the taps, Kento reached fully into the water and lifted you as if you weighed nothing, nose to nose with you before draping you onto your bed. Before you could protest about wet sheets, Kento dropped straight to his knees, bodily dragged your bum to the edge of the bed and placed your knees over his shoulders. You had barely a moment to gather your thoughts before Kento plunged his tongue between your folds and licked a fat stripe from entrance to clit.

You bucked, gasping, hypersensitive and senses on high alert. You craned your neck desperately as you felt Kento begin to suck on your clit, but were completely unable to see him past your bump. Your toes curled against his shoulder blades, hands reaching out, desperate to ground yourself with the pleasure overwhelming you, your second orgasm rapidly approaching, and you sobbed your pleasure into the dark warmth of your bedroom. As your hand reached down, Kento's hand reached up and his fingers laced with yours. You could have cried at the sweet intimacy of his thumb stroking your palm, as you came, crying out and twisting, calling Kento's name into the dark.

Kento lapped at you like a starving man, one hand already freeing his cock from the tight confines of his pyjamas. He couldn't help giving himself long strokes, squeezing at the tip and feeling pre-cum leak over his hand as his thumb swiped across his slit. He shivered, involuntarily groaning into your pussy, and he felt your thighs twitch around his head at the vibrations. By this point, he knew you could barely see straight, panting and gripping his hand, your anchor in the mist.

The thought of you writhing with pleasure above him spurred him on further, and, reluctantly letting go of his desperate length, he pressed two fingers deep inside your pussy, wet and fluttering, instantly able to locate the spongy spot inside you which would send you over the edge again.

You were a mess at this point, tears of overstimulation streaking down into your ears, gripping Kento's hand like a lifeline. You hadn't allowed him to pleasure you like this for weeks, feeling like your body didn't belong to you anymore, and guilty towards your unborn baby for feeling this way. So long had passed that you hadn't realised how desperately you had craved Kento while denying him and yourself.

"Please Kento I can't-- can't--" you babbled, completely incapable of stringing a sentence together. His hand squeezed yours reassuringly again, and you felt his fingers curl up inside you as his tongue flicked practiced circles over you.

Feeling your pussy clench around him again, and you whimpering weakly, thighs shaking around his head, Kento felt his thighs now sticky with his own precum. Squeezing the base of his cock as he gently brought you down from your high, he nuzzled at your thighs, planting light kisses and soft words of adoration. Kento tried to pant quietly, still unwilling to chase his own needs with your body, as long as you were sated and in full knowledge that he adored you still.

Kento felt his hand being tugged by you, insistently.

"Get up here. I'm not done with you." As Kento's face appeared above your bump, nose and chin glistening with your essence, you blushed at the mischievous look in his eyes. He crawled up the bed, hovering over you, caging you in, all broad planes of muscle and protection.

"Do you want to...I mean, I'm just happy if you're happy..." Kento stopped as you placed a finger on his lips.

"Just...help me flip over." Kento growled lowly in approval, and flipped you over onto your knees with ease. He reached up the bed to place pillows around and underneath you, until your bump was supported and your bum arched beautifully towards him. He ran his tongue languidly along the exaggerated 'S' of your back, before placing a playful nip on your bottom. You squeaked and waggled your bum at him, and he placed a firm slap on one cheek as you giggled. Warmth spread through him, delighted by your happiness.

Kento lazily fingered your folds, so wet and inviting, and you sighed, pressing back into his hands. He dipped one finger inside you again, using your wetness to lubricate his cock as he continued to pump himself at the view of you, so open and inviting before him. He leaned around you, caging you in again, now from behind, and you felt so deliciously vulnerable.

His voice, slow and sultry, rumbled through your ear; "let me know if I'm hurting you."

With no further warning, you felt every inch of Kento sheath within you, your swollen pussy sensitive and clenching instantly, and it took all of Kento's restraint not to cum right there. Holding your hips tightly against his, his head rolled back in bliss and he sighed deeply, grunting as he pulled out and sharply thrust back into you again, relishing your squeaks and gasps.

Kento wanted to hold himself back, but, desperate to show you exactly how desirable he found you, his hips took on a life of their own, slamming repeatedly into you. He groaned and panted, eyes fixed on where his cock sunk into you, watching your wetness coat his thighs until the room was filled with wet slaps and guttural moans. You had given yourself over to him completely, and lay prone, back arched and arse in the air, relishing in the deep aching pleasure of being utterly railed by the man who treated you like a captured goddess.

Kento felt so guilty that having only been pleasured by his own hand for weeks, through no fault of your own, he chased his orgasm like a needy virgin. Wordlessly, he arched over you like an animal, forearms caging your head. As you sank your teeth into one forearm, kissing, licking and mewling, he felt cum shoot through his cock with little warning, gasping and shaking as he came, feeling his seed drip out around your folds, so much after so long, and he was lost in a haze of pleasure for what felt like minutes.

Catching himself before he collapsed down onto your back, Kento gripped you to him and flopped sideways, still inside you as he spooned you, teeth sinking into your shoulder with unashamed worship. His lower arm snaked under your neck to rub lazy circles on your breast, while his upper arm cradled your bump, holding you, never wanting to let you go.

"I love, revere and adore you," Kento intoned into your neck, "even more so now you're sacrificing so much to give me everything I ever dreamed of." You felt tears prick in your eyes, completely awash with his sincerity. "So please, don't ever think you're ugly to me. I will love your body and mind with every change. I celebrate it."

Planting gentle kisses to your temple, Kento moaned as he slipped out of you. Lifting you into bed, he grabbed a soft cloth from his drawer and placed it lovingly between your legs before arranging your pillows with the skill of an expert, and covering you with a dry blanket.

You began to feel sleep roll over you as Kento replaced the wet sheets. As you began to drift, feeling your baby tumble within you, you knew without a shadow of a doubt that Kento would love you, and your baby, through any and every storm along the way.

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I post this fic in celebration of being blissfully married to my own Nanami, in advance of the birth of my 3rd and final baby ✌️ Every woman deserves a Kento to worship her.

[sombrashe]

can u write a lil sum sum about namgyu throat fucking you and being mean and lowk sadistic about it and he loves seeing your tears and your nose start snotting cause he’s bullying your throat 🥹🤲🏽

asphyxiation ∿ nam-gyu x reader

smut

content "crybaby" reader, no gender specified, throat fucking 🤭, mean namgyu, terrible gag reflex reader, not edited

notes ohhhh my god this idea is just so.... ugh chefs kiss

“You’re taking too long.”

Slender fingers wrap themselves in your strands and get lost in a cloud of hair. One inch further and the tip of his cock is knocking against your uvula. You let out soft groans at the sudden knocks against the back of your throat. The air in the room is sticky and still. The heat from the city summer is suffocating. You met namgyu a few years ago when he first started at Club Pentagon. The air was sticky back then too and a flood of memories crash over you.

Shifting you try to alleviate some of the pressure building across the flesh of your knee. He sees this as disobedience (⇀‸↼‶) and barks at you to sit still. You mentally give him nothing but attitude: a big sigh and a roll of your eyes. Instead, your eyes look up at him with soft abandon. Your head bobs, your throat relaxes and all is well at this very moment. A few more minutes of steady thrusts and you start to drift off. It doesn't take long for him to cum once he goes completely silent and you assume he’s close. You start daydreaming about your turns and excitement swells deep in the recesses of your abdomen.

“-paying attention.”

You’re only brought back to the moment as he shoves the last few inches of his cock down your throat. Gagging around him your eyes start watering. The burn is harsh and you try to wiggle your way from the pain. He gives you a second of rest as he pulls you back enough to get a few shallow breaths. You're still struggling to adjust when he shoves himself back into the warmth of your mouth. The drool you so expertly kept at the back of your throat now streams down your bottom lip. Plump flesh shines as saliva is smeared along his shaft.

You slam your fist into the muscle of his thigh. He gives you this laugh and flicks you across the forehead. You honest to god growl at him but all he does is flash you a stupid smile and go back to keeping your head still. A small part of you wants him to stop and leave you alone for a few minutes so you can catch your breath without gagging every five seconds. On the other hand, a much larger part of you is the wetness soaking your underwear through. Droplets of liquid salt adorn long eyelashes as you blink up at him. You look absolutely pathetic and he can’t stop himself from letting you know.

“God, fuck. Look at you. Such a little bitch down on your knees for me.”

He sighs and throws his head back as he grinds his pelvis against your face. A giggle builds in your chest and dies on your tongue as dark curls tickle your nose. He’s so deep you swear you can feel him in your lungs. It’s absolute torture but if he stopped you would simply crash out like a highschooler losing their vape. Whisps of hair adorn your head like a halo as fluorescent light bathes you in a soft glow. You look like a living angel and here he was treating you so roughly.

“So fucking pathetic, huh? Letting me fuck your throat like this. Can’t even moan without my cock blocking the sound. But you love this, don’t you?”

You whine against the taut skin and goosebumps litter his spine. You take the opportunity to reach down at grab at yourself. You don’t do much just cup yourself and rock against your hand. You don’t wanna make yourself cum. No, that’s his job. Your reward for letting him bully you like this. The droplets that hang off the edge of your lashes splash back down into your eyes making them water incessantly. The only thing left is the strong but simple taste of salt. It invades your every sense and a sob rips from your throat.

“Are you crying? You’re crying, why? Because your throat hurts? Take a deep breath, 내꺼. You just gotta go a little longer. Be a good lit- fuck, a little… Dumb slut, stupid bitch.”

You can tell he’s close. His insults make less sense as his thrusts become irregular. Reaching down he smears his hand across our face and a sharp pang of panic sets off deep in your tailbone. The steady stream of tears soaking your puffed-out cheeks intensifies as his fingers close your nostrils. Snot smears across your lips and only adds to the uncomfortable taste mixing in your throat. You decide to close your eyes, ending the struggle of keeping them open. You look so complacent, taking his thrusts so beautifully.

Grabbing at your cheeks he holds your head nice and still as he finishes down your throats. His thrusts are shallow and slow. Your head starts to swim as he suffocates you from the inside. Slamming your fist against his thigh, it’s all taut muscle as he flexes under your hand. Blinking rapidly your eyesight dots and a panic sets deep in your brain. Your limbs start relaxing and as soon as you realize you’re about to pass out he pulls out of your throat leaving you gasping. Panting, he finishes on your face. Bursts of warmth cover your cheeks and paint the inside of your open mouth.

Rubbing at your eyes, your nails claw at your skin as the burn starts to subside. The lights feel brighter and it makes it difficult to open your eyes again. Finally being able to breathe you fight past the lingering taste of his musk shoved deep in the back of your throat. Looking up at him you breathe through your nose and shock yourself as a snot bubble forms and pops. Despite the embarrassment, you're able to breathe better and can taste the staleness settling in the air.

He fixes himself in front of you before walking off and disappearing into the bathroom. Standing you relax on the couch and take a few deep breaths as you wait for him. When he returns he shoves a wad of toilet paper into your hands and you take a few seconds cleaning off your face. Standing you point your finger in his face with a stern look on your face.

“You owe me Nam-gyu, you hear me? Big time.”

[toshn]

MARK GRAYSON: “I DON’T WANT YOU TO GO—“

— contents: spending time with mark before he leaves for a mission. — from the author: i kinda had a like superhero!reader in mind because why not. but it’s totally fine if u imagine reader as just a civilian. i'll also try to post more often! c:

“i hate getting sandy feet.”

you whined, the sunset’s glow reflecting on the ocean’s surface, leaving traces of its’ warmth on your face in its’ wake. you could feel the waves crashing right in front of you, gently caressing your legs before returning back into its' vast sea of blue.

you were at the beach with mark, and you had the place all to yourselves. you two decided to spend the whole day together and make the most out of the time he has left before going on a crazy space alien mission. you knew this mission could take weeks—months even, and this would mean you'd be mark-deprived for more than just the usual couple of days due to college. you always told mark you understood his situation, and you really did. after all, he had some big shoes to fill in. because of the distraught and calamity omni-man left behind on earth, you could sense the underlying guilt mark had because of what his father did. you knew deep down he was trying to atone for everything he caused, even if he never outright told you so.

mark laughed, lifting a hand up to splash water onto you, “stop being such big baby.”

you groaned as the feeling of saltwater dripping from your hair stuck onto the cool surface of your skin. you rolled your eyes, turning away from mark with a pout. subconsciously, you've been counting the days until mark would embark on his mission—and it's not like you wanted to. you've been avoiding doing so because you knew how much of a crybaby you could get when it comes to goodbyes, and you weren't exactly fond with the idea of crying in a public area. but no matter how hard you tried to think of something funny to renounce the tears pricking from the corners of your eyes, you felt them burn. burn from the upcoming wave of emotions you were trying so hard to bury. and unwillingly—your lips began to quiver.

with your back against him, mark, with his eyes as sharp as ever, could see the subtle shudder of your shoulders and a quiet sniffle he could never miss erupt from your hunched figure. he hurriedly swam his way towards you with a worried expression on his face, the sounds of waves spattering with each step he took. “(y/n)? what’s wrong?“

mark came face to face with you, his eyes growing wide the moment you turned around. the sunset's orange hues gave your hair the perfect glow, your eyes—already going red with tears threatening to spill at any moment, shined alongside your wet cheeks—stained by saltwater, your nose tinted red, and your lips were shaking like a leaf rustling against the wind. you were about to cry. and despite the fact that you were, you looked breathtaking, mark concluded.

“i-“ you stuttered, a teardrop you so desperately tried to keep in, finally fell onto your salty cheeks, “i d-don’t want,” you gasped out with a soft sob and furrowed your eyebrows in frustration. it was so hard to speak right now, you didn't want to look so pathetic on the day before he left, you didn't want to end the day on a bad note. but your aching heart said otherwise. mark felt a tug at his heartstrings as he watched you try your absolute best to talk. and for a moment, he saw you scrunch your nose before breathing out a shaky “i-i don’t want you to go.”

finally, you were able to corroborate a coherent sentence without sputtering over the tears that were streaming down your face like an endless river, your saltwater-tainted hands rubbing against your cheek. mark's face fell to one of relief, he thought it was something worse—he thought he something went wrong. he hurriedly tried to gently pry your hands away before any of it could reach your eyes.

“(y/n),” he cooed, “i’ll be back as soon as i can, promise.” going against what he just attempted to avoid, he held your face in his salty hands and cradled your cheeks with such care and love. amidst your blurry vision, you could make out, although not the best, of the look he had on his face. mark looked at you so tenderly—as if you were to break at any moment with how fragile you are, and it just fueled your wailing as you poured your heart out in his grasp.

while you continued to cry, mark pulled you into his arms. his heat radiating off you like you were hugging the sunset yourself. your hands clawed at his soaked t-shirt—desperate to find the solace you’ll always find within mark as your face nestled in the crook of his neck. he smelled salty, you thought to yourself, as the tears that once racked your body began to dissipate. and as you watched the sun slowly disappear further down the horizon, you felt mark place a kiss on the crown of your head, a gesture you've always loved no matter the situation you’re in. you pulled yourself away, albeit begrudgingly—from his warm embrace to look at him, still sniveling.

looking into his loving eyes, you felt the cool wind enveloped yours and mark's hugging figure, the sound of the breeze blowing against your bare skin. mark opened his lips to speak, inadvertently making you pry your eyes away from his.

“i'll come back home. wait for me, okay?"

you grinned a small smile, nose and cheeks still puffy and red, "don't keep me waiting for too long."

@ toshn , pls do not steal or ur cheeks will!! be clapped.

[chiiyuuvv]

bathing with riize ★

boyfriend!riize 1k words

notes! rewriting this because i found my previous version very explicit :')

▸ 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺?

shotaro 🫧

you’re immediately dragged to the dinner table as soon as you return home later than usual

taro gives you his classic sweet smile as he pulls your chair open so you can sit and enjoy the warm meal he prepared for you while you were gone

a little disappointed when your boyfriend leaves you to eat dinner alone, but you know it isn’t in spite when you hear him running a bath in the background

carefully strips off your clothes because you’re his precious girl, then leads you to the warm tub so you can relax from your stressful day

thoroughly washes your body, stopping at certain areas to massage any sore spots as you ramble about your day

not to mention the random forehead kisses he gives you as you talk, receiving his full attention 

when you’re done, he dresses you in your favorite pajamas (an oversized shirt of his) and tucks you into bed <3

eunseok 🫧

the exact opposite as shotaro’s.. whoopsie

instead it’s you preparing his meal and bath

which he stares at you like 😐 because no no no! it’s supposed to be HIM giving you princess treatment, not the other way around

hates you so much because why does it feel so good being the center of attention? you’re hands lathering soap up and down his shoulders as you whisper sweet ‘you did so well today’’s in his ear

he’s falling for you so hard as if you aren’t already dating. you have no idea how whipped he is for you

because he’s such a brat that can’t have nice things, he splashes water in your face when you go to kiss him

about to burst out laughing when suddenly he’s drenched in water

water fight!!

sungchan 🫧

when sungchan invites you to the bathroom, you don’t like calling it a shower

it’s more so “chani hugging you so tightly you can barely move, so you just stand in the raining water”

don’t get me wrong,, you still enjoy it though!!

sungchan’s arms firmly wrapped around your waist as his nuzzles his wet hair against your neck, placing kisses on your skin from time to time

you like to talk about each other’s days during this time, or discuss future dates

loves loves loves to dry your body once you’re done “showering”, his eyes littered with adoration as he mumbles how pretty his girl looks

also loves when you return the favor <3 looks down at you as you dry his hair, his hands going back to hold your waist

looks at you like you hung the stars above your apartment roof, a soft smile tugging at his lips because he thinks you’re sooooooo cute it’s almost pathetic 

wonbin 🫧

i noticed male idols with longer hair always complain about how high maintenance their locks get

wonbin was that way too, until you suggested washing his hair for him

he’s so whipped from the feeling of your hands tangled in his curls that he would happily turn into rapunzel so he can return to that feeling every night (no pun intended hehe)

he looks so damn cute with his head resting against your lap when you’re washing him over the tub, his eyes closed as soft hums leave his lips when you scratch his scalp

leans into your warmth when you’re drying his hair, looking up at you like the happiest man in the world

seunghan 🫧

seunghan, being the observant boyfriend he is, always notices you use your sunday’s as your spa day

realizes how much you fancy spending hours in the bathroom lavishing yourself with sweet scents from your soaps / lotions, or shaving hairy body parts

seunghan loves how attentive you are to yourself, and he can’t help but want to accompany you during your special time

carefully spreads shaving cream all over your legs, tracing little hearts and stars into the foam before shaving it away

sometimes he feels mischievous, like giving you a bubble mustache or tickling your feet when he’s shaving you

his nose always scrunches when he hears your cute laughter, giggling like a lovesick boy internally 

honestly just happy to be there, the room filled with his sweet words as he watches you take care of yourself with hearts in his eyes

sohee 🫧

BUBBLE BATH !!

why sohee wanted one in the first place, the world will never know. but it did know how excited you got from the idea

while sohee’s busy running the bubbly bath water, you’re scurrying around the house to find bath bombs, rubber ducks, and literally anything else that could go in your tub

sohee makes himself a bubble hat and you’re busy making yourself a beard

if anyone walks in the bathroom y’all are cookeddd 💀🙏 but it doesn’t matter because they’re just haters that don’t know how to have fun 🤣

actually one of the reasons why you love sohee and his energy so much because he always entertains your inner child and encourages you to be a little silly for once

“who cares what other people think? nothing matters as long as i’m with you” and vise versa <3

anton 🫧

anton doesn’t partake in any washing, but it’s still cute so shush

wind down = doing everything together

that means eating dinner together, matching pj’s, heck even falling asleep at the same time

(which is a lie because anton likes to spend a couple extra minutes admiring your sleepy face)

loves to watch you brush your teeth at the same time, his eyes forming into small crescents as he wraps his arm around your shoulder to pull you closer to himself

also loves being dangerously close to your face to apply lotion and chapstick to your skin and lips so you don’t wake up feeling dry

(the chapstick part is useless because he always kisses it off of you)

instead of immediately going to bed, sometimes you like to have a small pillow fight which ends with him on top of you on the floor as he tickles your sides until you’re crying from laughter

other times you have soft makeout sessions because anton can’t keeps his hands and lips to himself

you still fall asleep with anton’s head nuzzled into your neck, his arms wrapped around your waist like a birthday bow as his breath fans your skin

that’s still a win in my book 🤷

︴bonus! planning to draft a xikers hc pretty soon .. schedule is slowly clearing up!

▸ taglist 📬 @cake1box , @wccycc , @babigriin , @soul-is-a-strange-kid , @riize119 ,

@mxlly143 , @yeosayang , @lecheugo , @hanajm , @addictedtohobi ,

@yuniniverse , @yoiiwonn , @bambisnc , @skyblue84

🎬 navi

@chiiyuuvv on tumblr . do not steal works/headers/line dividers

[stylesloveclub]

Prose (part 4)

In which Harry and y/n like going to used bookstores together and kissing (in secret).

+++

Harry’s coat is soaked, his curls matted to his forehead and his eyes squinting from how rainy it is. He barely had time to pack up his stuff, let alone grab his umbrella, before darting out of the Literature building. His boots splash loudly in the puddles, wetting the hems of his trousers as  he runs across the street.

“Y/n!” he calls out, his his chest rising and falling heavily. After two weeks of ditching his office hours and running away from him after lecture, he’s finally caught up with her, “come on, we need to talk.”

A quiet rumble of thunder shakes the air around them, and y/n reluctantly turns around. She’d been avoiding this conversation – didn’t want to be lectured by Harry about how bad of a decision it was and that it never should’ve happened. She knows that already, and she doesn’t need to hear it again from him. It would hurt even more, coming from the same lips that she’d been so excited to kiss. 

“What’s there to talk about,” she mumbles, her eyes downcast to the floor, watching the rain splatter against the pavement. Her hair is wet, drops of water dripping down her forehead, over the slope of her nose, and landing on her pretty lips. They get caught in the dip of her cupid's bow, and Harry watches painfully as she licks it away. 

It’s a painful experience, to have to remain so composed and put together, when he wants nothing more than to lean forward and kiss her again. His eyebrows are pinched, and his lips part as if he’s imagining what it’d be like to feel her lips between his again. He can’t help himself from staring down at her lips like a puppy yearning for a treat.

“We– we can’t just… ignore what happened,” he says, pushing his wet hair out of his face. He licks his lips nervously, and his fingers twitch at his side. 

“Yes we can,” she responds quickly. “Listen– I know it was a bad idea. You don’t have to like… lecture me about it. We can just move on."

“But– wait, no. I don’t want to just move on.” Harry blinks quickly, half because of the rain and half because he’s confused. 

“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” she says quietly, toeing at the ground and wishing it would open up and swallow her whole. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” She looks like she’s about to cry, and he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t lean forward and hug her the way he wants to, he can’t even rest a hand on her arm. He watches sadly as she just wraps her arms around herself, a pathetic cardigan wrapped around her frame – as if that would do anything to protect her from the rain. How could this girl be so smart when it comes to school, he thinks to himself, but so utterly stupid when it comes to rainy days. “Let me drive you home, and we can talk about it.”

She shakes her head, “I don’t think that’s a good idea–”

“Come on,” he pleads. “It’s pouring, and we’re both getting soaked. Just let me drive you. Please.” His eyes are wide, and his hands are lifted up halfway, resisting the urge to reach out to her.

Thunder crashes loudly again, and y/n gives a silent nod. She follows him quietly to his car.

+++

“Did you regret it?” Harry asks at a stoplight. 

Y/n shrugs quietly. Not really an answer, but she doesn’t have the heart to vocalize her feelings. Of course she doesn’t regret it– she’d had a crush on him since the very beginning of the semester. But she knows that he probably wishes it never happened. So a shrug suffices. 

He sighs heavily. Her reluctance to talk to him is eating away at him, and he doesn’t know how to handle the situation. “Well I don’t,” he announces loudly. “I think you’re pretty, and kind, and sweet – and I enjoyed kissing you.” He peaks over at her through the corner of his eye, but she shows no outright reaction to his declaration. She just stares down at her fingers, tangled in her lap.

Okay, well now he feels silly for saying all that. 

He turns back to face the road, and the two of them are suffocated in the silence. The rain patters against the roof of his car and the windshield wipers rhythmically clear the glass. Y/n watches a single raindrop’s path down her window, following as it slides down and collects all the other drops of water on its way. 

Then she asks quietly, “You aren’t worried about getting in trouble?”

His eyes flicker to her. “S’not as big of a deal as you think it is, bunny. S’not like I’m actually your professor. We’re both still students.”

She’s silent again. Harry pulls up in front of her apartment, but she hesitates to unbuckle her seatbelt. He looks at her quizzically.

“So it’s not against the rules?” she asks once more, nervously.

Harry shakes his head. “No school policies against it.”

Her voice is quiet. “...and you don’t regret it?”

“Not at all.”

Silence again. She sits in his passenger's seat thoughtfully. They are both still very much wet from the rain. 

“I’d invite you up–” she suddenly says. “But, I have a roommate. And, um… if anything else were to happen… I still wouldn’t want anyone to find out. Even if it’s not against the rules.” She turns, her eyes wide and glimmering hopefully. She’s suddenly filled with excitement and confidence.

Harry nods understandingly. “Nobody has to know.” 

She still doesn’t leave his car, staring at him. “So… if we were to do anything else, it’d have to be off campus. And not at my apartment.” 

Harry’s lips part, and he nods again, slower, “I see… so, if we wanted to do something else… we should probably go to my apartment instead…” 

Y/n only realizes how much she missed the dimple in Harry’s cheek when he smiles at her for the first time since that day in his office.

His tone is teasing, “And… if I wanted to kiss you… then I should probably wait until we get to my place?”

Her eyes sparkle, “exactly.”

+++

On the way to his apartment, he warns her that it may be messy, and he also warns her about his precious little cat (a pretty white haired kitty with piercing blue eyes named Princess, because that’s the name the shelter gave her and he didn’t have the heart to change it) who would probably be meowing at their feet as soon as they walk through the door. 

Y/n doesn’t have much time to look around his apartment and assess the messiness though. As soon as they get out of his car and into the elevator, she finds herself unable to stand more than three steps away from Harry. She follows closely behind him, grabs onto his firm bicep as he types in the code to his apartment. He turns to her with a smirk – it’s endearing how eager and affectionate she is, looking up at him with stars in her eyes. She’s got a look on her face, like a kid on her way to Disneyland for the first time – except Disneyland is actually just Harry’s bed, and the rides involve a lot less clothes than Splash Mountain. 

He tests the waters. He spends a few seconds staring in her eyes, reveling in the palpable tension between them, and then he flickers his gaze down to her pretty lips. He dances between her eyes and her lips for a bit, his hand still on the doorknob but too distracted by her to turn it all the way. Instead, he leans forward, his eyes fluttering shut and his lips pressing against hers. It’s so nice to kiss her again, it’s everything he could have ever wanted.

She’s ready for it this time, eager for his kiss and not caught off guard on the floor of his office. She leans up on her tippy toes immediately, puckering her lips against his and kissing that boyish smirk right off his face. Her hands hold onto his biceps, and slide up to his shoulders, and she tilts her chin upwards to kiss him properly. 

Harry lets his tongue slip out, sliding it between her soft lips and grazing it against hers, warm and slick in her mouth. It makes her breath catch in her throat – he’s just so hot, and his tongue is in her mouth right now, and it’s all just so perfect. Harry actually lets go of the doorknob, forgetting that they’re still in the middle of his hall, and turns his entire body towards her instead of just his head turned towards her. The hand that had been on the door makes its way to her hip, and he towers over her, leaning forward and backing her up against the wall right next to his door. It feels like he’s a foot taller than her when he’s kissing her like this, pressing her against the wall and sliding his fingers into her hair to manually tilt her head back. 

He bares her throat to himself and tilts her chin upwards, all so that he has easier access to her pretty little mouth. Sliding his tongue against hers erotically, nipping at her lip and squeezing her hip tightly. He’s so soft and gentle and romantic – but he’s also taken full control, leaving her at his mercy. He tilts her head whichever way he wants with his grip in her hair, scratching at her scalp so she’s weak in the knees. It makes her whimper and keel, her heart racing in her chest like an overexcited little bunny. 

Harry smiles into their kiss when she feels him pawing at her, her frigid fingers pressing against his firm abdomen and gripping the fabric of his shirt, still partially wet from the rain. If she’s getting handsy, he better open the door and get her into his bed. But he can’t bring himself to break their kiss – so with his eyes still shut and his lips still tangled with hers, he uses a hand to blindly twist the doorknob and push the door open. They stumble in uncoordinatedly, and y/n doesn’t even have the chance to see if Harry was lying about having a messy apartment. She’s just trying to kiss him as much as she can, get as close to him as physically possible. She’s forgotten about how uncomfortable her wet jeans are, or how cold her fingers are after spending so long in the pouring rain. All she wants is to get into Harry’s bed. 

He guides her towards his bedroom, and peeks a nervous eye open to make sure that his room isn’t a horrible, gross mess, a sigh of relief leaving him when he confirms that it’s in an acceptable state to show this pretty girl. He’s tugging off his coat and letting it plop wetly onto the floor and undoing the buttons of y/n’s cardigan, when his sweet little kitty finally makes an appearance. 

A simple quiet meow is all they hear, followed by the gentle scratch of her claws tugging and pulling on Harry’s trousers. Harry giggles, and pulls away from y/n to stare down at his cat, who’s sitting ever so politely at his feet with one paw raised to rest on his trouser. She’s the cutest little cock blocker and she’s also his little baby. “Hi princess,” he coos. 

Y/n, with swollen lips and bated breath, is honestly a little jealous of how this cat must get so much attention from Harry, and how sweetly he just bent down to pick her up. She wants Harry to do that with her – to coo at her and lift her up and press a kiss on her forehead. She then scolds herself for being jealous of a cat.

The kitty, all fluffy with hair as white as snow, gives a big yawn and a sudden shake of her head that makes her collar jingle prettily. Harry smiles. “Let me just go get her some food n’then she won’t bother us,” Harry says to y/n. The implications of not wanting to be bothered makes y/n’s heart flutter, and she nods eagerly with wide eyes. 

He runs back quickly, and shuts the door behind himself, so that even if Princess finishes her food, she won’t be able to wander in randomly. Then he’s pulling the cardigan off of her, throwing it on the floor, and unbuttoning her jeans, all while re-initiating their kiss. He walks them backwards slowly, until the backs of her legs meet his bed and she’s falling backwards with a soft laugh. He smiles into their kiss as he tugs her jeans off – a slight struggle considering that the denim is all wet and sticking to her thighs, but he just laughs with her at the awkwardness of having to peel off each other’s wet clothes. With her jeans also on the floor, she’s left in a basic and plain pair of light gray underwear, and the white baby tee that had been underneath her cardigan. Her shirt has ridden up, revealing her ribs and her soft stomach, and he wants to just lean down and kiss all over her body. Her thighs, her belly, her neck. He can see her pulse racing in her neck, and wants to rest his lips over her chest and feel her heart pounding right against his lips.

She pushes herself up on her elbows, her legs spread at the edge of the bed with Harry standing between them. He’s smirking down at her, taking his time as he undresses himself, making her ache. His hair that had been soaked in the rain has dried up a bit, his curls fluffier and messier than usual. It’s his natural hair, the curls that form when he’s straight out of the shower and hasn’t had the chance to style them with his curl cream. It’s endearing. His fingers, so thick and long and manly, are insanely slow as he finds the buckle of his belt and undoes it. The sound of the buckle clanking makes y/n swallow thickly, and the sight of him standing at the foot of the bed, towering over her with a belt in his hand is so arousing for some reason. Her eyes flutter, but she forces herself to keep her eyes open as he buttons his trousers and steps out of them smoothly. Neither of them are saying anything, despite there being so much they want to say to each other. They just take in the moment, take in each other. There’s a tattoo on Harry’s thigh that y/n never would have expected, a tiger that looks so intimidating and regal on him. His thighs are thick and strong – it’s head spinning to finally see him undressing in front of her when she’d accidentally done it in her head so many times in his office hours. It was never an intentional decision to sit in his office hours and imagine what it’d be like to see him undressed – to imagine what he’d look like if she ever got the chance to suck him off, or how he’d sound. But it always ended up happening… he was just too hot. 

His fingers now undo the buttons of his shirt, another white button up (his work uniform, apparently) that he slowly opens to reveal a broad chest, filled with tattoos. Y/n’s mouth drops open. Never in a million years did she expect her sweet, smart, and flirty TA to be covered in ink, a sleeve of black drawings lining his left arm and decorating his abs. It’s insane. He is so hot. Harry just smirks.

Her eyes are wide and she looks dumbstruck, mouth open as she just stares at him, her chest rising and falling heavily. She feels herself clenching, her eyes roaming all over his body… his chest and the swallows on his collarbones… the butterfly on top of his defined abdomen… the ferns on the hard lines that lead down into his briefs. Her eyes flicker up, and she flushes knowing that Harry’s been watching her drool over him for the past minute. She can’t be embarrassed about it though, and finds herself staring at the hem of his briefs… and then just a little lower at the bulge. Her mouth waters without her consent. His big hand cups the bulge and he squeezes himself. She nearly passes out. 

She sits up fully so that she’s no longer half lying on the couch, and instead she’s face to face with his cotton covered cock. Not even trying to be hot or sexy or minx-like, she looks up at him through her lashes, silently asking for permission. She’d never admit just how often the thought of sucking Harry off had crossed her mind. Sometimes when she was in his office hours, she’d zone out while he was talking to her and just stare at his big hands – dreaming about feeling them at the back of her head, pushing her down to get his cock further down her throat. And other times, in class, when Dr. Richmond was lecturing on and on about god knows what, she’d find herself staring at Harry, sitting politely in the corner of the room, his legs spread naturally. She’d feel so dirty in class, imagining what it’d be like to sit between those thighs, rest her cheek on his leg while pumping his cock, when he was doing nothing to prompt such sexual thoughts. All he’d do was sit there, and she’d be thinking about laving her tongue around his cock-head, tasting him as he’d cum down her throat. 

“Go on then,” Harry grunts, tucking a piece of y/n’s wet hair behind her ear. She’s eager, licking her lips like she’s about to have some dessert, her eyes glittering and darting all over his face. She tucks her fingers into the hem of his briefs and pulls them down, revealing the bottom half of the ferns and a dark tuft of hair. She pulls down further and further, exposing his shaft, and pulls some more until she frees the head and his cock comes bouncing out of its confines. It’s large and nearly smacks her in her face, and she’s like a confused little bunny staring at it swinging in front of her. He can’t help but smile down at her fondly, his hand cupping her jaw. “You want t’suck me off, bunny?”

She nods, hypnotized but unable to make a first move. She’s too intimidated by his size, and how he’s towering over her, speaking down to her with his low, raspy voice. She just stares up at him with wide eyes. 

He grabs a hold of himself, wrapping his fist around the base of his cock, and just the feeling of his own hand gets him twitching and leaking precum already. She’s the sweetest thing, looking up at him with those big eyes, nibbling at her lips nervously. He pumps himself a few times, spreading his slickness down his shaft and all over his head. She’ll be able to taste him all the way down, feel him coating her tongue and spurting down her throat. 

He guides the tip to her lips, muttering a soft, “open up.” She’s so eager and obedient, parting her lips without hesitation and even going so far as to stick her tongue out for him, the precious little thing. He’s grinning like the joker, dimple in his cheek at the erotic sight in front of him. Gripping himself, he taps his head against her tongue softly, and traces a circle with the tip of his cock around the flat of her tongue. He does this a few times, his own fist sliding his cockhead over her tongue, the rough texture of her tastebuds heavenly on his sensitive tip. He feels smooth and slick on her tongue, and she sits there like an angel, tongue out and staring up at him sweetly as he does whatever he pleases. His cockhead is ruddy and red, so incredibly sensitive to the touch, and he groans through his smirk. Do you know how attractive it is to see a man moaning with a smile on his face? Y/n feels her panties soaking, and worries that it might be seeping onto his bedsheets. 

It’s honestly been a while for Harry, since he’s hooked up with anyone. He hasn’t dated anyone in a while, and it’s hard to find someone that he trusts enough to be himself with. He wouldn’t feel comfortable enough to trace his cock on any random person’s tongue, wouldn’t be calling a stranger “bunny” or whispering for them to open wider so he can push himself further in. 

“Come on bunny, show me what you can do,” he murmurs, encouraging her to grab a hold of his cock herself. That little taste of him from when he traced himself over her tongue has made her insane – she’s addicted to how he tastes and wants him further in her mouth. With his encouragement, she circles her tongue around his head. Tentatively at first, but when he groans out and bucks closer to her, she starts swirling more and more eagerly. She’s drooling for him, her mouth filled with saliva and just watering for his taste. She’s breathing heavily and small little whines are leaving her chest as her tongue slides from his head down his shaft. God. It’s addictive. She wants to lick up and down his cock for ages, just feel him on her tastebuds, but she also wants to wrap her lips around him and feel his cock fill up her mouth, but then she also wants to just jerk him off with her hand while she sucks his pretty balls into her mouth and roams her tongue around each other – oh the options are all so enticing, she’s overwhelming herself. 

Spit is dripping down the side of her mouth from how drooly she is over him, and she stops licking up and down his shaft and all over his head for just a second to swallow thickly. And then she’s immediately back on his dick, this time closing her lips around his head and sliding herself down his length, feeling the underside of his shaft against her tongue and his head tickling the back part of her throat. She wants to take him further so badly, wants to feel him fill up her throat, make her throat bulge with his thickness, just suffocate on his length – but when she pushes herself forward she has a teensy little gag, and has to pull off to catch her breath. “Oh, bunny,” he groans, biting his lip, “fuck.” She looks up at him teary eyed, her lips slicked and her chin covered in her spit and the copious amount of cum he’s already leaked into her mouth. It’s a sight that he’ll be dreaming about for days, every single night with his fist wrapped around his cock before he goes to sleep or when he’s jerking off in the shower before going to class. She wraps her lips around his cock again and bobs up and down eagerly, pushing herself forward so that his cockhead reaches the back of her throat, and then pulling back quickly so that his cock almost falls out of her mouth. She does this over and over again, her  tongue still lick at him as much as she can, flickering her tongue at his pretty tip and trying to lap up as much cum as she can, steadily leaking out of his slit. He’s so yummy and hot and she just wants to taste him and swallow him and feel him filling her throat – she tries to deepthroat him again, but disappointingly fails again. He’s just too big for her. 

She pulls off with a cough, huffing upset. She looks up at him sadly and he hushes her, delicately tracing a finger on her face, “S’okay bunny,” ((her heart races and does a few backflips every time he calls her bunny)), “we’ll work on it.” And oh, she can’t wait for that. Can’t wait for him to train her throat, get her adjusted to his size so that he can push himself down, fuck her face and stuff himself down her throat until he’s spurting long streaks of white cum into her mouth. Or maybe she’d tell him to pull out just in time so that he could coat her face. Or maybe she’d make him wait until she got his cock inside of her hole and he could fuck into her and cum right inside of her, pressing his balls up to her ass so that he could get it as deep as humanly possible. 

If she can’t get him down her throat today though, then she makes up for it by wrapping her lips around his balls and stuffing her mouth full of them. Her tongue circles around them, tonguing at the spot right between the two, and she makes sure to give each one a bit of their own separate love as well – sucking their roundness into her mouth, feeling how full they are. All while tugging at his cock and looking up at his red face, his flushed neck and the veins bulging in them. 

“Sweetheart,” he cries out with a loud moan. His fingers ball up into fists at his sides and his abdomen is clenching and fluttering erratically, “gonna make me cum. Where d’you want it, hm?”

She pulls off of his balls with a loud pop. “In my mouth,” she whines, as if it’s obvious. She’s been lapping at his slit, suckling out the yummy precum so desperately – she wants it all now. 

Fondling his balls and sucking harshly at his tip, she pulls the final trigger. His hips thrust forward and he groans out, his hands tightening in her hair as long spurts of white cum shoot out of him, coating her tongue and trickling down her throat. Her mouth overflows, stuffed full of his cock without enough room for all the cum that he’s spurting out to fit – so it trickles down her chin instead. She takes it so well, swallowing it all and suckling at him gently until there’s nothing more for her to suck out, and his cock sits limply against her tongue, worn out and sucked dry. 

His chest is red and heaving, and he’s weak in the knees. His sweet little bunny, so quiet and gentle in class, was the dirtiest little minx he’s ever had. He saw stars when he came, his ears ringing and his vision going white. It was a trip to heaven. 

He’s gonna have fun with her, for sure. 

+++

The used bookstore that Harry and y/n walk into is a thirty minute drive from campus. The store is dimly lit, fairy lights lining the shelves and small tables filled with books from local authors between the rows of books. There’s a cafe next door where Harry and y/n each get a hot chocolate to warm their numb fingers (it’s raining outside, again), and the smell of roasted coffee beans lingers on their clothes and follows them into the book shop. 

It’s warm in the book store. Not as warm as the cafe, but still warm enough for y/n to shed her raincoat and for Harry to unwrap the big, fuzzy scarf that he’d tied around his neck. His oversized gray sweatshirt is lightly stained with raindrops, y/n having convinced him that they didn’t need an umbrella, that they could just race out of the car and into the bookstore and only get a little wet. Either that, or he’d have to carry around a wet umbrella all around the bookstore, which meant that he wouldn’t be able to hold her hand while they shopped. And that simply wouldn’t do. 

With her fingers laced with his, they walk around in the fiction aisle, saying nothing. Y/n’s eyes trail over the multitude of used books, the ones with the colorful covers and bubbly fonts standing out to her the most (it’s hard to not judge a book by its cover!). Harry sips quietly from his hot chocolate and stares at y/n every few seconds, before averting his eyes to the floor. Or to their joint hands. He suppresses a smile to himself. 

It’s hard for him to contain his excitement. Since they started their relationship, it’s all been very hush hush. The only time he ever gets to touch her is when they’re at his apartment. He’s not allowed to hold her hand when they’re walking around campus, not allowed to stare at her for too long in class, even though he wants nothing more than to just watch her read and write her notes. Sometimes on Friday nights, when campus is empty and everyone has gone home, she’ll close his windows and lock his office door and let him give her a few kisses in the privacy of his office – but other than that, no PDA. It’s too risky, too scary, she whispered to him the night that they made it official, under the shield of his comforter. She didn’t want to have any rumors or whispers circling around, even if their relationship wasn’t explicitly against the rules. He, of course, would do anything for her. 

He was good about it. Kept his eyes off of her, didn’t praise her too much in class, kept his hood up whenever he went to pick her up in the middle of the night. But he’s an affectionate kind of guy – he’s the kind of boyfriend who wants to wrap his arms around her when they’re standing in line at the coffee shop. He wants to put his hand on her thigh when he’s driving her home from school, send her off with a kiss everytime she leaves his office hours. So being able to come to a bookstore in another city, where they wouldn’t see any of her classmates, and hold her hand while she looks for books… it’s such a special thing for him.

Her hand is warm and soft, and she wears these delicate little rings that clank against his bigger, clunky rings. Her nails are painted a dark burgundy color (courtesy of him, who whipped out his stash of nail polish and painted her nails after she whined about her hands being too shaky to paint her nails herself), and he rubs his thumb over her painted fingers lovingly. 

She untangles their fingers to reach for a book, and Harry’s hand feels cold and lonely. He tries not to visibly pout, and stuffs his hand into his pocket to maybe recreate the feeling of being held by her hand … but it’s not the same. He takes a step forward so that his chest is pressed against her back, and rests his chin on her shoulder, looking over at the book in her hand. Y/n smiles to herself – her boyfriend is like a puppy that can’t go three seconds without being pet or loved on. She tilts her head towards him and gives him a little kiss on the cheek, right on the spot where a dimple forms three seconds after she kisses him. His nose wiggles as he slowly says, “I actually have that book, if you want to borrow it.”

“Oh, really?” she hums, putting the book back. “Was it any good?”

He nuzzles his face closer to hers so that their cheeks are touching, and he can feel the chub of her cheek as she smiles. “4.5 stars.” 

His hand not holding his hot chocolate finds her hip as she spins around to face him, and he stares down at her with stars in his eyes. His dimple softly pinches his cheek and his lips quirk up to one side in a lopsided smile. She looks soft and sweet and cozy, in a white long sleeved top, a lacy trim at her collar, and a bow pinning her hair back. A heart shaped pendant rests in the center of her chest, a gift from him, and her eyes are bright and wide as she stares back up at him. She puts a hand on his shoulder, and her fingers tangle in the back of his hair.

She giggles as Harry just stares down at her and says nothing. “What?” she laughs, not understanding why he’s looking at her like one of the stars in the sky.

“Just so pretty, bunny,” he murmurs quietly. He leans forward, his nose nudging against hers for a kiss. She struggles to kiss him back through her own smile, but her painted nails scratch at his scalp while his fingers dimple her hips. His lips are sweet like the hot chocolate he’d been drinking, and she wonders if she tastes just as yummy and chocolatey – or if he’s just licking into her mouth because of how lovey and affectionate he’s feeling today. Her back presses against the bookshelf and his hips press into her front subtly, but it’s not in an insanely horny way, and more of a desperate attempt to press his body as close to hers as possible. To feel her chest against her chest, and feel her stomach against his. 

He loves kissing her, loves her pretty lips and her pretty face, her warm cheeks and her soft eyes. He sucks and licks and nibbles on her lips with quiet hums, and pulls off only when her giggles get too strong and she’s not kissing him back anymore. “Stop laughing,” he huffs, skimming his lips against her jaw. 

She giggles some more. How can he just casually call her pretty and kiss her in between bookshelves and not expect her to burst into a fit of shy, love-struck giggles? It’s too much for her, and the only way she can rationally react when she’s so happy and giddy is to giggle it out! “Sorry,” she smiles bashfully, her giggles still prominent, though, as the stubble on his upper lip tickles her cheek. “More kisses, please.”

He can’t help but smile at how sweet and polite she is, asking for more kisses. He puckers her lips against hers again for a quick kiss and starts a path up her cheek and all over her face too, which just sends her into a fit of even more laughter. He huffs out a chuckle of his own, and shakes his head, checking around them to make sure that they’re still alone in this aisle of books. 

“Wanna go to the sci-fi section?” he whispers to her. (He’s a bit of a sci-fi nerd himself and has turned y/n onto a few of his favorites, so now they’re both sci-fi fans). 

“M’kay,” she hums, her fingers untangling from his hair and sliding down so that her hand hooks into his arms. “Maybe we can see if they have that Andy Weir book you were telling me about, and go read it together in the cafe? M’hot chocolate is almost done and I want a cheese danish.”

And nothing sounds better to Harry than that. 

+++

hope u guys looveddd it !!! such a fun story to write and i really loved this couple. thank u for reading and dont forget to send me an ask or rb so that i know u guys liked it and if u want blurbs and stuff!!!!

Prose Masterlist

[brighttears]

Stranger Chapter 5

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description

Summary: Joel’s first morning in Jackson, he enjoys a hearty breakfast before you pop in front of him, asking to have a conversation. It goes differently than how he feared it would—better, but also, you break down. He gets to be there for you, and it fills him with relief, sorrow for your woes, and culminates in the depths of his love for you.

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: Joel hates himself (looks like we have a theme going here), brief talk of violence and self harm, negative self talk from reader (name calling: freak, monster, damaged)

A/n: finally!!! A break from the heartbreak kinda!!! yay!!!!

series masterlist

@drewharrisonwriter

—

Joel stirs from sleep gently this time, blinking his eyes open and staring at the ceiling for a moment, before slowly sitting up. It’s still a bit dazing to look around and see a normal bedroom. It’s a strange feeling. Reminds him of before. 

After a soft sigh through his nose, Joel stretches, joints popping, tired muscles groaning into consciousness. 

He gets up slowly, shuffling out of the bedroom, trying the wrong door before finally finding the bathroom. He turns on the tap, leaning his hands on the porcelain for a moment as he watches the clear liquid flood down the drain before splashing cold water over his face. When he looks up, his reflection is almost startling, so clear and unadulterated in the clean, flat mirror. He looks like shit. More wrinkles than he remembers, dark bags swept under his eyes, complexion pale from the winter. He’s lost weight, too. And he feels like shit, the last few months having taken a toll on him. With a sigh, he turns away, grabbing a towel to wipe his face before leaving the bathroom to creak downstairs. 

In the kitchen, he grabs a glass from the fourth cabinet that he’s opened to find one, before filling it with cold water and gulping it down, not realizing just how thirsty he is until the first drop hits his tongue. Setting it down, his brow pinches as he tries to think of why the hell he’s so god damn parched, and then he remembers the crying fit, and lets out a quiet groan, pressing a hand into his forehead as he leans against the counter. 

“Fuck.” He mumbles under his breath. He has no idea how his little incident has colored your mind, unsure if it has maybe softened you a bit, or made you resent him more, or lose a fuck ton of respect for him. He can only imagine it’s the latter. There he was, Joel motherfucking Miller, the guy who has pressed so hard that he’s the protector, always trying to appear so stoically strong, impenetrable, breaking down like a baby, crying into your bosom about how much he misses you. How fucking pathetic. 

With an annoyed sigh, he rests his hands on the edge of the sink, leaning a weary body against it as he looks up at the window, watching the slow moving clouds pass in the east. The sky is a wash of baby blue and pale yellow, a golden shadow cast over the underside of the clouds. As he stands there, watching the slowly climbing morning sun, listening to the birds sing, he can’t help but think of you, remember the sound of his little songbird in the dead of night, and then the way you looked at him with your touch on his jaw. How he felt—

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, and Joel flinches, turning. His heart rate starts to spike for a split second before he remembers Tommy telling him that he’d come retrieve him for breakfast, and with a soft huff and a mumbled curse, he pushes off the sink and heads towards the door. He’s not exactly looking forward to being tossed into a room crowded by strangers, though he’d be lying if he said his stomach isn’t rumbling with a vengeance. 

When he opens the door, Tommy beams at him. “Mornin’, sunshine.”

—

The mess hall is lively, people of all ages sitting and talking over plates of food, and Joel follows his brother tensely, surveying the room. People look, some staring, a few offering friendly smiles, but Joel’s face remains stony. 

Tommy glances at him, smiling to himself in quiet amusement, before he nudges him with his elbow. “You don’t need to be so damn skittish, Joel. They’re just curious. They won’t bite.”

Joel frowns, replying in an edgy mutter, “Yeah, well, I don’t know these people, Tommy. You can’t blame me for assuming they might.”

Tommy chuckles, shaking his head as he leads him to the end of the shuffling food line. It’s then that Joel’s eyes zero in on the food laid across the long table ahead of them, large tin pans filled with still steaming scrambled eggs, cooked sausages, a tower of biscuits being ladled with thick gravy, two large bowls filled with assorted cut fruit, ripe and fresh. It feels almost like a mirage, and he has to swallow down saliva just about every five seconds, silently picking up a plate behind his brother once they finally reach the table. 

“Be generous. There’s plenty to go around.” Tommy leans in to whisper, a twinkle in his eye. Joel just glances at him, shifting on his feet before plucking the spoon out of the scrambled eggs to scoop onto his plate. By the time they’re at the end of the spread, Joel realizes he maybe should have grabbed two plates instead of one, with all the food piled onto his, the juices of the sausage and fruit mixing with the gravy, but the mash of flavors is of no concern to him as Tommy guides him through the room to an empty table.

As they walk, Joel can’t help but notice a table of children, henned by a single plump woman, openly staring at him, eyes wide and curious. They’re basically rubbernecking, heads craning as they watch his every step as he moves past. 

“Looks like you’ve got some fans already.” Tommy says in a low tone with a teasing smile on his face, but as they sit down, Joel mutters back, “They ain’t got no goddamn manners?”​

Tommy snickers, shaking his head as he starts to fork at the food on his plate. “They’re kids, Joel. You’re the shiny new toy.”

“The hell I am.” Joel shoots back, lips pursed in irritation, but Tommy only chuckles again. “Alright, whatever. Just eat up.” With one more disapproving huff, Joel settles his attention back on his food, an intense wave of hunger washing through him as he picks up his fork and knife to starts shoveling it in.

With a glimmering smile as he watches, Tommy reminds him in a teasing tone, “Chew.” Joel is too distracted by the taste to even glare, simply returning around a full mouth, “I’m not a damn child, Tommy. Just fuckin’ starving. You have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had a meal like this?”

“Well, if you keep shoving it in like that, it might be your last.”

“Shut up.” Joel says, the sound barely comprehensible with the amount of food stuffed in his mouth, but it’s not hard to guess, and it only makes Tommy snicker.

Giving him some time to enjoy the meal, Tommy pulls away to retrieve cups of coffee for the two of them, before joining back and starting to explain the inner workings of the commune—work, specifically. The two positions that stick out the most to Joel are construction, and patrolling. Even though he’s sure he’ll be rusty, getting back into what he used to do all those years ago is a nice thought. Patrolling, well, he guesses he might end up going a little stir crazy if he doesn’t get out past these walls every once a while, and going out armed, on horseback, and joined by a couple others, in addition to knowing he’s doing his part to keep Jackson safe and that he’ll have a warm home to return to, yeah, he can do that. 

Eventually, he casts a few glances around the mess hall, trying to discreetly catch a glimpse of you, and after a few furtive attempts, he finally does, spotting you sitting alone at a table. You’re hunched over your plate, guarding it, head down, shoveling your food in almost as fast as he’s been, as if this was your first meal in days, or that someone might come steal it away if you’re ready to fight them off. 

You used to eat slowly, savoring the taste, never wanting to have the last bite to yourself, always wanting to share.

Not anymore. 

Joel drops his head back down, trying to hide how much his heart starts to hurt, nodding along to Tommy’s words, sparing a comment every once in a while, but he’s basically picking at his food towards the end. 

As breakfast comes to a close and people start to file out of the building, Joel keeks around again, almost reflexively trying to pick you out in the crowd. When he finally finds you, he catches you watching him, then deliberately side stepping behind a small pocket of chattering Jacksonvillers. His heart twinges, guessing you’re going to be avoiding him from now on, and he internally kicks himself all the way out into the street, before your voice startles him out of it, having strode up right in front of he and Tommy while his gaze was fixed on his shoes.

“Hey, do you have time to talk?” You ask, stiff and rushed. 

He blinks at you, throwing a quick glance at Tommy, head racing with questions like, ‘Is this gonna end well?’ ‘Why the hell would you even want to talk to me?’ and, the most frightening, ‘What are you gonna say?’

After a brief pause, he gives you a short nod, the words falling from his lips, “Of course.”

“At my house?” You respond immediately, shifting from one foot to the other. 

“Yeah.” He nods again, “Sure.” 

You let out a quick sigh, nodding again, before turning on your heel and starting to basically march back towards your row of houses. With a quick ‘what the fuck?’ glance at Tommy, who then gives him a tight lipped, ‘good luck’ grimace, Joel follows behind you, heart rate steadily rising the closer you get. Neither of you dare even glance in the other’s direction, body language equally taut as you walk the few more uncomfortable minutes up to your door. Quickly, you unlock it and slip inside, shrugging off your jacket and hanging it up in one fluid motion, not even looking at him as you walk to the table and sit down. Joel approaches more hesitantly, heart punching his rib cage as he takes a seat across from you. 

While you study the surface of the table, Joel can’t tear his gaze away from you, and when you finally raise your head to meet it, he swallows hard. Your expression is measured in neutrality, and Joel can’t tell if he’s in any way prepared for whatever the hell it is you’re about to say. 

After a beat, you finally begin, “We need to have a conversation. A real one. Not like yesterday where we end up screaming our heads off at each other. We both live here now, which means we’re gonna see each other around, so I think we should try to at least make that bearable.” You say evenly, lips slightly pursed.

He nods tersely, agreeing wholeheartedly that you have to do something about this whole… situation, and hoping to god that this does end up as a civil, useful conversation. He also knows that that means he needs to keep the reins tight on himself, keep in his mind that he needs to be patient with you, understanding, kind. He wants to be, it’s where his heart is at, but he feels skinless around you, as if the simple breath from your lips when you speak stings. 

After he nods, you pause, looking down at your fidgeting hands. He watches them, self reproach another set of teeth sinking into his raw skin. He doesn't want to make you nervous, doesn’t want you to have to bite your tongue around him; he’s writhing in his skin at how fucking difficult it is for the two of you just to have a conversation, when it used to be so easy. 

But maybe talking will do something. Maybe, after this, your words won’t be so forced, and he won't feel like he’s turning inside out every time a silence falls. 

He watches your mouth open, hanging for a moment before you pick back up, “And I… I realized that, I need to give you a chance to say your piece… hear your side of things. So…” You glance up at him, giving a slight, awkward nod, like now it’s his turn to speak, and he swallows, suddenly very much on the spot. 

“Uh, my side.” He stalls, adjusting his posture in the seat, folding his hands on the table. 

“Just, whatever you wanna say. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Joel studies you for several more seconds, relieved and surprised at your sudden willingness to ‘hear his side of things’, and your claim to actually listen to it. He’s still nervous, though, still apprehensive to actually open up about what things looked like for him. You seem to have very conflicting views on it, and he’s not certain that you’ll continue to be as calm—or probably as close as you can get to it at the moment—once he really gets to talking.

He frowns, looking away as he actually tries to think of how to explain himself. He’s still just treading water in an ocean of shame, over what he did, and the reason he did it in the first place. He fights against the urge to say ‘it’s complicated’, knowing it’s a meaningless phrase, despite the truth in it. But the silence stretches on, that expectant look on your face, so, forcing himself to finally hold your gaze, he blurts out the first thing that makes it to his tongue. 

“I’m sorry.”

He swallows, fidgeting with his hands, expecting a displeased sigh, but you stay silent, keeping your promise. So, he’s forced to continue. 

“I know that doesn’t mean much, I know it, won’t make things right. I don't think anything I could say will… but… I guess I, I mean, I do, owe you, some sort of… explanation.” He clenches his jaw, and knowing what he’s going to say next, he can’t get himself to meet your eyes, locking them instead on a dark ray on the wooden table, a bitter taste rising in his mouth as he speaks. “I was weak. Sacred. I didn’t…” the words get stuck in his throat, his entire body screaming, but he soldiers on. “I wanted to protect you. And it’s not because I thought you couldn’t look after yourself—you’ve always been very capable.” These are words he’s able to look you in the eyes for, sure and true, things she wished he’d told you more, so you wouldn’t have ended up with this fucked up idea that he looks down on you. “You’re strong, you’re smart, sharp, always have been. You saved my life more than once, Y/n, I’ve never forgotten that. I never doubted you, never doubted what you can do. That’s not why I left.” His gaze falls back down to the table, back to that dark eye in the wood. “I care about you. So much that it… it hurts, and I, I just… I wanted to keep you safe. And I thought I was, when I… but, I know that, wh-when it really mattered, I failed. I know I did.” Sorrow starts to lilt his tone, and he swallows, willing his voice to even. “I thought I was doing you a favor, by just leavin’, I thought you’d be better off, I thought I… but, but I know it was wrong, and, by the time I realized what I’d done, it was too late. You were gone.” There's a long pause, Joel hopelessly fidgeting with his hands as that feeling comes back, that boulder in his gut, not knowing where you were, the world suddenly feeling so vast, the realization that he might never find you like a vacuum in his chest. When he manages to speak again, his voice has fallen quiet, “I went back, I looked for you, but I couldn’t find you, but I, I kept looking for you. I never stopped. I never stopped thinking about you. Every day, I thought about you, no matter where I was, I was just, hopin’ you’d, just, show up somewhere and I could…”

“You looked for me?” Comes a heartbroken voice, and when his gaze flicks back up, your face has fallen, as if the thought had never occurred to you that he searched for you, that he regretted leaving you there. 

“Of course I did.” Joel replies in an almost whisper, brow strung together as he looks at you, “I wish I never left, Y/n. I just thought that… I thought it was the only way to keep you safe.” He keeps his eyes locked on yours, hoping his words can carry all the emotion that burns his pith, “I thought I was gonna, drag you down, I was gonna get you killed, Y/n. I’m old; even then, I, I’m losin’—I mean my, my hearing’s goin’, I’m not as fast as I used to be, I don’t have the same endurance or stamina—shit, Y/n, I’m not what I used to be, I’m… I’m…” he pauses for a rough breath, the shame weighing his head down as he shakes it, voice low and gruff. “I didn’t wanna be the reason you died. I couldn’t live with myself if I was.” He shakes his head, “If I failed you like that. But I did anyway, I know that I did, Y/n. I know what I did was wrong. And I hated myself for it, I still do, because I know that it was the worst thing I could’ve done, leave you to… fend for yourself. I left you, alone, with your arm still, still torn open…” by now, his voice is nothing but a shaky murmur, the confession like having his throat scraped clean, down his diaphragm, scooping out all that festering rot, to admit the shortcomings and weaknesses that tore your life apart, but it doesn’t hurt enough, he feels like he should get down on his knees and tear his own arms open, lash himself until there’s nothing left but exposed muscle, and hope that the pain could counterweight whatever it is that has shaped you into this frightened, barbed woman that you are now. “I left, because I’m weak, because I'm a coward, a scared, fool, I’m, I’m, pathetic Y/n and I know it—” He spits the last bit out, a pained grimace on his face, but then you interrupt him, suddenly whispering, “Stop.”

Joel raises his head to look at you, rambling abruptly cut short, and he finds your shoulders are even higher than before, your eyes shut tight. 

“You know I could never stand you talking about yourself like that. Even when you were joking. So just… don’t.” The lack of anger coming from you is, once again, shocking, not even annoyance present, just that tenseness, your brow pinched, jaw set. He hadn't expected that to be the point when you'd heard enough, with how affronted you’d been every time he’d tried to apologize, and after how pathetic he was last night. 

Joel stays quiet, anxiously awaiting for you to explain, for your response to his vomited admissions. 

With a sigh, you fold your hands. “Joel…” He watches your lips as you speak, saying his name softly. 

Right now, you look almost small, and he can tell that whatever you’re about to say is going to be just as hard to say as it was for him, and he becomes acutely aware of how fragile this moment is. “I…” You start again, mouth hanging open for another moment. 

“I spent a lot of time, trying to figure out why you left.” You pause. “I thought that you were just trying to protect yourself, that I was weighing you down, that I was…” you stop again to sigh. “I thought that you meant it when you said that it was all bullshit. That I never meant anything to you, that it was just some sick joke, that you’d been itching to leave for, a while, that you… that you hated me.” Your words strike Joel like an iron spike, and he feel compelled to argue, press again how much he cares for you, how highly he’s always valued you, but he knows better than to interrupt, so he instead simply sits there, watching your face, the light contortion of pain that he wishes he could rip away like a unbecoming veil. 

“But I realized that that’s not true… I think I knew for a while, why you did it. Deep down I knew that you were just scared. And I… I get it.” You nod, “I understand. I mean I, I know you pretty well, Joel.” You nod again, shifting in your seat. “And I don’t want to hate you, no matter how much I did, I—I wanted to just be angry, because that would be so much easier, easier than hurting—if I’m angry I’m not weak. I can do something about it, but, but, I just, I care about you, and I always wondered how you were doing, but every time I wished you well I shoved the thought out, because it would be so much easier to just want to—” You let out a heavy sigh, deflating, head bowing so low that he can only see the top of it, your hands folded firmly in front of you. 

“I still wished you were there.” Your whispered words sound broken, and Joel feels like he’s falling apart at the seams, like he could just start wailing, and all he wants to do is wrap you up in his arms, and protect you, like he didn’t for all those years, protect that softness that he can see is still in you now. All he sees in front of him is that girl, the one who smiled, and sang, and laughed, and offered her kindness to the world despite how terribly it would throw it back on her face. But he remains there, rigid.

“It was so fucked up without you Joel.” You continue in that small, quiet voice. “And I'm not trying to make you feel bad, I don't want that anymore, I just…” A shaky sigh slips past your lips, and the guilt is melting his skin off, because he knows that you wouldn’t be this broken if he had just stayed, and your soft little whispered words tell him just how much you’ve suffered. “I just—” The words die in your throat again with another rough breath, and then you shock him again, by unfolding a hand and laying it down on the table, open towards him. He stares at it, unable to move, before he remembers what to do, and slips his hand into yours, hesitating before he squeezes it, and when you squeeze back, his heart twists, and it’s as if every second of those six years comes crashing down on him, and after a deep, unsteady breath, you speak again, voice heart wrenchingly pained and tight, and terribly, terribly soft. 

“I know I'm not the same. I know I’m different now. I know I’m like a fucking animal sometimes. I don't want to be. And I don't blame you for that. I blame the world, all the fucked up people I ran into, all the—the fucking, shit, that is the world.” Joel’s stomach ties in painful knots, brow knitting, wanting to disagree, because all he can think when he looks at you, hears how choked up your tone is becoming is I did this. I did that to you. “I’m just, I’m just fucking damaged, Joel, I’m damaged to shit.” 

Those words are what break him, and he’s unable to stop himself from cutting you off, squeezing your hand a little tighter. “You’re not damaged.” He tells you, tender, but unwavering. 

“Yeah, I am.” You counter in a tearful whisper, eyes still shut tight and aimed at the table, but he sees how your brow is scrunched, and god, it hurts. “I talked to Tommy last night,” you go on, “and you wanna know what he said to me when I told him I was gonna talk to you again today? He said, ‘promise me you’re not gonna kill my brother.’ And he meant it, Joel. He thought I was gonna fucking kill you, his brother.” A sniffle interrupts you, and you quickly swipe a hand under your nose, letting out a feeble, trembling sigh. “I’m a fucking freak, Joel, a rabid fucking dog. I’m a monster, and I know it. The world ate me up and spit me back out again, and I don't, I don't recognize myself anymore. And I hate it.” You sniffle again, roughly wiping again with the back of your hand, and Joel’s heart is racing, eyes almost wide and tearful himself, shocked into stillness, hearing you suddenly spewing all these things out, hearing you speak of yourself in this way. “I know you miss me, and I miss me, too. But I can't see her anymore, Joel, when I look at myself, all I see is blood on my lips, on my face, pouring down my neck. I—I’m a—” Suddenly, a choked whimper tumbles out of you, shaking your shoulders, and he can’t stand it anymore. 

“Stop. Stop. No more. You’re not. You’re not.” Joel shakes his head, eyes fixed on you, keeping his voice gentle, gentle like you are to him, gentle like the place in his heart that cradles you.

“Yes I am.” You argue back, voice breaking, and he knows the tears are coming. “I’m awful, Joel, I’m awful.” 

He can’t stop himself from rising from his seat, he doesn't think twice as he walks around the table, fitting his hands under your arms to pull you out of your chair, then wrapping you into his embrace, gently pulling you against him. You lean into him easily, and he shuts his eyes tight, heart booming with a deep ache of pain but also relief, to hold you again, finally, again. 

You cover your face with your hands, folding your arms against his chest, shoulders shaking with nearly silent cries. Joel clenches his jaw, willing his own tears back, willing back the guilt and shame, to stop thinking about himself, and to just be there for you, because you're not asking for his penance, you're asking for his care. So, he wills it to pour out of him, pulling his arms tighter around you and gently running a hand up and down your back. And he knows why it makes you cry harder. Because you finally have that comfort that you wished for all those times when he wasn’t there, and hell if he’s going anywhere now. 

After a sudden, audible sob, your hands come away from your face to instead wrap around his shoulders, and then there you hang, and there he holds you, almost up from around your waist. 

As the weeping commences, you’ve never felt this raw in his arms, he’s never heard such broken sounds from you, ragged sobs launching from your throat and reverberating through his chest as you press your face into it. You’re breaking in his arms, your knees going weak, but he’s got you, he whispers, “I got you. I got you.”

Another violent bawl jolts out of you, and then he can feel your full weight pull against his arms, so he sinks down to the floor with you, wrapping his arms as far as they’ll go to pull you against his chest as you cave into it. It only swells, your lamenting, hard, rough, loud sobs and choked breaths that he instantly recognizes the need in for that gentle reminder, “Hey, breathe, breath, in and out, in and out.” He says it into your hair, whispering just above your ear, his own eyes still squeezed shut, heart swelled with all this love that he wishes could just seep through his skin to replace all of this pain, but he knows it can’t, he knows all he can do is hold you and, “Breathe with me. In and out. That’s it. Keep breathing. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here with you. Just breathe. That’s all you gotta do. Just breathe with me.”

And you do, and his head is swimming, it’s so surreal, but he feels your weight, there and true, and your hands clutching his shirt just as he had yours when it was his turn to break, and he can feel how you need him like he needed you. But it’s not weakness, that’s not what he feels from you, it’s strength, because god damn it you’re still here, you made it through that hell, and by god you are not lost, not to him, and here you are, back in his arms. 

Eventually, your tears die down, the only sound in the house those even, shared breaths, cut by a small snivel or snuffle from you. It starts to calm him, too, passing those level breaths with you, his eyes still closed as he holds on tight, the screams in his head becoming faint whispers—all the shame, guilt, hurt and pain falling away, leaving him only with how precious you are. 

After a few more moments, your body falls lax against him, and you let out a final deep, shuddering sigh, before finally finding your voice again, quiet against his chest. “I guess we’re even now.”

Joel can’t help a sudden, breathy chuckle, a small smile forming on his face. “I guess so.” He replies, a warmth spreading steadily through his chest.

He wants to hold onto this moment, just stay here on the floor for a while with your weight draped over him and warmth under his arms. It feels almost dreamlike to feel the shape of you again, hear the sound of your breaths, to have you relaxed, just, resting there. 

Despite everything, right now, it’s okay again. Right now, he has you back. And even though you’re different, he loves you, just as he always has, except maybe harder, now. More purposeful. Because you need it. You need the best that he has, so he’ll give it. He’ll be softer. He’ll tell you how much loves you, and how wonderful you are, how strong, powerful, smart, resilient, the joy that you give him just by being alive. He’ll try to make you smile more, but it’ll be alright if you don’t. He’ll make a space for you where it doesn’t matter what you've gone through or what you've seen, what you've done. He doesn't care about the cruelty he knows you've inflicted. He’s done the same. It doesn't make you any less of a person, doesn't make you deserve anything less than every single drop of love he can squeeze out of himself. And Jackson will be a home, and whenever it falls, whether it's in five years, ten, one, a week, you’ll make it out, together, he’ll take you with him, haul you and Tommy out of the flames and you’ll make another home, or something, something. But he’ll be there. He will dedicate himself to you. You are his purpose, just as you were before, but now, it’ll be in everything that he does. That is what’s left for him to do. 

To love you. Show it to you every day. However you need him to. 

That's what's left for him to do in this world. 

So, he holds you, and whispers in your ear, “I love you.” 

[abiiors]

birthday surprise - matty x reader

part 2 of matty's birthday weekend a/n: this is scheduled. by the time this goes up, i will (hopefully🤞🏼) be on a beach somewhere, day drunk 😌 cw: vomit (because hungover), dramatic (because sad), once again vague descriptions of depression. some kissing and suggestive stuff. idiots friends to lovers wc: 3.1k

george’s massive hand rests on matty’s back while he retches into the toilet. 

his head pounds mercilessly, the sunlight streaming in through the window is barely helping and the soured wine churning in his stomach comes back up once again, leaving him gasping for air. a loud splash echoes in the bathroom and matty groans, gagging a bit more. 

george is a good friend. he lets matty lean on him and holds the glass of water so matty can slowly sip from it.

it barely works though. he feels like shit regardless, and none of it can be cured by water or food or painkillers. 

george helps him get back to bed once matty feels slightly better. the whole time neither of them say a word. matty doesn’t know how much of last night has been told to his friend—does he know the precise way in which matty fucked up? did he see matty in the act? overhear the conversation accidentally? 

george’s face looks completely blank. he does all the right things—sets a glass of water and a few painkillers next to matty, grabs him a bucket, draws the blackout curtains. he even offers to get breakfast.

“fry up from that small cafe down the street,” he says in a hushed voice. “come on, greasy food’s good for hangovers.”

matty mumbles something like a vague yes, if only so george would step out of the house for a bit. once he’s out, matty searches for his phone, wedged somewhere between the mattress and the headboard. the sudden brightness makes him wince but once he manages to open his eyes, he checks for messages and missed calls. 

apart from one missed call from george and one from jamie, there’s nothing. 

nothing from her. 

not one message. 

the last message he’s sent to her sits at read—it’s nothing special, just the address to the pub they were going to meet at. and then… yeah, matty remembers how well that went. 

he remembers the last look on her face before she stormed off. 

then it’s just a fog.

his throat feels clogged, his eyes sting but no tears come. matty just lays there, curled up like a pathetic worm, clutching his pillow until seconds or minutes or hours later george re-enters his room. 

“right, come on,” he flings the covers off matty, making him feel a sudden draft of cold air. “i’m not getting you breakfast in bed, mate. you’re hungover, not an invalid.”

“‘m not hungry,” matty mumbles. his voice is hoarse and his throat hurts—probably the vomiting—but it’s nothing in comparison to his head. a delayed realisation hits him that he never took the painkillers. 

george huffs. “don’t be a diva.” and if matty had any strength he would absolutely be offended by that. then again maybe george doesn’t know the full extent of last night. 

“seriously george—”

“matty. you’re going to get out of bed and come to the kitchen. we are going to eat and then we are going to talk about last night.”

well… there goes that. a stubborn side of him wants to be an absolute ass and dig his feet in. say all sorts of mean things to george just so he’d leave. but isn’t that what got him here in the first place? he really isn’t in the position to hurt more people in his life. 

like a small child matty drags his feet the entire way to the kitchen, turning his nose up at the food on the table. (even though it looks really good and his stomach does growl now that he can smell the food) george doesn’t egg him on any further. he just motions to the chair and slides a mug of coffee in front of him.

“you said what?” 

it’s the eerily calm edge to george’s voice that makes matty shrink in his seat. he does feel better with some food in his stomach, physically at least. but the way george stares at him—eyes cold, lips pressed in a thin line—makes him feel sick to his stomach all over again. 

“i said– i– i said it was the first of april, i told her it was a joke.” his voice is a pathetic whisper, words drowned by shame and guilt and self-hatred. matty wishes he could go back in time and undo it all. he won’t say any of it. 

he won’t even touch the wine in the first place. 

“right after you said i love you.”

“yeah.”

“huh.”

easy for george to say that. it’s not his love life blowing up in his face right now. matty stabs the tomato next to his half-eaten toast, watching it spill its guts onto the plate. red. just like last night. 

he remembers that part of it. 

“what happened after? how did i… get home?”

george goes a bit silent for a second, not meeting matty’s eyes which sets alarm bells ringing in his head. 

“do you really not remember?”

when matty shakes his head, george just sighs and then softly says her name. “she called charli, crying a lot and i figured something went down. i called you–don’t you remember that?” when matty’s blank face gives him the answer, george continues, “you sounded really awful like… you were gasping for breath. i could barely understand you. so i thought i’d pick you up and get you home. i’m glad i did.”

in all of this the only part matty focuses on is her. and that she called charli crying a lot. of course, he thanks george but it’s only half-hearted, distracted. he can’t get the image of it out of his mind—her sobbing on the other end of the phone, barely able to get a word out. it breaks his heart all over again. 

he did that. 

this is all his fault. 

“matty… you have to make it right.”

that’s the biggest problem of it all—he doesn’t know how. what is he supposed to do, call her up and say: hey, so you know how i drunkenly said i love after which i assumed you looked at me with disgust and then i said it was all a joke and you stormed off? well it was not a joke i am seriously in love with you and i don’t know what happens to our friendship after this. 

yeah. there’s no way to put it any better. 

so he just nods. at least, that way he doesn’t have to answer to george right now. he’s figure out a way to do it later, once he doesn’t feel like a raisin. he’ll figure out a proper plan, build up the courage to call her. 

for now matty can only swallow the rest of the now-lukewarm coffee and hope that he can just sleep the rest of the day off. 

for three days after that, his messages stay on delivered. 

it’s a harrowing process, to pick up his phone and dial her number only for it to go to voicemail after the second ring. almost like she’d stabbed her thumb on the glaring red reject button. 

all his messages went unanswered too. all the—

hey

can we talk please?

please!

i just want to say sorry 

just hear me out

—all of them ignored, like all his other efforts to reach her through her friends. 

day four charli shows up at his doorstep, face twisted in a scowl, eyes like embers ready to singe him if he stepped one toe out of line, mayhem in tow. 

the puppy is his last straw. the fact that she sent mayhem back with charli instead of dropping him off herself… matty doesn’t even want to think what that means for him. for them. 

he mumbles a quiet “thanks” to charli, afraid of speaking anything louder. 

“if it weren’t for george—” she starts and swallows, as if she’s literally swallowing her anger. “nevermind. forget about it.”

and then she leaves him standing at his doorstep like a loser, mayhem’s leash in hand. 

much later he realises that the collar is different now, it’s no longer the slightly frayed old brown collar from before. this one is new. 

this one is green. a green that matches her hair… 

the thought of it makes his throat clog up with tears once again. when had she even had the time to go buy him a new collar? one to match her hair so perfectly? was it before or after he fucked up? matty scratches mayhem behind his ears who lets out a soft little whine and nuzzles him in return. maybe the puppy is sad too, maybe mayhem prefers being with her instead of being with him. 

the next few days he spends like a pig in a pigsty, surrounded by his own filth of food cartons and cigarette butts and coke cans. he makes it a mission to call her once every day—all of them go unanswered anyway so what’s the point?

by the time the seventh of april rolls around, matty doesn’t even bother thinking about his birthday anymore—there’s no pointing in celebrating it, he’s not even in the mood right now. one failed celebration is enough.

his friends, of course, have a whole different plan in mind. 

jamie shows up at his house the evening of the seventh, not ready to take no for an answer. it’s just a small dinner, he says, only friends and family. (matty knows that’s not true, knows it’s going to be a whole surprise party) but every “no” is met with a gentle refusal to accept it and so ultimately, he gives in and dresses up in his cleanest, least sad shirt. the one that least screams “i took my first shower of the week today”. 

jamie, to his credit, tries engaging him in conversation. matty, to his credit, tries not to answer in one syllable words. it gets exhausting real quick though, so they end up spending the rest of the car ride in silence.

everything that happens after is a blur in his mind—the pub looks ordinary from the outside, inconspicuous. everyone yells “surprise!” much like he predicted. matty smiles, cheery and fake. someone hands him a drink, which he tries to refuse but the person is too far away to hear him over the music now. his stomach roils at the thought of being in another pub, in the middle of another birthday party. 

he just wants to go home and curl up onto his bed and never move again. 

except…

matty’s heart stops when he spots a green head. 

he blinks rapidly, about to rub his eyes to make sure he didn’t hallucinate. maybe there are drugs in the air, maybe the (untouched) drink in his hands is actually spiked. 

but the green head moves and she steps away from behind george, a glass of some dark cocktail in her hands and her eyes trained on him. matty staggers to a stop, about to drop the glass in his hands. 

“hey…” her voice is hesitant, unsure when she first walks up to him. from behind her, george throws matty a look, his brow raised as if to say one chance, matty. better make it right.

of all the things that have happened today, this… this is the real surprise. 

matty stands there like an idiot, tongue-tied and wide-eyed, unable to come up with a simple “hi”.

“should we… uh, head outside?” it’s when she points vaguely behind her, to the smoking area, that he realises just how loud it is inside. the consistent beat of the song thumps through his chest, making him feel more anxious than ever. in a daze, he nods and then dutifully follows her outside. 

as soon as the door to the smoking area closes behind him, she whirls around, arms crossed in front of her chest, brows knit in an indecipherable expression. “talk.”

oh.

well, that’s what he had said to her hadn’t he? in all the text messages he had sent. that he just wants to talk. he just wants one chance. and now that the chance is here, his mouth's as dry as a desert. 

“i was… an idiot, no forget that, i was a real cunt to you. just like you said, i’m so sorry for the awful shit i said, i…” his words come out stilted and awkward. he has no idea where he’s going with this, he only knows he needs to earn her forgiveness somehow. 

even if he has to get on his knees. 

“i got drunk an–and cruel and said things i didn’t mean—”

“what things?”

“w-what?” 

“the things you didn’t mean,” she clears her throat, “what things were they? the part where you said i love you or–or the part where you said it was all a joke?”

matty’s insides feel like jelly all over again. it’s like he’s back where he was a week ago—just a boy, standing in front of the girl he loves, about to say the stupidest thing in the world. 

“well?”

“i didn’t mean it as a j–joke.” his voice comes out as a cowardly whisper, high pitched and barely audible. that’s no way to say the things he really wants to say! 

gathering all his courage, matty steps closer to her. to his utter surprise, she doesn’t step away. 

“it wasn’t a joke, what i said to you. i—” he chokes, nervously running a hand through his hair, wondering what the slight widening of her eyes means out of the million possibilities his brain’s already conjured up. 

“i know i was drunk and barely making sense but i meant it… i meant all of it.”

slowly, she uncrosses her arms, letting them dangle at her sides. the crease between her brows relaxes too. suddenly, it’a her taking a step forward until they’re toe-to-toe and she has to tilt her chin up to look him in the eyes. the moonlight shines bright on her face, the glitter gleams on her eyelids, and for a moment matty is completely awestruck. 

how is he meant to find words when she leaves him so completely tongue-tied?

“and what’s ‘it’, huh?”

the faint ringing in his ears starts up all over again and music from inside the pub floats through the walls, mellowed and somehow peaceful. this is it, he thinks. he fucked it up once, he absolutely cannot do it again. 

“i meant i… i love you. not as a friend. i mean n-no, of course, i love you as a friend but i also meant it as something more. not that you have to reciprocate! i just–it’s just what i feel—”

the rest of his words die on his lips. get cut off by someone else’s lips more like it. her lips. against his. 

matty’s eyes resemble wide saucers until her arms wrap around him, fingers tangling into his hair. her nails brushing against his scalp is what makes his body relax and suddenly matty’s kissing her back. 

tenderly, he holds her cheek, tucking away stray hair behind her ear. his other hand rests on her waist, too hesitant to grip her tightly but too scared to just let go. as if once he lets go of her, she’ll float away, far away from him again, out of his reach. matty’s sure she can feel his heart hammering in his chest. he’s not super proud of it but the kiss makes him forget all about being embarrassed. 

the feel of her tongue lighting teasing his lips is all that matters. 

she makes a sound at the back of her throat, almost a… moan and pulls away abruptly, looking shy all of a sudden. 

matty touches his lips with trembling fingers. 

“was that too—”

“are you joking?!” if he though his voice was breathy before, it has nothing on what he sounds like now. the sound that comes out of him is hoarse, like he’s struggling to breathe and it’s making him feel dizzy. the good kind of dizzy. “so i fucked up, majorly, might i add! and i get rewarded with a kiss?!”

she giggles, all anger from before melting away right in front of his eyes. “it was more to shut you up honestly, you would have been here all night. rambling.”

for the first time in a week, matty can finally breathe, can finally feel the blood in his veins flow again. for the first time in a week, matty feels like a person again. “it wasn’t a reward. just because you’re pretty and a good kisser doesn’t mean i’ll forgive you so quickly.” 

matty grins, “you think i’m pretty?” and promptly gets punched in the arm.

it takes them a moment to stop giggling, but when they finally sober up, she turns serious again. “seriously though, matty, it hurt me a lot, what you did. i think… i think i can set it aside for tonight but i’m going to need some time to figure things out. 

matty nods. of course, he knows the impact his words must have had. shame and guilt blooms deep within him, strong and acrid. 

“don't forgive me yet, love. forgive me when i earn it. forgive me when you think i’m worthy of it.”

when she kisses him again, it’s deeper than the last time. her entire body is pressed against his, so warm and soft in arms, exactly like he’s imagined countless times before. he can’t stop himself—can’t stop him from finally holding onto her waist, hand sliding down to her ass. can’t stop himself from pushing her back till her back hits the wall and a soft gasp leaves her mouth. every nerve ending in his body is on hyperdrive. everywhere she touches, electricity zings through him. 

matty slides his tongue in her mouth, pulling on her bottom lip with his teeth and soothing the sting away with his tongue. every time he feels her shiver, matty presses further into her. he just wants more and more and more—more than he can do here and now on this balcony. 

all his friends are inside for fucks sake. 

“you can start now,” she teases, smiling roguishly against his mouth. “you’d look quite nice on your knees, i think.”

blood simmers under his skin, rushing south all at once and this time it’s matty who shivers, struggling to stand upright. 

“yeah? that what you want, sweetheart?”

“take me home, please,” she says. and matty agrees in a heartbeat. 

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[youknowwho-mustnotbenamed]

November 24: The Black Lake | word count: 786 | @wolfstarmicrofic

Nearly the entire population of Hogwarts is enjoying the warm summer weather on the grounds. Most of them are crowded around the shores of the Black Lake, talking with friends, splashing in the water, or tossing a ball back and forth. It is entirely too loud, but Remus won’t turn for the castle while the warmth of the sun warms the chill in his bones and the clear air fills his lungs.

He sighs and shifts his back against the rough bark of the tree, abandoning his textbook for a moment to watch James and Sirius. They are on the shore of the lake, shirtless, and wrestling in the shallows. At one point, they had a frisbee, though Remus doesn’t see it anymore. Though he can hardly focus on anything else when Sirius is right there. Sirius, who has water droplets scattered across his torso, catching the light and drawing Remus’ eyes in, no matter how much he tries to pull them away.

He is helpless but to watch as Sirius’ head falls back in a laugh, exposing the pale column of his throat. There is a primal part of him that wants to burrow his nose into the crook of his neck and breathe in his scent. Remus desperately needs to know. Does he smell like the scent that always surrounds him, or is that just his cologne? He probably smells really good, like something earthy. Sandalwood maybe, or maybe even something smokey, like tobacco?

He feels heat rush to his cheeks, and forcefully tears his gaze away, burying his nose in his book instead. He’s being foolish. Sirius would never look twice at him that way. Not only is he dangerous halfblood werewolf, but he is a boy. Even on the off chance that Sirius did feel the same, Remus could never risk their friendship, one Sirius would probably be better off without anyway. So he will admire from afar, admonishing himself every step of the way. It’s better this way. It’s better than broken hearts and lonely nights. He doesn’t care how selfish it is. If he can’t have Sirius in the way he wants, he will take whatever he can get.

“Enjoying the view?” Lily asks, leaning against the tree next to him. He hadn’t even noticed her approach. See, this is a problem. There is a war going on. If he is too focused on his stupid crush on Sirius, he could compromise not only himself, but whoever he is working with.

“Bugger off.”

“Still?” She gasps. “Remus, it’s been years.” She slides down the tree until she is sitting next to him.

“I know, Lils. I’m pathetic.”

“Why don’t you just tell him how you feel?”

"We've had this conversation before, Lils. I know you are trying to be supportive, but he's straight."

“What if he isn’t?”

He scoffs. “Are we looking at the same person? Sirius is the straightest boy I know.”

“You said that about James.”

“Yeah, well, I’m right about this one.” He insists. She should know better than to get his hopes up like this. It will only lead to him crying alone in the middle of the night over an unrequited love. Like Echo and Narcissus, one forever forced to live in the shadow of the other who would never look twice and the former.

“Remus…”

“I’m not going to risk him looking at me like I’m repulsive. I’d rather live in ignorance.”

“You never chose ignorance.”

“This time I do.”

“Well, if we are jumping to conclusions today, I also have an unrequited crush.”

“You do?”

“Well, you see, I could ask her, but… you know, I might be disappointed by the results of doing so.”

“It’s different and you know it.”

“Really? How so?”

“She’s not your friend. And you’re not a werewolf.”

“Come on, Remus. You have to get over that.”

“Get over it?! I have to live with this forever Lily! I can’t just… just forget about it.”

“You may not be able to forget about it, but you can’t use it as an excuse. If I used being muggleborns as an excuse, I would hardly be the top of our class, would I? No, instead I used it to prove them wrong about their base assumptions toward me. You are more than a stereotype, Remus. And if Sirius can’t see that, then he isn’t the one for you.”

“Sometimes, you are a bit too perceptive, Lils.”

“That’s why I’m your best friend, because I don’t let you feed me the same lies you feed everybody else, including yourself. You have to stop hiding behind these walls, Remus, otherwise you will be stuck right here for the rest of your life.”

[glitterrosesnzz]

im so obsessed with set/hos/cara it's becoming a genuine problem. here's a tiny fic of the two of them.

-

It started raining. Out of nowhere, seemingly, just a sudden downpour. Not even the leaves of the tree who's branch the two of them were sitting on was enough to keep the rain from falling down upon them.

Sethos had jumped a little, before remaining completely still, letting the rain splash over him-

Up until the Wanderer had grabbed his arm and harshly yanked him close enough that Sethos was practically in the other's lap, almost completely protected from the rain by the Wanderer's hat.

"So, is this what your hat is for?" Sethos asked, "Protection from the rain?"

"Tch." The Wanderer didn't give him an answer, instead avoiding eye contact with him, seemingly somewhat annoyed by the question. Sethos smirked at him- and then sniffled a little, rubbing his nose with his sleeve, which didn't do much considering his sleeve was already damp from rain water. The Wanderer looked back at him with an expression that was almost aghast. "Surely such a brief moment in the rainfall didn't make you sick already. Are you really that weak?"

"Haha, no, no, it's just, the change in temperature is making my nose b-buzz... hH-hHAt'SHu!!" Sethos jolted, sneezing into his hand, tiny sparks of electricity making the Wanderer startle, and it was only through the Wanderer quickly adjusting his hold that they didn't both go tumbling off of the tree branch. Gripping the other's shoulder for stability, Sethos couldn't help but notice that the Wanderer had tensed, almost like he was holding his breath... before relaxing again.

"...Pathetic." The Wanderer said, "One single tiny change in temperature is enough to make you humans- h-hey, wait, don't do it again-"

"Hh- hAH- HATt'Chuu!!" Sethos wasn't going to really get much choice in the matter, but he was a little too preoccupied to tell the Wanderer that. "HhAH- AT'Chuh!!"

"Hh'nNxtii!!"

Sethos paused in rubbing his nose to glance at the Wanderer- who now had his own nose pinched in between his fingers, his cheeks flushed slightly pink. Sethos slowly started to smirk at him again.

"What were you saying before?" Sethos asked, "Something about it being pathetic for me to be affected by something like a temperature change-"

"It was not, the change in temperature." The Wanderer slowly stopped pinching his nose, almost hesitatingly, like he wasn't sure whether or not his need to sneeze had actually gone away. Sethos couldn't help but take note of that, even as the Wanderer glared at him. "...It was nothing."

"It sure didn't sound like nothing." Sethos readjusted himself, the Wanderer grabbing hold of the other's arms to make sure that he didn't fall as Sethos shifted to face him. "It sounded like a sneeze to me."

"It wasn't. I don't sneeze."

"Are you sure? Cause it looks to me like your nose is twitching."

"It's not-"

"You completely sure that the temperature change isn't making your nose itch? Making it buzz, like, zzzz-" Sethos paused mid-sound effect as he noticed the other's eyes get a little bit hazy. "Woah, wait, is just talking about it making you start to-"

"No." The Wanderer's grip on Sethos' arms tightened ever so slightly. "Stop talking about it."

"But what if I wanna hear you sneeze again, huh?" Sethos said, nearly laughing at the expression that immediately crossed the Wanderer's face in response. "I was a little preoccupied at the time, obviously, so I couldn't really tell, but I think it sounded cute-"

"Cu- what, I didn't-"

Sethos' rolled his eyes at the Wanderer's angry stammering, before flicking a tiny bit of electricity at him, the way he normally did to slightly annoy the other-

Only this time it had another effect.

"Hih- hH'shKiu!!" With his hands gripping Sethos' arms to keep him steady, the Wanderer couldn't stifle, a burst of anemo energy tussling Sethos' hair. The Wanderer's hat got knocked slightly off balance, and Sethos had to quickly reach up and grab hold of it with one hand to keep it from falling off and exposing the both of them to the rain.

"See?" Sethos said, "Your sneeze is cute."

The Wanderer glared at him.

"I could drop you." He said, "I could drop you out of this tree right now."

"But you won't~"

[the-writings-of-a-kiwi-bird]

Sorry, Reenie~

tags: angst/comfort, crack treated seriously maybe (not really taken seriously actually), medical inaccuracies probably (dont have the spoons to do research, im pretty vague though), kidnapping, referenced past drugging but in a lighthearted way and only once near the end

a little bit of Aventurine/Topaz at the end if you squint, but it can be interpretted as platonic, too

(i think thats it? idk)

this is 100% based on one of the numerous plotting/fic situations @silvercaptain24 and I think up/ping pong off each other in our DMs lol. im also only posting mainly this because its the easiest way to share with her XD

fic below cut (about 1400 words i thkn?)

Aventurine pushed his chair away from his desk and stood. 

I’ve been staring at these documents too long, I need a break. 

He exited his office, making sure to lock the door behind him, and began to make his way towards the end of the building where Topaz’s office is. 

Maybe I can talk her into lunch. It's been a while since I ate. 

He rounded a corner and was immediately grabbed and pulled into a janitorial closet. 

Before he could respond, a hand holding a cloth covered his nose and mouth. 

Aventurine held his breath and struggled, fighting to break free. 

“Oh come on, that’s taking too long!” An unfamiliar voice complained. 

Something hit his head hard, and the world turned black. 

~~ 

He awoke lying on his side. 

Everything hurt, and his mind was clouded with fog and pain. 

Aventurine tried to move his arms, only to painfully discover that they had been bound behind his back with rope, rather tightly. He did his best to remain silent and fought his eyes open. 

The floor he was laying on was dirt, which would explain the musty smell. It was dark, too dark to see much beyond the rusty iron bars in front of him. He could hear faint voices, but couldn't tell what they were saying or even what direction they came from. 

Panic fought to overtake his already limited mind, and he struggled to fight against it. 

I’m trapped. I can’t get free. Even if I could, those bars look strong. Everything hurts. What had I been doing? Where am I? I can move my feet. What good will that do? They’ve probably confiscated all my things. I can’t even call for help. I don't know if I’m even strong enough right now. I'm trapped. It’s so dark— 

His eyes threatened to close, and the room kept spinning. His wrists burned, the pain overpowering even the rest of the pain and making thoughts difficult. Painful memories threatened to surface, and he forced himself to focus on the pain instead. 

Aventurine’s whole body trembled, heart beating fast and loud. His neck burned, a phantom pain from memories long past resurfaced. 

Pistols fired somewhere in the distance, and the nearby voices turned to far away shouts. 

He was shaking, and not just from the cold. 

A familiar voice said something nearby. Or maybe far away? He wasn't sure. 

Panic swirled in his mind, drowning out all other thoughts besides the pain. 

He heard metal clangs, and the creaking of rusty hinges. That familiar yet unplaceable voice said something else he did not register, more insistent this time. 

Aventurine shut his eyes and struggled to try and get his breathing even. If they think he's asleep, they’ll leave him alone. Right?

The voice spoke again, definitely closer this time, and still not understandable. 

The pain in his wrists flared and he heard someone whimper pathetically. 

On second thought, that may have been him. 

The voice kept speaking to him, and he barely registered that a tension around his wrists had been broken. The searing pain lessened slightly. 

More speaking. He thinks. 

Icy cold water splashed Aventurine in the face, and he shot his eyes wide open with a gasp.  

“Geez, it’s ‘bout time!” A familiar metal hand waved in his face. “Are ya with me now, Fancy Pants?” 

Aventurine moved to sit up, but the pain in his wrists inhibited that. Someone lifted him into an upright position. 

Finally, he looked up. “… Boothill?” 

The space cowboy flashed a toothy grin. “Oh good, that little brain of yours is working again. C’mon kid, let's get you out of here.” 

Boothill lifted Aventurine with ease, one metal arm beneath his legs and the other supporting his back. Aventurine vaguely heard the space ranger mumble something about ‘muddle fudging son of nice ladies shirt bags ash voles’. 

Aventurine found himself relaxing somewhat, fighting to keep his eyes open as he bounced slightly with each step Boothill took. 

Boothill sighed. “Relax, kid, just get some sleep. You’re safe now. I’ll hold you for ransom when you wake up.” 

Aventurine relaxed fully, drifting off to sleep before the words had even fully registered. 

~~~

Aventurine awoke in a room he shouldn’t even recognize, much less be all too familiar with. 

“Ugh, so much for getting some work done today.” He groaned and stood, clutching his head with one hand as he waited for the room to stop spinning. He walked to the door and hesitated as he grabbed the handle, cherishing his last moments of peace before his headache inevitably gets much worse. 

~

“Well hello there, sleepyhead,” Boothill greeted. 

Two metal hands clasped each shoulder and not-no-gently steered him into a chair at the table, the biggest plate Aventurine had ever seen situated in front of him. It was overfilled with his favorite foods. 

He glanced back at Boothill, eyebrow raised skeptically. “There is absolutely no way I can eat all that. And I don't remember the ipc having any confidential files that list what my favorite foods are,” he added. 

Boothill smirked and simply shrugged. “Wow, favorite foods huh? What a coincidence! Anyways, Fancy Pants, you’d best get to eating, won’t know how much you can eat til you try!” 

Aventurine glared suspiciously at the food and drink in front of him. “Please tell me you didn’t drug it this time, i think i've had enough sleep for today.”

“Nah, you got plenty of sleep already, not necessary this time.” Boothill waved a hand dismissively, gaze never leaving Aventurine. “You should start eating though, I already sent the message to that Topaz lady and she’s usually pretty quick at sending the random money.” 

Aventurine began to eat, doing his best to refrain from wolfing it all down immediately. “You do know she transfers that from her personal account so she doesn’t have to go through Jade every time, right?” 

“It's okay, every time this happens that exact amount of money mysteriously disappears from the IPC’s bank account and appears in hers.” 

Aventurine froze, then turned his head slowly to look at Boothill. “You can do that. This whole time. What’s even the point of ransom then???” 

“More fun this way,” Boothill said with a toothy grin. “And it gives me the opportunity to make sure my Greatest Competition And Nemesis is Taking Care Of Himself well enough that we can be evenly matched still.” 

Aventurine rolled his eyes and continued eating. “I thought you were done with that ridiculous title.” 

Boothill chuckled. “Why would I be done with it, O Greatest Competition And Nemesis? It's the most fitting, after all.” 

Aventurine groaned, and Boothill watched closely to make sure he actually ate everything. 

~~ 

There was a knock at the ship’s door, and Boothill opened it to reveal a very exasperated Topaz. 

“Alright, Boothill, you’ve got the money. Can we have our dumbass back now?” 

“Hey!” Aventurine protested. Both ignored him. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure thing little lady.” Boothill patted Aventurine on the back forcefully, sending the man tumbling forward. 

Topaz calmly stepped aside and let him fall. 

“Thanks. I assume he’s been fed again?” 

“Obviously. Make sure the muddlefudger uses the healing ointment I gave him for his wrists, which were absolutely not my doing for the record.” 

Aventurine stood and dusted himself off, grumbling about loser friends who clearly hate him and not being a child who needs supervision. 

“Will do. See you next time, I unfortunately assume?” Topaz asked. 

“Yep!” Boothill replied cheerfully. “Nice doin’ business with ya.” 

Topaz nodded and turned, grabbing Aventurine’s arm. “Come on idiot, let's go.” 

She turned back to Boothill one last time, expression much softer for a split second. “…thanks for taking care of him.” 

She turned again, all but dragging Aventurine with her. 

“Hey, this time really wasn’t my fault,” he insisted defensively. 

Topaz glanced at him, a brief moment of concern on her face before she returned to that annoyed expression she always wore around him. “Yeah. I know.” She hesitated. “And… I’m glad you’re okay. I guess.” 

“You know,” she added quickly, “because I don’t want to be doing my and your workload. That's all. Definitely.” 

Aventurine smiled fondly. “Sure.” 

They took a few more steps before he paused. 

“Wait what do you mean you know? How?” 

Topaz groaned. “Mister Boothill demanded more credits than usual for, and I quote, ‘saving you shirt bags from having to rescue him from some forking muddle fudgers, and saving y’all the trouble of taking care of the ash voles.’” 

Aventurine smacked his forehead with his palm and sighed. “Of course he did. Why am I not surprised.”

Topaz shrugged. “That Galaxy Ranger really confuses me sometimes, you know.” 

“Only sometimes?” 

She smacked his arm. 

“Anyways, you owe me big time. Again.” 

“Yeah, yeah. The usual Lunch for a week I assume?” 

“Make it two this time.” 

“… fine, two.” 

~~~~~

[princelylove]

Time escapes Leone.

To say ‘escape’ is to say he once had a firm grip on it. Perhaps it would be better to say it evades him.

No, it vexes him. It hinders him, it goes out of its way to torture, no, to torment him. Leone feels time slip through his fingers- sand pools in his palms, and despite his efforts, it still finds a way to slip out. The sand never gets under his nails, never makes its home in the cracks of his hands, it only appears and disappears. 

He’s had that dream for as long as he can remember. The ending has never changed. He suffocates under the sand, and yet he clings to it- it’s better if he can just hold on, he thinks. 

Anything before his… ‘incident’ is blurry. He’s tried to go back, but Moody Blues plays nothing but static. Even his own stand hates him, it refuses to obey him, refuses to play anything he wants to see. 

Nobody wants to see the moment their beloved decided to leave them. Nobody wants to see how assured they were, how their shoulders released so much tension the second they got out. It’s all the damn thing will play.

Moody Blues whirs as the scene- the same fucking scene- plays. Leone’s always hated the lack of emotion in Moody Blues- its face is empty, without any distinct features besides from the ridge of its nose, and its soulless eyes. Of course Leone’s stand would look soulless. The only real feature is the screen on its forehead, the number is overkill at this point. Who cares about the time you left him? He doesn’t plan on making a countdown or celebrating the anniversary down to the millisecond. Yay, my darling left me in three, two, one, happy divorce! 

A better term would be ‘breakup’ but Leone thinks ‘divorce’ is less embarrassing, somehow. It’s more mature. ‘Breakup’ makes him feel like a teenager getting dumped for the first time. He’d drink about it then, he’d drink about it now.

You probably preferred me when I was gentle. That’s why you left. Because I was a brute that couldn’t keep it in his pants, couldn’t say the right things, couldn’t keep you happy… 

Leone takes another swig from the bottle on his lap, and instead of a familiar splash as he puts the bottle back, he’s met with silence. Two down, however much is left in the cabinet to go.

I thought you liked my voice. Thought you liked deep sounds because it reminded you of me. God, that’s moronic… 

He pops open his second- or maybe fourth, he’s not sure, bottle of wine. He’s been drinking water too, not that he deserves it, but wine has always been here when nothing else has. 

Are you claustrophobic…? It’s not like I kept you in my room, you could go anywhere but his room or the balcony.

The first sip is always the best, his lipstick often ruins the bottle- why he doesn’t just pour it out into a proper glass is obvious, a brute like him doesn’t deserve the privilege of a real glass. He doesn’t want to defile it like he’s done to you- although he’d use the word desecrate. 

Don’t you enjoy confinement? Don’t you enjoy not thinking all the time? I would’ve killed for a situation like that when I was younger.

He fumbles with the bottle, and drops it. The wine spills all over his legs and the nice rug under him. There’s a little left in the bottle- it’s salvageable, in Leone’s eyes, he immediately takes a sip of what’s left of it- but he gets off of his ass to clean it up. 

God. He’s not a good caretaker, can barely take care of himself. No wonder you didn’t wanna stick around. Stupid to think you’d want a guy like him to take care of you, to do the thinking, can barely stand up by himself without wobbling like an idiot.

It takes a while to clean up his mess. Leone takes the opportunity to wash his face- rinse, really, the makeup didn’t come off at all- and spends the next couple of minutes staring at himself in the mirror. Pathetic man…..

Once he’s done treating the rug, he goes into his kitchen, and just sort of stares at the wine cabinet. It’s empty. His last chance at relief, and he wasted it. God must think this is all just a big joke. 

[missmyluv]

why? (´；Д；` )

synopsis | miles left you read again for the third time this week with no apology or reason why he did, he makes it up to you.. i guess

cw : i quite literally can’t say anything about future chapters but, cursing, reader overthinking, no miles here (yet)

@bigbawdy-benzz

you roll your eyes at your phone, tapping your nail against the screen annoyingly. this has happened one times too many, with no excuse at that. your patience was running in thin — very thin.

‘he’s playin’ wit my last nerve.’ you massage your forehead to ease the pain from an incoming headache, flipping the water on and splashing the cold water on your face and sighing deeply.

you look up at yourself in the mirror, a mess. you couldn’t take more of this not communicating for any longer — with these thoughts come insecurity, hard thinking and irrational feelings.

you take a deep breath, trying to calm down your eyes from leaking, you place your phone down on your desk and start your skin care routine for bed, it was two am and miles was suppose to come over hours ago — at nine.

you sigh deep in thought, applying your acne cream before spots start poppin’ up because of how much you’re stressin’. you check your phone once again to see if you trippin.. oh your delusions were trying everything to make it seem like he didn’t do it on purpose.

even his mom had checked up on you, three times. she had already left for work, so you decided to leave as well.

does he think that you’re too attached and needs a break ? no, he loves you! has he gotten tired of you ? of course not. maybe he gots his eyes on another girl ???? maybe.. no. you have been clinging onto him lately.. you jus want quality time with him.

you coming?

read 8:57

you lean your head back, staring at the ceiling and reminiscing on the memories you made with him. you’ve always told yourself “don’t let a man be the reason for your acne.” which is basically saying “don’t let him take control of your emotions.” n’ you did, many times.

few minutes later your bonnet sat neatly on your head, jus getting off the phone w/ your gfs trying to reassure you — others saying ‘how much of a bitch he is’. well, those comments didn’t help, but you get where they’re coming from.

you place your phone on your nightstand, turning away from it. your soft cheek pressed against your silk tear-stained pillow. you were going through all of the stages of acceptance at this point.

you silently cried wiping your nose with your bedside tissue, wiping your face with another. ‘i miss him so much.’ god you were pathetic. finally choosing to stop crying you fall asleep soon after, thinking about him.

you left your window slightly open, maybe he’d drop by, just maybe.

[yamikailyn]

It’s raining hard enough outside that the buildings across the courtyard look blurry and faded. A few soldiers, huddled beneath their cloaks, hasten their horses to the stables. Today was definitely not a day for easy-breezy training. Sasha will complain and eat for four at dinner. But on the battlefield, no one can decide the weather.

The simmering water in the kettle tears Jean away from the window. He lets the liquid cool down a bit before pouring it into a teapot and covering it with a lid. Hopefully, he won’t mess up the concoction again.

Too hot, and the purple flowers will burn, according to Levi’s curt but helpful instructions. Time is important too. Too little, and the beverage won’t be potent enough. But too long, and it’ll be as undrinkable as piss. Jean takes his pocket watch in hand. Five minutes. No more, no less. He can’t fuck this up. Floch took risks to ‘acquire’ the melissa. Jean fixes the needles, neck so tensed he might pop a vein. When they hit the limit, he fills a cup almost to the brim and takes a sip even if the liquid almost burns his lips.

The herbal tea is certainly stronger than yesterday, with a bitterness that lingers on his tongue. Setting the cup aside for a moment, Jean finishes cleaning in the small kitchen the officers only use to fix themselves hot drinks; Levi would murder him if he left a mess before going upstairs to his room.

Done with his last chore, Jean retreats. It’s quiet at this hour of late afternoon, his comrades either still finishing their duty or on their way for a well-deserved shower before dinner.

Shower.

Jean closes the door to his room and takes another sip of the tea before he loses himself in another embarrassing daydream.

After they left the stables, Floch went for a shower, claiming he needed to scrub the grit of the day off his skin. The water in the communal areas is always cold, but in Jean’s mind, steam rises in the air, and his lips meet Floch as he backs him against the wet tiles. Would he be strong enough to pick up the omega? Yes. And Floch would wrap himself around him, grinding down with needy thrusts, moaning and begging for—

Stop. Jean shakes his head, takes a deep breath and chugs the full cup of tea down. He’s not as horny as he was in the morning, probably having gotten some kind of relief from his too brief encounter with Floch. But even with the fire of his arousal reduced to embers, he’s nowhere as calm as he should be.

Jean rakes a hand through his hair, then moves to the wash basin and splashes water over his face. When he looks up, squinty brown eyes stare back at him like they haven’t seen a good day of rest in an eternity. Droplets of water still run down his face and congregate at the tips of his nose and chin.

Did he trim his beard this morning? Can’t even remember. Everything is lost in a haze. Maybe he should shave. Like, everything. Sasha keeps telling him the beard looks pathetic and Jean certainly isn’t pathetic. What about his haircut, though? Is it getting too long now? Growing his hair out seemed like a good idea but now it’s too long at the back, isn’t it? Is it how a Commanding Officer should present himself? The girls like it. But does Floch like it? Is he attracted to him? Does Jean’s appearance even have any kind of impact on him? What if he doesn’t care? What if he does? What if he hates the beard?! The hair?! Everything?!

A knock. Words. Nose pleasantly tickling with the smell of lavender and expectation, Jean rushes to the door, opens it and pulls Floch inside before the omega can even finish whatever he was saying. Why should Jean care anyway? There are more urgent matters. “Should I shave?”

Floch gapes and bluts out, “what?”

“Should I shave?” Jean grabs Floch’s shoulders. Stupid military jacket. It’s in the way. Skin should warm Jean’s palms.

“Shave what?”

“Do you hate the beard?”

“What’s gotten into you?” Isn’t it obvious? Does Floch not understand?

“Do you hate how I look? Answer!”

Floch pushes Jean’s hands away and takes a step back, narrowing his eyes like he always does when he’s about to murder someone with his silver-tongue. Even his scent sours. Jean’s stomach drops. “If you keep acting like a lunatic, we’re not sitting together for dinner.”

No dinner together? Jean’s eyes sting. Oh. So that means Floch isn’t just angry—he hates him. No, no, no. Jean withdraws, hands running through his hair—too long, stupid long hair—and starts pacing left and right. What has he done? “I knew it, I knew it, you hate everything about me, I knew it …”

“Wow!”

Jean stops in his track, anxiety twisting his guts. He barely dares making eye contact with Floch. “‘Wow’ what?”

Floch tilts his head to the side, silent for a moment. Is he pondering? Why does he have to ponder? Can’t he just punch Jean in the stomach right away, so Jean can crawl away to dig his own grave with his bare hands and—a snicker. Floch crosses his arms and cocks one hip. “I had no idea a rut could fuck up an alpha this much. Especially you. Now I feel less bad about being a whining mess during my heat.”

What? Is Floch mocking him? Jean balls his fists as the rush of anxiety ebbs to make place to stormy emotions. When Floch, that arrogant bastard, doesn’t even flinch, Jean takes a step forward, grinding his teeth. “It doesn’t ‘fuck me up’! It has never been like this before!”

“Never?” Smirking, Floch comes closer, close enough to grab Jean by the bolo tie and tug him down. Jean’s nostrils flutter. Fuck. Does the omega smell good … Not sour anymore but more like sweet amusement. As quickly as it has risen, Jean’s rage subsides. His eyes fall on Floch’s lips, slightly wet, and his own hands now on his companion’s hips. Jean would just have to lean in to—“So, what you’re saying is that you’re a mess because of me?”

Jean blinks. Sucks in a breath. Then peels his gaze away from the tantalizing lips to meet Floch’s eyes. Arrogance and pride burn in them like liquid gold. “Don’t look so smug,” Jean growls, trying to step back. But of course, Floch doesn’t release his grip on the bolo tie and grins even more as he tightens it.

“Your beard is fine, Jean. It suits you. What else do you need to be reassured about? Your hair? Don’t cut them, or how am I supposed to pull on it when you’re getting carried away?” Huh? Jean’s mouth falls open. No, he’s not blushing, even if his face feels weirdly hot. No, he’s absolutely not getting hard either. Just slightly turned on. Slightly. “Also, not that I ever paid attention to the rumor before, but I’d heard you were well-endowed. Now I can confirm.” Okay, not slightly anymore. Jean squeezes Floch’s hips, fighting every instinct in him not to throw the omega onto the bed.

“Floch, stop …” But Jean’s warning comes out as a needy, throaty whimper that only serves to make his companion chuckle.

“Which is also why your dick won’t get anywhere close to my ass. But …” Floch doesn’t add anything, only staring at Jean with hooded eyes. Is he flirting? Not that Floch isn’t capable of this—he proved to be a quick learner despite his stubbornness. But while not being affected by his heat?

Jean clears his throat. And also tries to clear his mind. No chance for his cock, though. Not with Floch being so close, so warm, and smelling so good. Jean inhales sharply and focuses on the bitter taste still coating his tongue. “You’re playing with fire. I really, really wanna fuck you now.”

“How vulgar.” 

“Maybe. But I can’t stop myself from desiring you,” Jean murmurs, moving his head forward to nuzzle the side of Floch’s neck, searching for his scent gland, for more of the pheromones that will cloud his mind.

But, chuckling, Floch leans back and places a palm on Jean’s chest to stop him from reaching again. “Have you desired anyone that much before?” Did he? Jean blinks, frustration rising in every fiber of his being from being forced to so little physical contact when he needs—craves—so much more. But it’s nowhere violent enough to urge him to take what he wants. He doesn’t even have to wrestle down his instincts for it. Perhaps the herbal tea does have the intended effect now? “Jean?” Right. Floch’s question.

Jean frowns, the first face coming to his mind being freckled with dark hair. But if he has to be honest, this first love was before he presented as an alpha, and the yearning was there but never as scalding as it can be during a rut. Then brown eyes and firm muscles that he once thought to be reassuring fill his thoughts. Jean shakes his head, forcing the memory away—he doesn’t want to remember nights of challenging another alpha much stronger than him and the strange but arousing feeling of giving himself up. It wasn’t love, anyway, just misguided lust. “No. Never.” 

Something flickers in Floch’s gaze. His hand moves along the bolo tie’s cord, pushing the stone up and tightening the necklace around Jean almost threateningly. Jean gulps, his throat bobbing against the string. He takes another deep breath as his cock stiffens. Floch’s intoxicating scent reminds him of what they shared the previous days and what he hopes they will share tonight again. His fingers twitch and dig deeper into Floch’s hip bones. This time, the omega doesn’t try to push him back when Jean brings them closer, only separated by their warmth breath fanning over parted lips.

His other hand softening over Jean’s heart, Floch gives the bolo tie a little tug. “Well, then. You may kiss me.”

Closing his eyes, Jean eagerly meets Floch’s lips and traces their shape. They are a bit chapped, but Floch’s scent swirling around them makes up for it. Satisfaction. Trust. Subtle arousal, even. It’s so different from the night before, where Floch was still wary and even disgusted. Lavender and emotions mix into a fragrance Jean will never grow tired of smelling on his own skin and everything he owns.

As their kiss deepens, Floch’s hand moves from Jean’s chest to his nape, fingers tangling into his hair. Jean starts retreating, expecting a harsh tug, but Floch nips Jean’s bottom lip and grips the bolo tie harder again.

Oh! No holding back, then? Good.

Jean’s hands slide from Floch’s waist to his butt and the back of his thighs. Firm muscles flex underneath the fabric of the omega’s pants when he presses their bodies flush. He grinds his hips against Floch’s stomach, groans into his mouth. Does the friction between them bring him satisfaction or does it frustrate him even more for what he could have instead? Jean can’t tell. But he could surely cum in his pants just from that.

Not that he gets a chance to. Floch lets go of the tie and grabs a fistful of Jean’s hair, tearing him away from his lips. “Enough,” he commands, and though Jean itches with the need to slam Floch against the wall or throws him onto the bed, he doesn’t. But he still growls his annoyance, which earns him a dismissive snort. “I’m not taking another shower before dinner.”

Jean squints. “Are you edging me?”

“Edging. You used that word before.” Floch’s grip on Jean’s hair doesn’t weaken. But he licks his swollen lips and breathes out a throaty chuckle. “Another one of your perverted, made-up practices that you try so hard to sell me?”

Jean squeezes Floch’s butt. If he weren’t aware his companion was teasing him, gagging him would get very tempting. Though he might just end up doing that for the fun of it. “That means postponing an orgasm, staying aroused longer and—”

“Sounds terrible,” Floch cuts with a frown. “I’d never blue ball—”

“Edging,” Jean corrects him.

“Ed-ging you.” But the glint of mischief in his golden eyes says otherwise.

Bastard.

Jean grins regardless. Floch is his bastard. Because he knows there’s more underneath that mischievous and hostile façade. “Still playing with fire, Floch. Are you a human or an imp?”

“I’m hungry.” Floch tugs on the bolo tie again. “Come on, let’s go for dinner.” He glances down, his lips quivering with mirth. “Unless you can’t walk quite yet.”

“Fuck you.”

“You wish.”

He does.

*~*

“So you’re back together already? Is it going to be an off and on kind of relationship, and can we bet on how long your next breaking-up arc will last, or were you just being dramatic again?”

“Connie!” Armin squeaks from the end of the table.

Jean rolls his eyes and turns away. He’ll ignore any comment for the sake of world peace. His blood might not be boiling anymore, he’s still cranky. The mess hall is as noisy as it was in the morning, and with all those different scents drifting in the air, he can’t find comfort in breathing in the only one that matters.

Not that Floch seems to be in a comforting mood.

“It’s alright, Armin.” With a sugar-coated smile, Floch waves the cup he’s holding in Connie’s direction. “He’s never been with anyone, so he doesn’t get it. And wouldn’t get it even if he were.”

“Floch,” Jean warns. He gives Connie a cursory glance, worried the jab hurt his feelings. But his friend crosses his arms and shakes his head with a little chuckle.

“No, no, no. I actually get it. Jean and you, it’s like Sasha and her food.”

Sasha, in the middle of murdering a slice of bread, perks up. “Foopf?”

Connie doesn’t acknowledge her and continues, his expression almost matching Floch’s mocking one. “It’s a lovely relationship. Until she eats spoiled seafood and begs me to hold her hair while she throws up or to toss her more toilet paper over—”

“Why do you have to tell everyone?!” Sasha cries out, bashing her palms against the table.

Eren sets his spoon back into his plate of mashed potatoes, a disgusted scowl on his face. “You’re terrible people to be friends with,” he mutters, and for once, Jean agrees. Though, is Floch really their friend? Would he be sitting here if it weren’t for Jean?

Notes of irritation reach Jean’s nose. Floch’s grip tightens around his cup. “Did you just compare me to—”

“No, he didn’t.” Jean rests a placating hand on Floch’s thigh and rubs his knuckles against it before his companion gets the idea of jumping on Connie across the table. One fight a day is enough. Less would be preferable. Bruises have flowered on Floch’s skin. At least the 103th are quiet in their corner of the mess hall. Good. If any of them dares do something as small as glancing in their direction, Jean will finish what Floch started, consequences be damned.

A strong arm wraps around Jean’s shoulder. He startles, hand gripping a bicep, and doesn’t loosen his fingers even when Connie sighs against his ear. When did the beta even get up and round the table? “Relax. I’m only teasing you because I care about you. Yeah, even you, asshole.”

Floch bristles when he’s trapped into the impromptu hug too. He attempts to wriggle free, his scent amplifying and turning acid, even with Jean squeezing his thigh to soothe him. “Can you care about us a few meters away?”

“Aw, you remind me of that feral barn cat my brothers used to—” Connie’s voice dies down. He releases them.

Jean glances up, searching his friend’s gaze to check on him, but Connie’s silently returned to his seat next to Sasha.

Perhaps for the first time in his life, Floch willingly shuts up.

Connie’s eyes dart away. “Anyway, us ‘veterans’, we must stick together, right?”

Nodding, Sasha pulls him into a comforting hug, despite his previous comments on her digestive issues. Meanwhile, Floch looks down at the empty cup he’s holding, brow pitched, then raises his head, his eyes blazing with determination. Jean tenses up, knowing that energy all too well. If Floch gets carried away in the middle of the mess …

“How about we—”

“Connie. Marley will pay for what they did to your family, and for everything else they did to us,” Floch cuts in. “One day, our enemies will wake up with their whole world burning to ashes and no escape route. Trapped like we were in Shiganshina, waiting for their death.”

Jean blinks. This is new. Not wanting to retaliate against Marley. Floch has always been adamant about it. But this specific scenario.

“Don’t be so extreme,” Armin murmurs, and Connie gives Floch a confused, hesitant look. Oh great. So much for Floch learning when to speak.

“Nothing is too extreme.” Floch hits his heart with a close fist. His intensity manages to lure Eren back into their conversation—he looks up from his plate, his expression not as dispassionate as it tends to be these days, though Jean isn’t sure he likes the creeping darkness that seems to suck all colors from his eyes.

“There’s still a lot to do before we’re even close to harming them.” Eren’s tone is slow, almost calculated, as if he already thought about this a lot.

Mikasa and Armin both look between them, and Jean shifts on his chair, clearing his throat. Now is a good moment to say something worthy of a Commanding Officer. But there’s always that small voice whispering in his ears that without Marley, all their troubles would be gone. Still, he can’t say that out loud. “Armin’s right. Let’s not get carried away. Hange thinks that if we show the outside world who we truly are, we can find a peaceful solution.”

Connie lets out a dry chuckle betraying his discomfort. “I don’t want innocent people, kids, to suffer like my family did. I don’t think my mum would be proud of that.”

“Would she want Historia and her kids to be sacrificed?” Eren asks curtly.

Connie looks down and doesn’t reply.

Armin shakes his head. “That’s not very fair. No one here wants Historia to suffer. But the fifty-year plan shouldn’t be discarded either. We must acknowledge that our options are limited.”

“Are they? Or are we led to believe they are?” Floch smirks. “The top brass, especially the Military Police, don’t care about us, the lower class. I’d even say they want to control us, like the old nobility used to. With the fifty-year plan, not only do they force Historia and her descendants to be birthing machines for the decades to come, like they want to do with every omega woman as well, but they also make sure to stay in power. They would sell us to Hizuru or Marley if they were guaranteed their own safety. Was that really what you all wished for when you did that coup?”

“Enough,” Jean orders, his throat constricting. Deep down, he knows Floch is right. But he can’t let him go on another rant, not with so many unfriendly ears around. “I wish things were different too, but let’s not discuss sensitive information in the middle of the mess.” He gives Floch a side glance. Will he try to argue back?

He doesn’t. He simply nods. Strange. He’s usually so stubborn and confrontational. Too much for his own good. Jean brushes his knuckles against his companion’s thigh to show his appreciation, but Floch’s expression hardens, and Jean retracts his hand. Fine. He can sulk all he wants as long as he shuts the fuck up.

They finish dinner without any more incidents, though Mikasa doesn’t stop glowering at Floch, who surprisingly manages to not antagonize her or anyone else.

But once they return to Jean’s room, Floch leans back against the closed door, arms crossed and eyes squinted. “You know I’m right.”

“You’re always right.” An argument is the last thing Jean needs tonight. He wants to go straight up to bed. Snuggle up to Floch if he’s lucky enough. Get off if fate decides to be good to him. He doesn’t have energy to spare about why they should strike first and how to destroy Marley.

But Floch doesn’t buy his attempt at appeasing him, of course. He clicks his tongue. “Our government would gladly sell us and our resources if that means things stay the way they are and they get a few shiny trains and boats to show off and pretend everything is fine.”

“Trains are useful.”

“Hardly. We have horses. And does it matter that much that you can transport troops a bit quicker if they are under-equipped? Wake up, Jean. The top brass don’t give a shit about soldiers like you and me, about the recruits you and Levi try so hard to get ready for what’s to come. When things blow up in their face, who do you think they’ll ask to die for them? And we will die, because do you see any flying boats and bombs we could use against Marley?” Floch pauses, but Jean doesn’t reply. He just looks at the bed, trying to focus on the night of rest waiting for him, except that he can’t ignore Floch’s words. The recruits aren’t ready for a full-scale war against Marley’s modern weaponry. No one is. Not even Levi nor Hange. Certainly not Jean. “If our superiors had a single drop of common sense, they’d do more than a partial rumbling.”

Jean jerks his head up, jaw clenching. “What are you really suggesting? Destroying Marley as a whole? Killing all the innocents living there?”

Floch curls his mouth and puffs his chest. “Enemies.”

“They aren’t all our enemies.”

“They are.”

Cold spreads through Jean’s limbs, extinguishing almost any protest he could’ve thought of. It just feels hopeless. So he turns to the wardrobe, trying to force his mind to focus on something else once again, but can’t really stop himself from asking, “Even the kids?”

A snort. “You mean kids like Bertolt, Annie, and Reiner?” Jean swallows, ice congregating around his heart. There’s a heaviness in Floch’s scent that raises goosebump all across his skin. “Kids are fed with the beliefs of their parents. So, yes, they are our enemies too. And the only reason why Marley hasn’t attacked yet is because they’re busy with their war in the Middle East and too scared of the rumbling. But they’ll come for us. Eventually.”

Jean rubs his eyes. For fuck’s sake, he just wants a peaceful evening. Sighing, he meets Floch’s intense eyes again and drops his shoulders. “Are we really having that conversation again? What do you want me to do, exactly?”

“I’m not asking you to do anything.” Floch pushes himself off the door and steps closer. For a second, Jean tenses up. But Floch’s hands are surprisingly gentle when they find his hips. He closes the gap between them to rest his forehead against the crook of Jean’s shoulder. “Sorry. I got all worked up again.”

“An understatement,” Jean mutters, unsure about the change of mood. But he raises a hand and brushes Floch’s hair, a small smile tugging at his lips. Floch’s scent curls around them. The mix of sourness and sweetness proves that he isn’t lying about his remorse, nor his affection. It warms up Jean’s heart, despite the existential doom haunting him.

“I want to spend the night with you.” That’s not a question. Floch looks up, his amber eyes burning with something that isn’t rage toward their enemies, this time. For a moment, the air gets stuck in Jean’s lungs. Arousal stirs in his lower belly, and with it, the certitude he could crawl an eternity through hell for this man—his companion.

Jean cups Floch’s face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones before he moves his hands to tangle his fingers into red locks. To think it’s only been a few days and he’s already so smitten. If he hasn’t known Floch for years, he’d believe his care for him is purely a fabrication of Floch’s heat and his own rut mixing together to create a fever dream of attraction. But it isn’t. There’s more between them than just hormonal-driven lust. And his throat constricts with the fears he can’t entirely squash, even if they talked about it. “Are you really sure?” he finally asks in a whisper. “We don’t know how long the violet melissa will last.”

“What do you think? That I’m as brittle as glass?” But there’s something in the way Floch squints his eyes—a subtle note of wariness, and the promise that his teeth will sink in Jean’s flesh at the first misstep. “I’m not leaving you alone again,” Floch adds with a shrug and an annoyed humph.

That’s all Jean needs to hear. He leans in, lips ghosting Floch already, but the damn weasel releases Jean’s hips and steps back with a smirk.

Jean clicks his tongue. “Again with the teasing?”

Floch snickers. “Edging, you mean?” The little bastard. His attitude will be the death of Jean one day.

“Why do I love you so much?”

Floch doesn’t reply, but his eyes round, and the tip of his tongue wets his lips with what appears to be nervousness. Jean himself holds his breath, heart starting a race of his own. He can’t remember if he proclaimed his feelings so openly before. Everything happened all too fast these last few days. “I …” Floch hesitates, his forehead creasing as he looks elsewhere.

Jean’s stomach tightens. “You don’t have to say it back.” Floch doesn’t have to tell him he doesn’t feel the same about him either.

But when Floch returns his attention to him, he glowers. “For a Commanding Officer, you can be as dense as a brick. No matter what the future has in store for us, you’re the only person I want by my side.”

It’s not ‘I love you too’. It feels like more, somehow.

“Floch,” Jean whispers with a surge of emotions. He takes a deep breath to calm himself down but only manages to fill his lungs with Floch’s scent. The omega might not be in heat anymore, but it doesn’t stop Jean from feeling the phantom warmth of Floch’s skin against his lips and the urge to mark him as his forever and ever. Didn’t he promise to claim him two days ago? Sure, it was only in case their meeting in Mitras turned sour, but if Floch wants him that much, how could his alpha not bond them together for the rest of their life?

Perhaps sensing Jean’s increasing excitement, Floch presses a palm against his chest. “Sit.”

Jean doesn’t move right away. He blinks, nostrils flaring. Did Floch give him an order? Yes he did. Tone firm and even commanding. Jean’s chest heaves. But he squashes the wild instinct screaming at him to pounce and scruff the omega until he submits to him. Deep down, it’s not what he wants. Especially not tonight.

When Jean sits down on the edge of the bed, Floch’s smile is victorious. He moves closer again and reaches for Jean’s face, scratching and petting his hair as if he’s just a pet. “Good,” he purrs, his fingers finding Jean’s chin to angle it up. It should be degrading, but Jean’s eyes slip half shut. The attention feels amazing. The praise feels amazing. “You’ll do as I say, won’t you?”

Jean holds Floch’s gaze. Behind the affection, there’s still a flicker of doubt, a note of suspicion. Not for Jean himself but for the thousands years old animalistic impulse rushing through Jean’s blood and making his knot swollen.

To do as Floch says. To follow his orders. Ni responsibilities, no fights. The notion usually foreign to alphas sends a thrill of excitement down Jean’s spine, but also a chill to the deepest of his stomach. What if Floch loses control again? Or what if he doesn’t care for Jean as much as he should?

Jean licks his lips, his heart beating faster. “I want to but last time …” His voice trails off when Floch presses his palm against his cheek, rubbing his stubble.

“I’m not going to fail you again. Just let go. It was an exhausting day, wasn’t it?” Floch straddles his lap and pecks on his lips. “An exhausting week.” The following kiss is deeper, this time. Relaxing into it, Jean grasps Floch’s waist, pulling him even closer. Floch’s weight feels comforting, and the press of their front, arousing. Jean rolls his hips up, aching for more friction. Holding back is a struggle. Floch chuckles. “Always horny.”

“For you,” Jean completes, tugging Floch’s shirt off his pants. He slides his hands up and down his companion’s side, careful with his touch. Floch’s skin is so warm, yet shivering. “Does it feel good?”

Floch tilts his head to the side, as if he needs time to process the question and figure out his feelings. “So far, I enjoy it more than I thought I would,” he eventually concludes.

If it was anyone else, Jean would take it like an insult. But it’s nothing personal. Just Floch expressing with his usual honesty that physical intimacy wasn’t something he considered before, and wouldn’t consider it with anyone but Jean.

Bubbling with pride, Jean can’t help a grin. He must look so smug. Floch narrows his eyes at him and grabs his chin between hard fingers. “What are you so cocky about?”

Jean can’t say he’s displeased with that little show of dominance, even if his instinct wants him to bare his teeth. But tonight it’s easy to muzzle it up. “I like being with you.”

Floch blinks. Then looks away, his lips pursing, and his cheeks turning slightly pink. “Why do you need to always be so sappy?” His grumbles make him even more adorable, even though most people wouldn’t use that word to describe Floch. But Jean couldn’t care less.

He reaches for Floch’s neck, skims over the side with his palm and tangles his fingers into red hair trying to lead a revolt on their own. “So I can get the privilege to see you all flustered and cute.”

“Oh, fuck yo—” Floch’s angry growl turns into half a squeak when Jean flops back onto the bed, dragging his companion with him. Golden eyes glare at him. “What are you doing?”

“I thought you wanted to be on top tonight. Was I wrong? Should I …” Jean teasingly props himself up on one elbow and grabs Floch's hip with one hand, giving him a gentle push to the side.

“No, you stay put,” Floch snaps, gripping him by the shoulders and slamming him back against the mattress. Jean groans. His hold on Floch’s hip tightens instinctively. The part of him who wants to pin the omega under him tries to wrestle with his self-control. His dick twitches too, because he’s nothing if not a man full of sinful contradictions and shameless desires.

Floch hovers over him, his scent intensifying with a warning. Jean ignores it, just for the sake of being as annoying as his companion can be. He slides his hands underneath Floch’s shirt and trails them up, wanting to check if the omega’s nipples are as sensitive as they were a few days ago, only for Floch to grab his wrists and pin them above his head with a growl.

“Stay put, I said.” Golden eyes peer down at him. The sweet scent of satisfaction curls around Jean like a vine and sends jolts of pleasure down his groin. He doesn’t move, not even his fingers, and just waits with bated breath.

Slowly, carefully, Floch loosens his grip, as if still unsure Jean has been tamed this time. Maybe he isn’t. His instinct still wants to rebel, just to see if there’s really not a single submissive bone in Floch’s body. If Floch deserves him in this vulnerable position. They haven’t fought yet, not for real at least. So why should Jean yield so easily?

That brief thought goes nowhere and dissolves when Floch’s hand reaches down. Jean bucks and rolls his hips. Too much pressure. Not enough skin contact. He gasps and grunts once Floch frees him and wraps his fingers around his length. For a few seconds, everything is perfect. Only for a few seconds, though.

Jean’s eyes fly open. He stares into Floch’s. The omega grimaces, defensive. “What?” He snaps.

“Too dry.”

Floch scoffs. “I’m not sucking you.”

“You don’t have—” Jean stops mid-sentence and screws his eyes shut again. Floch’s hot, wet mouth surrounding him. He inhales. Exhales. Grabs the sheet and twists it. “There’s oil in the drawer,” he manages to mumble.

“Why would you have … oh!” Floch snorts, then chuckles. He shifts on top of Jean and his breath warms Jean’s ear. “I hope you were thinking about me.”

“Shut up, don’t act like you’ve never—” Floch shushes Jean with a finger.

“You wouldn’t want me in a bad mood, now, commanding officer?”

The back of Jean’s neck tickles. Is the threat infuriating or exciting? It doesn’t matter much once Floch tightens his grip around Jean’s knot. He keeps him distracted, playing him like a fiddle. The short moment where Floch releases him to spread oil over his hand sends excruciating frustration through Jean’s nerves. But he barely gets a chance to act on his impatience. Floch’s touch returns and, hell, Jean would fuck anything to release the tension coiling in his lower belly, even a hand.

Floch presses his lips just where Jean’s jawline meets his neck. He whispers words, but Jean can only focus on his desperate needs for relief. The oily sensation doesn’t stop him from thinking how much he wants to fuck Floch’s ass deeper. Or his cunt. It must be his cunt. Does he have one? Jean doesn’t know anymore. He stops fisting the sheet to try to grab the omega’s hips and thrust harder into him, only to get his hair tugged on harshly. “Keep your hands on the bed.”

The grip loosens as soon as Jean complies with a pant. Several pants. The cold, self-assured order sends a jolt down his spine. He’s getting close. Everything is tighter, his stomach, his balls, his knot.

Floch pets his hair, his tone almost cooing. “I’m the one pleasuring you. Only I can pleasure you.” Jean gulps. Floch’s tongue follows the curve of his throat to his chin. “You’re so filthy.”

“You too,” Jean mutters. Behind closed eyelids, he can picture Floch bouncing on his lap, and it takes him whatever is left of his clarity to not reach up again. He claws at the sheet and bites down his lips.

“Perhaps,” Floch says against the shell of Jean’s ear, “but only for you too.” Something both sour and sweet flourishes in Floch’s scent—possessiveness. Jealousy, perhaps. It feels as much as a promise as the words just said.

Jean’s knot throbs. Sparks explode behind his eyelids. The world turns white and for a moment, the only sound is his racing pulse, and the only feelings are ones of ecstasy and warmth.

Then coldness and oversensitivity all over his skin.

The mattress dips. Jean cracks his eyes open, staring at Floch’s blurry silhouette sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s wiping his hands on a towel. When did he leave to wash his hands? Does he plan to leave?

Jean sucks in a breath. For an excruciating second, nothing happens. Then Floch leans over him and wipes his forehead. “You’re sweaty and …” Whatever Floch wanted to say, he doesn’t finish. He reaches to brush Jean’s hair off his face, then starts unbuttoning Jean’s shirt. “Let’s get you out of these.”

“What about you?” Jean’s hand hovers over Floch’s hip. This time, he isn’t pushed away. But there’s almost a hint of wariness, if not panic, in the omega’s golden eyes.

“I don’t need anything.”

Jean frowns but decides to drop the topic. Floch isn’t like any person he’s been with before. It’s something he just has to get used to. Jean still gently pats his companion’s hip as he feels himself drift away. He’s not quite sleeping, but he’s in a comfortable space where everything is slowing down instead of being frozen by dread.

Floch rubs his skin, cleans him, and wraps him in a comforter. The smell of lavender surrounds them. It feels safe. Loving. A stark contrast to when Floch didn’t know how to act. He’s a fast learner, Jean just knew it.

“Do you need anything?”

Jean lies on his side. “You said you’d stay tonight.”

Floch presses his chest against Jean’s back and drapes an arm over his waist, a leg over his thigh. “And I’m not leaving.” He nuzzles the back of Jean’s neck, his hold tightening.

Everything feels as it should be. Levi’s right. They claimed each other. Perhaps they did even before they shared their first moments of intimacy.

I've been working on Ablaze's continuation, and since I haven't updated my drafts in a while, I decided to give you Haywire's first chapter. Haywire is unedited and unfinished, so I don't want to upload it on Ao3 yet.

Haywire

Summary: Jean and Floch are together, for the best but also the worst. Navigating differences in their relationship isn't easy, especially for Jean, who struggles to find the right balance. But keeping his hormones in check is soon the least of Jean's worries when Commander Zoë announces their new plan—to visit Marley to find new allies.

Chapters: 1/?

Ships: Flojean, past jeanmarco, past jeanrei

“So, did you fuck last night?”

“Connie! I don’t think that’s anyone’s business!”

“Come on, they left together pretty early, Jean is in rut, Floch is just fresh out of his first heat and weirdly late, I mean, do I even need to ask?”

“Then don’t ask!” Armin cries out again, and Jean winces—the mess hall is loud enough already. If only he could be somewhere else. Anywhere else. “Why are you so invested in this anyway?!” Yes, why is he?

Connie leans his elbows on the table, averting his gaze. His lips twist. “It’s either that or talking about Marley, and I don’t wanna talk about Marley.”

Armin opens his mouth, looking ready to argue more, but steals Jean a nervous glance instead.

Great. At least one of them realises Jean’s trying his very best not to punch Connie’s stupid face and make him run laps around the courtyard. By the walls, that would be glorious. Not punching Connie, because that’s what any brain-dead alpha would do, and Jean prides himself to do better than acting on animalistic impulses. But it’s misty and rainy this morning, not a time to do any work outside. That would serve Connie right. Unfortunately, punishing Connie also means watching him to make sure he isn’t slacking off, and Jean would rather finish his breakfast and go hide in his office rather than being chilled to the bones. Though, if Connie keeps prying, Jean might end up behind bars for murder.

Deep breath. While Connie and Armin resume their argument, Jean rubs tired eyes and refocuses on the sad porridge filling his bowl. But even with the best will in the world, his body still lets him know that he got to sleep alone, to wake up alone, and that violet melissa or not, it is very, very against his nature to be alone in such time.

Some ruts are harder than others. This one is competing for a spot on the podium.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. Jean infused and drank some violet melissa flowers before going to sleep. But Floch’s scent still permeated everything in his room—clothes, sheets, mattress, and, damn it, it took only a few minutes before Jean started to bite a pillow, thrusting into his own hand and chasing a release more pathetic than satisfying. If the flowers helped, Jean doesn’t even want to think what would’ve happened without them. Or if he’d caved in and let Floch spend the night with him, his warm body pressed against Jean’s with just a thin, easy to rip layer of fabric between them.

His stomach heaves.

To Sasha’s greatest joy, Jean pushes his bowl towards her. The porridge is a far cry from last night’s feast anyway. Armin gives him a sympathetic look. What does he think? That it’ll alleviate Jean’s torment? Cute. He’s not hard—not yet. Maybe the violet melissa does work, after all. But every smell, sound, and movement grinds his senses.

The friction of his clothes on his overheated skin sends pins and needles along his limbs. Connie’s laugh rings in his ears like a gunshot. And the smell of a group of omega drifting to him reminds him that even if they aren’t in heat, their wet, hot flesh pulsating around his knot would feel good all the same.

He could power through it. Not his first rut. Not his last. Mornings and evenings are always the worst because his mind isn’t busy enough to ignore the intrusive thoughts and his body going haywire. But he doesn’t want to trial his self-control today. And one glance across the mess hall to Hange tells him they already know he’s forfeiting and yearns for the quietness of his office, where no one will challenge his restraint. Even if there’s also an amused sparkle in their eyes telling Jean they can’t wait to see how things are going to turn out.

Jean finishes his tea in one gulp and gets up. But as he does, his nostrils tickle. Notes of lavender and irritation hit him before he even turns around and meets Floch’s pale face.

Bed hair and dark circles. Creased uniform smelling like slicky desires and urges. Did he sleep badly? Did his heat resume? Did he even change clothes, or does he still wear yesterday’s? Stupid question. Of course Floch still wears yesterday’s clothes.

Jean takes a step forward, aching with the need to reach, touch, kiss and steal his partner away. His omega. But piercing golden eyes bore into his, and he stills, a shiver running down his tensed spine.

People. Public. Floch doesn’t want that. Intimacy isn’t something he’s comfortable with yet, love another thing he doesn’t know if he’s still capable of, whatever that means. Jean needs to back off. Back off. Right now!

So he backs off, peeling his eyes away.

Eren watches them from his seat with that bored, distant expression that never fails to make Jean’s knuckles tickle. Fuck him. What does a beta like him know about what they go through? Has he ever fucked anyone? Armin? Mikasa? No, not Mikasa, for fuck’s sake! Armin, just Armin. Yes. Better. Though Armin is too cute and smart for Eren. Damn it! Jean balls his fists, the wildfire of his jealousy bursting.

It’s not that he cares that much about Armin, it’s just that Eren shouldn’t have all the nice things.

“Jean.” Floch sighs, and Jean swears he moved closer, but he won’t turn his head to check. Because if he does …

He steps to the side, glaring at Eren, who just chews on his food as if he couldn’t care less. Is he trying to provoke him? And why did Armin and Mikasa join in the staring? What do they want? Are they siding with him? Oh, of course they are!

Jean grits his teeth. Exhales through his nose. Not the 104th training years anymore. Commanding officer, now. Can’t pick a fight with Eren in the middle of the mess hall like he used to. Can’t see if he’s as punchable as before.

A hand brushes Jean’s arm. Little sparks of pleasure heat up his nerves and drowns the rage into syrup. He swallows. Hard. So. Hard. Fuck!

“Floch … I’ll … I’ll see you later.” Or in a couple of days, when the rut eases off, and he isn’t picturing himself trailing his tongue along the curve of the omega’s neck, hands kneading his firm ass. He’d nuzzle the area over Floch’s scent glands. No bite, no claiming, of course. Just gentle licking and nibbling. Just a taste before he … before he …

Crap.

Pulling down on his jacket, Jean rushes out the mess hall. Can’t think of any other way to fight off the hormonal storm brewing in him. Or to hide his embarrassing boner before someone—Connie, it will be Connie—points at it.

He walks to his office in a daze, barely noticing the thin rain on his face as he crosses the courtyard, or the warmer air inside the administrative building once he enters it. His head is spinning by the time he closes the door and leans back against it.

The office is still a new thing Jean isn’t quite used to yet, but the lack of omega scent hanging in the air—in particular the lack of Floch’s oh-so-alluring scent—helps him to contain the fire. But not to extinguish it.

Wet hair sticks to his forehead. He should dry. Instead, Jean trails a hand down his stomach and between the lapel of his jacket to grab himself through his uniform pants. He groans. “Fuck …!”

The back of his head hits the door, but only jolts of pleasure shoot through his groin. He rubs his palm up and down along his trapped cock. It leaks. Pitifully.

It’s nowhere the place, nor the time, but does it stop him from unclasping his belt buckle, opening his pants and lowering his boxer briefs? No, even if the air licking his wet tip tears a hiss from him. But it could be worse. It could be the damp, cold fabric of his underwear sticking to his skin for the rest of the day.

Jean spits into his hand and wraps it around his length. It’s not his own touch he craves, but it’ll do. Eyes closed, he can pretend for a second Floch is leaning against him, whispering intoxicating words into his ear. ‘Look at you, all hard and dripping for me. Do you like my hand that much?’ Yes, yes, he does. Fuck! He does!

If only Floch’s heat and Jean’s rut could’ve been perfectly in sync. He wants to return back in time, before that insane meeting in Mitras and the disappointing night he spent in his room, alone. It could’ve just been them, in bed, exploring each other’s bodies and achieving new heights of pleasure. It doesn’t matter that they’ve only been intimate for a few days, they’ve known each other for years. Comrades in arms. Friends. More than friends. How did they even live this whole time without even a kiss, an embrace.

Shit, Levi was right, Jean’s been in love for quite a time, and Floch? Well, whatever this is, Floch cares about him. They just needed a pinch to be together. If it hadn’t been Floch’s heat, it’d have been something else.

A bit of pressure on his swollen, oversensitive knot, and it’s enough to make him whimper and work his hips into, well, just his fist. But it could be different. It could be Floch surrendering to the pheromones and bending over for him. He’d let Jean slide up and down between the cleft of his ass and tease his puckered, slicked entrance. Yes. He’d beg for Jean’s cock, his knot, his mark—fuck!

The tightening of his hot flesh is the only warning he gets. Jean bites down on his lip to muffle another groan. Toes curling into boots, he rides waves of sheer ecstasy, only slumping back against the door once he’s spent. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, mouth spreading into a blissful grin.

But the cum rapidly cooling on his knuckles drags him back into the harsh reality. He’s not in bed, his dick deep buried into Floch’s wet warmth. And the mess he made on the floor is more than beyond disgusting.

*~*

The cold air drifting from the open window is a caress Jean is aware of but not bothered by. It’s better than the alternative—sitting in the smell of his shame while he’s trying to tackle a report on the new recruits assigned to his squads.

Reports. Marco would’ve loved that. Always writing down his observations, even if it was just scribbles on a scrap of paper. When Jean offered him a notebook for his last birthday, Marco’s whole face lit up. Never thought Jean noticed his interest. How could he not?

But Marco’s dead, and Jean lost more than his best friend that day—Marco would’ve been a better commanding officer than Jean could ever dream to be. And a better alpha. Not the kind to wank off at the thought of submitting and knotting an otherwise unwilling partner. Floch made his boundaries clear, and Jean promised he’d respect them. But can he?

Piece of shit.

That’s all Jean is, a piece of shit, getting high and hot at the fantasy of defiling Floch. But that sad realisation won’t get any of his work done.

Jean stares at the words he wrote until they blur and his eyes sting. ‘The recruits from the 108th Training Division are …’ The recruits are what? Future dead meat, because once Marley attacks, most of them will die, no matter how harshly they are trained? No. He can’t write that down even if it’s the truth.

What about their political views? It didn’t escape to his attention some are radicalised already, especially the youngest. Floch is particularly good at rallying them up. But Jean can’t report that either. Their feelings are only natural. They grew up in a world scared of the colossal titan breaking through Wall Rosa, and now they have to live with the fear of other humans plotting their end. They shouldn’t be punished because no one can give them hope.

‘The recruits from the 108th Training Corps are still lacking in some areas. Despite three years of intense training, they struggle with 1) safely handling thunder spears 2) anti-titan ODM gear maneuvering. I recommend’

Jean stops writing and raises his head, nostrils flaring. Levi’s scent reaches him before the Captain even knocks at the door.

Don’t move. Don’t say anything.

No. That’s stupid. Levi has to know Jean’s here. Where else would he be? Obviously, he’s not supervising any training. He’s not working in the quietness of the storage rooms, either. Or tending to the horses. The office is the only other place. Levi handled some of his administrative tasks during the past few days, but he must know how behind Jean is. Besides, it’s the perfect shelter for an alpha in rut who doesn’t want any company.

Except it isn’t anymore.

Jean clears his throat, but Levi lets himself in before he’s invited to. Typical.

Sharp steel eyes quickly survey the office and zero in on the open window. “Damn, brat, either you want to catch a cold or you’re trying to hide you shat your pants when you stormed out that mess hall.” Of course Jean knows better than looking guilty. And, of course, he still can’t help a glance at that specific spot on the floor. He scrubbed it until he couldn’t feel his fingers, and yet, when he returns his attention to Levi, the captain glowers harder.

“Really?”

Face burning, Jean ducks his head. So much for not looking guilty. “It’s not what you—”

“No, it’s exactly what I think it is. But you look ashamed enough already.” Levi strides across the office and posts himself next to the window. Crossing his arms, he looks outside. “Come here. There’s something I want to show you.”

Jean doesn’t move right away. But he can’t just ignore Levi’s order, so he pushes his chair back and gets up from behind his desk. Wanting to keep a safe distance, he places himself on the other side of the window and forces his attention on the courtyard. A few recruits are doing laps around it, even if the rain is heavier now. The fat droplets crashing on the sill sprays Jean’s hand with cold mist. Autumn is starting to show its true colors. And Levi smells like soap, tea, and unshakable resolve.

Don’t breathe in. But of course Jean does, and his belly tightens with something that isn’t quite arousal but isn’t quite platonic either. Comfort? Safety? Is it because Levi is bonded to someone else, even if that person is gone? Or is it because nothing seems to shake him, not even the presence of an alpha in rut who’s a head taller than him? Not that Jean could even dream of submitting the captain. He wouldn’t even try to.

“This is your doing.”

“What?” Jean detaches his eyes from Levi—when did he even start staring?—and glance down at the courtyard again.

“Pack of little beta and alpha shitheads from the Garrison. 103th Training Corps. Trained together, served together. They teased the fuck out of Floch because you blew him off this morning and wasn’t even there for lunch. So, guess what happened next?”

Jean shakes his head. “I didn’t blow him off. I just—”

“That wasn’t my question, now, was it?” Levi narrows his eyes at him, and whatever warmth Jean felt congeals into the ice of the captain’s glare.

“Floch picked a fight.” Levi nods, and Jean’s chest caves in. Because, if Floch isn’t running laps too, where is he? The infirmary? Did they gang up on him? Is his omega wounded?

Jean spins around, a growl in his throat and eyes set on the door. But a firm hand grabs his elbow before he can go raise hell on the recruits.

“Glad to see you actually care, but I’m not done yet. Why are you avoiding Floch? Surely you didn’t notice his oh-so-charming personality just now?”

Does Levi really have to ask? Did he forget during the night? Jean’s fingers twitch. “I’m in rut.”

“A fact I’m disgustingly aware of.” Levi releases his grip and steps away from the window. Jean drills holes into the back of the captain’s neck. “Usually, when an alpha is in rut, they seek the omega they claimed.”

Jean’s face burns. “I didn’t claim him!”

Levi shrugs and sits down on Jean’s chair, crossing his legs. His attention turns to the report for a second, then flicks back to Jean. “Forget about marking—it can happen even between sworn enemies. Feelings matter more because they can’t be forced on anyone. I saw the way you both behave. To me, you claimed each other. You should be skipping duty to fool around, and I should be chewing you out for that. But this morning?” Levi clicks his tongue. “That was a pitiful show. And it gave those recruits the impression that you not only used Floch during his heat, but that he’s also not ‘good enough’ to satisfy you during your rut.”

“That’s not—” Jean doesn’t finish his sentence and rubs a palm over his face. Urgh. Why is everything so complicated? He wants to kick or punch something or someone, but he can’t. So he just strides left and right, fists clenched by his side and anger trapped without a single crack to escape through. “Fuck!”

This time, Levi doesn’t say anything. He just grabs a sheet of blank paper and the fountain pen to scribble down what looks like a list. His calmness doesn’t ease Jean’s bubbling rage, but he eventually settles on the opposite seat, elbows propped on his thighs and chin resting on his clasped hands. However, it doesn’t take long before he starts bouncing his leg.

Levi stops writing, folds the piece of paper and meets his eyes. “You’re scared of hurting him, aren’t you?”

Jean freezes. Then drops his gaze. “I crave things he can’t give me.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t.” Jean presses his lips together, waiting. But only silence answers back. Levi expects him to elaborate, doesn’t he? Jean shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck. His whole body cringes at his vulnerability. He shouldn’t be trapped in his own office, interrogated by an omega. No. He should be tearing through Levi, even if it’s just with words. But it’s also not who Jean is. So, he forces himself to still, rests his hands flat on his thighs and takes a deep breath. “We talked about it. I can be very … well, lustful and promiscuous, I guess. He’s not. And I’m fine with that. But. The rut … I’m scared of crossing boundaries.” Jean shivers. His heart sinks, and his fingers tingle. The same fingers he used to grab Floch’s hips before they went to sleep. Did Jean bruise him? “I … I did that yesterday and—”

“Did you like crossing those boundaries?”

Jean jerks his head back up. “What?! No! I felt awful! I still feel awful! But part of me, my instinct, my body, really wants to. When I’m with him … Even when I’m not with him … It’s all I can think of! And it’s wrong!”

Levi arches a brow. “What’s your plan, then? Stop yourself from thinking bad thoughts and never see Floch again?”

“Maybe it’s what I should do. For him.” Even if Jean’s heart breaks at the notion.

Levi stands up, hitting his palm with the folded piece of paper. He moves to close the window and stays in front of it, as if he needs time to ponder. The silence between them drags long enough for Jean to stirs on his chair with relentless energy. So, when Levi finally speaks, he snaps to attention even faster.

“Erwin wasn’t interested in sex. You could barely tell when he was in rut. My heat didn’t affect him at all. Was this another biological oddity or just his personality, I still don’t know. But we made it work.” Levi doesn’t add anything for a little while, and Jean doesn’t dare pry. This confession is probably all Levi is willing to say about his relationship with the late commander. And after what happened yesterday during the meeting, Jean should be glad he’s willing to say anything at all. “You’re scared of losing control and obeying your most primal instincts because of the rut, but here you are, having a conversation with me, an omega.”

‘Omega.’ The word feels so wrong in Levi’s mouth. Levi is so much more than an omega. Without him, they’d already be dead. “You’re my captain,” Jean corrects. “Humanity’s strongest.”

Levi turns around, a small, mocking smile tugging at the corner of his lip. “The son of a whore who would be put in better use as one. A thug picked up from the Underground’s filthy streets by the Survey Corp. An omega slut that hasn’t been properly tamed by his alpha. Or who needs a stronger, better one to break him into a more pliable plaything.”

Jean gapes. “Capt—”

“I heard it all from the nobles and the top brass, and often swore to myself I’d slice their throats. Thoughts are just thoughts. You need to trust yourself more.” Levi crosses the distance separating him from Jean and tucks the piece of paper into his breast pocket. “I sent Floch to clean the stables before he maimed a recruit. Hopefully, the stench of horse shit will help you keep your mind clear. And if not, pretty sure the little prick can knee you in the balls.”

Jean snorts. It’d hurt like a bitch.

Anger and worry melt down into a different feeling. It’s not quite relief, but it’s warm and comforting enough for Jean to slump down on the chair, legs extending in front of him. Like the good kind of exhaustion that comes after a harsh but fruitful day.

Maybe Levi’s right. Floch isn’t defenseless. He proves that again and again. And if Jean doesn’t trust himself much right now, perhaps he should trust Floch.

He pats his breast pocket and fishes the piece of folded paper. “What’s that?”

“The proper dosage and brewing technique for violet melissa.” Jean’s brow shots up. How does Levi—“Floch told me.” Oh.

Jean puts the paper back in his pocket. He licks his lips, nervousness growing in the pit of his stomach. “Are you going to tell the Commander?”

Levi curls his lips over his teeth, recoiling at the whole idea as it seems. “That little weasel, stealing the Military Police? Hange would be far too entertained! I don’t need that.” Even after years, Jean still can’t tell if Levi likes Hange. What are they to him? A superior? A comrade? A friend? More than a friend? It’s not like he can ask. Levi would tell him to mind his business.

Boots click on the floor. Levi moves to the door, and if Jean doesn’t turn his head to watch him, he can’t resist breathing in his scent one last time. Usually, the captain is more guarded, discreet. Maybe it’s how he shows his trust in Jean. Or, most likely, the peak of Jean’s rut still exacerbates his sense of smell.

“Take the day off. You’re useless anyway.”

Jean nods, then turns around on his chair to thank Levi. But the door closes.

*~*

Hay. Straw. Sweat. Shit.

The musky stench greeting Jean weighs on his tongue. Nose wrinkling, he walks further into the horse stable. Dust particles dance in the lights of the shining stone lamps. Low nickers and the stomping of hooves echo in his ears. But Floch is nowhere to be seen, which allows the courage Jean mustered up to wither even more.

He almost jolts out of his skin when Levi’s black mare sticks her head out of her stall, sniffing his hair and trying to chew on it. Despite the growing churning in his stomach, or perhaps because of it, Jean strokes the velvety coat of her muzzle up and down. But the mare’s nostrils flare, and she pulls back with a loud snort, most likely because he has no apple or carrot to give her. Bitch.

A few moments later, Jean finally finds Eren’s horse tied up outside a stall and, inside, Floch, napping on the clean bedding of straws he spread on the floor.

He looks so peaceful, with his eyes closed, his mess of bed hair, and his hand resting on his stomach, Jean doesn’t dare to step in right away. Instead, he leans against the door frame to watch him, sighing with relief. No bruises despite the brawl. Or no bruise anywhere visible yet.

Breathing in Floch’s alluring scent, Jean moves closer like a moth drawn by the flames. He kneels in the straw and reaches out for his partner. His companion. His ome—

“I haven’t forgiven you.” Jean freezes, his hand only a few centimeters away from Floch’s cheek. The omega doesn’t crack his eyes open, but his lips purse into one of his sullen pouts. “You’ve been an asshole.”

Jean blinks, then withdraws his hand and sits back on his heels. Floch’s irritation curls around them like a snake ready to strike. It’d be so much easier to lash out, pin Floch to the floor, show him who’s in charge, but … Jean shakes his head, swallowing the angry impulse down, even if it’s like gravel scraping against his throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Well, you did,” Floch hisses. “And a lot of people seem to think it’s so fucking funny. ‘Oh, look at that, the little male omega put back into his rightful place—a slut, just good to be knotted. Jean will find a good omega woman to bear his kids soon enough.’”

Jean flinches. Is it really how people see him? “You know I wouldn’t.”

“Do I?” Floch rolls to his side, offering his back.

Jean grabs a fistful of straw with a trembling hand. It’s rough against his palm, and cracks when he tightens his grip. Or perhaps he’s just imagining the noise, because he wants to break the recruits’ necks so damn hard. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“From what?” Floch scoffs with a small shrug.

Jean sucks in a breath, his heart beating fast. “From me. I was afraid of losing control.”

Floch turns around again and sits up, narrowed golden eyes fixed on Jean. Is he angry? Suspicious? Pondering? Hard to tell. But when he speaks again, his eyes are watery. “So what now? Do you plan to avoid me whenever you’re in rut? Did you try the melissa, at least, or did I steal it for nothing? Because I stole it for you, not for me!”

“I know! And I did! I drank it!” Jean shouts back, taken aback by Floch’s accusation and whiny tone. But the way the omega blinks at him, equally in shock, makes him lower his voice. “It’s just that it didn’t seem to do a lot for me.” Jean touches his breast pocket, feeling the edge of the folded piece of paper tuck in it. “Maybe because I didn’t know how to prepare it correctly.”

“Oh …” Gaze shifting away, Floch bends his legs and wraps his arms around them. He rests his chin on his knees, letting out a strained sigh. “What about now? How do you feel?”

“I’m … alright. More clear-headed. But maybe it’s because it smells like horse shit.”

Floch rolls his eyes. “You sound just like the captain.”

“Because I’m quoting him.”

“So, he visited you too …”

Floch doesn’t add anything else, and for a while, Jean doesn’t know what to say either. Doesn’t know if he should try to reach out again, now that Floch’s hostility has fizzled out. He opens his hand, releasing the straw, and rubs clammy palms over his thighs. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

“Look, after what I did yesterday … I was worried it’d happen again. I don’t want to cross your boundaries.”

Floch shakes his head, sighing again. “Yesterday was … overwhelming. My heat, that stupid meeting, your rut starting … But you did nothing wrong. I asked you to stop and you did. You gave me space, time. I … I still regret that I couldn’t … that I was so distant when you needed me …” Floch’s voice trails off, and his expression darkens.

Even if Jean stays riveted to the spot, he aches with the need to pull Floch into a tight embrace and to pepper him with kisses.

But if he starts, he won’t stop.

“This morning, I was really looking forward to seeing you, you know?” Floch continues in a whisper, as if he’s afraid of being overheard. “Because the night was shitty without you.” His cheeks turn red, and he hides his face between his arms. Being vulnerable is still not something he’s comfortable with. “I wanted to hold you and wake up next to you,” he croaks.

Jean crawls closer, his arms almost locking around Floch’s curled up body. But he picks the straw out of his hair instead. So close, he can smell Floch’s scent more vividly. It ranks sadness, which helps to qualm his arousal. But it sweetens with bubbles of joy too, and Floch eventually raises his head again. He’s still red-faced, but a small, almost mischievous smile plays on his lips.

“I want to spend the night with you.”

“Floch—” A finger presses again Jean’s lips.

“Don’t treat me like I don’t know what I’m doing. I trust you. I also trust my own strength. So, can you trust me?”

Jean exhales. “Yes. I trust you.”

“Unlike you, I actually have a plan.” Jean quirks a brow, but Floch doesn’t elaborate. He cradles Jean’s face instead, and this simple touch is enough for Jean’s eyes to flutter shut.

Jean moves closer, right into Floch’s comforting heat, and buries his head in the crook between Floch’s neck. Of course his cock stirs. The scent glands are just a few kisses away. But Jean is nowhere as aroused as he would’ve been this morning if they had hugged in the middle of the mess hall. If anything, he’s melting, all tension and stress leaving his body. Incredible what talking can do to alleviate one’s anxiety.

“Stupid alpha,” Floch mutters, but it sounds more affectionate than insulting. He tangles a hand into Jean’s hair and pets his head. It’s nice. Soothing. Jean wraps his arms around Floch and slots himself between his thighs. He nuzzles Floch’s neck until he finds his pulse. It’s when they lose their balance, but the straw mattress is here to collect them, so Floch barely huffs in protest.

It’s everything Jean needs. Floch’s presence, his warmth and scent surrounding him until Jean gets drunk on it and his brain clouds. It’d be even better without their clothes on, skin against skin, both bodies intimately entwine, but he shouldn’t be greedy. Even if he can’t stop his hips from grinding up and down against Floch’s thigh.

Too much pressure down there. His cock throbs, hot blood rushing into his inflating knot. Is it Floch’s hand on his ass, pulling him even closer? Inviting him to hump him? Does Floch finally want to know how an alpha’s cock feels? Jean tries to suck and pinch the curve of the omega’s neck. But the collar of Floch’s jacket is in the way, and the buttons of his shirt are so, so complicated to undo.

“Easy! My clothes stay on.” Floch warns, the hand in Jean’s hair tightening its grip.

“But I love you,” Jean whines. And, shit, why does Floch not let him prove it? He’d make him feel so good, so full, so—

Floch pulls on Jean’s hair, forcing him to raise his head. Jean growls and bares his teeth, desire turning into aggression, until he meets narrowed golden eyes.

Alphas don’t submit to omegas. This is the natural law. But the glare is like a slap in the face.

Jean withdraws his hands, apologies burning the tip of his tongue. Floch, however, seems to have a different idea. Expression softening, he pulls Jean closer again. Their lips brush. And Floch kisses him first.

Jean’s eyes flutter shut, and even if it’s sloppy and hesitant, he slumps against Floch’s warmth, kissing him back until they are both breathless.

“See?” Floch pants, his hands cradling Jean’s face again. “You listen to me. I’m more than my instinct, and so are you.”

“Yeah …”

“So …” Floch licks his lips and looks away, a bit red in the face. “Do you wanna get off?”

“Yeah! No! Wait? Are … are you even hard?” Jean blurts out.

Floch glances back at him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and rubs his thigh against Jean’s crotch. “No. But you are. So flattering to know I have this effect on you.”

“Like, it’s new,” Jean breathes out, his face burning hot.

“You were smoother during my heat. Where did all your experience go? Southward to meet your other brain?”

“Shut up,” Jean snaps before sealing their mouths together again. He repositions himself, grinding down. It’s nowhere as good as if they were humping each other naked, but the friction still tears a guttural groan from his throat. His tongue slides over Floch’s. His hips rock back and forth, chasing the pleasure he’s been fantasizing so much about. Floch grabs his shoulder with one hand, fingers digging into his jacket, while the other reaches down to knead his ass.

Jean freezes at first, rut-fuelled instinct rebelling with all its might. But the anger flickers away, and he licks Floch’s bottom lip. “You could fuck me. I’d let you.” It might not be what an alpha primarily needs, but it’ll scratch the itch regardless, Jean knows it. He just has to wrestle his instinct, and then—

But Floch pulls a face. “Disgusting. Not touching your asshole.” His harsh words don’t stop him from grabbing the back of Jean’s neck. They exchange another heated kiss, and Floch hooks a leg around Jean’s waist. Floch’s scent, sweet and soothing like rarely, wraps them into a soft cocoon.

Is his companion getting excited or is he just indulging him? Jean can’t quite tell. Doesn’t wanna know either. Hell, indulging him is not bad anyway, Jean can work with that.

The bucking of his hips grow more desperate and urgent by the second. He abandons Floch’s lips to bite down on his collar, the rough fabric brushing his tongue. A poor diversion, but it still quenches the urge to claim and mark and make sure Floch belongs to him forever. As long as Floch is covered with Jean’s scent and Jean with his, it’ll be proof that they own each other, right?

Fuck, he’s so close, so close, so—“Are you serious now? In my horse’s stall?!”

*~*

Nothing can kill a boner faster than Eren Jaeger. Well, an attack from Marley would too, but the annoying prick’s indignant yell is still high on the list.

Growling his frustration, Jean pushes himself up and turns to the entrance. Eren glares, of course. And Jean stomps forward, eager to punch Eren’s lights out. But Floch firmly grabs Jean’s arm before he can.

Maybe it’s for the best. The beta has always been strong. Probably another nice gift from his titan shifter’s blood. It’s not like Jean can win against someone who heals fast and never lacks stamina.

But more than that, Jean would regret the violence once he cools down, because it’d be the rut acting for him.

Jean breathes in and out, and relaxes fists he didn’t realise he clenched. “Sorry about that.” Apologizing stings his tongue. Still, it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?

At least Eren’s gaze softens—a rare sight these days. Rubbing the back of his neck, he glances away and clears his throat. “Well, it’s just that I didn’t expect to stumble on you two. Could you do this in a room?” Eren gives Floch a quick glance. “And also, why are you even here? I was supposed to clean the stalls.”

“The Captain made me,” Floch dryly says, his hand still locked around Jean’s bicep. Why? It’s not like Jean still wants to pick a fight.

But here it is again, Eren’s annoyed look. “He did what? But you’re not even good at cleaning!”

If it weren’t for Floch, Jean would lunge forward and shove Eren to the ground. “Hey, shut up! He’s amazing!” Especially when he washes and grooms Jean in a bath. Yes. Right. They should do that. Now. Or take a shower, even if the water is cold. Anywhere where they can be naked and exploring each other. They still have that lavender soap. They don’t need more to rinse the awful stench of horses off their skin. Then Jean will carry Floch to—

“Can you not be horny for thirty seconds?” Eren curls his lips, his body tensing as if he’s about to throw a punch. Jean readies himself too, even if his mind still clings to his sensual daydream. Why does Eren always have to ruin everything?

Floch squeezes Jean’s arm, forcing back his attention to him. But the omega’s eyes are fixed on Eren. “If you’re so eager to clean the stalls, be my guest. I’ve done enough.”

Eren’s eyebrows shoot up. “But you said Captain Levi tasked you with—”

“Do I look like I care?” Floch shrugs, an insolent smile flicking on his face.

“Floch,” Jean warns, but Eren is louder than him. For once.

“You’d disobey the Captain’s orders?!”

Floch rolls his eyes. “Oh, wow, truly an unexpected event, me being reluctant to carry a superior’s order. I’m not on a quest to get his approval, and I thought you were aware of that …”

Instead of arguing more, Eren shuts his mouth right away, which is one of the least Eren-thing he ever did, especially with Floch.

Huh.

Jean looks between the two of them. Did he miss something? They always quarrel, although … Jean frowns. When did that happen for the last time? During the festival in Trost to celebrate the opening of their first railroad almost two months ago? Not even. Floch had been a bitch about being tasked with watching Yelena and her volunteers, but Eren didn’t fight him on that. However, he did several times before that when Floch would accompany Hange and Levi to the railroad building site. Hard to blame Eren. Floch liked to loudly remind them their efforts were fruitless and they’d be better off coercing the volunteers into giving them modern artillery schematics. Not that Floch was wrong either …

The air surrounding them thickens with the mix of their scents. It’s not quite hostile but the tension still tastes sour on Jean’s tongue and urges him to move between Floch and Eren, puffing his chest out. Even if he’s not sure which one he should protect from the other …

“Eren, you’ll follow your initial orders. I’m taking responsibility for him, so don’t worry.”

“Oh, I know. You always do.” Eren steps aside to let them pass and crosses his arm, his gaze turning serious.

This unshakable, stoic front he has been putting up a lot lately is nerve-racking. Jean can’t squash the feeling that he’s still missing some context, but he also doesn’t want to linger to find out what’s going on in Eren’s brain. Most likely, he’s thinking the same thing as everyone else—their impending doom. And his own death, that’ll happen sooner than Jean wants to, even if they rarely see eye to eye. However, it’s a conversation he’s in no state to have now, and besides, Eren made his point clear before—he won’t burden any of his friends with his power.

Eren wants them to live long lives. But can they really? The notion feels ridiculous, even as Jean interlocks his fingers with Floch’s.

[jade-parcels]

🐕 NAUGHTY GOROU STUFF UNDER THE CUT!! MINORS GET OUT!!!🐕 (f!reader, oral(receiving), panty stuff, scent stuff idk)

We have all collectively agreed that Go is sensitive to smells. And it’s well known that dogs like to steal (or eat) their owners clothes because it makes them feel safe and they like their owners smell!! Not that I’m saying that being in a relationship with Gorou is owning him just cause he’s part dog SHHH

It just has me thinking about how he loooves your scent so much!! You probably don’t even realize you smell so good to him! If you’re sweaty, on your period, freshly showered, anything- he looooooves your scent so much!! His little obsession with your scent started off small. When you came to visit before you officially got together, he’d lay blankets over his chairs or on the ground to sit on, claiming his chairs are uncomfortable or the floor is cold. Once you’re gone, he’d wrap himself in those blankets, tail wagging as he enveloped himself in your scent! But it was never enough, your smell faded from the fabric so fast :( too fast!! It was barely there by time morning rolled around :( and once he got home from work that day his blankets didn’t smell like you at all :(

Cut to when you two are actually together but not…living together…yet. He’s very cuddly, wanting to just curl up against you and breathe in your sweet smell!! He won’t admit that!! That’s wayyyy too embarrassing :0 so he takes subtle, deep breaths as you talk about your day, turning his head just the slightest bit in order to give your shirt a good sniff. You smell like you’ve been to the ocean today! And like you had eaten at a food stall! And of course, your underlying scent is still there…Sweet, warm, comforting…

When you’re officially living together you’ll definitely notice the way he loves your clothes. He’ll wear your shirts to bed, giving you his best puppy eyes when you try to say no :( you monster!! You can’t say no to him :( the mix of getting to wear your clothes, preferably a pajama shirt you wore the night before, and getting to cuddle close to you beneath the covers- it’s like a dream come true!! And now we’re past the cute stuff…

Once Go has caught a scent he reallly likes it’s hard for him to not immediately get hard and have to step away to fix his ‘problem’, having to bite his own hand in order to prevent his pathetic little whines from being heard by his comrades. Sometimes he can snap himself out of it, he can splash water in his face or hold crushed grass against his nose to drown out that delicious scent…But you…There’s no way he can do that, he’s tried but nothing works!! He’s tried everything!! Once he gets a whiff of your cunt he’s in trouble, he’s just gotta submit to his own horniness

He used to sneak away to shamefully jerk himself off, hiding in his tent where no one could see this pitiful display. The resistance’s top general brought to his knees, ears twitching as he pants your name out over and over, crying out as he coats his hand white. Poor puppy… Thats not how he is anymore though. Now that you’re together, he’ll pull you aside to ‘have a chat’ or ‘strategize’ when he needs to. He paws at your clothes, brain foggy as he’s overcome with lust. He can’t even get your shirt off, there’s too many buttons!! :( he cries as he humps your leg, so impatient!! He just can’t wait, your shirt just has to stay on cause his focus is shifting to your cunt

He craves your scent and taste, you’d think he’s been starving for a century with the way he acts. His hot tongue presses against your clothed sex and he moans as he gets a taste of you through your panties. He licks and sucks at the fabric, groaning and making a mess as he drools all over you. Soon enough he’s ripping the crotch out of your panties with his teeth, gripping your thighs as he hurriedly laps at your folds, so so so eager to taste you! To indulge in your scent this way. Pure animal instincts kicking in. The sounds he makes are almost gross, he’s slurping, smacking his lips, moaning, making squelching sounds with his tongue- so gross but who cares, it feels nice! Don’t hold back, cum on his face it’s what he wants!! He’ll even beg you to, whining about how he wants you to make a mess on his face

But that isn’t enough, even if he makes you cum a few times and he cums in his pants just from eating you out- he still isn’t done!! He can’t be done until he sinks his cock into your welcoming, wet pussy. He’s so excited, flipping you over and shoving himself into you, rutting into you like an animal. His thrusts are messy, there’s not an ounce of rhythm there, he’s just manhandling you. Go’s lost in his lust for you, your name spilling out of his mouth over and over, drool and your cum glistening on his chin and cheeks. He’s so loud, so rough, too much-

And when he finally cums, he’s shaking, panting and whimpering as he spills his hot, thick load into you finally… but once isn’t enough. You can handle another round, right?? Please?? For him??

(Babes…I’m begging you to ignore any spelling errors ;-; I’ll cry and barf <3)

[wolferine]

The Bet

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: When you return home bloody and bruised, Natasha is determined to find who hurt you.

Warnings: Violence, blood, language

Word count: 1282

AN: Random one-shot for you all to enjoy! 

You stagger back to Natasha’s and your shared room, leaving bloody handprints on the walls in your wake. Your right knee is scraped open so badly blood trickles all the way down to your sock and you can’t put a single pound of weight on it. The skin on your right arm is torn off from wrist to shoulder and you cradle your arm against your chest, fingers trembling in pain.

You’re not even sure what your face looks like, but judging from having to constantly blink blood out of your eyes and spitting out entire mouthfuls on the sidewalk earlier tells you it’s not pretty.

You open the door quietly, practically hopping on one foot. Natasha is already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting her shoes on. She doesn’t look up at you right away, focused on knotting her laces, and you seize your opportunity to try and sneak past her to the bathroom.

“Good morning,” you mumble, turning your face away from Natasha in an attempt to hide the damage. “I’m just gonna hop into the shower really quick—”

Natasha looks up and sees the blood splashed across your white workout shirt. She sees your limp and the way you hold your right arm to your chest.  

“What happened?” she screams, causing you to jump at the volume of her voice. She rushes you and you cringe away, accidentally revealing your face. Your chin is split in the middle, the tip of your nose looks like it’s completely missing, and a scrape travels from your right cheek, over your right eyebrow, all the way up to your hairline.

“What did you do?” Natasha shouts.

“Nothing!” you say, in too much pain to realize how pathetic of a lie it is.

“Don’t lie to me!” she snaps.

“Stop worrying, Nat,” you say, your cheeks burning in embarrassment. “You should see the other guy.”

“Other guy? What other guy? What did he do to you?” Natasha questions you like she’s interrogating a suspect. You try to ignore her and keep walking, but she grabs your left shoulder and you flinch away.

“Ow, Nat, please don’t—”

“I’m sorry.” She lets you go and bites her lip worriedly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay—”

“I told you I’m fine.” You know she cares about you, but the last thing you want is to talk about what happened. “Just let me take a shower and I’ll explain everything after—”

“Why can’t you just explain it now?” Natasha begs.

“Because it’s not a big deal!”

“That’s bullshit, Y/N. At least tell me where it happened.”

You sigh, knowing she won’t let you go unless you give her some semblance of answer. “It was on the west side of the Compound,” you mutter.

“How long ago? Where did they go after?”

“Like, five minutes ago? And I wasn’t really paying attention.” She finally steps back and lets you walk into the bathroom. Your reflection takes you by surprise, and now you understand Natasha’s concern. You look like you jumped out of a moving car at 25 miles per hour. 

“I will be waiting right here when you get out!” Natasha calls from the other side of the door, already regretting let you go in alone.

“Okay, okay!” At least you’ll have some time to come up with a story. It takes a few minutes until you can get your bloody shirt off and get into the shower. The hot water feels awful on your wounds and you have to hold back a scream as you rinse off your face and brush gravel out of your arm and knee. Everything starts bleeding all over again and you stumble out of the shower, gingerly patting yourself dry with your towel.

Meanwhile, Natasha grabs her phone when she hears the water turn on. She calls Tony and it takes him a few rings to answer.

“Yes?” His voice is groggy.

“Are you awake?” Natasha asks.

“I am now.”

“Can you check me the security camera footage on the west side of the compound?” she says. “From like, 6:45 to 7:00 a.m.?”

“What for?”

“Y/N just came back from a jog all bloody and won’t tell me what happened.”

“Yeah, that sounds like something Y/N would do.” Tony clearly isn’t the least bit concerned about you and it annoys Natasha. “I guess I can have Jarvis go through the timeframe and see if we can find anything.”

“Tony, I need you to do it now—”

“I will,” he promises. “Besides, if it was a real emergency, I’m sure Y/N would’ve told you what happened.”

“You didn’t see—” Natasha doesn’t even want to describe your injuries to him.

“Twenty bucks that it’s something dumb.”

“Tony!”

“All right, all right. I’ll text you if Jarvis finds anything. Good night, Romanoff.” He hangs up and Natasha slumps on the bed. She hears the water turn off and waits for you to open the door. Your hair is matted and you hold a towel around your chest. With most of the blood scrubbed off, you don’t look as bad, but she still doesn’t like seeing you all scraped up.

Natasha finds some clothes for you and helps you put them on, being particularly careful with your right arm.

“You might have to go to the med bay for that,” she comments, inspecting the bright-red road rash that covers the length of your arm.

“Why can’t you just take care of me?” you pout.

“Because you won’t be honest with me.” Before you can answer, she goes into the bathroom and grabs the medical kit under the sink. Her phone buzzes in her back pocket and she takes it out to check the newest message.

From Tony: You owe me $20, Romanoff.

Attached to Tony’s text is a 15-second video clip. Natasha sighs and hesitantly opens it. When she’s done viewing it, she hangs her head in secondhand shame and walks back to you.

“What’s wrong?” you ask as she places the medical kit beside you on the bed.

“I will ask you one more time what happened,” she threatens.

But you’re too stubborn to admit the truth. “It wasn’t a big deal, Nat—”

“You’re damn right it wasn’t!” She lifts her phone and you see the still frame of the security footage from the west corner of the compound.

“Aw, man, I forgot about the security cameras,” you mutter.

Natasha presses play on the video.

A small black cat sits on the sidewalk, licking its paws. You come jogging up from behind, almost finished with your run, when you notice the cat. You start sprinting for it, but the cat jets off before you can catch up. Suddenly, your foot catches on a pothole and you go sprawling forward.

Your right arm grinds across the ground as you try to stop your fall, and your head whiplashes forward and you scrape your face off on the pavement. The cat disappears from the frame of the video. You slowly wobble to your feet, bleeding from your head, arm, and leg. You then limp off camera sheepishly.

“Uh…” you start.

“Why?” Natasha says, closing her eyes and preparing herself for your answer.

“I wanted to chase the cat.”

“Why?”

“So I could catch it—”

“WHY?”

“You’ve always said you wanted to get a cat!” you defend, hurt that she doesn’t support your decision.

“Yes, from the adoption center. Not one you just picked up outside the Compound!”

“Oh.”

Natasha swears she is dating a child. The other Avengers had told her she was dating the human equivalent of a Golden Retriever, and sometimes, she had to admit that they were right.

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AN: So, this actually happened to my uncle, and my aunt was so disappointed with him, lol. Let his legacy be immortalized on the Internet forever.

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Thanks for reading, and until next time...