#hope that doesn’t clog up much

[starky1d]

Based of of @louie-posting and @dingo-posting I love their dynamic okay bye

Last minute bonus panel

[earthtooz]

x : NOT JEALOUS ! :*+ﾟ

in which: alhaitham isn't jealous, he doesn't get jealous, so what is this suffocating feeling in his chest that only happens when you're talking to another man that isn't him?

warnings: 5.4k words, jealous!alhaitham x gn!reader who has loads of rizz, university!au, fluff with angst but happy ending, pining!alhaitham who doesn't realise that he loves you, kaveh is there, mention of cyno, ooc at some bits?, swearing, alhaitham is a little bit of an asshole at some parts sawry. he's bad with feelings.

a/n: inspired by @danijaci's jealous jealous boy comic with alhaitham! hi dani if you're reading this pls don't perceive me... hides... but i hope you all like it :,)

Alhaitham isn’t jealous. 

The uncomfortable feeling obstructing itself in his throat is just because he’s beginning to develop a sore throat- that’s all. It is flu season after all, who knows what kind of bacteria are in the air? Ones capable of lathing an uncomfortable oil that burns inside his chest, the smog crowding its way into his heart, sickening him to his core as Alhaitham can’t help but eavesdrop on the conversation happening beside him.

“I’m free friday,” a voice besides you confirms.

“Okay!” you cheer, sounding a little too happy for Alhaitham’s liking. After all, it’s 9 am, who has this much energy in the morning? “lets do Friday then!”

“Sounds good, I’ll see you then. Bye Y/n.”

“Bye, see you!” Alhaitham watches from the corner of his eye as you wave to the random stranger you’ve decided to associate yourself with before finally taking the seat beside him with a sigh. 

He doesn’t say anything to you, feeling your eyes glance at him expectantly as he stares stubbornly at the lecture board instead of acknowledging you or the jumble of feelings clogging up his diaphragm. 

“Hello, you,” You lean over slightly, careful to not invade his personal space whilst waving at him, hoping to catch his attention. He glances at you, nodding in greeting before returning to his book, the pages and rows of words only fuelling his unease he suddenly felt. He doesn’t even know where he left off, the book’s events a blur in Alhaitham’s mind.

How bothersome. What’s happening to him?

“Talkative today, aren’t you?” Your tone is playful despite his cold attitude and Alhaitham sneaks another look in your direction, noting the way your lips curve upwards. “So, how are you?” 

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, inserting a bookmark between the pages before slamming it shut, an indicator that you could keep conversing with him.

“Cool.” You tap your nails on the desks of the lecture hall. “Oh, I finished my essay the other day.”

“The one for your elective?”

You hum in agreement, “I hope I never get it back. Submitted it ten minutes before the due date.”

“You know you wouldn’t have been stressed over it if you just started it earlier-”

“I know, I know,” you huff, “spare your productivity lectures for another time, I’ll be needing them later in the semester.” The grey-haired shakes his head as you laugh, but his gaze returns to the front cover of his book as he solemnly thinks about the interaction you had with another man, right in front of him. 

(What right did he have to see you smiling so earnestly like that?)

“Who was that?” Alhaitham coughs out, barely choking down his pride in time to make space for the question.

You murmur some guy’s name that he doesn’t bother to remember. “He’s a friend of mine in the same discussion group for this course and we decided to do the assignment together. He bumped into me on the way in so we were just planning when to meet to do the research.”

“Oh.” Your answer doesn’t calm the churning in Alhaitham’s gut. Not even one bit, in fact, it makes it worse. 

But it’s not jealousy, Alhaitham doesn’t get jealous because he’s above petty feelings of inadequacy. He’s merely concerned for you, worried for your brainpower by the end of the project because your partner seems less-than-incompetent. If you’d picked someone like Alhaitham (or better yet, just picked Alhaitham), you would’ve aced the class without even blinking an eye. 

(The two of you are friends, so why didn’t you pick him? It’s literally been proven that the two of you are compatible working together since you were both executives of Sumeru’s Cultural Society, and amidst all of the activities the club has run, you’ve collaborated many times to make each event run flawlessly. So why not him? Why would you pick another man over him?)

“You know you could have picked me, I wouldn’t mind working on the assignment with you,” he grumbles, words soft but very clear.

Alhaitham misses the way your eyes widen in shock as apologies scramble out of your mouth. “I’m sorry! I automatically assumed that you wanted to work on it by yourself. Next time I’ll ask you.” 

The lecture begins before he could say anything in return and like a robot, he sets his thoughts aside and begins listening, notes document up and cursor blinking at the ready.

A mundane two hours pass by, one powerpoint slide after powerpoint slide before the lecture is finally over, much to your pleasure. Alhaitham notices the way you eagerly jump out of your seat to stretch, grabbing your bag. On the other hand, your grey-haired accomplice takes his time in packing up, forcing you to wait for him.

“Would you like to get some coffee before the meeting?” You ask.

“Sure, we can find a seat there and join it together,” he adds and you beam at him, expression bright and so enchanting that it makes him forget about all the perplexities he felt before the lecture. 

The two of you make your way to one of the many campus cafés where you practically wrestled Alhaitham to stop him from paying for both your orders (losing in the end) before sitting at a booth, your laptop set up with a pair of Alhaitham’s earphones shared between you. The meeting begins to fill up with almost all committee members, even Kaveh, who resides in his room of his and Alhaitham’s shared flat. Upon noticing him, you go to text him, with the grey-haired peeking over your shoulder from time to time to see your conversation- not that he cares that much.

(Perhaps if Kaveh glanced up from his phone, then he’d see how close Alhaitham had gotten with you, breaching the distance that he prefers to keep around others. He’d also notice the headphone sharing despite how he generally tends to keep them out of anyone else’s hands.)

You’re tasked with the role of taking notes for the meeting since Alhaitham, in your opinion, is not at all a reliable scribe. His notes tend to just include vital information and never what everyone else needs to know, yet each time you scold him for it, his unbothered expression never falters, waving your complaints off with a shrug. 

“Hey, Kaveh and I are going to go for lunch tomorrow after our classes. Care to join?” You ask, smiling at him hopefully as your messages with Kaveh sit open on your screen. Alhaitham doesn’t think twice before agreeing. 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“It looks like it’s about to rain,” you murmur, pulling out a chair as Alhaitham and Kaveh take their seats opposite you. 

“So it does,” Alhaitham notes, not caring to look too long out the window before returning his gaze to you. “You have an umbrella, right?”

“I, uh, didn’t think I needed one today.”

“Do you not check the weather before you leave?”

“Not everyone’s like you, Alhaitham.” Kaveh teases. “It’s no problem, Y/n, if it rains I can walk you back to your dorm.”

“Only if you are okay with it,” you insist, “I have no problem walking home in the rain. I love the rain.”

Alhaitham intervenes with a raise of his hand. “Nonsense, you’ll catch a cold. We’ll walk you home.”

A soft but genuine ‘thank you’ slips from your lips, neither of you wiser to the way Kaveh eyes his roommate suspiciously, not missing the use of ‘we’ in his sentence and the implications the collective pronoun has. For it meant that Alhaitham is willing to take precious time out of his day to perform an act for someone that he is not indebted to do. Not that Alhaitham is inherently selfish, per se, but he is a man of routine. He wakes up every morning and takes five minutes to scribble on his stupid whiteboard in the kitchen what he has to do for the day and strictly abides by it, not even straying two minutes off schedule.

Willingly volunteering his minutes? Kaveh finds that suspicious. 

“So, how’s your architecture assignment, Kaveh?” You ask, breaking the blond from his daze whilst Alhaitham pours glasses of water for the table, starting with your cup. 

“A nightmare,” he sighs, sinking into his chair. “I still have so much to do, you know my professor didn’t like my blueprint? How ridiculous! I hope that man steps in a puddle and wets his sock.”

The grey-haired pipes up with a remark. “I can’t wait for it to be done, our living room is a mess right now.” 

“Hey, I am the one that cleans that living room, thank you very much. Your bookshelf is still a mess even though I’ve asked you to clean it five times.”

“If it bothers you so much then why don’t you do it yourself?”

“I’m the only one who-”

“-I’m going to go to the bathroom,” you murmur, cutting the conversation before shuffling out of your chair, seemingly eager to do so.

Kaveh turns to the grey-haired again, “and you just scared away Y/n.”

“Sorry no one wants to hear about your architecture project.”

“Y/n literally asked, asshole.”

A rebuttal sits on the tip of Alhaitham’s tongue- as it always does when it comes to bickering with his roommate, but it dies out when an intruder comes to the table. “Excuse me, I hate to interrupt,” he begins, “but the person who just got up, is that your friend?”

“Yeah, why do you ask?”

“Oh, I just wanted to drop this off, mind passing it over for me?” The piece of paper he was holding lands in Kaveh’s hand. “Thanks, bro.” Is all he says before strolling away, out of sight but definitely not out of mind.

The blond does not hesitate to open it up, chuckling in amusement when reading the content. “’Hey you’re cute, here’s my number’ it says. What a bitch! You didn’t like his vibes either, right, Alhaitham?”

“Hold on, what does the note say?”

Grabbing (snatching) it from Kaveh, the grey-haired has half a mind to rip the note apart, a certain sense of distaste washing over him that intensifies the long he stares at the guy’s handwriting. His eye is twitching. Why is his eye twitching?

“Hey!” He hears Kaveh call. “Don’t scrunch it, that’s Y/n’s-“

Alhaitham stuffs the ball of paper into his bag where he’ll recycle it later even though something irrational within him tells him to burn it. “Y/n won’t miss it. You said it yourself, he’s a bitch.”

“Sure, but why are you doing-“

“Hey!” You interrupt, sliding back into your chair with a grin on your face. “So, what did I miss?”

“Nothing,” the grey-haired murmurs, assuming his crossed-arm position. Kaveh side eyes his roommate before agreeing with a hum. “Let’s order something now. We want to beat the rain, right?”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

This meeting for the Sumeru Society might have been one of the most important ones of the year thus far, with almost every committee member expected to attend. After all, the annual ball was a big event that always had the largest turnout, and the amount of planning that goes into it to ensure its success is almost triple that of its other events.

So why weren’t you here?

“Why did you leave the meeting early on Friday?” Alhaitham asks as soon as he sees you.

You pause briefly, eyes widening and eyebrows raising. It must have been the way that Alhaitham’s voice raised a pitch towards the end of the question, demonstrating a nervous break in character that was not at all typical. Cool and collected would be the defining words to describe Alhaitham, as well as someone who does not care for the menial activities of others, so what is he doing asking you? And why does he care so much?

“I, uh, had dinner with someone,” you confess, continuing to grab your books and laptop, missing the way his features contort into something un-cool, and very un-Alhaitham.

“Whom?”

You murmur the name of some other guy, who he vaguely recalls to be your project partner.

“What?” Alhaitham snaps.

“I didn’t think missing out on some of the meeting would be a big deal! I got another committee member to explain what I missed,” you justified. “Besides, there’s no big events going on right now, so I thought-”

“-That you could abandon your tasks and go have fun with someone else?”

Alhaitham’s not really sure why he said that. He’s not angry that you skipped a meeting; there are larger things in the world to worry about, he’s angry because you spent time with another guy that wasn’t him.Why not go to dinner with him instead? He spends it every night with Kaveh, and you are far more favourable than Kaveh.  

“Is it really something to get mad over? I already told you, I got the meeting notes and everything-”

“-You’re an executive of the society, Y/n, more is expected from you.”

“Seriously?” you ask, “how come you didn’t bat an eye when the vice president wasn’t there the other day?”

“Because she was sick.” 

“Okay, fine! what about the subcommittee? they’re not always there either!” 

“They’re subcom. Whether they miss a meeting or not is not crucial.”

“So, it’s just my business that you care about?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed, disbelief clouding over your expression like a mask.

Again, Alhaitham doesn’t know where these punches are coming from and why he’s throwing them against you so viciously, but his heart is tightening defensively with a burning emotion that he’s been feeling more and more recently, and his first instinct is to lash out, to protect himself from it.

Perhaps it’s because foreign things that he can’t understand terrify him and you, all you ever do is make him feel things that he’s never felt before and he can’t understand why. 

“You’re not that special.”

A flash of hurt gleams in your eyes and Alhaitham knows now that he’s royally fucked up. “You’re an ass,” you grumble, about to walk away when he intercepts.

“Listen to me!”

“Fuck off!” 

“Y/n-”

You’re gone before he can get another word out, retreating figure stomping away whilst his chest weaves into knots; something that no amount of deep breathing can calm. It doesn’t help that the minute he returns home, Kaveh is onto him like some sort of parasite, curious over the tense air surrounding his normally-composed roommate. 

“Hey, welcome home- whoa, what’s gotten into you?” The blond asks.

“None of your business,” Alhaitham grumbles through gritted teeth, taking his shoes off and throwing them aside haphazardly. Kaveh doesn’t miss the way Alhaitham’s jaw is clenched, or the strain in his hand when he brings up a hand to run through his hair, or the very subtle and minute twitch in his cheek.

The blond ignores all signs that he wants to be left alone, and instead, follows the grey-haired to his room after he swung the door open. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on, let’s talk about this-”

“Talk about what?” Alhaitham growls.

“Who pissed in your black coffee today?” 

“No one. Now get lost.” 

“Aw, come on, you know what they say. Getting things off your chest is always beneficial.”

“There’s nothing on my chest, go away.”

“You sure? no stress, no deadlines, no love interest making you tear your hair out-”

“-No, no, none of those!”

“Then what?”

Alhaitham steadies himself by resting his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped together as he exhales loudly. “I got pissed and took it out on Y/n, who’s mad at me now.”

“Huh? Why so annoyed?”

“Because Y/n went to dinner with another man.”

It’s silent for a while. The sassy quip that he expects from Kaveh does not happen. Instead, the blond merely smiles, a satisfied, knowing grin that slightly irks him. “You know, I’ve been waiting for the day you realise you have feelings for Y/n.” 

“What? Where did you get that conclusion from?” Alhaitham sits up straighter. There are a lot of things he knows, and he knows for sure that he does not like you in any way beyond platonic. He doesn’t have any time to spare for love. There are scholarships he still needs to apply for, internships to be interviewed for, research projects to submit- nowhere amongst the minute hand of the clock is there space for love. 

“Oh come on,” Kaveh sits down on the bed beside his roommate, leaning back on his hands. “You’re not as smooth as you hope to be sometimes.”

“I’m serious, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Y’know the sooner you accept you have feelings for Y/n, the easier life will be.”

“Life is already easy and there is no sooner because I don’t like Y/n like that. Now get lost. I have stuff I need to finish.”

Kaveh shrugs, standing up with a soft ‘suit yourself’, taking seven steps before he’s out of the room. Alhaitham lets out a sigh that has lodged itself in his throat for too long, and the feeling of reprieve he gets is short-lived before he’s flooded with a certain tightness again. Maybe he did have a weight on his chest after all, not that he’d ever admit it to himself or Kaveh.

He gets up from his made bed with a grunt and decides to push aside all distractions. Time is unforgiving, and if doesn’t finish his assignment by this Friday then he’ll be a little less than pleased.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Alhaitham feels like he can’t breathe. 

You’re sitting alone at a library desk, all focused and concentrated on your laptop screen with your headphones on, blocking out any outside voice as you type away. He wonders if he should say hi, maybe try apologising for the way he acted last Monday- who is this guy that’s approaching you and why does he look so familiar? 

And why are you smiling so happily?

You beckon to the seat beside you and the guy readily complies, taking the chair beside you like he belonged there, like there weren’t other candidates that should be there instead (he’s not talking about himself. definitely not).

He hands you one of two coffee cups he’s holding. What kind of right does this guy have to give you a coffee? Does he even know your order?

He feels like a bit of creep keenly watching you interact with someone else from a balcony of the library, but the book and laptop in front of him lies forgotten, and in a rare moment of weakness, Alhaitham can’t find it in himself to return to his tasks, pursuit of knowledge momentarily forgotten. He can’t push aside the bile that threatens to rise, he can’t loosen his grip on the couch’s armrest, and he can’t blink for a second in fear of losing you from his sight.

(You’re laughing. Why are you laughing? How can you look so pretty laughing and why doesn’t he ever get to make you laugh like this?)

Alhaitham is losing his damn mind. So much so that the first thing he does when he sees you again is corner you. 

“You shouldn’t talk to that guy anymore.”

You’re backed against the brick walls of the time-worn building that your shared lecture always takes place in, and Alhaitham, spotting you like a hawk, put you in this precarious position as soon as the two hours were over. 

He can’t breathe. It’s been almost three weeks since you last spoke to him and you’re staring up at him like you’ve done nothing wrong, blinking once and twice at his uncharacteristic display of subtle aggression. 

“Who?” you mutter, shaking your head to try and grasp reality once again. you hug your laptop closer to your body. “What’s this about?”

“I said you shouldn’t talk to that guy anymore.” 

“What guy?” 

“Your project partner.”

“Really?” you mutter in disbelief.

He nods, teal eyes shining at you firmly. “Really. The project’s over, you don’t need to talk to him anymore.” 

“I don’t recall ever giving you the right to dictate who gets to be in my life or not, just like how you can’t tell me what to do with my time.” 

“I’m looking out for you, so stop trying to make me sound tyrannical.” 

Your mouth hangs open as you furrow your eyebrows, growing more and more frustrated with each second. So much for thinking that he wanted to resolve the awkwardness between the two of you. “I’m not even going to argue with you,” you murmur a quick ‘jerk’ under your breath before brushing past him. 

Alhaitham, however, is not willing to let you go as easily as you wish, quick to chase after you. Not that you go far anyways, turning around to face him again in the spaciousness of the vacant hallway. “Why do you care?” You ask, exasperated. “You’re Alhaitham, you don’t let trivial things like who I hangout with bother you, you’re cool and collected and rational, and I just don’t understand why you’re acting like this.”

He doesn’t understand either, not the erratic beating of his heart, the stubbornness of his mind, nor this undisputable urge to keep you all to himself. Is it normal to want to hide someone for selfish reasons?

Trailing off, Alhaitham is slightly humiliated that for the first time in his life, someone has witnessed him coming short of an answer. No logical conclusion, no explanation, not even a satisfying quip, just plain, suffocating silence.

“Right. When you do have an answer, let me know.” You walk away.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Your last rebuttal still weighs heavily on Alhaitham’s mind, even two days later as he and Kaveh are seated for a lecture in a shared course. His thoughts are scrambled like never before, the messiness of it all making him feel uneasy because for once, he doesn’t have an appropriate answer to a question.

Why was he acting like a temperamental teenager? What you did with your life was up to you, and indeed he has no right trying to change that. More importantly, why was it so hard to apologise for the stuff he said-

“So, how’s everything between you and Y/n?” 

Kaveh turns to him with widened eyes whilst Alhaitham’s poker face doesn’t move an inch, deceivingly apathetic.

“Good, we’ve been hanging out a lot more recently,” the other guy says, who Alhaitham quickly recognises to be your project partner and distaste rises in his stomach like bile. 

“Aye, good for you, man! So when are you going to ask Y/n out?”

“No way, bro, not yet. I’m such a wimp, but I hope I grow the balls to ask soon because I really like-”

“-looks like you got some competition!” The blond nudges Alhaitham, and if it were anyone else, they would not have glanced twice at the grey-haired who seemed unmoving and uninterested. However, Kaveh is not anyone else because he noticed the darkened look in Alhaitham’s eyes instantly, anger seeping into his composed gaze as his nose scrunches in disgust. 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“So, you and Alhaitham still aren’t talking?” Kaveh asks, leaning on the table of the restaurant with curious ears, hoping that he can grab some answers out of you as to why there was a stalemate between you and his roommate.

“Nope,” you sigh. 

“Why not?”

“I’m just-” you pinch the bridge of your nose, “I’m just waiting on an apology from him.”

“An apology? Why? What did he say?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“You know how he is. Always insufferably secretive, so no, I don’t know anything that happened.” 

“Alhaitham just said some hurtful things to me, and he was being weird when I told him I was going to dinner with a friend of mine. Just kept being in my business.”

“Really?” The architecture student quirks a brow, confusion plastered on his face. “That’s not like Alhaitham at all.”

“I know, right? He kept trying to be like ‘don’t hang out with him’ and ridiculed me for not playing my part as an executive of the Sumeru society,” you complained, “like sorry I have other things I want to do.”

Kaveh nods in understanding as the conversation briefly stops when the waiter comes to drop off utensils at your table. As soon as they were gone, however, you begin again.

“And even though he was all up in my business, trying to tell me what not to do, he then said that I wasn’t special, which is so confusing because like-”

“-hold on. Alhaitham said that you weren’t special?” You nod at his parroted claim. “To him?” 

“Yeah. Stung like shit when he said that, especially since I thought we were friends but guess not,” you murmur sadly, fiddling with the fork.

Later that night, almost immediately after meeting you over dinner, Kaveh barges into his roommate’s room, not even changing out of his outside clothes. The sudden intrusion shocks Alhaitham who was busy typing on a document, textbook splayed open beneath him but momentarily forgotten as the blond takes a seat on the bed.

“What the- not even a hello?” The grey-haired asks, confused by this uncharacteristic silence of Kaveh’s. It’s pretty normal for the blond to barge into his room without notice, but it was not normal for him to be so quiet, practically brooding on the mattress. “Whatever. Where have you been? Have you eaten yet, because I made-”

“When will you just confess to Y/n?”

The mention of your name causes a spike in Alhaitham’s heartbeat and he swivels around instantly, attention fully directed towards his roommate. “Where is this coming from?”

“Y/n told me everything that happened between you two by the way-”

“-what, when?”

“Tonight, we just met for dinner.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“What would you have done if you knew? Showed up and made things worse?” He doesn’t say anything in retaliation, merely shutting his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows. “Why did you say that Y/n wasn’t special to you?” 

“I didn’t,” Alhaitham sighs, very loud and very perplexed. “I didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did.”

“Don’t you miss Y/n? You two used to hangout so often.”

“I do, of course I do!” He exclaims, burrowing his face in his hands. 

“So why aren’t you apologising?” 

“Because whenever I’m around Y/n, I’m not who I normally am,” he mutters, “especially everything whenever that project partner is around-”

“Jealous, much?”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Oh come on, you’re ridiculous. Stop pushing away your feelings and just be honest with yourself, Alhaitham! Y/n is not just a friend to you and you know it.”

“But, we are just friends-”

“So you mean to tell me that if I hung out with someone else- like if I hung out with Cyno, you would be pissed?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Then why is it different with Y/n?” Once again, Alhaitham doesn’t have an answer to the question, sitting as still as a statue hunched over his desk. “Fine, I’ll spell it out to you. You like Y/n, more than just a friend!”

The silence leftover from Kaveh’s outburst is tense and full as the grey-haired lets the words sink in. 

“I’ll let you think about it,” the blond murmurs, voice softening dramatically as he stalks out of the room. Before he closes the door, however, he leaves a few final words. “Just- be honest with yourself, Alhaitham, and I wouldn’t delay trying to talk to Y/n.”

A sharp click rings through the room.

Alhaitham is no stranger to being alone, for who needs the company of others when you are happiest by yourself? Yet, in the weeks that you have not been speaking to him, a cardinal urge as been growing each and each day, wanting him to do something so atypical of him: to reach out and make the first move. Every passing day doesn’t lessen the thoughts that plague his mind, rather, they make him more and more impatient, because what if you get swept away by your project partner? 

(What if he’ll be too late? What if you won’t know of these powerful emotions that are steering through the storm in his heart? What if you won’t know just how badly he was been wanting you- wanting to see you, wanting to apologise, wanting to see you beam at him like you always would.

What if you won’t know that he adores you, especially now that he’s figured it out?).

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

A rain droplet falls and lands on your nose, another lands on your forehead, then another lands on your lip then more and more keep falling from the cloudy sky, falling through the leaves and landing on the bench you were currently sitting on. Goodness, you should have checked the weather before leaving your dorm. Why was it now out of all times that it had to rain, what would Alhaitham think after he finally decided to reach out to talk?

Taking your phone out to message the grey-haired about relocating, an umbrella is suddenly held over you, stopping the gentle drizzle from falling onto you. Looking up, you’re greeted by a familiar face that you have been missing too much recently.

“Hello, you,” you breathe, voice gentle and quiet and Alhaitham feels like he can finally breathe after so long, the scent of rain washing away all perplexion.

He nods at you in greeting before offering you the bouquet of flowers he was holding. A gorgeous arrangement of pink of white stare prettily at you and a man even more gorgeous expects you to accept it.

“For me?” You ask.

“For you.”

“Thank you, they’re so beautiful,” you take his gift with gentle hands, holding it close to your chest. 

“I want to apologise,” he firmly states, getting straight to the point; very Alhaitham of him. “For treating you the way I have been recently.”

You beam at him, so bright and so gorgeous that it renders him speechless, a feat pretty difficult when it comes to someone like Alhaitham who has a whole dictionary of words, in multiple languages too. Somehow, they all flock out of his mind the second you smile at him.  

“I accept your apology, thank you for reaching out, must have been hard for someone like you, huh?” You tease, standing up from the bench.

“Well, I had do for someone as special as you.” The grey-haired’s voice is deceivingly confident and assured, but you know better, especially when he looks away to hide his expression with his neatly styled bangs. 

“No need for the flattery, you know, I’ve already forgiven you.” There’s a moment of silence that occupies the air, caused by Alhaitham’s hesitation as he fishes his brain for the courage to ask you out. You speak before he can get a word out, however. “I got asked out the other day.”

“By your groupmate?”

“He has a name, you know, but, yeah. I rejected him, though,” you laugh awkwardly, almost like you were trying to cope with it by playing it off. “Did you know that he would do that?” 

“Yes. I did.”

“Is that why you were so adamant on me not hanging out with him?”

“I guess you could say that. We can talk more about it another time,” he tells you, voice gentle and caring to mask the subtle hit of jealousy he feels in his chest, scolding himself for letting someone else confess to you before him. However, it’s a minute sensation in comparison to the triumph Alhaitham feels knowing that you rejected the other party. 

“We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”

“We do, but I want to ask you something first.” 

You nod, hugging the bouquet closer to your chest, anticipation heavy in the air as you spur him to continue. 

“If I asked you out, would you reject me too?”

A mere second passes by where you don’t respond, yet the second stretches out to what feels like eternity as Alhaitham’s stomach churns. Patience is something he doesn’t lack, but how can he be patient when his heart wants you so bad? 

Then, you take his hand, and the heavens sing at the feeling of your hand in his. “I wouldn’t, but are you asking me out?”

“Are you free right now?”

“I am. Why?”

“Let’s go out then. On a date.”

“I'd love to.” You rise up to place a lingering kiss on his cheek, one that has his heart racing with joy rather than frustration.

The smile you earn is gentle, shy, but says more than Alhaitham's words ever can.

© EARTHTOOZ 2023, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[nereidprinc3ss]

andromeda | (dybmn? bonus)

a bonus vignette from spencer's POV. we find out how he really feels about reader. takes place the day before the argument at the bar.

note: this is not part six! takes place between parts four and five.

series masterlist

18+ warnings/tags: fem!reader, semi-graphic descriptions of sexual fantasies, some angst, you're not actually present, mention of alcohol, very vague discussions of murdery stuff bc he's supposed to be working, sassy spencer makes an appearance a/n: for all my angels who said they wanted a snippet of spencer's POV! i'm sorry if i'm overdoing it with this story or clogging the spencer tags, i'm just having a lot of fun! i hope you enjoy or that this may be clears some things up for you, pls lmk your thoughts:) ily!!!

Spencer is incessantly drumming the particle board table underneath his fingers.

The polymer veneer is one of his least favorite textures—he hates the grain of it and if he were to accidentally scratch the table with his nails he knows it would make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

But of all the things he’s worried about, that ranks very low on the list. 

He’s got a lot of mental tabs open all the time—and the tabs, he can deal with. It’s when he starts trying to operate with multiple windows that he begins to struggle. His brain, while it is a very fine tuned sort of computer, only has one monitor. Unfortunately, no human (except for the ones who’ve had their brain hemispheres surgically split) is immune to the inevitable pitfalls of multitasking. By dividing his mental energy between you and his job, he’s really fucking up his job. But he also thinks he really fucked up with you on that phone call the other night and for being as logical as he is he can’t seem to make that feel unimportant—even though he’s disgusted with himself for it because there are literally people dying. 

Someone knocks on the open conference room door—he looks up, skimming his lips over his fist. 

“What’s up?” he says too quickly upon seeing Emily’s mildly concerned face peering in on him. 

Her mouth bridges into a sort of nonchalant frown and her brows kick up. 

“Just… checking in. Haven’t heard from you all morning.”

“Yeah, the, uh—the geo-profile. I’m still… I’m still working it out.”

It’s not like he’s ever been phenomenal with his syntax in a social sense, but Spencer is certainly aware he’s doing even worse than usual right now. 

“Okay. Uh… is there anything in particular stumping you, or…?”

“Nope. Just not enough information. But I’m—I’m going to keep trying.”

“Alright. Got your phone handy?”

It’s an odd question—of course he has his phone handy. He’s been doing this job longer than Emily has. How else would he communicate with the rest of the team? He bristles. 

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

Emily shakes her head. She’s always been particularly good at reading his moods.

“You’re not under attack, Reid. I was just asking.”

Just as he’s about to say, why would you assume I’m not prepared for my job, he manages to swerve away and stifle the words with his fist. Instead he looks back down at his copy of the map and nods. In reality, he truly isn’t prepared for his job today. The reason he has his phone so close, fully charged and at top volume is because he’s worried he’ll miss a call from you. 

Emily says something else, and he hums in response, and then she’s gone. 

He shouldn’t be reading into your reticence this much. It’s not like you just sit by the phone all day, eagerly awaiting a call or text from him (like he does you). You have a life. You’re busy. And even if you are intentionally dodging his texts, he can’t entirely fault you for it. Spencer knows he’s clingy. He knows he’s overbearing. It’s part of why he panicked the other night and told you the whole humiliating story about Elle. Because he can’t ever just be cool and he felt the need to explain himself. 

But the problem was, and is, that he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without saying those three words that fucked him over all those years ago.

So he’d danced around them. Applied them to someone else to try and avoid outright professing his all-consuming love for you over the phone. However you feel, Spencer has to assume he feels more. Spencer always has to assume he feels more because he usually does and it’s gotten him into trouble before. And now he’s pretty sure he was exactly right, as often is the case, because you didn’t tell him he was mistaken and you’d clammed up and you haven’t talked to him since and he’s not supposed to be reading into it this much. 

Three victims killed and dumped within a 6 mile radius of the first victim plus one victim killed and dumped 23.8 miles away. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Fuck this guy. 

Spencer decides the problem is that he needs more caffeine. 

Or possibly, if he were a different kind of man—copious amounts of alcohol. 

So he stows his phone in a pocket and asks the first person he sees where the coffee machine is. 

“Looks like you found it earlier,” the woman says, glancing pointedly down at his mostly empty mug. A playful smirk tugs at pinkish-brownish lips. She’s pretty, he realizes distantly. But he registers it the same way he’d take note of the model of a car, or the species of a bird, or the kind of shoes someone is wearing. It doesn’t actually interest him. It’s just part of processing his environment. “I can show you to it?”

He doesn’t have the heart or energy to explain that someone else brought him his cup earlier and he’s not flirting with her. 

“If you could just point me in the right direction…?”

She laughs, short and dry, before she’s pointing down a hall. 

“Kitchenette down there and to the left.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, already walking away without sparing her a second glance. 

She’s the kind of woman he would have paid a lot more attention to before you came along. Not that he’d ever sleep with someone on the job (not since he was 25, anyway), but if he’d met her under any other circumstances he probably would have cared more about the way her pupils dilated and her eyes had widened slightly and she’d adjusted her posture and all the other small things people do when they’re attracted to someone else. 30 year old Spencer might have slept with her. 27 year old Spencer definitely would have slept with her. Current Spencer obsessively pines for a woman who is already his girlfriend and whom he has yet to sleep with at all far too much to think about other women like that. 

But god, does he think about you like that. 

His feet carry him down the dim, carpeted hallway but really it took barely a nudge and he’s thinking about you like that. At work. As he’s pouring himself coffee. 

Spencer is confident in the fact that if anyone were to look at him right now, they’d never guess he’s running clips of you in his mind like a dirty supercut. Because he’s just pouring coffee. That’s one good thing about having all those tabs open all the time. He can toggle between them quickly. He has enough going on in the background that people look at him and all they can tell is that he’s thinking hard about lots of things. Some of them just happen to be the way you look when you’re naked on his bed, skin shining and glazed eyes sleepy, parted lips higher in color than usual and catching your breath. Some of them happen to be your hair brushing his stomach before he gathers it back for you. Some of them happen to be the way your thighs feel on either side of his face, or how you stretch around his fingers, or how you might feel when you stretch around his—

He hisses as hot coffee overflows from the mug and burns his hand. 

Maybe he’s not as calm and collected as he thought. 

But on top of all the other things he’s dealing with, having been so close to actually sleeping with you the other night is really fucking with his head. Even if he tells himself he wouldn't have done it, he knows himself better than that. He's too familiar with the effect you have on his judgement.

“Found it okay?” 

Spencer looks down, surprised to see the woman from earlier sitting at her desk and watching him as he quickly passes by on his way back to the conference room. Her legs are crossed. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and a flouncy sort of blouse which seems impractical for working in an FBI field office. Maybe she notices his eye catching on her figure and misguidedly swivels her chair to give him a better look. But all he’s noticing is that it doesn’t look like yours. Now he’s picturing the curve of your hip dripping in silk after that first night at Rossi’s. How your waist and your stomach feel when he slides his hands over you. This woman—she might as well not even be here for all he’s actually seeing her. 

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

Then he’s gone. Very briefly he acknowledges that he should feel sorry for so obviously brushing her off, but he doesn’t care even close to enough. He sets the coffee down on the table and rounds to the board where one of several maps is taped. On autopilot he draws lines between dump sites because one of the background tabs had deduced, while he was busy watching you like porn, that the distance between dump sites form the beginnings of the constellation Orion with some mathematical precision that’s too exacting to be coincidental. Orion’s Belt plus the most recent victim. Betelgeuse. 

There are ten formally named stars that make up Orion. He marks all of them, but circles the transposed coordinates of Bellatrix, Saiph, Rigel and Meissa as the next most likely dump sites. Most probably it will be Orion’s head. They’re all in wooded areas. He calls Garcia. Garcia will call Emily, wherever she is. If the unsub sticks to pattern, which they always do, they have until midnight. It’s trite, really. Predictable, like people always are. Far too quickly he drinks half the cup of scalding coffee and retraces his steps through the office to find the bathroom. 

It’s empty. The fluorescent lights hum. Spencer washes his hands with cold water and presses still wet fingers to his eyes. You’re waiting for him behind the black of his lids.

At first you would whine, and he would kiss you and you’d moan into his mouth and say his name when he opened you up as far as you would go. The air would be thick and warm with sex and vanilla perfume. Afterwards he’d take care of you and buy new sheets for his bed in your favorite color even if they didn’t match the walls and there would be nothing you’d want for that he couldn’t give to you ever again. 

But. 

That’s all contingent. 

No matter how often he fantasizes about it, no matter in how much detail, and regardless of how often those details change wildly, one thing always stays the same. 

The shape of your lips, swollen from kissing, bending around five or six vowels and only two consonants (it seems odd that there are only two consonants in I love you), sometimes before you start, sometimes in the middle or right at the peak—but always there, always moving in slow motion—and always silent.

In real life, they’d be aloud. It’s why his fantasies aren’t good enough. It’s why he can’t stop fantasizing about it. That’s the only part that really matters to him. The rest varies. 

Not because having sex with you doesn’t matter—it matters so much he almost shatters his molars whenever he starts picturing it around other people. But because Spencer can’t have sex with you until you love him. 

And he worries that you can’t love him until you have sex with him. 

The last time he thought that about a person, it didn’t turn out well.

Maybe there is some magic number. Some amount of times you need to have sex with someone before they’ll love you back. 

If there is, he knows for a fact it’s more than 32.

And he also knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he cannot have loveless sex with you thirty three times while he waits to find out. 

Not again. 

But he's going to hold out as long as he possibly can until you say it because he so badly wants you to love him back. He'll let the weight of every ignored text, every reminder that you don't feel that way about him, hang from his shoulders until he collapses. And then he'll probably try to get back up.

Recycled paper towels scratch against his skin. He dries his face and hands and throws them crumpled into the trash can. 

Outside the restroom, he pulls out his phone. For safety reasons and paranoia disguised as professionalism, you’re not his lock screen. It’s a photo of the Andromeda Galaxy. Whatever distance lies between you and Spencer, it could always be greater. No matter where you are in the world, you will always be the same 2.537 million light years away from Andromeda that he is. 

It makes Orion feel much closer. You, too. 

He sends you a text—the third message in a row. 

The distance between blue bubbles feels like light years. 

I’ll be home tomorrow. I miss you. 

[alnilaem]

a more fleshed-out version from the third prompt of this post of mine.

cw for emotional manipulation, breaking in, stalking, smut, babytrapping, and dubcon to be safe

simon riley/reader

-

Something is wrong. 

Your suitcase is halfway past the threshold of your front door, halfway past your new grave, when you notice the hum of salt and tobacco in the air. Discomfort licks your insides and binds to your skin so heavily that you begin to sweat. A tinny sound peals out as you rearrange your keys between your knuckles, clenching it, and step inside your flat. 

Your heels are at the foot of your shoe rack. Your coat isn’t where it’s supposed to be, crimped in a pool on the floor. Your framed photographs are all inched to the left—you know this because you committed their placement to your memory—because you feared this would happen.

Something is seriously, gravely wrong. 

You feel like you’re lost at sea. Dull-headed and impaired under the alluring melody of a blood-thirsty siren. Walking towards their call, your legs moving before your mind can, spit in the presentiment of fear the same way insects get caught in spiderwebs. Stuck, and about to be eaten.  

You trek further into your flat, following the telltale signs that someone has been here—is here. A general shift in air. The stench of stale herbs and metal. A trail of silt on your hardwood floors, that of which could only be caused by certain mud-clogged boots tracking into your flat.

Here, you pause. On the threshold of your kitchen. Your stomach turns inside out and if it weren’t for your ribs, your heart would have burst out of your chest. 

It’s like you’re walking on glass. Every thin sliver that pokes your skin, invading you, is a splinter of fear. And it also makes it so that you can’t walk away—you’re frozen in place, watching him above your stove, setting a kettle to boil. 

He hears your squeak. Simon turns around, cotton-plated in his civvies, and hums. 

“Welcome home, Love.” 

The moisture leaves your mouth and rushes to your eyes. A film of dew materialises on top of your waterline. It’s thick and pearlescent and clouds your vision, turns Simon into an incorporeal blob in your vision, turning him into a trick of your eyes that you hope will go away after you blink.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Simon rests himself against your kitchen counter. He crosses his tattooed arms over his chest, tilting his head, and bends his lips into an unseemly smile.

“How was your friend’s place?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Simon?” You try getting your anger across, but your voice betrays your emotions. It’s heavily distorted by fear, waning, so much so that it makes him blandly chuckle. Like he can smell the terror roiling off of you. Like he feeds from it.

“How did you get in?”

Simon shrugs. “I’ve got a copy of the key.” 

“I changed the damn locks.”

“I got new ones,” he says.

“We broke up.”

“You broke up with me,” Simon snarls. “When I was at my fuckin’ lowest. You broke up with me and I didn’t agree to tha’ shit.”

“Simon–” a gust of disbelief cuts your sentence short. You grip your hair at its roots, tugging it, twisting it, coiling your face in frustration. “Simon, you need to leave.”

“You’re talkin’ like that ‘cause you’re mad at me. Give it a few minutes, and you won’t be.”

“Are you fucking insane!?” You yell. You draw towards him and slam the kettle off the stove. “You broke into my flat!”

“I had a key,” Simon says. He steps towards you, bullying you backwards until the hind of your spine catches on the cold granite of your countertop. Until your back bends over it, Simon, looming over you. “I’ve always told you to use the deadbolt.”

You bite your lip. The blood sticking to the roof of your mouth isn’t as bitter as Simon’s eyes. His are cold, depthless. 

“Fuck off.”

Then, Simon flips. His expression shifts in a whirlwind of seconds. Now, his brunette eyebrows are pursed and his lips are pointed down. His head is ensconced on your neck, his shoulder suddenly laden with an invisible weight as he kittens into you.

“Just came ‘cause I wanted to talk…” he mumbles. “One a’ my men died on me yesterday. Got early R&R for it. Thought you’d be happy to see me...”

You’re motionless as Simon clemently begins kissing your neck. You split your hands on his chest and try shoving him away, but he doesn’t move. He’s as solid as rock. Pushing himself into you, grovelling into your sleek skin. 

A phantom chain is tightening around your throat. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what you can say. You feel that with any words that poise themselves on your tongue, Simon won’t take kindly to. 

“Simon… I’m sorry for you. I really am,” you slip out from under him and step back. “But this isn’t the way to go about it. We’re adults. And I’m asking you to leave.”

Simon raises his head, lukewarm. He stares at you through his half-lidded eyes, breathing heavily, clenching his fist around the lip of your countertop. Thickly, you swallow. You fidget with your cardigan and hope it will offset the discomfort hanging in the air. Simon takes a deep breath, sucking it all up—the discomfort, the presentiment—and you expect his huffing to precede an explosive reaction, but it doesn’t come. He just slips himself off the island and turns around, quiet when he speaks.

“Yeah,” he hums. “My old man didn’t want anythin’ to do with me, so why should you?” 

Your eyes widen. Though you’ve spent so much time trying to bury it, trying to familiarise yourself with Simon’s sick gambits, a pang of guilt hits you hard.

“Don’t say things like that,” you point an accusing finger to his chest, “it isn’t fair.” 

“No, no,” he grumbles. “Makes sense, does’n’it? My old man walked out on me, so I should handle you walking out on me, too.”

Simon shudders with a long breath. He slaps his face into his hands, and it’s at this point, does your knee-jerk impulse to comfort him take hold of you. The last of your even-tempered brain screams at you—he’s trying to ply you with a humanised side of him, but that side died a long time ago—but you press forward and awkwardly bring him into your arms, patting him on the back. 

“Simon, I’m… sorry, okay?” He buries his head in your neck, nips at your skin. “I’m sorry.”

“Can’t you jus’ yell at me tomorrow?” He asks. Simon slips his hands into the depression of your waist, pulling you against his chest. Against the ever-rising tent of his jeans. 

Your mind protests, but Simon keeps you close. He stinks of sweat, impairing you with it, spinning you around and pushing you against the counter. 

“Simon–”

“Shhh,” he hums, catching his fingers on the hem of your leggings. “Y’said we can talk later. ’m tired, Love. Just need you right now.” 

Any protests rot on your tongue because the wind is knocked out of you as you’re folded over the counter. Simon’s hands travel, gripping every part of you, rekindling old bruises left behind and making space for new ones. 

He ruts into you, cock fattening in his boxers and stressing against his jeans. He slides a hand over the divots of your spine and bends it around your neck, hoisting your head back, huffing into your ear. 

“You’ve no idea how much I missed y’Love,” Simon’s humping you now. Rutting himself against your ass with unrestrained vigour. He bites the husk of your ear, flattens you against the counter, and sinks a hand below your waistband. He spreads your pussy open like the shell of a fruit, pushing his thick fingers into its flesh, knuckle-deep and kneading you. 

“How’s here?” He grumbles. You whine, and he twists himself deeper. “What about there?” 

Your mind and body wrestle between pushing him away and yielding under his touch. Simon fucks his fingers a little deeper, a little meaner, into you, and chuckles when you squeal. 

He rests his chin on your shoulder, and you see a sliver of bared teeth as his lips hitch up into a gnarled smile. “Ah, so that’s the spot, innit?”

You’re dew-skinned and fuzzy when Simon throws you over his shoulder, carrying you to your bedroom. Your tongue is heavy and numb and bootless against any objections as he throws you on the mattress, standing balefully at the foot of the bed. 

If you were a child, you’d hide under your sheets until he disappeared. But you’re not a child, and Simon doesn’t disappear. He sinks his knees into your bed and swipes his shirt off over his head, unbuckling his belt in one slick motion. 

He unzips his jeans and doesn’t even pull his balls out, just cups the gauze of his boxers beneath it and leans onto his hands.

A pearlescent bead of precum slips down the slit of Simon’s dick and drools onto your comforter. He wraps his hand around it, slips his palm up and down, tugging down your pants.

Your legs kick into a paltry complaint, but Simon pins your legs down. 

“No reason in fighting,” he says, rubbing his cockhead against your clit, “You’re so wet, Love.”

Simon nudges your panties to the side and thumbs your clit. Leans in for a biting kiss and swallows your moans, slapping his fat cock against your puffy, wet cunt. 

“Missed me just as bad, eh?” He huffs, setting his dick against your winking hole, pushing past your first ring of muscle and rolling at the sticky sound of your cunt spreading open.

“Simon–” you hic, latching onto his forearms. Trying to offset his bruising grip on your hips as he falls into a steady, deep rhythm. “At least wear a condom.”

He’s so thick, so heavy between your legs. Hoisting you onto his thighs and leaning over you, snapping his cock into you. He screws his face tight, pellets of sweat running down his marred collarbone. Congealing into the spindly, blonde threads of hair on his chest. Down to the wire of steel wool that thickens on his pelvis, pinching your clit each time he slams into you.

“You’re stayin’ with me, Pup,” he pants, kissing a stripe up your neck, suckling on your pebbled nipple. “Gonna gimme a litter, ain’t you? Just like we talked about?”

A little, lone tear slips down your hot cheek. Simon leans in and licks it off. He stuffs himself to the hilt, shuddering with abrupt pleasure as he skips to his feet and folds you in half, pounding into you, biting down on your shoulder.

It hits you like whiplash when Simon pushes himself so deep that you feel him swelling under your skin. He gives you no warning before emptying his balls inside you, flooding you with a white-hot come, clutching your jaw into a wet, messy kiss.

You’re blinded and eclipsed by pain as your orgasm shoots through you. The pleasure is numbing and makes you quiver, tremble, until you’re gushing around Simon’s cock and swivelling your hips to get away.

You’re shaking when he pulls back, giving your pussy no time to soften. Simon gives it a swat and flays himself off of you, heading to the bathroom. You hear the cellophane of your birth control peeling open, and the successive thunk as Simon tosses it into the bin. 

You try getting up but Simon flattens you back as he crawls in bed next to you. There’s a hand of his on your waist, seemingly benign, but tightens itself each time you try slipping away. Your sniffles are piercing and Simon pulls you close. Brushes your tears away, kisses your eyelids. 

“You’re not gonna leave me now, eh? You can’t,” he whispers, “you’re all I’ve got. You and our baby. You can’t leave me now.”

A pitiful cry escapes you. Simon takes that as agreement.

[fae-of-fiction]

✧ — cutie pie ᡣ𐭩₊˚.⋆⁺₊

✧ — there’s just some things that you do that are too irresistibly cute; oliver aiku, isagi yoichi, karasu tabito, shidou ryusei, kunigami rensuke, bachira meguru ᡣ𐭩₊˚.⋆⁺₊

✧ — 1k words (some parts are longer than others, oops)

✧ — fem!reader, established relationships, cuteness aggression, language (i have a potty mouth), reader is shorter than the boys but otherwise kept nondescript, fluff, soft!boys, whipped!boys, prolly some ooc (pls let me be delulu), domesticity, some subtle suggestiveness, not proofread (we die like men) (i’ll prolly go back and fix it up later but it’s 2am and my ass needs sleep), my writing :,)

✧ — it’s only my second post and i’m already switching my format slightly? yes. yes i am. i swear this is the only time i will change it up i hope. enough of my blabbing, here’s the things they find cute! <3 (tbh i feel like all of these could apply to all of them but for the sake of convenience i’m doing it this way)

aiku considers himself a tough man. he doesn’t coo at fluffy kittens or cute babies, and he sure as hell doesn’t do that weird baby voice thing when talking to them.

but you — oh, you’re something entirely different.

especially when you’re struggling to reach something on a high shelf.

maybe it makes him cruel, but when aiku notices you in this particular predicament, his first instinct isn’t to reach above you and grab the object you’re seeking for you — instead it’s to watch.

he watches as your shirt slips up your back, teasing him with that tiniest sliver of skin. watches as your dainty fingers try desperately to grasp the object that’s just out of your reach. revels in the little bounces you pull off as you try to gain some leverage through a small jump. melts on the inside when you finally give up and turn back to him with innocent sort of helplessness on your face and ask him for help.

only then does aiku feel that mistimed instinct to come to your rescue, and no, he absolutely does not flush or feel giddy when you beam at him and thank him with those adoring eyes.

when isagi had been asked what his “type” was, he genuinely didn’t have an answer. he always figured he’d just be attracted to whatever he was attracted to — and there was no need to put a name to it.

that was, until he met you — and then it became all too clear that isagi did have a type; the mother hen.

others may find it slightly overbearing to be bombarded by such intrusive mother-henning, but isagi finds it absolutely adorable. you’re always checking in on him, ensuring that he gets the proper amount to eat and drink, that he’s maintaining a healthy sleeping schedule; hell, sometimes you even chastise him when you feel he’s practicing too much — and even that is cute, because you get all pouty when you do so, your cheeks slightly flushed and eyes clouded with genuine worry.

it makes isagi feel seen and loved, cared for in a way that he’s never experienced before. in a way that he wants to bask in forever.

karasu absolutely adores your clinginess.

he’s heard many other guys sigh and groan about how smothered they feel when their girl is clingy, and truthfully, karasu simply can’t relate.

nothing makes him feel bigger than when you want to be near him. you wrap your arms around him and cling to him like a second skin, no matter what it is he’s doing. your love language is clearly physical touch, and you speak it so fluently — a hand in his, side to side, shoulder rubbing shoulder, arms wrapped around his middle, lips fastened to his neck or mouth.

when karasu is allowed to have his phone, he’s greeted with multiple messages, pictures and videos all from you, clogging up his feed — some may find that a little too needy, but karasu revels in it and saves every picture you send. he loves knowing you miss him and that he’s in your head more often than not.

you’re all over him, in person and in distance, and karasu loves it. finds it cuter than a fluffy kitten wearing a ribbon. maybe he squeezes you a little too hard when you throw yourself at him, but when you’re that damn cute and attached to him, how can he resist?

shidou never really thought about the allure of having a quote on quote “mini-me.”

at least, not until you started replicating everything he did. it started out small, with you merely adapting some of his words and phrases into your dialect.

but it didn’t take long for your attitude to start to morph into something similar to his; quick to temper, cocky, and shamelessly vulgar, shidou couldn’t help but see himself in you. gone was the woman he originally fell for. she had been replaced by someone molded from him, from his influence and love, and rather than irk him or put him off, it only drove him to love you even more.

you were so cute when you copied him. when you used all the insults to slice into someone that he would have used, when you developed his same “i don’t give a fuck” attitude, when you stopped letting other people walk all over you.

you’d effectively been shaped into a piece of him, and shidou would never grow tired of seeing the evidence of it.

kunigami will never tire of hearing your laugh.

no, not those cute little giggles you used to use around him — your real laugh, the one you only allow to slip out when you’ve become comfortable enough to do so.

you say you hate it, but kunigami swears he’s never heard anything more beautiful in his life — it’s purely angelic, and far too cute for him to handle.

there’s something about it that blazes up his chest and makes him feel lighter than a feather, especially when he’s the one that evokes it. it wraps around him like the warmest, comfiest blanket and makes him feel as if he’s on top of the world. it never fails to make him smile, even if he’s in the worst mood of the century.

bachira absolutely melts when you become defensive of him.

it’s a fairly common occurrence — you tend to take things said to or about him much harder than he himself does, and you’ll defend his honor until you’re blue in the face. it can be quite an entertaining sight when you catch wind of something a rival team member said; because you have zero hesitance to stomp right up to them and confront them.

bachira doesn’t mean to find it so cute — given how absolutely torn up you seem about it when it happens, bachira feels he shouldn’t view it the way he does; but he genuinely can’t help it.

seeing you become so worked up, with your full lips all pouty and your eyebrows drawn together, just warms him from the inside out. maybe it’s because he’s never had anyone become so emotional over a slight to his person, never had anyone so ready to swing just to “beat some manners” into someone because they were rude to him.

or maybe it’s because you’ve always just been cute, and you look even cuter when you get all worked up over him. whatever the reason is, bachira selfishly hopes you never stop — because he’s never felt more loved and cared for than when you do it.

as always, comments/likes/reblogs are not required, but are always appreciated! thank you so much for reading, lovelies!

[sun-kissy]

still here | r.l.

summary: it's your birthday :(

a/n: this is the first time i’ve ever really cried when writing something, it’s got a home in my heart now and i hope you like it!! 🫶 (also listen to our lovely girl billie while reading for added heartbreak)

tw: past suicide attempt

You lean back on the couch from where you’re bending over the table. Remus wastes no time in wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you into his side. He gently presses his lips to your forehead. “Happy birthday, lovely girl.”

“Thank you,” you mumble half-heartedly, grateful but too overwhelmed to show it. 

There’s a cut-up chocolate cake in front of you, which Remus had insisted upon baking. He’d honoured your wishes not to throw a big bash, and of not wanting an actual present. He didn’t exactly understand why — but he loved you too much to not do what you wanted him to; birthday or not.

Guilt weighs heavily on your heart; Remus has been kinder than you deserve. You decide to help him understand.

“You know,” you start softly, tilting your head to lay it on his shoulder. He hums in acknowledgement, fingertips grazing your sleeve as he starts to rub your arm. “I didn’t think I would last this long.”

The shakiness in your voice surprises even you. You feel Remus’ hand still on your arm. 

“What?” he murmurs. You can’t decipher if the slight lilt to his voice is because of sadness or confusion.

“I didn’t think I would last this long,” you repeat quietly, just to be safe, and you feel his hand coasting across your back as he gently grabs your shoulders. He turns you towards him, and you don’t wait for him to ask before you start to explain. “When I was 13, I couldn’t imagine ever making it this far. I tried to kill myself.”

Remus’ eyes widen the slightest bit as he takes in your sudden admission. His grip on your shoulders doesn’t falter; and it’s like you both know he’s the only thing holding you upright. 

When he doesn’t respond, your gaze immediately drops to the couch, shame clouding your eyes.

“I… I didn’t know that.”

The crack in his voice makes you look back up, meeting his gaze. His features are softer, sadder; somehow. There’s the slightest bit of grief in the way he’s regarding you. “Are you glad you made it this far?”

You rub your lips together, taking a shaky breath to make sure your voice comes out evenly. “Yeah,” you exhale softly. “Yeah, I am. I got to meet you.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“No,” you reply honestly. “I love my work. My friends, I really like hanging out with them. And I’d say our apartment is pretty sweet.”

The concern in Remus’ expression is still evident, his brows pinched together almost painfully. His hands bunch up the fabric on your shoulders, tugging you towards him. You’re certain the action is subconscious – he looks lost in thought, like he’s deliberating wrapping you up in his arms and never letting you go.

“Would you like more reasons?” you ask quietly, feeling your vision start to blur. You shouldn’t be surprised that he cares this much, but you are.

When he nods, your heart melts – the magma seems to be pooling in your stomach, and you feel the kind of warmth you’ve only ever been able to feel since you met him.

“Okay,” you decide to indulge him. “I like coffee when I wake up, especially when you make it. Feeding the stray dogs on the side of the road every morning. And my guitar, I like to make music on it. I think music is nice.”

You feel your throat start to clog up, the image of Remus distorting into a blurry swirl in your eyes. “It’s lovely when it rains, especially when we’re both at home, cuddling. And –”

Your voice comes out wobbly, the tears coming hard and fast now. You want to stop, but push on for his sake.

“And I really like our apartment. Did I mention that? Also, your hugs – I love the way you hug. It’s like you really love me, and —”

“I do love you,” Remus interrupts in a shaky exhale, words barely audible from the way his voice is trembling. “I love you, okay? I love you a whole lot. And I’m so glad you’re still with me.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, gently pulling you even closer towards him. You meet him in the middle, arms instinctively wrapping around his waist as he brings his hands up to encircle your shoulders.

Remus squeezes you like it’s his job to hold you together, and you hear a soft sniffle as he buries his face in your hair. 

“I’m so glad you’re still here,” he says again. Your heart clenches in your chest, in all the best ways.

“I love you,” you respond, because you both know it’s synonymous with Thank you for giving me a reason to be here.

[domjaehyun]

the boy is mine (l.dh) — part six

PAIRING. haechan x fem!reader GENRES. smut, angst WORD COUNT. 8.6k CONTENTS. infidelity, alcohol & weed consumption (MC is a non-smoker if that matters to you), explicit smut (dirty talk, fingering, finger sucking, oral (receiving), rimming (receiving), groping/frottage, marking, spit play, (brief) ear play, breast play, creampies/unprotected sex (if you explicitly need me, a stranger on the internet, to tell you not to fuck raw, you are not responsible enough to be reading this. move along now), snowballing, public sex, car sex, riding, bratty dom-leaning switch!haechan, bratty sub-leaning switch!reader, sweet dom!jeno, face riding, handjob, overstimulation (receiving), praise kink (receiving), light degradation kink (giving), mating press, morning sex) NOTES. here’s part six! thank you so much for reading this far!!! i hope you enjoy it!! please leave feedback if you liked it :) i would also greatly appreciate tips if you really liked it :3 THANK YOU LIKE THE HUUUUUGEST THANK YOU TO BRI (@jalitepng) FOR BETA READING THIS BIG OL FIC :D  PLAYLIST. the boy is mine - ariana grande // fantasize - ariana grande (unreleased) // lowkey (feat. erykah badu) - teyana taylor // agora hills - doja cat // pussy is mine - miguel // softest touch - khalid // cut - tori kelly // seatbelt - josh levi // often - doja cat // surrender - nbdy

You wake up abruptly to the sound of your phone ringing, and you reach over to answer the call, bringing the device to your ear. “Hello?” you rasp out, groggy as can be.

“Thank God you finally woke up! Listen, Winter’s on her way to your house.” Chaewon says in a panic, and you yawn, shrugging.

“Okay?”

“She’s on her way over there because Haechan broke up with her.” Chaewon says slowly enough for it to process in your freshly roused mind, and you sit up straight in your bed, now fully awake and alarmed.

“Oh, shit. Did he—”

“He told her about you two.” she confirms, and you curse under your breath, messing with your hair anxiously.

“What exactly did he tell her?” you say slowly, and from the hesitation on the other end, you know it’s not good. “Chae, tell me.”

“He told her you two have been fooling around for a while and that he can’t hold back anymore and keep pretending and he said he doesn’t want to be with her anymore.” she blurts out, and you gasp.

“When was this? What the fuck? Why wouldn’t he run it by me first—” you mutter, worriedly stumbling out of bed and starting to fix your appearance in the mirror of your vanity.

“It seemed like it was eating away at him, honestly.” Seulgi pipes up from the background, and you sigh in defeat. “He must really like you.”

“Yeah, or really not like her.” you mumble bitterly, flinching harshly at the sound of a fist pounding on your front door. “I gotta go—she’s here—”

“I know you’re in there!” Winter shrieks through the door, and you freeze mid-stride, not sure what the best course of action might be. “Why would you do this to me?” she cries, and your heart twists painfully as regret swims through you.

You silently pad to the door, placing your hand on the doorknob before retracting it and shaking your head to yourself. You already know what Winter looks like when she cries; an adorable kicked puppy, and you have no desire to see that face when you’re the one who caused it.

“I should have known by the way he looks at you.” she sniffles, and you swallow a thick lump in your very dry throat. “He never looked at me like that.”

You try to speak, but your voice is so hoarse from just waking up and the remorse practically clogging your throat that the sounds barely register as a faint squeak. Thankfully for you, Winter doesn’t seem to hear your attempt at a remark, the heartbroken girl crying softly on the other end.

“Now you won’t even answer me? That’s just great.” she remarks bitterly, and you look at the doorknob as if you’re expecting it to unlock itself magically and let Winter in to unleash a can of whoop-ass on you.

“Y’know, I really thought you were my friend.” she says softly, her voice cracking on the last word. “If it wasn’t obvious, I don’t ever want to hear from you again.”

You quietly rest your forehead on the door, eyes sliding shut as a hot, guilty tear threatens to slip past your closed lids.

“I hope you two are happy together.” Winter scoffs, a thud from the other end telling you she’s kicked your door in frustration. After what feels like ages of silence, you peek through the peephole to see her entering the elevator at the end of your hall and let out a tortured sigh of defeat.

You slowly start to drag yourself throughout your apartment, the guilt weighing you down like shackles as you get ready for work, only to be interrupted by a hesitant knock on your door.

When you look through the peephole, your heart speeds up in panic as you see a dejected-looking Jeno standing on the other side of your door. 

You take a deep breath and pull your door open, offering a feeble smile that, you notice with a pang, he struggles to return.

“Hi,” Jeno greets, despondent as he shifts to lean against your doorway.

“Hey,” you say slowly. 

“I heard.” he explains, and you nod, swallowing thickly. “I noticed Winter left the group chat, then when I asked her why, she told me I should ask you.”

You wince in anticipation of his next words. “So you came to ask me what happened?”

“No, she told me what happened.” Jeno clarifies. “I came because I have a different question.”

“Oh,” you mumble, moving back to let him into your apartment. “Well, do you want to come in to ask?”

He seems to think about it for a moment before shaking his head with a sad smile. “I’d rather not.”

Ouch. You try to hide your saddened expression by scratching at the side of your nose, but you’re not sure you were successful because Jeno’s expression shifts to guilt for a moment and you hate it. You hate that even when he’s coming to you from a place of hurt, he’s found it in himself to be selfless and care about you. 

“That’s fair,” you say too quickly after an awkward pause. “I respect it. What was your question?”

He looks uncomfortable now, shifting his weight from foot to foot before finally asking, “I was just wondering if, um… if you entertained me, I guess, as a distraction from him?”

Your eyes widen. “Jeno, no.”

“Was it to get back at him?” he asks hoarsely, and you shake your head vehemently.

“Not at all.”

“Did it mean… anything to you?” His voice cracks on the last word, and he averts his gaze, thumbing at his nose.

“Jeno, I always had a little thing for you, even before I met Haechan. I did—do like you, I really do! I just—” you rush to explain, but Jeno cuts you off with a hand raised in a silent request for you to stop talking.

“You just… like Haechan more.” he says with a sad sort of acceptance and understanding that breaks your heart.

“Jeno, I am so sorry.” you whisper. “I don’t expect you to forgive me—”

“But I want to.”

“But you don’t have to.” you assure him. “It was never my intent to make you feel used, so I am so sorry I did.”

“It’s o–” he starts, but you shush him.

“Don’t say it’s okay until you’ve had time to think about it.” you insist.

“Yeah… yeah, I think I do need time,” he slowly agrees. “I just need to, like, get over this because,” he lets out a humorless laugh, “I really liked you.”

You’re not gonna lie; the past tense hurts you to hear. You do your best to take it on the chin with a small nod and apologetic smile, but look away to prevent Jeno from noticing the glassy shine of your eyes.

“I’m sorry, again, and I’m even more sorry for this, but I kind of have to finish getting ready for work.” you say carefully, and Jeno’s eyes flash with realization before he’s nodding and backing away from your door. 

“No problem, I’ll, uh… see you around, I guess.” he says with an awkward wave before turning and heading to your elevator and pressing the button. 

Shutting the door, you take a deep, shaky breath before wiping the single tear that you failed to hold back and continuing to get ready.

Apparently, there really isn’t any rest for the wicked, because as you’re now rushing to get ready for work after your horrible start to your morning, your doorbell rings.

“With my luck, it’s gonna be some goons Winter sent to beat me up,” you lament sadly as you walk to your door and peek through the peephole.

To your surprise and sudden onset irritation, Haechan is standing at your door, hands clasped behind his back and teeth nibbling his bottom lip nervously.

You fling open your door and stare at him, incredulous and outraged with your hand on your hip, and he winces.

“I’m guessing you heard the news,” he says sheepishly, and you just stare at him, slowly simmering in your fury.

“You… ruined… everything.” you say slowly, and he frowns. “You—I—first of all, Winter and Jeno have already stopped by here to give me a piece of their mind, so I really feel like the Worst Person in the World right now.”

His eyes widen. “You talked to Winter?”

“She talked at me through my front door because I was too much of a coward to open it,” you mutter bitterly, and he frowns deeply. “She hates me now, as you might imagine.”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he says quietly, and you scoff.

“Doesn’t really matter now, does it?” you huff. “You weren’t supposed to tell her you were dumping her for me! You were just supposed to break up with her without bringing me into it! Why wouldn’t you run this by me first?”

“Well—I didn’t think about that,” he stammers.

You scowl. “And this is why you should have brought it up to me first. So I wouldn’t have woken up to being blindsided by being blocked and verbally dragged through the mud by your rightfully scorned ex-girlfriend and my ex-friend—and then being guilt-tripped to the maximum as I apologize profusely to the absolutely wounded sweetheart that was Jeno Lee in my apartment earlier for, essentially, leading him on and breaking his little puppy heart.”

Haechan looks pained. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Really, honestly.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose and breathe in and out deeply. “What possessed you to do that?”

“It just kinda… blurted out. I felt like I couldn’t stop, and once I’d started talking, it was too late to take any of it back.” he says hesitantly.

“I should have known this would end badly,” you moan in anguish, and you miss the look of hurt Haechan shoots you.

“End?” he asks, but you’ve already moved on to your next topic.

“I should have known when you met me and your first instinct was to lie to me—”

“I explained myself back then!”

“—and pretend you didn’t have a girlfriend. You didn’t seem to have a hard time withholding that information, did you?”

“That’s not fair,” he replies hoarsely, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him.

“She told me she hates me, I’m a terrible friend, and she never wants to see me again.” you whisper sadly. “And she’s right! I am a terrible friend, and she should hate me and never want to see me again.”

“In your defense, you were only a bad friend to her; you’re not a bad friend overall.” Haechan adds in an attempt to be helpful, but he balks when you glower at him.

“‘Bad friend’ might be subjective, but you know what’s not? ‘Homewrecker.’” you counter. “I might as well have the words ‘dirty man stealer’ written on my forehead because by the time word gets around, that’s all everyone’s gonna know me as.”

“Please stop catastrophizing,” Haechan tries to comfort you, reaching forward to take your hand, but you pull back slightly, folding your arms over your chest and looking down at your feet to avoid the wounded look you know Haechan’s sporting right now. “Listen,” he says firmly, and you huff. “I didn’t do all this—didn’t come this far just to lose you. I broke up with her for you. I broke up with her to be with you. You think, after getting to know me, that I’m just gonna stop trying to get you to let me in?”

“This is just—Haechan, it’s too risky—I’m so scared—” you whimper, and he places his hands on your shoulders, drawing your attention to his concerned expression.

“This is the type of risk you should be taking!” Haechan insists. “Give me time to gain your trust.”

“Haechan, you’re the most risky part about all of this! You cheated on your last girlfriend!”

Hurt flashes across his face for a moment, but he doesn’t release you. “So are you saying ‘once a cheater, always a cheater?’ Are you saying that I sealed my fate as a cheater and don’t deserve a chance at love and happiness?”

“Well, no, I’m saying this is all just… a very high-risk situation… that I’m not sure I can handle.” you say carefully, but apparently, you weren’t careful enough, because he steps back in surprise, recoiling almost as if you’d slapped him.

“I’m too risky.” he says slowly, realization and hurt creeping into his expression.

You hate to see him like this, but you can’t take back anything you’ve said, and, unfortunately, you are very much in a time crunch, as an alarm on your phone reminds you, ringing loudly to give you your warning to head out.

“Haechan, I— I have work in like an hour, I have to go—” you plead, pushing between his shoulder blades to usher him out of your apartment. When you’re both standing outside, Haechan turns to look at you with an expression not unlike that of a kicked puppy, and you’re starting to get a little fed up with everyone having that expression when it comes to you..

“So we’re not gonna finish talking about this?” he pleads, and you shake your head vehemently, inching closer and closer to the elevator door.

“We’re gonna talk about this,” you promise him, finally pressing the elevator button once you’re in reach of it, and he frowns deeply. “Just not right now.” 

The door opens a moment after, to your relief, but Haechan just remains rooted in place, you would guess due to being frozen with shock.

“Are you not coming?” you ask slightly impatiently, pulling up train times on your phone and sucking your teeth before opening the Uber app.

“I’m trying to figure out whatever this was that just happened.” Haechan responds loudly enough that you can hear him, but not so loud that he’s blasting your conversation to the ears of all your neighbors.

“Is that a no?” you stress, trying your best to emphasize the fact that you’re holding the elevator door open for him.

“It’s a no,” he confirms, a hint of sadness and defeat in his voice, and your heart pangs as you release the “Door Open” button on the elevator and the doors slide shut.

As the elevator descends to the ground floor, your heart makes a similar journey, sinking to what feels like the pit of your stomach and leaving you feeling desolate and almost hopeless as you fidget impatiently waiting for your Uber.

Even as your Uber driver pulls up in a sleek white Venza and you climb in and exchange pleasantries, you keep thinking about the look on Haechan’s face when you told him you were leaving. 

You will talk it out with him—you’ll make sure of that. But first, you need to clear your mind and organize your thoughts, and that can’t happen with him standing right in front of you.

“I just want to know what exactly you were thinking,” Seulgi sighs disappointedly. “Like, the whole time—did you just think you could keep seeing him behind her back forever?” she asks, and you wince.

“I wasn’t thinking about her.” you admit quietly, and Seulgi scoffs.

“Clearly! What you did was selfish—reckless—irresponsible, stupidly inconsiderate—”

“I get it.” you cut in gruffly.

“I don’t!” Seulgi exclaims, throwing her hands up in frustration. Yunjin catches your eye from her arm chair and something about the sympathetic gaze in her eyes brings you closer and closer to breaking down. “You weren’t thinking about her, obviously, so what were you thinking about?”

“I don’t know—”

“Yes, you do.” Seulgi says sternly.

“I don’t—”

“You do!”

“I was thinking about him, okay?” you snap, and she pauses, stunned. “I can’t explain myself, but the whole time, all I thought about was him, and how much I—” your voice catches in your throat and you stop talking to collect yourself.

“How much you… ?” Chaewon asks, and it’s the first time she’s spoken, a cursory glance in her direction revealing that she’s looking at you just as gently as Yunjin is, making the backs of your eyes hotter than before.

“How much I like him,” you confess in a wail, and Yunjin moves from her seat to sit beside you, pulling you into her embrace as you sniffle. “I like him so much, guys. He walks into a room and I, like, can’t look away. It’s like he’s magnetic or something, or like—like—” you stammer and Yunjin places her hand on yours gently.

“Like you might be falling in love with him?” she asks softly, and you freeze before fresh tears well up in your eyes and threaten to spill over.

“Like that,” you agree pathetically, tucking your head into her neck sadly, and she tuts sympathetically, resting her cheek on the top of your head as she continues to hug you. 

“I just—” Seulgi starts before taking a deep breath and restarting with a significantly gentler tone, “I don’t understand when this started exactly.”

You take a deep breath and look at Yunjin, the two of you exchanging meaningful glances.

“You know the welcome home party we had when I came back from Oxford?” you attempt to jog her memory, and she looks thoughtful before nodding. “Remember my party crush that disappeared?” you continue, and she nods again, her eyes widening at your expectant expression as you wait for her to put two and two together. 

“It was him?” she asks in a whisper, and you nod.

“I didn’t know at first—”

“I had to tell her,” Yunjin butts in, coming to your defense, and your heart warms with gratitude for your friend. “She didn’t want anything to do with him, but I guess he wasn’t done with her.”

“Well, don’t paint him as this cunning, evil mastermind,” you say carefully, frowning. “We connected. He couldn’t shake the connection. I should have pushed him away more.”

“But you liked him from the start,” Yunjin points out, still defending you even from yourself. “And he knew. You two didn’t really stand a chance of this ending well.”

Seulgi looks between you and Yunjin with a heavy sigh before turning to Chaewon. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Chaewon says slowly, “in spite of my sapphic lifestyle and ways, I can tell why you like him. And I can see why he likes you. You two are cute together—Seulgi, don’t make that face, because you know it’s true. It’s sad it happened like this, but I think everything happens for a reason.” 

“So you think I should be with him or something?” you ask, surprised and confused and just a bit hopeful.

“I think this shouldn’t be the way to end it, if you do choose to end it. I think you should talk to him again.” she says wisely, and you nod thoughtfully.

“I guess I understand.” Seulgi finally chimes in, and you could practically faint with relief. “You’re basically, like, in love with him. And based on his behavior the other day—y’know, breaking up with Winter—he must love you, too.”

“Well, let’s not jump the gun.” you chuckle hollowly. “I already told him we couldn’t talk about it when he showed up at my place, and I think he thinks I was ending things.”

“Well, were you?” Chaewon asks, and you pause to think before shaking your head slowly.

“I don’t think I was.” you realize in surprise, and Yunjin lets out a low whistle.

“So, how are we going to get your little lover boy back?” she asks, and you shrug hopelessly.

“He probably doesn’t even want to see me,” you sigh.

“We’ll figure that out later,” Seulgi says comfortingly, sitting down on the carpet in front of your knees. “I’m sorry for coming at your throat like that earlier,” she says with a sad smile. “I thought I had an idea of what was going on, but I was wrong.”

“It’s okay,” you reply with a small smile. “You were just making sure I wasn’t, like, a terrible person and a homewrecker.”

“You know what I wonder?” Chaewon says out of the blue. “If the guys are comforting Haechan.”

“I hope they are,” you reply immediately. “I hope he’s not alone in this.”

“Well, why don’t you ask them?” she supplies helpfully, and you think about it before nodding in agreement.

“I can do that,” you say resolutely, and she squeezes your hand with an encouraging smile. 

“Good,” she hums, “now can we talk about something less dreadful? Like girls, perhaps?”

“I agree on the topic change,” Seulgi adds immediately, and you snort. 

“We could watch a movie?” Yunjin suggests, and you sit up slightly in your spot.

“We could watch a classic movie about girls,” you add on, and it’s almost like everyone’s mind syncs up at once. “Like—”

“But I’m A Cheerleader?” Seulgi finishes hopefully, and you laugh before nodding. “I’m in!”

As Yunjin and Seulgi start to bustle around the kitchen and living room to prepare for your movie viewing, Chaewon scoots closer to you and rests her head on your shoulder.

“We’ll make it through this, you know,” she comforts you gently. “This feeling definitely isn’t permanent.”

Her words linger in your mind the whole night as you hope and pray she’s right.

“So,” Chenle remarks loudly, folding his hands over his omelet and regarding you carefully. “Let’s recap, shall we?”

“Oh, God,” you groan, putting your face in your hands.

“You knew it was coming,” Mark says with a sympathetic smile.

“In the past week,” Chenle recounts to your table, “Winter has gone completely AWOL, Jeno’s sulking, and Haechan is in the middle of a depressive episode.” He sits forward and eyes you intently. “How do you feel about all of this? What are you gonna do about it all?”

“I already talked to Jeno,” you point out.

“Yes, and may have worsened his sulking.” Chenle counters, and you scowl.

“Who invited this guy?”

“I think what he’s trying to say is that, except Jeno, the ball’s kind of in your court in both situations.”

“I think Winter’s final message was perfectly clear and, frankly, she deserves to have the last word.” you raise your hands in surrender, and Chenle rolls his eyes.

“Don’t you think she deserves an apology?” he butts in, and you frown.

“Of course she does,” you say, “but I didn’t think she wanted to hear from me again, so I’m probably never going to speak to her again if I can help it.” Chenle shoots you a disapproving look, and you continue with, “I’m not going to ask her to unblock me because I deserve it. I did a bad thing to her! I betrayed her!”

“Okay,” Mark relents on that front, choosing a new angle. “How about Haechan?”

You pause, considering your words carefully. “I… I really like Haechan. Like, I really like him, but I’m scared, because I feel like if he cheated on Winter with me, who’s to say he won’t find another me in someone else later down the line? It’s just a very… high-risk situation.” you sigh, not yet noticing the look your friends share before sitting forward.

“Did you happen to say that during your talk with Haechan?” Mark asks, and you cock your head to the side in confusion.

“Say what?”

“High-risk,” Chenle presses, and you think back before nodding. “That explains that, then.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask, confused.

“He, um. He keeps saying that. That he’s too high-risk to be with and what’s the point of it all anyway, and—” Mark says, but you hold your hand up to silence him. 

“I’ll talk to him,” you promise quietly, trying to hide the way your heart is breaking. “I never meant to hurt him. I’ll talk to him soon.”

“And Winter? You never meant to hurt her either, I’m guessing.” Chenle asks.

“I’ll talk to Winter if she can manage to look at me without attacking me.” you sigh. “But we don’t live near each other, don’t work together, and it’s not like we’re gonna run into each other in the middle of the street or anything.”

“That’s fair,” Chenle shrugs. “But you might. It’s not exactly a small city, but it’s likely.”

“Pfft, okay.” you scoff. “Can I finish my waffles now?”

Chenle gestures at your plate with his fork invitingly. “Dig in.”

The universe has a funny way of making you eat your words sometimes.

You’re walking around at the farmer’s market in search of fresh produce for you and Yunjin, when a familiar head of strawberry blonde hair catches your eye and makes you freeze.

“Oh, no,” you whisper to yourself, ducking behind a cart of mangoes. The man running the cart peers down at you curiously but, at the sight of your pleading expression, doesn’t protest. “Please keep walking,” you say hopefully, peering over the counter of the cart.

To your complete and utter dismay, not only is Winter in perfect eyesight of you still, but now you’re in perfect eyesight of her.

You two lock eyes and, frankly, you don’t know what to do. Recognition, then pain, then a flash of anger passes over Winter’s face before she settles on indifference and turns, walking away.

You stand up slowly, embarrassed, and smooth out the invisible wrinkles on your sundress, nodding gratefully at the still confused older man who you’ve joined behind the counter. “Thank you.”

“Welcome,” he replies, voice kind of gruff. “Would you like some mangoes?”

You pause, thinking. “Actually, I would.”

The universe must be feeling silly again, you think as you contemplate your current predicament. 

You’ve been walking around the farmer’s market with a general sense of anxiety and wariness, flinching at every redhead you see, and you’ve just finished checking over your shoulder to make sure she’s not about to run up behind you with a spear when you run directly into the very person you’re avoiding, Winter stumbling to the side from the impact before you steady her.

“Thanks,” she says with an awkward smile, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

“No problem,” you reply with a small smile, nodding uncomfortably. You two stare at each other and Winter opens her mouth as if to speak, but ultimately seems to decide against it and turns to leave. She gets about five feet away before you’re blurting out, “I’m sorry!”

She pauses mid-stride, and you take a deep breath. “I’m not asking for forgiveness because I don’t deserve it,” you say carefully, “but I want you to know that nothing about this was personal. It was selfish and horrible, but it was all about me and had nothing to do with hurting you. I can’t explain what happened because I don’t fully understand and I suspect you don’t want to hear it, but I really am sorry and it’s over now.”

She turns to face you finally, her brows raised in surprise. “It’s over?”

You nod resolutely.

“I mean—you’re right. I’m not gonna forgive you. I am gonna say, though, that from seeing you two together, like even when I had my suspicions, I… I get it.”

It’s your turn for your brows to shoot up in shock. “You get it?”

She nods with a small shrug. “Your connection is, like, electric. Like, it hurts for real, don’t get me wrong, and I definitely don’t forgive you, but I’d rather he break up with me to be with the love of his life than break up with me for no reason, y’know? Am I making sense? I guess what I’m saying is: you already did the bad thing… so you might as well reap the benefits of the bad thing and have a whirlwind of a relationship whether it ends well or not.”

You nod slowly, in a daze but still unwaveringly focused on one part of her response. “He said that?” you ask quietly, stunned.

Winter tilts her head to the side in confusion. “Said what?”

“That I’m the love of his life,” you repeat, awestruck. “He said that?”

Winter shifts her weight from one foot to the other, but nods. “Yeah.”

“Like those were his exact words?” you press as you move a bit closer.

Winter coughs uncomfortably into her fist, looking pained. “I’d rather not rehash every intimate detail of my boyfriend dumping me for my ex-friend… and I’d rather not do it to said ex-friend.” she explains, and you nod immediately, stepping back slightly in a silent apology for overstepping. 

“My bad,” you mumble, embarrassed.

“You’re fine,” she replies quietly, adjusting her bag strap again. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m saying it because, unfortunately for me, I still care about both of you. Give him another chance? I just… you two could be really good together and I don’t want to have suffered for nothing.”

Your nodding starts slow and builds until you feel more confident in your decision. “Thanks, Winter. I really am sorry.”

“Yeah,” she nods dismissively in response, and you purse your lips awkwardly. “Um, I’m gonna—” she gestures with her thumb over her shoulder.

“Sure! Yeah, me too. Take—um—take care, I guess.” you mumble, and she smiles slightly.

“You too.”

You think over Winter’s advice for about a week, really considering and weighing out your options. The whole time, though, your mind keeps wandering back to Haechan because, honestly, you miss him. You’re trying not to let that color your decisions, but at the same time, how could it not? 

You’re home with Yunjin, both of you sprawled out on the couch watching some mindless reality television show in an attempt to distract yourself from the internal debate you’re having, when the doorbell rings. You both turn and look at each other, confused.

“I’m not expecting anyone,” you say slowly. “Are you?”

“Nope,” she answers, brows furrowed curiously. “I’ll get it, though.”

“Thanks,” you sigh, trying once more to become one with the upholstery. She gets to her feet and walks to the front door, the sound of it opening catching your attention just in time for you to hear her call your name.

You stand and make your way over to the front door only to stop short at the sight of Haechan standing in your doorway.

The three of you stand there, seemingly frozen, before Yunjin breaks the silence.

“I’ll, um, be in my room if you need me.” she says, squeezing your arm gently before turning and heading to her bedroom.

You two just stand there, still frozen, taking in the sight of each other. Seeing Haechan makes all your feelings from the past week multiply tenfold, but one thought pushes to the forefront: you really did miss him.

“Hi,” he says with a small wave, and you offer the beginnings of a smile.

“Hi,” you reply, waving back awkwardly. 

“How are you?” he asks softly.

You shrug half-heartedly. “I’m okay, y’know—living, I guess.” you answer, and he nods slowly, drumming his fingers on the sides of his thighs.

“Well, that’s, um, good. I’m happy to hear that.” he says carefully, and it’s your turn to nod.

“How are you?” you ask, and he looks you directly in the eyes.

”Bad.” he answers simply, and your brows raise in surprise. 

“Oh—?”

“I feel like I’m not living when I’m not with you.” he admits plainly.

You’re not really sure what to say. “Oh… that’s not good?”

Despite his admission, Haechan still manages to chuckle at your flustered state, stepping forward and asking, “Are we gonna have this whole conversation with me standing outside of your apartment?”

You shake your head and move back to let him in before you even realize you’re doing it. “You can come in,” you offer, and he takes the invitation immediately, stepping closer and into your apartment. He walks straight to your living room with you following after him and stands in the middle of it, running his hand through his hair.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he whispers the confession, and your eyes widen slightly. “I like you so much. You make my day better when I know I get to see you.”

Your face softens. “Haechan—”

“I’m not intentionally being selfish, either!” he defends himself, and you stop speaking, waiting for him to finish. “It was just… eating me up inside not to be with you and show the world how much I like you. It just felt so wrong to me, like, what was I doing in that relationship?”

You wait for a minute. “Is that all you wanted to say?” you ask gently, and he shakes his head, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“I know I’m a cheater and I’m pretty dangerous in terms of being in a relationship with me because I literally just dumped my girlfriend quite abruptly after cheating on her with you, but—”

“Haechan, I wasn’t saying you’re a cheater. Like, yes, you did cheat, but that doesn’t define you, I don’t think.” you say slowly, not willing to hear him about to beat himself up, and he relaxes slightly, looking over at you hopefully. “I just… I know I have a hard time trusting people, and I’m having a hard time right now because you’re one of the first people I’d like to trust again, which is terrifying to me.” you say with a slight shake to your voice.

“I would never hurt you on purpose,” he assures you. “Like I would never do anything like this to you.”

You wrap your arms around yourself in a tight hug in an attempt to comfort yourself. “How do I know that’s true?” you whisper, and he gives you a small, sad smile.

“You’re just gonna have to trust me and find out. And I know that’s a big, high-risk situation, but—”

“It’s worth it, though,” you interject softly, and he stops short, looking at you with eyes swimming with hope. “Like, you’re worth it. I think.”

The beginnings of a smile tug at his lips. “Yeah?” If hope was a light, he’d be glowing from every orifice of his body as he tentatively steps closer to you, smiling wider when you don’t step back.

You nod with a smile curling your own lips. “Yeah, the risk is worth the reward this time, I think, because… I really like being with you.”

Haechan’s eyes hold a playful twinkle as he leans closer, a mischievous grin on his lips. “Yeah? You like being with me?”

“Yeah, I do. A lot. That’s why I was so upset,” you admit. “I wished… still kinda wish… that things were different. That it was me from the beginning.”

“It was you, baby,” he says with an incredulous laugh. “Winter and I were done for the second I laid eyes on you, truthfully.”

“I mean, I wish that we had met when you were single and we could have gotten together without compromising our morals.” you explain, and he nods in understanding before tentatively reaching a hand out to you. When you take it, he beams and pulls you closer to wrap his arm around the small of your back.

“Well… it can be you now.” he suggests, hope glowing from him once more. “You can trust me.”

“That’s a risk I’m gonna have to take, I guess.” you say with a growing smile, and he doesn’t waste another moment before wrapping you in a tight embrace that feels like coming home after a long day. “I missed you,” you confess, voice muffled by the hug, and he pulls back to regard you with shock all over his features.

“You missed me? I was about two days away from doing some grand gesture to get you back or crashing out horrendously if you said no.” he laughs, and you giggle, looking up at him with bright, happy eyes.

“Oh, really? Actually, that does sound about right.” you tease, and he narrows his eyes at you playfully before leaning in closer.

“Shut up,” he chuckles before bringing his lips to yours in a sweet kiss. It feels like warmth floods your whole system, not a warmth akin to desire, but a warmth unlike one you’ve experienced or find yourself able to identify, and you wonder, for a moment, if this is what it feels like to be in love. “Missed you so much,” he groans against your lips, and you pull back slightly to give him small, soft pecks that leave him chasing after your lips for more. “You know what?”

“What is it?”

“I wanna say something.” he decides, and you regard him curiously.

“What’s up?”

“I would really, truly, never ever cheat on you or do anything to break your heart.” he promises you, and you nod with a warm smile.

“I think I believe you,” you say slowly, almost surprised at yourself, and his eyes light up.

“Really?” he asks excitedly, and you nod, draping your arms around his neck.

“I guess I just figured that you wouldn’t do that to the… love of your life.” you say with a teasing smile towards the end, and Haechan stiffens.

“Who told you that?”

“Winter.” you answer simply, and he gapes at you.

“She told you I said that?” he says hoarsely, and you nod, your eyes twinkling with delight. “Why would she do that to me?”

“Possibly her final act of revenge.” you suggest, and his mouth twists awkwardly as he looks away from you with his face reddening. “Hold on a minute. Are you—” 

“Don’t,” he groans, but you ignore him.

“Are you shy right now?” you giggle, and he lets out a small, adorably pathetic wail before burying his face in your neck, the force of his actions knocking you off your feet and sending you both falling onto the couch with a shriek slipping from your lips. “Aw, poor baby,” you coo patronizingly, running your fingers through his hair as he wraps both arms around your waist tighter and nuzzles into the space between your chin and shoulder.

“Don’t be mean,” he whines, and you can’t even stop laughing even if you tried, truly delighted at this new side of Haechan.

“I think you kind of like it when I’m mean,” you remind him through your giggles, and he nods vehemently against your skin, only making your laughter grow.

“Yeah, so quit it before I get hard and make it your problem.” he grumbles, and you scoff.

“I’m not scared of your little friend, Haechan.” you say, and he pulls back to look at you incredulously.

“Little?!” he practically squawks before his fingers are dancing up and down your sides to tickle you mercilessly. 

“I’m sorry!” you shriek through your uncontrollable laughing, and he stops abruptly, bringing his face to yours and studying your expression carefully.

“That’s what I thought. I mean, little? Really? Did you actually forget so soon, baby?” he says with a mocking pout, and you swallow thickly as you gaze up at him. He leans closer so your noses are touching before he says, “I think you might need a reminder.”

“Can you remind her in her bedroom and not defile our lovely couch?” Yunjin’s voice appears out of nowhere, and you jolt in surprise, trying to sit up (in vain, as Haechan has you pinned down). “Love is a beautiful thing, but cum stains aren’t.”

“Amen, girl.” you agree, patting Haechan’s chest to let you up, which he does. “Come on.” you stand and offer him your hand, which he takes readily, and lead him to your room. It’s not until you two are safely in your room with your door shut that you say, “I do too, by the way.”

“You do… what… too?” Haechan asks, puzzled, and you smile secretively, collapsing onto your bed.

“Love you.” you answer simply, and his eyes look like they could pop out of his head at any moment. “Don’t freak out.” you warn him, and he jumps onto your bed, climbing on top of you with a wild, exhilarated look in his eyes.

“The love of my life just told me she loves me back and you expect me to stay calm?” he says incredulously, and you nod. 

“Precisely.”

He dips his head down swiftly to kiss you before sitting up and pulling his phone out of his back pocket. “No can do. Gonna text all my friends the news right now and tell my boss I’m not coming to work later.”

“Now why would that warrant calling out of work?” you say with a snort.

“Hush, lady, I’m posting on my Instagram story.” he silences you with a focused look on his face.

“Can I see when you’re done?” you ask, and he nods, turning his phone to face you. “…Haechan.”

“Yes?”

“‘My girl said she loves me, crash out postponed’ is a crazy thing to post.” you snicker.

“It’s true!”

“Your crash out should be canceled!” you exclaim incredulously.

“I’m never truly not at risk of crashing out.” he confesses, and you make a worried face and start sitting up, pretending to get ready to leave. “Oh, no, you don’t.” he mumbles, wrapping his arms around your middle and pulling you back down to him. “You’re stuck with me, I fear.”

“Mm, I guess that’s okay.” you say with a grin.

Truthfully, you don’t think you could be happier.

“What are we watching tonight?” Chenle asks as he plops down on the other end of the couch you’re sitting on.

“I vote Aquaman,” you pipe up, reaching out to Haechan as he approaches with a plate of pizza rolls for you two. When he offers the plate to your outstretched hands, you shake your head and wave the plate away, reaching out again to make it abundantly clear what you’re reaching for. He grins, setting the plate down on the coffee table in front of you before collapsing into your waiting embrace with a pleased sigh.

“You just wanna drool over Jason Momoa,” Chaewon jeers, and you shrug.

“That’s my God-given right.” you defend yourself casually, and Haechan nods in agreement.

“You do know she’s gonna lust after him the whole movie, right?” Chenle points out to Haechan, who just shrugs dismissively.

“Then when she’s all pent-up and frisky, who’s she gonna come to?” he answers smugly, and you beam, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

“He’s playing chess, y’all, not checkers.” you remark.

Haechan snorts in amusement and grins proudly before jerking his chin towards the television. “Exactly. Now someone put it on.”

“Bossy ass,” Yunjin mutters jokingly under her breath. 

“What was that?” Haechan puts a hand behind his ear. “Couldn’t hear you over there.”

“No, you can’t fight Yunjin.” you whisper to him, putting his hand down. He looks over at you confused and you continue, “I can’t pick a side.”

“Pick my side?” he replies slowly as if the answer was obvious. “I’m your boyfriend.”

“She’s my best friend, though.” you reply with a wince, and Yunjin nods from the armchair she’s curled up in. “And she knows where I sleep at night.”

“Both are true,” she confirms proudly, and Haechan sucks his teeth but backs down with a roll of his eyes. 

“Fine. For now,” he relents with a brief glare shot in Yunjin’s direction. “Can we put the movie on now?” he complains, and she rolls her eyes exaggeratedly before starting to navigate to the movie on the television screen.

Haechan laces his fingers with yours, curling them into his palm as he brings your linked hands to his mouth. You watch with rapt attention as he kisses the back of your hand, then each knuckle, all the while maintaining heavy eye contact.

Your cheeks blaze something fierce and you look away with a nervous, shy giggle that makes Haechan chuckle.

“Look at me,” he murmurs insistently, moving his head so it’s more in your line of sight. When you swallow and look away again, he coos fondly, pulling your chin so your face is angled towards his once more. “There’s my pretty girl.”

“Haechan,” you whine quietly, and his gaze darkens.

“What is it, baby?” he murmurs with a sympathetic lilt. “What’s wrong?”

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mumble, placing your hand up between your faces so he can’t look directly at you. “It’s making me nervous.”

He snickers, moving your hand to your lap and regarding you carefully.

“How am I looking at you?” he asks with a raised brow and a devious little grin. 

“You know how you’re looking at me.” you gripe, pushing his shoulder slightly, and his eyes flash with mischief.

“Well, it’s not that I’m looking at you like you’re the only thing on my menu for tonight, is it? Because I look at you like that all the time.” he thinks aloud, slowly pulling you onto his lap and winding his arms around your waist. 

“God, Haechan,” you half-laugh, half-gasp, and he grins. 

“No, it can’t be that. Is it because I’m looking at you like I love you?” he asks plainly, and your throat closes up slightly in shock from his bluntness. 

“Well—yes, a bit.” you mumble, shifting in your spot slightly. 

“I don’t know if you realize this,” he murmurs by your ear, “but I’ve been looking at you like that from day one.”

“It’s way different now,” you counter, frowning as you explain yourself. “Before it was like… fascination more than—”

“Understanding?” he finishes for you, and you blink in surprise before nodding. “So I could look at you like I love you when I didn’t know you, but now that I know you, I can’t look at you like I love you? Even though now I have more reasons to love you?” he says slowly, looking at you with his brows raised. “Do you see how silly you sound, baby?”

You can’t help but laugh fondly, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair. “I kinda do, yeah.”

“Good. Now gimme a kiss before you let me look at you any way I want.” he huffs playfully, pressing his lips to yours with a pleased hum.

“Can you two get a room?” Chenle gags, and you break apart, a sheepish smile on your face while Haechan rolls his eyes. “Man, what’s Jeno gonna do when he comes back to hanging out with us and has to watch you two practically going at it all the time?”

“He’s a big boy, he’ll manage.” Haechan grumbles before pecking you on the lips again.

“Speaking of Jeno,” you ask, shifting to sit up slightly. “Do we really think he’s gonna feel comfortable being friends with us again?”

“He’d be silly not to,” Chaewon answers in confusion. “It’s not like you two were a thing for real.” 

“Speaking of people and forgiveness and that kind of stuff…” Haechan trails off, his voice softer as he shifts his target audience to you alone, and you turn your head slightly to regard him suspiciously. 

“You’d better not ask what I think you’re about to ask.” you warn him, and he frowns.

“I was just wondering if you think Winter would ever forgive us?” he asks hopefully, and you shake your head resolutely.

“No. And she shouldn’t, frankly. We did a bad thing.” you explain, and he nods slowly.

“I just feel a little guilty.” he muses quietly, and you can’t hide your small snicker of amusement.

“You should, actually. But it’ll pass with time hopefully.” you assure him.

“What are you two lovebirds chatting about?” Seulgi calls out from across the room.

“Wondering if Winter would ever forgive any of us.” you answer for Haechan, and Seulgi, Yunjin, and Mark shake their heads immediately, Chenle straight up laughs, and Yunjin shoots you both a sympathetic frown.

“I doubt it. She blocked all of us when she found out we knew.” Mark points out, and you nod slowly in understanding.

“Actually, she didn’t block me,” Yunjin corrects, “but I think that has more to do with the fact that we’re kind of coworkers.”

“Have you seen her since everything?” Chaewon asks curiously, and Yunjin thinks back for a moment.

“I saw her the other day because she was working with a client that stays on the same floor as Mrs. Rothschild. She gave me, like, that reflex half-smile that you give people when you don’t wanna seem rude, y’know?” 

“Oh, I know that one.” you reply with a solemn nod. “We’re doomed.”

“Can we stop moping around and watch this movie, please? Also, can we order pizza or something, because I’m starving.” Mark complains, clutching his stomach, and you snort loudly in amusement.

“Yeah, moping session over. Let’s press play and figure out the food situation.” you announce, and Yunjin nods once before starting the movie. As the starting credits roll, you all decide on the pizza order (three medium pizzas, one with extra cheese, one with pepperoni, and one with half pineapple, half chicken and tomato) and place it for delivery before you settle further into the couch on Haechan’s lap in an attempt to get comfortable.

When the doorbell rings, you all look at each other in a silent standoff before Haechan sighs loudly and clambers off of the couch to get the door. You all wait with bated breath until he returns with three boxes of pizza stacked on top of each other before you start cheering.

As you all scramble to get your slices of choice, Haechan pushes Chenle out of the way none too gently, the male squawking indignantly before muttering something about favoritism and revenge and Haechan’s toothbrush, and tugs you closer to the boxes. “Take your pick, baby.”

“Aren’t you a gentleman?” you coo fondly as you take your desired slices.

After he takes his, the two of you make your way back to the couch and settle down in your spots from before. 

“Y’know, I’ve been trying to convince you I’m a gentleman since, like, the first day I met you,” he chuckles. 

“It was a lot harder to believe when you were literally dating You-Know-Who.” you reply in defense, and he rolls his eyes.

“I’ve been yours from the beginning, though. I told you that.” he reminds you, and you gaze into his eyes for a moment before reaching up and gently cupping his cheek.

“Yeah, but now I actually believe you.” you say softly, almost surprised by your own revelation, and his eyes widen slightly before a smile starts tugging at his lips.

“Oh, yeah? How’s it feel, then?” he asks in a murmur, and you tilt your head to the side in confusion.

“How does what feel?”

“Knowing I love you,” he answers, and there goes that arrhythmic thud of your heartbeat starting up again. “That I’m yours.”

the boy is mine. watch me take my time. i can’t believe my mind. the boy is divine—

In lieu of a verbal response, you cup his chin and pull him in for a slow, deep kiss that you hope conveys all the feelings you can’t put into words. When you pull back, his eyes are heavy-lidded and he’s gazing at you with blatant adoration in his gaze.

“Like that,” you whisper back with a smile, and by the sheer radiance of his responding beam, you know he understands. 

—the boy is mine.

TA DA!!!!! i hope you enjoyed your read! this is the final installment, so thank you so so much for your support with this fic! it was a Lot to write but i’m proud of it! i really love positive feedback and also, if you’re able, i very much appreciate tips!! 

if you’d like to read the bonus scene, it’s available on my patreon here :) it answers a couple of questions you might have had, and down the line there will probably be more bonus scenes to come, exclusive to patreon members!!

LINKS: KO-FI // VENMO // CASHAPP // AMAZON WISHLIST // (if you’d like to support via paypal, let me know off anon!!)

[chronically-ghosted]

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rating: explicit 18+ pairing: pero tovar x f!reader word count: 6.9K summary: Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. But there would be no tomorrow. No future, no light of dawn – not without –  Her. He’d never heal because tomorrow would never come.  OR Pero falls hard for a princess and doesn’t know what to do with himself on your wedding night. warnings: angst, brief classism/xenophobia two very stubborn people, pero experiences one Human Emotion and cannot fully process it, arranged marriage, yearning, smut LIKE WOW, soft!pero that i broke my own heart with a/n: Thank you so much to @perotovar for this request: "congrats on your milestone, my love! so happy for you <33 i'm sending a little astrology 💫 + pero & #6 on the fluffy list OR #1 on the smutty list (whichever is speaking to you), because i wanna see your take on him 👀” – of course I chose the slutty one, just for you 😉 I’m actually pretty proud of this one - please consider reblogging if you like it too!

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Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

Sometimes before battle, the clatter inside Pero’s head goes silent. It listens. It waits. 

Other times, it roars. Memories of family, of dead amigos, of mujeres he fucked – they all buck and scratch for a chance to blaze across his mind like a dust storm kicked up by an unbroken mustang. 

He doesn’t know which one he prefers or which one will win out. They both have their uses, necessary states of mind to survive whatever is barreling towards him – an ax, a monster out of legend, some other drunken mercenary he intentionally pissed off. It’s an unconscious decision, yet one that has served him well so far. He wouldn’t be alive today if some deep, primal part of him knew what he needed to live through another battle. 

And yet, his own trunk knocking against his hips as he climbed the sickly ostentatious stone steps to the top of the parapet, the handles starting to pinch his fingers, the barest – nearly invisible – tremor in his knees, he cannot fathom, for the life of him, why that singular phrase from his abuela played in his head like water swirling around and around a cenote. 

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

His inner voice, taking on a myriad of forms, of sounds and voices, never quite standing still, the one companion he could always rely on. 

Maybe it was warning him. Dust yourself off, boy, you know exactly how this was going to end. 

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

But there would be no tomorrow. No future, no light of dawn – not without –

Her.

He’d never heal because tomorrow would never come.

He feels sweat escape from the nape of curls at his neck, his cheeks warm and chest hot. Two more flights, he can manage two more flights. 

His abuela also liked to tell him something else: if hell doesn’t get him, his pride certainly will. 

It’s certainly what got him into this ridiculous farce in the first place. Because he can’t alchemize whatever is in his gut into vocalized syllables, he instead has to climb a truly incalculable amount of stairs, while carrying a ragged, torn trunk that weighs as much as his armor. 

Because he can’t form the right words, any words, about what he carries lodged beneath his breastbone for her. What draws him up and up and up and up because it’s lighter than hope, makes him lighter than air, and yet it clogs him up, chokes him out all the same. His pride, his vanity, cuts through it, through her – enough to keep him tongueless and dry but not enough to offer this lightness in his chest to her, for her. He can’t take the light out of him or else he fears what he will truly become.

So, he walks, he goes around and around on unforgiving stone steps until finally there is a door. He thinks about waiting, to catch his breath, but he knows he will just as easily turn around and go back the way he came, trunk still heavy and knocking against his hips, and that pride will be the death of him. So he keeps going, opens the handle, and makes abrupt eye contact with the two guards outside her door. They seem uninterested and unamused in his sweaty, stilted breathing, but by his less-than-royal attire, they easily clock him as one of their own; a man who fights to make his way in the world. The one on the left nods jerkily at him. 

What they see him as, what he will always be, is nearly the reason he kicks that fucking trunk all the way back down. Instead, he nods back, shoulders rounded, eyes down. 

“The princesa - the princess - is requesting the last of her things, to be b-brought up from the stables –,” he clears his throat, “drop this off for her and –,”

“Can’t let you in. King’s orders.” The one on the right sees him as something else – a foreigner first and foremost, their similar stations in life irrelevant. His bright blue eyes rove over Pero’s dark skin, dark hair, jagged scar, distaste and disgust smearing his already ugly features. But he had been dealing with men like these all his life.

“Bueno, you can explain to the King himself why his daughter’s belongings were lost and disregarded. I hear she’s very fond of the Italian prints at the bottom of this . . .”

The guards glance at each other, calculating way above their paygrade. Pero jostles the trunk as if to show he is not above throwing it out the window. 

“Fine.” The second one snaps. “Drop it inside and come back immediately.”

He drops his head, a good little foreign boy. “Gracias, señor.” 

The heavy wooden door opens beneath the iron lock and the instant he is through, he bolts it behind him. Waits to see if the guards notice. They don’t. Perfectamente – all the time in the world. 

All in the time in the world – for what? 

To fail? Again?

He stows the trunk in front of the door, extra time, a few seconds maybe – as if she wouldn’t just tell him to get out the instant she laid eyes on him. Only time will tell. 

Out of the atrium, another door, this one set deep into the wall. A last line of defense. He knocks, once, then twice, then waits. El orgullo chokes him again but fuck it, he’s come this far. He knocks again, knocks something in his chest free and, with it, spill the words:

“Princesa? It’s me. I –,” it throttles him, “princesa, can you open the door?” 

Silence. His heart sits, buried in that trunk. Then –

“It’s unlocked, Pero.” 

His heart in his throat, he opens the door to presumably what will be your marriage bed. And yet, by the state of things, you could have been moving out of it. Trunks and bags stack high against the far wall – those fucking trunks he made such a scene over because the unnecessary weight would slow them all down remain untouched, arranged as they had been when they had been first brought in. He didn’t quite know what to make of that, his thumb absently pressing into the callus of his other hand as he glanced around. It is a beautiful room – tall windows, etched in scarlet drapes, to match the scarlet curtains around the bed. With gold thread and impossibly detailed paintings of the countryside, it is fit for a princess, a some-day queen. This is where someone with royal blood deserved to be, not in the back of a hot carriage for weeks on end, surrounded by dirty, loud, rough men. 

And yet, with your hair down, expansive gown from the ball tonight replaced with a simple cotton dress, you could not have been more out of place. Pero’s heart lurches briefly, moisture seeping from his mouth, as he realizes this is the same dress he bought you when the two of you had been accidentally separated by the caravan and your previous dress had been ruined in the mud. He had no idea you still kept it, much less wore it ever again. 

But if anyone asked him, you look more beautiful in this than any silk or velvet. 

Instead of unpacking, settling into your new home and eventual role as wife, you sit hunched over at the intricately carved mahogany desk, eagle feather quill scratching against parchment. You finish with a flourish and look over your shoulder at him, your eyes annoyingly unreadable. 

“Yes?”

A stupid brute some may call him, but he wasn’t entirely without awareness. Observation of your customs and what you considered inappropriate only encouraged him: if you really didn’t want him here, you would never have let him see you in this state.

But it’s hard to remember that under your icy stare. 

“Y-your things, Princesa. The last from the caravan.”

Your eyes slide over him, to the trunk in the shadows of the atrium. He can tell from a single glance that you know as well as he that trunk is not yours, that no one told him to come here with it, and yet he did it all the same. Something flashes over your eyes but it’s gone by the time you meet his gaze again. 

“Thank you. I am, as always, indebted to you.” 

He hates your words, but warmth spreads in his gut at the way you say it. That’s how it’s always been between you and him – saying one thing but meaning another. He’d never appreciated a sharp mind like yours until he realized you wield it as he wields a sharp sword. 

There are many things he’d never even dreamed of before he met you.

“Then, this means you’re leaving, I suppose.” You draw your sword against him. The metal flashes in your eyes as you stand, one hand against the curved tip of your chair. A bronze halo rims your outline, the fire behind you burning bright and hot. He knows if he touched your shoulder, your neck, your skin would be wonderfully warm. 

He wets his lips. “Si. Our contract with your father is done.” 

You drop his gaze, your lips tightening for a minute, your fingers running through the carvings of wood on the chair. “Even with William in his state? Would it not be better for him to stay and recover? The journey home is –,” you pause, as though someone had thrown a hand over your mouth, “– the journey back east is long.” 

All the longer without you.

“William, he is not an idle man. Two days of bedrest is often all he can take.” 

You grin, in spite of this thing circling you both. “Unless he finds the nun attending to him beautiful.

“He finds them all beautiful.” 

Your smile expands wide across your bright face when you find him smiling at you too. 

This – if this is to be his last memory of you (his heart wrenches at the thought) – this is the you he wants imprinted on his soul: smiling and glowing by firelight. 

But as quickly as it came, that grin that warms him down to his bones, fades. In an instant, your eyes grow soft, your mouth twisted, jaw tight.

“Where will you go?” you ask, in the quietest voice you’d ever addressed him with. 

It pains him, physically aches within him, to hear the distress in your voice. He hasn’t even thought about the next contract, the next royal cabrón who intends to yank him all across God’s green earth to perform a task he can’t be fucked to take on himself. How can he possibly answer you? Nowhere, without you. To rot in a dark hole in the ground? Off a cliff? What answer would provide you or him any sort of satisfaction?

“Wherever the coin goes,” he says and the words scrape his tongue like bile. That ache in his chest spiraling rapidly, deep into his gut – like a poisoned limb he cannot amputate – he does the same thing he always does when he’s hurt: he makes others hurt until they leave him alone. “You do not have to worry, princesa, your new husband will keep you in such comfort you will never wonder where the coin comes from.”

He must be a truly sick man, for the knife-sharp glare you throw at him only knots arousal around the base of his spine. It tugs on something attached directly to his groin which, in turn, yanks the next words out of his mouth.

“He looked especially happy with you in his arms on the dance floor tonight.”

The icy shards in your eyes go brittle and crack. His heart races; he’s overplayed his hand. 

“You watched me dance?”

“All guardsmen were required to –,”

You shake your head, eyes bright and searing through him. “No. It was only the King’s Knights there in attendance.” 

Your hand trailing off the edge of the chair, you take a step forward and he feels his weight shift back onto his heels. But he remains firm. 

Sana, sana.

“Pero, why did you come here tonight?”

“To return the last of your things, princesa. What else is there?”

You flinch, as if he had raised his voice to you. What else is there indeed?

“Not even to . . .  say goodbye? Sixteen weeks on the road is an awfully long time to be around someone, only for them to . . . leave so soon.”

He locks his knees to keep them from shaking. “Do you wish for me to tell you goodbye, princesa?” 

There’s something painfully sad about the way you smile at him. “I wish for whatever would make you happiest.” 

Anger roars within him, hungry and hot, like a burn from a white flame. Why can’t you just admit it? Why do you avoid it time and time again? He knows he hasn’t misread anything you’ve sent his way, so why? Why are you so vested in torturing him this way? 

“Coin makes me happy and, now that I have it, there’s nothing to keep me here.”

There, that hurts you too, just as he meant it.

“Then leave.” They could make ice fortresses out of the strength of your bone-cold stare. “If you have nothing else to say, then take your goddamn trunk and get out of my sight.” 

The flame scorches him, ripping him apart and in his anger, making him cruel.

He bows to you.

“I imagine you will be very happy with your new husband, ranita.”

The term slips from his lips before he can stop it, but his throat and cheeks blister so badly, he physically can’t open his mouth to correct his mistake. Instead, he turns and strides towards the door.

He thinks he hears a gasp from behind him, a sharp sound like breaking glass – small, tinkling, tragic. It spears him through his chest, pierces his heart. 

He gets to the door and pauses.

If you have nothing else to say . . .

Of course he has something to say – words in English and Spanish and broken dialects gathered like poisonous lichen all churning in the boiling cauldron of his mind, but nothing will suffice – nothing reflects or compares to the grief he is already feeling, the despair, the anguish that has settled into all the fleshy joints in his body. Not his pride, but this, saying goodbye to you, this is what actually will kill him.

Every word imaginable crawls up his throat and rages in his mouth, presses up against his teeth, begging for something, anything to be let out, to be free, to tell you that he cannot fucking live without you–

Nothing comes through, but one single word.

“Don’t.” 

The fire crackles in the silence, a wicked god pleased at the display of carnage.

“What did you say?”

A dull thud echoes from where he drops his forehead against the wood of the door, all anger flooding out of his system. Do you have any idea the power you hold over him? One request, one tremor in your voice and his knees all but buckle at your altar. 

Fuck it. 

He always thought he’d go out in a blaze of bloody glory, but he’d never expected to be so exposed, so flayed like this.

“Don’t,” he repeats, his throat as dry as sand. “Do not . . . marry him. Please.” 

The vision of your great warrior slumped against the door frame, his neck bent, shoulders curled up to his ears has your already pounding heart leaping forward into a gallop. He is defeated, laid low. You watch his guts all but pool out on your hearth. 

He looks about as hopeless and anguished as you feel. 

Your soldier, your man of iron and charcoal, goes blurry in your eyes.

“And what would you have me do, Pero?” Your plea is damp, malleable at the edges. You press your hand flat against your chest, near your throat, as if you could pull the grief lodged there with your fingers. “I have been engaged to this man before I was even born. How can I stop this?” 

“Fight.” The word snarls against his bare teeth. He turns, his eyes liquid ink, and suddenly he has you by the shoulders. His thumbs nervously skitter around the curve of your shoulder, gaze just as unsteady and unfocused as it wavers between your hands, your earlobe, your neck. "Where is my brave girl who fights for what she wants, hm? Fight – for me, please.”

Fight, he asks – but in spite of him or because of him?

You lay your hands on the silver shine of his breastplate, watch as they rise and fall with his steady flow of breath. How many nights had you woken up against that shine, in the crook of his arm for warmth, or protection? You didn’t cherish it at the time because you never knew when it would be your last. 

“Why won’t you fight, princesa?” His voice is low, strained, the groan of a wagon wheel before it breaks. You meet his gaze and the exposed look on his face, softening every line on his mouth and around his eyes, nearly sends you into hysterics. You swallow the tears, swallow the hook in your throat as your fingers curl around the clasps of his cape. 

"Because if I don't fight then I can't lose.” His fingers slip from your shoulders, to your elbows, to your waist. You inhale and the scents of warm leather, oil, and ash flood your mouth. The tip of your nose is inches from the scruff of beard against his cheek, the ruddy brown of his sun-drenched skin. He has curled you into him and this, you do not fight either. His massive palms map your back, against your skin, but without any urgency or control. “If I can’t lose, that means I don’t lose you. You'll just be . . . gone."

That last word is a lie. It hangs in the air like a sweltering humid rain and you both know you’re lying. He has you wrapped up in his arms, you didn’t stop him even for a second, and you are all too aware that it would take some great, insidious alchemy to ever truly tear him out of you. 

You stare at his silver collar, defiant against the waves you had managed to shackle down until this very moment: a wave of hopeless crashes into you, a wave of heartbreak, a wave of helpless that fills your eyes to the point of spilling with that very same salt water.

He touches your cheek delicately, fingers rough with callouses, and the floodgates break open with a sob. 

“Preciosa,” he rumbles softly against your hairline, “hush. You break my heart with your tears.” 

“Do not mock me, Tovar. Not now.” you sniff, trying to turn your face but his wide hands catch you around the cheeks.

“You are beyond mocking. I’d show you my heavy heart but I do not wish that weight on anyone.” The snag of his rough thumbs against your cheek draws your watery gaze to him. His mouth is a flat line, barred against whatever climbs his throat, but his eyes move like mercury across your nose, your eyelashes, the arch of your cheek. Your fingers wrap themselves around his wrists, a grounding agent against the waves that threaten to pull you under. 

“Pero, I –,”

“I have fought you, tooth and nail, for days without end. Every favor, every breath, you have forced them from me. I fight my own mind when I sleep at night. Sueños, always of the same woman.” He smears away the tears with his thumbs, gently, sweetly, before pressing his lips to your wet flesh by his knuckle. He inhales deeply, eyes closed, mouth hovering stationary above the skin of your cheek. “You fight me every step of the way . . . and I am so tired of fighting.” 

For all your struggling, for all your tearing and clawing and snarling against the blooming in your chest, nothing is as easy as it is to turn your head and press your lips to his. 

The brush of his bristled mustache against your upper lip. His warm, rough palms holding you steady. His lips soft and hot. You are overwhelmed by the scent of him.

There is nothing like, and nothing will ever be like, finally kissing Pero Tovar. 

All it takes is the movement of his hands from your cheeks to your lower back, the light trace of his tongue against your lips, and the yearning you’d been smothering for weeks now roars to life. His hands squeeze your hips and you can suddenly barely breathe. 

“Pero–,” the noise in the shape of his name that escapes you is near a whine, begging. He nips at your lips, hand firmly at the cup of your jaw, mouth now rough and insistent, and your fingers claw up his neck, wrapping themselves in his dark curls. You tug, nails scratching his scalp, and he groans into your mouth as if you’d just kneed him in the gut.

A thread-bare gasp of your name from his lips splits you from him, then his hand on your hip and the back of your neck pushing you backwards gives you enough air to breathe – to think.

"Your husband will know you're not a virgin,” Pero warns, breathing hard and fast, his eyes like black flints, “if we go on." 

You curl your fingers around his neck, dragging your mouth near his jaw, the soft skin at the edge of his ear.

"Then he will also know my heart is not his either.” You ask everything of him with this. His armor blocks his warm body from you – you want to sink inside his hard shell. “If you’ll have it.”

He is not himself, half-human with an inhuman want, with the snarl that leaves him. 

“Don’t make such promises, dulzura –,” A threat, a dog forced to expose its underbelly, fear radiating like the pain from a broken bone. Your fingers dig into the buckles of his cape, steadying you against a sudden terrible awareness that bloomed, purple-bruised. 

“Unless you don’t want –,” 

The desk rattles when your hips break against it, the force of his kiss enough to topple over your inkwell, spill rolls of parchment to the floor. The wood groans under your weight when he gathers the thick swell of your thighs in his hands, heaves you onto the flat surface, and spreads your knees around his waist. He is as hard as the iron on his chest. 

“Can you feel how much I want you?”

A frantic sigh of relief, a groan shared between two pairs of lips, seeking skin and warmth and other hungry places. 

He drags you onto his chest, your skirt bunched up around your hips, the rings of his armor digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, his mouth covering yours in wet pulls, and he stands up right, as though you weighed less than his sword. 

A stumble, and he spreads you out on the velvet covers of your marriage bed, his hands imprinting on your hips, your knees, the supple meat of your calves. The touch of him on your bare skin feels like the licks of flames, the smoke of arousal blurring your awareness and dragging your eyelids half-closed. On his heels at the edge of the bed, the flint shards of his eyes drift over the bones of your ankles, the bend of your knee, your heaving chest, hair in snarls around your neck and caught behind your back, and finally to your cunt, hidden by the folds of your dress. 

Velvet hums as you slide your ankles to the curve of your ass, widening your legs, parting your knees. His lips part open, dark want etching every line of his face. You feel the wet linen of your dress cling to your achy cunt. He swallows, unbuckling his cape one latch at a time, his eyes nowhere else. The metal clatters as it falls to the floor.

Piece by piece, the chinks in his armor fall away. Piece by piece, he is revealed to you. Your hands rise up, up your thighs to your knees, your thumbs rubbing soft circles. He watches, never tears his gaze away from your sticky hole, his nimble fingers working away the buckles and knots with practiced precision. You can see it in his eyes – memories of bedrolls by firelight, of such a deep painful, yearning ache, separated only by thin tarp, they are a physical weight beside you in this marriage bed. 

You see them because they’re there for you too. You see them because you've been here a dozen times, on your back, legs spread wide, your hands circling but never dipping, waiting. Wanting. For him. 

His bare chest is warm, the wings of his ribs expanding around short, half-drawn breaths, as he crawls up into your pliant mouth. The kisses are slow, like before, with a crackle of heat just beyond them, his hips slipping into the cradle of your thighs, the wet warmth of you separated by the thin linen of your dress. He sucks the tendon below your ear, a whine slipping out of your mouth, fingers spreading over the harsh planes of his back, and his cock bobs against your thigh. 

Pero is bare and warm and entirely yours. All man beneath the sweltering armor. 

“Amorcita,” he drips into your ear, kisses smeared against your collarbone, your mouth, your earlobe, “amorcita, amorcita . . . ranita, let me take you.” 

He starts to use teeth, a harder nip behind his kisses, when he dips down to your chest. A wide palm with stocky fingers grasps at your breast and it’s a startling sensation for you both. 

“Soft,” he moans before licking up under the supple curve of your breast, mouthing at what his tongue missed. He slips your erect nipple into his mouth and twists it between his teeth. “Sweet,” he murmurs with your nipple firmly between his lips. 

This is unlike anything you’ve felt before. You deliriously thank the gods that he hadn’t touched you like this on the road; you would have kept him, your own wild animal, in bed without rest for days on end.

Pero plucks just as aggressively at your other breast, the spit-wet nipple that preoccupied his mouth verging on purple and aching. He cups you from the outside this time, squeezing and massaging, ringing your nipple with his tongue until your back bows and you let out a whine that has his eyes flickering up to you, the scent of wounded prey filling his nostrils. 

That whine of pleasure elongates into a whimper: “please.”

“Tranquila, ranita.” His touch is softer around your bruised tits, but he keeps one hand bagging the weight of your breast while the other slips beneath your skirt.

The pads of his fingers brush your creamy cunt and with a yelp, you grab him by the wrist, your eyes open with a familiar emotion he draws out of you: rage.

“Pero Tovar, if you value your life you will take me under the covers and put your —,”

He chuckles, his cheek against yours, nose rimming the velvet hairs on the ridges of your ear. The vibrations liquify the tension in your bones, loosening your grip. Your eyes flutter, slick obviously running down his fingers. “Ranita, I don’t think you know how you want to end that sentence..”

His words roll like honey over the heat of your skin. It makes your skin tremble. Your grip tightens on his wrist and you roll your hips, your swollen clit finally relieved by the pressure of his palm. 

“Oh, oh, Pero—,” 

With a grunt, he shuffled closer, elbow by your shoulder and he cups your entire wet cunt in his hand, pushing the heel of his palm flatter against you. You cry out, a sparkling kind of pleasure radiating out from where his hand rests. You buck your hips faster, complete release flickering through your outstretched hand. 

“Can you come like this?” You nod, eyes squeezed shut as you barrel towards escape, and you feel him shudder next to you. You are intimately aware that he’s rubbing his cock on the crease of your hip bone but that only drags you faster towards the light. “Then come, ranita, come and I’ll fuck you.” 

The wet, curling heat growing between your legs descends, then in a bright snap, explodes across your body. 

“Fuck!” You tear open your eyes to find them damp, Pero’s massive hand cupping your cheek towards him, his stallion eyes dark as his fingers drag on the soaked material of your dress, your hips slowing. 

“Amorcita, breathe.” The words are torn from his chest, all cock-suredness gone from his frantic gaze. You gulp in air, the weight of his body over yours grounding and smothering you all at once. He pulls his hand away from you, rides it up your thigh to your waist, looking for something to hold onto. He strokes his thumb once against your overheated skin and you’re wriggling up out of your dress. 

“Help,” you hiss and his fingers nearly tear the fabric off you.

With a few undone buttons, you shiver out of your dress, the slick-drenched spots catching on your warm skin. He flings it behind him, near the fireplace. 

He takes you barely beneath the thick covers before you welcome him back to the heat of your open legs. 

But instead of reeling back and plunging his aching cock into you, he takes the time to kiss you. To praise you in all the ways he fears his mouth will end up short. He kisses you, grateful, reverent – wonderful to be swallowed by but also a distraction.

When he lifts your knees by his waist, your hips automatically tilt towards him and for the first time, you feel his red, sore cock between your tacky lips. The dual sensation nearly drags you over the rack of delectably delicious pleasure, as does his worn, broken groan in your ear. 

“More, please, don’t stop.” You cry against the bristles of his beard, his hand dropping between your sweat-slick bodies, finding yours already there to guide him. The press of him spreads you open, filling you one sinking notch at a time. The sensation of your pink, dripping walls moving to take more of him in has you arching up into his chest, nails dragging into his back. His dry lips stifle the moans escaping from your mouth. 

Pero takes both of your hands in his, dragging them above your head, his fingers locking your palms together as his hips roll forward. “Cálmate, amorcita, cálmate,” he murmurs between distracted presses of his mouth against your chin, your cheek, his breathing heavy and stunted. You writhe, pinned open by his hips and his hands, his cock filling you all too slowly and not fast enough. 

With the last few inches, you take him completely, your cunt throbbing, heart pounding, intoxicated by the sensation of being so maddeningly full. Pero drapes over you, his head tucked into your neck, forearms straining with the tension of gripping your hands tightly. 

“Santa madre . . .” He is not a warrior right now. He is but a man, cunt-drunk and heaving. 

His name is pushed out of the bottom of your lungs with the first swing of his hips. You cling to him, knees at his ribs, unwilling to let even an inch of space between your bodies. But this becomes increasingly difficult as his thrusts gain speed. His flushed lips stain a sticky line against your jaw, down to your throat, and he releases your hands, the oak of the bed creaking beneath the force of him drilling down into you, he props himself up on his palms, his shoulders bent and curled over you, biceps straining, hairline damp, eyelids fluttering. The scar on his cheek is flushed pink.

“Look, amorcita, look how well you take me.”

His words tear you from your nebulous high, the grit of them forcing your head down to the obscene squelch beneath the sheets. The thatch of rough curls over his groin is drenched in slick, his thick cock soaked to the point of shine as it drives into you again and again. The heavy draft of breath the sight steals from him, the tap of his cock against a place so deep you didn’t know your body possessed, draws the spooling bliss as tight as a wire. 

Your trembling thighs squeeze him tighter, that hot pressure rendering you speechless, except for the most pathetic whine. Please, Pero, please, you think, you mutter, you whisper, your body rocking damp against the sheets. 

With a sudden snarl, he takes the chunk of your hair at the base of your head flat in his fists and tugs. A shoot of bright pain sparks bliss down to your tight and bruised nipples, and you cry out again. 

“Stop fighting, puedo sentir cuanto la quieres. Let me have it.” It is the following word that splits you open like lighting carving apart a tree. “Please.”

The wail that you release is the rush of gooseflesh over your skin alchemized into audible sound. Heat radiates through you, sucking the air from your lungs, your vision going blurry, then black as you clamp your eyes shut against the rush, the final release, that curls you into his arms. His warm, flushed arms, shaking with strain. A final wobbly thrust or two and his elbows are buckling, sweat-drenched chest pressing into your own.

Distantly, you are aware of the warm, slick drip down your thighs, his cock pulsing the last drops into your cum-flecked cunt, and the dangers this sort of intimacy poses. You can’t gather enough breath, enough sense to settle the spinning room, to worry or even care. 

Your his, and he is yours. That is all that will ever matter. 

The crackle of wood burning is the only other sound than your ragged breaths, the silent roll of sweat from sticky hot skins into the bedsheets. The stone walls of the castle’s room entomb you together for a brief stretch of infinity.

Pero moves and you think he’s going to back out of you, but instead, he merely adjusts, his head fully on your chest, thick fingers clutching your bruised waist, the shift of his cock pushing more of his release out of your oversensitive cunt. But you’ll take overstimulation over his absence every time. You run your fingers through his damp curls and he hums. 

“I’m sorry,” he huffs into your humid skin. “I’m sorry I let my pride keep us apart for so long.” 

You grin lazily to the ceiling, your breath settling as affection takes its place in your chest. 

“You were not the only one blinded by vanity.” 

“But I’m not blind. Not anymore.” He lifts his head, eyes as dark as your spilled inkwell. “I am never letting you go.” 

You smile at him, fingers soft against the back of his neck. “I don’t plan on wandering away.” 

His oil-black gaze drops to your lips and he leans forward to take your mouth against his. Gentle, but with the promise of more. 

“Mi ranita,” he purrs to break the kiss. 

“You call me that all the time, Pero. What does it mean?”

At that, a nearly shy expression crosses his face. He shakes his head, shifting onto his elbows to lift off you. “I can’t tell you. It will ruin your good mood.” 

You gasp, offended, and you grab him by the ear and twist. He chuckles through a grimace. “You will tell me what that means, Pero Tovar, if you value your appendages.” 

“Órale, princesa, retract your claws and I will tell you.” 

You release your grip and settle against your pillow. Grinning bashfully, he kisses your neck briefly.

“Remember that I love you after I tell you this.” 

Your heart nearly stops, the absence of a steady beat nearly drawing tears to your eyes but you hold firm. You breathe deeply against the fluttering in your stomach and pin him with your glare. Of course, this is how he would profess his love to you – when he’s trying to get out of trouble. 

“Tell me, Tovar!”

He chuckles again and preemptively picks up your hands. He kisses the inside of your palms, settling himself between your thighs. 

“It means little frog.” Your mouth falls open in a gasp and you struggle to yank your hands back from him, hissing like a tea kettle, but he uses his weight to press down on you. He nips at your nose. “I call you that because when you’re upset with me, much like you are now, you puff up like a bullfrog, your cheeks like this–,”

He rounds his cheeks full of air, crossing his eyes, and you simply cannot take the slight anymore. You push roughly against his gut, the breath trapped in his mouth escaping in a hot puff, and you twist him onto his back. He lets you, of course, his bold, full laughter rendering him defenseless. His body shakes beneath you, his beautiful eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open wide as he laughs and laughs and laughs. You take him by the wrists and push his limp hands over his head, pinning him as he had you. You pinch his chin with your teeth, your messy cunt over his stomach, as his laughter subsides. 

“Have you had your fun yet?” 

“Barely,” he chuckles, turning his big nose against your cheek and inhaling. He hums.

“Is that all I am to you? A joke?”

Pero opens his eyes, sober as death rattle. He takes you in, not in a hungry, all-consuming way, but in a look that speaks of awe and rapture.

“You are everything to me.”

You sigh, releasing his hands and curling into his chest. He kisses the top of your head, your eyes on the roaring fire. His thumbs rub your shoulder blades, trace the lines of your spine.

“You’re so very lucky I love you too.” 

His wandering against the expanse of your back stills, just for a moment, before his fingers slide into your hair, around the nape of your neck, holding you to him with the intention of keeping you there forever.

“I know, ranita, I know.” 

He watches you sleep as the sky lightens beyond the tall windows on the opposite side of the bedroom. The dying fire traces your edges in gold, settling heat in the curve of your lips. 

His heart lurches with the wanting of you.

There’s more terrible things to come, he knows that. The plan the two of you concocted in the early morning hours will be dangerous, deadly even. But dying together instead of living apart would be much more tolerable, you told him earlier that night, your hand on his chest. 

He would kill if you asked. He would kill, even if you didn’t, to keep you safe and by his side. You’ve proven yourself capable of living a life away from this spectacular opulence, but it pains him to know he will never be able to give you anything nearly as lovely as the velvet dresses in the closet, the gold jewelry in your trunks. 

Instead, all he has to offer is himself. His strength, his hands, his heart. It’s his own fear that tells him that’s not enough, because you remind him again and again that’s more than you ever wanted. 

He traces the curve of your cheek with the hovering pad of his finger, brushing your hair away from your face. How he ended up so lucky with your love, he’ll never know, but he will spend the rest of his days proving that he’s earned it. 

You stir in your sleep, sensing him above you, and he hates to steal even a few minutes of blissful sleep from you, knowing the endless nights that are coming. When he steals you away from all that you’ve ever known. 

The sleepy grumble in your throat resembles his name as he curls around you, but your eyes remain gently closed. He pulls you against him, the air that leaves your mouth and sits between your chest and his something he covets with his whole heart. 

I love you and I’m disgustingly lucky and I love you. 

He is a man made of dust, serving men made of silver. He is a man of dust, loving a woman made of gold.

El orgullo? No, Abuela, his ranita will get him first, last, and every time.

+

Translations:

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. - This rhyme is typically said to children when they have just hurt themselves. The parent (or grandparent) usually rubs the part that is sore and sings this little tune. Literally translates to: "heal, heal, little frog’s tail. If you don’t heal today, you will heal tomorrow."

el orgullo - pride

dulzura - sweetness, romantic connotation

amorcita - little love, romantic connotation

Tranquila - quiet, as in "be quiet" or "relax"

Cálmate - take it easy, or take it slow

puedo sentir cuanto la quieres - I can feel how much you want it/love it

Órale - okay, or an exclamation expressing approval or encouragement.

ranita - little frog, but you knew that already ;)

the rest are cognates (or familiar words) which you can probably guess the meaning of, but feel free to message me if you don't know!

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Voicemail

A Seams oneshot, but can be read independently of the series

{ Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: T

Summary: You find Joel's old Nokia at the back of a drawer.

Warnings: Angst, description of a panic attack, grief, comfort, no use of Y/N, reader has a nickname related to her job, reader has no physical description, definitely incorrect description of how mobile phones work, very lightly edited.

As always, Seams oneshots are set on a relaxed timeline. Voicemail can be considered to take place at an unspecified time after Part IV.

Word count: 1.8k

Notes: I don't know if anyone has written anything similar, but I've always wanted to write something about Joel's Nokia (the idea for Butter actually came from the phone scene in episode 1 - can't you tell? lol). This idea took me by surprise one night and didn't let me go.

Important note: I know voicemails don't work this way, but let's pretend that they are saved onto the mobile phone itself and can be accessed decades later, and that a Nokia can indeed survive the apocalypse.

After the outbreak, after Sarah, after missing his shot - he doesn’t remember much of those early, blurry days. Tommy barely managed to drag his catatonic ass to an abandoned house somewhere on the outskirts of town, where he had to punch him in the face to snap him out of it. 

It being a cocktail of shock, grief, pain and numbness that should’ve killed him, could’ve killed any man. And for the longest time he wished that it did.

It was in the aftershock of that punch, left cheek snapped to his shoulder and his eyes downcast, that Joel saw his Nokia was still clipped to his belt, by some miracle unscathed when everything else had fallen apart.

And he keeps it all these years.

He hadn’t meant to take it with him when he packed up his meagre life to leave Boston behind. But the grubby afternoon light glanced off the screen when he was grabbing maps and hammers from under the dusty floorboards, and with a fuck it, he shrugged and shoved it into the bottom of his backpack. 

If he was being honest with himself, it didn’t feel right leaving it behind.

And so the phone made it to Jackson, and survived the detour to Salt Lake City, largely forgotten. Joel was almost surprised by the sight of it when he finally unpacked his bag in the house that was now his and Ellie’s. 

With a wry smile, he tossed it into a nondescript drawer in the garage, never to see the light of day again.

Until one weekend, Joel asks you to help him find some obscure screwdriver in his garage, not able to get up from where he’s on his back, stemming the flow of the perpetually leaky sink in Ellie’s bathroom.

The space is cool, the shutters down and the air dank from the lack of sun. Under the flickering fluorescent light, you go through a frankly ridiculous number of toolboxes without sighting the elusive screwdriver. With a sigh, you try the middle drawer in the workbench, which is clogged with what looks like everything under the sun. 

Your lips twitch - Joel Miller is a messy man.

Digging around the random clutter, you startle when your fingers brush the long-forgotten, yet instantly familiar plastic case of the Nokia.

Wrapping your hand around the rectangular frame, you smile, in disbelief that you’re holding a mobile phone. You had a similar one that got lost in the confusion of the first days of the outbreak, and you haven’t seen one in the years since. At least not one in such good condition.

Joel’s faraway voice jolts you out of your thoughts. ‘Found it, sweetheart?’

‘Just a second!’ you call back.

Tucking the phone back where it came from, you grab the nearest screwdriver and hope for the best. 

It takes you a few days of asking around town, poking around dusty storerooms and untangling twenty year-old electric cords, but you eventually find what you’re looking for, and there’s a spring in your step as you cook dinner that evening. 

Joel seems to pick up on your energy, and he grins, amused, when he brings in the empty dishes after you eat.

‘You’re buzzin’ out of your skin, sweetheart,’ he teases, grabbing you by the waist. ‘What’s up with you?’

You cock your head to the side. ‘Well, I have a surprise for you.’

‘Is that so?’ he hums, then lets his voice drop an octave in playful insinuation. ‘What kind of surprise, hmm?’

‘Not that kind of surprise,’ you huff with a smile. ‘It’s - it’s hard to explain.’

‘Try me.’

Twisting out of his grip, you open a cabinet and pull out something that fits neatly in your palm. Joel frowns, confused by what looks like - a charger.

When you speak, it’s slow, as if you don’t want to startle him. ‘There’s a whole warehouse of wires and things down by the canteen. A patrol stumbled across an electronics shop in a nearby town a few years ago.’

He gives you a crooked smile. ‘And what am I s’pposed to do with it, sweetheart?’

You take a moment, making sure that his eyes are on you before the words come out. ‘I found the Nokia in your garage the other day, when I was looking for the screwdriver.’

You watch as Joel processes your words, and he goes still, stiller than you’ve ever seen him. 

Then he blinks and shuffles his feet, glancing down at the charger. ‘I - I didn’t expect this.’

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. ‘I know. And you don’t have to do anything with it, really, but I just wanted you to have it.’

He nods, slowly. ‘Ok.’

Hesitating, you stutter, ‘So, um, do you - want to take it -?’

Joel holds his hand out, calloused palm quietly upturned. You half expect him to jump at the contact, but he doesn’t move a muscle when the black wire lands in his grasp, and his thick fingers curl around them.

‘I got the dishes, if you want to go first,’ you prompt softly.

Joel swallows, then nods. ‘Yeah, I think I’ll do that. If y’ don’t mind, sweetheart.’

‘Of course,’ you smile, pressing a kiss to his lips.

It’s cold outside, but he doesn’t feel it, not when the charger seems to be burning a hole in his hand. When he gets back to his house - empty, Ellie is at Lucy’s for dinner - he heads straight to the garage, and tugs open the drawer.

The Nokia stares back at him, screen blank.

Flinging the charger into the drawer without seeing where it lands, he shoves the drawer close with a snap.

Weeks pass. It hangs in the back of his mind like a spector, even though you don’t bring it up again, and he doesn’t either. 

He’s not sure if he’s afraid of it, or dreading it, or worst of all - hopeful of what he would find on it.

It’s been twenty years. Electronics don’t last that long. It’s gotta be wiped clean.

One Wednesday night, Ellie is upstairs, music blaring, doing ‘homework’ or whatever she does on a weeknight (he doesn’t believe in helicopter parenting), and Joel finds his thoughts drifting to that damn drawer.

Feeling reckless, he reaches for the top shelf in the kitchen, pours himself two fingers of whiskey, and charges into the garage.

Hopping onto a workstool, he takes a big gulp of liquid courage and sets the tumbler on the work surface. Before his resolve slips completely out of touch, he yanks on the handle, and he winces when the drawer yawns open with a screech.

The Nokia feels foreign to the touch, like he’s forgotten how to hold a phone. It was, of course, glued to his ear almost all hours of the day and night once upon a time. He turns the plastic case over and the other way around again, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the buttons.

There’s no putting it off forever.

In goes the plug into the electric socket, and he looks down, phone in the left hand, the end of the charger in the other.

He thinks he’s seeing double until he realises that his hands are fucking shaking.

In one determined motion, he slots the charger into the bottom of the phone and drops it like it’s acid.

Then he downs the rest of his whiskey.

He’s not sure how long he stares, the very air around him as unmoving as himself, and he feels the alcohol spread its warm fingers through his veins. 

Just when he’s about to look away, it happens.

The battery sign appears on the screen.

Joel almost chokes on a chuckle. He can’t fucking believe it. You really can’t kill a Nokia if you tried.

It doesn’t take long for the familiar home screen to pop up, the time on the top right corner, the battery in the bottom right. The bright green glare casts a cool glow in the dim. Joel picks up the phone, only to be nearly knocked backwards off the chair when the words flash across the screen.

1 NEW VOICEMAIL.

He’s sure his heart has stopped, it definitely feels like it, a deadweight in his chest sinking into his stomach. But he hears it, the relentless beat of it, pounding violently in his ears. Too fast. Gripping the edge of the work surface, he tries to breathe, mouth open, but air isn’t getting in.

It could be nothing. Could be a voicemail he missed from a client that night, or a junk call.

He’s not sure if he’s afraid of it, or dreading it, or worst of all -

He’s trembling so badly that he needs both hands to hold the phone steady, just so that his thumb presses the selection key.

He doesn’t hear the pre-recorded message, his brain skips it entirely. Then there’s five seconds of silence, and his life flashes before his eyes at the familiar beep -

Dad, are you on your way home? Please tell me you remembered the cake. Uncle Tommy bet me ten dollars that you won’t and I kinda need that lunch money tomorrow. See you soon, love you dad -

And everything goes white.

When Joel comes around, he’s on his knees, the empty tumbler in crystalline pieces around him. The phone is no longer attached to the charger, clutched so tightly in his hands that he feels the imprint of every button in his palm.

He won’t know that his face is wet with tears until you thumb the streaks off his cheeks on your doorstep minutes later, no memory of how he got there. You draw him into you, but your embrace barely contains his broad frame.

You can’t get him far in his state, whiskey on his breath and shivering all over. You drag him across the living room and onto the couch, where you curl up against him, warming him up with your body heat, cradling his head on your chest. The candlelight bounces off the phone screen, which glows green in his grasp.

It will take him weeks to get his head around what you have given him. And when he does, he will ask if you want to hear Sarah’s voice - shyly - as if you would ever say no. 

Watching him watch you, Sarah’s warm, fun-loving voice in your ear, the seams of your lashes sting with tears as your heart clenches, swells, breaks for him - and then put together again by his hand finding you, fingers filling the gaps between yours.

But for now, he lies prostrate, his weight pinning you to the couch, as you comb soothing fingers through his hair, anchoring him to you.

‘I got you, Joel,’ you whisper in his ear, and his eyelids droop and his breathing evens out, as if he’s run a thousand miles. ‘I got you.’

As he drifts off to sleep - his baby girl's love you dad echoing between his ears - he knows that you do.

More notes: I don't lean too hard into angst in my fics as a rule, so this took me places I haven't been for a while, but it's ok cos Pin's got our man 🥺 Thank you for reading, as always! ❤️

[indulgentdaydream]

Hello luv, first of all... I LOVE NURSE!READER!!! OH god the last lines were soooooo heartwarming for my social worker heart!! LOVE LOVE IT 🩷🩷

So, may I request a Jason x reader again but with a little something... Jealous Jason because reader and Roy know each other longer than Jay and reader and then he gets all jelly and and—! Oh god I love a jealous petty man.

Missy when she fucks up the queue and queues this post for NEXT YEAR by accident 🫣🙃 NEXT YEAR?? LIKE THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE POSTED LAST FRIDAY AND I DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE THAT IT DIDN'T GO UP

anyways AHHH THANK YOU SO MUCH your words are already heartwarming ♥️

I loveeee jealous jason imma cook this up so quick just you wait and see (i wrote this when i first made the draft and i found it funny to leave it. It’s literally been a month I’m so sorry)

I also made this into headcanons because I had a VISION and did not think to give it any justice. (koi youre seriously my number 1 supporter i hope you enjoy this garbage I just threw up, really)

Pining!Jealous!Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings: slight jealousy (not too overly consuming), alcohol consumption

Roy had invited Jason to hang out at the bar

Bros being bros

except...

Roy brought you along (because he KNOWS Jason has got a fat crush on you whether or not he’s told him)

(He tried to convince roy it’s not a crush, but always fails because his whole demeanour changes when you walk in the room)

examples:

he's always going to be standing beside you, consciously or not

jason isn't always a tense guy. But he for sure isn't as long as you're talking to him/looking at him/etc. (but if you put your hand on his arm/touch him in any way, it's game over)

your name is brought up, he's listening SO INTENTLY

like a dog when it hears its favourite word

Anyways

The three of you are sitting in a booth

It was originally you and roy before jason showed up, the two of you on either side

Jason shows up and just sits right next to you. No hesitation.

You and roy are laughing away, recounting stories and telling jokes.

Jason is just... really quiet

unusually quiet

He doesn’t look at you guys, rather looking out across the bar, trying to hide the fact he’s feeling this way

That he's feeling unreasonably jealous of his best friend

who literally brought you FOR JASON

He knows it’s stupid. He trusts both of you. You two are the two people he trusts the MOST

He hates that he’s like this, but he can't help it

Roy's better than him. You've known him for longer. He's making you laugh harder than Jason ever has. He's better looking, too. Older. More experienced.

His thoughts are clogging up his head. He's really not listening anymore, just holding his beer, eyes scanning the bar floor, watching the other patrons.

Then Roy is standing in front of him, saying something about using the bathroom.

He is giving a VERY pointed look at Jason.

a "make conversation with your crush or I'm shoving an arrow down your throat" kind of look

Jason felt a little stab of genuine anxiety shoot through him.

He's talked to you alone before. Many times. You two were friends, of course. He doesn't know why this is how he's feeling right now.

Then your hand is resting on his forearm.

Poor boy is still so caught up in his head he just looks down at your hand for definitely a second too long before finally meeting your gaze

Your gaze with those stupidly pretty eyes.

Then comes that horrendously pretty voice, "You alright?"

He nods. Shrugs. Like a stupid teenager who doesn't know how to handle his emotions.

He has to admit he's still a little tense about your attention being focused more on Roy. But not to you. He'd never admit it to you. You'd probably find it unattractive and then he'd really never have a chance.

“Yeah, no, im enjoying the talking. Always forget how well you and roy know each other”

“Oh yeah he just knows how to get me going. You know how he is”

Jason doesn’t know how he does it.

Like some leap of faith.

Some, jealousy super-powered leap.

He tries to be non-chalant about it.

“It’d be nice to do this again sometime. Maybe without Roy around.”

BOY'S HEART IS POUNDING

Sipping on his beer, looking down at it instead to avoid eye contact with you so he doesn't lose his cool.

Or someone show on his face that he is actually shitting bricks

You don't respond for a second and the alarm bells start going off in his head

WHY DID I SAY THAT WHY DID I SAY THAT WHY DID I SAY-

"It would be nice," you say, "Could we make it a date instead?"

He's smiling, turning to nod at you, "Course we can."

But his internal dialogue is just straight screaming at himself

"IDIOT YOU SHOULD'VE MADE IT OBVIOUS YOU WANTED IT TO BE A DATE IN THE FIRST PLACE"

The things jealousy will make you do

Roy comes back and sits down

Jason's into the conversation now

It doesn't really matter that Roy is still making you laugh

because he's not the one holding your hand under the table

AH I HOPE YOU LIKE -missy

I also love a jealous petty man (as long as it doesn't become toxic and he doesn't use it as an excuse to be an asshole)

[myouicieloz]

Collide

Huh Yunjin x 6th member!reader

Synopsis: you can’t take your eyes off her, specially when she’s dancing. thankfully, yunjin makes sure to put up a show for you.

Warnings: suggestivee. safe for work ma babes ^^

Word count: 1.6k

Notes: I SHALL PERSEVERE. fuckass writers block 😤. i will noooooot proofread this ^^

“Oh my God. Are you ok?” Yunjin asks, turning her attention away from her choreography as soon as she catches you desperately choking on water.

You throw your phone on the other side of the couch— as well as the bottle you were holding, in hopes of controlling the coughing fit that has you shaking rather violently. Still trying to gasp for air, you manage to nod, thumbs up to let Yunjin know you’ll most likely live.

“Just fine.” Your voice comes in between breaths, still accompanied by weakened coughs. “I drank too much at once.”

She giggles, walking towards the couch so you can sit side by side. You make sure to grab your phone back so your bandmate doesn’t reckon the cause of your coughing fit: scrolling through TikTok, you found a fan cam of the red-haired girl performing at their showcase just days ago.

Her bare waist, tight cropped and low-waisted jeans were enough for you to breathe in deeply, looking anywhere in the empty room but at her; carefully to not be reminded of the sin that was your bandmate’s body. Not only that, but the way she moved, too— sharp and flawless, skilled as she played with her hair and bit her lip while looking at the damn camera. Yunjin is well aware of how hot she is, and she sure as hell makes good use of that when performing.

It’s torture.

“Are you sure?” She frowns, and it’d be adorable if your mind wasn’t clouded by how she’d react if you just pushed her down the small sofa and ruined her relentlessly until someone had to barge in, worried about the screams coming from the room— only to find her whimpering under your touch, begging for more. “Your face is all flushed, and your skin feels hot. Y/n, are you sick?”

You shake your head, doing your best to duck from your bandmate’s attentive touches. It’s comforting to have her hand cupping your cheek, but her touches are electrifying. A single brush of her fingers is and your heart skips a beat, along with a familiar ache that starts growing in your core.

“It’s nothing, unnie. Don’t worry.” Her smile is so pretty. She loves to be loved by you. “You might want to take a small break, though. Come on, you’ve been here for hours already! Don’t push yourself too hard.” You offer, even though it’s obvious she’s going to decline. Yunjin’s too much of a perfectionist, so much so that it’s incredibly common to find her in that same practice room during late hours of the night, rehearsing the group’s choreography so she’ll be nothing but perfect once they go on stage.

The hate train Lesserafim’s been receiving has been getting to her, you know it as much. It’s easy to see in her chapped-off nails, disheveled hair, and how she never stays still, due to the amount of coffee she consumes on a single day. She’s too hard on herself, and you wish she’d open up more. How much better would it be if she just didn’t bottle it up so much, and relied on you instead? You’re bandmates, after all.

Touchy as she’s always been, Yunjin grabs your hand and leads you to the middle of the dance room, in front of the mirror. You’re left standing awkwardly, with a confused face until she rushes back with a chair. “Actually, I needed your help with something.” She gestures for you to sit, which you do. “It’s my turn to record something for TikTok, and manager-im asked it to be a dancing piece. Can you tell me if it’s good?”

You gulp when she launches her jacket lazily onto the ground, setting up her song of choice on her phone. The beat starts slow as the singer’s sweet voice echoes through the room, and Yunjin walks towards you in unhurried, precise steps. There’s not enough air, with all your mind clogged by her, and you can feel the slick dripping from your cunt. Once she finally reaches you… it’s insane. Her fingers brush your collarbone, the shadow of a proper touch has you shivering as she places both of her hands on your elbows and pushes herself down, her hips swirling just as the melody drags on— you can’t do anything but hold her by the hips, adding pressure to her rocking back and forth in your lap.

Her covered cunt brushes against yours and it’s the best feeling you’ve ever experienced; it feels heavenly, to have the friction just right where you need it. Yunjin’s arms go up in an arched movement, leaving her pretty neck all exposed. It’d be so easy to just push her in and suck on her porcelain skin until no makeup could hide such hickeys. Along with the song, she breathes in, which rides her crop top enough that you can see her lack of a bra.

It’s borderline painful: the way her actions lit your body on fire, the desperate need for more, the way she does a hair flip, still so attentive to the music you don’t even hear anymore. The only bang in your head comes from the pleasure building up down in your lower abdomen, waiting. Anticipating.

Yunjin grabs you by the neck just as the chorus hits, brushing her mouth against yours. She makes her way down to your neck, teasing her teeth against your clavicle whilst her other hand toys with the hem of your sweatpants, tapping in the right rhythm. “Do you want it?”

“More than anything.” Your response comes immediately. You’re soaked, and there’s nothing more in the world you want more than for her to touch you. “Please, Jen… Want your fingers inside.”

Yunjin is always eager to please, and you’re so glad for that. Her hand makes her way past your panties, and she smirks once she’s met with the mess you’ve made. “Does my dancing turn you on that much?” Her sultry tone does nothing but entice your moans, “Oh, Y/n… that’s pathetic.”

In any other situation, you’d give her mockery an answer just as filthy. But as her fingers brush your slit, gathering slick as Yunjin uses your juices to press her thumb on your clit, you can only muster a loud whine. Tangling your arms under her neck, you lift your hips a bit further, in hopes of having more.

More. It’s all you want. You need more.

“Jen, f-fuck. Please, I need—“ Two of her fingers enter your cunt unannounced, making you grasp. Yunjin’s movements are just as precise as her choreography, thrusting in and helping with the ache in your pussy right where you need it.

You’re not proud of how lewd you sound, all at your bandmate’s mercy as she fastens her pace on your dripping sex. She’s still in your lap, and the combined pressure feels just perfect.

Yunjin’s mouth leaves a trail of kisses in the valley of your boobs, her wet, cherry lips enticing the fire in your body. “I know what you need, baby. Just let go for me, you can do it.”

One command of hers and the tingling sensation that has been building up in your body explodes, allowing you to feel the wave of pleasure you’ve been so eagerly anticipating from the moment you entered the room. You cum with a high cry, with Yunjin’s fingers going even faster as you ride out from your orgasm. It’s not enough, though — you still need more. You think she’s going to give it to you, but your friend’s fingers retreat completely.

Yunjin’s left you a breathless mess, hot and bothered and just so desperate to have her in any way as you stare at her, hopeless and confused.

“Why’d you stop?” You whine, puting.

Yunjin laughs at the sight of your puppy eyes, so big and watery from frustration.

“Because that was it.” Her answer is resolute as if she didn’t make you cum seconds prior. With a fake frown, she adds, “Should I post it? Is it good enough?”

Taking a deep breath, you bite your lip as your hands find their way to her waist, bringing her to your lap once again. Even the smallest amount of friction _hurts_, from how horny you are, and you wince.

Noticing your struggles, Yunjin giggles as she leaves small, wet kisses on your jaw. You decide to play coy, too, “Not at all. In fact, I think you need a lot more practice. Go again, from the beginning… please?”

Yunjin laughs so hard she drops her head back, pinching your nose. “Sure, baby. I think so too.”

You kiss her again, exploring your way into her pretty mouth as your hands lift her shirt, groping her tits. Yunjin makes an effort to be perfect, and you’re so glad for her hard work.

“Oh, and Y/n?” She calls you, her tone all innocent. Yunjin’s lips are addicting, and she’s such a good kisser… it’s nearly impossible to focus on anything else. You hum in acknowledgment, and that seems to be enough for her, “You should lower your phone’s brightness before watching my thirsty edits, next time.”

You’d for sure choke again, if it weren’t for her devious laugh, silencing your shock with her sultry movements on your lap.

[themattgirl]

could you please make one where Chris and reader are dating and reader feels sick and Chris just takes care of her and acts all sweet and stuff? 🫠

an: thank you for the request ily 🧡

this turned out so much longer than i intended

this isn’t my first one shot but it’s the first with one of the sturniolo triplets in it. 

obviously their characters have been altered by me a little to fit into the story but i tried to make it as realistic as possible by keeping their personality traits as they are in real life.

also comment or like this post if you want to be added to the taglist

pairing: chris x fem!reader

word count: 4.1k

warnings: fluff, use of ‘babe’ and ‘ma’ as pet names for reader, intentional wrong spelling in text messages to make it more realistic, mentions of nsfw themes, swearing, lots of playful teasing between characters

y/n’s dialogue  

chris’ dialogue

matt’s dialogue

nick’s dialogue

mary lou’s dialogue

“it’s just a cold, nothing serious i promise. i don’t think i can come over today though, i don’t wanna infect any of you. i’m sorry for ruining movie night,” i say to chris on facetime before breaking into a cough. i turn the camera away from me, not wanting him to see me in a disgusting state like this. if i could, i would’ve muted myself so he doesn’t have to listen to it either. plus, i know how worried he gets with any type of sickness or unwell feeling really.

so, of course it wouldn’t be chris if he didn’t immediately furrow his brows.

“babe no, don’t apologize. you didn’t choose to get sick.”

he gets up from where he was sitting on the couch and goes downstairs to his bedroom. he puts the phone down so all i can see now is his ceiling. his voice sounds a little farther away when he speaks again, “it doesn’t really sound like nothing serious, does anything hurt?”

“to be honest, my whole body has been aching since i woke up this morning. it’s not too bad, just a dull ache, i can still move and all that, even if i’d prefer to just lay here and rot away,” i laugh and hold back the cough that wants to escape right after in hopes it would make him worry a little less. vainly.

“your voice sounds stuffy and kinda hoarse, does your throat hurt?”

“i forgot you turn into a doctor every time somebody doesn’t feel great,” i roll my eyes even though he can’t see it with his phone still down and him on the other side of the room from how distant his voice sounds.

“shut up, y/n. you feel worse than ‘not great’. you’re not fooling anyone with that act.”

he reappears on the screen. now i can see what he has been doing in the time i couldn’t see him. he put on a hoodie over the tank top he had been wearing before, the hair he had put up in a little ponytail - if you could even call it that - in the front has been untied and brushed. or maybe he just ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times, that’d be more like it.

“anyways baby, imma call mom real quick. be right back,” he hangs up before i get the chance to respond.

i put the phone down next to me on the bed i’ve been in since i realized this morning how much it hurt to stand up and how i felt like i was gonna throw up every time i moved too hastily.

i took a deep breath - well, as deep as a breath can get when your nose is clogged - and closed my eyes to try and concentrate on something other than the throbbing pain in my head.

i feel so much worse than how i described it to chris and i feel bad for kind of lying to him, i do. but he has been dealing with so much of his own lately - new designs for his brand, fixing the shipping issues with some of the orders from his last drop, coming up with video ideas and prefilming those before him, nick and matt go on tour again, preparing everything for said tour - see, he really doesn’t need me to add to his things-to-worry-about-list, especially if he can’t do anything to fix it and it’ll go away on its own anyway.

i feel my phone’s vibration from somewhere in between the sheets and grab it. it's messages from nick.

hey y/n heard your not feeling so good (:/ smiley) i was really excited to see you again today but don’t you dare feel guilty for it

i know how you guilt trip yourself into thinking everything is your fault

its kind of a good thing bc now i have time to get the matching pjs we wanted

hope you feel better soon tho

matts sick too maybe you got it from him when you helped him decorate his room yesterday

I hey y/n heard your not feeling so good 😕 i was really excited to see you again today but don’t you dare feel guilty for it

word spreads faaast 😂 i’m so sad i gotta wait another week or so to see you again i only like sleepovers cuz of u but dont tell chris 🤫

I i know how you guilt trip yourself into thinking everything is your fault

seriously i hate that yk me so well 😐

I its kind of a good thing bc now i have time to get the matching pjs we wanted

at first i was like 🤨 but then i kept reading i LOVE YOUU SO MUCH OMG just so yk chris was the second option

I hope you feel better soon tho

me too now i’m excited for the pajamaaas 😫

I matts sick too maybe you got it from him when you helped him decorate his room yesterday 🤔

i’m gonna kill him like fr this time

hey where tf is chris??

talking to mom shes teaching him sth honestly don’t ask idk

ok 😂 i think im gonna take a nap talk later?

yess get some rest and lmk if you need anything ❤️

ly❤️❤️

after sending the last message i get a call from matt. i contemplate not picking up for a second but decide against it.

“what?”

“uff, what’s that attitude?”

“i’m sick because of you, shithead.”

“we don’t know that. what if you’re the one who passed it on to me, hm? besides, i was just calling to tell you to drink some water and to ask if you need anything. i was actually being nice but you clearly don’t deserve it,” his voice is just as bad as mine, if not worse which makes me feel a little bad, but matt wouldn’t be one of my best friends if i had to worry about him getting mad every time i’m not nice. that’s actually how we bonded after annoying each other every chance we got. we both have a bit of an attitude problem which caused a lot of irritation and aggravation. now we get along better than any pair of best friends. the teasing stayed in place, but now we both know there’s only endless love behind it. sometimes you just gotta let off a bit of steam and we both just get that.

“fine, i’m sorry. sickness really does turn you soft, huh?” i smirk.

“why’re you saying it like you just confirmed a theory?”

“mary lou told me once and i’ve been waiting ever since to see for myself, guess she was right.”

“you are actually the worst. i’m hanging up now. drink water, bye.”

he hangs up the phone and i laugh to myself. what a big baby.

i open chris’ chat and type in a message telling him i’m going to sleep and that i will call him once i wake up again. i don’t bother waiting for a reply and just put the phone on my nightstand. i turn on my side, close my eyes and after that i don’t notice anything anymore.

i jolt up from bed, breathing heavy, body sweaty and heart racing. my room is dark, lit up only by the moon shining through my window. i look around trying to remember where i am and shake the nightmare from my mind.

i reach for my phone and check the time.

11:43 pm

i turn on the flashlight and right when i notice a black jacket hung over the back of my desk chair i hear footsteps coming closer.

chris pushes the door open and steps in.

“oh shit, did i wake you?”

“no i had a nightmare. what are doing here?”

i sit upright in bed and turn the flashlight off when chris flips the switch to turn on the fairy lights around the edges of my ceiling.

he moves to sit on the bed next to me before he answers, “i had mom teach me how to make her get-well-quick-soup and brought you some. she also told me about the perfect remedy tea, i can make it for you,” he stands up again immediately, “i’ll heat up the soup for you first. shit ma, have you even eaten anything today?” he stands by the door, holding the handle but looking back over his shoulder at me.

“chris,” i honestly don’t know what to say to him. he is so sweet i have to fight the tears that build up on my waterline. i just look at him for a moment, a little smile ghosting on my lips.

i’m well aware of how caring, considerate and compassionate chris is as a person in general, but it still baffles me sometimes how much he goes out of his way to make others feel good. i guess i’m just not used to it, being loved like this, having someone do everything that lies in their hands - and beyond that - just for me. it’s astonishing to say the least. especially when i myself have had issues with showing how deeply i cherish somebody ever since i can remember. it’s probably rooted somewhere in my past and how my affection has been received and responded to, that’s what my therapist says anyway.

i shake myself out of my thoughts and move the blanket away from my body to finally get up. immediately chris is beside me, holding me in place, “what’re you doing, ma? stay here i’ll bring it up,” he talks quietly, trying to get me to take in my previous lying position but i stay put on the ground.

“babe, i have been in this bed almost all day. i need to get up. i’ll just come down with you, we can eat together in the kitchen,” i try to convince him.

he looks at me, an uncertain expression on his face for a few seconds, the gears in his head almost visibly turning while he thinks about it. at last he lets out a sigh and nods, “alright then, hop on my back,” he bends over in a piggy back position in front of me and i can’t help the laugh that escapes me.

“you do know i can walk, right?” i ask still chuckling.

“i know, come ooon, just do it,” he urges me on and wiggles his hips, making me laugh even harder when i climb on his back.

“you’re gonna be so sick tomorrow, chris,” i complain mournfully once he lets me down to sit on the kitchen counter while he gets to heating up the soup he brought.

chris insists he’s not prone to catch a cold or any sickness easily, no matter how contagious or how close to the source he might be, even though he has proven himself wrong multiple times on more occasions than he cares to admit.

“no i won’t. besides, i could use a few days off even if i have to be sick to get that,” he lets out a huff of air trying to make it sound humorous, but both of us - and everyone who knows chris for that matter - knows that he is exhausted and is in desperate need of a break.

i know he doesn’t want me to get serious about that topic right now though so i try to change routes, “oh my god,” he turns around from where he was stirring the soup on the stove and faces me, confused about my shocked exclamation. i point an accusatory finger at him, my jaw hanging low but a smile still creeping it’s way on my face.

“so that’s why you’re here. you came to try and get infected, that’s why you carried me down too even though you know damn well i coulda walked by myself. and i’m here thinking you were actually being the best boyfriend on earth. turns out my man is a piece of shit,” by the end i fail to stay serious and let out a giggle. well, it’s not like he actually believed that i meant what i was saying but still.

he lets go of everything he was holding, turns around to me fully and begins to stalk toward me slowly.

“oh yeah?” i don’t know if it’s just me or if he’s doing it on purpose but all of a sudden his voice sounds deeper, his face more stern and serious.

“is that what you think then? i’m just a piece of shit?” he makes me nervous at first but the second i see the smirk on his lips i know exactly what’s about to follow.

“chris. no.”

he is standing right in front of me, so close he has positioned himself in between my legs, his hands on the counter on either side of me, trapping me. the finger i was pointing at him long since taken back.

“am i a piece of shit when i make you cum with just my tongue?” his face is so close now.

“stop,” i say quieter than i mean to, almost whisper-like.

“or when i fuck you so good you can’t walk right for days, am i a piece of shit then?”

this asshole is doing it on purpose. he knows i would never have sex with him when i’m sick so he’s trying to rile me up the little fucker. have i mentioned that i actually hate him. like for real hate him. the type of hate that leads to an absolutely mindblowing fuck. shit.

“or yesterday when you told matt you needed a break and came downstairs to my room to suck me off and then you just wiped your mouth and went back up like nothing happened. did you do it because i’m a piece of shit?”

my jaw is on the floor.

“or when–”

“OKAY,” i practically scream, “you’re the best and i didn’t mean what i said, just please stop.”

i’m almost whining at this point.

i try to rub my legs together to ease some of the friction unnoticeably but chris is like a hawk, sees everything, notices everything. and then he smiles. just smiles and goes back to the soup.

later that night, after i was forced to eat almost all of the soup and drink two cups of magic tea while chris downed a cheese burger, fries and three of the last four pepsi cans i had in my fridge, we snuggled up on the couch with a heavy blanket that chris had also asked his mom for, thrown over both of our laps and a random movie playing on the tv. 

neither one of us actually felt like watching something but we threw it on as background noise anyway. chris and i have barely seen each other in almost two weeks so all we want right now is to enjoy each other's company. he has been so busy with all that’s coming up for him and his brothers, still is. and i've been studying like crazy because i always feel like i won’t pass if i don’t and when i wasn’t busy with that i’d be at work to earn my living and feel like i’m doing enough. so there wasn't really time for us to actually be together and get to enjoy it. i've missed it.

“you know you’re probably sick because you exhaust yourself all the time,” chris says when he turns to look at me.

“shh,” i shush him with my eyes closed and a smile on my lips, “i got it from matt, no discussion.”

he lets out a little laugh at that, “yes discussion. if you keep going like that, one day it’s gonna have more serious effects on your health than a cold. you don’t even need to do all that. how many times do i have to tell you your life is worth enough even if you don’t work yourself half to death and have a little fun every once in a while,” he rubs my thigh while talking. chris knows better than anyone that i don’t like being put on the spot and lectured about my not-so-healthy habits like that, especially when i know exactly that it’s in fact very unhealthy. but he also insists on having these talks with me because he knows i would shut out everyone else who’d dare to try immediately. he and his brothers are the only three people i have let come so close and they make use of that quite often, might i say. but it’s okay because these people are my best friends and i know i need to be put in check sometimes, i admit. nobody else would dare try but them so i just let them. 

i must say, it has helped me improve my life to an extent. they taught me that it’s okay to cut ties with people who are bad for my mental health and encourage bad habits, and that i don’t owe shit to them even if they want to make me believe that. they kept telling me “quality friends are worth so much more than a big amount of bad ones” until it finally clicked in my brain and i blocked half of my contact list.

“look who’s talkin’. mister i work twice as hard as the person i try to lecture,” i jab my finger in his side and he jerks.

“you know that’s different,” he holds my hands in his to stop me from doing it again.

i like feeling his hands on mine. i know he’s my boyfriend and it might be weird to say it like that. but i haven’t seen him in so long, which means i also haven’t felt him in so long. it’s crazy but it almost feels like in the beginning when we were scared to touch each other and would act like we accidentally brushed our hand on the other but we both knew it was fully on purpose.

chris pulls me out of my thoughts again when he speaks, “at least i have an end in sight and work’s gonna be way more relaxed once i’m done with everything. with you there’s always–”

the ringing of his phone cuts him off and he takes a look at the caller id, his mom. he narrows his eyes at me and gives me a look that says “we’re not done yet” but picks up the phone and holds it up so she can see the both of us on the screen.

“i was going to ask chris about you but since you’re with him please pinch him for me,” is the first thing mary lou says when she looks at us. and i gladly do as she says even though i don't know what he did to deserve it.

“oww, what was that for?” chris asks whining and i just shrug and chuckle.

“you told me you would bring y/n the soup and go back home. you lied to me.”

i turn to him with my mouth hanging open, “christopher owen, how dare you?”

it’s so fun to aggravate chris.

he furrows his brows at me and then looks back at the screen, “she literally begged me,” he straight up lies. “i was trying to tell her i didn’t wanna get sick so i could only drop off the soup and blanket and would have to leave again but then she started crying–”

i hit him for real this time, hard enough to make him suck air through his teeth.

“mary lou, don’t believe a word he says.”

“i know, darling, you wouldn’t do that. chris, that’s twice you’ve lied today.”

“sorry, mom,” he actually looks defeated now, “you know i can’t just leave her all alone when she’s like this. i lied because i didn’t wanna worry you. i won’t get sick though,” at that me and her give each other a knowing look but let him continue, “y/n’s weak and in pain, of course i’ll be by her side as much as i can, you probably knew i was here, that’s why you called me,” chris wiggles his finger at his mom with a cheeky smile while she’s trying to hide her own.

“alright, alright,” she gives in, “that’s how young love is, i guess. anyway, have you eaten the soup yet?”

“almost all of it,” i report proudly, rubbing my stomach.

“only forced,” chris side-eyes me and i roll my eyes at him.

“and the tea?” mary lou just keeps going. well, i definitely know where her son gets the caring from.

i grab the mug that’s been sitting on the table for two hours and could now be considered iced tea and hold it up for her to see, “this is my third,” i take a sip.

“very good. okay, well, i just wanted to check if chris is taking good care of you. it’s important for you to get enough rest, don’t go to sleep too late, alright darling? i have to go now but if you need something just give me a call. i’ll talk to you both in the morning. good night, i love you,” she blows two kisses as we tell her we love her and then she ends the call.

right when chris puts his phone down we hear the doorbell ring.

we both glance at the direction of the front door as if we could see through it and figure out who’s standing on the other side. then we turn and look at each other.

“expecting someone?” chris asks me and i just shake my head no and shrug unknowingly.

“open up!” the voice sounds muffled but it’s unmistakably matt.

chris rolls his eyes and sighs loudly and i just giggle.

he moves the blanket and gets up to go open the door but stops in his tracks suddenly, turns around again, bends down and kisses me.

“won’t be able to do that for a while if he’s here,” he explains before he goes.

matt and nick do complain every time we kiss in front of them, so we agreed on trying not to do it anymore. they act like little kids being forced to see their parents being all lovey-dovey with each other. at least one of them always yells “GET A ROOM!” as if they’re not invading our personal space. big babies, like i said.

“what’s up, bitches?” nick walks in wearing the pajamas we wanted to match, holding up his hands. one holding what i assume is my set of the exact same one and a pillow in his other hand.

i jump up from the couch immediately and squeal as i run toward him to hug him.

“what are you doing here?” i ask once we let go of each other, our smiles still as big as ever.

“since chris is here breathing in germs and this one,” he points his thumb over his shoulder where matt is giving chris a pajama pair, “is already sick i thought we might as well have our movie night here since i’m getting it from one of you either way.”

“i’m so happy,” i squeak, elongating the words.

“aren’t you happy to see me too?” matt acts sad and offended when he moves to stand next to nick.

i roll my eyes but give him a big hug, “i am actually.”

chris scoffs and we all laugh. he moves to stand closer to me and i wrap my arms around him, tilting my head to look at him.

“you guys can go in the kitchen, grab some snacks while me and chris put on our pajamas,” i say to nick and matt, my eyes still locked on my boyfriend.

they do as they’re told once the’ve put down their things and soon enough they’re out of sight.

“you good?” chris asks me quietly, stroking my hair gently

“yeah. i just realized our alone time is over,” i respond in a hushed tone.

he gives me a kiss on the forehead before he talks, “it’s okay, we’ll just go up to your room when they’re asleep. nothing’s keeping me away from you tonight.”

hearing it makes comfort spread in my chest in a way i didn’t know i needed right now.

“i love you so much, chris. thank you for everything,” i try to sound genuine, because i truly am.

he holds my chin between his thumb and forefinger and dips his head until his lips meet mine.

“i love you too, ma.”

taglist:

@strniolosworld @that-general-simp @sturniolosreads @whoreforchr1s

[lemon2099]

A little fluffy ode to Miguel's pretty face <3

When it comes to Miguel O'Hara, there are many wonderful features you can stare at.

His eyes, a bleeding crimson that brings back tides of the painful consequences of his behavior. His recklessness and selfishness turning him into the man he is today, trapping him in his new predicament: Atlas of multiverse, when all he wanted was family. Now if he so much turns his back, millions of families will be torn apart, and it will be all his fault. But to you? Those eyes are the warm red of leaves falling off the trees in fall, floating down gently in the crisp breeze as their time passes, resting softly on the grass to be reabsorbed into the soil, resting and waiting for Mother Nature to welcome them home in her warm embrace.

His supple, plump lips that in recent times have only used for guzzling down coffee and yelling to his AI assistant. Before you, he would let them dry out, sit and pick at the cowlicks of dead skin and pull them until they bled all over his mouth, before wiping them off on the back of his palm. It's far from the first time he's ever had blood on his hands. To you, they are large pillows, a gateway to his most vulnerable wounds: the ones invisible to the eye and mind. The ones with no blood, no scars, but the source of plenty of tears. With every stream of air push between those gorgeous gates gives you more insight for how you can help him heal and feel better than the happy man he used to be. Thanks to your loving instance, he now has a small stick of plain chapstick in his desk drawer, right between his scientific calculator and precision screwdriver set.

But you always took to a different feature, placed large and proud in the center of his face. It is the centerpiece of a beautiful buffet to the eyes, unmoving as if sculpted by marble. Often flooded with destructive barrages of smoke emanating from the infrastructure collapsing into the streets after being smacked down by the anomalies, suffocating the suffering populations that have already lost everything and more. The heavy scent pushes him out of the rubble just one more time, to swallow up pungent gobs of soot in hopes of retrieving a pinch of oxygen, to make sure the civilian’s last breath isn't as acrid as the one he just took.

It picks up the scent of the heavy, iron-scented blotches smeared across the concrete. The tangy smell of lost life hopelessly across broken schools and subway stations, a heavy reminder of his impossible responsibility. His enhanced senes usually were usually an essential tool to his missions, but his large nostrils intake information that only make his job harder. A faint metallic scent means blood on the walls, but a stifling one means injury. A blockade cuts off his oxygen, causing him to wheeze, each cough a fight for breath, getting closer and closer while dodging punches and flying debris. But he doesn’t have time to slow down, and even if he physically could, he couldn’t bring himself to do anyway. In the intricate web of the multiverse, his life is meaningless, and he understand that more acutely than anyone. After whipping his head to avoid a broken jaw, warmth slides down his face and blends into the sweat under his mask, coating his face in a warm, sticky substance. His suit is dark for a reason.

But to you? It is absolute perfection. The bridge has the slope of a rolling hill in the countryside, teeming with plant life. Combined with the upward turn at the tip creates the feeling of sliding down before being shot up right back to the top to do it all again, letting yourself get trapped in the loop of its beauty. Wide nostrils create prominence, almost perfectly symmetrical but not exact, like the patterns a spider weaves in its web. Should you chose to look to the side, the stark structure gentle creates the perfect attachment to the rest of his face, carrying your vision down gracefully. There is not a single wrong place to look. Even the clogged pores look like like freckles and the dry skin is more akin to snowflakes. Both are evidence of his hard work. And even after all the turmoil, it still stands large and proud on the center of his face, slicing through the air, the amber light of his monitors and code gently cupping the structure.

"What are you looking at?" He asks bluntly, turning his head to face you.

“You." You reply softly, your eyes still loyal to his beautiful face.

“I can see that." He turns his body towards you. "But why?"

"I never thought someone so beautiful would look my way. And yet here you are.” He blinks once. Twice. Three times before scoffing and turning himself back to his work. A smile starts to form on his face, but right before it can, his nose scrunches up and shoves it back down into his chest.

It was just his way of telling you that he felt the same.

Sorry for the lack of updates, been in a funk lately Please please PLEASE reblog if you enjoyed and feel free to come into my ask box with any questions or requests. Thank you, and have a great day!

[lulublack90]

Prompt 11 - Fake Date

@wolfstarmicrofic May 11, word count 875

“Eugh, my mum keeps asking who I’m bringing to my cousin's wedding!” Remus groaned as he checked the new message on his phone. “She’s getting worse. Ever since Oscar and I broke up it’s all she cares about.” He shook his head and put on a high-pitched voice, imitating Hope. “Reemuss,” He elongated his name like Hope did with her lilting accent. “Remus, why don’t you have a nice boy to bring to Gwen’s wedding? You should go find yourself someone, Remus.” He grimaced. “Like it’s so easy. She met dad in the middle of a forest when that guy jumped out of the trees at her and dad came to her rescue. Knowing my luck, the would be murderer would fall for me.” He leaned his head back and cursed the heavens. 

Sirius had sat there patiently listening to Remus grouse. He snatched Remus’s phone from his lap and typed a quick message to Hope. 

“There,” He said. “Now you have a date.” He grinned mischievously. Remus paled. 

“What did you do?” He picked up his phone and gasped. “Sirius! What the actual?!” His phone pinged as Hope started gushing about how happy she was and how much she’d always loved Sirius. He had to put his phone on silent to shut it up. Sirius had messaged Hope telling her that he was bringing Sirius as his date. Sirius who he’d had a crush on for years and told his mother every little thing about it. Oh gods, this was going to be a disaster. 

“It’ll be fine, Remus. I’ll pretend to be your boyfriend for the day, and then we’ll mysteriously break up, none of them will be the wiser, and it'll make your mum happy.” Remus groaned into his hands. 

They travelled to Wales the day before the wedding and stayed at Remus’s parents house. Lyall greeted them at the door but then disappeared into his study. He was happy in there and Remus was happy he was in there, to be honest. They’d never quite seemed to quite understand each other and this way was easier, much to Hope’s annoyance. 

Hope, on the other hand, wrapped them both in her arms and cooed over Sirius.

“I knew you’d end up together. You’re perfect for each other.” Sirius lapped it up. The only problem they had was Hope put them in Remus’s old bedroom. They hadn’t thought of that when they’d agreed to stay there. There wasn’t even another spare room. 

“It’ll be fun,” Sirius beamed. “Like being back at school.” 

“We never shared a bed. That was you and James,” Remus reminded him. 

“Well, better late than never then, I guess,” Sirius responded. So that was how Remus found himself in bed with Sirius. 

Thankfully, morning came quickly and then it was time for the wedding. 

Everybody made a fuss about Sirius.

“He’s so handsome Remus,” His grandmother had declared when he’d introduced him. “You ought to put a ring on his finger, so he doesn’t get away,” She’d said loudly. Remus went beet red. 

“Nain, you can’t just yell that out!” He hushed her. 

“And why not? I want to see some great grand kids before I pop my clogs, and you aren’t getting any younger,”

“Oh my god,” He didn’t know how to handle her apart from with a gin and tonic and the bar wasn’t open yet. 

“Don’t you worry, Mrs Howell, I’ll make an honest man out of him.” Sirius said, linking her arm with his and leading her away to her table. He turned and winked at Remus. Remus wished he could turn invisible. 

By the end of the wedding, Sirius had won over all of Remus’s family and all of the grooms. In fact, more people knew who Sirius was at the wedding than knew who Remus was. 

Remus was glad when they were on their way back to his parents house. It had been a long day. “So,” Sirius asked him. “When are you going to pop the question? Your Nain’s promised me her engagement ring.” He grinned, fighting back a laugh at Remus. 

“Oh, haha, Sirius,” Remus rolled his eyes and said no more about the subject. 

That night, much to Remus’s surprise, Sirius snuggled under his arm and rested his head on Remus’s chest. 

“I had fun today.” Sirius told him with a sleepy voice. “Your family is really nice, and I might just steal your Nain. She was brilliant.” He turned his head to look at Remus. “Thank you for letting me come.” He said quietly. 

“You invited yourself. I had nothing to do with it.” Remus huffed. 

He closed his eyes hoping Sirius would take the hint. But instead, Sirius pushed up and kissed him. Remus’s eyes shot open, and he stared at Sirius. 

“I was serious about that ring, Moony. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there.” Remus didn’t know what to say, so he dragged Sirius’s face back to his and kissed him deeper than their first. He melted as Sirius kissed him back. “Took you long enough,” Sirius murmured against his lips. Remus had never been happier. He made a note to send a bottle of champagne to his cousin, because without her this might never have happened.   

[stxrslut]

Jj makes you ate so many candies but now your stomach hurt and jombee would be like "dude i told you t'not give her too much candies" while your folded in his laps whining holding jombee's biceps hoping the pain goes away soon :((

-🦌anon

I personally think pup is definitely a girlie with a sensitive tummy! jj definitely forgets about it a lot, or just neglects the fact.

I think it’s funny because jj is definitely fucking terrified of vomit when it’s not actively happening on his dick. so the moment you get a tummy ache john b takes charge in not only taking care of you, but talking jj down to make sure he doesn’t panic and go on a tangent ���

so now you’re just curled up on johbees lap and he’s just rubbing your back and holding a bowl nearby for you. and jj is over here like, “has she puked yet?”

john b just rolls his eyes and sarks back “she’s not going to puke, you’ve clogged her system up too much with who knows what.”

they both give their banter up though the moment you let out a pained noise. jj goes off to get you some water whilst john b is craning his neck down and giving you a little kiss on the head.

“it hurts so much jombee!” you groan and he hums in acknowledgment. “I know sweetheart, just gotta let it run its course and you’ll be all good.”

jj comes back with some water and gives you a sip, grimacing when you spill some down your chin (quickly wiped up by john b). jj just gives you a little kiss, “sorry for makin’ you feel bad pup. was silly of me wasn’t it?”

you nod, pouting, “yeah. super silly. silly jayj.”

[pixiesfz]

I didn’t know j.f x r

plot: you like Jessie but she thinks your straight

warnings: themes of cheating (Jessie could never actually do the act) , alcohol

You had officially given up.

How could you have let your originally small and little crush get so big.

Your teammate was clogging up your brain for the last month, every thing she said or did just drove you absolutely crazy.

You never date, you usually didn’t have time for girls so the team never saw you date or come home with a gal on your arm, you were always so scared they would run away because of your career but Jessie had the same career it was different.

You flirted with her aimlessly and you would catch her blushing and heard her fumble on her words, you just hoped that she could pick up the hint and ask you out or something.

But she never did.

So you never had the confidence to do it yourself, but you should’ve.

Cause here she was now, introducing her new girlfriend to the team on a night out.

“This is Annabelle” she introduced the two of you and you fake smiled “nice to meet you Annabelle, you look very nice”

She did in fact look very nice… you hated it.

When the couple walked away you beelined to the toilet, ignoring the way Jessie looked over to you in concern.

Niamh shook her head at her friend’s obliviousness “she was talking about how before she really needed to pee” she explained lied to Jessie who slowly nodded.

You paced around the toilet, swearing profanities to yourself to be happy for the girl, you never had her and she wasn’t yours, you have no right to feel jealous.

But you did.

The green little monster was taking full control of you , and it did as soon as Jessie and blondie walked in.

God you couldn’t even go five minutes without already finding a way to be petty with the girl you didn’t even know.

She could be really nice.

You didn’t want to get to know her, you didn’t want to see if she was nice, you didn’t want Jessie to be happy with her.

Because you would be so much better.

You just had to get your mind off of it, off of her.

You downed the rest of your drink and walked out straight to the bar to get a new one and an extra shot which you downed as soon as you got it.

Sam, your national teammate and one of the only girls to know about your crush on the Canadian clapped your back as she came to your side.

“You good?” She asked and you raised your brows “I shouldn’t be feeling like this” you groaned, the vodka burning your throat.

Sam shrugged “I mean this relationship is still new I mean you could still go up to her-“ “no” you declared and Sam shrugged “wouldn’t hurt”

“Except it would hurt, I have made it extremely obvious I like her and if she hasn’t made a move yet then it means she doesn’t want to” you explained, anger running through your veins at realising how stupid you were to think that it could be different.

Your conversation was interrupted by Jessie and her girlfriend not long after when they went up to get a drink, you had just ordered a second shot, Sam deciding to join you.

Jessie looked at you both weirdly, you weren’t one to drink on a night out, she knew because usually she didn’t and you would both laugh in the corner about everyone else’s actions.

She remembers those times so well because she would blush so hard whenever you rested your hand on her thigh like or pressed your leg up to hers.

She just assumed you were being friendly.

You were always just being friendly in Jessie’s eyes.

Because in Jessie’s mind she thought you were straight. You had never talked about a girl or a guy in the changing rooms or gossiped about a one night stand with a girl like many of your teammates did.

She had seen one photo of you at a festival years ago when you were still playing in Australia kissing a boys cheek and she decided that you must be straight and he must of been an ex boyfriend of yours.

His name was Dion and he was your dance partner during performances, his boyfriend was the one who took the picture.

When you started flirting with Jessie she was a mess, she kept on reminding herself that you were straight and that you were just being friendly.

you weren’t.

Niamh had tried to convince her friend to just ask you out anyway out of the chance that you weren’t fully straight but Jessie couldn’t, she didn’t know if she could handle being rejected by you.

Jessie had decided that the only way she could stop herself from falling in love with you was to be with someone else.

therefor, Annabelle.

She was most scared of your reaction, your smile didn’t reach your eyes like they usually do when you said hello and usually you never hold your bladder for too long, you always go as soon as you need to so it was weird for you to run off like that.

You were acting weird.

Jessie knew that but she didn��t know why?

“Are you alright?” Jessie asked you as Annabelle ordered for both of them “peachy” you answered dry and she furrowed her brows “you don’t usually drink, especially shots” she said, slightly annoyed at your tone at her “well neither do you but she’s got two drinks in her hands and I’m assuming she’s not drinking two” you deadpan and Jessie looked nervously behind her to Annabelle who stood their awkwardly waiting for your conversation to end before they both left.

Sam lowered her head on your shoulder, “I don’t want to suggest sleeping with a random stranger buuuttt” she dragged out and pointed to behind your shoulder “that girl over there has been looking over at you every 10 seconds, even though you look like a depressed puppy”

You rolled your eyes but looked behind you to see the girl, she was your type for sure and she was looking at you with a look in her eye which definitely were not saying “relationship”.

This was exactly what you needed.

A distraction.

“alright” you told your captain who fake cheered, ignoring the stare a certain Canadian was giving you two as you got up and took another shot.

Annabelle was explaining a story of how her work shift went to her and Erin but Jessie couldn’t take her eyes off of you.

Her back was laid against the bars pillar, drink in her hand as she watched you behind her girlfriend’s shoulder, she knew she was being a terrible girlfriend but she couldn’t help it.

It was you.

But she never expected to see what you did next, after taking your shot you waved softly at someone behind the bar and you smiled, flirting… you were flirting with someone.

Jessie’s heart dropped but she quickly shook her head. You have every right to flirt with people, She was no longer in the picture being taken and it wasn’t like she was in the picture anyway, single.

She almost dropped her drink when the person you were flirting with walked up to you.

They were tall, tatted on the arms and female.

FEMALE.

everything made sense now.

Jessies breath hitched as you stepped closer to the girl, the alcohol you had consumed taking over your body.

Jessie propped her empty glass on the table next to her and excused herself, anger bubbling through her.

Niamh who watched the whole ordeal from her seat next to her girlfriend who was entertained by the drama in front of her quickly walked up to her best friend.

“Jessie” she stopped her friend who tried to walk around her “Jessie” she said again in a stern tone which caused the Canadian to finally take her eyes off of you and the girl who were still talking.

“Jessie, Annabelle is right behind you” Niamh said “Y/N isn’t thinking straight she’s drunk” Jessie pointed at you “And so are you” Niamh told her

“Niamh can you take Annabelle home, tell her some shitty excuse about us having a football thing, you’re the only sober person” Jessie rambled and Niamh’s eyes widened.

“Jessie think about what you’re going to do” Niamh said but the Canadians eyes were angry and they were set on you.

“Just get her home safely, I’ll get an Uber”. she said, pulling up her phone and ordering an Uber immediately.

Niamh sighed before walking over to Annabelle with a fake smile as Niamh’s girlfriend sent Jessie a pointed look, a faint smile on her lips as she watched the Canadians eyes soften on you.

Jessie waited for both Niamh and Annabelle to leave before making her way to you.

You were talking to the girl in front of you, she had her fingers running up and down your arms, it wasn’t giving you goosebumps which annoyed you but you weren’t planning on remembering this girls name in the morning.

You assumed she wrapped her arm around your waist but your body jolted and goose bumps erupted your whole body but you still felt warm, it wasn’t until you felt a breath against your ear you realised it wasn’t girl in front of you.

“Hi babe, I think it’s time we leave yes?” Jessie asked from next to you but her eyes were glaring holes into the girl in front of you

“Jessie?” You asked, shocked and you looked around for Annabelle who was nowhere to be seen, she squeezed your waist tighter “that’s my name” she smiled at you before turning back to the girl

“We’re gonna go, bye now!”

Jessie looked at her phone seeing that the Uber had arrived before grabbing your bag that was still on your seat and dragging you outside with her.

Your feeling of shock had faded away as anger flew in at the girl next to you.

“Jessie what the fuck are you doing?!”

“Your drunk you’re not thinking properly”

“You’re drunk too!”

“Not drunk enough to know I’m making a mistake” she said before opening the door for you.

You’re not even sure why you got in, your teammate sliding in next to you.

Jessie held her breath, looking outside the window every time you looked glared at her, scared if she looked at you she would do something she would regret.

You didn’t say anything either, confusion clogging your brain, why had Jessie done that, why hadn’t she got be home with Annabelle, why was she so shocked to see you with that girl, why did she pretend to be your girlfriend!

When the Uber stopped you didn’t take Jessie’s hand and instead got out the other side of the car.

You stomped up the stairs to your house, Jessie quickly following behind you”I was completely fine back there Jessie why would you-“

“So you’re not straight?”

The question through you off guard, turning around to the girl who stopped in her tracks “what?!” You yelled and the girl winced

“Just all this time I thought you were straight-“

“You what?!”

“I thought you were being very friendly!”

“And now I know you’re not and I just- everything makes sense now! And I acted on my feelings and it’s just all crashing on me now!” She yelled back at you, your eyes still widened.

“How the fuck did you think I was straight when I was flirting with you twenty four seven!”

“I thought you were being friendly!”

You widened your eyes at the girl who had her hands by her side, bewildered you threw head back “fuck me!” You yelled out of frustration.

“How can you be so smart but so dumb” you said softly as Jessie walked up to reach you at the front of your door “I don’t know” she shrugged and you looked at your feet “well surprise I have a crush on you” you joked but crossed your head “but you have a girlfriend now”

Jessie rolled her eyes “I only got a girlfriend so I could take my mind off of you”

“This is fucked” you muttered under your breath as Jessie did the same.

Jessie moved closer to you and grabbed your hands out of comfort, when you looked up the two of you were face to face.

“What do we do now?” You asked softly but Jessie wasn’t looking you in the eyes, she was looking at your lips “Jessie” you muttered and she looked down at you, giving you the perfect view of her own lips which now you stared at.

“Y/N” she muttered back before you looked her in the eye

“we can’t” you told her, stepping back “Annabelle” she said, declaring what you were thinking.

Jessie stepped back aswell “I have something I need to do” she said, dropping your hands before walking back down to the Uber.

You were not surprised when a couple days later Jessie arrived at your front door with flowers, a DVD player and take-away.

“You are such a loser”.